by Yiyun Li
“Of course to you there’s nothing special about the boy’s love.”
“I didn’t say that. He was in love with you, but the question is: were you—or are you—in love with him?”
Sizhuo looked at him strangely. “You can’t be in love with a dead person.”
Boyang felt a pang. How do you, he asked himself, compete with a young man in the grave for a woman’s heart?
The story that followed belonged to the metro section of the evening newspaper, one of those tales in which a young man, having no legal residency in Beijing, brought nothing to the city but chaos and danger. One night he had broken into a rental shared by three young women. He had thought they were out of town for the Lunar New Year, not realizing that one had returned early. Out of panic, he had stabbed and killed the woman, a journalist whose next assignment was to interview a rising star in local politics.
No doubt the young man’s execution would forever be the pinnacle of a tragedy that Sizhuo thought she could have prevented. Yet he—uneducated, without any connections or means—stood no chance in this city. Apart from some perfunctory sympathy for a life lost, Boyang felt little for the young man. Any premature death could be called a tragedy, but how many tragedies would one be willing to admit into one’s thoughts? There were worse losses: Shaoai, for instance, locked in her own body for twenty-one years. The life she could have made—a brilliant career, a successful family, influences on many lives, good use of her time on earth. Could he explain to Sizhuo that sometimes death was a mercy—that it was worse for the dead to go on living? In an ideal world, death should be the end of the story, but in this world, where they had to make do with muddles, death never ended anything neatly. “Your friend made a mistake,” Boyang said. “And yes, a pricey one. But if I were you, I wouldn’t burden myself with unnecessary guilt.”
“But you are not me.”
“You wouldn’t have changed many things in his life.”
“At least I could have let him believe he had a chance.”
“At what? Your love, or a better life in this city?”
“Either,” Sizhuo said hesitantly. “Or both.”
“But you were not in love with him, and you know that. You couldn’t have gotten him a better job, and you know that, too. What’s the point of regretting something you haven’t done wrong? The same misfortune could have befallen him all the same, and you would be sitting here feeling guilty for having lied to him about your love.”
Sizhuo looked a little dazed. “But in his mind, he must have thought part of his misfortune my responsibility.”
“Did he say that to you?”
“He always asked me why I hadn’t been like the other girls and found a sugar daddy in this city.”
Boyang cringed. That she had no trouble saying the words sugar daddy made him sad.
“He considered all men who were richer and older his enemies. He considered the young men whose parents had already bought them apartments in Beijing, and who already had the best jobs lined up for them, his enemies. But you must admit that he was not wrong. What did he have but his wish to make a better case for his love?”
Boyang felt an icy tingling on his back. Somewhere, the ghost of the young man must be glaring at him, resenting him, because he possessed what the young man would never be able to have.
“He always said he knew what I was going to do,” said Sizhuo. “He said that I would sell out in exchange for a comfortable life.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Does that mean that I haven’t thought about it, or I won’t ever? What am I doing here with you if I am not considering that possibility? If I were a better person, I would have said no to you right away because everything in connection with you proves him right.”
“Why not look at it this way? You didn’t say no because I didn’t come simply to propose that I become your sugar daddy.”
“But what do you call what we’ve been doing?”
“We’re trying to get to know each other.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Do we know each other better than we did four weeks ago?” Sizhuo said. “Or are we just avoiding getting to know each other, because it’s too much of a risk for you?”
Again Boyang was frightened by the abandonment in her tone. “But not a risk for you?” he asked.
“What do I have to lose?” Sizhuo said.
Her childlike defiance unnerved him. He had never asked himself if she was worth his effort because to ask was to admit that this was more than a game. He had believed that at any moment he could leave, but what he hadn’t realized was that she had, without his knowing it, taken his deposit—of what?—his honor, his peace, or even his hope of building something called a life with her. How could he explain to her that she had too much to lose, not only on her own behalf, but on his, too? “What,” he said with some difficulty, “can I do to make things better?”
“It’s not what you can do, don’t you see?” Sizhuo said. “It’s what kind of person you are, but I don’t know who you are, or what you are. Sometimes I think maybe I did make the mistake of never committing to any position—had I chosen to be practical, had I chosen to be like some of my classmates from freshman year, my friend might have lost hope in this city and might not have stayed. So why didn’t I? Did I think I deserved great love, when other girls like me had resigned themselves to reality? But if I didn’t want to sell out, I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve believed in building a future with him in this place, however hard it would have been; I should’ve received his presents and returned with …”
Abruptly Sizhuo broke off. The waitress was coming with a steaming pot but had stopped a couple of steps away, lest it was not the right time. Sizhuo looked away with a flushed face, and Boyang motioned for the waitress to bring the stew over. She ladled the soup into two bowls and told them to enjoy. The moment before she turned away, Boyang caught a slight mocking smile on the face of the middle-aged woman.
“Well, eat something hot,” Boyang said.
