Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“Thank you,” Zhuang said and started to walk away. “Mr. Zhuang,” the man continued, “the bride was a maid at your house, so you’ve taught her well.”

“You flatter me.”

“I envy her. I have a request, a wish I hope you will grant. I’d like to be a helper at your house so I could wait on you while I’m studying creative writing.”

“We’re not hiring another helper, but thank you for your offer.”

“You think I’m no good because I’m not a woman, is that it? I can cook and do laundry.”

Seeing that Zhuang was having trouble shaking the man off, Niu Yueqing went up to talk to Huang Defu, who was introducing the guests of honor. He announced loudly, “Among the guests of honor today is the celebrated writer Mr. Zhuang Zhidie. Let’s welcome him with a round of applause. Please come join us at the head table, Mr. Zhuang.”

A loud cheer broke out in the hall amid thunderous applause, so the man had to let Zhuang go. He went up to one of the tables, where he greeted the city’s VIPs and celebrities. He had barely sat down when two girls came up for his autograph. He was waiting for them to offer their notebooks, but they stuck out their chests and said, “Here, we’ve saved this spot near our hearts for you, Mr. Zhuang.”

He took a closer look and saw that signatures had been scribbled all over their white cotton blouses. “What a shame to ruin such nice blouses.”

“Signatures from celebrities make them valuable,” they said. “It’s impossible to meet so many of you at any other time. When we heard that the mayor’s son was getting married, we thought you’d all be here. We can travel around the city with your autographs on our blouses, making them true culture shirts.”

“Then I must see who has already signed.” Seeing signatures from Wang Ximian, Ruan Zhifei, Meng Yunfang, Sun Wu, Zhou Min, Li Hongwen, and Gou Dahai, he took a pen and scribbled his name on one of the girls’ chests. The other girl wanted more: “Mr. Zhuang, we know you’re talented and quick-witted, so would you write a poem instead? Four lines will do.”

“This is not the place for composing poetry,” Zhuang said. “So what should I write?”

“You’re here for a wedding, so why not something about love?”

After Zhuang wrote one on the girl’s back, she asked her friend to read it for her:

Put a stick in the ground and hope for a red blossom ;

Throw a stone into water and hope for a tail ;

Place paper under the pillow and hope for a picture of a dream ;

Paste a stamp on the heart and hope to send it to a woman far away .

“Are you thinking about someone, Mr. Zhuang?” The girl laughed.

“It’s called unrequited love,” he said.

“Great, that’s what I like the best,” she said. “I’ve dated a lot of men, and it never takes me long to say good-bye to any of them. There’s no one left in the world I can trust or love. Yet I need love, though I have no idea whom to love. The best kind of romance is one-sided, for I can freely love anyone in my imagination; it’s like having a key to every apartment.”

Zhuang laughed. “With that kind of understanding, you must be in love with a real person. So how can you say you don’t know whom to love?”

“It didn’t work out, so I vowed to stop loving him. I warn myself against that every day.”

“But you can never shake off your love for him, which shows you don’t know how to have a one-sided romance. If you did, you’d think about him because you can’t stop.”

“Ai-ya! You’re older than us, Mr. Zhuang, and yet you’re just like us.” She sat down in a chair next to him, looking excited and ready for a prolonged discussion. He sent her off, reminding her that the ceremony would begin soon, and it would not look good for them to still be talking. But then someone else came up and whispered to him:

“Mr. Zhuang, someone is waiting to have a few words with you outside, just to the left of the entrance.”

Who could it be? He was puzzled. Everyone he knew should be attending the ceremony. He got up and walked out of the hotel; with all the onlookers inside the restaurant, the area near the entrance was deserted, except for the rows of cars. After taking a look around and seeing no one, he was about to go back inside when someone inside a taxi by the side of the road rolled down the window and shouted, “Hey.” He looked over and saw a pair of oversized sunglasses. He knew who it was and ran over.

“Are you here for the wedding?”

“I came to see you,” Tang Wan’er said.

He looked up and sighed.

“Can you meet me at the House of Imperfection Seekers after the wedding?” she asked.

After turning back to look at the hotel entrance, he opened the door and got into the taxi. “Take us to the street by the Great Void Nunnery.”

She immediately locked her arms around him and planted urgent kisses on his forehead, face, nose, and lips, as if she were gnawing on a cooked sheep’s head, leaving red lipstick marks all over his face. The driver flipped his rearview mirror.

“Are they all gone?” she asked when they reached the street by the nunnery.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go to your apartment at the compound.” Without waiting for his consent, she gave the driver ten yuan, and the taxi turned around to head north.

Once they were in the apartment, she asked him to hold her, saying she missed him so much she could die; she had been trying to find a way to see him, confident that God would somehow give her the opportunity. She had found it that day, and she wanted to spend this noontime meeting making up for all the days they had been apart. Telling him to hold her tighter and tighter still, she lost her composure.

“Zhuang-ge, tell me what to do, Zhuang-ge. Tell me.”

Not knowing what to tell her, he could only try to make her feel better, but his words soon sounded hollow, phony, and meaningless even to himself. He could only murmur her name, “Wan’er, Wan’er.” Assaulted by a splitting headache, he felt as if his head were filled with water. Waves of pain surged when his head moved and the water sloshed around.

They held each other as if holding onto silent rocks; at some point, without being aware of it, they undressed each other, until they were both naked and wondering whether they were going to make love again. They exchanged a look and a smile, sharing the knowledge that only when their bodies became one would they be able to forget their suffering for a while, and that they would have fewer and fewer chances to do that until one day they would not be able to do it ever again. When he laid her down on the sofa, she said:

“No, I want to do it on your bed. I want you to carry me into your bedroom.”

They replaced the sheets and pillowcases and laid out the best blanket. She lay down with her arms and legs spread out to quietly watch him turn on all the lights in the room, start the stereo system, spray the room with perfume, and light some sacred Indian incense.

“I have to pee,” she told him.

He brought a chamber pot decorated with peony flowers out from under the bed and handed it to her, but she said: “I want you to hold me up.” She had such an alluring look on her face that he had to get onto the bed and hold her up like a child, listening to the sound of water falling into the pot like strings of beads. ☐☐ ☐☐ ☐☐ [The author has deleted 666 words.] But no matter how hard he tried, he could not do what they wanted. He sat there dejected, his head down, listening to the tick-tock of the pendulum clock in the living room.

“I can’t, Wan’er,” he said. “My problem again, I think.”

“How can that be? Would you like a cigarette?”