Love’s Ambition – CH 14

I Follow the Light of Fire

At their first meeting, Zhou Mo immediately realized that Jiang Yuan was interested in her.

“You’re quite different from them,” he said. “Not as restless as they are. You seem—very calm.”

They were standing in a hall crowded with people, watching two young women in tight short skirts busily taking photos with others. String lights on the Christmas tree changed colors, casting red and green light on their faces.

“That’s because I’m much older than them, already past that age,” Zhou Mo said.

“You mean you used to be like them?” he asked.

“When you’re young, you’re bound to be a bit restless, right?”

“Some things are in your bones. Trust me.”

“Alright.” She laughed. Someone was leaving, pushing open the door, and cold wind rushed in from outside, blowing against her feverish forehead.

Trusting this strange man was a dangerous thing, Zhou Mo knew, especially for her current situation. A divorced woman’s willpower was like a tooth about to fall out.

Zhou Mo hadn’t planned to attend that charity dinner. When she received those two invitations, she glanced at them and tossed them into the wastebasket along with the credit card bills. The day before Christmas Eve, she caught a cold and started running a low fever. She slept in a daze until noon the next day when Song Lian called. Every holiday, Song Lian would definitely invite her out—she felt responsible for not leaving Zhou Mo alone at home. Zhou Mo didn’t want to disappoint her good intentions. Even if it wasn’t Song Lian but some other friend, Zhou Mo wouldn’t refuse. She was afraid they would all give up on her and she would hide herself away, becoming a strange old woman.

Running a fever, she hadn’t heard clearly where Song Lian was inviting her until just before hanging up when she heard Song Lian shout loudly into the receiver, “Welcome back to Vanity Fair!” She shivered and instantly became half awake.

“Charity gala?” she said. “Are they fundraising for me? A poor, divorced, unemployed, childless woman?”

“Come on, your monthly living expenses could pay fifty white-collar workers’ salaries.”

“But I have no savings and still need to pay the mortgage.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worrying about these things. The only question you think about each day is, ‘What should I buy today?'”

For over ten years, she indeed hadn’t worried about money. She wasn’t even clear how much money they had at home. So it wasn’t until the divorce that she learned Zhuang He had taken all the money to invest in the real estate business. The project went wrong, the land was reclaimed, the money was gone, and even the house they lived in was mortgaged. Only then did she realize Zhuang He had such a strong desire for wealth. Perhaps what he wanted was a private jet or yacht or something like that. But why had he never told her? He was probably afraid she would laugh at him—she would have said it would be better to collect Impressionist paintings and donate them to a museum.

Fortunately, investment failure wouldn’t crush Zhuang He. Headhunters knew the value of this Stanford graduate, an experienced multinational corporation vice president. Shortly after the divorce, he switched to another larger company with a thirty percent salary increase. This thirty percent was just enough to pay his ex-wife’s living expenses.

Zhou Mo received a sum of money every month—this feeling was quite fresh. She hadn’t worked for over ten years, and now she finally had a job. This job was called being an ex-wife. Very leisurely, with quite generous compensation. In just a few months, she paid the down payment on an apartment and moved into her new home.

She kept a few pieces of furniture from before, all hidden in corners where you couldn’t tell unless you looked carefully. When Song Lian came, she thought everything was new.

“Very nice, a completely fresh start,” Song Lian said, looking around inside and out. “Let me think what else you might be missing.”

Then she gave Zhou Mo a cat. Its original owner had immigrated to Canada and entrusted it to her before leaving. The cat was a bit old and fierce and wouldn’t let Zhou Mo touch it, but at night it would jump onto the bed and sleep by her feet.

This was the first time attending a social event not as Mrs. Zhuang. Zhou Mo sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about what to wear that evening. Should she change her style to signify rebirth? She finally chose a sweater dress she often wore. At six o’clock, she put on her coat, applied a bit of blush to her pale cheeks, grabbed her handbag, and walked out the door.

Song Lian and Qin Yu drove to pick her up, arguing endlessly along the way about where to vacation for Spring Festival. Recently Zhou Mo often went out with this married couple. She had gotten used to having dinner with them, watching movies together, used to hearing them quarrel for no reason and then make up dramatically, and used to them spending an entire evening suspecting their housekeeper’s loyalty or analyzing their neighbors’ marriage with great interest. Sometimes they would ask for her opinion, including her in the discussion as if she were a member of their family.

Yes, why couldn’t three people live together? she couldn’t help thinking when she was drunk and laughing uncontrollably with them over small matters. This illusion would end when that night was over—it would completely disappear when she swayed home and stood alone in the marble-covered lobby waiting for the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, she looked askance at the many reflections of herself in the mirror, slowly wiping away the lingering smile from the corners of her mouth.

The hotel hosting the charity gala was quite old, with carpets at the entrance that hadn’t been changed in years. A thin Santa Claus walked around the lobby, bending down to let little girls reach into his bag for gifts. Passing the bakery, Zhou Mo peered inside—business was still as good as before. One Christmas, she and Zhuang He had bought a huge yule log cake here, ate it for many days, and later just thinking about that cream flavor made her nauseous. Now she tried to summon that taste, but her mouth was dry with only the bitter taste of the Tylenol capsules she’d taken before leaving.

They arrived a bit early—some guests hadn’t come yet. Zhou Mo found her seat and was glad it was in an inconspicuous corner. While no one around was paying attention, she picked up the place card with Zhuang He’s name and stuffed it into her handbag.

Two friends she hadn’t seen in a long time came over to greet her, asking where she’d been traveling recently. “Nowhere,” she shook her head. Perhaps in their view, she should find somewhere to hide and heal. Later, one of the friends mentioned that her dog had died. Zhou Mo felt this was a safe topic, so she inquired in detail about the cause of death, whether it suffered in its final moments, and the burial process. Her concern for this dog she’d never seen moved that friend very much.

Then Du Chuan appeared, rescuing her from the dog topic.

“How long has it been since we’ve seen each other!” He patted her shoulder, his booming voice unchanged.

A young man stood behind him. Du Chuan introduced him as his assistant, Jiang Yuan. Jiang Yuan was quite handsome, but his black velvet suit was overly formal, complete with a bow tie, and his slicked-back hair was full of gel, as if he were about to film Shanghai Bund. Especially following behind Du Chuan, who wore a hooded ski jacket and running shoes, he looked somewhat ridiculous.

