by Geling Yan
Then a new customer walked in, volubly greeting the two girls sitting by the entrance.
It was Glen.
Hongmei retreated into the shadows. So Glen was meeting his students here. Not a good idea, bantering with them like this. Their laughter sounded tense. Glen made more jokes, but these landed even less well. They started talking about schoolwork, and Glen grew more natural. Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, O’Neill, Poe, Lowry—geniuses who had succumbed to alcohol. Not just more natural, he was aglow. Hongmei almost forgot this was her husband. She’d never seen him so animated before. The candle on the table gave him a classical profile. It appeared his eyes could easily turn romantic.
The students asked their professor to please speak more slowly so they could take notes.
Hongmei thought these two young girls were already captivated by Glen, though he wasn’t doing it on purpose. The angle of the wall cut them off from view, so she could stand there eavesdropping freely, listening as Glen imparted his knowledge, humor, and charisma to these students, as well as a subtle sensuality. Sexual tension was solidifying over their heads, creating a current that sent sparks flying. Hongmei envied those girls a little.
Someone burst out of the bathroom, almost crashing into her. They said sorry at the same time, then stood staring at each other.
Hongmei slipped out of the Blue Danube’s back door, having inadvertently proven her supposition: Doesn’t everyone live within a triangular relationship? Whether real or fake. She walked through the rain, sprinting ahead like a startled bird. Glen must be keeping an eye on her. Even she was finding her behavior over the last few days suspicious.
Then she stopped abruptly, standing in the school field as the rain poured down on her. She remembered the man who’d come out of the bathroom. He’d smiled at her as he’d apologized. That wasn’t a stranger’s smile. He was in his forties, sure, just as he’d described himself, not too tall, but well built and proportioned. Dressed in a black lambswool sweater with a high collar that showed off his physique—he probably enjoyed tennis or swimming. His movements were still somewhat boyish, although his hair was starting to go gray. She hesitated, wondering if she ought to go back. But what would she say to Glen? That she was meeting her online lover? She turned to glance at the bustling coffee shop, but her feet didn’t move. Their eyes had met, yes, and the description matched. His mouth had opened, as if to speak. She thought that he must be the sort of man who seldom said anything but had a lot of words inside.
Soaked, she got home to find Glen had left her a note. Two of his doctoral students needed to see him urgently, so they were meeting at the Blue Danube. He didn’t sound suspicious of her; his writing was neat and clear. She took off her wet clothes and wrapped herself in a soft towel. All of a sudden she was ravenous. All she’d had for dinner was a few mouthfuls of vegetables. Slapping a slice of cheese on some multigrain bread, she chewed away as she went online.
His message was waiting for her.
He said he knew she must be very disappointed, to have gone out in the rain for nothing. He’d seen her come in from the storm, looking just like a young girl ready to sacrifice herself for love, so determined yet so unbearably delicate. The rain had dissolved her mascara, leaving two dark circles around her eyes, and a skein of damp hair plastered beside her severe mouth. He never knew he was capable of such tender affection, quietly blossoming within him. He remembered she was from a small village, the one where two hundred thirteen girls had died in a single night. Those virgins had collectively sacrificed themselves, for the lovers they hadn’t met yet. And so they hadn’t had to get married, hadn’t been let down, had avoided the twisty road of sin down which wives seek affairs. They simply had died for their potential lovers.
So you left the small village and came in my direction. I watched you standing in the doorway. I was thinking, What if there were a haystack behind you, a lover’s grave? You talked about the boy who came to the village, the one who liked cursing and playing the harmonica—he was buried in an unusual grave too. That’s the place you left, a small village like that.
Hongmei wanted to reach out and touch these words, the way they were touching her. She understood what he meant by tender affection.
He said she’d walked past table after table, and it had been obvious even through her clothes that she was breathing hard. The storm had brought out the fear, sleeplessness, and need for alcohol that had been plaguing her for days. It was almost as if this whole affair had become an addiction for her. He’d wanted to come over and embrace her, and tell her how much he regretted his actions. He oughtn’t to have frightened her like that. He’d asked for a new beginning, starting with bodily warmth and breath. If Glen hadn’t been there, he’d certainly have gotten things started properly with her. She’d fled in such a panic, not even noticing that she’d lost her shawl. He’d picked it up—it still held the warmth and scent of her body.
Hongmei’s hands flew to her shoulders, which were empty. Her favorite shawl had fallen into his hands.
He told her not to worry; he’d take good care of it till their next meeting.
She was no longer conjuring up an image out of thin air. Loving words and the middle-aged man who’d flashed past her combined together. Even this affection was the love of a cowboy, half a smile peeping out from under the brim of a hat, not taking you particularly seriously, but ready to die for you in the blink of an eye. That’s fine—that’s what she wanted. This was a man who could rejuvenate all her feelings and desires.
He said he could feel her damp body wrapped in its soft cotton towel. This was his hand, ripping off the towel. Not a gentle unwrapping but a firm tug, a bold move, a quick gesture—don’t you dare be shy. This was his palm, rubbing against her flesh, this yellow, childlike skin.
