Yiyun Li - A Thousand Years of Good Prayers

The man has to shout out the words twice before more people gather.

“What a crazy man,” an old woman says.

“An inventive way to beg, though,” another woman says.

“Why not just begging?”

“Who’d give him money? He’s a strong man. He should be able to find some work.”

“Young people don’t like to work now. They like easy money,” an old man says.

“What’s easy about hurting oneself?”

“Hey, what’s your story?” a young man asks. “Don’t you know you have to make up some really good tragedies to beg?”

People laugh. The man sits quietly in the middle of the circle, the blood dripping from his elbow onto his jeans, but he seems not to notice it. After a while, he shouts the words again.

Sansan’s mother sighs. She fumbles in her cash box and then walks to the man. “Here is ten yuan. Take it, young man, and go find a job. Don’t waste your life with this nonsense.”

“But there’s no job to find.”

“Take the money then.”

The man holds the blade between his two palms, and offers the knife handle to Sansan’s mother. “Here you go, Auntie.”

“Why? I don’t want to cut you.”

“But you have to. I can’t take your money without you cutting me. It’s written here,” the man says.

“Just take it.”

“I’m not a beggar.”

“What are you, then?” someone in the crowd asks.

“An idiot,” someone else says, and people break out laughing. The man does not move, still holding out the knife for Sansan’s mother. She shakes her head and lets the bill drop onto the cardboard. The man returns the bill to the foot of Sansan’s mother, and sits back at his spot.

Sansan picks up the bill and walks to the man. The man looks up at her, and she looks into his eyes. Without a word, he puts the knife in her hand. She studies his body, the naked skin smooth and tanned, and the wound that’s quietly bleeding. She touches his upper arm with one finger, testing and calculating, and then moves her fingertip to his shoulder. The man shivers slightly as her finger traces his flesh.

“Sansan, are you crazy?” her mother says.

The man’s muscles loosen under her caressing finger; after all these years, she finally meets someone who understands what a promise is. Crazy as they may seem to the world, they are not alone, and they will always find each other. Such is the promise of life; such is the grandeur. “Don’t worry, Mama,” Sansan says, and turns to smile at her mother before she points the knife at the man’s shoulder and slices, slowly opening his flesh with love and tenderness.

HAN, THIRTY-THREE YEARS OLD, SINGLE, SOFTware engineer and recently naturalized American citizen, arrives at Beijing International Airport with a brand-new American passport and an old Chinese worry. He has asked his mother to stay at home; knowing she would not, he has feared, for the whole flight from San Francisco to Beijing, that she would be waiting at the terminal with an album of pictures, girls smiling at him out of the plastic holders, competing to please his eyes and win his heart. Han is a zuanshi-wanglaowu, a diamond bachelor, earning American dollars and holding American citizenship. But even when he was at lower levels — silver or gold or whatever he was — his mother never tired of matchmaking for him. At first Han said he would not consider marriage before he got his degree. Then it was a job, and then the green card. But now that Han has got his American citizenship, he is running out of excuses. He imagines the girls his mother has collected, all busy weaving sturdy nets to catch a big fish like him. Han is gay. He has no plan to marry any one of them, nor does he intend to explain this decision to his mother. Han loves his mother, but more so he loves himself. He does not want to bring unnecessary pains to his mother’s life; he does not want to make any sacrifice out of filial duty, either.

But to his surprise, what his mother presents to him is not a picture album but a gold cross on a gold chain. A miniature of Jesus is pinned to the cross. “I special-ordered it for you,” she says. “Feel it.”

Han feels the cross, his finger avoiding the crucified figure. The cross is solid and heavy in his hand. “Twenty-four-karat gold,” his mother says. “As pure as our faith.”

“That sounds like the oath we took when we joined the Communist Youth League. Our faith in communism is as pure and solid as gold, ” Han says.

“Han, don’t make such inappropriate jokes.”

“I’m not joking. What I’m saying is that many things are circulated and recycled. Language is one of them. Faith is another one. They are like the bills in our wallets. You can buy anything with them, but they themselves hold no meaning,” Han says. His mother tries to smile, but he sees the disappointment she cannot hide. “Sorry, Mama. Of course we can’t go on without the paper bills in our wallet.”

“You talk a lot now, Han,” his mother says.

“I’ll shut up then.”

“No, it’s good you talk more than before. You’ve always been a quiet child. Baba would be happy to know that you’ve opened up.”

“It’s not easy to shut up in America. They value you not by what’s inside you, but by what’s pouring out of your mouth,” Han says.

“Yes, of course,” Han’s mother says, quickly agreeing. “But Baba would say you have to learn to listen before you open your mouth. Baba would say the more you talk, the less you gain.”

“Mama, Baba is dead,” Han says. He watches his mother blink and try to find words to fill the vacuum arising between them, and he lets her struggle. For as long as Han remembers, his mother has always been a parrot of his father. The last time Han was on vacation, a few months after his father’s death, he was horrified to overhear his mother’s conversation with several neighbors. “Han says there’s nothing wrong for old people to wear bright colors,” his mother said of the red and orange T-shirts he had bought in bulk for his mother and her friends and neighbors. “Han says we should live for our own comforts, not others’ opinions.” It saddened him back then that his mother had to spend her life repeating her husband’s, and then her son’s, lines. But his sympathy must have been worn out by the seventeen hours in a crammed jet plane. “Mama, let’s get out of here. It’s getting late,” Han says. He picks up his bags and starts to move toward the revolving glass door.

Han’s mother catches up with him and makes a fuss taking over the biggest bag from Han. “Mama, I can handle it myself,” Han says.

“But I can’t walk empty-handedly with you. I’m your mother.”

Han lets go of the bag. They walk silently. Men in suits and women in dresses come up to them, talking to Han about the best hotel deals they have, and Han waves them away. Half a step behind him, his mother apologizes to the hawkers, explaining that they are going home. No, not too far and no need for an overnight place, she says when the hawkers do not give up their hope, and apologizes more.

It upsets Han that his mother is humble for no good reason. When they reach the end of the line at the taxi station, he says, “Mama, you don’t have to apologize to those people.”

“But they’re trying to help us.”

“They only care about the money in your pocket.”

“Han.” His mother opens her mouth, and then sighs.

“I know — I shouldn’t be thinking about people this way, and money is not everything — except it is everything,” Han says. He takes out the gold cross he has slipped into his pocket earlier. “Look, even your church encourages you to buy the twenty-four-karat-gold cross. Why? The more you spend on it, the purer your faith is.”