Du Chuan was now a very famous painter. When Zhou Mo first knew him, he had just graduated from art school not long before. That was twelve years ago. She and Zhuang He had just returned to China and rented a top-floor apartment—their first home in Beijing. At the end of the hallway was a ladder that could take you up to the rooftop. The rooftop was very windy, and on clear days you could see quite a few stars. Zhou Mo often thought of that place.

Du Chuan’s studio wasn’t far from their home. Sometimes after he finished work at night, he would come sit for a while and have a glass of whiskey with Zhuang He. The two had no common hobbies or topics, yet they formed a wonderful friendship. Du Chuan might have liked Zhou Mo a little then—he said he wanted to find a girlfriend like her.

“Like what?” Zhuang He asked.

“Warm, considerate,” Du Chuan replied.

“That’s because you don’t know her well enough yet.” Zhuang He laughed heartily.

Zhou Mo threw the cushion from her arms at him. Du Chuan smiled as he watched them, picked up his glass, and drained the wine inside. Many years later, that scene of the three of them sitting together became her most cherished memory, even defeating the night when Zhuang He proposed to her by the fountain in the square.

Later, Du Chuan moved his studio to the suburbs, Zhuang He was always traveling on business, and their contact gradually decreased. Still later, Du Chuan’s fame grew larger and larger. She would receive invitations to each of his exhibition openings, but she never went once. She was afraid of seeing that he had become a different person.

But he looked exactly the same, was very happy to see her, and suggested they go for drinks after the dinner. Zhou Mo didn’t want to go because they would definitely talk about Zhuang He. Perhaps Du Chuan knew about their divorce—otherwise, why hadn’t he asked about Zhuang He? He might want to comfort her or express regret. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, as this would ruin the beautiful memories from before.

But Du Chuan’s enthusiasm was impossible to refuse. He also solemnly introduced her to Jiang Yuan:

“This is the first person to collect my paintings. That Summer is at her place.”

That painting had long been sold by Zhuang He.

“You have excellent taste,” Jiang Yuan said, not looking away until she turned her face aside, but he continued watching her.

Such persistent gazing should have been an obvious signal of interest. But she only hoped she was mistaken, because apart from owning an oil painting worth over three million, he knew nothing about her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he was attracted by her appearance—a woman at least ten years older than him, and because of illness, she must look particularly haggard. So her conclusion was that, given this quite suspicious affection, it was best to ignore it.

A lengthy charity auction was held during the dinner. One item was Du Chuan’s oil painting. Jiang Yuan walked onto the stage, holding it up to show everyone. Perhaps because he had to go on stage, that’s why he dressed so formally. Unfortunately his body was blocked by the oil painting, his face was deep in shadow, and you could only see the circle of hair gel on top of his head, gleaming greasily. Poor child, Zhou Mo thought.

She drank a little wine, felt very dizzy, and her attention began to wander, and it became difficult to join the conversation between Song Lian and her husband beside her. They were discussing hot spring hotels in Hokkaido with another couple who owned a gallery. It seemed the topic of vacation travel would continue the entire evening. She took out cigarettes from her handbag, put on her coat, and left her seat.

She pushed open a glass door and came outside. In summer, there were some outdoor seats here. One year Zhuang He and his colleagues often came here to drink beer. Which year was that? She pressed her temples, cupped a flame, and lit a cigarette. She had only recently resumed smoking. She’d quit for eight years when they were planning to have children. Three months into her pregnancy, she accompanied Zhuang He on a business trip to Paris. In a hotel by the Seine, her stomach hurt all night, and she lost the baby. After that, they never traveled far together again. Now sometimes when she lit a cigarette, she would think of that child. Think that if they hadn’t gone to Paris, that child might now be sitting in the study doing homework.

The glass door was pushed open, and lively sounds poured out from inside. She turned around and saw Jiang Yuan walking toward her. She realized she had been anticipating this moment. This might be the real reason she stayed here despite running a fever and having a splitting headache. Her nose suddenly stung, and she felt ridiculous. Even more ridiculous was that for an instant, what flashed through her mind was the scene from that sophomore year dance when Zhuang He walked toward her. She immediately felt ashamed for comparing the two. There was no comparison, none at all.

“This door is well hidden,” Jiang Yuan said, not wearing a coat, hands stuffed in his pants pockets. “Fortunately you lit a cigarette—I saw the fire from far away.”

“Where’s Du Chuan?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe he’ll come in a bit. He’s quite a heavy smoker too.”

“When you see him, tell him I have a bit of a fever and left early.”

“Leaving now?” he asked.

“In a while,” she said. “I came in a friend’s car.”

He took out rolling papers and tobacco from his pocket, skillfully rolled a cigarette, and handed it to her: “Try this?”

She waved her hand. He smiled and lit it for himself: “The weather forecast said it would snow tonight.”

“They forecasted it a few days ago, but it didn’t snow.”

“Wait until midnight; it will definitely snow. Trust me,” he insisted. “Tomorrow when you wake up and open the curtains, outside will already be white everywhere. Want to make a bet?”

She shook her head: “Only you kids make such a big deal about snow.”

He shrugged and dropped his cigarette butt: “Let’s go in.”

They returned to the hall where the auction had ended. Many people had left their seats and were chatting in the aisles between tables. They stood in a corner near the main entrance, watching the crowd from afar. She thought he would be attracted by those beautiful girls shuttling back and forth, but he seemed to really dislike that kind of showing off, instead finding her quietness precious.

“Do you paint too?” she asked.

He told her he had studied oil painting at an art academy in Chongqing, taught sketching at art exam prep classes for several years after graduation, and came to Beijing two years ago to work for Du Chuan. The assistant’s work was very tedious, from stretching canvases to paying tickets. Sometimes when Du Chuan socialized until very late, he still had to drive to pick him up.

She asked if he still had time to paint himself. “Yes,” he said, “evenings and weekends.”

“Is that time enough?” She glanced at him. “Though not everyone has to become an artist. Having a stable job is quite good too.”

