A Thousand Years of Good Prayers

by Yiyun Li

  The ringing stops for a short moment and starts again. Mr. Su walks to the telephone and puts a hand on the receiver. “Do you want to take it?” he asks his wife.

  “So early it must be Mr. Fong,” Mrs. Su says.

  “Mr. Fong is a man of courtesy. He won’t disturb other people’s breakfast,” Mr. Su says. Still, he picks up the receiver, and his expression relaxes. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Fong. My wife, she is right here,” he says, and signals to Mrs. Su.

  Mrs. Su does not take the call immediately. She goes into Beibei’s bedroom and checks on her, even though it is not time for her to wake up yet. Mrs. Su strokes the hair, light brown and baby-soft, on Beibei’s forehead. Beibei is twenty-eight going on twenty-nine; she is so large it takes both her parents to turn her over and clean her; she screams for hours when she is awake, but for Mrs. Su, it takes a wisp of hair to forget all the imperfections.

  When she returns to the living room, her husband is still holding the receiver for her, one hand covering the mouthpiece. “She’s in a bad mood,” he whispers.

  Mrs. Su sighs and takes the receiver. “Yes, Mrs. Fong, how are you today?”

  “As bad as it can be. My legs are killing me. Listen, my husband just left. He said he was meeting your husband for breakfast and they were going to the stockbrokerage afterward. Tell me it was a lie.”

  Mrs. Su watches her husband go into Beibei’s bedroom. He sits with Beibei often; she does, too, though never at the same time as he does. “My husband is putting on his jacket so he must be going out to meet Mr. Fong now,” Mrs. Su says. “Do you want me to check with him?”

  “Ask him,” Mrs. Fong says.

  Mrs. Su walks to Beibei’s room and stops at the door. Her husband is sitting on the chair by the bed, his eyes closed for a quick rest. It’s eight o’clock, early still, but for an aging man, morning, like everything else, means less than it used to. Mrs. Su goes back to the telephone and says, “Mrs. Fong? Yes, my husband is meeting your husband for breakfast.”

  “Are you sure? Do me a favor. Follow him and see if he’s lying to you. You can never trust men.”

  Mrs. Su hesitates, and says, “But I’m busy.”

  “What are you busy with? Listen, my legs are hurting me. I would’ve gone after him myself otherwise.”

  “I don’t think it looks good for husbands to be followed,” Mrs. Su says.

  “If your husband goes out every morning and comes home with another woman’s scent, why should you care about what looks good or bad?”

  It is not her husband who is having an affair, Mrs. Su retorts in her mind, but she doesn’t want to point out the illogic. Her husband is indeed often used as a cover for Mr. Fong’s affair, and Mrs. Su feels guilty toward Mrs. Fong. “Mrs. Fong, I would help on another day, but today is bad.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Su says.

  Mrs. Fong complains for another minute, of the untrustworthiness of husbands and friends in general, and hangs up. Mrs. Su knocks on the door of Beibei’s room and her husband jerks awake, quickly wiping the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Fong wanted to know if you were meeting Mr. Fong,” she says.

  “Tell her yes.”

  “I did.”

  Mr. Su nods and tucks the blanket tight beneath Beibei’s soft, shapeless chin. It bothers Mrs. Su when her husband touches Beibei for any reason, but it must be ridiculous for her to think so. Being jealous of a daughter who understands nothing and a husband who loves the daughter despite that! She will become a crazier woman than Mrs. Fong if she doesn’t watch out for her sanity, Mrs. Su thinks, but still, seeing her husband smooth Beibei’s hair or rub her cheeks upsets Mrs. Su. She goes back to the kitchen and washes the dishes while her husband gets ready to leave. When he says farewell, she answers politely without turning to look at him.

