Dream of the Blue Room Read Online Free PDF

subject.
    “That’s nice,” Stacy says. “You must meet a lot of interesting people.”
    I want to tell her that I once had ambitions. I want to tell her that I too am an artist at heart, although I don’t know what kind. It never ceases to amaze me that I ended up in retail, considering how much I hate to shop. “It’s just temporary,” I say, then add, laughing, “if you can call eight years temporary.”
    Stacy turns to Dave. “And you?”
    “I’m an EMT.”
    “EMT?” Stacy adjusts her glasses. They look slightly off, as if they’re a fashion statement rather than a necessity.
    “Emergency medical technician.”
    “That’s fascinating. Must be something, to actually go out there and make a difference.”
    Soon after we married, Dave left his lucrative position as a bond trader to pursue his dream job, and eleven years later he still loves it—the danger and adrenaline, the possibility, each shift, of going out into the world and saving someone’s life. My own work offers no such excitement. The women who shop at the boutique on Seventy-fourth and Columbus rarely surprise. They are the sort who somehow manage to stay cool and fragrant in their silk suits when the rest of New York is sweating. They treat me with a snobbish politeness, as if to say that they admire my taste in clothes but would never invite me to their dinner parties. Dave, on the other hand, plays the hero to junkies and heart attack victims. His is the last hand some people cling to before they die, the first face others see as they reenter the world of the living. Though he would never say it, I know that he was always a little disappointed, upon coming home after a shift, to enter the safe and mundane world of our Upper West Side apartment, to find the dishes clean and the sofa cushions straight, his wife cheerful and in good health.
    Matt Dillon returns with three orders of World Famous Yangtze River Flapjacks. Stacy douses her plate with syrup and says, “What a relief. I was afraid they’d be serving monkeys or something.”
    Throughout breakfast I watch the door. We’ve almost finished our meal when Graham appears alone in the doorway of the dining room. He spots me and comes over to our table. “Morning.” His face and voice betray no sign of the intimacy we shared, and I wonder if the bond I felt with him was one-sided. Perhaps I’ve been married so long that I’m no longer capable of judging a man’s intentions.
    “You two know each other?” Dave asks.
    “I imposed myself on your wife last night while you were in your cabin counting sheep. I’m Graham.”
    “Dave.” Dave has his palm up and is gripping Graham’s hand lightly. He has always shaken hands this way—quick to assert the fact that he is not prone to combat, not interested in one-upmanship. That’s one of the things that attracted me to him when we first began dating. He was so unlike the boys I knew from home, the macho types with their big voices and firm handshakes, their need to always be in control.
    “We’re stopping in Nanjing this evening,” Graham says. “I know a great spot for dinner. Why don’t you two join me?”
    Dave puts an arm around my shoulder, as if we’re best buddies, as if this whole trip was his idea. “Sounds great.”

    Dave and I have been assigned to the green group, which is led by Elvis Paris. Stacy, a sketch pad and pencil box in hand, sidles up to us. “Mind a third wheel?”
    We disembark at Yangzhou in an oppressive drizzle. As we step off the gangplank onto the floating dock, Elvis Paris distributes parkas. “Follow me!” he shouts, waving the green flag over his head. We pass through narrow streets crowded with commerce. Everything is for sale: glass medicine bottles, plastic sandals, colorful shirts, porcelain bowls, combs, teacups, cameras, jade trinkets, fake leather purses, batteries, chopsticks, jewelry, toothpaste, lamps, socks, radios, pencils, postcards.
    An elderly woman gives haircuts on the