Yiyun Li - Kinder Than Solitude

“Is that what the man was, a politician?”

“He didn’t end up having a bright career in politics,” Ruyu said. “Though at one time, he seemed to think he would.”

“See, I was right! Is he someone we’ve heard of?”

Ruyu shook her head. There was no need to bring Eric’s name into the story.

“How did you meet him?”

“Who?”

“The failed politician. What’s his name?”

“John Doe,” Ruyu said. “I did a bit of bookkeeping for one of his businesses. And then he hired me as a housekeeper. No, Celia, you don’t have to sit there dying of curiosity. If you want to know more, ask.”

“What happened between you and him?”

“Nothing much. I suppose we tried to see if we could settle into each other’s lives, but it didn’t quite work out.”

“Why not?”

“Not enough love, I think.”

“On your side, or his?”

“On both sides,” Ruyu said. At least Eric had had the patience to put up with her for three years, though they had been the same three years he had gone through the legal battle for his divorce. Ruyu preferred to believe that he had offered her the cottage in the first place because he had needed convenience without complication. How he had chosen Ruyu — chosen wisely, both of them had later agreed — she had not asked; she had moved in because there had not been a better — or worse — place for her to be, then or ever. In a sense, they had enjoyed each other’s company, though something that had begun with a contract could only end within the terms, written or unwritten. Ruyu wondered now if either of them, at any moment, had been waiting for the other person to propose an amendment — though what difference would it have made? Neither had wanted to blunder, and, in the end, neither had been willing to give up his or her mildly sarcastic view of the relationship; it was as though they had been two business competitors who had admired each other, but had to laugh at themselves for that admiration, or else they would’ve embarrassed themselves. They had parted ways amiably, both agreeing not to stay in touch.

“So,” Ruyu said, and glanced at the clock. “That’s all about my former employer.”

“Did you … not love him because of the man in China?”

Ruyu smiled. “You really do believe there’s someone in China.”

“Why else …” Celia said, and then caught herself.

“Why else what?”

“Why else do you want to go back to China now?”

Ruyu studied Celia. “Is that what you were going to say before you stopped yourself?”

Celia sighed. “Why else do you not want to have a real life?”

Perhaps Celia’s version was better: a story of loyalty and betrayal, of scheming and innocence. For a moment, Ruyu could see herself in Celia’s — and Edwin’s — eyes: a life lived under the spell of a first encounter, if not a first love; years spent, or misspent, waiting for another woman to die. The romance and the tragedy would be perfect footnotes for her insubstantial life; without such drama and mystery, she would have been too commonplace. Yet how could she explain that being on her own — and not someone’s property — was the only thing she had wanted? Once upon a time, she had been her parents’ possession, however momentarily, and after that she had belonged to her grandaunts, in whose minds she had belonged more to their god than to them; all sorts of people had since tried to claim her, but to stay unclaimed was to be never disowned again.

“Hello,” Celia said. “Hellooo.”

Ruyu looked at the clock again and finished her coffee. “I don’t mean to interrupt our conversation, but I need to leave soon for the shop.”

“There’s still time,” Celia said. “I’ll drive you down. Now, don’t look so rattled. As your friends, we are genuinely concerned about you. That’s why we’re asking these questions.”

“I know,” Ruyu said.

“And however you feel at this moment, don’t rush into a decision,” Celia said, and when Ruyu did not seem to understand, Celia leaned closer. “Don’t go back to China.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you feel you deserve something better than what you’ve had? Why do you want to return to some bastard who has kept you in limbo for twenty years?”

Ruyu wondered if she should acquiesce to the story, take ownership of something that did not belong to her, so that when she vanished from their world, Celia and Edwin could go on imagining her living that heroic tale of love and stupidity. But stupidity was easier to live with than love, and if Celia and Edwin ever thought about her in the future, she would prefer not to have anyone connected to her. Perhaps she was more egotistic than she realized: she could not stand sharing even the space of someone’s imagination with another person. “Very wise advice, Celia, but my life has been much more boring than your version. There is no person in China as you thought,” Ruyu said. “I don’t have a family. I don’t travel. I don’t eat at restaurants. I don’t go to movies. There were two marriages, and both failed. And there is no one now, in this or another country. You may be tickled to know that I don’t have health insurance. What do you Americans call a person like me? A loser, no?”

“You don’t have health insurance?”

“I can’t afford it, Celia. Do you really believe selling chocolates and dog-sitting are my hobbies?”

“But you don’t look like you’re struggling,” Celia said. “I mean, financially.”

“So there must be someone secretly funneling money into my bank account?”

Celia looked painfully baffled. To be a mistress in hiding, Ruyu thought, was certainly to be somebody; her being nobody must be a disappointment for Celia.

“But why don’t you want to have a life?” Celia said after a moment. “For all I know, you could have many things if you wanted them.”

What if, Ruyu could not help thinking cruelly, she wanted Edwin? She stood up abruptly. “Seriously, we have to leave now — and thank you in advance for the ride, as I do need it.”

Celia was quiet as she backed the car out of the driveway. She must feel deceived, though people always cast Ruyu this or that way; it was not Ruyu’s fate to play the proffered part, and she saw no reason to apologize. In a lighter tone, she asked Celia about her upcoming trip — a Caribbean retreat with Edwin’s company, for which Celia had bemoaned her less-than-ideal skin tone and the loss of her perfect bikini body.

“Speaking of that,” Celia said, her grip on the steering wheel loosening a little. “You do remember that you’ve promised to take care of my children while we’re gone.”

“Are you worried that I’ll take off and leave you stranded at the last minute?”

“How would I know?” Celia said. “With all your talk about going back to China.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret so you don’t worry: I don’t even have a passport to travel on.”

“The more you tell me about yourself, the less I feel I know you. Who knows? You may even be a secret agent for North Korea.”

So rarely did Ruyu laugh that when she did now, Celia turned to look at her for a prolonged moment before returning her attention to the road. “Seriously, are you a Chinese citizen or American, or both?”

“American,” Ruyu said. “I can show you my naturalization papers if you want to see them.”

Celia sighed as she pulled into the small parking lot behind the shop. “The thing is,” she said, turning to look at Ruyu, “it feels odd now to think that we don’t know a lot about you.”

“You certainly know more about me than most people do. And the things you don’t know are not worth knowing,” Ruyu said, feeling all of a sudden melancholy. To have an identity — to be known — required one to possess an ego, yet so much more, too: a collection of people, a continuous narrative from one day to the next, a traceable track linking one place to another — all these had to be added to that ego for one to have any kind of identity. “Well, many thanks for the ride, and do tell Edwin I loved his coffee.”