by Yiyun Li
The street in front of the opera house was lined with people. Inside, Lilia knew, there were women and girls, but they were the wives and daughters of rich people from San Francisco, dressed up extravagantly to showcase the hospitality of the city. Lilia had seen their names and photographs printed in the society sections in the newspapers. They called themselves volunteers. One of them had been quoted, talking about “the historical contribution” of San Francisco to “the golden future of mankind.” The word “golden” was used often when people talked about the peace conference. Lilia wondered if the fashion would catch on, with shops and restaurants and laundry detergents and men’s shaving creams soon all renamed with the word “golden” in them.
A policeman on a horse gestured for the crowd to stay behind the cordon. A boy, not much older than Kenny, hung on to the shoulder of his friend, a Chinese boy, both wearing sailors’ shirts, hair parted the same way. Clean and neat boys who still had mothers offering love and care. Kenny was no longer one of them. In the past few weeks he had transformed himself from his mother’s son into his father’s. Lilia resented seeing them on the porch, his father passing a half-smoked cigarette to Kenny to finish. How could two selfish people be drawn so close by mourning?
Lilia pushed through the crowd to the boys and asked them what they were waiting for. The pale-skinned boy said that a few veterans on stretchers would arrive soon according to the news, and they were waiting to salute them. Lilia withdrew from the crowd. She did not want to see anyone maimed by the war.
A young man caught up with her around the corner. Do you also work for the conference? he asked.
Lilia had put on her best outfit for the day: a tweed suit that she had saved for a year to buy. When she had shown it to her family, her father had said it made her look twice her age, and her mother had nodded absentmindedly and said the color matched her eyes. Refusing to accept defeat, Lilia had walked to the inn and shown it to Maggie and Mrs. Williamson. Maggie had only offered the most banal praise, but her eyes spoke more articulately of admiration and envy. Mrs. Williamson had not been able to find much fault, so she had told Lilia she had better sew the buttons on one more time to secure them.
Lilia pulled back her shoulders, conscious of the newness of the jacket. Do you work for the conference? she asked.
Indeed I do! the young man said. In a way.
Lilia nodded, and began to walk again. Wait, he said. Do you want to have lunch together? There’s a good deli around the corner.
Why not, Lilia thought. She was hungry. There was no point acting like an agitated fool, wandering in the city and looking for a man who was not expecting her in the first place. (But was he not? Lilia wasn’t sure. Roland had mentioned the name of his hotel twice. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want to be found.)
Once they had put down their food on the table, Gilbert Murray—for that was the young man’s name—said he knew Lilia was too young to work at the conference. Lilia looked into Gilbert’s blue eyes. Whatever age he was, he had no idea how young he was. A boy named Jimmy Campton from Hayes’s class, who had been sent to the Youth Authority for some crime, had been working at Benecia Arsenal for the past two years alongside German and Italian POWs. Gilbert, Lilia thought, looked like a little brother of Jimmy’s, for whom she had had a moment of fancy, but that was before Roland.
At lunch Gilbert talked about the importance of the conference. Two billion people represented, he said, eighty percent of the population on earth. Can you believe that? We’re making history, right this moment, right here in San Francisco. The whole world is watching us now.
He must have memorized these numbers and words with the hope of impressing a girl. What difference does it make, two million or two billion? The only things that matter happen between two people. If he was smart he would know better than to drag in strangers to woo a girl.
And you, Gilbert said, are you visiting the city?
Visiting a friend, Lilia said. I’m meeting him at three o’clock.
Oh, Gilbert said, looking down at his wristwatch.
A family friend, Lilia said.
Oh, he said, looking up.
Poor boy. He was too well-mannered to inquire further, so Lilia showed the ring to him. Before my mother died she asked me to give this to her friend, Lilia said. It happens her younger brother is in town.
Gilbert looked hesitant, not knowing if he should take the ring from her, or perhaps not knowing how to express his sympathy for her loss. Lilia would have dismissed him as dull, even tormented him with some jokes, had it not been for that eager look in his blue eyes. It was a look different from the hungry look in the eyes of sailors. Different, too, from Roland’s eyes. Here’s someone who doesn’t know how not to treat anyone with a gentle seriousness. Two billion people around the globe, Lilia thought, and he would not mock any one of them.
So, what do you do at the conference? she asked.
In no time she gathered enough information. Gilbert had turned twenty in March. His two older brothers had fought in the Pacific, but he himself was not called up. Lucky for you, Lilia said, but he only looked at her strangely, saying that he would rather be fighting for his country.
Isn’t it good enough that you’re serving the country by serving the conference? Lilia said.
Oh yes, Gilbert agreed. This is not the war, but it’s historical.
Lilia looked at his wristwatch and tried to read the time upside down. It was still early.
Gilbert worked at a printing press, and this was a busy time for them. Two weeks ago, he said, when the Daily was about to go to print, he had caught a mistake in the headline, which had turned “United Nations” into “Untied Nations.” Mr. Dupree, his boss, had been pleased with his performance and had promised a promotion if Gilbert kept up the good work. Mr. and Mrs. Dupree, Gilbert explained, were like a second pair of parents to him. He had begun to work for them right after he turned seventeen.
