Free Three Sisters by Bi Feiyu Page A

brought his hands together. For her part, Yumi added rice straw to the pillars of fire, moving in concert with Peng Guoliang as if by design and creating a moving tableau.
    When the straw fell from the tongs onto the flames, it leaped into the air first, then wilted and turned transparent before finally regaining color, creating both heat and light. Their faces and chests were reddened rhythmically by the flames; the rising and falling of their chests, too, had a rhythmic quality that required some adjustment and extra control. The air was so hot and in such constant oscillation it was as if private suns hung above their heads and all but baked them joyously in a sort of heated tenderness. Their emotions were in chaos, rising and falling in their breasts. There was at least a little confusion, and there was something in the air that could easily have led to tears, here one moment and gone the next. Yumi knew she was in love, and as she gazed into the fire, she could not stop the flow of hot tears. Peng Guoliang noticed, but said nothing. Taking out his handkerchief, he placed it on Yumi's knee. But instead of using it to dry her tears, she held it up to her nose. It smelled faintly of bath soap and nearly made her cry out loud. She managed to hold back, but that only increased the flow of tears. Up to that moment they had not exchanged a single word and hadn't touched one another, not even a finger. That suited Yumi perfectly. This is what love is supposed to be, she told herself, quietly sitting close but not touching—remote but in silent harmony. Close at hand, though longing in earnest and calling to mind some distant place—all as it should be.
    Yumi's glance fell on Peng Guoliang's foot, which she could see was a size forty-two. No question about it. She already knew his sizes, all of them. When a girl falls for a boy, her eyes become a measuring tape. Her gaze stretches out to take measurements and then, when that's done, snaps right back.
    Custom dictated that Peng Guoliang not stay under the same roof with Yumi before she became his wife. But Wang Lianfang was used to breaking rules and was dedicated to transforming social traditions. "You'll stay here," he announced, for he took pleasure in seeing Peng Guoliang walk in and out of the yard; his presence created an aura of power around the house and brought Wang high honor.
    "It's not proper," Shi Guifang said softly.
    Wang Lianfang glared at her and said sternly, "That's metaphysical nonsense."
    So Peng Guoliang took up residence in the Wang home. When he wasn't eating or sleeping, he spent his time behind the stove with Yumi. What a wonderful spot that was. A sacred spot for village lovers. He and Yumi were talking by this time, though the strain on her was considerable, since words in the standard Beijing dialect kept cropping up in his speech. She loved the way it sounded, even if she didn't always understand it, because those few added words conjured up distant places, a different world, and were made for talk between lovers. On one particular evening the fire in the belly of the stove slowly died out and darkness crept over them, frightening Yumi. But this sense of fear was augmented with hard-to-describe hope and anxiety. Budding love is cloaked in darkness, since there is no road map to show where it's headed; neither partner knows how or where to start, which usually makes for awkward situations. Absorbed in this anxiety, they had maintained a respectful distance out of fear of touching each other.
    Then Peng Guoliang reached out and took Yumi's hand. At last they were holding hands. She was a little frightened, but this was what she'd been waiting for. Letting Guoliang hold her hand instilled in her the satisfaction of a job well done. A sigh of relief emanated from the depths of her heart. Strictly speaking, she was not holding his hand; her hand was caught in his. At first his fingers were stiff and unbending, but slowly they came to life, and when