The man stood up at last, Sensei, and hobbled our way, dragging his sword as if it were a crutch. The light inside the café was muted, but bright enough to see his face. The complex expression created by the totality of his features and facial muscles is hard to describe. I couldn’t be sure if he was looking at me or at the smoke coming from my mouth. I stood up so quickly the legs of my chair scraped the floor noisily. Little Lion stood up.
He stood in front of us. I stuck out my hand and pretended to be surprised to see him. He accepted neither my greeting nor my extended hand, keeping a respectable distance as he bowed deeply, then rested both hands on the handle of the rusty sword and said: Honourable Lady, Honourable Sir, I, the Spanish Don Quixote, knight of La Mancha, extend my deepest respect and humbly offer my unswerving desire to serve you.
Quit fooling around, Chen Bi, I said. Who are you pretending to be? I’m Wan Zu and this is Little Lion.
Honourable Sir, Respected Lady, for a loyal knight, no enterprise is more sacred than preserving peace and upholding justice, sword in hand.
Okay, pal, knock off the play-acting.
The world is a stage, one on which the same drama is played out every day. Sir, madam, if you could see fit to reward me with a cigarette, I will demonstrate my duelling skills.
I hastily handed him a cigarette and helpfully lit it for him. He took a deep drag, turning the end a bright red. He squinted and his face grew pinched, but then slowly smoothed out as smoke streamed from his wide nostrils. Seeing how relaxed and contented a cigarette made him both shocked and moved me. Though I’d been smoking for years, I wasn’t a heavy smoker, which was why I could not relate to the effect of that cigarette on him. He took another drag, burning up most of the remaining tobacco. Those pricey cigarettes had an exceptionally long filter, which left little room for tobacco, a ploy to appease the wealthy users who were afraid of dying from smoking but found it impossibly hard to quit. Three puffs burned the cigarette down to the filter. I handed him the whole pack. He timorously looked to the right and left before snatching it out of my hand and stuffing it up his sleeve. His promise to demonstrate his duelling skills forgotten, he limped to the door as fast as he could manage, dragging his sword and one leg behind him, but before he got there, he reached into the willow basket and snatched up a baguette.
Don Quixote! You’ve panhandled another customer! the fat fake Sancho Panza shouted while he brought us two mugs of foamy dark ale. We looked out the window at the poor man dragging his rusty sword behind him, his gimpy leg leaving a long, flickering shadow, as he crossed the square and disappeared in the darkness. The apparently robust dog followed closely behind him. A pathetic-looking man with a dog that seemed to strut.
Damn him, the fake Sancho Panza said for our benefit, not quite apologetically and sort of showy. He’s always embarrassing us by doing things behind our back, he said, and I want to apologise on behalf of my boss, sir, and you, madam. But I imagine you can’t be overly upset about a knight cadging a few cigarettes or some small coins.
What do you… what kind of talk is that? I didn’t like the way the fat man talked. Why talk like you’re acting in a movie or stage play? You people hired him, didn’t you?
I’ll tell you the truth, sir, the waiter said. When we opened, the boss took pity on him and had him dress up like that so he and I could stand in the doorway to greet the customers. But he had too many failings. He was addicted to alcohol and tobacco, and when he needed a fix, he was incapable of doing anything else. Then there’s that loathsome dog that never leaves his side. And sanitation means nothing to him. I take two showers a day, and while I might not be a feast for the eyes, my body odour can make people happy and relaxed. That is the standard an elite waiter should maintain. But the only time that guy got a wash was in a rainstorm. Customers turned up their noses when they smelled him. And there’s more: he ignored the boss’s orders to stop panhandling customers. I’d have canned a no-account bum like him, but my soft-hearted boss has given him chance after chance. He’s incapable of changing, like a dog that eats shit. The boss gave him some money, hoping he’d stay away, but he was back as soon as it was gone. I’d have called the cops on him by now, but the boss is too kind to do that, so he gets away with things that hurt business. He lowered his voice. I later learned that he and the boss were in school together, but even a classmate shouldn’t have to put up with that. Eventually, someone complained about Don Quixote’s terrible body odour and the mangy dog’s fleas. So the boss hired somebody to take him to a public bath and make sure he and his dog got a thorough cleaning. That became a policy: he was forced to take a bath once a month. Was he grateful? No, he cursed up a storm in the water. Li Shou, you son of a bitch, he’d shout, you’ve ruined this knight’s reputation!
Sensei, after that night’s dinner, Little Lion and I walked along the riverbank to our new house, feeling gloomy. It had been an emotional encounter with Chen Bi. The past was full of sad memories. Vast changes had taken place over the decades; things we’d never dared dream of had come to pass, and those we’d treated with inordinate seriousness had become laughable. We hadn’t had a real conversation, but he and I were probably thinking the same thing.
Sensei, the next time I ran into him was in the district hospital. We’d gone there with Li Shou and Wang Gan. Chen had been hit by a police car, whose driver said witnesses would swear he was driving normally when Chen Bi ran out into the street — he was suicidal — followed by his dog. Chen was thrown into some roadside shrubs, his dog was run over. Chen had compound fractures of both legs and injuries to his arm and hip, none of them life-threatening. The dog, which had died for its master, was splattered all over the pavement.
The news of Chen Bi’s accident came from Li Shou. The policeman was cleared of blame, but Li went to see someone in power and managed to get Chen a settlement from the station of ten thousand yuan. For injuries as serious as his, that was a pittance. I knew that Li’s motive in having us classmates visit Chen in the hospital was to get help in paying Chen’s hospital bills.
He was in Bed 9, next to the window of a twelve-bed ward. Lily magnolias blooming outside the window on that early May day sent a rich perfume into the ward. Even with the crowding, the ward was clean and neat; despite conditions that paled alongside Beijing and Shanghai hospitals, the improvements over the twenty years since the commune period had been substantial. Sensei, I had spent a week with my mother in the commune hospital, where the beds were home to hosts of fleas, the walls were blood-specked, and the air swarmed with flies. The thought alone makes me shudder. Both of Chen’s legs were wrapped in plaster casts, as was his right arm. He lay in bed able to move only his left arm.