Yiyun Li - Kinder Than Solitude

It was odd how a small incident like this had cleared her turbid mood. Moran remembered the couplet Teacher Pang and Teacher Li had hung in their living room: The world, unspectacular, does not offer complicacy; only the foolish complicate their lives with self-inflicted befuddlements . The world, like her parents and her neighbors, had never treated her unkindly; in return they expected her to act as a person in her position would do: pleasantly, obediently, sensibly.

When they left school that day, Moran decided that she must genuinely appreciate being close to Ruyu and Boyang. They were two extraordinary people, and how lucky she was to be their friend. One day she would look back and miss these days, and right away she chased the sentimental thought from her mind.

They stopped at a department store on the way. It was Aunt’s birthday, and Ruyu said she wanted to buy a present, and she already knew what it would be. Aunt used to carry a glass container as a tea mug in a net crocheted with colored nylon. The bottle, sturdy, its orange lid bearing the trademark of Tang, had been given to Aunt by her colleague when the latter finished the contents. A few days earlier, when Aunt had been buying pickles, she had put the bottle on the counter, and within a minute someone had stolen it.

None of the families in the quadrangle had tasted Tang, the powdered orange juice imported from America. It had been appointed by NASA as the official drink for astronauts, the TV commercial informed its audience, with a slow-motion single drop of liquid rebounding from a glass of juice, which was in a color so intense that Moran could not help but cringe at the contrast between that orange on the screen and the dinginess off the screen. More and more her life reminded her of the watercolor sets she had had in elementary school, a new set at the beginning of each school year. They were of the cheapest kind, with twelve ovals in a narrow box and a tiny brush. The only time the set looked beautiful was before she opened it: the colors, no matter how diligently she applied and reapplied, were pale to nothing on the paper, and afterward the ovals dried and caked and then fell off in small chunks and fragments. Still, she had never asked her parents for a more expensive set, like the ones some of the other schoolchildren proudly carried. Her parents, if asked, would have scrambled to buy her a good set, Moran knew; they would have skipped a few meals with meat, but she had feared that she could not prove herself worthy of a better set.

But the day Ruyu bought the bottle of Tang was not one of those gloomy days of faded watercolors. Aunt was overwhelmed by the extravagance of the present. It had cost eighteen yuan, more than a month of Moran’s lunch money; the sales assistant, a middle-aged woman, had looked with critical curiosity at Ruyu when she produced two ten-yuan bills, and when she had turned to the register for the change, she had mumbled to a colleague that she wondered what kind of parents would have spoiled a child with such luxury. Moran had fidgeted, yet Ruyu had stood still as though she had not heard the remark, loud enough and meant for her to hear.

In the evening, Boyang and Moran came over to see Aunt try her birthday present. Shaoai had not come home for dinner that day, and Ruyu could tell that Aunt had felt both sad that Shaoai was not there for her birthday and relieved that the meal, which Uncle had cooked for Aunt, had gone smoothly, without the usual tension.

Aunt lined up several mugs, and solemnly scooped the fine orange powder into each, while Uncle added water from a hot water kettle. Not boiling hot, Uncle explained, as a too high temperature would be detrimental to the vitamin C in the powder. Why not just add tap water, Boyang suggested, and Aunt said that cold water was not good for stomachs. “You all need to learn to take care of your bodies,” Aunt said. “You won’t always be this young.”

It took no time for the powder to dissolve, and the color in each mug was as intense as promised by the TV commercial. “Now go ahead and bring a mug to every family,” Aunt said to Moran and Boyang. “Don’t forget to tell them this is a present from Ruyu.”

“Why? Don’t we get to try it first?” Boyang asked.

“You’ll have yours when you come back,” Aunt said, and asked Uncle if they had more mugs.

“Hold your generosity,” Boyang said. “That bottle will be gone in no time.”

In a rare good mood, Uncle said that Aunt would be happy to see the powder gone, as she would have a new Tang container to carry around proudly. “And this time she can even brag about having drunk the whole bottle ourselves,” he said.

Aunt faked anger and told Uncle to stop poking fun at her. Boyang laughed, and carried two mugs, holding the door open for Moran, who followed him with two in her hands. Ruyu picked up a mug and said she would save it for Sister Shaoai in the bedroom. And don’t forget Grandpa, Ruyu said to Aunt, which made her pour a small portion out of her own mug and bring it to Grandpa.

It was a cloudless night, and the moon, a day short of being full, cast a layer of silver on the courtyard. When Moran finished her deliveries — the two families had sent compliments and good wishes back with her to Aunt — she found Boyang waiting for her under the grape trellis. A few days earlier Teacher Pang had harvested the grapes to share with the neighbors, but a few clusters, not quite ripe, had been left behind.

Boyang reached for a cluster and handed half to Moran. “See, she is a good-hearted person,” he said in a hushed voice.

The comment, coming out of nowhere, startled Moran. For one thing, she wanted to say that she had no idea whom he was talking about, though that would be dishonest. “Who has ever said she’s not?” Moran asked.

Boyang looked sternly at Moran. “Then why are you hostile to her these days?”

“Am I?”

“Maybe others can’t tell, but you know you’re treating her a little differently from before,” Boyang said. “Is it because of what I said to you last Saturday?”

Perhaps love allows perceptions that one does not possess otherwise. Like many boys his age, Boyang had not been observant. That boy has a mind like a sieve, his grandmother used to remark about his inattentiveness.

“Is it true that I’m hostile?” Moran asked. “How can you tell?”

“There’s really not anything that we don’t know about each other.”

Is there, Moran wondered, or should there be? “Do you think Ruyu feels that way, too?”

“That you’re being unfriendly? I hope not, though even if she feels it, she won’t say anything,” Boyang said. “You know how she is. She has grown up holding everything in.”

Moran sighed. “I’ve been trying to be a good friend to her.”

“Have you really?” Boyang asked. There was an unfamiliar edge to his voice, which made Moran’s heart ache.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I think you are jealous of her.”

Moran felt grateful that they were in the dark, and even the bright moonlight would not reveal the coloring of her face, which was burning with shame and anger and a helpless despair. The line between innocent and heartless, if indeed there is one, must be so subtle that only those most experienced with human nature can perceive it. Moran, herself having not outgrown the age when innocence and heartlessness often go hand in hand, felt herself shrinking in front of Boyang. To appease him and to defend herself were equally impossible. There are moments in life when to speak at all is to speak wrongly.

“If you’d met someone special I would be very happy for you,” Boyang said. “I don’t understand why you’re not happy for me.”

“But I am happy for you!”

“You know you’re not, and I know why you feel that way,” Boyang said. “You’re like a sister to me, and I thought you and I had the purest friendship.”