Do Not Say We Have Nothing

by Madeleine Thien

He liked to shock her. She refused to laugh. “I don’t believe anything you say, Kai.” He took her hand and held it. “I’m glad, Zhuli. Never trust me.” He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her cheek and then to her lips. The warmth of his mouth humiliated her, she turned her face but he kept holding on to her hand, the heat of his breath against her ear. Just at the moment when she wanted to give in, to kiss him fiercely, he had released her fingers. “Do what the old violinist says,” Kai told her. He continued as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Play the Ravel. I can do the accompaniment, if you wish.” “Fine,” she said. She was trembling. He had switched gears as smoothly as a bird circling, as unequivocally as a madman. “Since you like it so much.” When he left, she had picked up her violin again. How had he dared? But a giddy, shameful pleasure had swelled inside her. Why had she allowed him?