by Betsy Tobin
Lili goes back to sewing. As children, she and Wen had been encouraged by their stepparents to make offerings to the memory of their real parents, killed in the earthquake. But in spite of the framed wedding photograph her stepmother kept on an altar table in a corner of their sitting room – a photo of a young couple with nervous smiles and unreadable dark eyes – Lili found it difficult to believe that they had ever been real. It was only recently, in the wake of Wen’s death, that she had begun to respect such traditions, setting up a small shrine to him in her bedroom and burning joss sticks in his memory.
One evening in August, when Tangshan was stifling with heat and humidity, she had walked to a park not far from where she lived. It was the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, the day when the dead return to the earth. The park was beside a narrow river that had once been polluted, but in recent years the area had been rehabilitated by the authorities. Lili was not alone in her desire to mark the Ghost Festival. The park was full of people that evening. Some had come to escape the heat, but many, like her, had come to honour the spirits of the dead. She walked to the bank of the river and lit a candle, pushing it across the water in a tiny boat she had fashioned from newspaper. The act had seemed futile at the time: the water was low, and the night so still, that her boat had drifted only a few feet from shore. Soon it became mired in the shallows along with several others, forming a forlorn flotilla. Lili looked around at the crowds along the bank: elderly widows accompanied by filial sons, young couples, middle-aged sons and daughters, all making offerings to long-dead husbands, parents, siblings. But nowhere in the stagnant waters could she discern even a trace of Wen’s presence.
He isn’t here, she had thought with dismay. Perhaps if I had travelled to the ocean. But she could not afford the time for such a journey, nor the fare, when she was desperately saving for her trip to England. That night, she turned her back on the river and walked slowly home through the sweltering heat of the city. When she had almost reached her flat, she stopped to eat a bowl of noodle soup at a small canteen. The restaurant was crowded and she found a table to herself in a back corner. She became conscious of a raucous group of young people on the far side of the room. She would not have paid them much notice, had the persistent laughter of one of the young women not drawn her attention. The woman had her back to the wall so Lili could see her flushed face and animated expressions clearly. She wore a tight white tank top and a bright red chiffon scarf knotted at her throat, and her shoulder-length hair fell in permed rings about her face. She was pretty, in a coquettish sort of way, the kind of girl who had stalked Wen when they were young. Her lively comments were directed towards the man sitting opposite her, whom Lili could not see, though he was slimly built and wore a black t-shirt.
The young man remained mostly silent, she noticed, until something the young woman said caught his fancy and he laughed. Lili froze, for his laughter somehow recalled Wen’s. As she stared at his back, she became suddenly, irrationally convinced that he was Wen. She sat rigidly for the next few minutes, willing him to turn around, until eventually her stares caught the attention of the young woman, who glared at her angrily. Lili felt herself flush. She looked down at the remains of her noodles, her heart racing. She sat indecisively for a moment longer, then gathered up her things and threaded her way through the tables towards the doorway, conscious that the young woman was still eyeing her.
It was only after she had stepped outside the restaurant that she allowed herself a glance backwards through the window at the young man sitting opposite. It was not Wen, of course; and at once she was flooded with relief. She stood watching them, feeling Wen’s ghost presence ebb away from her in the darkness. But as she turned away she was overcome by a creeping sense of shame. Why had she not been disappointed rather than relieved?
•
Lili and May lose track of time, and when Adrian returns from work he is clearly dismayed. “Still up?” he says pointedly to May when he walks into the kitchen.
“I wanted to finish my costume. Besides,” May counters a little defiantly, “Lili said it was okay.”
Adrian shoots a quick glance at Lili, but says nothing. Lili feels her face colour. May drapes the sheet over her head and waves her arms.
“See? I’m a ghost!”
Adrian picks up a stack of post on the counter and flicks through it distractedly.
“Very scary. Now off to bed,” he says tersely.
“Lili taught me a new word,” says May, hopping around him in the ghost costume. “Yang gui zi. It means ‘foreign devil’ and you’re one.”
May waits for Adrian to respond. He glances at the last envelope and sighs, tossing it back onto the counter, before turning to her.
“What?”
“Yang gui zi. You’re a foreign devil. But I’m not.”
Adrian looks at her, his lips pressed tightly together, then turns away.
“Bedtime, May,” he says in a voice so clipped that May dances out of the room and down the hall without another word of protest. Adrian opens the refrigerator and looks inside.
“I’m sorry,” says Lili nervously. “We did not notice time.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Adrian replies, pulling out a bottle of beer. “Is there any food left over?” Lili motions towards a wok on the stove.
“Yes. We save some for you.” Adrian goes over to the pan and lifts the lid.
“What is it?”
“It is pork mixed with vegetables and rice.”
“Did May eat this? She usually hates courgette.”
“Yes. May likes it very much.”
Adrian shrugs and dishes the remaining food onto a plate, then sits down at the table. Lili starts to retreat, then pauses in the doorway.
“I am sorry to teach her this word. I explain to her the Chinese belief about ghosts.”
Adrian looks up at her uncomprehendingly. Lili realises that Chinese beliefs are the last thing on his mind.