He really was making her hot again. Even Glen felt different to her now.
11
While Glen was in class, Nini brought over a videotape to share with Hongmei.
The scene opened on an archway with its vermilion bougainvillea. The tip of the fire tower. In the back of her mind, Hongmei knew she had seen this view before, but she just couldn’t place it. The beautiful, useless boyfriend entered the frame and rang the bell. The door opened, revealing a twenty-year-old woman’s face. The camera drew closer. The girl was just shaking her head. The boy got out his card: his fake press credentials forged by Nini. She glanced at it, shrugged, smiled, and agreed to take a few questions. She was half hidden behind the door, revealing only half her body—she was an old hand at this. She’d dealt with the media since she was seven.
He asked when she first suspected her father might have been innocent.
“Fourteen,” she said.
What gave her the idea?
“The letters he left behind. He wrote many of them and handed them to his lawyer, to be mailed to me on important holidays or my birthday. As I got older, the letters became deeper and more complex. He was always guessing my height and weight, how I was doing at school, wanting me to remember how many years it had been since he departed. He even gave me reading lists, then in the next letter would ask if I’d read the books he mentioned. At the end of every letter, he’d ask me to believe that he’d never harmed me, that he’d always love and protect me. On my fourteenth birthday, I got a letter as usual. There was a pair of crystal earrings in the envelope. The sort of baubles a small child might wear. He said when I was seven we were out one day and I insisted he buy me those earrings. He refused, saying children shouldn’t wear jewelry. He’d always felt guilty about that. Now that I was fourteen and could wear jewelry, he hoped I’d enjoy these earrings.”
At this point, she hung her head.
Then she went on: “I suddenly realized that I’d been tricked by my therapist, that third-rate psychiatrist who was tricked by Freud in turn. The tragedy was, no one meant to do any harm. The psychiatrist wanted to make a breakthrough in her research, and got famous off the back of my case—at the cost of my family’s dest
ruction. I hate my mother. She was under a spell, clutching at shadows like my therapist was. You must have seen all the newspapers saying how they brainwashed and controlled me, a girl of seven.”
The boyfriend asked, “How did your father die?”
The woman seemed startled. “You’re a reporter yet you don’t know the basic facts?”
The boyfriend was flustered but covered. “I don’t believe the media’s sensationalist news.”
“You’re right not to. If the media hadn’t twisted facts and created this atmosphere in society, my father might not have killed himself. So my father’s suicide is connected to their irresponsibility.”
“How did he do it?”
“The police found his car deep in the New Mexico desert, with an empty sleeping pill bottle in it. About a month passed between him not showing up in court and the discovery of the car.”
“And the body?”
“Anything could have happened in the desert. There are wild animals and vultures, so perhaps—”
“You live alone now?”
“After my mom remarried, I moved out on my own. The money my dad invested for me had appreciated quite a bit, so I can afford to live in San Francisco.”
Close-up: the girl’s mischievous smile, her body shrinking a little farther behind the front door.
* * *
This girl reminded Hongmei of someone—but who? She couldn’t recall. Those expressions, those gestures, that quick wit, but most of all those eyes—she’d seen them all somewhere before. On the video, the door shut. The vermilion bougainvillea and fire tower remained as they were.
Nini said, “Not bad, right? I miked up the boy and bribed an old guy next door to let us shoot from his kitchen window.”
Hongmei said, “I didn’t ask you to secretly film her!”
“That useless, pretty boy of mine dug up all the information about her—there are dozens of articles online, all of them about that incest case! Even the New York Times and Wall Street Journal wrote about her! Her father was a rich guy—not too rich, though. The court case bankrupted him—it went on for three years. It was the Child Protective Services that brought charges against him. The chief witnesses were the psychiatrist and the girl’s mother.”
Hongmei was still wondering where she’d seen that girl before. She told Nini that this whole thing had nothing to do with the secret talker.
Nini had nothing to say to that. She had indeed wandered down a different rabbit hole.
Even so, Hongmei was dimly aware that the secret talker must have had some reason for stealing this girl’s identity to talk to Nini.
At eleven later that night, she got another message saying he’d expected her to be at the Blue Danube, but she hadn’t shown up. He was using the coffee shop’s Wi-Fi to email her and would wait there until they closed.
She glanced at her watch. Half an hour to closing time. She quickly changed her clothes and combed her hair, then hurried out the door. Glen usually stayed in his study till midnight, and she’d be back before that. But as she opened the front door, she hesitated—this seemed too risky. She left Glen a note saying a friend was visiting from out of town, and she was popping by the campus for a quick chat, back in thirty minutes. The college was full of night owls, so Glen wouldn’t find that suspicious. She put the note on the fridge, but as she turned, she heard a clunk as the magnet fell to the floor. For some reason the magnet wasn’t cooperating—she kept sticking it back up, and it kept falling. Then she heard a voice: “Its magnetism is used up.”
Afterward, she wished she’d managed not to panic. It was just Glen coming out to see what the noise was. But she felt her face stiffen and knew this was bad—no matter what expression she tried to make, it would look hideous. So instead, she turned back to the fridge and pulled out an open bottle of white wine. Still with her back to Glen, she asked if he’d like a glass.