Why, Lilia asked, don’t they have their own children?
No, Gilbert said.
Why don’t they have children?
I don’t know.
Don’t you want to know? Lilia asked.
No, why should I?
I always want to know things.
Things? Like what?
Why people get married. Why they have children, or don’t. Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Dupree didn’t want children, or they couldn’t have children, or maybe they had children but they died young?
I don’t know, I don’t want to pry, Gilbert said. And then, as though he was granted some permission by Lilia, he asked: Do you always ask people questions this way when you meet them for the first time?
It doesn’t sound polite to you? Lilia said. So people should have small talk when they first meet? If you ask me, small talk is for neighbors and families and maybe, in your case, coworkers. You don’t waste your life having small talk with strangers.
I’ve never thought of it that way, Gilbert said.
The world would never expand for a polite person like you, Lilia thought. She was going to make the pronouncement and then stopped herself. He was too easy a target, his face as innocent and helpless as a three-day-old foal’s. Besides, he did go out of his way to speak with her in the street.
On the way out of the deli Lilia opened the Chronicle, left by a customer at the counter, to Mr. Williamson’s advertisement. If you ever want a riding lesson you can find me here, she said.
BUT YOU COULD’VE MISSED ME entirely, Roland said later that afternoon. I could’ve been at a meeting. I could’ve gone out with friends and colleagues.
You could’ve refused to see me, Lilia said. She could’ve been on the bus now, knowing her wild dream for the day had come to nothing. But so what? It would’ve only been one day of her life lost. There would be other days, and there would be other men.
She h
uddled in an armchair, wrapped up in Roland’s robe. She wondered if there had been another woman’s body in it before, but that hardly was worth her attention. She was sitting here now. He was sitting up in bed with a stack of pillows behind, a cigarette slowly burning to its end. He didn’t turn to meet her eyes. He knew she was watching him.
Lilia, you really are…Roland said.
Crazy?
Irrational.
But here we are, and you were happy to see me.
Happy? That’s quite a word to aspire to.
You didn’t turn me away, Lilia said.
Does that mean anything? Roland asked.
Lilia looked around. Does this mean nothing, she asked, but before Roland answered she laughed. How serious you look, she said.
You’re too young to understand the seriousness of anything, Roland said. I’ve lived long enough to know everything has some consequence.
Consequence for you or for me?
You’re not one of those girls entertaining sailors and soldiers. I wouldn’t feel concerned at all if you were one of them.
Oh, those girls, Lilia said. I know better.
Roland lit another cigarette. Perhaps he didn’t think that she was much different from those girls. There’s something you should know about me, she said.
Which is?
I take good care of myself, Lilia said.
And?
Men like you would hate it if girls like me complicate your life. But you won’t be satisfied at all if we don’t let you feel that it’s you who has decided how our lives will turn out.
Goodness, I don’t want to feel I’ve done anything to your life, Roland said.
But you want to feel that you’ve done something to another person’s life?
There are always others. At my age you’d expect me to have met a few people, Roland said. Women, I mean.
But do you also say to them, Goodness, I don’t want to feel I’ve done anything to your life?
All but one.
Who’s she?
Roland laughed. What makes you think I’ll tell you?
If you say there’s a woman, you want me to ask. Then you have something I want, and you’re in a good position because you can refuse me. People always play such games.
Go on, Roland said.
Well, only I don’t think you want to be one of them.
Why not?
People play these games because they can’t trust themselves. My great-grandmother had these stories of miners gambling away all their gold. It was not because they didn’t have anything but because they didn’t believe they were meant to be rich. She said they gambled to make sure luck was on their side. And that’s when they lost. I don’t know about you, but I can say I have not met many people who trust themselves as I do.
Is that so?
She could not tell if he was listening simply out of boredom, but why worry about that, when what she wanted was for him to see her again. And again. To be seen by him was different than to be remembered. The moment you want to be remembered by another person you give him the power to forget you.
Well, if you doubt that, you don’t know me, Lilia said.
Show me what that trust can do.
I trusted myself that I would find you, and here we are.
But you do realize how improbable this meeting is. Nine out of ten men would hide from you.
You didn’t.
What if I’m in a hiding mood next time?
Then I won’t find you, she said.
What would you do then, with that trust of yours?
Nothing, Lilia said. If I know there’s nothing more to us, I’ll walk out of this room and by the time I turn the corner I’ll forget you.
You make things sound easy, Roland said.
Lilia remembered Gilbert Murray reading Mr. Williamson’s ad in the newspaper, more purposefully than one would read an ad for a shoeshine or a travel agency. Lilia had left Gilbert a path, just as Roland had left her a hotel name. Why make life hard? she said. If there’re other women for you, there’ll be other men for me, too. There will always be people. They’re like bricks, and you build a house and live a good life inside.
A prison I would call it, Roland said.
Show me one person who’s not in some kind of prison.
Where do all these thoughts get into your head, Lilia?
You thought I spent my life thinking about feeds and manures and cooking suppers and making beds?
And marriage, perhaps?
