It was well into night when she finally arrived
at the Beijing People’s University Park. Dinner had concluded an hour before,
and the darkened cafeteria windows now pulsed with the choppy echoes of karaoke
songs. The park, too, luxuriated in nightfall. The broken-tiled walkways, the
unsightly rock outcroppings, the benches only a foot off the ground — these
could all be ignored and reimagined. She didn’t even have to acknowledge
the all-male Student Building Number 1 at the park’s far end. Like the Tower
of Pisa, the dorm was sagging, its shadow gaining on Student Building Number 2
with each season. Eventually it would collapse altogether and take its neighbor
with it, but both dwellings’ residents remained, as no word had been passed
down from on high acknowledging the crisis. Each morning they flashed ironic smiles
at each other across bathroom windows, anticipating doom with cheer.
At night the park was a strategic meeting ground. Boyfriends plopping down
on the benches, girls on their laps and face to face, both parties motionless,
speechless, and oblivious to passersby. Friday evenings brought whole masses
of students and even civilians. They reveled in the night’s anonymity,
conversations shifting as fresh bodies squeezed in and out of earshot. Acquaintances
would literally stumble into each other, and make pleasant noises of recognition.
Students cloaked by shyness and obedience during the day practiced English.
Words were grasped at, tried on for size, and discarded, but aggregated conversations
were a steady roar. No one was stationary for long — the goal was to find
that rare native speaker, the respected foreign expert, and learn. Pools would
form around these honored guests, ebbing and flowing as listeners were drawn
in or led away toward another hub.
That Friday she arrived out of breath, for she had been forced to wait
half an hour at the public showers. The old building manager in the crumpled
kelly-green jacket had given her a particularly hard time — Where’s
your ticket? he had shouted at her, over and over. She explained that she
had lost her wallet the week before; she would bring two tickets next time.
Please, master. The impatient girl in line behind her had finally offered
one of her own tickets. The shower drain was clogged, and filmy water had risen
above her ankles, stray bits of hair left streaked on her legs. She had tolerated
it for five minutes, which seemed to last for hours, then thrown on clothes
without thought of drying first. As she ran, feet making squishy sounds in her
sneakers, she listened to the Australian DJ on her Walkman: Be kind, be nice,
and don’t forget to smile. She juggled two pieces of Wrigley’s
spearmint gum in her mouth, fully enjoying the sound of jaws popping open, clamping
down. She had heard that gum was illegal on Singapore streets. Well, see
me now! she thought. I’m chewing two sticks. The air
was warm and fragrant with plants whose season had already passed. Soon cabbage
heads would be lined up everywhere — on windowsills, in courtyards, every
available resting space, natural storage for the long, cold winter. But for
now, she could believe that it was still summer.
The park entrance was already clogged with people’s backs — beyond
that, she could see nothing. She plunged forward, pointedly ignoring the smell
of sweat, someone’s braying laugh, the unceasing movements of hands and
bodies, the scratch of tangled, leafless shrubs at her back. Voices represented
people like blips on radar screens, and a map of tonight’s layout was blooming
in her head: A big crowd in the south corner … a few isolated couples
at the fountain … the Christians from Ohio are here tonight, I can hear
them … Booming voices … such confidence in their sounds ...
A warm arm brushed against hers, then disappeared quickly. She ran her hand
down where she had been touched — still wet, as if she had been the only
one caught in an invigorating rainstorm. Now breathing calmly, euphoria taking
hold, she thought, All right.
"Hello," she said to no one in particular, and immediately a man
said "Hi" back. It was Lin Cui, from Qinghua University. They had
met a few Fridays before, and although he was only a dusky shape to her, she
immediately recognized the composition of his face, the glasses perched near
the edge of his nose. As they talked, heads crowded in to stare at them and
determine if any new vocabulary could be learned.
"I have an English name now," Lin was saying. "Ray."
"Re." She thought of The Sound of Music, and sighed inwardly.
Everybody loves that movie except me — there must be something wrong
with me.
"I learned some new words tonight," he said. "Radical."
"Radical," she repeated. "What does that mean?"
"Wonderful. And also — um, hot chicks. I am here to meet the
hot chicks."
"Hah." She understood the meaning, and even in the dimness
she detected the blush on his face as he wiped his glasses on his shirt. Next
to her, a guy whispered to his companion: Chicks? What are they talking about?
Chickens?
"Who told you those words?" she asked.
"Mr. Stone. Do you know him?"
