Shenzheners

by Xue Yiwei

  I reminded him to use the time wisely and do his math homework. But I did not go to see whether he had returned to his desk. I did not want to leave the window, but longed to watch the taxi leave the curb and soon my sight. And I felt again the disturbance of anticipation in my body. Only this disturbance could allow me to step out of the shadow of my repression. As in the past, I covered my face in the curtain, as if afraid he would see me. As if last Thursday had not happened. Maybe he had never even seen me, I thought, embarrassed. Maybe he would never see me. I could still smell the dust on the curtain I’d never taken down and washed, for fear the smell would remind me of my own dusty youth, and of him, too. Every time I saw him walk my way, my youth would reappear; this hopeless awkwardness expanded in my weary bosom, stifling me.

  The first time I’d seen him was at the celebration for the Mid-Autumn Festival held by our community. He was squatting, trying to guess the last lantern riddle, the one nobody solved, with his daughter. His hand was resting tenderly on her shoulder, his face practically stuck to hers. He was smiling, while she was deep in thought. I’d never seen such a radiant smile before, a smile that highlighted such a charming pair of lips. I seemed to have rediscovered anticipation, that feeling I had lost many years before. And the youthful awkwardness that had departed from my life also suddenly returned. It grabbed me viciously and wouldn’t let go. I felt enfeebled. I did not know how I got through the crowd, through the lamplight, through the noise, until finally I came back to the darkness of my quiet bedroom. I lay down on the bed, crossing my arms in front of my chest and dazedly rubbing my breasts, engorged still. I felt warm tears flooding my ear canal. I felt like time was ravishing me.

  That was my first Mid-Autumn Festival, or so I believed. That was the first time in my life I’d ever seen anything so consummate, and from that day on I wanted to see him. It was the most overpowering thought I had ever experienced. I wished every day could be Mid-Autumn Festival. Every day at dusk I would walk close to the window, hide behind the faintly dusty curtain, and look down. Even on days when my husband returned home I would not want to miss the chance to indulge my gaze, heart pounding as I made out his form among the coming and going of the pedestrians. His arm was always around his daughter’s shoulders. They were always talking. They always seemed to have so many things to say. I wished I could hear their conversation, like a passer-by who might join the discussion. I even imagined that there would come a day when they would start talking about me, allowing me into their world.

  One day I finally got up the courage. I decided to walk over to them. I did not know the route they took for their daily stroll. But just as I walked out of the apartment tower, a mysterious wave of heat greeted me and allowed me to ascertain their position. I saw them immediately. I did not dare to walk right up to them. I just followed behind. Looking at him from behind naturally elicited a despairing awkwardness that expanded in my chest, stifling me. I had to stop a few times to adjust my breathing, and in the end I simply couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to stop completely. Regretfully, I watched them leave.

  I took a deep breath of hot, humid air, turned, and started walking away, comforting myself in the most tender voice. I told myself I’d only wanted to approach, but the brief consolation soon became unbearable; I did not want to lie to myself like this. I knew I was getting farther and farther away from them, that I did not have the courage to turn and follow them again. I kept walking away. But my steps were getting slower and slower. I seemed to be walking into the depths of an ocean, an ocean of noise. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Soon I could barely feel the stifling awkwardness. All I could feel was a tremble of despair. I despaired of us ever meeting in this city in reality. But at the same time I was sure that we would meet in some invisible city. There, I would walk over to him, and he would do the same. There, he would notice me notice him. I would amaze him with the temptation of my sheer existence. And there and then I would share a second spring with him.

  Disheartened, I returned to my flat, by which time it was already the next day. Our son was fast asleep. I seemed to have returned from a space voyage, feeling like I was still floating, exhausted. I did not take a shower, just lay down. My body was pervaded with the same interplanetary scent that must waft through the galaxy. I wanted to keep this smell always. With my body, with my memory. Maybe not for him, perhaps, but for me. Through that smell I could sense myself. I did not know whether my husband had called—that was the first time (but not the last) that I didn’t care whether he had called or not. But at the same time, I stood there expecting the phone to ring, out of sheer naivety. It was an unbearable expectation. I was waiting for it to ring, to dispel the despair and regret lurking deep in the night. That call would come from him, of course, and from another planet. I fantasized that he had already noticed me notice him, and that he would be able to decipher my gaze, discovering the secret path to my heart. I fantasized that he would reach towards my corner of awkwardness from another planet. And I fantasized that I would hear his breath and my own as well, and our breaths would meet in a perfect fusion, like water and milk.

  I finally got to sleep, who knows when. When I was woken up by the phone, the hot sunlight was gathering on the hollow in the pillow beside me. I did not immediately think of my experience the night before, of my glide through space. I did not immediately think of the call I’d been expecting on a night of regret and despair. I picked up the phone like nothing was out of the ordinary. But the few strands of hair by the pillow made me uneasy.

