Xu Zechen: Running Through Beijing

“You scared the crap out of me, I thought it was a sting!” Dunhuang turned and yelled to the server, “Bring a menu, we’re ordering!” She was in the midst of clearing his table, and looked at him blankly. “Something wrong with your ears?” he said. “Ten bottles of beer!”

They sat down, and Dunhuang asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting out?”

“Didn’t know myself,” Bao Ding answered. He guzzled an entire bottle of chilled beer, then belched once and farted twice before continuing. “Remember last time I told you I got into a fight inside, protecting some other guy? Well that guy was from Changping, he was in for knocking up some girl he shouldn’t have. Turns out his big brother’s some kind of official. Anyway, he had some strings to pull, and the brother got the guy sprung. I was included in the deal and came out with him — he’s a stand-up guy.”

“You don’t blame me, do you?” Dunhuang asked.

Bao Ding punched his shoulder. “You’re messed up in the head, kid! What the hell is that guy to me? He’s got a political background — at most I’ll be buddy-buddy with him over a few drinks, and that’s it. You and I aren’t like that, we don’t count for shit — there won’t even be headstones on our graves! Why would I blame you? If I did I wouldn’t have come to meet you.”

Dunhuang knew Bao Ding didn’t play mind games with his friends, and he let it go. He was out, that was the main thing. Bao Ding ordered one of everything he’d been missing, and they ate and drank and talked. He said the Hubei bastard would have a hard time of it, they were sure to extend his sentence, and it served him right for starting fights when he was already in jail. Bao Ding was lucky he stepped into the fight when he did, otherwise who knew where he might have been transferred to. He told a few fragmentary stories of funny things that had happened in jail, some of which Dunhuang had experienced himself, some of which he’d only seen on television, and some were even better than on TV. One guy who was a little wrong in the head kept yammering on about how he was going to commit suicide. He had his heart set on hanging himself but had no rope, and early every morning he would go around to the other prisoners’ bunks and collect threads and lint, meaning to accumulate enough to braid himself a noose. Another guy collected all the dead insects he could, even lice. He squashed them flat and kept them, saying he’d eventually use them to piece together a map of the world.

By the time they’d put down fifteen bottles of beer Bao Ding was a little drunk. When they were paying the bill he suddenly asked, “Where’s Qibao?”

“She might be making a delivery,”said Dunhuang.“I’ll tell her to come over.” He called Qibao’s number but her phone was off. “Why don’t you go back and have a nap first?”

“Yeah,” said Bao Ding. “This beer has gone to my head.”

Bao Ding slept all afternoon in Dunhuang’s room and woke at dusk. Dunhuang wasn’t there. Under the bed was a pair of delicate women’s slippers. He picked them up and smelled them for a while before putting them down and knocking them back under the bed with his heel. Before he finished a cigarette, Dunhuang was back. He was carrying an assortment of bags full of clothes he’d bought for Bao Ding, everything he’d need from head to toe, including a pair of leather sandals. “You’re dressing me up for my wedding,” said Bao Ding. Dunhuang said, “You said a man’s got to look good.”

“Kid, I was talking about you,” Bao Ding said.

The landlady wasn’t home, so Dunhuang told Bao Ding to wash at the spigot in the yard while he kept watch at the main gate. It was dark by the time Bao Ding finished washing and dressing — he hardly recognized himself. “Damn,” he said. “It’s good to be out.”

They ate dinner out. Dunhuang stuffed five hundred kuai in Bao Ding’s pocket.

“What the hell is this?” Bao Ding asked.

“I’m going to deliver some DVDs in a bit,” Dunhuang said. “If you go out, you ought to have something in your pocket.”

“Fuck, kid, are you trying to corrupt me?”

Dunhuang chuckled. “I never said a word.”

After they parted, Dunhuang called Qibao again, but her phone was still off. That damned girl. .

Bao Ding wandered out, hands in his pockets, with no particular destination. Haidian district hadn’t changed much. A string of cars were parked outside the sports arena; the wealthy were inside exercising, the young were singing karaoke. Same as always. Bao Ding’s sudden freedom left him feeling empty, and he decided he needed something to do. He got on the number 332 bus. He rode all the way to Xizhimen, the last stop, then left the station and continued wandering. The streets were packed with people — what an enormous jail you’d need if you wanted to lock them all up. He followed the footsteps of others: turning around, going straight ahead, crossing the street, straight again, turning, crossing the street, and then he was standing in front of a small nightclub. Bao Ding looked at the flickering, shimmering neon and laughed. He shuffled his feet— son of a bitch, they’re all trying to corrupt me. So that empty feeling had just been telling him to come here. Before jail he visited once or twice a month, it was a safe place.

The duty manager was a woman, a crumbling beauty. To his surprise she remembered him. She shook his hand and said, “It’s been a while, have you been striking it rich?”

Bao Ding grinned, “I had some business to attend to, just got back.”

“What’ll it be? A little relaxation?”

Bao Ding laughed, and said he could use a rest. The manager said he’d be wanting a bed then, and signaled to another employee. Bao Ding followed the employee to another floor, where she pushed open the door of a room where a dozen girls in low-cut dresses were drinking and laughing. Bao Ding pointed to the one with the lowest-cut dress and said, “That one.”

“You don’t want to take a closer look?”

“That one,” Bao Ding repeated, then turned and continued on.

Seated on a sofa, he had a cigarette and fingered the money in his pocket. This place was aimed at working men, so he ought to have enough. The girl stuck her head through the door and asked innocently, “Did you ask for me?”

Bao Ding waved her in, and the moment she sat down he stubbed out his cigarette and said, “Strip.” The girl blinked at his abruptness, and Bao Ding knew he was being a little hasty. What could you do? he thought. You try going for six months without.

Two rounds later, Bao Ding re-lit the cigarette he’d stubbed out. When he finished it, he wanted to use the toilet. As he got out of bed he said to the girl, Don’t go anywhere, we’re not done. She looked as if she might cry.

When Bao Ding was finished he came out of the men’s room and headed for the sink to wash his hands, but a girl got there before him. She spat several times into the sink, then started washing her hands, while a man outside urged her to hurry up. “I’m coming,” said the girl. Something inside Bao Ding went clunk , and he looked in the mirror: it was Qibao. Bao Ding hurried out of the washroom. After Qibao washed her hands she went into the ladies’ room, and Bao Ding waited outside. Qibao — it had to be her. She washed her hands again, dried them, and as she came out the man waiting for her put his arm around her shoulder. Bao Ding followed behind, watching the man’s hand slide down from her shoulder to her ass, and then they went into a private room and closed the door.

Bao Ding’s mood was instantly fouled. When he returned to the room he dropped his trousers. “Be a little gentler, okay?” the girl said. He stared at her until she retreated under the covers. The blanket moved a bit, and the G-string she’d just put on slid out onto the floor. But Bao Ding turned and pulled his trousers back on. Before he left he dropped a hundred-kuai bill onto the G-string.