He smiled without speaking. After a while, he pulled two chocolate balls from his pocket.

“Do you eat chocolate? I took these from Santa’s bag.”

She said no. He peeled off the gold foil and put the entire chocolate ball in his mouth. She heard his teeth roughly crushing the nuts.

“I’ve loved drawing since I was little. There were two other kids then, and we painted family planning propaganda posters in the village together. After painting, the brushes were ours. Every time we got covered in paint, we’d jump in the river to wash. When the brushes soaked in water, all the bristles fell out—we felt so bad.” He smiled. “These things sound pretty boring, don’t they?”

“No. What are those two kids doing now?” she asked.

“One works in Dongguan, one hauls sand in the county town. I’m the only one in the whole village who’s touched an oil painting brush. The one hauling sand really envies me—he specially asked me to bring one back for him to see.”

Just then Du Chuan came over, saying a friend from Taiwan had arrived and he couldn’t drink with them tonight. He apologized to Zhou Mo, saying he would definitely arrange another time, and asked her to wait for his call.

Zhou Mo found herself somewhat disappointed. She watched Jiang Yuan follow Du Chuan away, somewhat unwilling to believe that this evening would end like this.

On the way home, Song Lian and Qin Yu disagreed about the gallery-owning couple and started arguing again. Zhou Mo sat in the back seat, head against the window. She held her phone, constantly lighting up the screen to see if there were any new messages. She hadn’t given Jiang Yuan her phone number. Of course he could ask Du Chuan for it, though that would be somewhat strange. But if he wanted to know, he could always find a way.

The phone suddenly rang, and she jumped. It was Gu Chen.

“Still out?” Gu Chen asked.

“Yes. Can I call you back later?” she lowered her voice.

“Where did you go to have fun, a bar?”

“I’m almost home; I’ll tell you in a bit.” She hung up.

If Song Lian and Qin Yu knew who she was talking to, they would definitely scold her severely and never care about her again. But they were arguing fiercely and had no time to pay attention to other things.

Zhou Mo leaned toward the front seat: “Stop here. I’m going to 7-Eleven to buy something.”

“I want to get out too. I can’t live with him anymore,” Song Lian said.

“I’ve had enough too,” Qin Yu said.

“When did you start having enough? From the day Li Ya returned to the country?” Song Lian challenged.

“Stop being unreasonable, okay?” Qin Yu retorted.

Zhou Mo jumped out of the car in the chaos: “Good night, you two.”

She had just stepped through her front door, coat still on, when Gu Chen’s call came.

“Don’t you think living is completely meaningless?” Gu Chen said on the other end.

A month after Zhou Mo divorced Zhuang He, Gu Chen called for the first time.

“Tell me where Zhuang He is now,” Zhou Mo demanded right off.

Gu Chen had called the landline by the bed, whose number almost no one knew. Later she admitted to Zhou Mo that she and Zhuang He had made love over the phone. Zhou Mo only wanted to know where she herself had been at the time.

“I don’t know, maybe in the next room,” Gu Chen answered listlessly. She could imagine Gu Chen squinting. She had seen her photos on Zhuang He’s computer.

It was Gu Chen who destroyed their marriage, but six months later Zhuang He married another girl. What did this mean? Zhou Mo thought, perhaps it didn’t matter so much who he was with—what mattered was leaving her.

No one knew what Zhuang He was thinking. He announced the breakup news with a text message, then disappeared from Gu Chen’s life.

Gu Chen went to his company and found he had already quit. She looked for his friends, and they all avoided her. One of them told her Zhuang He had already married, but she didn’t believe it and broke that person’s nose. Finally, she thought of Zhou Mo and called her. But Zhou Mo said she didn’t know where Zhuang He was either.

The call didn’t end there. Gu Chen suddenly realized she could talk about Zhuang He with the person on the other end of the line—at least she was more willing to listen than anyone else.

Initially answering Gu Chen’s calls was just out of curiosity. Zhou Mo wanted to know where this powerful rival had lost. Gu Chen believed it was because her relationship with Zhuang He was too intense, with no breathing room. So Zhuang He needed to temporarily leave and go out for a breath of air. “Temporarily,” she emphasized.

Later, making calls became a habit. By then Gu Chen had usually already drunk too much. She would talk nonstop, then start wailing. If Zhou Mo didn’t interrupt her, there was only one way the call would end—when she was so drunk she passed out.

Zhou Mo quickly discovered that Gu Chen had a hysterical quality, as if she had to drag others down into the abyss with her. This was probably why Zhuang He left her. Of course it might also be why he fell in love with her.

“Zhuang He said I’m your opposite,” Gu Chen said. “You’re like ice, and I’m a piece of charcoal,” she would say. She would tell Zhou Mo things Zhuang He had said and also talk about things they had done together.

“We made love on the platform on his company building’s roof… twice in a row. He went downstairs for a meeting and then came back up.”

“Platform?” Zhou Mo repeated.

“Yes, he likes platforms.”

Zhou Mo remembered the platform above the apartment they lived in when they first came to Beijing. They had thrown a party there in autumn. After it ended, she went alone to clean up the cups and plates. Looking up by chance, she saw the sky filled with bright stars. She had never seen so many stars in Beijing’s sky before. For an instant, the thought of making love with Zhuang He there flashed through her mind. The platform was too windy—they’d need to set up a tent, like camping. The camping plan lingered in her heart for a while, but Zhuang He was always traveling on business or came home very late. Several times she asked what plans he had for the weekend. He shook his head, looking completely uninterested. How about setting up a tent on the platform to watch stars? Several times these words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back. She worried he would scoff and ask, “How old are you?

Gu Chen was still talking endlessly on the other end. Zhou Mo held the phone as tears fell. Not because they had stolen her idea, but because she very much missed the self who had spent many evenings plotting to set up a tent. That self believed many things that her current self no longer believed.

“Alright, you’ve already drunk too much,” Zhou Mo said. “Go to sleep.” She took the thermometer from under her arm—39.2 degrees. The temperature had risen again.

“I’m just starting to drink. You go pour yourself a glass too,” Gu Chen said.

“I have a fever and don’t want to drink today.”

“Just drink a little; just a little will be fine.”

“I need to stay alert. I might have to go to the hospital alone later.”