My mother used to say she was glad that I was born in a family like ours.
Because she saw that you could make a hell of troubles for others?
Tell me, had I been born into your world, what would I have become?
My world? There’s not a world that’s mine. But had you been born in another place, maybe you could’ve become one of those Soviet delegates.
Even as a woman? Lilia asked.
There are women delegates, Roland said.
What are they like?
Older than you. Not as pretty.
Have you thought of doing this with them? Lilia asked, pointing to the untidy bed sheet with her raised chin.
Roland laughed. Oh, Lilia, don’t play dumb.
The woman—the one whose life you do want to feel you’ve done something to—is she prettier and older than me?
I see you haven’t forgotten her, Roland said. She’s older, yes, than you and me combined.
And pretty?
Pretty can be used to describe a million women. Not Sidelle Ogden.
What was wrong with these men, Lilia thought, who liked to talk about millions of people. Perhaps Roland was not much different from Gilbert. They had to rely on a number too big to imagine to make any small point.
Roland went on telling Lilia a few things about Sidelle.
Will I meet her one day? Lilia asked.
It’s time for you to know a thing or two about men, Roland said. I know you are clever, but there’s always something new to learn.
Teach me then.
Roland explained that a man would fit women into different slots in his life. It’s like furnishing a house. Some women are good furniture you’ve inherited, he said, so you put them there for all to see. Others are perfectly nice, like wallpapers and curtains and umbrella stands, but easy to replace. Some are impulsive purchases, and you really want nothing to do with them afterward. Some are fine things you enjoy once in a while. And then there are necessities, like washbasins.
Which slot does your Mrs. Ogden fit into?
What you should ask is where you yourself fit in. You can’t expect to be everything for a man. In fact, you must avoid that aspiration at all cost.
Then, what do I want to be for a man? What am I to you? Lilia knew well that she should not have asked. But she wanted to know.
Rubato.
What? Lilia asked.
I don’t know what you want to be for other men, Roland said. You figure that out yourself. But I’ll always think of you as my rubato.
What is that? Lilia said. In which room do you keep it?
Unfortunately, it doesn’t fit into any room in any house, Roland said. Rubato tempo, it’s stolen time. Robbed time if you translate literally from Italian.
Well, I would say stolen time is better than a stolen wallet, Lilia said. Lucy, by then, had already existed. This Lilia had liked to think about over the years. Roland had stolen from her, but she had, too, from him.
GILBERT WAS THE ONLY ONE who had known about Lilia’s pregnancy. He had to be told, since he wanted to marry her. The engagement and the wedding, speedy to the point of perfunctory, did not surprise the Williamsons and other neighbors. They had agreed that after the death of Lilia’s mother, the family would not hold together. She
had been scatterbrained, they said, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done her job. Lilia always acted like she was destined for something better, except a man still with the baby fat on his cheeks didn’t sound such a fancy choice.
Lilia did not need Maggie to tell her these comments, as none of them was unexpected. Still, Maggie took her time reporting them. Lilia could see sympathy and pity and a little pleasure in Maggie’s eyes—the marriage didn’t in the end prove Lilia superior.
Lilia told Gilbert that the pregnancy was the result of a night spent with a visitor to the ranch—the only time she had done so. It was near truth, and Gilbert did not press to know more. Lilia thought he was both sweet and admirable for this. She vowed to herself that she would never lie to him (unless absolutely necessary). She wanted a marriage made by herself. Unlike her mother’s. Unlike many other women’s.
After Gilbert came to ask Lilia’s father for her hand, he told Lilia that she and her siblings were all brave children, living on the ranch the way they did. Lilia found the comment irritating. His own parents managed a pub in inner Richmond, which didn’t make them any more aristocratic. She objected, and Gilbert apologized. He didn’t mean that they lived in poverty, he said, but that the children were brave to carry on without their mother. That, too, bothered Lilia. But then she met her future in-laws, and understood what had prompted Gilbert’s comment. He was the youngest child of the family, but unlike Kenny, Gilbert had not only both parents’ love but also devotion from his two brothers and two sisters. Gilbert would become a lost lamb if their love were obliterated by a calamity. They treated Lilia with politeness, but she could sense a secret conversation in their exchanged looks. Let them think the hurried marriage was unwise. Lilia had not forced Gilbert to marry her. Your lamb, she wanted to say to the tightly smiling Murrays, did not get lost. He only found himself a greener pasture without your help.
If we haven’t all died by killing one another, Gilbert liked to paraphrase President Truman, we must live together peacefully. The baby would be their first to be born in a golden time, he said, and they would have more children, all of them with a bright future. Lilia suspected that his marrying her with such magnanimity was part of the dream he was infected with at the UN conference. He never tired of talking about the eighty percent of the world population loving one another. Roland would have made fun of Gilbert, but he made fun of everyone. At the San Francisco hotel, when Lilia asked him about his work, he had made a show of mocking the Soviet delegates along with the British. He imitated some bigwig from China who had given what the newspaper had called an important speech, and he laughed at the Americans, the Canadians, the New Zealanders, the Australians, the South Africans, and above all, the French.