  The caller was a classmate of mine from middle school. Perhaps I should say he was my first love? But our special relationship was discovered soon after it started, by his mother. She was violently opposed. So after doing many things that humiliated me and my parents, she transferred her docile son to another school. We hadn’t seen each other since. Even so, I recognized his voice immediately.

  I was not at all curious about that voice. Nor did I feel an impulse to immediately hang up the phone. But I could hear he was emotionally distraught. “It’s been almost twenty years,” he said.

  “I had not noticed,” I said listlessly.

  “You don’t feel like that long has passed,” he said.

  “I hadn’t bothered to feel anything,” I said, unperturbed.

  He said, “I feel like it’s been even longer than that.”

  I picked up the few strands of hair by my pillow, and rubbed them between my thumb and my forefinger.

  “I feel like it’s been even longer than that,” he repeated.

  Then I suddenly smelled another planet. A feeling of the previous evening when I was gliding through space, anticipating the ring of the phone, resurfaced abruptly.

  “That was such a good feeling,” he said, all worked up.

  “What feeling?” I asked.

  “Don’t you remember?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I remember I didn’t feel anything at all.”

  My response did not cancel out the caller’s interest in talking. He started going on about his life. He said he was unhappy. He said for many years he had only felt happy when he thought of me. I interrupted him several times and said I was not interested in hearing about his life, or anyone else’s. But every time he segued back into his story. He said his wife was pretty good to him, but he still did not feel fulfilled. He also said his children were outstanding. But no matter what, his life wasn’t what he’d hoped for. In the end I lost my patience and told him I was expecting my husband’s call, hoping to cut him off for once and for all.

  That did it. He had been interrupted. But he still did not hang up the phone. After a moment of silence, he entered upon a new round of conversation. He said that he had been pursuing me all these years. He asked me if I wanted to know how much of an ordeal it had been and how he had finally found my number. His voice was full of longing for my reply.

  “I don’t want to know any
thing,” I said coldly and then hung up.

  All I wanted to know was the situation on the other planet. I only wanted to see him. I just wanted to be able to pass by for one day. If noticing him was not enough to attract him, I would let out a long sigh to get his attention. Maybe I would need to sigh a number of times. Maybe I would need to pass by him a number of times. Maybe I would need to pass by and sigh many times before he would stop. I imagined him moving his hand away from his daughter’s shoulder, stopping and asking me, curious, why I kept sighing like that. How would I reply? Would I say I was unhappy? Everyone said I had a happy life. I had a good husband. He was working on the other side of the border, working hard to support us. He came back every weekend and always took us to a good restaurant. Whenever I complained about our son, he always took my side. Maybe you could not say this was happiness. Maybe I really was unhappy. But I would not reply by saying that I was unhappy. I did not want to spoil the perfect feeling he gave me with the imperfection of my life. I might reply, “Because of you.” Would this be a candid response, or would it be coy? I did not know. But I knew that as soon as I spoke, awkwardness would flood into my body again, until I was drenched in it. Maybe I really would get up the courage to say that the reason I sighed such long sighs was “because of you.”

  I never approached him. I never had the courage. I dared only to approach him by observation and expectation. Sometimes I would imagine a woman by his side, or wonder whether there was one. His daughter was my son’s classmate. He had mentioned her several times. He said that her father was a professor of economics at the university. Her grandfather was a famous general. These details showed me how distant his world was from mine. I was not surprised that that smell of outer space had appeared that night. And I did not dread that smell. I did not mind it. I could not resist it. I longed for him to stop one day in front of me. I longed for him to stop to convey to me a mystery from another dimension.

  The reason I suddenly decided not to send my husband off was because I was afraid I would miss the mystery. He had not appeared for four days straight. I was still looking forward to seeing him, looking forward to my shy awkwardness, looking forward to his return.

  The last time I’d seen that girl was on a Thursday afternoon. On my way home from the market, I noticed a moving van stopped in front of their building. The girl was standing beside the van. I did not dare to stop and ask the onlookers what had happened. I just rushed home. I hid behind the curtain, fearful, assessing a situation for which I was not prepared. Soon I saw a small sedan drive up and stop beside the girl. Then the person inside opened the door, and she got in. I pressed the curtain against my quivering nostrils. I could not bear that sudden abuse. My vision grew blurry. Drowning in my tears, I could sense the car drive off. Then the truck began to move.

  I kept standing there the whole time as though I were standing at the end of my life. I did not dare imagine how cold the coming nights would be. I did not dare imagine the next day.

  I kept standing there until our son opened the door and came in. He hurried to my side and said, out of breath, “Something happened to someone in my classmate’s family.” He seemed to know that I knew perfectly well which classmate he was talking about.

  “What happened?” I asked in despair.

  He said he did not know. He looked at me in a daze, as if apologizing for my eyes, which were all red and puffy. “The teacher just said something happened,” he said. “She has to move away immediately.”