“I can go with you…” There was the sound of vomiting on the other end, then the sound of a toilet flushing.

“I used to go with Zhuang He to the emergency room in the middle of the night too,” Gu Chen said. “Once in a hospital room while he was on an IV drip, we started making love… The IV stand fell over, the needle swelled up, and the nurse scolded him, saying, ‘How could such a grown man not stay still during an injection…?'” She giggled and laughed until she couldn’t stop coughing. Then the laughter gradually collapsed, and she started crying, “Why did he treat me like this? Tell me, why…”

Zhou Mo swallowed a fever reducer and lay down on the bed. She put the phone on the pillow beside her. The person inside was still crying. The crying was shrill and disturbing. But Zhou Mo had fallen asleep to such crying on many cold nights this winter. Someone more heartbroken than herself was on the other end. She needed this kind of companionship, perhaps to the point of dependence. So sometimes she would persuade Gu Chen to drink more or tempt her to recall those beautiful moments in exchange for her emotions losing control again and crying loudly. At such times, Zhou Mo felt she completely controlled Gu Chen. She was extracting Gu Chen’s pain, but so what? This was what Gu Chen owed her in the first place. She believed the misfortune she endured allowed her to lower her moral standards for herself.

She always had a worry—that Gu Chen would emerge from the shadow of losing Zhuang He sooner than she would. Although Gu Chen’s pain was intense, it might be short-lived. She was young and emotionally rich—perhaps tomorrow she would throw herself into new love. Just thinking about this made Zhou Mo feel terrible, as if it were another betrayal. She didn’t know how to prevent it from happening. What she could do was answer Gu Chen’s calls, ensuring she remained immersed in the pain of missing the past. Also, do not tell her Zhuang He’s address.

She certainly knew where Zhuang He lived. After moving, she would go to their old residence periodically to collect mail and forward some things that might be useful to Zhuang He. Postcards from former American classmates or wine tasting invitations. The address was given by Zhuang He—he never intended to hide anything from her, including his marriage. In his eyes, she was the most reasonable ex-wife. But she hadn’t given the address to Gu Chen, definitely not out of consideration for him. She had a strong intuition that this would give Gu Chen relief. The reason Gu Chen was so miserable was because her heart hadn’t completely cooled. Zhuang He’s disappearance without a word made her still have expectations of him. If she saw Zhuang He again and heard him personally tell her he was married, declaring they had no more possibilities, perhaps she would let go from then on. Zhou Mo wasn’t worried at all about them rekindling their old romance. Once Zhuang He decided something, he wouldn’t change it again. She understood this well, so she hadn’t tried to save their marriage.

On this feverish night, Zhou Mo again dreamed of what she feared. Gu Chen called to say she was getting married tomorrow.

“No, impossible,” Zhou Mo said loudly on this end.

“It feels like recovering from a serious illness. I’m completely better now.” Gu Chen giggled.

Zhou Mo felt a ringing in her ears and a stabbing pain in her heart. That pain pierced through the dream straight into her chest. She suddenly opened her eyes. She lay in the darkness for a long time, unable to move, just feeling the sweat on her body slowly cool.

She picked up her phone to check the time. 3 AM. A new text message popped up from an unknown number: “It’s snowing outside. I won.”

They arranged to meet at the entrance of the art museum. Zhou Mo arrived early and waited inside the glass doors.

Sparse snowflakes drifted from the sky, and trains passed on the distant railway tracks. The grimacing sculptures in the open space in front of the museum were covered with snow, transformed into innocent clay figures.

Jiang Yuan crossed the street and walked toward her. He wore a duffle coat and carried a very old Cambridge bag, looking like a melancholy college student. He was so different from the night before that she almost didn’t recognize him. Then she began to wonder how she had become involved with this boy before her.

The art museum was empty in the morning except for one very old couple moving slowly. Today was the last day of the Monet exhibition—tomorrow these paintings would be shipped back to America. Visiting this exhibition was Jiang Yuan’s suggestion, though Zhou Mo had also wanted to come.

“Don’t you have to work today?” Zhou Mo asked.

“I took leave,” Jiang Yuan blinked. “I said my cousin came to Beijing.”

“Cousin?” She pondered this identity.

“Mm. Du Chuan said I really have a lot of relatives—last month it was my sister, this month my cousin.”

He looked at her and immediately said, “Last month wasn’t a date with anyone—it really was my sister who came.”

The word “date” sounded quite jarring.

“Even if it were a real date, that would be perfectly normal,” she said.

“Where are there so many people worth dating?” he said, looking at her.

When they came out of the art museum, the snow had stopped. They walked through the snow to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

“I don’t like Monet. Not at all,” he said, looking at the menu, then suddenly raising his head.

“Hm?”

“I kept holding back from saying it. I thought I shouldn’t spoil your enjoyment of the exhibition.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

“Too sweet, like canned syrup. Not sincere at all,” he said.

“Maybe that’s how he saw the world,” she said. “Everyone sees a different world through their eyes.”

“That’s true, but a good painter shouldn’t only see those things.”

“Since you don’t like him, why didn’t you choose a different exhibition?”

“Others? Those domestic painters are too poor, and each one thinks he’s a master.”

She almost asked what he thought of Du Chuan’s work but swallowed the words back. She pointed to the menu: “See what you’d like to eat.”

While eating, she quietly stopped to watch him. His chewing was loud; his mouth moved widely, as if he wanted every small tooth to fully contact the food. She couldn’t remember anyone she knew eating like this. But he still looked like a boy and didn’t seem annoying—instead she felt a little sorry for him. However, watching him eat seemed to improve her appetite, and she finished an entire bowl of rice.

Leaving the restaurant, they walked onto the street. The sun came out, the air was good, and Zhou Mo felt her lungs were cool, like wide-mouth bottles on a windowsill. Wind blew snow off the tree branches, falling onto Jiang Yuan’s hair. He was taller than Zhuang He and, though very thin, had broad shoulders. There was a snowman by the roadside, built to look like a little monk. As they passed, he touched its head.

“My home is nearby.” She stopped, making gestures of farewell.

“It’s still early,” he also stopped. “Well, today was very pleasant.”

“Pleasant? After seeing an exhibition you disliked so much.”

