Still, she does not want to disappoint him, so one morning while she is manning the desk at the hotel, she composes a few paragraphs in English. “A beautiful town in the mountains of Sichuan Province, each traveler must visit Heng’an.” She thinks back to what Rob said when she first met him, how he was interested in the fact that Heng’an was located along the ancient tea route. She adds in a few sentences about that, and about the temple they visited with Wei Ke, and the countryside they biked together the afternoon Rob first met Lulu. She is careful not to sound too well acquainted with Heng’an—this is not her voice, after all.
Once she has finished writing, she makes a fresh copy, and the next time she meets up with Director Wei, she shows it to him. “I copied it from the e-mail he sent,” she says to explain why the sheet is handwritten.
He squints at the text and, with a nod of approval, hands it back to her. “What does it say?”
Juanlan translates, pausing frequently to figure out how to proceed. She created these sentences, yet finds it difficult to express them accurately in Chinese. Their meaning shifts, moving from one language to another, and in the end, the words that come out sound awkward to her ears. This must convince Director Wei of their authenticity, because at the end of her recitation, he nods again and declares that the write-up is not bad. Then he gives her some notes on how to improve it. “Your American friend will not mind the additions,” he assures her, and she replies that, of course, she is certain he won’t.
In December Juanlan begins working in the office of a bamboo cane wholesale company. The job is secretarial, dull, and takes up most of her time during the week. She got it not long after Lulu finished her month-long confinement and found a job working at a cosmetics store downtown. Then Juanlan’s mother began urging her to find employment, too. She was no longer necessary at the hotel, her mother argued, as Ba’s health had greatly improved. He spends most of his time with his granddaughter, Ning, bouncing and rocking her as he keeps track of comings and goings at the Three Springs. The baby sleeps much of the day, anyway, in a movable crib behind the front desk, freeing Juanlan’s father to check guests in and out.
There are not any more guests now than there were in the summer. But no fewer, either. Businessmen and government officials—their schedules remain more or less the same throughout the year.
“Ba,” Juanlan says one afternoon on the weekend when Ning is with Lulu, “what are you going to do about the hotel when the expressway opens?”
He looks up from the stove where they’re warming their hands. Throughout the winter he perpetually smells of coal smoke, since he prefers to be outside rather than inside with the electric coil—though he is careful to keep Ning free of the foul air. “What do you mean?”
“Half the guests are from Chengdu. Once the trip is shortened, people will probably not stay overnight anymore.”
“You let your Ba worry about that.”
Juanlan bites her lip, wondering whether to go on. “The expressway is supposed to be completed next year.”
Her father nods thoughtfully. “That’s what they say.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“They’re working quickly, your brother tells us.” He sits back on his stool and puts his hands on his knees. He is one of the few men Juanlan knows who doesn’t smoke, and perhaps this explains his quality of stillness; when other men would be reaching for a cigarette, he merely sits with his hands in his lap. This has always made him seem wise. But in fact it is difficult to know what he’s thinking in such moments, if he is thinking at all, or instead has emptied his mind. When Juanlan was young, she and her friends would sometimes play a game where they determined which animal a person most resembled: a horse, a penguin, a mouse, a fish. The only rule was that it couldn’t be the person’s zodiac animal. One day, they went through their families. Zhuo Ge was decided to be a zebra, Juanlan a starfish. She can’t recall which animal her mother was assigned. But she remembers her father’s because she came up with it herself: “I’ve got it!” she’d yelled. “My Ba is an egg!” Everyone had burst into laughter at the joke, because it was both unlikely and exactly right.
Now, out of the blue, her father asks if she has a boyfriend.
“A boyfriend?” she repeats with genuine surprise. “Why would you think I have a boyfriend? When would I have time to see him, if I did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you think I had a boyfriend here,” she says, attempting a laugh, “or did it start when I was in Chengdu?”
“Lan’er, I was only asking because you got that job, and—” He stops suddenly and shakes his head.
“What?”
