Fiction from The Literary Review

Wong bikwan

She is a Woman; I am Also a Woman

I had counted on Zhixing and me being together, for the rest of our lives.
           Her name was Xu Zhixing. The first time I saw her, we were still first- year students. I was taking the course, “The Art of Thinking,” a requirement for first-year students. That was where I met her.
           She was the only student I knew who wore qipao and embroidered shoes to classes; though affected, she caught the eye. I remember her brilliantly red embroidered silk shoes. Her hair was cropped short; and with her head bent taking notes, she had the demeanor of a model student. In contrast to all this, she wore peach-red nail polish; girls who sported nail polish were usually loose. But the really loose girls are the ones who seduce in little, quiet ways. I didn’t know I would be the kind to like these types of bad girls.
           In truth, her name began to spread far and wide. The male students in my class told me she was called Xu Zhixing, majored in Chinese, graduated from Suzhe public school, and lived on Blue Pond Road. When we were attending classes on Plato, they grouped themselves in twos and threes in the dorm discussing Xu Zhixing. I clapped my hands laughing; inside I was beginning to feel contempt for my male schoolmates. Still they delighted in talking about her, calling her “Little Garden Balsam.”
           Zhixing started to disappear from classes. I ran into her at the train station. She was walking with her head down. Behind her there was a male student eagerly trailing her.
           Next year we met again at an introduction to sociology class. The elderly lecturer, in order to avoid taking attendance, required us to sit in the same seats, so he only had to glance our way quickly to check who was there. I took the opportunity to sit next to Zhixing. I remember that day she was wearing a straight plain white and muted purple cotton qipao. Her arms were covered with very fine hairs. And she emitted a special scent—a mixture of face powder, perfume, milk and ink—thereafter I called it the “Garden Balsam” scent. Her hands were smooth, luminous and cold as ice. I wanted so much to touch her. But I didn’t, as she wasn’t aware of my existence.
           She was absent from class again. Not until we came to the discussion of Marx’s “Theory of Surplus Value” did she show up, asking to borrow my notes. I let her look at them and said, with a laugh, “Lending them to you is not going to be helpful. Only I can understand them.” She arched her brow, “Well, not necessarily.” Because I was lazy, I wrote my notes in short shorthand. My classmates called them “Morse code notes,” and no one ever borrowed them. But I saw her fly over the paper with her pen, actually transcribing my notes with complete accuracy—I guess it took real ability to afford missing classes for over a month. Liking bright and clever people, I found myself attracted to Zhixing.
           I said to her, “I’ll buy you coffee.” She said, “Fine.” This conversation resembled a telegram.
           We sat in the slanting sunlight for a while without talking. I looked closely at her. She also examined me, and said, “I have seen you, Lan Ye Xixi. You played the Japanese flute one time at night, alone in the classroom. I heard you.” She was wearing a bunch of silver bracelets, rattling, glittering, and making jangling sounds. “I know you lost a pink Maiden-form bra. I read it on the bulletin board at the meeting room in our dorm. That was you, wasn’t it?” She laughed, the whole dorm knew about it. Even the boys’ dorm heard about it. “You lost a pink 32B Maidenform bra, that was really stupid!” I said, “Wrong, it was a 32A. I’m thin.” I watched the rise and fall of her bosom. I laughed, “I bet you are at least 34B. After you are married, you may become a 38!” Zhixing placed her hand lightly on her chest. “Aiya, that’s what I am afraid of!” Our verbal understanding began with a Maidenform bra. She subsequently attended every class. We talked. This elderly lecturer was such a pansy, with his flesh-colored nylon socks. I asked her where she bought her qipao. She said that it was a trade secret. I asked her to see a film on campus. They were showing Liu Chang Han’s The Flames of Passion Consuming the Zither. There we were consumed with laughter. I dragged her to Eisenstein’s October (Potemkin). We fell asleep and didn’t wake until everyone had emptied the place out. We went to have a midnight snack. Zhixing occasionally wore jeans, like when we ate sautéed clams. Nonetheless, she always insisted on wearing her embroidered shoes.
           Second semester of our third year, her roommate left, but she did not notify her dorm supervisor. I then moved in with Zhixing. In fact, this was the real beginning of Zhixing and me.