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY Mr. Su leaves the apartment, right on time for the half-hour walk to the stockbrokerage. Most of the time he is there only to study the market; sometimes he buys and sells, executing the transactions with extraordinary prudence, as the money in his account does not belong to him. Mr. Fong has offered the ten thousand yuan as a loan, and has made it clear many times that he is not in any urgent need of the money. It is not a big sum at all for Mr. Fong, a retired senior officer from a military factory, but Mr. Su believes that for each drop of water one received, one has to repay with a well. The market and the economy haven’t helped him much in returning Mr. Fong’s generosity. Mr. Su, however, is not discouraged. A retired mathematics teacher at sixty-five, Mr. Su believes in exercising one’s body and mind—both provided by his daily trip to the stockbrokerage—and being patient.

  Mr. Su met Mr. Fong a year ago at the stockbrokerage. Mr. Fong, a year senior to Mr. Su, took a seat by him, and conversation started between the two men. He was there out of curiosity, Mr. Fong said; he asked Mr. Su if indeed the stock system would work for the country, and if that was the case, how Marxist political economics could be adapted for this new, clearly capitalistic situation. Mr. Fong’s question, obsolete and naive as it was, moved Mr. Su. With almost everyone in the country going crazy about money, and money alone, it was rare to meet someone who was nostalgic about the old but also earnest in his effort to understand the new. “You are on the wrong floor to ask the question,” Mr. Su replied. “Those who would make a difference are in the VIP lounges upstairs.”

  The stockbrokerage, like most of the brokerage firms in Beijing, rented space from bankrupted state-run factories. The one Mr. Su visited used to manufacture color TVs, a profitable factory until it lost a price war to a monopolizing corporation. The laid-off workers were among the ones who frequented the ground floor of the brokerage, opening accounts with their limited means and hoping for good luck. Others on the floor were retirees, men and women of Mr. Su’s age who dreamed of making their money grow instead of letting the money die in banks, which offered very low interest rates.

  “What are these people doing here if they don’t matter to the economy?” Mr. Fong asked.

  “Thousands of sand grains make a tower,” Mr. Su said. “Together their investments help a lot of factories run.”

  “But will they make money from the stock market?”

  Mr. Su shook his head. He lowered his voice and said, “Most of them don’t. Look at that woman there in the first row, the one with the hairnet. She buys and sells according to what the newspapers and television say. She’ll never earn money that way. And there, the old man—eighty-two he is, a very fun and healthy oldster but not a wise investor.”

  Mr. Fong looked at the people Mr. Su pointed out, every one an example of bad investing. “And you, are you making money?” Mr. Fong asked.

  “I’m the worst of all,” Mr. Su said with a smile. “I don’t even have money to get started.” Mr. Su had been observing the market for some time. With an imaginary fund, he had practiced trading, dutifully writing down all the transactions in a notebook; he had bought secondhand books on trading and developed his own theories. His prospects of earning money from the market were not bleak at all, he concluded after a year of practice. His pension, however, was small. With a son going to college, a wife and a daughter totally dependent on him, he had not the courage to risk a penny on his personal hobby.

  Very quickly, Mr. Fong and Mr. Su became close friends. They sat at teahouses or restaurants, exchanging opinions about the world, from prehistorical times to present day. They were eager to back up each other’s views, and at the first sign of disagreement, they changed topics. It surprised Mr. Su that he would make a friend at his age. He was a quiet and lonely man all his life, and most people he knew in his adult life were mere acquaintances. But perhaps this was what made old age a second childhood—friendship came out of companionship easily, with less self-interest, fewer social judgments.

  After a month or so, at dinner, Mr. Fong confessed to Mr. Su that he was in a painful situation. Mr. Su poured a cup of rice wine for Mr. Fong, waiting for him to continue.

&nb
sp; “I fell in love with this woman I met at a street dance party,” Mr. Fong said.

  Mr. Su nodded. Mr. Fong had once told him about attending a class to learn ballroom dancing, and had discussed the advantages: good exercise, a great chance to meet people when they were in a pleasant mood, and an aesthetic experience. Mr. Su had thought of teasing Mr. Fong about his surrendering to Western influences, but seeing Mr. Fong’s sincerity, Mr. Su had given up the idea.

  “The problem is, she is a younger woman,” Mr. Fong said.

  “How much younger?” Mr. Su asked.

  “In her early forties.”

  “Age should not be a barrier to happiness,” Mr. Su said.

