Mandarin Ducks

Sarah Siemsgluess “Oh, how charming! They look almost real.” With delight, Gwyneth admired the two wooden ducks that sat perched on the mantelpiece. Each duck had been hand-carved skillfully, with a softly curved neck and feathers etched intricately into the wood. The glossy mahogany pieces were painted with vivid oranges and soft reds and creamy whites. The ducks gazed at each other with uncanny warmth. Diana Wong smiled, “My husband and I had them specially commissioned for our wedding. Mandarin ducks have a special signifcance in China, you know. Like swans, they only have one mate for life, so for thousands of years, they were regarded as symbols of lifelong love and happiness in marriage. ” “That’s very romantic. Now that I look at them, they do rather look like lovers.”

“Would you like some more cofee?” Diana asked.

“Thanks, that would be nice.” After Diana had left the room, Gwyneth half-rose from her chair, hesitating. She walked over to the mantelpiece and stood there, silent. The ducks looked at each other with a private and mysterious warmth that eluded her. She tremulously stretched out her hand toward the mantelpiece. “Here’s your cofee.” Gwyneth started, whirling around to see Diana setting a cup down. Reading Diana’s expression, Gwyneth drew her hand back from the ledge as if bitten. Gwyneth opened her mouth but no words came out. Finally, she managed, “I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was nice of you to drop by. A very neighborly gesture.” Before Gwyneth left, unceremoniously exiled, she took another glance at the pair of ducks. They continued to gaze at each other in a quiet reverie. Gwyneth put on her coat. With a probing glance, she said goodbye to Diana. Diana stood in the doorway for a few seconds before returning to the sitting room. She strode across the room, straight to the mantelpiece, and looked at the ducks for a moment. She then very deliberately picked up the duck on the right, and turned it. The chip was there, as always. The ducks were identical but for this faw, a small dent in one duck’s right wing. This was easily hidden by turning the fawed duck’s right wing away from view, nevertheless, it bothered Diana.

Diana sometimes wondered if the chip had always been there, without her noticing it. Treacherously, she would tell herself that it had been there when she received the ducks, and that she, furried by all the wedding preparations, had simply not seen it. But she dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. She caressed the dent carefully before setting the duck down, turning the faw out of view.

Not daring to turn her head, she dashed out of the room. Settling down into her armchair, he looked dourly at the two cups of cofee she now had to drink. Diana thought aloud, “I’d better send Gwyneth an apology. How silly to get worked up over a little carving. Oh, why can’t I forget about the whole thing?” She found her favorite recording (Karajan) of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D, Op. 35, hitting play. As the frst movement began to swell, gloriously resounding through the room, she was struck by the sound of sheer beauty. It shot the stupid ducks out of her mind with its splendor, taking over her senses. Entranced, she wondered as she had

every time she heard the concerto that something of such profound exultance and mournfulness and tension and spiritual transcendence could exist in this world. When it ended, the sense of reverie stayed within her. Vaguely cognizant that she should return her books to the library before it closed, she stepped out of the house, leaving indentations for footsteps in the snowy driveway as she dreamily meandered through the neighborhood. As the chill seeped into her, the euphoria dissipated. Her steps quickened. As she walked about the neighborhood, she noticed a chalky pink grin drawn crudely on the sidewalk. She smiled slightly and continued, past the snow-dusted park and the row of shops, all aglow with lights. Stepping into the expansive library, her eyes rested on the shelves upon shelves of musty tomes that held centuries of wisdom. The library was silent, punctuated only by the susurration of paper and the periodic tone produced by barcode scanners at the checkout station. Diana fnished her errand. As she made as to leave the library, she passed the children’s and teen’s section. A food of laughter and snippets of conversation darted into her vicinity. The hushed voices rising occasionally in delight brought to mind the violin concerto. Exiting the library, Diana found herself recalling those ascending notes, fying and slipping and resolutely clawing their way to the apex of sublimity, then fitting in feats of technical and artistic brilliance, to be joined by the rest of the orchestra in euphonic majesty. Diana returned home. With a strange fuidity, Diana approached the ducks at the mantelpiece. She looked at them for a moment before pulling out her phone. Her husband picked up the phone on the second ring. “Hello, Diana.” She spoke to Bohai evenly, flling the silence with what needed to be said. For, as Diana explained, there was a chip on the duck’s wing and it was there even when she did not see it. She felt it in her. She could not deny its existence. Bohai

listened and then spoke haltingly. As he continued, the words fowed easily. They spoke at length and at the end of conversation she freely told him she loved him. The phone call emptied Diana of words. Yet at the same time, it flled her. For the frst night in a month, Diana slept peacefully. The sky was dark when she woke up, but her mind was restful. Some odd compulsion drew her to the living room. She strode across the room, straight to the mantelpiece, and looked at the ducks for a moment. She then very deliberately picked up the duck on the right, and turned it. The chip was there, as always. For the frst time, she smiled at seeing it.

In the night, her mandarin duck was all shades of blue. It was cool in her hands. Smooth, like rain running down her fngers. Looking at it under the glow of the moon, she felt the stirrings of something strange and new. And she wondered if the starry-eyed ducks were perhaps not gazing at each other at all, but at the vast realm of possibility. For as she looked at her perfectly imperfect mandarin duck, she saw in its eyes a dreaminess which called to her that there were places to explore, adventures to be had, and dreams to discover in the infnite skies above.