To be honest, I found Zhixing very alluring; she had a certain amount of intelligence and an easygoing temperament. But I really didn’t have a complete understanding of her character. Perhaps this is where we had a love most like that between a man and a woman. From the beginning our mutual attraction had been based on what we advertised as our selling points—even though I was not a beauty, and I didn’t have Zhixing’s allure, I still understood very well how to market myself in a low-key manner. I thought Zhixing would fall for someone like me. I practiced a very subtle form of seductive posturing. And her qipao and embroidered shoes could also be considered the same.
           In a similar vein, our room was a “smoker’s alley.” We both smoked. She smoked Double Happiness; I smoked Menthol Dunhill. Both were hopelessly pretentious cigarettes. We both liked Tom Waits. The two of us danced in our room; her body was soft and supple. We were both women. Sometimes I would flip the pages of Simone de Beauvoir. Then I found Beauvoir wasn’t really up to it. So I read Kristeva. Zhixing liked to read Yishu. Later I protested. She switched to Françoise Sagan. I still protested. So she read Angela Carter. We both progressed. Later I won a scholarship. She also applied. But she didn’t win it, because she lost to me.

The day I won the scholarship, I had my picture taken for the yearbook. I remembered shopping with her one time when she had her eyes on a fire-red cashmere sweater. It was $950.00. She didn’t feel she could afford it. So that day I bought it for her, intending to give it to her at dinner. But she didn’t come back. I waited until it was near dark. I was alone in the room without turning on the light. It was then late autumn; outside the window there was a smattering of lights from the fishing boats. Sud-denly I was seized by a feeling of having a lover’s steely heart. I had had boyfriends before, but I never had been this anxious and caring. “Zhixing didn’t fold her quilts today. Zhixing didn’t wear the embroidered shoes. Zhixing’s toothpaste is almost used up. I must buy her another. Zhixing’s Garden Balsam aroma still lingered in the room. Zhixing’s face powder, Zhixing’s tears.” I quietly leaned by the window, silently two drops of tears ran down my face. Only two drops, then they dried. “Zhixing, Zhixing.”
           I woke, ate a bite of bread, and discovered to my surprise a yeasty taste of flour in the bread, a whiff of something resembling closely the smell of animal feed. Though I had been eating bread for over a decade, it wasn’t until now that I was able to recognize the distinct taste of bread. Some say, “If thou art in love, thou shalt be sad and restrained but not overjoyed.” That was one over-quoted classical proverb. Yet at this moment I was extremely sad and restrained, in the state of possessing this newly acquired sensation. Ah, the sensations of the world are too complex to explain.
           One o’clock in the morning, I stood by the window. I heard the sound of a motor running. Zhixing jumped out from a metered cab. She was wearing a black dress and black flats. Incorrigible womankind, even at this moment I was conscious of what she was wearing. I noticed that I paid much closer attention to her clothes and smells than I did to her temperament and personality—it was possible that she did not have any temperament and personality at all. All of a sudden I became very embarrassed—how was I any different from other men? I valued the sensual too much, and I had never even touched her. Perhaps this was because neither of us wished to come clean with our situation. She and I never did any kissing or caressing. There never was any need. Despite what people say about lesbians cooing to, embracing and kissing each other, this is really just male imagination manufacturing spectacles for their own purposes. Zhi-xing and I had never been like that. I had never even said “I love you” to Zhixing. But at this very moment I knew I was in love with her. So much in love that I had reached the stage of wishing to discern her personality and character.
           I leaned against the window, my heart fiery hot as if on fire. Da, da, da. Zhixing was on her way. Zhixing was on her way.
           Slowly the door opened, she fell into a sitting position on the bed. Her whole face was flushed red. A sour yeasty smell of liquor emitted from her body. For whatever reason, Zhixing was heavily made up, now most of it was smudged. I thought of the smell of the bread. I became very quiet, words stopped cold in my mouth.
           She laughed, “Did you have a good day today? I had a great time!” Suddenly there was a “sah” sound, a skyful of coins came flying towards me. “Ye Xi Xi, I am merely a very common sort of person.” I covered my face not saying a word. The coins were hitting the back of my hands, causing me sharp pain. Zhixing got tired of tossing them. She leaned resting on the edge of the bed. There was a dead silence. The light in the room hurt my eyes. “Zhixing . . .”
           She did not answer me. She was asleep. I wiped her face, took off her clothes, her shoes and stockings. I kissed her feet. I tidied up a bit. Then I left a note on a piece of paper from her desk. “Zhixing, if the day comes where we find ourselves swallowed up in the tide of humanity leading a humdrum life of mediocrity, it is because we never strived to lead a richly fulfilling life.” In truth, at that time I had no ambitions, but Zhixing did.

