Xu Zechen: Running Through Beijing

Hardly anyone was on the street, the few people he saw were closed up in their cars, passing through the wind like strange and lonely spirits. The supermarkets and corner stores were all closed, and Beijing’s lively nightlife had been canceled on account of the wind. He would have to find a 24-hour mart. He couldn’t for the life of him think of one nearby. He’d been in Beijing for two years and thought he knew Haidian like the back of his hand, but the moment the sun went down it was someplace else entirely. It didn’t mean squat to know a place in the daytime, that was just seeing. To really know a place means knowing it at night. Now it was night, and Dunhuang’s eyes were veiled in darkness, darker than Beijing itself. He followed the street, the big pack on his back and a smaller bag in each hand, deciding he would follow the street until it brought him to a brightly-lit minimart.

He finally found it at one thirty in the morning, and bought two packs of Zhongnanhais. In a windless corner he quickly smoked six in a row, and afterwards felt cold, wornout, and sleepy. It was two in the morning. Dunhuang started to think about finding a place for the night. Most of the hotels would already be closed, and he couldn’t think of any cheap ones nearby, anyway. He just needed a place to crash, anything would do, just a place where he could pay for a bunk. He thought it over, but his eyes were still masked by darkness. He felt like a failure. This was Beijing: you could spend your whole life kicking around the place and still not know what was right outside your door. Given that he didn’t know how much a night’s lodging would cost (only half a night, now), and given how little he had in his pocket, he decided to forget about finding a hotel. He’d just stay awake as long as he could — the sun had to come up eventually.

He wandered in fits and starts through the wind, the sand continually blowing into his mouth. On a night like this, he’d have to pass the time in whatever strange manner he could. He looked at the wind in the trees, looked at the ground, the buildings, the signs, everything that presented itself to his gaze. He discovered that, as the wind blew past the branches, ground, and buildings, it seemed to be torn to shreds, quite unlike the wind in his old village, which moved slowly over the fields like water. Beijing’s wind was black and cold, while the wind at home was light yellow and warm. He smoked and the taste mixed with the sand, leaving his mouth dry and numb. He walked slowly, and by three thirty he was as stiff and unfeeling as a piece of wood — a frozen board. His body seemed to be getting lighter, a grubby lightness. If it weren’t for the three bags weighing him down the wind would have blown him away. All he wanted now was a place to lie down, even just for five minutes. He’d wandered into an area he didn’t recognize at all. In front of him was a crudely built breakfast hut slumped on the sidewalk in front of a shop entrance, its eaves unusually long. Dunhuang thought he might be able to lie down under those eaves.

The windows and doors of the hut were shut tight, and with the streetlights behind him it was hard to make out anything inside, but he had a general sense of its empty darkness. From the look of it, it had been abandoned for some time — otherwise it wouldn’t be leaning the way it did. Dunhuang pushed at the door and window but they were shut tight. He considered finding a brick and breaking the glass — at least he’d be out of the wind. This damned weather, it wouldn’t be nearly as bad if not for the wind. He couldn’t find a brick and was just about to use his elbow when a car turned a corner nearby, its headlights sweeping over the galvanized steel rolldoor and the windows of the shop. The light reflected onto the breakfast hut, and Dunhuang saw a small hole in its window. He stuck a finger inside, found the latch, gave a tug, and the window opened.

Breakfast had once been sold through this window, and it was just big enough for him to push the three bags inside, then crawl in after them. The hut was filled with the choking smell of dust — it had to have been abandoned for six months at least. As his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the darkness, he found a pile of old newspapers in the corner and realized that someone must have stayed here before. Maybe someone like him, who needed a place to sleep. It made plenty of sense. Whoever it was had probably made that little hole in the window.

He spread the newspapers out and put his wool coat on top, then lay down and covered himself with clothes from his bag. The wind was kept outside, only negligible puffs found their way through the cracks. Dunhuang felt a warmth he’d never felt before. The guy who’d slept there before had the right idea, and Dunhuang felt a quiet camaraderie with him. Was the guy truly homeless or, like him, someone who had suddenly found himself with nowhere to go? Or perhaps it was a girl who’d simply gotten lost.There was no way to know, but he was certain of one thing: whoever it was had slept here overnight, possibly two or more nights. Dunhuang was highly satisfied with his conclusion. He chuckled in the darkness, then lay his head back and slept.

It was a good night’s sleep, without so much as a single dream. He opened his eyes to a world of light. It was a bright, sunny day, and the sounds of cars and people were pouring in. Beijing had been restored to its usual lively racket. Dunhuang sat up and moved his mouth, it felt as if he’d spent the night eating dust, and he spat repeatedly before feeling better. Everything in the hut was coated with a thick layer of dust, far more than he’d imagined the night before. When he felt sufficiently awake, he stood up and pulled open the window. Pedestrians passed by occasionally, and a few steps away a middle-aged lady was selling fried crepes. The wind had stopped, and the world held nothing that could stop him. The leisurely pedestrians turned their heads to watch a young man passing bags out of a breakfast hut. Dunhuang ignored them, climbing out after his bags. As he swatted the dust from his body he smelled the crepes, and suddenly felt starved and thirsty. He went to the lady’s stall and said,

“One crepe and a cup of soy milk.”

The middle-aged lady smiled at him and started his crepe. Dunhuang reached out and picked up a cup of soy milk with plastic film over the top, stuck a straw through the film, and started drinking. By the time he was done the crepe was ready, and the lady had cracked an egg on top.

“How much?” he asked, the crepe already in his mouth, so hot it made him jump.

“It’s free,” the lady answered. “Go ahead.”

Dunhuang’s brain short-circuited for a moment, then he understood. He hurled the crepe on the ground, then pulled ten kuai from his pocket, slapped it on her stall, and said, “I’m not a fucking beggar! I don’t need your pity!” He snatched up his bags and left, not even turning his head as the lady cried “Hey, your money!” behind him. Holding his back stiffly upright, he strode awkwardly, like a tragic monster. As people passed him they turned their heads for another look, curious about the young man with tears streaming down his face. Dunhuang ignored them and continued straight on until he came to a round traffic mirror at a curve in the street. In the mirror he saw a completely unfamiliar person. His head and face were coated in dust, his medium-length hair a grayish-white, and there were two clean tracks left by his tears. Basically, he was a clown. His jacket hung askew on his body, the left side higher than the right, his round-collared sweater was misshapen and bulging. His pants were horribly wrinkled, and from the look of his shoes he appeared to have just crossed a desert. What could he be but a tramp? What could he be but a beggar? Even his three bags were ugly as sin. Dunhuang wiped his face and turned around. The middle-aged lady’s head was bent forward as she made crepes for someone else.