was little, my father taught me a song about Genghis Khan. It’s the only Mongolian song I remember now,” Sasha said, and opened her mouth to sing the song. The melody was in her mind, but no words came to her tongue. She had forgotten almost all of the Mongolian words she had learned, after her parents’ divorce; she had not seen her father for fifteen years. “Well, I don’t remember it anymore.”
“
The broken pillars, the slanted roof, they once saw the
banqueting days; the dying trees, the withering peonies, they
once danced in the heavenly music. The young girls dreamed
of their lovers who were enlisted to fight the Huns. They did
not know the loved ones had become white bones glistening in
the moonlight,
” Yang chanted in a low voice to the ceiling. “Our masters say that real arts never die. Real arts are about remembrance.”
“What’s the point of remembering the song anyway? I don’t even remember what my father looked like.” Sasha thought about her father, one of the offspring of Genghis Khan. Genghis Khan was turned into a clown in the pop song. Mongolia was once the biggest empire in the world, and now it was a piece of meat, sandwiched by China and Russia.
“We live in a wrong time,” Yang said.
Sasha turned to look at Yang. He lay on his hands and stared at the ceiling, his face taking on the resigned look of an old man. It hurt her, and scared her too, to glimpse a world beneath his empty beauty. “We were born into a wrong place, is what our problem is,” she said, trying to cheer him and herself up. “Why don’t you come to America with me, Yang?”
Yang smiled. “Who am I to follow you?”
“A husband, a lover, a brother, I don’t care. Why don’t you get out of Beijing and have a new life in America?” The words, once said, hung in the room like heavy fog, and Sasha wondered if Yang, too, had difficulty breathing. Outside the window, a vendor was sharpening a chopper with a whetstone, the strange sound making their mouths water unpleasantly. Then the vendor started to sing in a drawn-out voice about his tasty pig heads.
“Sasha,” Yang said finally. “Is Sasha a Mongolian name?”
“Not really. It’s Russian, a name of my mom’s favorite heroine in a Soviet war novel.”
“That’s why it doesn’t sound Chinese. I would rather it is a Mongolian name,” Yang said. “Sasha, the princess of Mongolia.”
Sasha walked barefoot to Yang’s bed and knelt beside him. He did not move, and let Sasha hold his face with both hands. “Come to America with me,” she said. “We’ll be the prince and the princess of Nebraska.”
“I was not trained to play a prince,” Yang said.
“The script is changed,” Sasha said. “From today on.”
Yang turned to look at Sasha. She tried to kiss him, but he pushed her away gently. “
A beautiful body is only a bag of
bones,
” he sang in a low voice.
Sasha had never seen Yang perform, and could not imagine him onstage; he had played princesses and prostitutes, but he did not have to live with the painted mask and the silk costume. “The Peking Opera is dead,” she said. “Why don’t you give it up?”
“Who are you to say that about the Peking Opera?” Yang said, his face turning suddenly stern.
Sasha saw the iciness in Yang’s eyes and let the topic drop. Afterward, neither mentioned anything about the stay in the hotel. A week later, when Boshen was escorted away from Beijing, Sasha was relieved and scared. There was, all of a sudden, time for them to fill. To her relief and disappointment, Yang seemed to have forgotten the moment when they were close, so close that they were almost in love.
THE PARADE STARTED with music and laughter, colorful floats moving past, on which happy people waved to the happy audience. Boshen looked at Sasha’s face, lit up by curiosity, and sighed. Despite her willfulness and unfriendliness, the thought of the baby—Yang’s baby—made him eager to forgive her. “Do you still
“
The broken pillars, the slanted roof, they once saw the
banqueting days; the dying trees, the withering peonies, they
once danced in the heavenly music. The young girls dreamed
of their lovers who were enlisted to fight the Huns. They did
not know the loved ones had become white bones glistening in
the moonlight,
” Yang chanted in a low voice to the ceiling. “Our masters say that real arts never die. Real arts are about remembrance.”
“What’s the point of remembering the song anyway? I don’t even remember what my father looked like.” Sasha thought about her father, one of the offspring of Genghis Khan. Genghis Khan was turned into a clown in the pop song. Mongolia was once the biggest empire in the world, and now it was a piece of meat, sandwiched by China and Russia.
“We live in a wrong time,” Yang said.
Sasha turned to look at Yang. He lay on his hands and stared at the ceiling, his face taking on the resigned look of an old man. It hurt her, and scared her too, to glimpse a world beneath his empty beauty. “We were born into a wrong place, is what our problem is,” she said, trying to cheer him and herself up. “Why don’t you come to America with me, Yang?”
Yang smiled. “Who am I to follow you?”
“A husband, a lover, a brother, I don’t care. Why don’t you get out of Beijing and have a new life in America?” The words, once said, hung in the room like heavy fog, and Sasha wondered if Yang, too, had difficulty breathing. Outside the window, a vendor was sharpening a chopper with a whetstone, the strange sound making their mouths water unpleasantly. Then the vendor started to sing in a drawn-out voice about his tasty pig heads.
“Sasha,” Yang said finally. “Is Sasha a Mongolian name?”
“Not really. It’s Russian, a name of my mom’s favorite heroine in a Soviet war novel.”
“That’s why it doesn’t sound Chinese. I would rather it is a Mongolian name,” Yang said. “Sasha, the princess of Mongolia.”
Sasha walked barefoot to Yang’s bed and knelt beside him. He did not move, and let Sasha hold his face with both hands. “Come to America with me,” she said. “We’ll be the prince and the princess of Nebraska.”
“I was not trained to play a prince,” Yang said.
“The script is changed,” Sasha said. “From today on.”
Yang turned to look at Sasha. She tried to kiss him, but he pushed her away gently. “
A beautiful body is only a bag of
bones,
” he sang in a low voice.
Sasha had never seen Yang perform, and could not imagine him onstage; he had played princesses and prostitutes, but he did not have to live with the painted mask and the silk costume. “The Peking Opera is dead,” she said. “Why don’t you give it up?”
“Who are you to say that about the Peking Opera?” Yang said, his face turning suddenly stern.
Sasha saw the iciness in Yang’s eyes and let the topic drop. Afterward, neither mentioned anything about the stay in the hotel. A week later, when Boshen was escorted away from Beijing, Sasha was relieved and scared. There was, all of a sudden, time for them to fill. To her relief and disappointment, Yang seemed to have forgotten the moment when they were close, so close that they were almost in love.
THE PARADE STARTED with music and laughter, colorful floats moving past, on which happy people waved to the happy audience. Boshen looked at Sasha’s face, lit up by curiosity, and sighed. Despite her willfulness and unfriendliness, the thought of the baby—Yang’s baby—made him eager to forgive her. “Do you still
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