“That’s not important. What’s important is good weather and good friends.” He redefined her identity.

“How are you getting back?”

“By subway. Where’s the nearest subway station? I’m not familiar with this area.”

“I’ll take you there—I happen to be walking that way too.”

They walked a bit more and came to the apartment building where she lived.

“The subway station is just ahead,” she said.

“Mm, I see it.” He looked up at the several apartment buildings inside the main entrance and pulled out his cigarette pack from his pocket. “I forgot to smoke all day today. Want one?”

“No thanks,” she said.

He held a cigarette in his mouth and waved to her: “Well then, goodbye.”

His expression was dejected, like a child being driven out when an amusement park closes. She stood in place, watching him slowly walk forward. When he turned back, she smiled, as if they were playing a game. He smiled too.

“Come up and sit for a while,” she said.

He really liked her home. He liked her old carpet and velvet sofa and thought the fireplace in the living room was cool. While she made coffee, he wandered around the house, looking at the photography hanging on the walls. “Can I choose a record to play?” he asked.

“Of course,” she called from inside.

When she came out of the kitchen, he was crouching on the floor petting the cat. The cat finally closed those restless, disturbing eyes. She put the tray on the table and hummed softly along with the music. She hadn’t felt so lighthearted in a long time, though she wasn’t sure if it was because she liked him or because she liked the feeling of bringing a strange man home. It didn’t matter; she encouraged herself—just consider it an experience. Everything should be tried once.

So when Jiang Yuan embraced her from behind, her heart was very calm. At the time, she was kneeling on the floor changing records. His large brown hands reached around from behind, holding her very tightly.

He didn’t move, as if waiting for something to melt.

Sunlight came in through the half-closed curtains, falling on the low cabinet in the corner—something moved from their old home that she unconsciously always looked at. Did the low cabinet have memory? Would it remember that time when she and Zhuang He talked and she stared at it just like this?

“I regret it very much,” Zhuang He had said. “I shouldn’t have let you stay home without working—that’s why you became like this. Playing the shakuhachi, learning tea ceremony, reading books, and visiting exhibitions—do you think that’s life? You have no idea what the outside world is like. Your life is all fake.”

She twisted her fingers, staring at the low cabinet. One handle had rusted—she had never noticed before, but it was especially obvious in the sunlight, the rust like dense insect eggs. It was all his fault, Zhuang He said so, and she was innocent, like a plant discarded by its owner because it was pruned badly. What could a plant do? The afternoon after Zhuang He moved out, she removed the handles from the low cabinet.

Jiang Yuan’s way of making love was somewhat rough. He pressed down on her wrists, as if nailing her to a cross—he seemed to appreciate this crucified posture. In the overly intense collision, she heard the sound of her own bones cracking. When it came to the moment of release, his fierceness receded, as if revealing his true form, showing a kind of panicked tenderness. He noticed she was watching him and covered her face with a pillow.

Jiang Yuan smoked, sitting on the windowsill of the nineteenth floor looking out. Against the light, his naked body looked like a youth’s, with an aura of mountains and wilderness. She couldn’t remember seeing such a young man’s body before. Although when she first got together with Zhuang He he was not yet twenty, he rarely fully exposed his body—perhaps lacking confidence. But with Gu Chen, he apparently didn’t have this problem.

She sat beside Jiang Yuan. He lit a cigarette for her. It was completely dark outside. Beyond the window were towering buildings flashing dazzling neon lights, with streams of colorful cars flowing on the elevated highways.

“My sister, the one who came last month,” Jiang Yuan said, “the moment she got off the train, she asked me where Beijing’s center was and to take her to see Beijing’s center. I took her to Tiananmen, the Forbidden City, and the Drum Tower, but she was still a bit disappointed when she left. Now I think I should have brought her to a windowsill like this, pointed down below, and said, ‘Look, this is Beijing’s center.'” He exhaled smoke. “I wish I’d known you earlier.”

She pulled the ashtray over: “Why did you approach me?”

“I told you already,” I said the first time we met.

“Hm?”

He pointed to the cigarette in her hand: “I follow the light of fire.”

He laughed and took her hand: “The bed is very comfortable. I want to sleep for a while—is that okay? I barely slept last night.”

They lie down. He used her arm to encircle himself, curling up in her embrace with his legs drawn up.

She closed her eyes for a while, and just as she was about to feel sleepy, the phone rang. She pulled out her arm, jumped out of bed, and quickly picked up the receiver. There was some element of performance in this panic—she certainly hadn’t forgotten her intimate rival and had thought about unplugging the phone. But she hadn’t done so.

“You have to drink with me a little tonight,” Gu Chen pleaded.

“Okay, in a bit,” she said, turning to glance back. Jiang Yuan hadn’t moved and was still sleeping soundly.

“Now, right now!” Gu Chen shouted. But she didn’t pursue it further and quickly fell into a confession mixed with memories. Zhou Mo had heard the part about making love in a car many times—maybe it wasn’t the same instance, but even if it was, it didn’t matter. She didn’t mind. She listened while reliving her earlier passion, unconsciously beginning to make comparisons. Recklessness and roughness obviously had more vitality. But that’s not the most important thing, she thought. What’s important is that my body is hot right now, my skin is burning—I can feel its existence.

Gu Chen started crying. She couldn’t hear Zhou Mo speaking anymore. Zhou Mo didn’t hang up—she put the receiver on the windowsill and returned to bed, pulling Jiang Yuan’s arm around her and burrowing into his embrace. Jiang Yuan moved a few times and opened his eyes.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Yes. I even dreamed.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I can’t remember clearly. It seemed like we were playing dice in a KTV room.”

“Playing dice? Who won?”

“I forgot. I just remember thinking about how to pull you closer to me.” He lowered his head and kissed her. “Mm, this distance is good now.”

She made a simple dinner with leftovers from the refrigerator, planning to send him away after eating. She didn’t intend to let him stay overnight—just thinking of him walking around the house in slippers and a bathrobe or standing at the basin shaving made her feel absurd. But Jiang Yuan showed no intention of leaving. After dinner, he suggested watching a DVD, then volunteered to bathe the cat. He kept finding new excuses, postponing his departure time. Until they discovered it was snowing outside again.

