Chapter 90: Love in a Fallen City (The Beauty Bathing)

Only when Mo Zhicheng set her down did she realize that this place offered a wider view of the sea. A spark of delight flickered in her eyes. Sunlight settled warmly over her body as she stood there, one hand resting against the window. The man stood just behind her, both hands braced on the glass, enclosing her within his reach.

“Do you like watching the sea?”

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“Why?”

She gazed at the dawn ahead, dissolving into blue, while from time to time a breeze stirred the rippling gold upon the water. Thinking of the sunset glow at Jimbaran Beach, she sighed. “The ocean is beautiful because it can hold a hundred rivers. Its vastness can embrace countless streams. A person’s heart, if broad enough, can contain everything as well. But it seems difficult to truly do that. Sometimes fate arranges things so differently. Life brings different circumstances, and one must endure different hardships. Perhaps one’s state of mind is also tied to everything one has lived through before. What do you think?”

Ye Linglan spoke with a double meaning, glancing sideways as she watched every flicker of expression on the man’s face. She had said it deliberately for him, hoping to find a way in, a point from which to begin uncovering something. If she moved a little closer, and closer still, would she be able to see everything clearly?

Yet Mo Zhicheng only smiled faintly and did not answer. His face rested against her hair. Only then did she notice the stubble newly risen along his jaw.

“That’s what makes you different from other women. So clever, you make being with you far less trouble than it might be.”

During the day, when Mo Zhicheng was not at home, Linglan rested at the villa. Passing the study on the second floor, her steps unconsciously came to a halt. She looked at the walnut door, shut tight. Sister Zhang had said it was Mo Zhicheng’s forbidden ground, a place no one was allowed to enter. Even when cleaning, she had never stepped inside. The quiet around it was profound, like Pandora’s box, sealed shut yet pulsing with greater temptation.

She went forward and turned the handle, and as expected, the study door was locked from within.

Linglan merely drew her shawl tighter and turned to the terrace on the third floor, where she lay sideways on the daybed.

The timeless love story of Eileen Chang always pierced straight to the heart.

Leaning her chin on one hand, Ye Linglan read aloud. Through those exquisitely sorrowful lines, she seemed to see the narrow lanes of old Shanghai, grapevines climbing across balconies, oil-paper umbrellas dripping with rain, wandering before every dusk-lit window, every desolate rainy night, every bleak dawn.

So they loved, then parted, then scattered, then let it all go. A story of endless desolation, one that left a person sighing in resignation.

She lifted her eyes into the golden sunlight and fell into thought.

In Eileen Chang’s writing, ordinary lives and beautiful love are rendered with such hopelessness. One almost resents that mournful, gorgeous chill. She uses no great flourishes, and yet her words can turn the heart cold as snow.

Especially that much-talked-about story of desire and betrayal, which was astonishing beyond measure.

She especially loved the final lines: in the end, her feelings for him became so intense that no particular name for them mattered anymore; there was only feeling. They were like a hunter and prey in their primal relation, tiger and thall, the ultimate possession. From then on, she belonged to him in life, and in death she would be his ghost.

What a ruin to the marrow.

When love reaches such a pitch, what more is there to say?

Life is like a chessboard; once a piece is played, there is no taking it back. One must accept the gamble and bear the outcome. If love is the eternal war between man and woman, then the one who loves first, and loves most deeply, will always be the one who loses the most.

Linglan had read until she was weary. Her eyes ached faintly. Looking out through the floor-to-ceiling glass, from such a height the world spread wide before her. She could see the whole sea at a glance, and it truly gave one the feeling of standing above all the mountains.

Often she would sit there until night fell, watching the vague sea of stars along the horizon, the brilliance of heaven and earth merging into one continuous sheen.

Sometimes, while looking, she would fall asleep.

When Mo Zhicheng came back, he would see that slender figure lying on the long couch, a thin blanket over her and a thick book beneath her head. But if one looked closely, her lashes were still wet.

The man’s clean fingers would seem to want to touch those crystal traces and wipe them away, yet they would stop in midair. He would stare for a long while, unblinking, unable to come back to himself.

At times when Linglan woke, she would find that the thin blanket had been replaced with a thick comforter, and a large pair of headphones had been placed over her ears by him.

