by Xiaolu Guo
The three of us sit there waiting for the tiles to be delivered onto the table. But the shuffling machine just goes on clicking, like a dying lobster.
STATELESS
HE SITS BESIDE a window, utterly indifferent to the planes taking off and landing outside.
Having bought a ticket on the least expensive flight, he now finds himself stuck for three hours in Vienna International Airport. Three hours in transit, and not a single thing to do.
All the other travellers seem in a hurry to be somewhere else. Pulling suitcases or shouldering rucksacks, plane tickets clutched tightly in hand, they are scenery in motion, breakers rolling past him like a brightly coloured tide. Only he remains unmoved. Seated, silent and observant, set against the flowing landscape, he resembles something planted by a window. A still life, or a green, green tree.
He reads no books, peruses no maps, does not wander through the duty free shops or attempt to strike up conversations with his fellow travellers. He simply sits there, as silent as the lone piece of hand luggage beside him.
His hair is black, so closely shorn that it is impossible to tell if it might be curly or straight. His face is clean-shaven, with no hint of a beard. His build is unexceptional, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. He seems devoid of labels, any and all distinguishing tags. He looks, for all the world, to be a stateless man.
Only his eyes mark him out as different. They are a perfect void.
He has decided to change planes here in Vienna, a city not quite large enough to be considered large, before flying on to Paris. He has no specific goal in mind. Where to go and what to do once he gets there are, for him, open-ended questions. He doesn’t plan to stay in Paris long – why should he? He doesn’t have a lover or a wife, or any one person on his mind. As for his parents, they divorced long ago. Ever since he was young, he has got by just fine on his own. Always travelling from one city to the next, always moving, always alone … He’s already in his thirties, and this is the only life he’s known. So perhaps he would say that every day of his life has been lonely. Loneliness, to him, is just a way of life.
He continues to sit, as twilight fades into darkness outside the window and it becomes difficult to see anything. He turns away from the window, away from the planes taxiing along the runway, and begins to scrutinise his fellow travellers. The passing blondes, with their shapely behinds and high heels, don’t look to be going backpacking or visiting a branch office in another city. Rather, they all seem to be dashing off to some romantic rendezvous or furtive assignation. Women … they can be so sweet sometimes, he thinks. He sits in silence, sensing that he has touched upon some faint yet genuine longing.
The pretty women fill the terminal with the tap-tap-tapping of their high-heeled shoes. It is a sound he finds pleasing to the ear, but the way the women walk – heads held high and chests thrust forward – strikes him as cold somehow, indifferent. He watches, too, the solemn men with their rectangular black briefcases, respectable suits and immaculate leather shoes. Most look as if they have come to the airport straight from some large convention hall, or as if they are headed directly to a high-rise penthouse conference suite. And then there are the elderly people, couples mainly, shuffling along in their low-heeled sensible shoes and white sun hats. They move slowly, cautiously, leaning on one another for support. He imagines they’re setting off on a sunset tour of East Asia, or perhaps returning from some distant city or foreign country where their sons or daughters have taken up residence. Despite their advanced years, they still manage, by some grace of God, to keep pulling one another along. But not this man, he has been sitting here so long that even God has forsaken him.
Three hours seem a lifetime, and a slow one at that. He falls into a daze that is not quite sleep, but a halfway state between dreams and waking. He can still hear the footsteps of the passers-by, the trundling of wheeled suitcases and the airport loudspeaker announcing flights to and from every city on the globe, but he is suddenly no longer certain which airport he is in, or which city, or which country. He blinks and glances around at the signs that surround him, words in a language he does not recognize. It is only when he glimpses the Vienna Symphony Orchestra CD boxed sets on display in the music store opposite that he remembers where he is.
He opens his eyes, but it is an exercise in futility. Of all these figures hurrying by, none has ever stopped to talk to him, none has any connection to him, and never will. Knowing this, he shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees a little girl in a red skirt standing in front of him. No more than seven or eight years old, she has curly blonde hair and is clutching a rag doll that looks just like her. She loiters about uncertainly, unaccompanied by any adult.