Across the street, a neighbor steps out of the door at the bottom of his building and raises his hand in greeting. “You didn’t want to be here,” her father says as he returns the gesture. Then he turns and hocks a glob of spit on the ground. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Ma told me to get a job.”
“And how do you like it?”
She thinks of the stale, smoky air in the office, the tablets of onionskin receipts she fills out, sorts, and files. The benefit is that she has an hour and a half free at lunch, which allows her to meet her lover once or twice a week. “It doesn’t have to be the job I have forever.”
“That’s right. You should look for something better. Things have improved from what they were last summer. You have more opportunities.”
Long-term, she has no intention of staying in Heng’an. Things with Director Wei have made the future confusing, and made the present something she doesn’t want to change for now. Of course, she can’t tell her father any of this. Instead she says that surely he and her mother will need her around when they start accepting foreign guests at the hotel.
“What foreign guests?”
“When the expressway opens—”
“You can’t believe everything your brother says.” Her father wipes his hands back and forth over his thighs for warmth. After a pause, he says, “I’m not so sure about Zhuo’er’s plans. How many foreigners do you think the new expressway will bring?”
“It’s not just Zhuo Ge. Director Wei’s danwei is busy preparing our town for foreign tourists.”
Her father gives her an odd look. “Director Wei?”
“He spoke of it over the summer,” she says lightly.
Seemingly convinced, he lets the matter drop and they sit in silence together, watching the hot brick of coal smoldering in the stove. It’s not raining, but the air is damp. A mist obscures the hills that are usually visible at the top of the street. The outlines of those hills are so familiar, Juanlan thinks, she could draw them in place, if needed. And yet it’s strange not to see them now. Such large things hulking, and for the moment you can’t even tell that they’re there.
A few days later, she is at the market buying vegetables on her way home from the office when she spots Teacher Cao standing over a tub of fish. The older woman is directing the fishmonger on which specimen she’d like: he grabs one out of the water and holds it up, but Teacher Cao shakes her head briskly and says, “A smaller one, please.” He chooses another, and then a third, and this one she accepts. In one quick motion, the man flips a plastic bag over the fish. He weighs it and hands the bag to his customer, the creature inside flapping wildly. Teacher Cao pays, and while she waits for the man to count out her change, her eyes fall on Juanlan, who has been watching the exchange with a strange fascination, her heart slapping the bones of her chest like the fish inside the bag.
“Juan-juan!” Teacher Cao exclaims, and Juanlan is unpleasantly startled by the familiarity of the address. Only childhood friends and neighbors call her this. During the period of their acquaintance over the summer, Teacher Cao always called her by her full name.
“How are you?” she manages to ask, and the older woman says she’s well, thank you, only tired of this cold. She tugs on the collar of her goose down coat as if to get warmer, even though it’s already zipped up to
the top. The coat is an expensive brand, likely purchased on a recent visit to the city.
It’s been months since she saw Teacher Cao, not since before the trip up to Tao Xu. After her return, the few remaining tutoring sessions went on in the normal fashion, with Wei Ke’s parents both away at work. Then the boy went to school in Chengdu, and of course that put an end to her visits to the flat overlooking the river, with its piano and its water cooler and its gleaming white floors. There has been no reason for her to meet Teacher Cao. And yet she has often been in Juanlan’s thoughts. In fact, she has grown to resent Teacher Cao more than she ever did before, even in the absence of any interaction between them. Or perhaps because of it. Absence loosens affection when the connection is thin. As far as Juanlan is concerned, Teacher Cao is the only one who got something for nothing: she secured her son a free tutor, and from the beginning it was understood that nothing was required of her in the exchange. It’s her security, the assurance that the world will provide whatever she wants—this is what grates. And what prevents Juanlan from feeling guilty about what’s gone on with her husband.
“How strange to run into you,” Teacher Cao is saying. “I don’t usually shop here. It’s really a lucky coincidence.”