“Do you have alcohol? This kind of weather calls for drinking,” Jiang Yuan said, lying on the windowsill and turning his head.

“Then how will I drive you home later?”

“I can take a taxi or wait until the alcohol wears off.”

“In the middle of the night?” She laughed.

“Just drink a little,” he pleaded.

Zhou Mo opened a bottle of red wine and put on a more cheerful record. Jiang Yuan didn’t hold his liquor well and was soon somewhat drunk.

“Come closer to me.” He pulled her over and began kissing her. They kissed for an entire song.

“Thank you,” he said. “Mm, I have to thank you. I’ve been in Beijing for several years, and today was the happiest day. It’s very warm here, like being at home. Can I consider this place home? Sorry, I might be being a bit presumptuous…” He lowered his head and drained the wine in his glass.

She felt somewhat at a loss and just held his hand.

“This feeling is especially good,” he said. “You know? Especially good…”

After drinking, Jiang Yuan slept very deeply. Zhou Mo lay beside him, thinking about many things. She wondered what Du Chuan’s reaction would be if he knew they were sleeping in the same bed. She also wondered if Jiang Yuan would be very sad if they never met again after this. She didn’t know how much time passed before she finally fell asleep. But not long after, he shook her awake.

“Get up quickly,” he said. “I’ll take you to see my paintings.”

“Now?”

“Yes, the snow has stopped.”

“It’s not even dawn yet.”

“During the day the studio belongs to my roommate.”

He pulled her up and put socks on her feet.

“This is crazy.” She shook her head.

They drove to his residence. At 4 AM, the streets were completely empty, with vast expanses of intact snow stretching endlessly.

A gallery owner had sublet him a warehouse for storing sculptures. He and another friend partitioned off two small rooms for sleeping, using the rest as their studio. The studio was his to use at night—he painted until nearly dawn, slept two or three hours, then got up to go to work.

It was cold as an icehouse there, with strong winds shaking the iron door, making creaking sounds. Seven or eight huge frames leaned against the wall. In the darkness, the thick oil paint on the canvases looked like congealed blood.

He turned on the light.

Exploded tombs. Split hills. Rivers on fire. Villages hanging upside down from cliffs.

She saw darkness, anger, and apocalypse. This was the world in his eyes. Different from what she’d imagined—she thought he would paint light, pretty things. But she should have known it wasn’t like that. She knew when they made love.

She walked to the wall, carefully examining details of the paintings.

“Very powerful,” she said softly.

“I told you,” he said. “I’m not a child.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Trust me, give me some time.”

“I trust you.” She went over and hugged him. This ambitious boy made her feel sad. She liked those paintings, though they exceeded her aesthetic range.

“Let’s go. You’ve been shivering,” Jiang Yuan said.

“It’s really too cold. How do you paint here?”

“Haha, I put on a military coat—I have two. Also light a stove, the kind that burns wheat straw, but it’s been blocked these past few days, and I haven’t had time to clear it. Too much smoke makes my eyes hurt.”

“Why don’t you change places?” She immediately realized she’d asked a stupid question.

He smiled: “Let’s go.”

The sky outside was already growing light. The warehouse was in the suburbs, surrounded by desolation. Several kilometers away was a newly opened subway station. He said he rode his bicycle there every day, then transferred to the subway. His bicycles kept getting stolen—this was already the fifth one.

He shook his head: “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Have you shown these paintings to Du Chuan?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t like them.”

“Why?”

“Because these paintings don’t have his ‘traces,'” he said. “Don’t you think he really likes influencing others?”

“I think you shouldn’t pass up any opportunities.”

“I entered a newcomer award competition. If I win, I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“Then I’ll start thinking about what I want to eat.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll see.”

They had breakfast at a tea restaurant. Before leaving, he asked when they’d meet next. She seemed somewhat perfunctory, saying she’d call. He wanted to kiss her but she pushed him away. “Not in public,” she said. But he still quickly leaned over and kissed her: “I want to see you soon.” He put on his coat, pushed open the door, and walked out.

She watched him cross the street through the glass window. He needed a new coat—the one he wore had many pills and wasn’t warm enough. But she immediately dismissed the thought of buying him clothes. All told, they had spent nearly twenty-four hours together. She hadn’t been with one person for so long in ages.

For the following week, Zhou Mo didn’t meet with Jiang Yuan. She filled her days completely: yoga classes, French lessons, and films from Spanish Cinema Week. When Jiang Yuan texted, she would tell him what she was doing. They chatted by text, discussing recent good movies, the cat’s obesity, and Du Chuan’s new girlfriend. Jiang Yuan told her Du Chuan’s marriage existed in name only—he was recently dating a model in her early twenties. They talked about all sorts of trivial things, like the closest friends, but whenever Jiang Yuan asked which day they could meet, she would say she was too busy and had no time.

“Guess what I did today? I ruined my cousin’s wedding…” Gu Chen shouted over the phone. She had to hold the receiver away from her ear. “This isn’t my fault at all—who told them to prepare so much alcohol! And that host was really stupid, going on about true love and soulmates… Haha, I really couldn’t stand it, so I ran up and grabbed the microphone, then I said, ‘Let me tell you what true love is. My true love divorced his wife for me, but the person he married wasn’t me,’ hahaha, isn’t that hilarious…”

Zhou Mo wanted to hang up but worried that if she did, Gu Chen would stop calling and find someone else to confide in. Those people would console her and pull her out of this abyss. She couldn’t allow them to do that. She had to personally watch over Gu Chen, ensuring she stayed obediently in this suffering.

On the thirty-first, Jiang Yuan invited her to celebrate New Year’s together. She hesitated, then declined. In the afternoon Song Lian called as usual to invite her out, and she suggested they come to her home for dinner.

It had been a long time since she’d invited people for dinner at home. There was a period when Zhuang He often brought colleagues home. She was enthusiastic about studying recipes and trying new dishes. But those colleagues were all boring, forever discussing real estate, stocks, and immigration at the dinner table. She listened glumly from the side, feeling she was really letting down the food before them. Later, she lost interest in cooking. When Zhuang He and his colleagues wanted to gather, she always suggested they eat out.