He stares at her, and she stares back.
She passes by so slowly, turning back every now and then to glance at him, that she remains in his field of vision for a very long time. How strange, he thinks, to see a child so young walking all alone through an airport. He flashes her a friendly grin and waves hello. Responding to this sudden surge of warmth, the little girl promptly returns his smile. When she smiles, she is even more adorable, he thinks. A little red flower in a little red skirt.
And in an instant, his heart grows sad flooded with rarely felt, inexpressible warmth, a sudden shower falling on a long-parched northern plain. But the child has already disappeared from view. He stands up, still seeing her little red flower smile, still feeling that bittersweet warmth. Suddenly he feels as if he ought to do something, anything at all. He must leave this line of silent chairs, maybe even get out of this airport.
He leaves the waiting area and passes through the terminal. When he arrives at the gate for his connecting flight to Paris, he discovers that the electronic board is already displaying the departure time for his flight, but there are still forty minutes left before he can board. The last odd forty minutes, he thinks, in a strange and alien land … and how to kill the time? He turns about in circles, trying desperately to think of some things that might help grind down these last forty minutes. He comes up with three.
First: Buy a packet of cigarettes, although he rarely smokes. It doesn’t matter what brand. A local Viennese brand might be best, might help him to better understand this place.
Second: Pay a visit to the toilets.
Third: Go into the airport bookshop and flick through some magazines. Even if they’re only porno mags, a few pages of interesting pictures ought to help kill ten or twenty minutes, at least.
With this plan in mind, he proceeds to do each of the items in turn. First he buys a packet of cigarettes, and even considers smoking one. Then he visits the toilets. Finally he heads for the airport bookshop. On the way, he spies a familiar sight: a little girl in a little red skirt standing in a nearby corner, crying. A kindly old woman, apparently a passer-by, is standing next to the sobbing girl, attempting to console her. She says something to the little girl in a language he cannot understand. When the child does not react, the old woman glances at her watch, heaves a sigh and leaves, dragging her luggage behind her.
No mistake, it is the same little girl: seven or eight years old, curly blonde hair, red skirt. A little red flower in a little red skirt. Only this time around, the little red flower is drenched in tears.
The man walks toward the flower.
He kneels down before her.
She seems to recognise him, for her crying stops, although she continues to sniffle and sob.
Then, in as friendly a tone as possible, he asks her: ‘What’s your name?’
English. She does not understand. She looks at him with two moist eyes, and blinks. A little fawn.
Travellers burdened with luggage continue to pass by, but none seems the slightest bit curious about the pair, much less inclined to step forward and claim the child.
If only he could find something in one of his pockets, something fun, a piece of chocolate, a biscuit, a fruit drop, anything. But when he stands up to fumble through his coat and trouser pockets, all he find
s are a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, airline ticket stubs and some motley small-denomination notes of various nationalities. Nothing remotely fun or small or cute. Finally, he starts pulling faces for the little girl. He didn’t know he had it in him, this ability to entertain.
Although the girl eventually stops crying, she does not laugh. She looks confused, her rosy cheeks stained by tears. Such a melancholy expression for a little girl, he thinks. Taking the child by the hand, the man leads her to one of the chairs along the corridor. She follows him obediently. Over the airport loudspeaker comes the announcement that the flight bound for Paris has begun boarding. Glancing over at the departure gate, the man sees that most of the travellers are now standing, as if they were all bound for Paris. Remembering that he has no checked baggage on the flight, the man takes one last look at the passengers filing onto the plane and decides that he will not be leaving. He will stay here in this airport with this unidentified child. He will stay until … until …
Half an hour later, the man hears his name being called over the airport loudspeaker. The message is repeated several times, and then falls silent.
It is late evening now, and the airport is nearly deserted. Flights in and out are few.
