Engineering is better that morning. I am beginning to follow what is going on, and I find I study better in the morning than I do at night. But once engineering is over, I think of Haibao. Will he want to see me again? I think of how many people I have wanted only once, maybe it was only the unexpectedness of the moment, the always incestuous discovery of our particular brotherhood, that interested him.
I'm so tired of being a colony of one.
Xiao Chen says, "Last night, out late."
I answer in Mandarin, "I was with my tutor."
"Studying?"
I shake my head and smile. "No. I'm not that good a student."
A couple of Xiao Chen's friends come over and we watch a vid. I work on my mathematics homework. I get a letter from Peter which begins, "You're in love? I'm so jealous I can't stand it. Tell me all about her, is she beautiful?" You never know when a transmission will be monitored. I write back extolling the charms of Haibao who I rename Hai-ming, Sea-jade.
Empty afternoon, empty evening. I am waiting, suspended, until Saturday evening.
I dress in my new clothes; calf-high boots, black jacket with swallow tails over red, and brushed gray tights like Haibao wore. Am I doing it wrong, I wonder? Have I chosen well? I could disappear on the street in a thousand similar outfits. Will he approve?
When he opens the door he is preoccupied. "Lai, lai," he says absently, 'Come in, come in.' And he is not alone.
I despair at not having him to myself. I wonder if I have not been good enough. I am angry at him for doing this to us. I am curious about this other-one of us? And I am elated at the thought of meeting people.
"Hello," says the man on the couch, "You are Haibao's huaqiao."
"Hello, I'm called Zhang," I say, and we scrutinize each other. Haibao is not particularly handsome, in the face he is rather plain, but he has good hair and a good build and is so polished that the net effect is dazzling. This man is casually, even badly dressed. His hair is cut as if someone has dropped a bowl on his head and cut whatever showed and he hasn't bothered to comb it. But he has a handsome face; something easy to miss. In my experience, no one is truly handsome or beautiful without working at it.
"I'm Liu Wen," he says, "have a seat. Haibao is suffering and we should not interrupt a master."
"Irony is the escape of the intellectual," Haibao murmurs.
"Escape is escape. And if I must be a bad element, I might as well allow myself the luxury of indulging as many categories as possible."
Bad elements. There used to be five categories of black elements; landlords, criminals, counter-revolutionaries, capitalists, and one other which I don't remember. We studied it in middle school in Political Theory, that was a long time ago for me. Capitalists have been rehabilitated. I don't remember where intellectuals originally came in, perhaps counter-revolutionaries, but bent as we are, we are criminals. That has not changed in all the years since the revolution.
"Let's do something," Liu Wen says.
"It's early," Haibao answers, still pre-occupied with the view out the window.
"Then lets go get something to eat."
Haibao shrugs. And so we go out into the evening and catch a bus. Liu Wen is in charge and Haibao doesn't ask where we are going. So I don't either. I notice at an intersection that we're on Jiankang Lu but I couldn't retrace my steps. Liu Wen gets up and we swing off the bus and saunter into a restaurant. It's beautifully finished. My first restaurant in Nanjing. The floors are inlaid wood and one entire wall looks like red lacquer, finished in so many coats that it seems as if you could put your hand into it like water.
Liu Wen orders duck and four other dishes and beer. I apologize and explain that I can't drink beer. They bring tea, and eventually duck with creamy white skin and red tender flesh. "It's a specialty," Liu Wen says. It is tasty. I chase it with my chopsticks, and wash down monkeybrain mushrooms with my tea.
Liu Wen turns his attention on me, 'How do I like China?' 'What is it like in New York?' 'How did I get here?' He is fascinated when he learns that I worked north of the Arctic circle, on Baffin Island. He worked in Australia for awhile, he explains, in Melbourne. "Australia will be the next major economic power," he says, "now that they have the technology to use the Outback." He says 'Outa-baka.'
It is a strange meal. The food is good, but it is disturbing to watch Liu Wen animated while Haibao sits and broods, playing with his duck. I don't know the rules here.
Liu Wen pays, they give him the debit statement and he doesn't even glance at it. Out on the street it is night. "Still too early to do anything," he says. At home I would suggest we go watch the kite races but here I don't know what anyone does. Liu Wen is attractive, fascinating, but he seems interested in me only as conversation. That is all right, it is better than being alone. I think. I'm uneasy and uncertain. Wait, let things happen, I tell myself, live in this moment, there is nothing but enjoyment in this moment.
We take a bus across town to Linggu Park and walk. "They used to close the park," Liu Wen says, "but now everything is monitored."
It is a tacit way to say 'be careful'. Liu Wen seems to catch Haibao's silence. The evening is cool. We walk up a road until we come to a building surrounded by a moat crossed by three bridges. We stop and I try to figure out the reason we are here. The building is small, square, white, with a graceful blue tile roof with upcurving ends in the tradition of Chinese architecture. It's a nice little building, but what is the point?
"The tomb of your honorable namesake," Liu Wen says to me, grinning.
"Zhong Shan?" I ask, stupidly. He nods. Sun Yat-sen is buried here. Well imagine.
I glance at Liu Wen, he has a funny smile on his face. Haibao leans on the balustrade at the edge of the moat and looks down at the sluggish orange carp motionless near the light set under the bridge.
I don't know what to say so I say nothing. I am not even sure if they are making fun of me.
"Well," Liu Wen says to no one in particular, "let's go play."
Haibao straightens up and shoves his hands in his sleeves. We walk back and catch a bus.
We ride all the way back across town, out of the dark park into wide streets, then through the bright heart of Nanjing, back out into the dark edge of the city. The bus is only three segments when we get on, goes down to two, picks up two more in the center of town, loses them (people transfer from segment to segment but we just sit) and finally goes down to one segment before we get off. The air smells different down here. All of China smells different, I noticed a dusty, old clothes smell when I got here, but I don't smell that anymore. Here is a damp smell. Liu Wen remarks we are close to the river.
Around us are godowns. We walk past loading docks and parked flat-skids for moving goods off trucks. I can't imagine why we would be here. Liu Wen stops at a metal door and hisses at me, "Don't give your real name," and opens the door on a badly lit stairwell. Up we go as I try to understand what he meant. At the top of the stairs another door, waiting behind Haibao I can't see what it's like when Liu Wen opens the door, only hear sudden music, people murmuring. I can't hear what he's saying, only that he is talking to someone at the door.
"Don't worry," Haibao whispers, "he is a member." Then he follows Liu Wen to the door and this time I hear the doorman say, "Shi shei?" Who are you?
"Li," he says, the most common surname in China.
"Shemma Li?" Which Li?
"Li Haibao."
I smile, 'Haibao' means 'seal'. I have seen seals with their cat's heads and sad eyes in the waters off of Baffin Island, and Haibao, in his sleek way, has picked a name that flatters him.
"Shi shei?" the doorman asks me, he is wearing a white mask with holes for eyes and a slit for a mouth.
"Ma," I answer.
"Shemma Ma?"