"Yes, yes, yes." Now words tumbled forth. "Is he here
tonight? Where is he? Where?"
"Um …" He gestured toward the pillars. "There, maybe —?"
"Thank you," she sang, and patted him on the shoulder like a pleased
teacher as she bumped past him. Already a girl had taken her place and was asking
him about the chicks. She measured her progress in footsteps — Three
steps per 10 seconds … can we improve on that? As her eyes began to
separate individuals from the blotted crowds, questions ricocheted around her,
the questions asked of every foreigner, ad infinitum:
Where are you from?
How long have you been in China?
Why did you come to China?
Who cares, she thought, exasperated and happy. They’re here
already. Think of something original to ask.
She found Stone more interesting than the other foreigners. Most of them
had slow grins, big bobbing heads which seemed to perpetually nod. Stone smiled
a lot, too, but he also spoke Chinese. Any American who speaks good Chinese
is a dangerous, valuable thing, she knew. No communication lapses, no wasted
minutes explaining and mangling a useless word, but also no secrets, no cryptic
jokes at the expense at the funny foreigner. He also did outrageous things,
sometimes — different things, anyway, and difference was something
she treasured.
Then she heard Stone’s burly voice: One day I shall climb to the summit,
and see the small surrounding mountain tops below me …
She smiled as his poem was greeted with thrilled Wows and applause.
He could be such a show-off, reciting his Tu Fu and Li Bai. He had propped himself
against one of the pillars, all the better to give the appearance of a relaxed
sage.
"Hey, Arrow!" he greeted her. "What’s up?"
"Nothing," she replied briskly. The first time they met, she had
responded to the same question with "Fine, thank you," but he had
corrected her. Now she could give a sensible answer with pride. Strange how
such a little thing seems more important than eight hours of class, she
thought.
Close up, she saw that stubble caked his cheeks — she found it rather
romantic. His looks reminded her of John Lennon’s scraggly hair phase,
perhaps with Woody Allen’s nose. She had said as much, and his eyes had
widened, impressed with her celebrity knowledge. Currently the twins were shooting
him questions — she didn’t know them personally, but she had seen
them around campus, walking hand-in-hand to class. Same bouncy hair, same jeans
and white sneakers.
"What do you say?" one of them asked. "You say her name?"
"Arrow. Like a bow and arrow." Stone’s Chinese had the
furred pronunciation unique to the Beijing dialect. "It’s a nickname.
Because her last name is Zhang."
"Arrow?" they both snickered. What’s so silly about
it? Arrow thought. Better than the five Jennifers and four Susans in
my class.
"Mr. Stone." A man in a business suit had appeared, his fashionable
greased hair erasing distinctions between him and any other young professional.
"Buddy, buddy!" Stone squeezed the newcomer’s shoulder.
"How goes it?"
"Tonight you are late," his friend said. He grinned as he said it,
but Stone's index finger shot up.
"Wait a minute," he growled. His reversion to English was like
a switchblade snapping open. "Wait. You shouldn’t say that. You see
a friend, and the first thing you say is ‘You’re late’? That’s
rude. You understand? Rude. Not polite."
She watched the businessman’s smile harden into a corpse’s grin.
Chastened, he muttered Sorry, sorry in English, eyes glazed as he struggled
to comprehend Stone’s words, and still the smile was glued there. He nervously
held out a pack of cigarettes toward Stone. A peace offering, she knew.
"No, I don’t smoke. You know smoking is bad, very bad for you."
The two men were separated by a few feet, but the businessman reacted as if
the American had suddenly jumped in his face. Stone’s words had been a
major insult, in effect a denial of camaraderie, and he obviously had no inkling
of what he had done. But she was pleased at the lost look on the man’s
face.
After further muttered courtesies, the businessman retreated. "That
guy …" Stone gritted his teeth. "What a chump."
"What?"
"Idiot. He wants me to help him on his graduate school application
—"
"The personal statement," she finished. "He wants you to
write his personal statement."
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"I — we …" She strained for the right English words,
then gave up. "Because we’re only confident if we memorize the
answers. Nobody knows the right answer for a personal statement."
He asked her to repeat the words very slowly, and she obliged. This time
grim satisfaction found its way to his face. "Yes," he said
in Mandarin. "You said it. That’s the exact reason."
One of the twins butted in: "Mr. Stone, why you speak Chinese?" She
had a quizzical whine, like an old aunt.
"I’m not supposed to?" he chuckled.
"This is English Corner," she pressed.
