He doesn't say anything for awhile and I have time to feel uncomfortable. What should I do? I don't know what to do so I sit and look at my engineering book, and then back at Haibao. I don't hear any crying. His shirt is as bright as yellow lacquer and the nape of his neck is pale between his hair and the collar.
"What's wrong?" I finally ask.
"A friend of mine is going to be arrested," he says.
Liu Wen? No it can't be. I wait.
He clasps his hands behind his back. "He is a teacher," he says. "They are arresting him on a morals charge, but it's more complicated than that."
I think, it always is. And I am relieved it isn't Liu Wen.
"I feel sorry for him," Haibao says, "of course. They'll send him to Xinjiang Province, to do Reform Through Labor. Do you know, if you misbehave in a labor camp, one of the punishments is to wire your thumbs together? They draw the wire very tight. It cuts off the blood. You have to eat rice out of a bowl like a dog, without using your hands. And then gangrene sets in and they cut your thumbs off. Or maybe you die."
What's to say? At home they used to send people to the Corridor out west, convict labor. Now, sometimes they send them to Mars. Convict labor. Chinese citizens do not usually have much interest in going to the moon or Mars.
"I think we are a disease in society," Haibao says. "Bad cells. I think something has gone wrong with us."
"In my country there's a bird that lays it's eggs in other bird's nests," I say. "The other birds don't know. They think this baby is their own. They raise it and feed it, in some ways it becomes almost a monster because it grows so large and demands so much. But eventually it simply leaves the nest, like any other bird. It's not a monster, it's really just another part of things. I think we're like those baby birds. We didn't ask for this, our parents didn't ask for this. No one is guilty, just maybe unlucky."
"So you think that we're accidents," Haibao says. He sounds sarcastic.
I shrug, even though he's not looking at me. That's what I think, and if he doesn't, that's okay.
"I'm afraid," he says. "If they interrogate my friend, they may arrest me."
I say delicately, "Perhaps you have a friend who can help you, someone who perhaps helped you transfer out of your teaching job… "
"No," he says curtly.
It crosses my mind that if they arrest him and interrogate him, perhaps I will be arrested as well. But it seems too improbable to concern me.
He is still at the window, looking out with the city as a back drop. This flat is like a theater for him, a shadow box for his own display. I get up and walk behind him, put my hand on his shoulder. He is trembling, like some small animal. I stroke his hair, he leans back against me and I wrap my arm around his waist. He turns his head so he is looking away from me and relaxes against me, his profile expressionless in the reflecting window. I tighten my grip, feeling his buttocks and back pressed against my stomach and groin, his fine skull under my fingers. Slowly the shaking subsides.
There's no doubt that his fear is real. But I cannot help but notice the flicker of the whites in the reflection of his eyes as he glances towards the window. He adjusts ever so slightly, improving the line, perfecting the pose.
"Don't worry, haibao," I say, thinking how 'seal' fits him, how sleek both he and seals are, "you are a perfect picture."
He laughs, shakily. "You see through me."
I don't really understand him at all, but I kiss his hair rather than answer, running my fingers across his chest. His pulse beats visibly in his temple.
"No," he says, chiding, "we must study engineering." His voice is playful and so I pay no attention, sliding my hand under the waist of his tights.
He sighs. "At least," he says softly, "we must darken the windows."
"Oh no," I say brightly, pulling my hand away, letting go, straightening his clothes like a mother with a toddler, "we must study engineering."
He growls at me, baring even, perfect little teeth like pearls.
I laugh, "First we study engineering and then we screw."
He gapes, astonished. "Did I hear your right? The namesake of Zhong Shan, vulgar?"
We do study engineering. I get my questions answered, draw out the session, teasing him, distracting him, pretending to be serious. It's a little like pressball, everything done by indirection. When I think his attention is wandering I press my thigh against his. I bring him a beer, brush fingers when I hand it to him, reach over and drink from his without asking while I watch him over the rim, and he watches me.
Finally I admit I have no more questions and kiss him. He grabs my hand and pulls me towards the bedroom, but I laugh and hang back, stopping him in the doorway where I press him against the frame, peal down his tights and go down on him there. He gasps, and laughs and swears at me, his hands wrapped rather painfully in my hair. Only after he comes do we make it to the bed.
Late, he dozes next to me and my arm is draped over his chest. I look into the darkness. It is about one. Peter is at work in New York, joking with Rebecca, the girl who does all the correspondence and filing. Peter would be astonished and proud of me, to know I have done so well with Haibao. To see me thinking about someone else in this way.
"A ministering angel," he would say, "a regular Florence Nightingale."
Peter, who so often did the same for me.
I am terribly homesick.
Haibao helps me with my engineering, a classmate, Wai Ling Zhung Fan, graciously helps me with my engineering. Even Xiao Chen, who knows nothing about engineering, uses my notes to ask me about my engineering. The midterm examination is very difficult, I work until the end of the hour and still do not get a real answer for question 6. I walk out despondent, knowing that I missed at least three questions completely, and parts of many others. For days I will not stop at the Professor's office and look at the grades posted on a flimsie on the door. But the Professor's office is next to my Practical Applications class (my tool handling class) so one day I simply go and look. And I have passed the engineering midterm with a score of 62 points out of 100 which on the grade curve is a 86%! I didn't know there would be a curve! I thought a 62 would be a failing grade!
Of course I go straight up to the arcade (the university is the base on which the four towers rest.) I take the lift to his flat and then stand outside his door in an agony of apprehension. I have never come on Haibao unannounced. And each day it is problematical as to whether Haibao will be pleased to see me or too despondent to care. Some days he is all wit and languid charm. Some days he is silent and withdrawn. Always he knows I am coming.
I imagine him opening the door smiling. Open the door frowning. Someone else there.
So I go back to the lift, take it back down and call from the arcade. I jack in and think the numbers in careful Chinese-the system will understand English, and thinking out the call in Chinese is not second nature yet, but it's good practice to do everything in Chinese. Then there is a wait so long that I think he is gone. Perhaps in a meeting with his thesis professor? Not that I have ever seen Haibao work on his thesis, but then I'm never there during the day.
"Wai," he says, Chinese for 'Hey' and the way everyone answers the phone. No vid, sound only.
"Venerable teacher," I say, "this is your undeserving student."
"Who?" he says, he sounds as if he has just woken up.
"Zhang," I say. "It's Zhang. Did I call at a bad time?"
"Zhang?" he says. "No, you didn't call at a bad time. What is it? Something wrong?"
"No, I just wanted to tell you I passed my engineering midterm. And say thank you for your help."
"Oh, you passed? Excellent." He is trying to sound interested, pleased, but the effort is apparent in his voice.