Passion Fruit
Lucia Deaville

Jade is my passion. Nothing equals what I feel when I hold a piece in my hand, smooth and hard and cool. Ever since I saw my first carvings on a high school field trip to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, I have coveted the stone.

Seven years ago I joined the merchant marine for reasons I won’t go into. This is my eighth trip to Hong Kong and the Haw Par Mansion, which has arguably the finest jade collection in the world. I stayed until closing and the guards booted me out, bowing and laughing in that huffing secretive way Asians have.

My feet ached and I was starved. I headed for my favorite steak house on Wing Kut Street where you find the best martinis in Hong Kong. I didn’t see her tucked away in a corner until the late afternoon light glinted off her blond hair, framing her face like a halo. Jesus, she was lovely. The ivory cheongsam she wore matched her skin so perfectly it was hard to tell where either began or ended. Her neck was long and fluid like a crane’s and her eyebrows highly arched over deep set eyes - Jean Harlow personified. She blinked so slowly I thought she might go to sleep.

I finished dinner and ordered a glass of Benedictine. I wondered why she was alone--just looking at her gave me a problem with my pants. Several times I tried to get her attention,

but she ignored me. Instead, her eyes passed over mine with no change in expression as she surveyed the room, making slow sweeps like radar. After several minutes I figured I'd have a go and sent the waiter over with a drink. Without the slightest hesitation, she left her table and came to mine. She was taller than I expected and moved in that precise way dancers do when they walk on stage, as if pacing herself.

“My name's Margaret.” She spoke in a cultured English accent.

“Jacob Tanner.”

“You’re American.” It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a question either.

“How did you guess?” We both laughed. She leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair as if she were stroking herself, and crossed her legs. The creamy moons of her knees taunted me.

“Do you live here or are you just visiting?” I make the worst small talk when I'm hungry.

“I live in Hong Kong, in Kowloon. I was born in England but came here with my husband who had an export business.” She smiled faintly and looked away. “He died seven years ago. Of something.”

The tone of her voice made sympathy seem inappropriate, so I offered none.

“Do you work?”

“I did for a while. I took over his business, but it bored me so I sold it. Now I have enough to do what interests me, which is a lot and nothing.” She paused, a long time, but I waited; she seemed to want to get something out of the way. “I read, I sleep, I do whatever I feel like.”

Even though her body radiated contentment, she had a problem with eye contact and rarely looked at me, even when she was speaking. Most of the time she stared at her cordial glass, turning it in her hand as if she were counting the facets of the crystal. I tried not to stare.

We talked about Hong Kong and the old days before the Chinese took over, but she didn't seem interested.

“Do you go out much?” I asked.

She looked directly at me. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue, like El Greco's skies. Her tranquility was gone and she was wary.

“I have a few friends I see now and then. They understand me.”

“They're the only kind worth having.” I sensed I was on the edge of losing her and turned to watch the setting sun. We sat silent as navy blue stole the orange and pink from the sky. Her comfort with silence made me want her even more.

“It's a beautiful evening. Would you like some air?”

Without looking at me, she nodded, and we left the café.

At first, Margaret walked slightly apart from me, but after a while she moved closer and linked her arm in mine. The gesture had too much the feel of camaraderie, but the heat of her arm under mine gave me hope. We strolled for nearly an hour, enjoying the odors and wares of the shops: rows of plucked ducks and chickens hung by their legs like inverted soldiers; clumps of wiry roots; herbs in pots; balms in jars; rainbows of silks blowing in the night breeze. We moved well together because she was nearly my height, and as we walked the tension of the unknown eased. Several times she turned, looked at me and smiled. In the evening shadows, her blue eyes were almost black; she looked like a different person.

In front of a fruit and vegetable stand, Margaret leaned into me. She gazed up coyly, which seemed out of character. “Are you game for something different?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to figure out what she meant. Maybe she wasn't alluding to sex, but I took the chance. “Except blood and whips and things like that. They don't do much for me.”

“Oh no, me either, I didn't mean that.” She paused as if she were debating a question in her mind. “I mean something really different.”

“Why not?” My mouth was so dry I could barely make it work. I was throbbing. I wanted to know her as much as I wanted to make love to her, to touch her creamy skin. But I wasn't in control; she was.

She stopped in front of a large pile of tomatoes. Underneath the skins the flesh was that dark luminous red of those only a few hours away from being too ripe. She examined them closely, carefully hefting each for weight, then placed them in a bag. When she was finished she paid the vendor, and we set out again. I was beginning to feel apprehensive. What could she have in mind? After ten minutes, we arrived at an iron gate with a lion's head on either side. She took a key from her purse and inserted it in the massive lock. The gate swung open. At the end of a vine-covered walk stood a stone mansion, British colonial style. She rang the bell, and a petite Asian girl dressed as an English maid opened the door. Margaret said something to her in Chinese, and the girl, head bowed, disappeared down the hallway.

We left the marbled foyer and entered the living room.

“Would you like a glass of sherry?” Margaret kicked off her shoes and went over to a tea cart that served as a portable bar

“I’d love one.” I looked around the room. The ceilings, with deeply carved crown molding, had to be at least twelve feet high. At the far end of the room, French doors opened to a patio, and outside, a fountain shimmering from submerged floodlights, rose in the night sky. Celadon silk in a fleur-de-lis pattern covered the walls, and on the floor Chinese carpets protected the inlaid mahogany. Everywhere jade and soapstone sculptures graced rosewood stands. The room exuded a hooded mystery enhanced by lamps with dark shades on low tables. Long ivory damask sofas faced each other across a glass coffee table with claw feet, in the middle of which sat a bouquet of fresh white chrysanthemums. Above the mantle was a formal portrait of Margaret, sitting stiffly in a purple dress that didn't suit her at all.

