Xu Zechen - Running Through Beijing

The foreign language student and the mathematics student weren’t impressed with his department of fine arts doctorate, and from the time they entered the room to the time they began grinding their teeth and talking in their sleep, they said nothing more to him. Dunhuang worried briefly that they’d already seen through him; he only relaxed later, once he found out that the three of them hardly spoke at all. You could understand a little coolness between competitors, but they were applying to different schools — why the tension? He didn’t get it. Dunhuang continued reading, and he thought with chagrin that if he had put in a little more effort early on who could say but he might actually be a Peking University masters or doctoral student — at the very least he could make it into the film academy after watching so many movies.

Early the next morning, his roommates got up and went to the university to eat breakfast and study. Dunhuang was in no hurry — no one was buying DVDs at this time of the morning. He didn’t get up until eight, had soy milk and fried dough at a stand at the gate of Chengzeyuan, then decided to sell movies at People’s University and then Shuang’an mall. Zhongguancun street was already jammed, like it was every day from morning till night. Why would you build a road just to have it jam up with traffic? Dunhuang thought about that on the bus, as they moved fifty meters in ten minutes. He decided to get off and walk, thinking of a pretentious phrase: a person lived only to die. The university gate was deserted, and Dunhuang worried he’d be too obvious there, so he headed toward Shuang’an. When he reached the other side of the street a few women came up to him, every one of them — how bizarre — carrying an infant. They said:

“Need an ID? Or receipts?”

“Since when do you sell receipts?” asked Dunhuang.

“We’ve always sold them!” they replied. “What do you need?”

“I used to sell IDs,” he said, “but we never sold fake receipts.”

The women exchanged glances. One of the infants started crying, and the woman holding him snapped, “What are you bawling about? Little asshole!” The other women glared at Dunhuang and walked off. He was secretly pleased, thinking Shit, that was actually meant for me! He really hadn’t heard of selling fake receipts before — apparently more and more people were squeezing reimbursements for expenses out of the government these days.

He’d only gone a few steps before another child-laden woman approached him. She was dark and thin, probably from the countryside. The child, sucking its fingers, was strapped to her waist. She came close and said, “You want DVDs? I’ve got all kinds.”

Dunhuang looked at her empty hands. “Where are they?”

She gestured at the building by the side of the road, her finger pointing vaguely toward the back of it. At first, he thought he’d go with her for a look, but then decided there was no point. He pretended he’d just gotten a text message and said someone was looking for him, he had to go. Disappointed, the woman called after him that he should come back any time, she was always there.

He ran into a few more sellers of DVDs and fake IDs. By and large they were women, and the majority of them carried nursing children. The children were there as an insurance policy, of course: Go ahead and arrest me, are you going to take responsibility for feeding my kid, too? He also noticed that the police were active in the area, which was why the women did their business empty-handed. Dunhuang thought better of setting up shop — it was too tight. He went to Mudan Gardens, over by Beitaipingzhuang.

Business was lukewarm over the next couple days of roving sales. By the third day, he was in trouble — all his popular movies were sold and choices were limited. What he had left wasn’t enough to attract eyeballs. The DVDs had only been meant to last a day. By the afternoon of the third day he had nothing left he could sell, and he packed it in early. He was at a loss. He had no way of restocking, and he regretted not working with Xiaorong. She wouldn’t necessarily have been willing, of course — people often wanted to keep their sources secret. Just like when he and Bao Ding were drumming up business — they’d meet their clients at appointed places, and wouldn’t tell anyone where. Dunhuang thought a couple times about calling Xiaorong, but each time closed his phone after dialing a few digits. He knew he had no business being jealous, but it bothered him to think that it was the hand of some guy named Kuang Shan, not his own, parked on Xiaorong’s thigh. It made his teeth ache to think that she allowed someone else’s hand on her thigh. He kept sticking his phone back in his pocket. This was going nowhere. He was just burning himself up. Dunhuang went to a small restaurant and ate three steamed buns before the ache in his teeth faded. Then he strolled very slowly back to Chengzeyuan. On the way, he passed by a shop selling five- and ten-kuai pirated books, and he bought another collection of essays on cinema — he’d finished the first one. When he’d nearly reached the Haidian sports gymnasium, it was Xiaorong who called him.

“Have you sold them all?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“So why didn’t you call me?”

“I only just ran out.”

On the other end of the line, Xiaorong stayed silent for a full two minutes. Dunhuang stayed silent longer.

“Come and get more,” she said finally. “He’s not here.” She hung up.

By the time Dunhuang got to Furongli she had already arranged the DVDs by type — several of each. They didn’t look at one another, staring at the movies as they spoke, as if they were addressing the characters in the films. “That should be enough for three days,” she said, turning a DVD over in her hands. “The other kind is still under the bed, if you want them you can take them.” He bent down and pulled a stack of porn out from under the bed. Turning his head, he saw Xiaorong’s feet in her slippers, her gray socks seemed to warm him. He raised his head, his gaze traveling up her leg, all the way up past her breasts to her face. She immediately looked away. He stood very slowly, then swept her onto the bed. The porn scattered across the floor. She cried out, and only then did Dunhuang feel a little surprised at himself. But it was too late for them to stop. She pushed half-heartedly at him once, then once again, but then she wrapped her arms tighter and tighter around his back.

Things began in haste and eagerness, but then unfolded leisurely, like a silent film from the twenties or thirties. When they finished, it was a drawn-out sigh drifting in on the wind. Afterwards, Dunhuang didn’t know what to do. He buried his face in her breasts, silent, then got up and dressed. He gathered the DVDs, shouldered his bag, and got ready to leave. Xiaorong said, “Do you think Beijing’s a good place?”

“Pretty good,” he answered.

“I still want to go back,” she said.

As he understood it, what she meant was: one day she would go back to her hometown, and she would go back with Kuang Shan. But Dunhuang pictured a string of women, women with children at their breast or on their back, each one asking, “are you looking for DVDs? Need an ID?” Dunhuang noticed, for the first time, four fine wrinkles at the corners of Xiaorong’s eyes, two on each side. They would soon be joined by others like them.

Before he left he said, “You should go back.”

They hadn’t discussed what would happen when the DVDs were all sold, and when he needed more the next day, he hesitated before calling her. He told her that a student at Peking University needed thirty-five copies of Der Himmel über Berlin . Xiaorong hung up, then called back and said no problem, he could come get them that night.