Under the Frosts of Autumn

Insert standard disclaimer: I own nothing, claim to own nothing, and so on and so forth …

Having a special love
for the gold blooms that come early,
I have transplanted their fragrance
to the innermost courtyard.
When all the other flowers
have been blown away,
They rise brilliant and proud
under the frosts of autumn.

"Early Chrysanthemums," Gu Ruopu, trans. Maureen Robertson

---

Even though he came back for her a few months after she'd felt her life collapse around her – the two men she loved gone, when it wasn't clear if either would ever return - she worries constantly that he'll leave her again, this time for good. But when she rests her head on his chest late at night and just listens to his heart beat – steady, slower than one would expect, but strong – she stops worrying, if only for a little bit.

He left once already, saying he'd be back when she needed him; at the time, though she had been tired of goodbyes, it was no different than seeing off Asuka and Cammy after a visit. She'd been used to waiting patiently, faithfully – that never changed, no matter who was around. But it occurred to her one night as she sat in the bitter cold and watched the last straggling geese flying south in a crooked V that she was waiting for him. And, unlike in the old poems they read together, he came back with the geese; that shouldn't have surprised her, since he always keeps his promises and always has. That doesn't mean she has stopped worrying, since there are some things that even the most loyal of people have no control over.

For his part, he doesn't worry about leaving; he's sure that as long as she sleeps by his side, he'll wake up in the morning. Slower, creakier, older – but he'll rise. Because he doesn't want to shorten this, has no desire to feel time contract (he finds that it seems to do that anyway when he's near her, no effort necessary on his part). And so he doesn't. The feeling of her hands on his body, of her body against his, is enough to convince him that there's more living yet to do. How could anyone want to leave a woman who made a heart entirely unused to such things flutter? He figures he's spent so long shortening time, how hard could it be to lengthen it?

Thus, the man who has spent most of his life too busy to finish a whole book, no matter what the length, has come to love watching a woman sleep for hours; has come to love tracing slow lines on her skin and watching goose bumps spring up; has come to love moving slow enough to cause exquisite agony - which is really exquisite pleasure, though you wouldn't know it by the look on her face. She tries her best to speed up so they can meet somewhere in the middle, but she knows the compromise always settles in her favor; she's pretty sure he doesn't mind, though.

She patches things – more precisely, people and animals – up with her hands during the day, every day; he patches things – more precisely, gardens and houses and fields and orchards – up with his hands during the day, when he feels like it. Sometimes he wants to do nothing but recline in the shade and read, so he does that; sometimes children beg him to tell them stories of his (their) old exploits, so he does that, too. She always teases that he more than earned his keep in the years prior, and if anyone deserved to lay in the shade and read obsolete things, it was him – it doesn't matter that he is "young." She always says that with a smile and a sigh, going quiet for a while. They try not to do too much joint remembering.

During the evenings – and during the sunsets, the midnights, the wee hours, the dawns, the mornings – sometimes they sleep. Sometimes they sleep sprawled out, only the tips of their fingers touching; sometimes they sleep wrapped around each other, as if they are one body instead of two. Sometimes they just lie in bed, or stretch out in fields under the wide sky that often seems boundless, and watch each other watching the other. Or they tangle in twisted sheets, bodies slick with sweat, spent and exhausted, speaking in hushed tones of serious things … until one of them decides they aren't quite exhausted enough and they attempt to sate their desire again and again and again. She often thinks she will never quite be able to get enough of him; he knows he will never be able to get enough of her.

They read, of course. She's thrilled to have someone who cares enough to find beautiful things for her, and he loves having someone to show beautiful things to. They read books of poetry to each other in the drowsy heat of summer, the biting cold of winter, and all the other times in between; and old books, new books, textbooks, bits of arcane trivia – not that they care terribly much who the first person to commit chaos theory to paper was – their house is full of books of every type, from every era. And such a life of getting lost in old literature and each other suits both of them just fine.

In public, they talk and discuss and drink wine and generally comport themselves as dignified adults, wise far beyond their years. Though sometimes she wants to roll down a hill that's covered in thick spring grass, because "You know, I never got to do that as a kid," and he watches and smiles at the beautiful woman-girl-child that she is; and she likes to lay back in the snow and feel the weight of something that is so light as it falls, yet so heavy once it has fallen, push against her limbs. Invariably she pulls him down, too; children often say with a bit of wonder they never see other grown-ups laugh as much as those two.

