Gu Yuan · Conversa

By the fortieth minute of letting the wine breathe, you begin to wonder if you've been tricked. The private tasting room of "Mingding" Winery is hidden deep within the main building. When you pushed the door open, you only noticed the dim purple lights, a wall full of wine racks, and the armless leather chair in the corner—it was placed there too deliberately, like some kind of declaration. Gu Yuan leans back in the chair, his long, wavy silver-grey hair cascading over the shoulder straps of his deep V-neck black dress. He swirls a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in his hand, the wine legs slowly sliding down the glass. He doesn't stand up to greet you, nor does he even look up, only saying: "Sit. The wine still needs a moment." His voice is on the lower side, the end of his words dragging lazily by half a beat, like the satisfied yet dangerous purr a cat makes when stretching. You choose to sit on the edge of the sofa furthest from him. Only then does he lift his eyelids, his light-colored irises sweeping over your face before landing on your hands gripping your knees. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly—not a smile, but a sort of "as expected" confirmation. "First time in a place like this?" he asks. You say yes. "Afraid of me?" "...No." "Liar." The way he says those words is so soft that you almost think you're hallucinating. But he doesn't press further. Instead, he gets up and walks toward the wine rack, his bare feet making almost no sound on the dark wooden floor. You notice his ankles are very slender, clasped with a silver chain that reflects glints of light with every step. He takes two glasses, places them on the low table in front of you, and then returns to his chair, picking up his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon once more. "Smell it." He gestures with his chin toward one of the empty glasses. Stains from the previous round of decanting remain at the bottom of the glass. You lean in and catch the scent of blackcurrant and cedarwood. Just as you lower your head, his hand reaches over, his fingertips gently brushing away the stray hairs falling over your forehead. The action is so natural that you only realize it after a dazed moment—he touched you. "Your hair was blocking your eyes," he says, his tone as if explaining a trivial matter. But his fingertips linger behind your ear for half a second, the slightly cool sensation like a chilled silver spoon pressed against your skin. You subconsciously shrink back. He laughs. A real laugh this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, his thin lips curving into a beautiful line. "Ticklish?" You don't answer. He doesn't ask again either, but picks up the decanter and begins pouring wine into the two glasses in front of you. The deep red liquid slowly climbs the walls of the glasses. He pours very slowly, his arm steady, his long silver-grey hair draping down from his shoulder, a few strands almost brushing the tabletop. "The first glass," he pushes the wine glass toward you, "taste it. Tell me what you smell." You pick up the glass and bring it close to your nose—blackberry, plum, vanilla, and a hint of tobacco. You say these words, he nods, and then says: "The second glass, drink it straight down, no need to smell." The second glass is poured very full, almost to the brim. You take a cautious sip; the astringency of the tannins spreads across your tongue, followed by a wave of warm spice. "How is it?" he asks. "A bit... strong." "It's supposed to be strong." He raises his own glass, making a toast gesture toward you from across the room without actually clinking glasses, just a subtle nod. "I opened this bottle specifically for you." You look up at him. His gaze is different from before—still lazy, but there's something more in his pupils, like a lighter suddenly ignited in a dark room. The flame is small, but enough to let one see that the surroundings are entirely mirrors. "It's normal to be afraid of me," he says slowly, resting his wine glass on the armrest, his fingertip tracing a circle along the rim. "But since you came tonight, it means there's something you want in your heart." He voices the word "want" very softly, almost in a breathy whisper. You say nothing. He has no intention of waiting for your answer either, picking up an object from beside the chair—ebony wood, rectangular, looking like an elongated jewelry box. He places it on his lap, not opening it, but slowly caressing the lid with his palm, as if soothing a quiet animal. "Do you know what this is?" he asks. You shake your head. "You'll find out later." He places the box by his feet and picks up his wine glass again. "Now, finish your wine. Before you finish, I'll ask you a question. You can choose to answer, or not." You raise your glass, drinking in small sips. As the liquid slides down your throat, he speaks: "Did you come to see me tonight because you want me to be gentle, or... are you not afraid of me?" There is only one last sip left at the bottom of the glass. You choke slightly as you swallow it, coughing twice. He hands over a black handkerchief, made of silk, with a tiny character "Yuan" embroidered on the edge. "No rush," he says. As you wipe your mouth, he stands up, looking down at you from above, his shadow enveloping you completely. "The night is still long." Then he reaches out his hand—not in a gesture of invitation, but palm down, fingers slightly curved, as if to take hold of something, or perhaps to pin it down. "Look up. Look at me." You do as told. The silver-grey tips of his hair brush against your forehead, a cold fragrance washing over you, mixed with the scent of red wine. "Your hand is shaking," he says. Only then do you realize that the hand holding the empty wine glass is indeed trembling slightly. He gently takes the glass from your hand, sets it aside, and then takes a step back, sitting back in the chair. Throughout the entire process, he doesn't touch you again, but his gaze is like an invisible thread, traveling all the way down from your eyes, sliding past your throat, your collarbone, and stopping at your chest, which rises and falls slightly with tension. "Stay just like that," he says. "For how long?" "Until I say 'enough'."