"I like the Chinese language. You think I could become Chinese someday?"
"But … You are too fat to be Chinese."
He blinked hard, speechless. Then he laughed. "Is that so?"
he said. "Is that so?" He pulled out a cigarette lighter, struck
a flame, and passed his free hand back and forth over it, fingers wiggling as
if in anticipation of a magic trick. The crowd sucked in its breath, and more
appreciative Wows broke out. The lighter’s illumination was like
the earthy glow of a fireplace, and they all gathered close, eager to absorb
its warmth and his liveliness. An insect jitterbugged around the flame, then
wandered off. Arrow followed it as best she could with her eyes, then appreciated
the dark into which it disappeared.
"Whoops, whoa, whoop, look out!" Now Stone was supplying his own
commentary, building up his hand’s dance around the fire as a death-defying
stunt. She was amused and attracted by his silliness — He’s like
a child, but so knowing, too.
"In American university, you have your own shower?" she asked.
"Yep — yow! Whoops! We shared bathrooms my first year in college,
but after that you can live in your own apartment —"
"You changed your room?" one of the twins asked.
"Every year. Ouch." This time his hand shot back and the lighter
flicked off. "The first year, I had one roommate, and after that I found
my own room. Yeah, that’s one thing about Chinese colleges — living
in the same room … how many people in one room, six, eight? … living
in the same room with the same people, for four straight years? That
must be hard."
Yes, Arrow thought. It is hard. I never really thought of that before.
It isn’t fair. How many times had her roommates’ gossip and girlish
giggles been unbearable? How many nights had she been kept sleepless by the
tandem snores of the bunks below and above her? There was a certain thrill to
her newfound discontent. But, she concluded wistfully, what can you
do?
"Here," Stone said. He ignited the lighter again and wrapped
her fingers around it. "Let there be light," he chanted. "Go
ahead, hold onto it. Lead the way."
The lighter’s casing was hot to the touch, but she tightened her grip
on it until her skin throbbed. "You miss your home?" she asked.
The flame sparked in his glasses as he looked at her. "Naw, not really,"
he said. "I miss milk sometimes … my motorcycle … drinkable tap
water … Do you miss your home?"
"Beijing is my home. I don’t miss anything." Not true,
she thought. I miss places I haven’t been to yet. I think of open fields,
and stars, and a well-lighted street at night. I wish for a place of such devastating
quiet that you can pretend you’re the only human in existence.
A girl passed by, and the lighter went out. Spoken questions further broke
down her thoughts: What’s your name? Where are you from? What do you
do? Stone had attracted a new entourage, and the girl who had brushed past
her had stepped to the fore. She had something on her mouth, some blotch —
no, it was lipstick, a new style. The rest of her face was ghostly pale, but
she had modern lipstick.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"You know what?" Stone spoke clearly and grasped her hand. "I
am a poet, I am a traveler, I am a teller of tales. But most importantly, I
am anything you want me to be."
The girl tittered, hand curled at her mouth to stifle laughter. Arrow chewed
furiously at her gum. She wasn’t beautiful like her, not in that way.
"Hey, Arrow," Stone said kindly. "You have some gum?"
"Um —" She rummaged her pockets, desperately wanting to find
a last stick, but knowing she had none. "Sorry, no," she said.
"So much noise," the lipstick girl clucked. "Why do
you chew so loudly?"
"It’s okay, it’s okay," Stone said, but his
defense only increased Arrow’s gloom, for he wasn’t looking her way
anymore; the Lipstick Girl was turning his left hand over and peering at the
palm.
"Can you read hands?" he asked.
She nodded. "But I need some light …"
"Arrow." Stone held out his hand, awaiting the lighter’s return.
She clutched it tightly one last time and then slapped it down on his palm.
"Ow. You’re tough. No manners, but tough," Stone laughed.
"I should introduce you to my friend."
"Friend?"
"Yeah. He’s an American-born Chinese. His name is Ben. He’s
more American than me."
"How is that possible?"
"He holds chopsticks strangely. Chinese people are always telling him
that his technique is wrong …" He paused to strike the lighter
and hold it between him and the lipstick girl like a precious candle. Both their
heads were close together as she ran her fingers down his palm. "…
and he always gets angry at them. ‘What does it matter,’ he says,
‘as long as it works?’"
Arrow smiled. Exactly, she thought.
"You have a big hand," the lipstick girl said.
"Is that better than a small one?"
"Is he here?" Arrow asked.