Sizhuo made no movement to touch the food. “I was thinking before you picked me up today that we should stop this nonsense.”
“Why do you call it nonsense, when it seems to me to be the most sensible thing for two people to get to know each other?”
“It won’t work out in the end.”
“You don’t know that if we haven’t tried.”
Sizhuo looked at him sadly. “You know what’s the only thing that could absolve me? To fall in love with you, to have you fall in love with me—no, not you, but any man who is in a better position than my friend. Only love can absolve me, can’t you see? If only I could prove to my friend that a man richer and older than he can love as he did—do you see?”
Could he, or anyone, love as the dead boy had?
“You look hesitant. And you’re right to hesitate. You don’t feel up to the challenge, or perhaps it’s not even fair to ask you to try, because you would always suspect that I would compare you to him, or else I would use you. Sometimes I thought it would be better if I found another boy like him, who had nothing to his name, and we would support each other in our struggling. No, you’re laughing, and you’re right that however honorable that sounds, we would not get very far. Yes, I know that, but it isn’t for that reason that I’m not dating another boy like him,” Sizhuo said, looking into Boyang’s eyes, the tears she had been holding back now rolling down without inhibition. “But this: if I could make a life with someone like him, why not with him in the first place?”
Sizhuo stood abruptly and said she would be right back. For a moment Boyang worried that she would leave without him—he could see her do that, sneaking out of the restaurant and walking to the nearest bus stop, asking a passerby the bus schedule, playing hide-and-seek when he went to hunt for her. But to allow himself to panic was to surrender to a situation where he should have control. To distract himself, he took out his phone to see if anyone had contacted him in the past few hours.
&nb
sp; An email from Ruyu was waiting for him, in his regular account, and only later did he figure out that it must not have been difficult for her to find that address. He had registered with that email on a few social media websites, and he had a microblog connected to the email.
The message was short: Ruyu gave the address of a hotel and the telephone number, and said that she would like to meet. There was no mention of how long she would stay, or when would be a good time for her.
Boyang felt sweat on his palms. The most sensible thing would be to call now rather than later, though Sizhuo would be back any minute. He looked around and signaled for the waitress to bring the check. “To-go containers?” she asked, looking at the untouched food.
“No, just bring me the bill.”
The waitress gave him an I-knew-it look. As she walked to the counter, she looked at Sizhuo, who had come out of the ladies’ room with slightly swollen eyes, without hiding her interest. With so many people coming and going through her restaurant, Boyang thought, the waitress must need to find a way to score points over the customers, morally or in another manner, but don’t we all do that? “I hope you don’t mind that I asked for the check,” he said when Sizhuo sat down.
She shook her head and said she was ready to leave.
He drove faster than usual on the way back, honking at the slower cars and cursing under his breath at the trucks. He was aware that Sizhuo watched him critically, and he wondered whether this behavior would be misunderstood—though did it really matter now if he was misunderstood by her? As they approached the city, traffic slowed to a worm’s speed, and he could not help but press his upper body against the steering wheel from time to time and join the chorus of honking. The fourth time he did this, Sizhuo looked at him coolly and said, “Do you think that’s going to change anything?”
“I’m not doing it to change anything.”
“Complaining?”
“Protesting.”
“What’s the difference between the two?”
“Protesting makes one feel a better person,” he said. “Though there’s really not any difference, if you ask me.”
“Do you protest often?”
“No,” he said. “I often don’t see the point.”
“Then what’s the point today?”
He turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I think something I said put you into this protesting mood. What was it? Did I overstep and share too much information? Did I disappoint you because I’ve decided to stop playing your game?”
He sighed. “I’ve not been playing a game with you.”
“How do I know that?”
How does anyone know anything about another person? Our mind, a slate that does not begin as large as we wish, grows smaller with what we believe to be experience: anything we put down has to be erasable, one passion making way for another, one connection replaced by an equally precarious one. Once and again we lie to ourselves about starting with a clean slate, but even the most diligent wiping leaves streaks—fears, distrusts, the necessity of forever questioning the motives of others.
Later, as Boyang sat in the hotel lobby, he tried to focus his thoughts on Sizhuo; his standing with her in the immediate future—the next day, the next week—provided solid footing for him as he waited for Ruyu. Sizhuo had been quiet when he dropped her off; he had promised to call soon. He would have to say something when he saw her again—what, though? She had given him an ultimatum; in laying her past open, she had demanded from him a kind of honesty he did not believe he had in him.
He looked up at the clock—ten past seven, not far enough into the hour to think of Ruyu as being late, but what if she had had a change of heart and would never show up? He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He wondered if he should go to the receptionist and announce himself, though that would indicate impatience, and worse, loss of faith in the eventuality of their meeting. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. This, he told himself, was not a first date, nor an illicit rendezvous.
