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Finally she says: You won't tell anyone - about my martial arts practice, I mean. Yes - if you tell no one about my defeat here, he says. He does not in fact believe that he has been defeated, but it would be a shame to suggest otherwise, especially with an admittedly beautiful young woman who has shared a slice of her gown with you. We'll have another bout, she says. No surprise attacks next time. Agreed. They have reached the center of longevity, and their fingers are about to touch, but she withdraws hers, daring him with a raised eyebrow. He has expected this, however, and is reaching into the folds of his tunic, producing a 
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crushed, lopsided object - a moon cake he has stolen from a neighboring table earlier. He extends the bounty to her, and she tears off a pristine corner. He looks down at his hands, at the remains of sweet bean paste, egg flour, the pecan nuts smudged with the dust in his unclean fingers. As if hypnotized, they are both looking at this object. And then it all seems so ridiculous, and they laugh again, their loud voices bounding off the rocks, concealing a sudden desire. Back at the lake, the flute's earlier melody has blossomed into something agitated yet elegant. The festival participants are singing, and from this distance their voices are demure, almost childlike: The daughter peeped through the screen, but he was young  |
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