That same night I went knocking on the door of a man’s room. This person had been ogling me for quite a while, his face simian with lust—I was quite aware of this. Still I went to him as if I couldn’t care less. This was perhaps vengeance on myself, Zhixing, and this man, because I felt heartless. Also, my body didn’t belong to me. The whole day I was numb. I watched as this man rented a room. He then left, and I didn’t care. I continued attending classes, paid even closer attention to my work, in a complete reversal of my usual attitude.
           Walking past the dorm, I always looked around thinking, “Is Zhixing here? Is she combing her hair, doing homework, reading the papers? Is she thinking of me?” I reacted to Zhixing’s abrupt absence from my life calmly from the outside. No one was aware of the fluctuations of my heart. Zhixing Zhixing Zhixing
           One evening in late autumn I had dinner with the man I mentioned earlier. He was a dull conversationalist. I kept drinking wine. When dinner came to an end, my whole body was flushed red. Walking in the night wind, I vomited, my face and body streaked with tears. The man handed me his handkerchief; I clutched at him tightly. At this moment, any man with a handkerchief was a good man. In spite of myself my loathing of this man had decreased a few percentage points. Really, at this moment, if there were some feelings developing between us that might sever the tie between Zhixing and myself entirely—this might not be a bad thing. The man drove a small Japanese car, and as soon as he got inside he embraced me tightly, his face hovering over mine. Laughing, I said, “You could have been a very fine man. But you are willing to kiss a woman stinking of liquor vomit. This has really made me question your taste.” He reluctantly started driving, taking me back to my dorm. I said, “Wait, I want to go pick up something from that dorm.”
           It was three am. Zhixing had turned on her desk lamp but was nowhere to be seen. Outside standing in the dark, I stretched my neck to look through the window into the insides of her room. Zhixing was under that bright lamplight. I never had any intention of cramping her style. Zhixing. I was merely a self-contained woman. I only wanted to develop a simple and pure emotional relationship with another person. Why did society forbid me this?

In an instant Zhixing’s shadow flashed in the window and the light was switched off. In the aftermath of that visual flash, I wondered, was Zhixing’s hair longer? Was there anyone to cut her toenails, polish them? After I was gone, who helped her fasten the buttons on the back of her clothes? At night who visited her, who thought of her? Who was aware if she was happy or sad? Who wanted to invade her space? Who was the love of her heart, the ache in her heart?
           I wanted so much to go see her, just a fleeting glance.
           I ran rapidly up the stairs. Zhixing had locked her door but I had the key. She was asleep, her bosom rising and falling, still so full. We had been apart several weeks; she had not lost weight and did not appear to be careworn. I looked closer, her toenails were neatly trimmed, beautifully lacquered, gloriously red, as usual. There were several more stuffed dolls on her bed. Right now she had her hands around a little white rabbit, sleeping as deeply as a baby. How calm and peaceful. After I left she was still living well. The sun still rose, night still fell. Three o’clock in the morning, there was still someone in a deep sleep and someone wide awake. Who was next door, pounding on the typewriter, doing homework and caring about the glory and the shame in a conventional world? Suddenly my tears poured in a torrent. There were choking noises in my throat. Was someone trying to strangle me, who was it? I clutched my throat, thinking tonight the stars must be falling like rain. Zhixing, you totally misunderstood what was in my heart.
           My tears dripped onto Zhixing’s face. I gripped myself so hard, my face turned completely red. I was struggling to breathe. Zhixing woke up suddenly. She grabbed my hands tightly and said, “Why must it be like this?”
           Zhixing enveloped me in her arms. I fell asleep peacefully, breathing in her “Garden Balsam” fragrance. Faintly I heard the tooting of a car horn downstairs. Let him go, who cared. That man had arrived at the end of his worth in my life. From now on he was nothing to me. In my eyes there was only Zhixing.
           Zhixing held my face in her hands, “Silly you!”
           I had nothing as an answer, I only wanted to go to sleep. The sun would rise tomorrow.