  “But it’s not quite possible.”

  “Why, is she married?”

  “Divorced,” Mr. Fong said. “But think about it. She’s my daughter’s age.”

  Mr. Su looked Mr. Fong up and down. A soldier all his life, Mr. Fong was in good shape; except for his balding head, he looked younger than his age. “Put on a wig and people will think you are fifty,” Mr. Su said. “Quite a decent bridegroom, no?”

  “Old Su, don’t make fun of me,” Mr. Fong said, not concealing a smile. It vanished right away. “It’s a futile love, I know.”

  “Chairman Mao said, One can achieve anything as long as he dares to imagine it.”

  Mr. Fong shook his head and sullenly sipped his wine. Mr. Su looked at his friend, distressed by love. He downed a cup of wine and felt he was back in his teenage years, consulting his best friend about girls, being consulted. “You know something?” he said. “My wife and I are first cousins. Everybody opposed the marriage, but we got married anyway. You just do it.”

  “That’s quite a courageous thing,” Mr. Fong said. “No wonder I’ve always had the feeling that you’re not an ordinary person. You have to introduce me to your wife. Why don’t I come to visit you tomorrow at your home? I need to pay respect to her.”

  Mr. Su felt a pang of panic. He had not invited a guest to his flat for decades. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” he said finally. “A wife is just the same old woman after a lifelong marriage, no?” It was a bad joke, and he regretted it right away.

  Mr. Fong sighed. “You’ve got it right, Old Su. But the thing is, a wife is a wife and you can’t ditch her like a worn shirt after a life.”

  It was the first time Mr. Fong mentioned a wife. Mr. Su had thought Mr. Fong a widower, the way he talked only about his children and their families. “You mean, your wife’s well and”—Mr. Su thought carefully and said—“she still lives with you?”

  “She’s in prison,” Mr. Fong said and sighed again. He went on to tell the story of his wife. She had been the Party secretary of an import-export branch for the Agriculture Department, and naturally, there had been money coming from subdivisions and companies that needed her approval on paperwork. The usual cash-for-signature transactions, Mr. Fong explained, but someone told on her. She received a within-the-Party disciplinary reprimand and was retired. “Fair enough, no? She’s never harmed a soul in her life,” Mr. Fong said. But unfortunately, right at the time of her retirement, the president issued an order that for corrupt officials who had taken more than a hundred and seventy thousand yuan, the government would seek heavy punishments. “A hundred and seventy thousand is nothing compared to what he’s taken!” Mr. Fong hit the table with a fist. In a lower voice, he said, “Believe me, Old Su, only the smaller fish pay for the government’s face-lift. The big ones—they just become bigger and fatter.”

  Mr. Su nodded. A hundred and seventy thousand yuan was more than he could imagine, but Mr. Fong must be right that it was not a horrific crime. “So she had a case with that number?”

  “Right over the limit, and she got a sentence of seven years.”

  “Seven years!” Mr. Su said. “How awful and unfair.”

  Mr. Fong shook his head. “In a word, Old Su, how can I abandon her now?”

  “No,” Mr. Su said. “That’s not right.”

  They were silent for a moment, and both drank wine as they pondered the dilemma. After a while, Mr. Fong said, “I’ve been thinking: before my wife comes home, we—the woman I love and I—maybe we can have a temporary family. No contract, no obligation. Better than those, you know what they call, one night of something?”

  “One-night stands?” Mr. Su blurted out, and then was embarrassed to have shown familiarity with such improper, modern vocabularies. He had learned the term from tabloids the women brought to the brokerage; he had even paid attention to those tales, though he would never admit it.

  “Yes. I thought ours could be better than that. A dew marriage before the sunrise.”

  “What will happen when your wife comes back?” Mr. Su asked.

  “Seven years is a long time,” Mr. Fong said. “Who knows what will become of me in seven years? I may be resting with Marx and Engels in heaven then.”

  “Don’t say that, Mr. Fong,” Mr. Su said, saddened by the eventual parting that they could not avoid.