She made grapefruit salad, roast chicken, and Spanish paella. Qin Yu brought a bottle of after-dinner liqueur. The food was well-received—everything was eaten up. Her appetite was also surprisingly good.

“What did I tell you?” Song Lian said. “There’s no obstacle that can’t be overcome. You look much better now. Leave all the unhappy things in the old year. Let everything start fresh in the new year. Come, cheers!”

The phone rang—it was Jiang Yuan. She left her seat and went to the kitchen to answer.

“Happy New Year!” Jiang Yuan said loudly. “How are you?”

“Pretty good. Have you been drinking?”

“I’m downstairs at your building now.”

“Don’t come up,” she blurted out. “My friends are here.”

He laughed. “I’m joking. I just wanted to greet you. Okay, go back to what you were doing.” He hung up.

She returned to the living room carrying the cheesecake she’d baked at noon.

“Wow, dessert!” Song Lian clapped.

She sat down, watching Song Lian cut the cake into small pieces. She realized Song Lian was looking at her.

“Ah, sorry, I’ll get forks.” She stood up.

Qin Yu poured liqueur for everyone.

“This winery only produces a thousand bottles a year. I think it’s no worse than noble rot wine.”

“Only you would believe what wine sellers say,” Song Lian said.

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s still a wine seller.”

The phone rang again. She jumped up from her seat and rushed to the kitchen.

“Sorry, it’s me again,” Jiang Yuan said.

She gripped the receiver, temples throbbing.

“I thought you were different from them,” he said, “but I was wrong. You’re a hypocritical person who doesn’t follow her heart. You’re afraid your friends will laugh at you for being with me, right?” His speech was slurred, voice loud then soft, as if he’d drunk a lot and was walking in strong wind.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Admitting you like me makes you feel ashamed, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s not. I just—” she said, “Have you ever thought about why you want to be with me?”

“I know what you want to say. You want to say I’m with you for some other reason. That’s right, I want a warm home like yours, and I want your help and support. But the premise of all this is that I like you. There’s nothing shameful about asking from someone you like. I would also dedicate everything I get to you. Every painting I make is dedicated to you. My success also belongs to you. Because we are one…”

“But the love I want isn’t like that.”

“Alright,” his voice was bitter. “I understand. Sorry, I won’t bother you anymore.” He hung up.

When she returned to the living room, Song Lian and Qin Yu were each looking at their phones.

“How’s the cake?” she asked.

“Great. It would be even better if it were chilled a bit longer,” Song Lian said.

“Really? Let me try.”

She ate the cake in front of her bit by bit with her fork. Tears fell without her noticing.

“What’s wrong?” Song Lian shook her arm.

“Nothing.” She sniffled twice and gave Song Lian an ugly smile.

“Whose call was that?” Song Lian asked.

“You know what, I don’t love Zhuang He anymore,” Zhou Mo said. “For a while, just thinking of him made me feel disgusted—I wished he would disappear from this world. But I really miss those days right after graduation when we rented an apartment in the suburbs. The roof leaked, there was no drain in the bathroom floor. On my birthday, we got drunk in the bathtub, water overflowed and flooded the entire hallway, the wooden floors were all soaked and rotted. The insurance company made us pay eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand dollars—what a concept! We thought we’d never be able to pay it back. We hadn’t found jobs yet, were already deep in debt, the future was completely bleak, nothing was certain. The only thing that was certain was that we would be together, facing this cruel world together.” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I always feel that was real love, love without any impurities…”

“Darling, you’re really naive like a high school girl,” Song Lian said. “What love is without impurities?”

“I know, I know,” she murmured.

“If you ask me, I think love is two people doing many things together,” Qin Yu said, quietly glancing at Song Lian.

“Mm, it’s a kind of companionship.” Song Lian also looked at him.

“Anyway, I don’t have much left to lose, right?” Zhou Mo smiled sadly.

The third day after New Year’s, Du Chuan called, saying he planned to hold a party at his newly built studio on Sunday and asked her to definitely come.

This invitation was a kind of providence, she thought. She knew she and Jiang Yuan couldn’t just cut off contact forever. But she didn’t tell Jiang Yuan, planning to give him a surprise.

She made a detour to buy a bouquet of flowers. By the time she reached Du Chuan’s place, it was already dark. She crossed the spacious courtyard, following voices to the dining room, where both sides of a long table covered with a white tablecloth were already full of guests. She hadn’t expected it to be so formal—Jiang Yuan probably wouldn’t be there. Somewhat disappointed, she took off her coat and sat down. Du Chuan introduced the guests to her one by one—there were businessmen and professors. He pointed to the girl beside him and said, “Xiao Shuang, my girlfriend.”

Zhou Mo smiled. She thought that before the divorce, Zhuang He had probably introduced Gu Chen to his friends just as openly.

A young boy came over to pour wine for her. She picked up her glass and was about to toast with the person next to her when she saw Jiang Yuan walk out from a door, carrying two plates that seemed to hold foie gras.

His expression was serious, as if he hadn’t seen her. He walked quickly to the table and placed the plates before the guests. She hadn’t recovered yet when he was already walking out for the second time carrying plates.

“The studio isn’t ready yet, so everyone please bear with us. Mainly this French chef happens to be in Beijing—it’s not easy to get him to come specially,” Du Chuan said.

Jiang Yuan walked toward this side expressionlessly. Zhou Mo lowered her head. She really hadn’t thought he would appear like this. But what did she think an assistant did? She had actually asked him, and he had said lightly, “Everything.”

He placed the plate in front of her. Though his movements were gentle, she could feel he was furious. She wanted to touch his arm with hers and give him some comfort. But he didn’t pause at all and immediately turned and walked away.

She had no mood to eat—the food on her plate was untouched. Before the main course, he came to take it away without asking if she wanted to eat more. The man next to her turned to talk to her. She could only respond with empty smiles, the corner of her eye constantly following Jiang Yuan’s movements.

After dessert was served, Jiang Yuan went into the kitchen and didn’t come out again. She poked many small holes in the lava cake, finished the wine in her glass, then stood up and walked out.

She burst into the kitchen abruptly. The French chef was chatting in simple English with the boy who had been pouring wine earlier. Jiang Yuan wasn’t there. She backed out, pushed open the door, and walked outside. Light from the large glass windows illuminated the outside, making the courtyard seem very bright.