“Sorry?”
“It doesn’t matter. You are very tired.”
“I’m under quite a lot of pressure at work at the moment,” says Adrian.
“Oh. I am sorry. If I can help, please… just ask me.”
“You’re already doing enough. May seems happier than she’s been in ages.” Adrian takes a long pull of beer.
“I am glad. I like May very much.”
“Well, she adores you. She isn’t the kind of child who shows affection very easily, but trust me, she’s much happier now, much more… settled.”
Adrian rises then and fills a glass of water at the sink. Lili wonders what he thinks of her. It shouldn’t matter, but suddenly it does. She would like to hear him say that her presence has brought harmony to this house, not just for May, but for him as well. But though she spends a few more minutes clearing up, he says nothing more. When he has finished eating, Adrian pushes his plate to one side and picks up the newspaper, scanning the headlines. Lili watches him: his sleeves are rolled up part way and his arms are covered in fine blond hair and freckles. His hands are long and thin, and there are ink stains on his fingers. Adrian looks up after a moment with a questioning glance, aware suddenly that she is watching him. Lili flushes and turns to go.
“Lili?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could watch May on Saturday night? It’s just… I’ve got dinner plans.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. Sorry to be out so much lately.”
“It is no trouble.”
Adrian looks back down at the newspaper, and Lili hesitates.
“Good night,” she says.
“Good night,” replies Adrian without looking up.
•
Once back in her room, Lili sits on the bed and ponders the round carpet. Adrian seems changed somehow; her being here has altered him. She thought that she was helping May, but in reality she is enabling Adrian to find a new life. The idea troubles her, but she is not sure why. Surely he is entitled to his own li
fe? Her mind flies back in time to Chen. When she was in her last year of university, she took a class in American literature. Chen was in his early thirties, had only recently been appointed to the English department, and was unlike any teacher she’d ever had. He listened attentively to his students and seemed less interested in teaching than in guiding them towards their own insights, an approach she and the others found vaguely unsettling. He urged them to read everything they could lay their hands on, and kept a small library of foreign books that he made available to those who were interested.
Chen seemed unfazed by the strictures under which they all laboured. That spring the government had announced a campaign to crack down on serious crime. Officials all over the country were exhorted to “Strike Hard” against criminals. The campaign was aimed at crimes such as murder, but it extended to large scale theft and corruption cases, and hundreds of those found guilty had been publicly executed, sometimes in open-air stadiums filled with jeering crowds. These campaigns always had a sobering effect on university life. Only seven years had passed since the student uprisings in Tian An Men Square. And though it was rarely mentioned, the memory of that time lay dormant within them all.
Chen seemed interested only in literature; his actions could never be construed as political. Lili had seen other students quietly returning books to him after class, so one day she plucked up her courage and stopped by his office. It was tiny, little bigger than a cupboard and there were books everywhere: piled on his desk, in towering stacks upon the floor, and on shelves double-filled along the wall. When she appeared in the doorway, he frowned at her through his glasses: he was small and thin, and not particularly handsome, but he had an air of quiet understanding that she found reassuring. When she asked whether she might borrow a book, his face opened at once, as if he was seeing her for the first time, and he welcomed her in warmly, directing her to one shelf in particular. Flushing, she scrutinised the shelf: many of the books she’d never heard of. Others were fat volumes that she knew she’d struggle to finish.
She wondered briefly whether he might suggest one, but he was watching her intently, and she realised that the act of choosing held significance. She did not want to disappoint him. Her eyes raced down the line of unfamiliar titles, pausing at a slim volume whose author, at least, she had heard of: The Old Man and the Sea. She plucked the book from the shelf and he gave an interested nod, as if the choice said something about her, though she did not know what. She excused herself quickly and spent the next three evenings on her bunk labouring through the book. In truth, she found it hard going: the long descriptions of the struggle between the man and fish began to irritate her after a time, and so little happened in the course of the story. Later that week, she appeared in Chen’s doorway, the book in her hand. He paused in his work and smiled up at her, pushing his chair back from the desk.
“What did you make of it?”
“I liked the descriptions of the sea,” she said tentatively.
“And the fish? What did you make of the marlin?” He used the phonetic translation: ma ri lin.
She hesitated. Was he teasing her? The fish was a fish, of course. And it fought heroically but died, only to be eaten by the sharks. So its death was pointless.
“I did not understand why he needed to kill it. The old man came to regard the fish as his brother, and seemed more attached to it than anything else in his life,” she answered.
“Ah,” said Chen. “So in the end, was the fish his friend or his adversary?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Perhaps it was both,” he suggested with a smile. “There is room in literature for ambiguity,” he added.
Lili frowned. It was not the answer she’d expected. She wanted Chen to tell her outright, to instruct her; after all, he was her teacher. But he seemed reluctant to do so.
“The important thing was that they respected each other,” continued Chen. “And each kept their dignity. In the end, the old man and the fish were equals.”
“But the fish died.”
“Yes, but the old man did not succeed in bringing it home. In death he did not better it – rather, it returned to the sea.”
