From ancient times to the present day, purity, chunjie, has been the most desirable quality a Chinese man wants from his woman. One can always find those ideal "pure" girls in the romance novels written by the Taiwanese author Qiongyao: long, floating, straight black hair; long white skirt; virginal, quiet, untouchable, and selfless. In the last forty years, whether in books or TV series, Qiongyao's love stories about the stereotypical innocent Chinese girls have never failed to sell in Greater China. Men and women, young and old, all have shed tears for their sad stories.

I have never liked Qiongyao's soap operas. I think they are contrived and their heroines are prudes. My Oxford-educated friend CC feels the same way. "Why do the Chinese men love those airheads who only know how to cry and beg? Why can't they appreciate Meryl Streep and Sophia Loren?"

In order to find the answer for CC, I invite my painter friend Jia to meet us for a drink at the Red Moon bar in the new Grand Hyatt in downtown Beijing.

Jia, a fan of Qiongyao, loved the innocent type of woman so much that he always wanted to marry a minority nationality girl from the countryside.

Three years ago, Jia trekked to primitive villages in search of his ideal wife. In impoverished Guizhou Province, he walked through a forest for three days and finally arrived at a Dong tribe settlement where there was neither electricity nor automobiles. The villagers there lived as if they were still in the Stone Age. They were very hospitable and treated him, a total stranger, like a family member. Soon he met a beautiful eighteen-year-old virgin with the sweetest smile. Her name was Miya. Miya was a good dancer. When she moved, the silver anklets she wore tinkled. Jia was totally enchanted by her.

After living in the Dong tribe for a month, Jia persuaded Miya to marry him and took her to live with him back in Beijing.

His ambitious project was to train Miya to be his ideal wife. The task started with teaching Miya to speak Chinese. Previously, she spoke only the language of her tribe.

Within two years, Miya had turned into someone who had just stepped out of the pages of one of Qiongyao's novels: long straight hair, white skirt, sweet, and an avid admirer of her man. I met Miya several times. She was quiet most of the time, but when she spoke, it was always about Jia.

I asked Miya what books she loved to read; Miya said any books Jia has read. I asked Miya what food she loved to eat; Miya said any food Jia ate. I was put off. "Miya isn't one of us." My girlfriends all said that as well. But Jia enjoyed showing Miya off to his friends. His male friends all envied him so much that they wanted to follow in his matrimonial footsteps.

Inspired by his new love, Jia held a successful painting exhibition of his rose period works in the French embassy of Beijing.

Jia felt on top of the world until two months after the exhibition. One day he came home and found that Miya had disappeared. So had his paintings and the money in his bank account. Rumor had it that Miya had met a retired French diplomat at Jia's exhibition and had run away with him to Paris, along with Jia's paintings and money.

Of course, this should not have come as a surprise to Jia. After all, Miya wasn't the first wife to betray him. He had two other tribal wives before Miya, and the beginning and the ending were always the same: he found an innocent girl from a remote village and brought her to the city till one day she left him for another man, taking all his possessions with her.

"So why are you so fixated on these tribal girls?" I inquire.

"Their sexual and emotional innocence. I believe true love can only happen once in one's life. City women have too many chances to meet men. They aren't pure anymore. My three wives were all corrupted by the city," Jia states.

"He is certainly not into the brainy type, like Meryl Streep, or the sexy type, like Sophia Loren," CC murmurs to me.

No wonder he is into tribal girls; no sophisticated urban woman would buy his nonsense. I can't help but tease him: "I guess you played a major role in the process of corrupting them."

"But I didn't get a bad deal myself. I traded my paintings and money for years of being worshipped and served like a king! It at least pumped up my ego, which helps me paint. After all, how many people can live like a king in a people's republic?" Jia defends himself.

Here we go, I think, Jia's problem again is lack of confidence, like that of so many Chinese men.

CC, although fond of Jia's paintings, is dismayed by his male chauvinist comments. "Ha! You think you were some king," she snaps. "But this is the third time that your innocent queen ran off with your royal treasury for other men. I know what type of king you are: The King of Cuckolds."

CHUNJIE: Pure and clean, meaning innocent or innocence; used both as an adjective and as a noun.

I am on a business trip to Guangzhou. One day, I receive a phone call from a state-owned beer company called Blue Boys. "Our President Gao would like to see you." On the other line, it is the voice of a female secretary. Who is President Gao? I am confused. I don't know many people in Guangzhou.

I soon find out that President Gao is the boy once known as High Mountain. We have been out of touch for almost ten years.

High Mountain was my secret admirer in middle school. At our school, the majority of the students came from high-ranking Communist Party cadre families. High Mountain 's snobbish schoolmates often teased him for his humble upbringing: his father was the secretary of the secretary of Beibei's grandfather, and a low-ranking bureaucrat. He liked me because he said I was the only girl in school that was nice to him. Before I left for the United States, he wrote me a farewell letter.

"I hope you will remain a patriotic Chinese girl and won't forget the duty of serving the Chinese people when you are in America. I hope you will not fall in love with a foreign devil, because it is not at all patriotic. An insider is an insider and an outsider should always be an outsider. I wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I was so afraid that others will laugh at me for being a toad who wants the meat of a swan. I will demonstrate my love for you by putting my whole heart into building our country. High Mountain."

Today's High Mountain is no longer the little boy who suffered from low self-Estéem. He is President Gao. He drives a Cadillac to meet me.

After I get in his car, I start to look for the seat belt.

"Americans are so gutless. I'm not afraid of death. I never wear a seat belt," brags President Gao. I didn't expect my former admirer to greet me by abusing the States, but I soon realize that making fun of overseas returnees is a new fashion among locals. I don't mind President Gao having some sour feelings. After all, he was rejected back then, not only by me but by the American universities he applied to. I smile back politely, "A Cadillac can protect you well enough, I guess."

"So what car did you drive in the States?" President Gao asks me as he swerves in and out of traffic.

"A Honda," I reply while nervously holding on to my seat.

"I guessed as much. Japanese cars are more economical. I love the luxury of American cars. Who cares about gasoline? Everything I spend from gas to parking tickets is reimbursed by my company anyway." Says President Gao.

"So you are taking advantage of both the socialist and capitalist systems," I tease.

"Of course!" President Gao says triumphantly.