The elevator door opened, releasing Ruyu among a few other guests. He recognized her at once. Her body was no longer a girl’s but remained slim; her face was serene with an expression closest to contentment. He wished, against logic, that she were attached to one of the other guests and would disappear in a moment, but they quickly dispersed, leaving Ruyu, who met his eyes but did not move closer. He stood up and stepped forward. Having neither the proper gesture nor the right words for a greeting, he felt caught again, underprepared. “Here we are,” he said finally.
Ruyu studied him with an unequivocal gaze. “I imagine you know a quiet place nearby, where we can sit down and talk?”
Of course, he said, and added that he had called to reserve a private room at a nearby restaurant. “It’s Sichuan-style. I’m not sure if you eat spicy food, but they have good non-spicy choices, too. It’s just across the street, and it’s quite clean there. But if you prefer somewhere else, we could find another place.”
She said that sounded fine, and he led the way. Neither spoke until they were shown to the reserved room, the glass door of which bore the name “Reuters” and was a one-way mirror, allowing those eating inside to view the restaurant without being observed. Ruyu pointed that out to him and asked if this was a place for foreign journalists to gather, and he said that he doubted that was why the room was named as it was. There were other rooms in the restaurant that had names like CNN, BBC, Agence. Not Xinhua? she asked, and he said no, no one wanted to dine in a room named after a news agency they could not trust. Ruyu said she could not see how any of the foreign agencies were more trustworthy. “They are all the same,” she said.
“Surely that can’t be,” he said.
“They are the same the way people are the same,” she said. “Would you look for a better person in a foreign country if you couldn’t find one at home?”
“To you, perhaps, but not many people have seen the world as you have. You’ve got to allow people the hope for something better.”
The waitress brought tea and started to recite the restaurant’s Saturday special. Boyang stopped her and told her to leave the menu with them and wait outside the door. The waitress readily gave up her post.
Through the glass, Ruyu watched the waitress standing straight next to the door. “I haven’t seen the world as you think,” she said, turning her attention to Boyang. “But that’s all right, as I don’t see the point in doing that. But you, what is your life like these days? To get away from whatever engagement you have for a Saturday night at such short notice—you must be in a good position to be able to do that.”
Her words had an undertone that he could not read well, or perhaps he’d forgotten how she always seemed to be asking for more than an answer. “There’s nothing more important than seeing you,” he said.
“Why?”
“You don’t happen to be in town often. Or at least I don’t happen to hear from you often.”
“You’ve heard from me and seen me in person. Now what? You can go home to your wife and child with one thing ticked off your list, no?”
“I have neither of those, as a matter of fact.”
“Why not? Isn’t that bad news for a man your age? Or you prefer the freedom of a diamond bachelor?”
“I was married once. It didn’t work out.”
“You don’t want to try again?”
“Once bitten by a snake, one has to be cautious around ropes for ten years,” he said, feeling momentarily apologetic toward his ex-wife. Though she had been the who had betrayed the marriage, what was wrong with his playing the victim for now? “And you? Are you visiting the country by yourself?”
“I suppose it’s only fair that you get a chance to ask me about my personal life, too,” Ruyu said. “I had two marriages. Neither worked, of course, as you can very well imagine.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“That I could fail at not one but two marriages?”
“That you would ever b
e married.”
“But you knew I left the university to get married.”
“You left the university to go to America was how I looked at it,” Boyang said. “I don’t count that marriage as a real one. And the second—was it a better … a different kind of marriage?”
She shook her head. “As pointless as the first one.”
“Why get married at all, then?”
“Why not? You got married, too.”
“Mine was a real marriage,” he said. At least for a while; at least he preferred to think so.
Ruyu smiled. The expression seemed a new addition; it occurred to Boyang that he had never seen her smile. “I can’t, of course, defend my marriages. I would have preferred not to use marriage to solve my problems, but there are issues of practicality. And I don’t think I’m good at figuring them out.”
“So marrying yourself off was the only option?” Boyang said, and realized that he sounded more bitter than he meant to. Selling yourself off, Sizhuo would say.
“Certainly not the only one.”
“But the easiest one?”
“Let’s not get into these arguments,” Ruyu said. “I’m not back here to discuss my marriages with you, and I’m sure there is little I can say about yours.”
“What are you here for?”
“To see you, of course.”
“That’s it?”
“Who else? There are not many people for me to see in this country.”
“Your grandaunts, are they still … around?”
“They are with their god now.”
“When did that happen?”
“Maybe nine, ten years ago?” Ruyu said. “You don’t have to look at me that way. I know how ungrateful I must sound to you. To be honest, I only got the news afterward. No, I didn’t come back for either of them.”
“Typical of you not to return for a funeral.”
Ruyu opened her mouth as though she had something to say, and then smiled forgivingly. Boyang apologized for his unfriendly tone.
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m as heartless as everyone thinks,” she said. “Though my grandaunts would not have liked me to come back either. They disowned me when I left China for the marriage, you see.”