Xu Zechen: Running Through Beijing

“I said I’ll soon be rich,” answered Dunhuang.

When Dunhuang told Qibao, she said, “If it had been me, I would have had it out with the old hag, at worst you find a new place to live. In a city this size how hard could that be? Goddammit, if I ever have money I’ll build a hundred apartment buildings, fifty stories at least, and rent them all out. Then I’ll sit at home all day and count my cash.”

“If you can’t count it all I’ll help you.”

“That’s all you’re good for — sitting at home! Why can’t you just say, ‘fuck it, I’m going out to earn rent for you?’ Grow a spine — hey, I’m talking to you!” She whacked him on the shoulder. It hurt a bit. “You see? A little smack and you stare like an idiot. You go around looking like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”

Dunhuang stopped short, as though he’d been stung by a wasp. She was right. When had he started worrying so much about other people’s rotten business? What had happened to that expansive sense of him-against-the-world he’d had when he first got out of jail? Back then he’d scoffed at Beijing: worst come to worst he could always sleep under a bridge, could always beg for a meal, begging wasn’t a crime. What had happened to that sense of taking each day as it came, of not having a care in the world? Back then, women were nothing to him: nice if you could get them, but to hell with them if you couldn’t. As long as he wasn’t under lock and key, life was good. When had life suddenly gotten so complicated? When had he started fretting? Jesus Christ.

“Fuck, are you meditating again?” Qibao poked his cheek. “You’re either staring at the wall or you’re catching flies in your mouth, how the hell did I ever fall for you? Now you’re having an out-of-body experience — wake up!”

“I want to go visit Bao Ding.”

“So go, you don’t need to notify me.”

“Will you go with me?”

“No.” She started putting on her sneakers. “What am I going to tell him — that we’ve been sleeping together?”

“So don’t go.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

* * *

That night, they went to the Old Summer Palace, climbing over the wall in a small alley. They’d done it with a group of friends a few nights before, but had only stayed half an hour. Qibao hadn’t had her fill, and dragged Dunhuang back again. He boosted her over the wall, hands on her ass, and they heard the frogs croaking before they’d even reached Fu Lake. “Damn it’s big,” said Qibao. “Those Qing dynasty pigs really knew how to enjoy themselves.” The night-silence in the Summer Palace had a weight to it that pressed down on the surface of Fu Lake. Dunhuang was a little surprised at Qibao’s guts, running around happily in the pitch-black park, making a show of playing the tour guide for Dunhuang, explaining which palace girl had died here, or which eunuch had been executed there. Wronged ghosts everywhere. As they neared the ruins of the great fountains Dunhuang was getting goose bumps, but Qibao was perfectly unconcerned, ducking among the ruined walls and uttering strange bird-like cries. The sound was gentler than a crow’s cawing, and terribly eerie. Then she laughed. Dunhuang told her to keep quiet or she’d have the park guards on them. Later, tired, she lay down on a broken slab of stone and told him to lay down next to her. She said if the stone wasn’t so chilly they could sleep there, and leave by the front gate in the morning. Dunhuang assented, and rolled over on top of her.

“Don’t get frisky, look where we are!”

“I couldn’t get frisky if I wanted to, I think it’s frozen off completely.” Dunhuang kissed her. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

“As long as it’s not about money.”

“Old married couples can’t stand on ceremony. If a man borrows money he’ll repay it!”

“A man shouldn’t have to borrow money!” Qibao held Dunhuang close, her eyes wide as she said, “You’ve got a one-track mind. I told you, give up on ‘saving’ Bao Ding. Even if you sold the two of us it wouldn’t do the trick. If two or three thousand was enough I’d have put it up long ago. Do you have any connections? You’re not going to meet Buddha just by lighting incense!”

“Well I need to meet him somehow! I can’t just stand here while someone rots away because of me.”

“Because of you? It’s because of money! Anyone who does our work is going to jail eventually, it’s just a matter of time.” “I can’t explain it to you,” Dunhuang said, pushing her arms away and rolling off her. “You women will never understand men’s business.”

“It was women that squeezed you fucking men out, what’s so hard to understand? You’re just a typical Neanderthal, you can never be wrong. Why can’t you just save the money up, and then give it to him when he gets out? He’ll need it more then than he does now.”

Dunhuang rolled back on top of her. “Damn, ball-and-chain, that’s good thinking. That’s exactly how I felt when I’d just gotten out and had no cash.”

“Piss off,” Qibao said, pushing him away. “I came to Beijing when I was eighteen; what mud puddle were you playing in back then?”

“I was trying to pass my tests, studying molecular formulas. Hydrogen plus oxygen is water.”

“Wow, you should be a college professor.”

“I thought so, too, but they didn’t want me.”

Qibao started laughing. “You’re full of yourself right up to the eyebrows.” Dunhuang laughed too. This damned girl had to have been squeezed out by a fox spirit, not another woman. No question.

Qibao bought Dunhuang a whole new set of clothes; from every angle he looked like a proper gentleman. She said, “You ought to look like a proper gentleman, both for yourself and for Bao Ding, you don’t want the prison guards to die laughing.” Besides cigarettes he brought a bite to eat, anything more and Bao Ding would have no place to keep it, and he wouldn’t be permitted to keep it anyway. He also brought a little medicine — Bao Ding had stomach problems — and some cash. When he got there, Bao Ding would tell him which guards to give it to. Dunhuang couldn’t even be sure Bao Ding was still in the same place. If he’d been moved, Dunhuang would have to make another trip.

The guard at the gate didn’t remember Dunhuang. There was no need to explain himself, he just passed some cigarettes to the police who’d brought him, and was taken in to see the head of the prison, where he handed out more smokes. They checked, Bao Ding was still there. Then he was following a guard through rooms and corridors that he still recognized. The place hadn’t changed in the past few months, neither had the faces and expressions of the guards — even the half-footprint on the wall where the corridor turned was still there. The grass in the prison yard was shining slickly, and moss was starting to appear on the shaded stone steps. The riflemen in the watchtowers cradled their guns, gazing into the distance. Dunhuang heard many people shouting slogans in unison, and the sound of marching footsteps like countless knives chopping vegetables. He was able to distinguish that sound from the general stillness of the yard, something he had never been able to do before: back then, he’d either been locked up in silence, or he’d been part of the vegetable-chopping brigade. You only ever heard one thing: either silence, or chopping.

“Wait here,” said the guard.

Dunhuang sat on a nearby chair. He was in a big room fitted with an iron barrier and thick glass, like you’d see on TV — always looking a little different, but feeling the same. A while later he heard someone say, “Go in!” and Bao Ding came in through a door on the other side of the barrier. He’d lost a lot of weight.