  “She’s already moved,” I said to my son, blankly. To me, it was he who had already moved. I would never see him again from that window that had given me so much expectation, that had witnessed so much of my deep-seated awkwardness. The only place I could go to look for him now was in that imaginary city, where I would search aimlessly. I believed that there would come a day when my conflicted sigh would hook his sense of smell like bait. He would stop. He would rest his hands lightly on my shoulders. His fingertips would hint, clearly yet unbelievably, that he would take me to a cozy room, onto a purple bedsheet. With his words and caresses, he would make me feel shy. Then he would penetrate my awkward shyness with his potent power, satisfying me, entrancing me, exhausting me.

  I clutched at the curtain. I could still feel the warmth from the tears that were left on them Thursday at dusk.

  My son came out of his room. “I saw him get in the taxi,” he said, his tone lifeless.

  “I saw too,” I said with a smile, before pressing my cheek to the window again.

  My son squeezed beside me, stood on his tiptoes, and looked down. “Do you always watch him from here?” he asked seriously.

  His question made me very nervous. “Watch who?” I asked him uncomfortably.

  My son seemed not to hear my question. “Why didn’t you let me say goodbye?” he asked.

  “Because you have to do your homework,” I answered. I still wanted to know who the “him” in his question was.

  “Then why didn’t you say goodbye?” he asked.

  I suspected my child knew my secret. A wave of sheer guilt swept towards me. I leaned down and held him close.

  He pressed his warm cheek against my face, then backed away. He looked at me seriously and asked me whether I loved his father or not.

  I did not know what to say. “Of course,” I answered.

  My son stuck his face to my face.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes I love him, but sometimes I just don’t know.”

  It was almost midnight before he called. Usually he called much earlier, when he got to his home in Hong Kong or soon after. This had been his habit over many years. “You forgot to remind me,” he said over the telephone, as if chiding me, or maybe kidding.

  “Remind you of what?” I was a little bit anxious. It surprised me that he would care about me.

  He did not answer my question. He seemed to know the secret in my heart. “You forgot,” he said. “The past two times you have forgotten.”

  I did not know how I should explain myself. I never thought he would notice the recent change in me.

  “My wallet went missing again,” he said. Now I could hear that he was chiding me.

  “What happened?” I asked nervously.

  “How should I know what happened?” he said calmly. “How should I know?”

  For the past three days I had been imagining what happened in his family. I’d been wondering why he didn’t appear on the day he moved. I’d been wondering who took that girl away, where she went. I’d been wondering why he would suddenly disappear from my sight, from my shyness, from my life. I had no idea what had happened in his life or in his family to make him so suddenly, so rudely disappear.

  The Father

  Father calmed down gradually on the way back from the cemetery. Had he not insisted on staying until the end, we would not have witnessed an emotional collapse. Father had remained calm throughout this trying time, which to most people seemed hard to understand. In the crematorium, when he had said goodbye to mother’s remains for the last time, my uncle whispered that he had not seen my father cry a single tear since my mother’s death. “I’m really impressed by his self-control,” my uncle said ironically, shooting my father a harsh glance. But when we placed her urn in the grave, Father was finally unable to contain himself. He suddenly started wailing. Everyone stared at him, including my uncle. He first looked at him and then at me, with a sly smile at the corner of his mouth, as if Father’s sudden loss of emotional control was a response to his complaint to me in the crematorium.

  I did not have time to protest. I embraced Father and urged him to restrain himself. Father did not pay any attention to my attempt to comfort him. He cried and cried, brushing my hands away. Distraught, he said that he should have been the one to put the first layer of dirt on the urn. I held my father’s arm as he crouched beside the grave. I he
lped him cup a handful of dirt and sprinkle it on the urn with trembling hands. Then, on my relatives’ advice, I helped him out of the grave and delivered him to the car so he could rest. When I had put father in the back seat, I advised him again not to cry. I said that his emotional outburst would have a big impact on all of us.

  Father didn’t say anything on the way home from the cemetery. He rested his head on the window, as if looking out at a mirage of the past. I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could keep an eye on him and saw him sitting quietly. His loss of control had taken everybody by surprise. But I believed that it was a good thing for him. Yes, ever since Mother’s passing, nobody had seen Father shed a single tear. I really did not want him to bottle his sorrow up inside.

  Before I had parked the car, Father said he did not need me to accompany him upstairs. He knew that I had a lot of follow-up to do. “You go and do what you need to do,” he said calmly. But after getting out of the car, he gestured to me. He obviously had more to say. He walked around to my window. He held my left hand tightly with his hands. Another emotional impulse, perhaps. He said he hoped that my big brother and I could come home in the next couple of days. “I have some important things to tell you,” he said.

  I explained that when Mother was hospitalized, things between my brother and me got really tense. I thought he should have noticed. My big brother had always been easygoing, and didn’t like to have to deal with family matters. But when he learned that Mother had an incurable illness, his personality changed completely. He became fussy. He had an opinion on every detail in the planning of the funeral and disagreed with me on everything. I didn’t think he would want to go home with me, or that he’d be interested in hearing what Father wanted to get off his chest.