From then on, Zhixing treated me better than before. At night when we stayed up late to study, she was certain to brew me Ginseng tea. Zhixing had always been rather lazy and careless about her studies. Why this change of disposition? I could feel uncertainly, that Zhixing was not her former self. She even wore a different perfume. It was “Opium.” I felt suffocated by it.
           Then Zhixing started going out again at night. At midnight she would put on a big fire-red sweater, black boots, and glide out like a leopard. Downstairs there was a sapphire blue sports car waiting. When she came back, her cheeks would be flushed red and she would bring me warm dumplings, but I had difficulty swallowing them. Those glutinous sweet bean paste dumplings did not keep well. Left uneaten even for a brief period of time, they turned hard, and became inedible. The next morning I would look at these hardened dumplings, and did not know what to do. Zhixing was never around. She was in her fourth year, but had accumulated only eleven credits.
           Christmas holidays, I was going to spend one night at home with my family. Zhixing was straightening and packing. I asked her how long she was going to stay at home. She shook her head, laughing, and said, “I am going to Beijing.”
           I stopped short, and for a long while did not speak. Zhixing and I had gone together on a trip to Japan. And we had agreed that our next destination would be Beijing. That was last Christmas.
           Very quietly, covering my face I said, “Zhixing, Zhixing, you remember . . . ”
           She took my hands and looked me in the eyes, “I remember. But that is in the past. This is an opportunity for me. You are able to plan for your future, that does not mean that I have to suffer drudgery for the rest of my life.” She planted a kiss on my forehead, then she was gone.
           Alone I fell sitting in a half empty room. I thought I could remain sitting like this for the rest of my life. I lay on the floor, and noticed the carpet was dirty. It was a carpet Zhixing and I took an entire afternoon running around in Central to buy. She insisted on an Iranian rug. But I thought it impractical and suggested an Indian product. In the end we compromised and bought a Belgian carpet. We lugged the carpet with us when we went to eat Dutch food. Zhixing ordered a dozen large oysters. We spent all our money. When was it that that had happened?

This Christmas I lingered whole days in the library, idling away the hours. I was flipping through the pages of a weekly when I caught sign of a picture of a heavy-set and yellow-skinned man wearing a pair of flashy ski goggles. Then came the shock of discovering the person beside him—was that Zhixing? I closed the magazine and went to dinner at the cafeteria, as though nothing had happened. Where I sat turned out to be exactly the same seats where Zhixing and I had sat for the first time. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and I fought back tears. Gritting my teeth, I went back to the library, and was actually able to concentrate on my studies.
           When Zhixing returned, I was asleep on my desk. On the desk the magazine was open to the page where Zhixing’s picture had appeared. I did not look at Zhixing. Zhixing was also still, sitting and smoking. Then she said, “I lost not only my wife but also my army.”
           I got up to brew a cup of green tea for her. She held on to my hands tightly. I gently caressed her hair.
           I did not inquire further. Since then she also never mentioned this. I still do not know what had happened to her. She stopped going out at night. She stayed in the room seriously and conscientiously practicing all kinds of poses, tilting her face here and there, with effective results.
           Graduation was approaching. I also put a stop to my so-called flirtation and posturing. After all, number one I wasn’t a socialite, number two I was no dance hostess. I could not make a living flirting and posturing. I applied to graduate school, hoping eventually to land a position in academia. The truth was, to enter the profession of so-called intelligentsia required neither lots of brains or brawn. Someone like me, of merely mediocre quality, needed only some packaging. Therefore I buried myself in the study of modern western philosophy. This was the easiest to muddle through. The professors were as clueless as I was. As to my thesis writing, everyone looked at it, at each other, and then laughed. When it finally got done, everyone was delighted, as though they had been released from a heavy burden.