The little girl in the red skirt is no longer crying, no longer sad. She is curled up on the man’s lap, fast asleep, her rag doll clutched to her chest, clenched in tiny hands. Poor little dolly.
Where will his next stop be? he wonders. Should he wait until morning and take the child to the Viennese police? Should he help her search, help find out what a little girl was doing all alone in a big airport, and why no parent or guardian has come to look for her? But then again, who is he, exactly? When the police ask him about himself, how will he answer? No visa? Not allowed to leave the country? Deportation likely? He is unemployed and there are clearly problems with his passport. Maybe he ought to forget about the police and just head to Paris. But what to do in Paris? He is only too aware that there is nothing waiting for him there. Stop worrying, he decides at last, as he strokes the little girl’s curly hair. No point in worrying. He cradles the child’s frail shoulders in his arms and drifts at last into a merciful sleep.
AN INTERNET BABY
THE TWO LOVERS have made up their mind – Weiming and Yuli will sell their baby on the internet. Everyone loves the internet! This baby saw the light of day only five days ago.
Yuli is still at school, in her first year at Chongqing Technical College. For a girl like her, the scandal would be huge – she would certainly be expelled and lose all the time and money she and her oh-so-devoted parents have invested to get her where she is: on the way to a better life, they hope. She has lied to everyone – the dean of her department, her class and dormitory mates. After struggling to hide her growing belly under a large coat for five months, she finally told everyone she had hepatitis and needed to stay at home for a while to recover. And now, in a shabby clinic in a suburb of Chongqing, she’s given birth to a screaming little thing.
Yuli is a determined girl; she will study, get her diploma and start a career in a big city. She certainly will not raise a child now. And she will not let anyone know. At home in her village they take family things too seriously. If they knew she’d given birth to a son, they’d come to Chongqing straight away and do everything they could to persuade her to keep the child. But Yuli’s mind is clear – while the baby sucks at her nipples with a small, wet face. She won’t keep it.
Yuli’s boyfriend, Weiming, has one very simple motive for selling their baby: money. Weiming is from the same village as Yuli. They are childhood sweethearts. As a nineteen-year-old, he’s had trouble surviving in this city ever since he left his home town to follow her here. There’s no way he can imagine helping Yuli with her college fees, sending money to his poor family back in the village and bringing up a baby at the same time. Not possible. He’s already working twenty hours a day, on two jobs: during the day he cleans cars, private ones and government ones, and at night he’s the doorkeeper at a karaoke parlour. He only sleeps between 3 and 7 a.m. He’s beyond exhausted. He has been exhausted from the first day he arrived in this city; his sight is blurred from lack of sleep and his mind is as foggy as the permanent haze hanging over the Yangtze River. But he understands: to help his girlfriend and his family, he has to work like a donkey. A donkey can sleep while standing up, and Weiming has to learn to do that too. He has no choice. He doesn’t complain.
So the young lovers agree to sell their baby on the internet. Yuli has studied computer technology at college, she knows how these things work. What people usually sell online are machines – TV sets, Walkmans, bicycles, cameras, or sometimes banned books. Selling a real baby is not very common.
‘But what’s so different?’ Weiming says. ‘Selling a baby is the same as selling a car. The only difference is the price. If China could sell some of its population to the West, then there would be fewer people starving here, and we would all have more money.’
Yuli takes some photos of the baby and chooses the cutest one to put online.
HEALTHY NEWBORN BABY BOY FOR SALE: 8,000 YUAN CONTACT: 13601 386243
The number is Weiming’s mobile phone, given to him for his night job. Although they both know that eight thousand yuan is really much too little money for a healthy baby boy, they reason that most people in the provinces are not rich, and as they are in a hurry to get rid of the baby, asking for a small amount of money could sort things out more easily and more quickly. And Weiming also thinks that his girlfriend can always get pregnant again if this plan works out.