Tonight they are simply tracing lines of antique words again, curled together under the dim semi-circle of light cast by a little lamp. She likes the melancholy poems about geese and neighing ponies; he likes the joyful ones about boats and wine. They both like the ones about little things: the sound of frogs splashing in ponds; cicadas; falling leaves; flowers; bamboo. But what he really likes is the way she smiles at him when reading about fiery blooms that remain long after all the others have gone; what she really likes is the way he sometimes trails kisses down her back when she reads to him.

They sometimes whisper to each other the old line about the two dependable things in life, the delights of literature and the delights of the flesh. "Ihave had the good fortune to enjoy them both equally," he always quotes with a wicked grin, though of course that wasn't always true; not like this, at least. But it is now. More than one book has acquired torn pages or a broken spine from being flung hastily aside or crushed beneath bodies; more than once, her thigh or his back has borne a lovely bluish-purple imprint like a ruler (big or small? - that depends on the edition). She thinks it's quite charming that they both find fairly sedate literature erotic. She thinks he's quite charming when he looks rakishly, deliciously wicked.

But tonight is a languorous night – nights like these never fail to amaze her, that he is perfectly content to be described as languorous on occasion – autumn inching towards winter; the weather growing steadily cooler as the days grow shorter, though they still keep a bedroom window open in the evenings to let in the breeze. He props himself up on an elbow so he can lean over her and watch her read and kiss all the bits of her he can reach. She smiles, takes his hand and kisses the thin skin of his wrist, then tilts her head so he can kiss her neck better. And she continues to read to him –

Miles and
miles of autumn
light - sapphire,
turquoise,
jade.

She rolls over onto her back and looks at him through wisps of black hair, smiling. His turn to read to her.

In the evening gusts of wind and rain
Washed away embers of daylight ….
With a smile I say to my beloved:
"Tonight, inside the mesh curtains, the pillow and mat are cool."

It's comfortable, what they've settled into. More than comfortable. Right. She is surprised it took her so long to give herself over to this; she puts it down to her mulish obstinacy on some matters. She worried at first that she was just trying to replace one with the other, that the wine filled nights of that first summer happened out of loneliness, sorrow, grief. She knows better now. He is just glad she is here beside him, reading him poetry and smiling at him. All while wearing no clothes – what man wouldn't have a delightfully wicked grin at that?

She decides they've had enough literature for the night; "all things in balance," she frequently says to him with a laugh when she pulls him close for a kiss. She reaches to turn the light off, rolling him over to settle on top of him. It's still almost bright enough to read by, thanks to the moon, though reading isn't what she particularly wants to do at the present. She sits up and spreads her hands out, tracing the web of scars on his body, the smooth flesh between; he finds her ritual at once painful and soothing. The pain is forgotten when she presses herself against him, arms around his neck, and kisses every part of him she can reach. She shivers as a breeze blows in, and he brings his arms up to pull her closer and keep her warm.

They both look up to the moon as they hear geese through the open window, the tardy ones who have made a late start. They fly in a scraggly V formation, though nothing truly looks scraggly when illuminated by an almost full moon. Mimori sits up again and looks on, enchanted; Cougar looks up at her, enchanted. Though after she looks back down at him and takes his hand, they both look back out the window - watching the wild geese, listening to them calling … calling ….

---

… I once tried to explain to you:
Joy and sorrow turn in the blink of an eye,
Flowers, too, are like a dream –
How can they bloom forever?

… From now on,
Candle in hand, let us admire the flowers;
Never wait till the flower sprigs have grown old.

"Matching Su'an's Rhymes, Moved by the Past," Xu Yan, trans. Charles Kwong

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End notes:

"I am certain that there are two things in life which are dependable: the delights of the flesh and the delights of literature. I have had the good fortune to enjoy them both equally." Sei Shonagon, The Pillow Book, quoted in Peter Greenaway's 1996 film The Pillow Book.

"Miles and/Miles of autumn …." from "Song: West of the Yangzi River," Zhang Yaotiao, trans. Jeanne Larsen

"In the evening gusts of wind and rain …." from "Cai sang zi," Li Qingzhao, trans. Eugene Eoyang

Everything but the Sei Shonagon can be found in the delicious Women Writers of Traditional China: An Anthology of Poetry and Criticism, ed. Kang-I Sun Chang and Huan Saussy (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999).