The relationship between Zhixing and I subsequently cooled off. She became even more beautiful and attractive than before. At exams she was usually dressed like a flower in full bloom. Classmates told me she was having an affair with a professor. Someone else told me she was a photographer’s model at a magazine. Why did everyone else know Zhixing better than I did? There were not many days left for me and Zhixing. I hoped to rent a house together with her. She could continue her profession in the public eye. I could continue my studies. I hoped to adopt a cat with Zhixing, and to own a hand-woven Iranian carpet. At midnight Zhixing and I could share a bowl of soft, glutinous rice and sweet bean paste dumplings. What I wanted out of life was plain and simple.
           With these thoughts I bought a bunch of flowers to take back. I wanted to be with Zhixing for a few moments. The girls’ dorm in the afternoon was very quiet.
           A necktie hung on the door of our room. I stood outside the door, holding a bunch of daisies, not knowing whether to go inside or leave. Zhixing was following an old English tradition conveying the presence of a male visitor. How could this happen? This place belonged to Zhixing and me. They could even be making love on my bed, and then I would have to wash the sheets. This meant I would never be able to sleep in my own bed. I always felt that a man’s semen was the foulest thing. It was even more nausea-causing than detergent, snot, and phlegm. Zhixing, how could you do this? Across the way the president of the students’ residents association was just returning and asked, “What, you forgot your key, want me to open the door for you?”
           “Don’t bother,” I said quickly, digging out my keys.
           Zhixing and a man were indeed on my bed, tossing and rolling—in the act of entering the harbor. I was conscious of the daisies in my hand shaking and about to drop, and I feared the petals would scatter all over the floor. Zhixing with eyes half closed was apparently unperturbed. It was the man who first stopped his motions, though he did not know to cover himself. This man had a warty face, tussled hair, and was thirtyish. I looked straight at him, “Mister, this is a girls’ dorm. Please put on your clothes.” Zhixing looked at him sideways, said, “Pay no attention to her.” I gathered up the clothes that were spread all over and threw them at this couple, shouted, “Put on your clothes right now. I don’t hold discussions with animals!”
           In fact, this man quickly pulled on his clothes. Zhixing turned away to smoke, releasing a breath, and kept silent. I picked up the condoms that were scattered on the floor and said, “Here, mister, take these. Please act with some dignity.”
           “I am sorry—” He busily stuffed the condoms into his pants pocket. I opened the door for him. I said, “Zhixing and I have a relationship that is out of the ordinary. Please respect us, and not do this.” For the time being he was expressionless. After a few moments, it hit him with a jolt. He cried softly, “You two?! Perverts!”
           I slapped his face and slammed the door.
           Zhixing glowered at me, her face flushed red. Her cigarette was burnt down almost to her fingers, yet she kept staring at me, motionless. I leaned against the door, also not moving. What time was it? When everything was ruined and destroyed, why should we be still checking the time? I didn’t know how long we held our positions, only that her cigarette died. Winter was bearing down heavily. The day turned dark. Night was deepening. Zhixing suddenly gave a light chuckle, then two drops of tears appeared.
           I said, “Whatever happens, we can still be the same as before.”
           She said, “Never the same again, never. You are too naïve. You’ll lose to me.”
           I covered my face. “I never want to compete with you. Why are you going all over the place to curry favors?”
           She said, “He can help me get into magazines, maybe become Isabella Rossellini. Can you do that?”
           I said, “Why do you feel the need to get favors from men? We are not prostitutes.”
           She answered, “You have never gotten favors from men? In these matters there’s no difference between the ones with education and the ones without it.”
           I sat down slowly. I thought about those who ate breakfast and dinner with me, or drank with me. I thought of a particular man to whom, just because he had a handkerchief when I was drunk, I had nearly promised my life.
           Everyone had a weak spot.
           “I’m hungry,” Zhixing got up, naked. She carelessly grabbed some clothes and said to me, “Borrowing this for a few minutes. I have to go out.” I moved aside, and with a “tap tap tap” she was gone. The daisies wilted quietly in the dark. I closed my eyes, suddenly understanding the meaning of the words “not of the body.” From now on everything was “not of the body.”