Seeing how she was dressed, Glen asked if she was going out.
She didn’t answer his question, just said that her thesis was almost done, and it felt like her life was ending soon. She knew she was making the situation worse and worse. The note was crumpled in her hand.
Glen said it was so late, maybe she should just stay home.
She could hear the awkwardness in his voice.
She said, “Who says I’m going out?”
“I don’t mind you going out. Why are you so defensive?”
“How am I defensive? Anyway, it wouldn’t make a difference if you minded. I don’t need your permission to do or not do anything.”
Her voice was tight, and all sorts of mistakes were creeping into her English, but she didn’t care.
Glen stared at his wife in surprise. So she could bare her teeth too. Why was she so agitated? Look, look, that frenzied grin again.
“Well said,” Glen replied. “And so your defensiveness is unwarranted.”
“I’m telling you, I’m not defensive at all.”
Don’t be like that, she thought, letting annoyance turn into anger. It’s undignified. But she couldn’t help using the secret talker as a shield. With him around, she wasn’t scared of Glen.
He said, “If you insist on going out this late at night, I’m coming with you.”
She suddenly screamed, “I’m not going out!”
“I don’t mind you going out.”
She threw up her hands in resignation, as if she was giving up ever being understood by him. She felt rage against Glen, and tenderness toward the secret talker, who understood her so well, even though they were so far apart. In that moment, she felt duty bound to love this person. She didn’t want to be with this husband, standing right in front of her yet separated by such a gulf of communication.
Seeing her start to weep, Glen came over and tried to hug her, but she stepped aside. His arm immediately shrank back respectfully. She waited for him to come closer and ignore her protests, wrap his arms around her. At these times she didn’t know what to do. She needed Glen to be a big brother, to protect her unconditionally, to force her to think before acting, to help her to understand that taking one step back would return her to safety and forgiveness. Right now she wanted him to pull her back, prevent her from falling into an uncertain embrace.
But Glen just stood there. He would never get it or give her what she wanted, what she needed.
Finally he said in a reasonable tone, “You wrote me a note. May I read it?”
So he’d seen the crumpled scrap of paper. It was too late now anyway. The Blue Danube was closed by now.
She slapped the note down on the table and said, “I’ll go pack.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll get a motel.”
“Which one?”
She came out of the bathroom with her toiletry bag. To think he’d actually asked the question. Which one?!
“What difference does it make?” she said, pulling bras and panties from the wardrobe in their bedroom. “Are you going to recommend a motel?” She laughed nastily.
“If it’s far from here, I’d suggest you wait till tomorrow morning.”
He would never be able to understand her.
She concentrated on packing her bag and getting out.
Every line of her body screamed that she had been wronged. In her mind, she urged him to pity her, complained that he was so cruel that he didn’t even try to rush over and hold her back, forcing her into his wide and warm chest or blocking the door that stood between a safe haven and deep, unknowable night.
Instead, she was at the front door, despairingly slipping on her shoes, taking as long as she possibly could to give him a chance to say something, to pull her back, and then everyone could go back to normal without losing face. But he was illiterate when it came to her body language, she realized as she put on the second shoe.
She left. No matter how bad this was, she could only keep walking forward.
The elevator crawled up toward her, floor after floor.
Glen appeared behind h
er, pulling on his coat, the collar twisted inside out.
He said, “It’s so late. I’ll give you a lift.”
She said, “Do you know where I’m going?”
He said, “No matter where you’re going, I’m worried you won’t be safe.” He produced a card. “Here’s my AAA membership. It’ll get you a discount at most roadside motels.”
He looked serious and responsible, without a hint of sarcasm. His collar was rubbing against his neck, and he turned his head uncomfortably. She couldn’t help reaching out to straighten it. Now he finally grabbed her hand and pulled it against his chest. She thought Glen’s eyes would always stare at her like this, perplexed. He had no idea how, at this moment, she was treating him like a big brother in order to reconcile with him.
Right then she’d wished Glen dead. Looking at the row of knives on their wall, she had thought only these could end the painful differences between them. Maybe she’d kill herself—that would make things a lot simpler. Before the secret talker showed up, before she’d known there was an intelligent person in the world who understood her, she’d never realized what torture it was not to be able to communicate.
She’d never been so utterly disappointed.
She had told the secret talker stories she would never reveal to Glen. She recounted the loss of her baby. Compared to now, even then, she hadn’t felt so let down by her marriage.
In her third spring after moving to America, she had discovered she was pregnant. That night, she’d cooked a spread for dinner, setting out red candles and roses. But Glen got home so late that the food was cold and the candles almost burnt out.
He said, “Why did you get red candles? You know I don’t like that color.”
She was surprised—she’d never seen him looking so awful.
Still, she kept smiling, saying, “This is a good night for red.” Red was an auspicious color for the Chinese.
He forced a laugh. “Thank you for making dinner.”
He took a sip of wine, then asked why she wasn’t drinking.