  “You’re a good friend, Old Su. Thank you for listening to me. All the other people we were friends with—they left us right after my wife’s sentence, as if our bad luck would contaminate them. Some of them used to come to our door and beg to entertain us!” Mr. Su said, and then, out of the blue, he brought out the suggestion of loaning Mr. Su some money for investing.

  “Definitely not!” Mr. Su said. “I’m your friend not because of your money.”

  “Ah, how can you think of it that way?” Mr. Fong said. “Let’s look at it this way: it’s a good experiment for an old Marxist like me. If you make a profit, great; if not, good for my belief, no?”

  Mr. Su thought Mr. Fong was drunk, but a few days later, Mr. Fong mentioned the loan again, and Mr. Su found it hard to reject the offer.

  MRS. FONG CALLS again two hours later. “I have a great idea,” she says when Mrs. Su picks up the phone. “I’ll hire a private detective to find out whom my husband is seeing.”

  “Private detective?”

  “Why? You think I can’t find the woman? Let me be honest with you—I don’t trust that husband of yours at all. I think he lies to you about my husband’s whereabouts.”

  Mrs. Su panics. She didn’t know there were private detectives available. It sounds foreign and dangerous. She wonders if they could do some harm to her husband, his being Mr. Fong’s accomplice in the affair. “Are you sure you’ll find a reliable person?” she says.

  “People will do anything if you have the money. Wait till I get the solid evidence,” Mrs. Fong says. “The reason I’m calling you is this: if your husband, like you said, is spending every day away from home, wouldn’t you be suspicious? Don’t you think it possible that they are both having affairs, and are covering up for each other?”

  “No, it’s impossible.”

  “How can you be so sure? I’ll hire a private detective for both of us if you like.”

  “Ah, please no,” Mrs. Su says.

  “You don’t have to pay.”

  “I trust my husband,” Mrs. Su says, her legs weakened by sudden fear. Of all the people in the world, a private detective will certainly be the one to find out about Beibei.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Fong says. “If you say so, I’ll spare you the truth.”

  Mrs. Su has never met Mrs. Fong, who was recently released from prison because of health problems after serving a year of her sentence. A few days into her parole, she called Su’s number—it being the only unfamiliar number in Mr. Fong’s list of contacts—and grilled Mrs. Su about her relationship with Mr. Fong. Mrs. Su tried her best to convince Mrs. Fong that she had nothing to do with Mr. Fong, nor was there a younger suspect in her household—their only child was a son, Mrs. Su lied. Since then, Mrs. Fong has made Mrs. Su a confidante, calling her several times a day. Life must be hard for Mrs. Fong now, with a criminal record, all her old friends turning their backs on her, and a husband in love with a younger woman. Mrs. Su was not particularly sympathetic with Mrs. Fong
when she first learned of the sentence—one hundred and seventy thousand yuan was an astronomical number to her—but now she does not have the heart to refuse Mrs. Fong’s friendship. Her husband is surely having a secret affair, Mrs. Fong confesses to Mrs. Su over the phone. He has developed some alarming and annoying habits—flossing his teeth after every meal, doing sit-ups at night, tucking his shirts in more carefully, rubbing hair-growing ointment on his head. “As if he has another forty years to live,” Mrs. Fong says. He goes out and meets Mr. Su every day, but what good reason is there for two men to see each other so often?

  The stock market, Mrs. Su explains unconvincingly. Mrs. Fong’s calls exhaust Mrs. Su, but sometimes, after a quiet morning, she feels anxious for the phone to ring.

  Mrs. Su has lived most of her married life within the apartment walls, caring for her children and waiting for them to leave in one way or another. Beyond everyday greetings, she does not talk much with the neighbors when she goes out for groceries. When Mr. and Mrs. Su first moved in, the neighbors tried to pry information from her with questions about the source of all the noises from the apartment. Mrs. Su refused to satisfy their curiosity, and in turn, they were enraged by the denial of their right to know Su’s secret. Once when Jian was four or five, a few women trapped him in the building entrance and grilled him for answers; later Mrs. Su found him on the stairs in tears, his lips tightly shut.