crannies, and had magical powers: whenever it was going to rain, it would emit puffs of mist, just like a real mountain.”
Baoyu wrinkles his brow. “That sounds familiar. I think I read it a long time ago. Then what happens?”
“A powerful official covets it, and accuses the man of a crime he didn’t commit. Then the stone is confiscated and the man is thrown in jail.”
“Oh, yes! I remember! Then the stone comes to the man in a dream, and tells him that it can only belong to one who truly loves it, and that one day it will somehow return to him.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“That’s a good story. I’d almost forgotten it. I really should read it again sometime.”
The story reminds her. “You know, I still haven’t seen that famous jade of yours.”
He says nothing, looking at her gravely over his clasped knees.
“Never mind,” she says quickly, afraid that she has assumed an intimacy that does not exist.
“It’s really not so special.”
“I said I didn’t need to see it. I’m sorry I asked.”
“Everyone who sees it is disappointed,” he continues, as if she had not spoken.
She fidgets uncomfortably, not knowing whether she is supposed to contradict him. He is acting like a spoiled child: pushing people away and demanding reassurance at the same time.
“I hate it,” he adds. “It always makes people think that I’m very special.”
She has to stop herself from smiling, for it is obvious from the way he talks and carries himself that he is fully convinced of his own specialness.
“What are you laughing at?” he demands suspiciously.
“Nothing. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”
But he slips his fingers inside his collar and loops a black and gold silk cord over his head. “Here.”
She stares at it in the palm of her hand, still warm from his skin. It is about the size and shape of a sparrow’s egg, with the suppressed, milky radiance of a sunlit cloud and veined with iridescent streaks of color. Somehow, she had expected a jade found in a person’s mouth to be rough, unpolished; but this is satin-smooth to her touch. He is right: the stone itself is not special. You might find something similar in any jewelry stall for thirty or forty taels .
“I hate it,” he says again. “I hate the things people imagine about me because of it.”
“It’s all just stories, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“People make up stories to explain things they don’t understand.”
He looks doubtful. “I suppose so.”
“You should make up your own story, too.”
“Like what?”
She hands the stone back. “Oh, I don’t know. Like … once upon a time, up in the Heavens, by the banks of the River of Immortality, there was a stone who wanted to come down to earth to taste the pleasures of human life. He begged and pleaded with the gods, and finally they granted his wish. They agreed to let him be born into the world of men in the mouth of an infant boy, Jia Baoyu of Rongguo Mansion …”
He laughs, slipping the jade back on. “I like that. What happened to him on earth?”
“How should I know? Perhaps he fell in love with a human girl.”
“And?”
“Well, maybe they got married and lived happily ever after.”
“But the girl would die, wouldn’t she?” he points out. “Because she was only human, whereas he was immortal.”
“Then his heart would break.”
“Then maybe he would ask the gods to turn him back into a stone.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because it would be better to be a stone than to feel the pain of human suffering,” he explains.
“Do you really think so?” she says, thinking about her mother.
“Yes,” he says. “Because he would always be missing her, and the pain would never stop.” He speaks as though the thought of such emotional pain is unbearable to him, even though he has endured the physical pain of his burn without a murmur.
“I don’t think so,” she tells him. “If I lost someone I
Baoyu wrinkles his brow. “That sounds familiar. I think I read it a long time ago. Then what happens?”
“A powerful official covets it, and accuses the man of a crime he didn’t commit. Then the stone is confiscated and the man is thrown in jail.”
“Oh, yes! I remember! Then the stone comes to the man in a dream, and tells him that it can only belong to one who truly loves it, and that one day it will somehow return to him.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“That’s a good story. I’d almost forgotten it. I really should read it again sometime.”
The story reminds her. “You know, I still haven’t seen that famous jade of yours.”
He says nothing, looking at her gravely over his clasped knees.
“Never mind,” she says quickly, afraid that she has assumed an intimacy that does not exist.
“It’s really not so special.”
“I said I didn’t need to see it. I’m sorry I asked.”
“Everyone who sees it is disappointed,” he continues, as if she had not spoken.
She fidgets uncomfortably, not knowing whether she is supposed to contradict him. He is acting like a spoiled child: pushing people away and demanding reassurance at the same time.
“I hate it,” he adds. “It always makes people think that I’m very special.”
She has to stop herself from smiling, for it is obvious from the way he talks and carries himself that he is fully convinced of his own specialness.
“What are you laughing at?” he demands suspiciously.
“Nothing. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”
But he slips his fingers inside his collar and loops a black and gold silk cord over his head. “Here.”
She stares at it in the palm of her hand, still warm from his skin. It is about the size and shape of a sparrow’s egg, with the suppressed, milky radiance of a sunlit cloud and veined with iridescent streaks of color. Somehow, she had expected a jade found in a person’s mouth to be rough, unpolished; but this is satin-smooth to her touch. He is right: the stone itself is not special. You might find something similar in any jewelry stall for thirty or forty taels .
“I hate it,” he says again. “I hate the things people imagine about me because of it.”
“It’s all just stories, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“People make up stories to explain things they don’t understand.”
He looks doubtful. “I suppose so.”
“You should make up your own story, too.”
“Like what?”
She hands the stone back. “Oh, I don’t know. Like … once upon a time, up in the Heavens, by the banks of the River of Immortality, there was a stone who wanted to come down to earth to taste the pleasures of human life. He begged and pleaded with the gods, and finally they granted his wish. They agreed to let him be born into the world of men in the mouth of an infant boy, Jia Baoyu of Rongguo Mansion …”
He laughs, slipping the jade back on. “I like that. What happened to him on earth?”
“How should I know? Perhaps he fell in love with a human girl.”
“And?”
“Well, maybe they got married and lived happily ever after.”
“But the girl would die, wouldn’t she?” he points out. “Because she was only human, whereas he was immortal.”
“Then his heart would break.”
“Then maybe he would ask the gods to turn him back into a stone.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because it would be better to be a stone than to feel the pain of human suffering,” he explains.
“Do you really think so?” she says, thinking about her mother.
“Yes,” he says. “Because he would always be missing her, and the pain would never stop.” He speaks as though the thought of such emotional pain is unbearable to him, even though he has endured the physical pain of his burn without a murmur.
“I don’t think so,” she tells him. “If I lost someone I
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