“This is our normal market,” Juanlan answers stupidly. “Why are you shopping here?” Then, to soften the question, she adds, “What brought you to our neighborhood today?”
“Oh, just running my legs,” Teacher Cao replies, meaning: errands, nothing of interest or note.
“How is Wei Ke doing? Have you spoken with him lately?”
“A few days ago, yes. He’s doing quite well in his studies. And in English”—she brightens, as if now remembering Juanlan’s role in her son’s life—“he’s improved quite a lot. His last exam, he was in the top half of his class. Just barely, of course—he still needs to study more—but this is a significant improvement over his work last year. Thanks to you, of course.”
“Of course.” Juanlan is surprised by her own response, and takes pleasure in seeing that Teacher Cao is surprised, too. It’s unnatural to respond to gratitude so directly, to acknowledge that her own effort is in any way responsible for another’s success. But it is satisfying to see the other woman unsettled.
During the time they’ve been talking, the bag at Teacher Cao’s side has fallen still, and suddenly it begins flapping around again, the fish rousing itself for a final struggle. Teacher Cao thumps the bag against her side, but this only makes the creature thrash more. With a wry grin, she hoists it into the air and declares, “It doesn’t know it’s lunch.”
“Or maybe it does, and that’s why it’s fighting.”
“Well, it’s too late for that.” She lowers the bag to her side. The plastic hardly crinkles, as it has fallen still again. “Anyway, I should get along. I’ve got to boil this fish before Director Wei gets home from the hospital.”
“The hospital!”
“Yes, his foot has been hurting him. It’s nothing very serious.” She gives Juanlan a wondering look. The injury is too minor to be troubling, the acquaintance too light to cause such alarm.
Juanlan eases the muscles in her face and wills away the shock that came unbidden. Teacher Cao looks merely amused at her response. Suddenly the other woman smiles brightly and shakes her head. “My husband will be pleased to know his health is so important to our friends.”
If she only knew—but of course, she never will. Juanlan is the only one who possesses the truth. She reassures herself with this knowledge: she has gained the upper hand, and Teacher Cao is not even aware of being routed. With an exchange of good-byes they part ways, moving in opposite directions. Yet though Juanlan tries to maintain her feeling of superiority, within a minute or two, all good feeling has drained completely away. In its place is pure vinegar.
The next time she sees Director Wei, Juanlan asks him about his foot.
“It’s nothing, really. My foot has been hurting me for some time, and I finally decided to go see the doctor about it.”
“But you never mentioned it!”
“There was nothing to mention. It doesn’t concern you.” Director Wei rubs his eyes. He is seated on the edge of the bed, Juanlan beside him. She’s been resting one hand on his arm, but she takes it away at this last remark. To her annoyance, her eyes are suddenly wet with tears.
“Lan,” he says, using the nickname he employs only in tender moments, “my health is not something you need to worry about. If I’m dying of some disease, then I will tell you. If not, I don’t want to bore you with trivial things.”
She turns her eyes to the wall. Breathes in deeply and lets it out again. They have not fought before, and she had not expected to have an argument now. In reality, it is not much of an argument. But there is a physical sensation of having quarreled, a shakiness in her limbs, a quick-beating heart. She can’t say what is bothering her, precisely, but it has to do with the look Director Wei gave her when she mentioned that she’d run into his wife. A look of annoyance that was tinged with blame.
“Fine,” he says after more than a minute of silence. “If you really want to know.” And he explains to Juanlan that his foot injury was caused by a misalignment of his pelvic bones. The doctor asked him if he’d sustained a fall. “Do you remember?” he asks, his face washed clean of emotion. He is testing her, but all she can think is that she never sees him except in this room, and he rarely tells her about his life outside it. If he’s fallen in recent months, she hasn’t been informed of the event. “In Tao Xu,” he reminds her. “I slipped on the steps going up to the old house.”
Immediately, she is brought back to that day: the rain, the slick mud, and the rough stone steps. Mayor Hu and the tense underling whose name she has forgotten. What was she feeling in that moment when Director Wei fell? They were not yet lovers. She didn’t know that his body would soon matter to her, that she would come to have a proprietary feeling about it.
