The crowd dispersed. Seeing that both the woman with the cow and her customers had left the scene, Zhou Min stood up, pulled himself together, and walked toward the compound, just as the scowling old gatekeeper came out to shut the gate. A bicyclist rode up and stopped.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Wang An,” he said. “A lyricist who lives out back.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Are you checking IDs now?”
“What if I am?” was her ill-tempered response. “A country has its laws, a family its rules. I’m the gatekeeper, so watching the gate is my responsibility.”
“All right,” the man said, “all right. I work at the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda Cultural Center. My name is Liu, first name…”
“I don’t care what your first name is,” she said. “I’ll call him.” She went into the gatehouse and blew into a microphone. “Any sound?” she asked.
“Yes,” Zhou Min said, “there was.”
“Wang An Laoshi, you have a visitor,” she announced — twice, then a third time. The sound swirled around the compound. She stuck her head out. “He’s not in,” she said. “Come back another day.” Then she asked Zhou Min what he wanted. He was about to tell her that he wanted to see Zhuang Zhidie, but changed his mind. This old hag announces visitors like a whorehouse madam, he was thinking. If Zhuang actually came out to see his visitor, how would Zhou Min introduce himself? And could he make his intentions clear in a brief exchange at the compound gate? So he went back to Meng Yunfang’s home, arriving just as Meng was getting in. Meng offered to accompany him to the compound, but Zhou had a case of nerves. “Maybe it would be better,” he said, “to wait till the magazine hits the stands. It would make things easier if he had a chance to read the article first.”
But when he went home and told Tang Wan’er, she hit the roof: “What do you think you’re doing, searching for the new world? You just don’t get it, do you! Zhuang Zhidie is back in town, but you don’t seem to be in any hurry to go see him. Do you plan to wait till he sees Jing Xueyin and blows up when everything is out in the open?”
Seeing what a mistake he had made, he thumped his head with his fists.
“How’s this?” she said. “We’ll host a meal in his honor.”
“Do you think he’d come?”
“We’ll get Meng Yunfang to invite him. If all goes well, he’ll come. If not, that will be the end of your editorial office dream, and you won’t have to suffer any more humiliation.”
So Zhou Min went to talk to Meng, who then went to see Zhuang, and returned with the news that the invitation had been accepted, which thoroughly delighted the couple, who then busied themselves over the next few days getting ready. They settled on a date: July 13.
. . .
On the morning of the thirteenth, Zhou Min went into the kitchen as soon as he was up. Since they were living in a temporary residence, they had few of the items they would need, so he went to a local restaurant and rented three bowls, ten large plates and five small ones, a bamboo steamer, and an earthenware pot. Back home, Wan’er swept the floor and the steps outside; she placed Zhuang Zhidie’s novels and a collection of essays she’d bought on a table and asked Zhou where he had put the Tongguan map they’d brought from home.
“With all we have to do, what do you want that for?”
“To tack up on the wall,” she said.
Zhou Min thought for a moment. “Aren’t you the sly fox!” He pinched her on the bottom. With a yelp, she coquettishly lifted a corner of her skirt to show him the bruise, then announced that she’d done all she was going to do. Now it was time to get herself ready. As he was cleaning a fish, she modeled a red dress for him; she then changed into a black skirt, and wound up trying on everything — blouses, shoes, necklaces, stockings — one item after another.
“You’re like a mannequin,” Zhou said. “You’d look good in rags. Zhuang Laoshi is a highly regarded writer, whom we’re meeting for the first time, so the simpler the better.” After choosing a yellow outfit from the pile of clothes on the sofa, she powdered her face and then concentrated on her eyes and lips, finishing not long before Meng Yunfang and his wife arrived with a bottle of osmanthus liquor and a bag of apricots. “I said not to bring anything,” Zhou Min said. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Xia Jie poked him on the forehead. “The bottle is for Wan’er,” she said, “and apricots are Zhuang Laoshi’s favorite. I didn’t think you’d be aware of his likes and dislikes. Where is she? I want to see our lovely little sister!”
Tang Wan’er rushed out to greet her guests. “You can look,” she said, “but I’m afraid you won’t like what you see.”
“What’s with this ‘little sister,’” Zhou Min said disapprovingly. “She needs to call you ‘shimu’—‘teacher’s wife.’”
“Please don’t call me that,” Xia Jie said. “She’s every bit the rare beauty I thought she’d be.” Lively chatter between the two women commenced: That’s a lovely outfit. You’re so young, what cosmetics do you prefer? Have you ever tried a breast-enlargement pump?
After a moment, Wan’er said, “Zhou Min, you’re in charge. I’m going to play chess with Xia Jie.” She picked up the chess pieces and board and went upstairs to the garret with her guest. The landlord had taken his family on vacation three days before, locking the three upstairs bedrooms but leaving open the terrace, which was furnished with a stone table and four drum-shaped stone chairs. They sat down and played, interspersed with conversation and an occasional glance at the street below.
Zhou Min walked up with an offering of tea, sweets, melon, and peaches. “Zhou Min,” Xia Jie said, “I can’t wait to see what delicacies you’ve prepared for us today.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you,” he said, “since I’m not much of a cook. I just want to show my appreciation to you.”
“And we didn’t come expecting something grand,” she said. “Just don’t forget us after you’ve become famous.” Then she shouted down to Meng Yunfang, “Hey, you, into the kitchen. None of that ‘laoshi’ business for you, sitting there like a wise, tea-sipping man.”
“I do all the cooking at home,” Meng said. “Do you really expect me to do the same when we go out? Zhuang Zhidie is the guest of honor, while I count for nothing.” Having had his say, he got up to wash his hands, under the watchful eye of the giggling women upstairs.
Zhuang Zhidie was expected at ten o’clock, but there was still no sign of him by ten after. Meng had sliced the pork, fried the meatballs, soaked the wood fungus, pan-fried the fish, and stewed the soft-shelled turtle. “I gave him the right address,” he said, “and this place is easy to find. I’ll run out to the intersection and look around.”
He stood at the sparsely populated intersection for a few minutes before barreling into the lane and heading to the Clear Void Nunnery, where there was no construction work that day. He opened the door, walked in, and was met by an elderly nun who asked him who he was looking for. Master Huiming, he told her. She led him around back to a large hall, the interior of which was so cold that his sweat dried. And since he had come in out of bright sunlight, for a moment he couldn’t see a thing. Eventually, a cot in a corner of the hall, surrounded by nylon mosquito netting, caught his eye. Someone was asleep there. Sensing the awkwardness of the situation, he turned to leave, just as the person woke up.
“Meng Laoshi!”
Meng Yunfang turned back. The sleeper was now sitting up in bed — it was Huiming. Her collar was unbuttoned and her face had a ruddy glow; overall, she looked quite fetching. She parted the netting, but remained sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot. “Come, sit here,” she said. “Just passing by?”