After putting the ad online, Yuli feeds her son some milk and changes his wet nappy. She worries that if they don’t sell the baby quickly, she’ll miss her end-of-term exam and then she won’t get her diploma. And she desperately needs that qualification.
The internet ad proves to be very effective. After just a few hours, the phone starts ringing. The first callers want to know whether the whole thing is just a joke, which makes Weiming shout back at them impatiently. He’s got no time to joke about life, he needs money. Sounding like a snappy businessman, he yells that if they’re not interested he’ll just hang up, while his grumpy boss curses him in the background.
But then a woman with a shaky voice explains on the phone that she’s from a seaside town near Qingdao, that she is forty-six years old, her husband had been very ill, that’s why they didn’t have a child, and now he has just died, and she would like to buy the baby, a boy would be ideal. She sounds nervous.
‘Can you pay eight thousand yuan cash in one go?’ Weiming asks hastily.
‘Yes. But I first need to check whether the baby is really healthy.’
Weiming assures the woman that his boy is very healthy and that he’ll call her back after discussing things with his girlfriend. Weiming knows that he shouldn’t say yes to the first interested person. Through negotiation, prices can be improved.
A few useless phone calls later, a couple ring from Wenzhou, a rich industrial town in Zhejiang Province. They want the baby as soon as possible. ‘We can get on the first morning flight to Chongqing and meet you!’ The couple speak on two handsets at the same time. Weiming learns that they run a shoe factory in Wenzhou, that they’re wealthy but cannot have children.
‘Well, I have some other customers interested. How do you want to convince me to go with you?’ Weiming asks, a clear hint that an auction is on. The couple are astute business-people; they immediately offer double the price to get the boy.
So the deal is done. Weiming will receive sixteen thousand yuan in cash. But he doesn’t want the couple to come to Chongqing where he and Yuli live. To avoid any risk of being found out by neighbours, Yuli’s school friends or his own colleagues, they agree to meet in a city where no one knows them: Shanghai. The meeting point will be Shanghai’s People’s Park, the next day at 4 o’clock in front of the park gates.
The couple wrap up their sleeping baby and hurry to the train station to catch the next train t
o Shanghai. Neither Weiming nor Yuli have taken the train much before, and they are like overexcited children twitching in their seats, eagerly observing every station the train passes, picturing themselves ending up working in Shanghai thanks to those sixteen thousand yuan. From time to time, Yuli feeds the baby, but the moody little thing doesn’t appear to like the trip and keeps screaming. Every other passenger hates them. At one point, the conductor even comes up to ask whether they need medical assistance.
After fourteen hours, the young couple arrive, pale and exhausted, in the shiny city of Shanghai. Yuli is deeply impressed. People here are more beautiful, fashionable; the houses are taller and much more luxurious than in Chongqing. But Weiming can’t enjoy the new city. He’s starving and feels more powerless than ever on Shanghai’s busy streets. They enter a wonton restaurant and down two bowls of soup each. Weiming finishes half a roasted duck as well. They eat quickly and silently.
Twenty minutes before 4 p.m., Yuli and Weiming are standing in front of the iron gates of Shanghai People’s Park. The baby is crying again, and Yuli rocks him in her arms, wearily, until he falls asleep.
The Wenzhou shoe magnate couple arrive on time. They are both about thirty-five and look more humble than they sounded on the phone to Weiming. He thinks they look even more tired than he does, worn out. But as soon as they see the baby in Yuli’s arms, the couple’s eyes start to glisten. The woman can’t help but scream: ‘What a beautiful little boy! How cute! How sweet he is!’ Her husband stretches out his stiff finger and touches the baby’s red cheeks and caresses his soft hair. He seems to be fond of the boy, too. The woman takes the baby from Yuli. She holds him and starts to feel how a mother feels when her son is asleep in her arms.
The little baby wakes up from his nap. His big eyes stare at the strange woman kissing him, speaking some incomprehensible Wenzhou dialect.