"Yes, somewhere. I’m sure he would like to meet you. Look
for the Chinese guy who speaks English."
She thanked him and retreated from the scene. How does an American-born
Chinese man speak English? she thought. How would he look? She couldn’t
conjure up a vision of such a man in Stone’s T-shirt and baggy shorts.
She came upon Ray and another girl (Girls always outnumber the boys here,
she thought), embroiled in a friendly argument. "I want to go," he
said. "You don’t want to?"
"Go where?" Arrow said.
"Las Vegas," the girl replied. "He wants to bat."
"Bet," Ray corrected her. "They have mah jong places."
"Oh, mah jong," Arrow snorted. "If I go to Las Vegas,
I’ll go to the sports book."
"Book?"
"Sports bet place. I will bet on the —" She bit her tongue.
"New York Knicks." She pronounced the last word as Kuh-nicks.
"Kuh-nicks?"
"Basketball. New York’s basketball team."
"That team?" Ray laughed. "The New York Knicks —
dirty team, like animals."
"Who do you like?"
"Chicago Bulls."
"Bulls," she hmphed. "Everyone likes the Bulls. Michael Jordan."
"You want to be different?"
"Yes," she said immediately, and they both laughed. An image occurred
to her: Stone draped in a Knicks jersey, his sweat raining to the floor as he
stumbled toward the basket, only to trip and lose the ball to Michael Jordan.
The thought only increased her gaiety.
"I will go to New York first," the girl said. "I want to
see the Thanksgiving march."
"Parade," Ray corrected. "Parade … oh yes …"
Faintly smiling, they all lost themselves within their thoughts. Arrow
knew they shared similar visions: those puffy balloons bigger than houses, the
candy colors of the floats, the snow-like scraps of paper everywhere. She had
seen such things on the television, and was curious about the reality. In Hong
Kong movies, terrible black criminals lurked behind every corner in New York,
but how could that occur when everyone rejoiced for Thanksgiving?
Someone tapped her shoulder from behind and spoke: "Zhang Rong."
She whirled. Her ex-boyfriend — or more precisely, her former almost-boyfriend.
They had dated several times, and in an unguarded moment, he had smashed his
lips to hers. Then, as now, he had a bare little patch of stubble on his chin,
which only accentuated his youth.
"I had a hard time finding you," he said, as if it were somehow
her doing.
Ray and his conversation partner had already disappeared. She sighed. "You
come to practice English?" she said.
"What?"
"English. This is English Corner."
"Oh." His shoulders squirmed a bit. "My English isn’t
good."
"How do you know? You never speak it." Overtaken by the desire
to embarrass him, she grabbed at a loose fold of his shirt and pulled. "I
want you to meet Mr. Stone. English teacher. You can practice."
"No, wait, wait —" He freed himself. "Zhang Rong
… I came here to find you."
"What?"
"You don’t understand Chinese now? I said I was looking for you."
"I’m here."
He grunted in agreement, and simply stood there. You weak little chump,
she thought. Can’t even tell me what you want. I have to do all the
talking.
"I must go —" she began.
"Rin Jie told me you were here."
It was the absolutely wrong thing to say. Rin Jie was her roommate, and
Rin Jie had stolen her wallet. She had no proof, but she knew. She had known
the very moment she had questioned Rin Jie about it, because she had denied
knowledge with such casual force: I haven’t seen it, why would I have
seen it? You probably left it in the classroom. Before that, it had been
her tiny appointment book, and before that a few of her favorite pens. Can’t
be helped, she thought. Four years, I’m stuck with her. Don’t
think about it — that’s the only thing you can do.
"Rin Jie is here?" she said.
"I don’t know. Listen, Zhang Rong —" He could
play coy no longer. "Why don’t we go?"
"I want to stay. Here is fine."
"No it isn’t. So many people — it’s not fine."
"I am practicing English."
"Oh —" He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.
"You. Please. We can go. Find a place with no people. Okay?"
"I am practicing English."
"Zhang Rong. Please. Give me another — chance. One more chance."
She was silenced by the ardent outburst. Eyes narrowed, she looked straight
at him for the first time. Said as if he meant it, she thought. Then:
No. He said it like a man who has just failed an exam and wants a re-test.
Afraid for himself and nothing else.
"What’s going on?" Stone placed a hand on both their
shoulders. Like followers of a messiah, his listeners had migrated with him,
and now they stole sidelong glances at Arrow and her "man," whispering
not very softly:
Who’s he?
I’ve seen him. Building Number One.
