The second time I went out my hopeful mood was extinguished even faster. Before long, the order came again: go back. At that moment I understood like no one else in this world the torture that was old Mr He’s existence. In winter he dreams of summer, in summer he misses winter; when he’s out he wants to be back home, when home all he can think about is going out. But it’s all the same, everywhere. That’s why the old widower subjected himself to such a demanding regimen, as a distraction from his pathetic life.
We’re both the lowest forms of trash, me and him, a fate from which we can’t escape. Every day we long for the planes in the sky to throw out a rope and pull us up, to take us away somewhere more fulfilling. Even if where they take us affords us no freedom. But there are no such things as miracles, so instead we must endure this aching passage of time.
The second time I went out I bought a pair of binoculars. I sat on the roof and looked out on the town. I saw people washing dishes in their kitchens, someone sitting on their bed mending the soles of their shoes, the final scenes before the curtains were drawn and the lights turned off. I went back to my fetid room and scrabbled around for my mobile phone, the last thing that could give away my whereabouts, the whore that had been seducing me ever since I went on the run.
I stopped myself.
I didn’t switch it on.
I made for People’s Park the next day. It has a mound like a golf course, dotted with groves of trees and the gravestones of martyrs. They’d carved out a lake in front of the hill and a pavilion had been put in the middle, connected to the square on the other side by a white marble bridge. Water spat like the strings of a harp. Medicinal herbs had been left to dry on the stones and a farmer’s truck was parked in the distance, its back tyres missing, resting on a pile of planks. I was the only person in sight.
I approached the steps leading to the martyrs’ graveyard, replaced the battery in my mobile and turned it on. The reception was crap and it took until I reached the top before ‘new message’ pinged on the screen. I felt a flash of hope and opened it.
Dear Sir/Madam, My name is Zhang Bing of Happiness Boulevard Real Estate. Please feel free to contact me with all your real estate needs. Thank you!
Not a chirrup. No rustle of leaves. Rays of sunlight poked through the trees and laid themselves out, motionless, across the gravel path.
I remembered a short story I once read: the author, desolate and lonely, walked through a cemetery. Just as they were about to cover a coffin, he stopped to listen. What if someone was calling him? But there was only silence. That’s how I felt at that moment. I wanted to sit and wait for the police. I was going to be executed and I had nothing left to say. Nothing to explain. But I ran away, crying. I chucked the battery, fled down the steps of the martyrs’ graveyard and chased down a threewheeled cart.
I looked back at the park through the binoculars from a hill in the distance. The lake, the square and the shimmering branches. A man emptying the bins. The next few glimpses were the same. I took a nap in the fading light. When I woke I reached straight for the binoculars. Rushing cars, crowds of people. I could feel their anger even from this far away. Their eyes were like flames sweeping across the park. They shook sticks as if waiting for me to come running out. A police dog pulled its masters, panting and dribbling, like a horse yanking on its reins. The officers followed behind it as it sniffed.
Before long they’d covered the entire park.
I stood up and ran down the hill. My feet pedalled hard against the ground, my teeth clattered, my brain rattled in my skull. Once at the bottom, I hailed another three-wheeler and told him to take me to Benefit the People Guest House, quick. I paid before we got there, but just as he was about to stop I told him to keep driving. I’d spotted a white van was parked out front. I’d never seen it parked there before.
‘Where you going, kid?’ the driver said.
I wasn’t about to argue, so I told him to swing by a public toilet and ducked inside, from where I watched the door to the hostel. After a while, two puffy crimsoncheeked guys emerged, picking at their teeth. They sauntered towards the car, pulled up the windows, switched on the air-con and waited a while before driving off. I checked there was no one else around and approached the hostel. The lobby was empty, the only movement coming from papers fluttering on the desk, blown by the air-con. They couldn’t have been gone long. I made for the stairs, walked down a corridor, unlocked a door, went in, closed it and pulled across the bolt. All without making the slightest sound. I threw my mobile and binoculars into my bag, swung it onto my back and stood in front of the door. It was so dark and quiet outside that it creeped me out. I didn’t move. But before long I heard the sound of a man’s footsteps. They were slow, yet purposeful. He was approaching the top of the stairs. I expected him to carry on up, but he paused on the landing before starting down the corridor towards me. Maybe he was staying in the next room. The footsteps disappeared. I waited for him to open the door, but there was only silence.
I took a step back and saw the shadow of two feet in the crack beneath the door. A man wearing a pair of enormous leather shoes was standing on the other side. I felt my breathing stop. Then, as if a gust of air had taken him, his shadow disappeared. He sure was patient.
After a short time a thudding came up the stairs.
‘What’s taken you so long?’
‘Didn’t I tell you keep a watch downstairs?’ the first man hissed.
‘Watch for what?’ The second man trundled towards us. Then came a thumping on the door and the knocking hammered into my heart. ‘No one’s in,’ he snarled.
‘How do you know? Have you opened the door and looked?’ the first guy said.
‘Get the fuck out here!’
The second man started kicking the door as if he was stamping on it. The screws that secured the lock to the doorframe began to loosen. I moved – the place was suffocating, I was about to explode – and opened the window. I was panting hard. The yard at the back was empty, apart from the particles of dirt on the ground illuminated by the sun.
I swung my bag onto my back, climbed out onto the windowsill and felt my way onto the ladder. I wanted to get down quickly, but my legs felt unsteady. They would probably be waiting for me at the bottom. But they weren’t and I didn’t see them in the lobby either. I threw my bag over the wall and started scrambling up.
I looked back and saw two eyes as big as a bull’s staring at me. It was the chef. His arms hung by his sides, his mouth opening and closing as he searched his thoughts. I could hear the door being blasted open upstairs.
‘Shhh!’ I said, feeling something in my pocket.
He looked scared. I jumped down and tried to stuff the two hundred yuan from my pocket into his hand. He looked down at the money, shook his head, but I grabbed his hand and pressed his palm shut. I then pushed him away. I thought he was going to cry, but he retreated into the kitchen.