Then it comes to her: she fell, too. Before he slipped, she went down on her knees on the unforgiving stone. It was a shock, the pain shooting through her legs like a bullet. Does he recall this part of the story? Did he notice at the time?
She doesn’t try to remind him of it. Instead, she listens to his explanation of some tendon on the bottom of his foot, another that runs up the back of the ankle, the connection to tissues in the leg and the hip. She wanted to know, she thinks. Now she knows.
26
A Saturday morning in early May. Juanlan’s father has already strolled down to the river and by eight o’clock is back again, the birdcage swinging lightly from his fingers. He hangs it on the coatrack beside the lobby door as Juanlan watches him from the front desk, waiting for the moment he will turn and see her. She will not put a smile on her face until then.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks.
“I had some congee a while ago. Do you want some?”
“Bring me a bowl, and I’ll eat it here. It’s a beautiful morning, Lan’er. You should get out and enjoy it.”
Nearly every morning is beautiful now—the warm sun and the clean breeze, the streets glistening with rain that comes only at night. Spring has been almost unbearably lovely this year. Unbearable because Juanlan is miserable, and the fine weather only makes her feel worse. The streets downtown are crowded with young women buying new clothes. At night, the sidewalk tables outside the barbecue and chuanchuan’r places are filled with laughing groups of friends, but she has been seeing no one but her family.
When in early spring Director Wei abruptly ended things with her, she was almost too stunned to speak. She was sitting on the bed, waiting for him, when he came into the flat at their arranged meeting time. He closed the door quietly behind him and leaned against it with his hands crossed over his stomach. “I’m sorry, Lan,” he said, looking briefly at her and then away. He seemed to think she knew what he was going to say, but she didn’t, not at all. She cared for him more than he did for her—this she knew—but she required very little of
him. Nothing, really, a few hours a week to touch and be touched, what could be considered a few hours only when added together from the smaller fragments of time. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would want to end things between them. “Why?” she asked in a choking voice, but he didn’t have a satisfactory answer. These things come to a natural end, he said. Yet if that was the case, then why didn’t she feel the same? Why was the end only apparent to him?
He stayed long enough to allow her to cry, and to show her that her tears didn’t move him in the slightest. If anything, her crying seemed to somewhat annoy him. He was tired of her, that was all. This was, of course, the most unspeakable explanation, and the only one.
The end of his affection was a vanishing, an evaporation. There was no mourning it properly. For weeks she was confused and angry; then she grew sad; now she feels herself brushed by the fringes of despair. During the workweek, her time at the office brings a comforting numbness, but on the weekends she finds herself teetering, a toe’s length away from falling headfirst into sorrow. And it is not helped by her father’s constant insistence, however well meant, that she go out and enjoy herself. Today is no different than every day. “Escape your mother,” he says with a wink, “before she puts you to work.”
So after fetching a bowl of congee for him from the kitchen, Juanlan retrieves her bike and goes out through the gate off the alley. Without thinking, she pedals over to her brother and Lulu’s flat, but at the last moment decides not to stop by after all. She can’t bear the sweet innocence of her niece this morning. She would rather be alone with her gloom. So she keeps going past the turnoff to the apartment complex and then takes the road that leads south, out of town. It follows the river and is mostly flat, but in the near distance, green mountains rise. To her left is the river and the sun vaulting down. To her right are planted fields and farmers’ homes. Lulu grew up in the countryside, but it’s difficult to imagine her as one of these women in cloth shoes, turning the earth with a spade. That is all in her past, or else in some alternate future that never came to be. Instead, she lives in a sixth-floor flat in the biggest town in the prefecture, has a washing machine, a husband, a child, and a job selling lipsticks and skin-whitening creams to a population that feels itself growing ever more cosmopolitan. Lulu has escaped and Juanlan has not, even if they both live in the same place for now.
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