The one that’s falling over?
"Arrow, is this your beau?" Stone offered a thumbs-up. "Nice
choice. He’s good-looking."
Voice thick, she said: "Your friend is still here?"
"Ben? Should be. I think I saw him over there —"
"My friend wants to learn English." She nodded towards her former
almost-boyfriend, and barely holding Stone’s hand, she drew it away from
her shoulder. It was an embarrassing thing to do, but she did it. "Please
talk with him." She ducked behind Stone, back into the welcoming anonymous
crowds. Without knowing quite why, she wanted to meet this Ben, this Chinese-American.
Perhaps he could make more sense than everyone else. Maybe he could understand
everything. A native English voice boomed from her left. She hustled
towards the sound, accidentally stepping on others’ toes. Somebody was
eating a moon cake — Mid-Autumn Festival isn’t for a while yet,
she thought — and she could smell the sweet bean center. She chomped down
on her gum even harder, but the taste had dissipated long before. What had her
dinner been? Some noodles, a few limp strands of pork —
"Zhang Rong! Hi!" Rin Jie had her by the arm. She seemed
genuinely excited to come across her roommate, and was now jumping in place,
like a high-schooler. Damn, Arrow thought.
"Come here," Rin Jie said. "Meet my friend." As they
walked, Arrow unconsciously leaned to the side, away from her. Rin Jie still
had that skin condition, those scabs on her cheeks, and every so often she would
scratch there, worsening her looks. Even in the dark, Arrow could hear the sound
of fingers plowing skin, and she shivered.
"Hello. Hello, hello." Rin Jie repeated the word as one would repeat
excuse me as she addressed the lanky blonde man before them. "Meet
my friend," she continued. "Zhang Rong. My roommate."
"Hi there," the man said. Slow smile, bobbing head.
"Hi," Arrow said. Maybe he knows Ben, she thought. "Are
you from America?"
The man’s face soured. "No," he said. "I’m from England.
They always think all foreigners are Americans, don’t they? Hey,"
he spoke to the gathering listeners at large. "You know what a desert is,
right?"
Nods all around.
"Then listen well: America is a cultural desert."
Heads cocked as his audience considered the pronouncement, and a boy chuckled
as the meaning finally made itself clear to him.
"So you’re Rin Jie’s roommate …You have to tell me if she
has any dirty secrets." The Englishman gave Rin Jie’s arm a theatrical
nudge even as she threw up her hands, stammering Oh, no no no ….
Arrow couldn’t look at Rin Jie, and couldn’t answer. She only fiddled
with her fingers. "Nothing," she finally said. "No secrets."
What did you do with my wallet? she thought. Is it in some elaborate
hiding place? Or in your bag? What would happen if I ran back to the room right
now and went through your things?
"Hey," the Englishman said suddenly to Rin Jie. "You were here
five years ago, right? The Tiananmen incident?"
All grew quiet in the immediate vicinity as Rin Jie’s mouth wavered between
open and closed. "Oh", she said. "Oh. No. I am from Harbin. But
—"
She faced Arrow directly.
"She lives in Beijing."
"Oh yeah? What was your experience at Tiananmen?"
Now the Englishman watched her intently, as if she were about to impart religious
wisdom. The others gazed upon her, too, awaiting the response with morbid curiosity.
Despite herself, her face burned. She had no concern for regurgitating any party
line; it was just that the Englishman was being so — brazen.
"I was sleeping," she said. "I missed it."
"Ah," said the Englishman.
We weren’t allowed outside our apartments, she thought. My family
didn’t live very far from the square. Every so often a shout would break
through the noise of vehicles and gunfire. That night the streets were bright
through the window.
She wanted to say all that, but the man had finished with her, and turned back
to Rin Jie to compliment her on her English.
"Oh, no no no," Rin Jie laughed. "My English — not
good." You’re enjoying this, Arrow thought. But I would
too.
"Of course it is," said the Englishman. "Ever think about
studying abroad?"
"Studying abroad. Oh. Yes." She nodded fiercely. "Can you
give me advice?"
Arrow backed away, the Englishman purring Ask me anything to Rin
Jie as she went. She will ask, she thought. She will ask and
take everything you can give her. She will cruise through life, because she
has cruised up to now and she has gotten away with it. Disgusted with her
own morose reflections, she sought out Stone again.
She found him with the Lipstick Girl, setting a piece of paper afire. Like
lapping waves, the flame inched upwards, and cast brilliance on the circle of
people around him. The sight seemed vaguely treasonous.
