Xu Zechen: Running Through Beijing

“Ma’am.”

She looked up at him, then back down at her crepes, as though she hadn’t seen him.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry.” Dunhuang ducked his head in apology. “Please don’t be angry. I’d like to buy another crepe and a cup of soy milk.”

“Wait until I’m done with this one,” she answered. “You’re a hot-tempered guy.”

Dunhuang grinned bashfully, and apologized again.

Two crepes and two cups of soy milk came to eight kuai; she gave him two kuai change. She told him she’d felt sorry for him, the way he looked — it was hard being away from home. Dunhuang lied, saying he’d only gotten off the train the night before, when it had been too late to find a hotel. She began dispensing hackneyed advice with relish, saying things like “home is mother, on the road there’s no other,” and how he should watch out for bad people. Seeing that she was picking up steam, Dunhuang quickly excused himself and left.

The problem now was where to stay. He couldn’t afford rent — Beijing’s landlords were all penny pinchers, wanting three months, six months, or even a year’s rent in advance. Short of selling his body, he had no way to produce three months’ rent. He needed to find a place he could rent by the day or the week, preferably a bed in a dorm, four or more to a room — the more people, the cheaper the rent. Dunhuang headed toward Peking University. Three Corners, in the center of campus, was blanketed with ads for places like that.

A basement in Chengzeyuan, near Peking University, four beds, 25 kuai per bed per night. Dunhuang contacted the landlord and asked to see the place, and the landlord arranged to meet him at the west gate of PU. He arrived a half-hour later, a thin, sickly looking man in his forties, his back a little bent. Last night’s wind could have launched him into the sky without much trouble. They passed through Yuxiuyuan and crossed the bridge to Chengzeyuan. Dunhuang had been to the building a year ago, delivering goods. There was an old intertwining willow in the yard, it’s belly rotten hollow, big enough to crawl inside.

The basement room was small, with a dank chill, and laid out like a cramped student dorm. Two bunk beds nearly filled the place, and a small table and basin stand took up the rest. Odds and ends covered the table, and the basin was full of towels and toothbrushes and whatnot. Three of the beds were already occupied, only one upper bunk was empty. Bags were shoved under the beds. The landlord said the other three were all auditing classes at Peking University, planning to apply for master’s programs, and they were guaranteed to be safe and reliable roommates. Dunhuang had a bad feeling about the place, though — it reminded him of something you’d see in a horror movie. He wasn’t serious about staying, so he made a casual counter-offer.

“How about 20?”

“How long are you staying?”

“Won’t be long. A week.”

“All right then,” the landlord agreed swiftly, then added in a conspiratorial tone, “When the other three come back don’t tell them you’re paying 20, they all pay 25.”

Dunhuang considered, and decided to stay. It was better than the breakfast hut. “All right. I’ll say I’m paying 30.”

The landlord laughed, but even his laughter was sick, tinged a hollow and choleric red.

So he found himself living on a top bunk. After he put away his things, Dunhuang went to take a shower in the washroom, which was barely big enough to turn around in. Scrubbed and proper, he shouldered his bag and went out onto the street. He ate noodles and planned where he’d go to sell the rest of his DVDs; he couldn’t let the morning go to waste. He’d go to Peking University and set up in the street-side flea market outside building 32.

The market had started as a perfectly ordinary stretch of street, a place where graduating students sold their old books and supplies at the end of the year. Then it slowly became an on-campus flea market, where minor trade took place year-round. By the time dusk fell, Dunhuang had gotten rid of eleven DVDs, one of them in exchange for books. The next vendor over was selling used books and the two of them chatted idly all afternoon, and when customers were scarce they pawed through each other’s goods. Dunhuang picked up a book on film criticism and saw it contained a whole essay on Run Lola Run . He glanced through it, and found himself drawn in, thinking the author made some good points. After selling 31 copies of the movie, he’d finally gotten curious, and steeled himself to watch it. He honestly didn’t like it, he couldn’t figure out what the director and that constantly sprinting Lola were trying to express. The essay, however, explained it all perfectly, sweeping away the confusions that had cluttered his mind. He bit his nails as he read.

“Fuck,” said Dunhuang to the guy selling books. “Who’d have thought it was such a deep film.” He continued flipping through the book, muttering as he did, “Not bad. . not bad. . ” He thought the book was good, in part, simply because he could understand it. He’d always assumed academic writing was lofty and profound, and a real bitch to get through. This was exciting — he practically felt like an intellectual.

“If it’s good, buy it,” said the guy. “We’re buddies, I’ll give you half off.” It cost twenty.

“Half off, huh?” answered Dunhuang, “Why don’t we just trade? Take whatever DVD you like.”

The guy picked a Chow Yun-Fat movie, A Better Tomorrow . Just like a lot of girls, he liked Chow Yun-Fat’s smile.

Dunhuang read all the way back to his underground bunk bed. He washed quickly and got into bed, continuing through a criticism of Hong Kong films. This was familiar territory — he’d seen nearly all the movies mentioned in the essay, which made it even more satisfying to read. His roommates didn’t straggle in until after ten thirty that night. One of them was applying for a masters degree in Peking University’s department of foreign languages — he had a fat, foreigner-loving face. Another was applying for a masters degree in mathematics. He wore glasses and was obviously malnourished, with a pointy chin and a body like a giant question mark. The third was applying for a doctorate in the philosophy department. He had poor eyesight but still looked at you over the top of his glasses, as if they hung on his nose just for decoration.

They didn’t have much reaction to their new roommate, only remarking politely, “You’re new, eh?”

“I’m new,” replied Dunhuang. Then they lined up and took turns in the toilet. The philosophy student was first in and first out. When he looked up and saw Dunhuang was reading an academic work on film, he asked, “Are you in the film department or the Chinese department?”

Dunhuang thought, then said, “Film department.” He didn’t see much point to studying Chinese. What could you be afterwards but a secretary or something, scribbling down the bullshit your leader spouted, or spouting bullshit yourself? The arts are cooler. Listen to this: “Oh, I’m in the arts.”

“Masters program or a doctorate?”

“Doctorate,” said Dunhuang modestly. “Just for fun.” The philosophy student’s eyes, small and spiritless, immediately flashed at him over his Coke-bottle glasses — Dunhuang thought he looked foolish. “We’re in the trenches together then, I’m also applying for a doctorate, in philosophy.”

Dunhuang ducked his head, a little nervous. It was all a big lie, for one thing. For another, of all the academic subjects that hinged on the Chinese language, philosophy was the one he respected the most. That instinctual reverence began while he was studying at his miserable vocational school. He had no idea how you did philosophy. It was mystery upon mystery; you couldn’t see it or touch it, and as far as he was concerned it was no different from witchcraft or sorcery. The philosophy student let the conversation drop, and climbed clumsily into bed, his neck craning like a goose as he read the book in his hand. He looked effortful, as if he were trying to glimpse some mysteries clearly, to establish a death grip on them. Dunhuang thought again that there was something foolish about him.