Lili paused. She had not thought of it this way. Chen smiled benignly.
“Shall I give you something else to read?” he asked, sensing her unease. She nodded, relieved. He pulled another battered paperback from his shelf and handed it to her. She looked down. It was a slim volume of poetry by Emily Dickinson.
“Try this,” Chen said. “It is completely different. You might find that it appeals to you more than Hai Ming Wei.”
The poems did appeal to her. Though many of the words were unfamiliar, she liked the crisp brevity of the writing, and the sureness of the poet’s voice. When she finished she read the biography at the back of the volume. Emily Dickinson had been something of a recluse: she had lived in her family home all her life and never married. Lili wondered then whether Chen was suggesting something with the choice; perhaps he’d realised there was a side of her much like the poet. If so, Lili wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or offended. But she was eager to discuss the poems with him the next day.
And so their friendship began. Each week he chose for her a new paperback, and at night when her room mates had finished their studies, she lay on her bunk deciphering its contents. They would discuss the books when she returned them, and each time he coaxed her gently towards an interpretation, while still encouraging her to find her own truths in what she read. As the weeks went past, she found herself looking forward to these sessions more and more, even dressing with care and taking extra time with her hair and make-up. She felt silly doing so: Chen was a married man, she knew as much, with a wife and child living in another province. Moreover, his behaviour towards her had never once suggested even the barest hint of impropriety. But she found herself wondering what sort of woman he had married, and what kind of husband he was.
One day, after he’d returned from visiting his wife and daughter over the Spring Festival, she worked up the courage to ask him about his family. “My wife is an English teacher,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Like me, thought Lili. He married someone like me.
“Her mother has been unwell these past few years, so she wishes to remain at home to look after her,” Chen added.
“It must be difficult to be so far apart,” Lili said.
“One grows accustomed to distance,” he replied with a small smile. “Even if it is not what one would choose. And it makes our time together more precious.”
Lili felt her mouth go dry. She wanted him to say that in fact the distance suited him; that his marriage was a loveless match that had long since run its course. But instead he fished in his desk for a photo and pulled it out, handing it to her. Lili took the photo with a trembling hand and stared down at the woman and child. His wife’s looks were bookish and unassuming, but her smile was warm and there was a sparkle in her eye that filled Lili with envy. She held a young child in her arms who frowned sternly at the camera.
“That is Ran Ran, my daughter,” said Chen proudly. “She is three now. And very stubborn.”
“She’s adorable,” murmured Lili, wondering whether she should also remark upon his wife.
“Thank you. I am very fortunate.”
Lili watched as Chen carefully returned the photo to his drawer. She had no interest whatsoever in her male classmates, yet this kind and gentle man aroused in her a complex set of feelings. She rose and made her excuses, stumbling from the room. It was only when she reached her dorm that she realised she’d forgotten to ask him for another book.
Later that spring, Chen announced to the class that he was launching a translation contest for anyone who was interested. The winner would receive a new edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Lili worked hard on her entry: a passage from Hard Times by Charles Dickens. She also spent time in Chen’s office helping him to catalogue the submissions, as the response had been overwhelming. While she
sorted and organised a filing system, he sat at his desk reading through them. Occasionally he would chuckle aloud, or shake his head at an error, which he would mark carefully. When he particularly liked something, he would sit forward excitedly, and his eyes would shine with favour. Each time Lili would crane her neck to see whose writing had brought on this response, and each time she would feel a small pang of jealousy that it wasn’t hers.
One evening, he cleared his throat deliberately and waved a sheaf of paper at her. “I’ve come to yours,” he said.
“Oh.” Lili waited uncertainly.
“Perhaps you should go now,” he suggested gently.
She rose, flushing, and gathered up her things. “Yes, of course. Excuse me.”
“I look forward to reading your submission,” he said kindly.
The next day in class he gave no clue to his response, though she searched his face for some indication. Afterwards, she lingered briefly, but when another teacher entered to speak to him, she left quickly. Two days later, there was an announcement of the winners posted on the main bulletin board in the English building. Lili stood in front of the board, stunned. Her entry had not even been placed among the top three. A popular male student from the year below had won with a translation of Walt Whitman, and the second and third prize had gone to girls in her year. One was even in her dorm: a quiet, round-faced girl with hair that fell nearly to her waist, whom Lili had never given a second thought. Though she had not expected to win, she had thought that her status as his unofficial assistant would count for more. But of course it had not, she reflected sullenly as she walked to her next class. Chen was unswervingly fair in his treatment of his students. His conduct was unimpeachable. Was that not why she admired him?
When she got home that evening, there were raised eyebrows from her room mates. She realised she’d made one too many references to the contest and its possible outcome, even laughing over some of the entries. One student, she had told them a few evenings before, had translated the word aromatic as romantic. For the next few weeks, she could not bring herself to visit Chen in his office. She came and went quickly from class and took care never to meet his gaze. One day, only a week before they were due to break for the summer holiday, he asked her to stay behind after class. When the others had gone, he leaned back upon his desk and crossed his arms.