Yiyun Li - Kinder Than Solitude

The blood tests confirmed Moran’s words and what had been taken from the laboratory, and Prussian blue saved Shaoai’s life but not her damaged brain. Ruyu must have stuck unwavering to her side of the story, which Moran could only piece together, over the years, by herself — she could not bring herself to ask others, and even if she had, no one would have told her anything: yes, Ruyu would say, she had stolen the chemical out of despair; no, there was not any concrete reason for her despair, but only a passing mood; no, she wouldn’t call herself unhappy, though she wouldn’t say she was happy, either; she had not felt she needed to worry when the tube of chemical was gone, as she had thought someone might have tossed it out while cleaning the room. Again and again she had to answer the questions, asked by grownups in the quadrangle, the high school officials, the university security committee, the police: no, she did not know who had taken the poison; no, she had not had a plan to kill Shaoai; no, Shaoai had never spoken of suicide with her; had she spoken of that with Shaoai? no, though she had talked about it briefly with Moran; perhaps Moran had told Shaoai; perhaps Moran had rummaged through Ruyu’s things and looked for the tube, or Shaoai had done that; had Moran ever spoken of suicide, no, of course not; would Moran want to kill Shaoai, no, she did not think so, though she could only speak from what she knew, and she did not know anyone well in this city; no, she had no reason to want to harm anyone; no, she did not do anything to harm anyone.

Moran did not know how much the world had trusted Ruyu’s words; though people must have trusted her enough, as eventually the investigation stopped, leaving too much space for everyone to come up with his own conjecture: could it be that there had been two suicidal souls under one roof? Or could it be that the thought of suicide was like a virus — it did not matter how it had started, but in the end it had caught both girls, and by mere chance one was spared? There had been reasons for Shaoai’s despair, and evidence: her being expelled from the university, her uncertain future, her dark mood, her one drunken episode that many had witnessed; quite a change from the ambitious and outgoing girl she used to be, people would agree. Less sense could be made out of Ruyu’s situation, though she was an orphan sent to live with strangers, and she was at an age when hormones could easily induce untrustworthy moods; who knows, the neighbors sometimes thought — there was no way to find out how her life had started: suppose there had been genes of madness to start with, in the parents’ lines? Their abandoning a baby girl could be more than being irresponsible; any orphan could be a host of dark secrets and unseemly history.

Ruyu’s grandaunts had been telegraphed and phoned; they, citing the inconvenience of travel at their age, did not come, though they did send a telegram, in which they said that they had raised Ruyu as a God-fearing child, and they believed that she would not lie. The telegram arrived in the middle of another crisis, when Grandpa was found unconscious; he was rushed to the emergency room, and never returned to the quadrangle.

Moran’s mother had signed for the telegram. Months later, when Moran found an excuse to stay home on a weekday — she felt sick, she told her mother, who let her skip school without further questioning — she looked around to see if her parents had saved anything related to the case, but the only thing she found was the telegram. Her mother must have conveyed the unkind message to Aunt and Uncle subtly, or did it matter even if she had not said anything? By then all was over: Boyang had been transferred to the high school affiliated with his parents’ university, and was allowed only to visit on weekends to see his grandmother; Ruyu, with Teacher Shu’s help, had become a boarder at school, and her stay in the quadrangle, barely four months, was never brought up by the neighbors afterward; Grandpa had passed away, and Shaoai’s family, having relocated to another district, had not come back for a visit again, though they were not forgotten: each year the neighbors pooled their money and sent a donation to Shaoai’s parents for her caretaking.

The vacated house had stayed empty for more than a year; bad feng shui, people would say, with two disasters hitting the family in a short time. Eventually a young couple moved in. They had been married for three years, but had been living in separate dorms assigned to them by their work units, which they had had to share with others. They were so happy to have a place assigned to them that the neighbors could not bring themselves to ruin their mood. By and by, however, the story would reach their ears, as in this city no secret would stay a secret, no history could be laid permanently to rest in peace.

After the case was closed, Moran’s parents never spoke to her about it again. They must have learned how she had wept in front of strangers because unlike Ruyu, Moran could not answer the questions. Why had she not alerted anyone about the theft? people wanted to know; had it happened before that she had witnessed other illegal actions but had refrained from telling? Why had she not said anything to any grownup when her friend had talked about suicide with her? Had she worried about her friend’s safety? Had she considered herself a responsible friend?

Moran did not know if Ruyu had been suicidal, or murderous; could it be that a person could not be one without being the other? The more she tried to understand Ruyu, the murkier her own mind became. All the same she did not protest when, in the end, blame was laid on her more than on the two other girls, as her silence could not be acquitted as their potential madness would be. People were lenient not to say this to Moran — that is, all but Boyang, who, as always, came up with his quick conclusion, and did not hold back. “You never really liked Ruyu, did you?” Boyang said to Moran in their last real conversation. He had moved away by then, and had written and asked to see her on a Tuesday afternoon. She had skipped school and met him near the Back Sea.

But that was not true, she argued weakly for herself.

“Why didn’t you say anything, then? I understand your decision not to tell a grownup, but why not tell me?”

Nothing she could say would appease Boyang’s fury now, or ever. He had lost too much — his first love, two friends, and his childhood home.

“Did you think I would love you if Ruyu had been taken out of the picture? Did you think if she killed herself we could go back to where we were?” Boyang asked.

When Moran broke into tears Boyang did not seem to soften his opinion. Angrily he sped away on his bicycle. Look at what you’ve done, a voice said to Moran, though she did not understand that it was her future self speaking: look at how you’ve destroyed everything.

“So,” Celia said the moment Ruyu entered the house. “What’ s going on with you?”

“Nothing much.”

“Then who was this woman who died?”

“That,” Ruyu said, “is a long story.”

“Just as I thought, but the question is”—Celia paused and studied Ruyu’s face before handing her a clothes hanger for her raincoat; it was a drizzly morning, the fog dense, threatening to stay all day—“are you going to tell me the story? See, I knew something was up when you came over the other night. I asked Edwin, and he said he couldn’t tell. But you know how men are. Or you don’t know. In any case, they can’t see anything unless you point out to them where to look, and even then you can’t guarantee that they see what you want them to see.”

Edwin had indeed concealed part of his conversation with Ruyu from Celia, though for what reason? “Did you send him to check up on me again yesterday?” Ruyu asked.