"Hey, Arrow," he said. "How go the wars? Hey —" He
passed the disintegrating torch to Lipstick Girl, and strapped on an air guitar.
"You know this song?" He crooned in flawless Chinese: Tomorrow,
will you remember what you wrote in your diary?…
A gasp rose from the assemblage. Lipstick Girl lapsed into the native tongue
as she blurted out the song title: Your Classmate, Your Classmate …
Arrow winced. A giggly girl’s song, she thought. Out loud,
she asked Stone:
"Is your friend here?"
Caught between verses, the corner of his mouth twisted. "I don’t
know," he said. The pause cost him the energy of the moment. He dropped
his arms, his performance scuttled, and drew out a one-yuan coin. He placed
it in his left palm.
"Watch closely."
He passed the coin between his hands, working himself up into a flurry of movement,
then balled both hands into fists and held them out.
"Which one?" he inquired of his crowd. "Which do you
think?" Several pointed halfheartedly toward his left hand, but no
one dared say anything. Without hesitation, Lipstick Girl pulled open the fingers
of his right hand. The coin lay there, shiny.
"Ahhh …" He wagged his finger at her. "You’re
too clever for me."
"Yes," she said. She flapped the paper, extinguishing the flame.
Caught in pitch-blackness for a few moments, Arrow rubbed her knuckles against
her eyes.
Stone laughed nearby. "Sing something for me," he said.
"I can’t sing —" Lipstick Girl protested.
"Come on. Let’s hear it."
"Later," she said. Nothing more was said on the subject, but Arrow
understood what had been exchanged: Yes, later, in a private place.
"Maybe Ben is over there," Stone said, indicating a few
lonely figures sitting by the fountain.
"Those men work for the government," Arrow said.
"How do you know?"
"They don’t talk. They listen and write down conversation."
"Maybe they’re just shy."
"What?"
He smiled. "The difference between optimism and pessimism. Or is it caution
and recklessness? A hard one to answer."
"I don’t understand."
"Why don’t you go up to them and talk to them? Then you’ll
know if you’re right."
"I don’t need to talk. I know."
He sighed. "Then I’ll talk to them —"
"No —" Her hand leapt out and touched his arm, then withdrew.
"You will be in trouble."
Stone sighed again. "You should find out. You should always find
the truth." Then he yawned. "Time to go home. See you next week,
everybody."
As a chorus of good nights rose, Lipstick Girl bent close and whispered
something to him. He nodded. "Take it easy, Arrow," he said. "I’ll
tell Ben about you."
Stone lumbered off, and after a few moments, the group splintered. Arrow
drew back to observe Lipstick Girl; after a respectable time, the girl turned
and walked off in the same direction Stone had taken. Arrow headed in the exact
opposite direction, toward the fountain. The figures were sitting, and from
her distance they seemed to be asleep, or concentrating intently on the air
in front of them. Could one of them be Ben? She was now not more than 10 feet
away from the fountain, a ragged row of students blocking her path.
Ben! she shouted. The students before her recoiled in surprise.
The shadows at the fountain refused to budge.
Ben! she shouted again. This time the students moved away, and nothing
separated her from the figures. Still they sat there, pretending ignorance,
or perhaps they were all too used to tolerating strange people who shouted foreign
words.
She paced around the fountain, walking past them, hardly looking down —
certainly none of them spared a look at her. They all gazed at the ground, or
at some distant point. Are they really police? She thought. Even if
they were, they wouldn’t say so. I think they are police, and therefore
they are police, even if they are not.
She was beyond the park exit and standing on a curb, the tall sodium lamps
calling attention to themselves. The voices of English Corner had dwindled to
a murmur that could have been the sound of swaying trees. Nobody was there,
certainly not any Chinese-Americans named Ben. For a moment, she wondered if
she had been hallucinating: Perhaps there is no Ben at all. Across the
one-lane street was Student Building Number 1. Without thinking, she walked
into the road and stood there a long while. It’s always this way,
she thought. You forget that you always leave the park more depressed than
when you came in.
From around the corner, headlights materialized, and a motor made vulgar sounds.
It was a race between her and the auto. Maybe next week this Ben will be
there, she thought. Maybe. She broke for the other side of the street,
thoughts clouding her head, and seconds after she made it, the car rattled through,
its headlights stuttering, horn blasting all the while, as if to ward off ghosts.
Then the lights winked off for good and she was alone in the dark.