That evening I went to bed early. In the morning I woke up to see Zhixing asleep like a baby with her arm around the rabbit. I left a note, saying that I would wait for her for dinner in the cafeteria. I went to classes. I didn’t think she’d show up.
           I sat waiting for her at a table near the French doors. Winter sunset felt like death. Zhixing approached, her long hair half-tied up, wearing a sweater and slacks, a scarf around her neck, and blue sapphire earrings. She saw me and smiled gently. I realized that she had matured into a woman; even her smiles were measured. So it was; she had not studied books in vain.
           We ordered, drank some beer; Zhixing ate a little and drank a lot. Before dinner was over her cheeks were thoroughly red. We talked about the old lecturer in Sociology who, on the advice of the administration—finally—retired early. We shook hands in congratulations, and emptied our glasses simultaneously. She said she had received a modeling contract. We both said, “Great.” I told her I had finished the outlines of my thesis and had applied for a scholarship to study in England—even had an interview date lined up. We were in a joyful mood, overwhelmed by laughter. After a while, I began to shiver after drinking so much beer. Zhixing let me have her scarf. The wind was strong. I glued myself tightly to her. I said, “Cold.” Zhixing wrapped her arms around me and we walked in the campus garden. The night sky was bright blue and really beautiful. I said, “After graduation let us move to a place like this. You go out to work. I stay at home to study.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I’m afraid you couldn’t be contained in the house.” I laughed “Of course I could be kept in the house. Look at me, I am so scrawny. Do I have what it takes not to stay in the house?” She again pressed her hands to her bosom, said, “In that case, perhaps it’s me who couldn’t be kept in the house.”
           We were quiet for a long while. Suddenly Zhixing gave me a tight embrace. The unexpected passion that came with her shocked me. She released me, and said, “It’s late, hurry back to the library to clean up. I’m going back first.” I gave her a wave and turned to go. She waved her hand and said “Goodbye.” I chided her for being crazy. I said it wasn’t as if we were parting for life, and went on my way without looking back.

When I arrived at the dorm I ran into the President of Resident Students in the lobby. As soon as she saw me she pulled me aside with great relief. “The dorm dean was looking for you.” I said let me put down my books first, what was the hurry? She said it was an emergency, and she pushed me along dragging and pulling.
           I sat down on the sofa in the Dean’s house. Not having anything for my hands to do, I flipped the pages of the magazine, Breakthrough. A reader asked, “Dear Ming Xing (Enlightened Heart), I am troubled, not knowing what to do. He left me . . . ” The supervisor poured me a very hot cup of oolong tea. She was a Taiwanese, and spoke a heavily nasal Cantonese. I cupped my hands around the teacup, waiting for her to speak.
           The TV was on, images flitted onscreen without sound. The face of the dean was alternately glowing and shadowy, blue and white, really frightening. She stayed in this lightness and darkness for a few moments, then she spoke deliberately. “I received a complaint. It states that you and Zhixing have an abnormal relationship.”
           The oolong tea was boiling hot, scalding the tip of my tongue. I lifted up my face to look at her. I didn’t know why, but there was a tiny smile on my lips. “University students not only need to possess knowledge, but also have to have high moral character.”
           “I don’t think that what we are doing is base. Many men and women behave much worse.”
           “What you are doing—it’s not normal. It is an obstacle to the progress of human civilization. To maintain stability in an ordered society we depend on natural human relationships . . . ” on and on. I couldn’t really follow what she was saying, so I stopped looking at her, instead I turned the pages of Breakthrough and read to myself. The columnist Ming Xing answered, “Ling, the way you went about hurting the feelings of others is not right, but almighty God will forgive you . . . ” This gave me such a start that I quickly closed Breakthrough. I stared fixedly at the soundless TV screen. After a very very long time, I said softly “Why are you imposing your moral standard on us? We are not hurting other people.” I didn’t know whether she heard me or not. Only that my voice was so thin and soft, it was as though someone was whispering these words in my ears. I was startled into looking around, but there was no one there.

