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You think you would do better? she asks. Silently, on feet primed for stealth, she moves towards him, closing the space fast. Wine is the thing, he sighs. In the old days, I could tell the brand and vintage of rice wine with a sip. Only one other man in the province could accomplish such a feat, and I had him put to death. That's how much power I had. Ask me now, about any wine. Any at all. Wildflower, she says without thinking. From the northern hills. Ah! Ah… He sits bolt upright, shocked at his own capacity to remember. We are from the same province. I thought so, I recognized the accent. Perhaps the same town, eh? Maybe you were mine at one point. Is that possible?  |
She laughs. You don't remember? Why should I remember something like that? But wildflower … yes, the wine had a gold tint to it. It was the crushed dandelions that did it. There is nothing like a rice wine with a touch of dandelion in it. Such a lingering aftertaste too, much less sweet than the usual shit from the outer provinces … Delightful … He removes his hat, and it drops from his fingers to the floor. His head is shaved bald, but the hair on the back of his neck is beginning to grow again, prickly little silver needles of it. In the dressing table mirror, she can see his face: smothered with makeup, layers and layers of it, the white makeup of the opera performer, the hollows around his eyes deep black, a clownish grimace wrapped around his trembling lips. Nary  |
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