“I'd like to visit Shen Garden,” she said.
“Shen Garden?” He turned around to look at her. “Isn't Shen Garden somewhere in Zhejiang Province? Hangzhou? Or maybe Jinhua. You know, the brain's the first to go once you reach middle age. Four or five years ago, I had a terrific memory, but no more.”
“I want to visit Shen Garden every time I come to Beijing. But I never get there.” Her eyes flashed through the darkness, and her gaunt, pallid face lit up with spirit.
Inwardly shocked by the sight, he turned to avoid her penetrating gaze. He heard himself say hoarsely:
“Here in Beijing we've got Yuanming Gardens and the Summer Palace, but I've never heard of a Shen Garden around here.”
She quickly reached down under the seat for her things, put two small plastic bags into a paper shopping bag, and stuffed it into her large plastic handbag.
“Leaving so soon? Aren't you on tonight's eight o'clock train?” Pointing to the croissants, he said casually, “You'd better eat that. You might not get any dinner on the train.”
Clutching the plastic handbag to her chest, she stared at him stubbornly and said with downcast insistence:
“I want to visit Shen Garden. I must go see it today.”
A gust of cold, rainy wind blew in through the door. He shuddered, rubbing his arms.
“As far as I know, there's no Shen Garden in Beijing. Oh, now I've got it!” he said excitedly. “It's clear now. Shen Garden is way down south in Shaoxing, in Zhejiang Province. I went there once, more than ten years ago. It's not far from the birthplace of Lu Xun. There's a famous carved dialogue between the separated poets Lu You and Tang Wan of the Southern Song dynasty. It goes like this: ‘Pink creamy hands,’ Yellow-labeled wine/Spring colors filling the city/Willows by the palace walls.’ If you want the truth, it's a rundown, sort of dreary garden, all covered with weeds. It's like the friend who went with me said, ‘You'll be sorry if you miss it, and even sorrier if you see it…’”
By this time she'd stood up and was straightening her clothes. As she smoothed her hair, she said, almost as if she were talking to herself, “This time I'm going to see Shen Garden, no matter what.”
Holding up his hand to stop her, he said guardedly, “Okay, let's say Shen Garden is here in Beijing. We'd still have to wait for the rain to let up before we went, wouldn't we? And if you want to go to Shaoxing to see the real Shen Garden, we'll have to wait till tomorrow. There's only one train a day, and today's left hours ago. Airplanes won't fly in this weather, and besides, I don't think there are any direct flights to Shaoxing.”
She stepped around his outstretched hand and, still clutching her handbag, walked out the door straight into the downpour. Quickly settling the bill with the two sharp-eyed waitresses, he started after her. Standing in the bakery doorway, he stuck his head outside; the sound of rain beating down on the sheet metal eaves threw his mind into turmoil. He strained to look through the curtain of rain running off the awning like a waterfall and spotted her plastic handbag over her head as she dashed across the street. Taxis speeding past through the puddling rain soaked her skirt, which accentuated the outline of her bony figure. From where he stood under the awning, looking down the street he could see the gray apartment building where he lived and, it seemed, a kaleidoscopic flow of rain coursing down the newly installed sea-blue balcony windows. He even thought he could detect the rich fragrance of brewed tea and the sweet voice of his daughter calling out: “Come here, Papa!”
She stood across from him in the rain, trying to hail a taxi or any car that would stop for her. The blurry outline of her face brought to mind a cold, rainy day nearly twenty years before, when snowflakes swirled in the air: he stood outside the window of her dormitory, looking in at her as she sat in a chair, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, a faint smile on her lovely face as she happily played an accordion. There were times after that when he wanted to tell her about that night, when he'd nearly frozen to death, but he always suppressed the impulse to show his emotions. The young woman playing her accordion seemed to come alive again in the pouring rain, reigniting the remnants of passion deep in his heart.
He rushed out into the rain and across the street to her. In a matter of seconds, he was as drenched as she was, and just as cold. The freezing rain, now mixed with tiny hailstones, felt as if it were boring right through him. Taking her by the arm, he tried to move her over next to one of the commercial buildings, out of the rain, but she resisted, and he gave up trying. His back felt as if it were being pricked by tiny barbs, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw people under the overhangs casting furtive glances his way. Some of those faces looked familiar. But by then he knew he was stuck. If he let her walk off, his conscience would bother him from that day on.
Finally he managed to drag her over to a roadside telephone booth, where at least the upper halves of their bodies were protected from the rain by a pair of semicircular shades. He said:
“I know of a quaint little Taiwanese teashop in that lane up ahead. Let's go get a nice cup of hot tea and wait for the rain to let up. Then I'll take you to the train station.”
The upper half of her body was all but swallowed up by the semicircular shade, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. About all he could see was the dark skirt clinging to her legs to reveal her unattractive, protruding kneecaps. She didn't make a sound, as if his suggestion had fallen on deaf ears. Fewer and fewer cars passed up and down the street, but she kept hailing them, taxis and non-taxis alike, trying to get one of them to stop.
After the rain died down a bit, they finally managed to flag down a red Xiali taxi. He opened the door and let her in first. Then he climbed in and closed the door. “Where to?” the cabbie asked impassively.
“Shen Garden!” she said before he could answer.
“Shen Garden?” the cabbie replied. “Where's that?”
“Forget Shen Garden,” he blurted out. “Take us to Yuan-ming Gardens.”
“No, Shen Garden!” she said in a flat but insistent voice.
“Where is Shen Garden?” the cabbie asked again.
“I said, forget Shen Garden,” he repeated. “Take us to Yuanming Gardens.”
“Would you make up your minds?” the cabbie said impatiently.
“I told you we want to go to Yuanming Gardens, so take us there.” He was beginning to sound shrill.
The cabbie turned back to look at him. He nodded to the gloomy driver. Three times she repeated her desire to go to Shen Garden, but the driver sped down the wide-open street without a response, sending water spraying to both sides. A strange sense of tragic solemnity overcame him as he sat there. Sneaking a look at her, he saw what looked like a pouting smile on her lips. He also noticed that her hand was shaking as she gripped the door handle, as if she were trying to make up her mind to do something rash. He held her right hand tightly to keep her from opening the door and jumping out of the taxi. The hand was cold and clammy, like a dead fish. But it didn't seem as if she wanted to pull it back, since it didn't even twitch. He held it tight, anyway.
The taxi turned onto a narrow street cluttered on both sides with light-colored trash, with the occasional glint of green watermelon rind. Colorful sheets of flypaper draped in front of roadside diners fluttered in the wind and rain. Coarse, dirty women in revealing blouses leaned against doorways, cigarettes dangling from their mouths beneath bored expressions. The sight took his thoughts vaguely back to the town where she lived. “Driver,” he said anxiously, “where are we?”