The beauty of the room overwhelmed me, and especially her collection of jade. All were exceptional, but two, one a dark green monster from the Han period and the other, a table screen, ivory in color, from the Chien Lung period were exquisite.

“Your jades are beautiful. I have some, a small collection, but nothing that comes even close to these.”

She handed me a glass and sat down on a sofa. “I bought all of them. My husband had no interest in anything but money. That's probably why he died.” She sipped her sherry and looked up at the portrait of herself.

“That isn't me, you know. It looks like me, but it was me being what he wanted.” She grunted. “I don't know why I did that. I hate purple.”

“Purple is definitely not your color.”

“What color do you think is my color?”

“Well, the ivory you're wearing is lovely but I think you'd look terrific in red.”

She laughed heartily. “Do you!”

I had obviously pleased her. She sat with her legs curled under her and my eyes rode the curve of her thigh, glinting with down as it disappeared under the silk.

She patted the cushion beside her.

“It's funny how people meet, how they come together, each wanting something. They usually don't say what. They rely on vibes to make the right moves.” She spoke so softly I could barely hear her. “Sometimes it comes out right, but more often they part, each wondering what went wrong.”

I touched her cheek and her neck arched under my hand. I leaned closer, consumed by the warm body scent that wafted from the neckline of her dress. I was about to kiss her when she pulled away.

“Pour yourself another if you like. I'll be back in a minute.”

She touched my hair and went down the hall. Her perfume settled on me like a narcotic and I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the sofa. The room was too beautiful. It didn't allow for her suffering or loneliness.

I was thinking about how I would handle whatever happened when Margaret came out of the shadows dressed in a robe of Chinese Red silk that flowed over her body like lava. She pursed her lips as if blowing a kiss, reached out her hand and led me down the hallway. We entered a large room lit by two floor lamps, one on each side of a four-poster bed. The only other furniture in the room was a brass towel stand and a pedestal six feet from the foot of the bed. On it was a gold basket filled with tomatoes. The entire room--the wallpaper, lampshades, rugs, draperies, even the sheets and towel--was Chinese Red. She closed the door and leaned against me, her mouth against my neck. I put my arms around her, but she pulled away, kissed my hand, and led me to the pedestal. She touched my cheek in a plaintive way, went to the foot of the bed and turned to face me. Eyes closed, she let the robe slide from her shoulders. Her skin looked even creamier against the red. For a moment she stood motionless, then slowly fell back onto the bed. With a dancer’s movement, she raised her arms in a slow arc over her head and laid her hands on the pillow, her head turned to the side. Then she placed her feet on the bedposts.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. She didn't make a sound, she just lay there, wide-spread, her legs braced against the wood. I had a sudden impulse to laugh, but it went away as soon as it had come.

I was frozen except for the sound of my heart in my ears. I wanted her more than any woman I had ever known, but she wanted something else. I looked at the basket of tomatoes and her openness, and knew what I was meant to do. I picked up a tomato, and lobbed it as gently as possible; I didn’t want to hurt her. The tomato glanced off her buttock and onto the floor. Her back arched, and she whimpered. I picked up another, and this time took more care. I knew to be accurate without hurting her would not be easy. The tomato caught her on the inside of her right thigh, and she groaned, writhing on the sheet.

I had to do better; this was not something to be rushed. With the third tomato I hit her squarely, and as the soft red pulp exploded on her, she convulsed and lost her footing on the bedposts. When her sounds subsided and she was back in position, I took another tomato and concentrated on the task. Again I hit the mark, and again she reverberated like some exotic instrument as the fruit ruptured, spraying crimson seeds and juice over her body. It took half an hour to empty the basket, and, when it was done, I stood waiting. She raised an arm and motioned to me.

“Would you bring me a towel?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

I took one from the brass stand and gently wiped her down.

She reached for me. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like many things, but not now. I just want to hold you.” I had wanted her so badly, but now I felt drained.

She opened her eyes in surprise. “But it's only fair that I....”

I touched her lips with my fingers. “Shhhh. It's all right. Just go to sleep” I took off my clothes and lay down beside her.

Again, she started to protest, but I curled my body around her, and she said no more. I began to stroke her hair at the temples and down the nape of her neck, lifting her hair gently

as if the skin underneath were bruised. After a long while, I felt her body relax and she fell asleep.

In the dim light her expression was as innocent as a da Vinci cherub. What had her other lovers felt? Had they laughed or been revolted, or had they performed in order to get their due? I looked down at her. Where did she get the courage to ask someone to share in something not only bizarre, but so private.

Her need, the intimacy of her secret, tunneled into me. I thought of things I had wanted to ask or tell my friends, my lovers, even my family. Nothing really weird, and most of the time not even sexual, but thoughts and feelings that were secret, so secret they never got out of my head. The kind of things that remind each of us that we are alone in this world, forever and forever, no matter what your parents or your priest or best friend say. Sometimes I can't even figure out what it is I want to say, and I feel a draft open up my chest. I felt it then. A vacuum rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard and sat up. I wanted to wake her, to ask her how she could reveal herself like that, to ask someone inside, but instead, I lay back down and stroked her hair until it was time to go.

After I dressed, I went into the living room, pulled a chair over to the mantle, unhooked the portrait, and lowered it to the floor.

***

Whenever I'm in Marrakesh, or Tokyo, or Le Havre I go to the market and look for the best tomatoes I can find. I buy five or six, a bottle of wine and head for the most beautiful place in the harbor. There, I uncork the wine and take a tomato in my hand. When it becomes warm and soft in my palm, with a blessing, I toss it into the sea.