“Dean,” I said, putting down my teacup. “As long as Zhixing does not leave me, I will not leave her.” With these words I got up to leave, opening the door.
           “As it turns out, this afternoon she promised me she would move out of the dorm. I also made the promise that I would keep the whole thing private. I am only following procedure in informing you,” she said distantly.
           I stood by the door, pushing it open and my hand turned cold at the touch of the doorknob. “Thank you,” I said. I made no more sounds and, lightly closing the door behind me, I left.
           I don’t know how I managed to get back to my room; the staircase was long, very long—this was not Jacob’s ladder, the path that led to Truth. I had difficulty picking up my feet, all four limbs felt torn to pieces, with every movement pain shot through to my eyes. I closed my eyes. All was finished. Let me go blind from this moment on, never to see light again.
           The room was not locked. Someone was coming down the hall, I straightened my back, gritted my teeth and went in. Good Zhixing, in one afternoon she had cleaned up completely, only that on my bed she had left a pair of brand new brilliantly red embroidered shoes and a pink Maidenform bra. I turned it over; she had made a mistake: it was a 32B. I laughed and said to myself, “It’s 32A, Zhixing, 32A, I am scrawny!”
           After she left I also moved out of the dorm and rented a small place that was dark and quiet. My life was even more dark and quiet, my near-sightedness worsened. Wearing a pair of framed eyeglasses of the wrong prescription, I stumbled around all day between classrooms and the library. I began to wear only blue, purple and black. I stopped smoking. I drank only plain boiled water, ate only vegetarian food. Other people ranted and raved when they fell out of love. I only felt a calm and quiet that I had never yet experienced. My heart resembled the landscapes of the Sung and Ming dynasties; in the evening I listened to Qun operas. Often I walked stepping only with the fragmented sounds of my own footsteps, lonely as a shadow. Hugging myself I said, “I still have this.” Biting my lips, I said, “Don’t shed tears, don’t complain.” I wished to be an understanding person—everything leaves traces to be found. She had her own difficulties.

Sometime later I saw her picture on the cover of a magazine, full voluptuous lips and a smile. But I did not open the magazine. She was only one of a hundred million pretty girls, not the Zhixing that I knew. Then I saw her at the graduation ceremony of our school. With an academic gown billowing about her, she stood smiling in the sunshine, looking far ahead, her hand shading her from the bright light. It was too far, I couldn’t see clearly whether her smile had changed. I stood still, hugging myself. At her side there was a man. He looked familiar, I pondered carefully—he was one of those people that appeared in magazines. Zhixing had her priorities. She left me because I wasn’t good enough for her. But the Zhixing that I remembered . . . we didn’t talk about good and evil . . .
           I remembered her qipao, embroidered shoes, the way she copied my notes with a defiant air, the dimples in her face when she pressed her hands lightly to her bosom, how comfortable she looked as she lay lazily on the bed. I remembered when she gave me her scarf to keep me warm. And how she threw coins at me when I was feeling smug. When I acted with distance she held my hands tightly and said, “I lost the wife as well as the whole army.” I remembered, I remembered. I helped her tie up her hair, cut her toenails, bought her a bunch of daisies. I remembered my eyes filled with hot tears and the moment I clutched my throat desperately. I recalled when she grabbed my hands and said, “Why must it be like this?”
           “Why must it be like this?” I had counted on Zhixing and me being together for the rest of our lives.


Translated from the Chinese
by Evelyn Nien-Ming Ch’ien and Christine Tien-mei Lin