Jiang Yuan stood under a bare wisteria tree smoking.

She stopped a few meters away from him.

“You came specially to see how I’m doing as a waiter, right?” Jiang Yuan said. “You’ve achieved your purpose. You can go now.”

“I didn’t know he would arrange it like this,” she said.

“Now you know.” Jiang Yuan dropped his cigarette and walked toward the other side of the courtyard. She followed behind him.

“Don’t follow me,” he said viciously.

He walked quickly to the other end of the courtyard, leaned against the wall, and lit another cigarette. She followed.

“Go inside,” he said, blowing smoke in her face. She raised her hand to touch his face, but he shook it off. She reached out again and was swatted away once more. He suddenly pressed her against the wall. “What exactly do you want?”

She stared into his eyes without speaking.

He also looked at her, then hooked her head, pulled her toward himself, and began kissing her forcefully.

“Miss me?” he said, touching her earlobe with his lips.

He took her frozen hand and led her up the stairs in the corner of the wall to the rooftop platform. He took off his jacket and had her lie on it. For some reason, despite being so cold she nearly lost consciousness, she seemed to completely open herself. At the moment of climax, she saw a very bright star emerge from the clouds. Then she realized this was on a rooftop platform. The platform she had always wanted.

Zhou Mo decided to try. Try being with Jiang Yuan. She didn’t have much, but if she could help him, she would be very willing to do so. Maybe in the end he would still leave her, but she didn’t want to think about that now. She just wanted to enjoy the present happiness. The next afternoon, she called Jiang Yuan:

“What are you doing?”

“Picking up a client at the airport,” he said. “The flight’s delayed, so I’m circling the terminal.”

She was silent for a while: “When you finish that batch of wheat straw, don’t buy more.”

“Hm?”

“Didn’t you say you liked my place? Move in.”

“Oh—” he said, “seeing that I did well as a waiter, you’re planning to give me a part-time job?”

“Yes, but you have to bathe the cat every week.”

“Okay, any other requirements?”

“Start work before the weekend, or I’ll find someone else.”

“No problem,” he paused. “Can I ask who that someone else is?”

When Gu Chen called that evening, Zhou Mo didn’t answer. The red light on the answering machine blinked persistently, then finally went out. She sat in the darkness, staring at it the whole time. Gu Chen must be having a hard time tonight, but there would eventually come a day when they each went their separate ways. Life was long—one still had to pull oneself together. Being in love seemed to make her kinder, finally able to forgive this woman who was no longer her rival. She made a decision. Decided to release the imprisoned Gu Chen.

At dawn, she sent Gu Chen a text message. She wrote down Zhuang He’s address.

Saturday afternoon, Jiang Yuan moved in with five or six cardboard boxes. In the days before, she had rearranged the home, had property workers move furniture, and cleared out a room for him to use as a small studio. Of course, he still needed a larger one. A friend had recommended a place, and she planned to go look at it with him next week. But a small studio was still needed—he could sketch and do research. This way sometimes he could work at home and eat her freshly cooked meals.

As soon as Jiang Yuan arrived, she pulled him to see the room. She had decorated it beautifully, with an antique bookcase he liked, a Le Corbusier lounge chair by the window—newly bought—where he could nap in the sun. There was also a solid long table with gentians she’d bought that morning in the vase. Jiang Yuan hugged her and couldn’t speak for a long time.

Before dark, they walked hand in hand to the nearby market. Jiang Yuan picked out a sea bass, bought ribs, lotus root, and small round mushrooms to cook her a meal.

“What can I do?” she asked, standing at the kitchen door.

“Set out the chopsticks?”

She found two candles, laid out the tablecloth, and added some logs to the fireplace. There was still plenty of time, so she applied a little lipstick in the mirror. Her gaze swept over a bottle of nail polish in the corner—bought long ago, she always thought she’d use it for some occasion. She sat on the sofa and began applying it. She remembered it as dark orange, but didn’t expect it to be so bright.

The phone rang. She picked up the phone with her fingers splayed. It was Zhuang He’s brother Zhuang Xian. The receiver was a bit far from her ear, the voice particularly thin, as if coming from the horizon. But she could hear clearly what he said.

Zhuang He was dead—it happened this morning. Someone saw Gu Chen go to his residential complex early in the morning, waiting by his car. Surveillance footage from the underground garage showed they had a violent argument. Gu Chen slapped Zhuang He twice. When Zhuang He tried to drive away, she forcibly opened the car door and jumped in. Twenty minutes later, that car crashed through the guardrail and fell from the elevated highway.

The accident was mostly due to their argument in the car, but it was also possible that Gu Chen was determined to die—police found several bottles of sleeping pills in her apartment.

“I’ll tell you when the funeral home is set,” Zhuang Xian said. After a pause without hanging up, he said, “I told him long ago to stay away from Gu Chen. That woman is crazy.”

She hung up the phone and looked down to see her red nails, startled. Like blood. She touched them—they weren’t dry yet. She frantically wiped them off, getting them all over her hands and clothes. Then she became quiet. A painful feeling rose from somewhere deep in her body. Many scenes from the past flashed before her eyes, faster and faster. She kept sweating, her head aching as if it would split.

When she became conscious, she found Jiang Yuan holding her. She was still sitting on the sofa, but time seemed to have passed for a long while, as if it were already deep night. She told him Zhuang He was dead—it happened this morning. Then she talked about Gu Chen, about their phone calls. She kept talking, her lips trembling more the more she spoke, every word that came out was broken.

Her eyes kept staring at the photo on the wall in front of her. The frame seemed a bit crooked. She thought hazily that she’d have to rehang it tomorrow. Then she realized that tomorrow she might lose this apartment. Lose those things she had taken for granted and thought trivial. Lose the freedom she thought she held in her hands.

She suddenly stopped and said no more. In the darkness, she heard wind sweeping through treetops, heard snow falling to the ground, heard fire splitting wood. Jiang Yuan seemed to have fallen asleep. She felt his arm gradually sliding down, then as if afraid of falling from the treetop, he hugged her tightly again. She held her breath, not daring to move at all.