Dream of the Blue Room by Michelle Richmond Page B

tourism promenade into famous city of industry and culture.”
    Slowly, people begin emerging on deck. Their pale, bloated faces show signs of an afternoon of drink, sleep, and Bingo. There is a great deal of blinking and yawning as the passengers adjust to the gloomy light of the rain-soaked afternoon. Elvis Paris appears at our side, green flag in one hand, clipboard in the other. “Nanjing is number one beautiful city of China!” he says, pointing to an imposing row of towers rising on the hill. “Nanjing makes all modern things for the good of the people. Petroleum, lead, zinc, iron.”
    We pass under a huge, monstrously ugly bridge, which is lined with clusters of egg-shaped lanterns and supported by four concrete towers. The Voice calls out the landmark: “Yangtze First Bridge, amazing feat of Chinese engineering and work ethic of the people.” A huge red banner hangs from the bridge, the characters written large in white. All of the guides, including Elvis Paris, point to the sign in unison, as if on cue, and The Voice translates: “Love the Four Modernizations. Work Hard for the People.”
    “What are the Four Modernizations?” Dave asks.
    “Every Chinese child knows the Four Modernizations!” Elvis Paris says proudly. “Industry, Agriculture, Defense, Science.”
    Elvis Paris must have seen the bridge dozens of times in his endless travels along this familiar route; nonetheless, he gazes up in undisguised awe. “This bridge is true symbol of modern China. Twenty thousand feet long. This bridge is very great, but the Three Gorges Dam will be greater.”
    We find Graham, then wait for Stacy, who arrives several minutes after our appointed meeting time, wearing a blue denim minidress and loafers. “We almost left you,” Dave says, teasing.
    “You wouldn’t have.” She’s looking at him the way I’ve seen so many women look at him over the years—that mixture of attraction and curiosity, amusement and, perhaps, hope. Dave’s not the kind of guy you notice immediately. His handsomeness is of a more subtle quality. I can’t count the times I’ve been sitting with him in a restaurant, halfway through the meal, when one woman, then another, and another, glances over and sees him. I know it’s happening because something crosses their faces—something quick and instinctual—before they look away. Then they’ll keep glancing back, trying not to be obvious, perhaps hoping to catch his eye. He’s not the kind of man who causes a stir when he walks into a room. Instead, women notice his presence slowly, like a vapor or a faint scent, like the music in the background that you don’t even know is there until a single odd note rises above the ambient noise. I’ve tried to analyze this quality in him, tried to figure out exactly what it is about the composition of his face, the measured gestures of his hands, that draws women slowly and inevitably toward him. Twelve years, and I’ve yet to pinpoint it. Even as I love him for his mystery, his ability to keep me guessing year after year after year, I know that I’ve lost any such mystery for him.
    We hang back until the other passengers have departed, then make our way over the slippery gangplank. Graham leads us up a muddy stairway, then through a group of rumpled soldiers halfheartedly stacking sandbags. We pass beneath a canopy of sycamores, fragrant in the rain, and find ourselves beside a little stream that cascades toward the river.
    “The Chin-huai,” Graham explains. “Mooring place of the legendary flower boats.”
    “Flower boats?” Stacy says, digging in the soft sand with the toe of her shoe.
    “When I first traveled to China twenty years ago, you could still see them here. A paper lantern glowed on every boat, and a girl in a bright silk dress stood at the stern. The girls held paper fans printed with the names of songs you could have them sing.”
    “Sounds romantic.”
    “Sure, but it was business. Each singsong girl had a couple of