An old song by Presley. She adjusted the headphones and listened quietly. The man’s low voice, deep and husky and full of feeling, sang softly in her ear, the gentle melody flowing on like water. Her gaze drifted farther and farther away. As night descended, the vast sea of stars seemed like sorrowful tears flung across the dark surface of the ocean.

She got up, drew her shawl around her, and went downstairs in silence, only to find the late-returning man slumped wearily on the sofa.

Sister Zhang had left before dinner. In the vast villa there remained only the two of them. The dishes on the table had long gone cold, and the man had not touched a bite.

Linglan drew near, then sat on the coffee table and bent down to call him softly.

“Mr. Mo...”

No answer.

“Mo Zhicheng... Mo Zhicheng...”

In the bathroom, sunlight streamed in. Linglan lay half-prone in the bathtub, her pale body submerged in the shimmering, mist-veiled warm water, faintly visible beneath the surface. With her head lowered, she let Sister Zhang use the showerhead to wet her long hair. Because her shoulder was injured, she could not move her arm carelessly.

“Every time I have to trouble you like this, Sister Zhang.”

Sister Zhang smiled. “What trouble is there? As long as Miss Ye doesn’t stand on ceremony with me.”

Linglan smiled, and then heard Sister Zhang say, “Miss Ye’s injury is healing slowly, and your complexion is much better too.”

“Is that so?”

“There’s much more color in your face now. Mr. Mo instructed that you be given steamed black fish soup every day. It’s good for mending wounds.”

Linglan listened as warm water soaked through her hair, leaving a trail of dampness. She fell silent.

“What else did he tell you?”

“Well, I’ll tell you quietly.” Sister Zhang smiled.

“Mhm.”

“The books you asked me to buy for you last time, Mr. Mo secretly put them all away.”

“Why?” Linglan asked in surprise. No wonder she could not find them these past few days.

“Once, you fell asleep while reading on the third-floor terrace. Mr. Mo saw tears in your eyes.”

Linglan went still. Warm water spilled into her eyes, bringing a sharp sting. She instinctively closed them, only feeling the gloom before her darken. Sister Zhang continued, “He saw the pile of books beside you, and later told me to hide them while you were resting.” Sister Zhang sighed. “I think Mr. Mo was afraid you’d get so absorbed in them that you’d hurt yourself.”

“Is that so?” Linglan’s lips stiffened slightly, and she did not know how to answer.

“Miss Ye, you’re about the same age as my daughter, so I treat you much like my own child.”

“Mhm.” Linglan smiled faintly.

“To speak from the heart, Mr. Mo treats you very well. It’s clear he puts a great deal of thought into you.”

She said nothing.

“The shampoo is used up, Miss Ye. I’ll go down to the first floor and get some. Please wait a moment.”

“Mhm.” She answered softly.

As Sister Zhang hurried downstairs, she bumped into Mo Zhicheng at the door.

“Mr. Mo, you’re back!”

Sister Zhang quickly stepped forward and took the overcoat from his hands. Mo Zhicheng slipped off his leather shoes. Sister Zhang asked, “You came back a little earlier than usual today.”

“Mhm.” Mo Zhicheng replied in a low voice, a polite faint smile at the corner of his lips. His gaze drifted unconsciously toward the main bedroom on the second floor. Seeing this, and before Mr. Mo could speak, Sister Zhang tactfully said, “Miss Ye is on the second floor.”

Mo Zhicheng looked over and asked in a low voice, “What is she doing?”

Sister Zhang was somewhat awkward at once. Mo Zhicheng asked, “What is it?”

“I’m going downstairs to get shampoo and bath wash.”

Mo Zhicheng understood her meaning and only said softly, “I’ll do it.”

“Mr. Mo—”

Linglan had been lying in the bath for a long while when she heard footsteps by her ear. Perhaps it was Sister Zhang. She asked softly, “Sister Zhang?”

There was no answer from the other side, only the sound of water rushing. From the showerhead, droplets spilled down, warm and steady. She felt a hand working a delicate lather through her hair, and in the air floated a faint fragrance. She closed her eyes, only feeling a gentle comfort. The pressure of those fingers was just right as they massaged her lightly. Linglan parted her lips and murmured, “Sister Zhang, you say you treat me like your daughter, and I feel close to you too.”

No answer.

“So Sister Zhang, tell me... do you really think Mr. Mo cares for me?” She let out a low sigh, as though some words carried meanings too deep, while others could not be spoken at all.