Xu Zechen: Running Through Beijing

Dunhuang looked through all the baskets but found no hardcore, not even anything that could properly be considered softcore, only “romance” flicks. A woman with bared arms and legs on the cover was just a trick — he knew the whole film probably only bared that much skin. At last, he found something that sounded raunchy, a French movie called Porno Director . He turned on the TV and DVD player and started watching it with the sound muted. He watched half of it without seeing anything that quickened his pulse, and lost interest. His eyelids began to droop and he fell asleep in the chair. When he jerked awake the film was over, the DVD tray had ejected itself, and the TV displayed a steady deep blue with the white logo of the DVD player.

It was two thirty in the morning. He turned off the TV and DVD player, feeling cold and stiff. Kuang Xia was huddled on the other side of the bed like a cat, no longer snoring, the blanket rising and falling with her breath. To hell with it, Dunhuang thought, and drawing his wrinkled felt overcoat from his bag, he lay down gingerly on the queen-sized bed, curling his body up like a dog. He pulled his coat over his head and the world went dark. For him, night had come at last. He thought to scratch an itch on his chin — his hand halfway there, he slept.

Dunhuang’s first sensation upon waking was light. When he opened his eyes, he got a shock: he was staring right into another pair of eyes, set in a lively face. His head began to clear; it was Kuang Xia, he was sleeping in her bed. He felt warm; his hand encountered a soft, fluffy blanket. He smiled, embarrassed, and began to sit up, but Kuang Xia stopped him by pressing her mouth to his. Dunhuang slowly leaned back until he was once again lying flat.

Throughout the whole process they only spoke once: Kuang Xia said, “You’re on my foot.”

Dunhuang was at a loss. He’d seen plenty of porn, and had practiced in his dreams, but now that he was finally doing it for real his mind had gone completely blank, and his body lay heavy and intransigent in the darkness. Kuang Xia helped him, one hand leading the way, and then she said, “You’re on my foot.” Dunhuang had somehow managed to step on her foot. Later, he began to understand what to do. His reason gradually returned to him. As his mind grew clearer, he was able to make use of the lessons of films and dreams. He watched as her brow knit together like cord and she clenched her teeth as if she were enduring great suffering. Her body contracted, shuddering, but apart from those few words she never made a sound.

Dunhuang rolled away from her, lightened in heart and body. He had a foolish feeling — the heavens were high and the clouds were white and the wind was blue. He had a foolish feeling that the storm had abated, that the roof of the apartment had vanished, and that the sandstorm had never visited Beijing at all.

Neither spoke. The plastic chicken alarm clock at the head of the bed ticked and tocked to itself.

“Am I pretty?” Kuang Xia asked after a long while.

“Yeah.”

Silence once again.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“Same as my younger brother,” she said quietly. “I’m twenty-eight.”

Dunhuang suddenly felt protective of the girl beside him, and he stammered, “Actually, I’m a. . uh. . I make fake ID cards.”

“Oh. . fake IDs. I sell pirated DVDs, we’re practically colleagues.”

She laughed a little. He said, “I just got out. From. . inside.”

He expected a cry of shock and dismay, but it didn’t come. She merely repeated, in the same tone, “Oh.” Then she said, “My real name is Xia Xiaorong.” Dunhuang wanted to turn his head and look at her, but he stopped himself. She continued, “I made up the name ‘Kuang Xia’ for when I have a child.”

Dunhuang felt uncomfortable, as though a sharp thread were tugging upwards from his belly and splitting open his chest. “Are you married?” he asked.

“No, and no kids yet, but my boyfriend’s last name is Kuang. And mine is Xia.”

Dunhuang decided he didn’t want to lay there all day. He sat up and began putting on his clothes. He moved quickly, heading to the bathroom before his belt was fastened. He sat on the toilet with his pants on and smoked a cigarette. When he came out he decided to give her all of his worldly wealth and pulled from his pocket the twenty-two kuai and four mao. As he passed the little square table in the living room, he stuck the money under the ashtray. That done, he looked up and saw, through the window that separated the bedroom from the living room, Kuang Xia — whose real name was Xia Xiaorong — looking at him with her head cocked to one side.

“I want a glass of water,” said Xiaorong.

Dunhuang poured a glass and brought it over. “It’s hot.”

Xiaorong stretched a bare arm from beneath the covers and grabbed his hand. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

All at once and for no good reason, Dunhuang felt sad. “Yeah I do!” he said. “Here in Beijing.” He didn’t, of course, but he thought he should say he did. As he said it, he remembered a girl Bao Ding told him about, Qibao. Bao Ding said that once he got out he should go find Qibao and take care of her. Dunhuang knew next to nothing about Qibao — he’d seen her only once, from behind. He’d arrived at Bao Ding’s place just as she was leaving. She was tall and slender, with a good ass. When he mentioned her, Bao Ding laughed and said, that’s Qibao. He said that she also sold fake IDs, but had told him nothing more than that. And if he wasn’t telling, Dunhuang knew not to ask.

Xiaorong kept hold of his hand. “Is she pretty?” She sounded like his mother.

“She certainly wouldn’t turn your stomach.”

Giggling, she drew her arm in again, the blanket gently shaking with her laughter. When the laughter subsided and her body was still, she said, “When I saw you standing in the living room you looked just like my brother back home. He’s a good-for-nothing, he still doesn’t understand what life is. He’s driving our parents crazy with worry.” Then she said, “Bring her over and let me see her some time.”

Now she sounded like an older sister. “I’m not exactly sure where she is,” Dunhuang said.

“As long as she’s in Beijing, you’ll find her. Aren’t you even curious why I invited you for a drink?”

Dunhuang was quiet.

“We had a fight. He said girls like me were a bore, always wanting to go home to the countryside, wanting to settle down and have kids. He said he’d rather just break up.”

“You were waiting for his call.”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Him?”

“You.”

Suddenly, she was angry: “Get out of here! It’s the same bullshit with all you men!”

So he started to leave. He picked up his bag and walked out of the bedroom, but she called him back again. Her voice had softened somewhat, and she told him to look the other way while she got dressed. She only put on a shirt and then sat with the covers around her. She handed him 100 kuai. “This is all I’ve got,” she said. “It’ll have to do for now.”

Wordlessly, Dunhuang took the money. As he passed through the living room he stuck the twenty-two kuai and four mao back in his pocket, too.

* * *

As far as Dunhuang was concerned, that one hour in the morning was the only good part of the day — he spent the rest of it running through Beijing’s dust. The wind had dropped and dust hung in the air, neither settling nor dispersing. The people in the streets wore glasses, masks, headscarves. Carrying his bag, he first went to Xiyuan, where he and Bao Ding had rented a couple of rooms three months ago. The landlady pretended not to recognize him — after they’d been caught she’d sold what she could sell of their stuff and tossed the rest. Their rent was paid up for another month, too. Finally, Dunhuang lost his temper and cursed her, calling her a cheapskate. The landlady relented, saying he had some nerve coming back now, when the police had come asking questions — she’d lost face because of him.