THE FOURTH DAY
I continued to roam between morning and night, with neither burial plot nor cinerary urn, and no clear direction to a place of rest. There was neither snow nor rain, and all I saw was air in motion, like gusts of wind that blow this way and that.
A young woman — another wanderer, by the look of it — walked past me, in the direction from which I had come. I turned and looked at her; she turned and looked at me. Then she walked back and scrutinized my face. Her voice was as fleeting and insubstantial as mist. “Where have I seen you before?” she said inquiringly
That was my question too. I studied this vaguely familiar face. Her hair was fluttering, but I didn’t feel the swishing of the breeze — for I had noticed bloodstains around her ears.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” she said.
Her question had become a statement, and in my memory her face began to look more recognizable. I tried to think back, but recovering things from my past had become more and more strenuous, like climbing a mountain.
“The bedsit,” she reminded me.
With relief I arrived at memory’s peak, and a broader landscape came into view.
Over a year ago, soon after I moved into the bedsit, there lived next door a pair of young lovers, their hair dyed in garish colors. They left early and returned late each day and I didn’t know their names and didn’t know what kinds of jobs they did. Their hair changed color practically every week: green, yellow, red, brown, multicolor
ed — black was the only color I never saw. However their hair changed color, the two of them always had hair of the same hue—“sweetheart color” was what they called it. After a month I learned that they worked in a hairdressing salon. According to my landlord, they were not actual hairdressers, but simply hairwashers. During my third month at the bedsit, they moved out.
I could hear everything they said and did in the next room, for the wall blocked my vision but presented little obstacle to my hearing. When they made love, their bed rattled and shook and I heard panting and groaning and yelling; almost every evening the room next door would resound with tumultuous noise.
Their shaky finances often led to arguments. Once I heard the girl shouting through her sobs that she wasn’t going to go on living with a down-and-outer like him. She wanted to marry the scion of some wealthy family, for that way she wouldn’t need to work her fingers to the bone and could just play mahjong every day to her heart’s content. The guy said he’d had enough of living in penury with her — he wanted to be partner to some rich lady, live in a villa, and drive a sports car. Each went on and on describing his or her own brilliant prospects as a way of putting the other down, vowing to part company the next day, the sooner to embark on a glorious future. But the next morning they carried on as though nothing at all had happened, leaving their bedsit hand in hand, off to the salon for another long day at their tiring, low-paying jobs.
In their most heated argument, the guy struck the girl. She had been talking about a girlfriend of hers who had left the countryside the same time she did. They were from the same village, it seemed, and this other girl worked behind the counter at a nightclub. When a customer took a fancy to her, she would charge a thousand yuan for sex or two thousand if she spent the whole night with him. She and the nightclub divided the proceeds sixty-forty, sixty percent to her and forty percent to the club, and thus she could earn thirty or forty thousand yuan a month. After three years in the game, she had accumulated a number of regulars who would call her up to arrange a session, and that way she didn’t need to share her earnings with the club and could make up to seventy thousand a month. The girl said that her friend had recommended her to the nightclub and the manager was ready to interview her.
“Is that okay with you?” she asked.
He made no reply. She said this was something she wanted to do. She could make a lot of money this way, and he wouldn’t have to work — she could support him. After a few years, she said, she’d have put away enough funds that she could quit the racket. They’d go back to his home district, buy a house, and open a shop.
“That okay?” she asked again.
Now he said something. “You’ll end up with syphilis, or AIDS.”
“No, I won’t,” she said. “I’ll make my clients wear a condom.”
“Scumbags like them — they’re likely to refuse.”
“If they refuse, then I won’t let them do it. You’re the only man in the world who I’ll let do it without a condom.”
“No way are you going to go through with this! Even if I have to starve, I’m not going to let you be a nightclub hostess.”
“Well, you can starve to death if you like, but I’m not going to.”
“If I say no, it’s no.”
“Who do you think you are? We’re not married, you know — and even if we were, I could always get a divorce.”
“I don’t want to hear another word about this.”
“You’d better get used to the idea. My girlfriend has a boyfriend, and he’s willing to go along with it, so why aren’t you?”
“Her boyfriend is a piece of shit.”
“No, he’s not! One time she got bitten by a client, and her boyfriend tracked him down and cursed him as a pervert and beat the hell out of him.”
“You have to be a real shit to let your girlfriend be a whore. He can curse the other guy as much as he likes, but he’s nothing more than a pimp himself.”
“I don’t want to keep on living like this, I’ve had enough! When the iPhone 3 came out, my girlfriend got one right away, and as soon as the iPhone 3s came out, she immediately switched to that. Last year she exchanged it for an iPhone 4, and now she’s using an iPhone 4s. Look at this crappy cell phone of mine — I couldn’t even get two hundred yuan for it!”
“I’ll get you an iPhone 4s, don’t you worry.”
“You can’t even scrounge together the money for three meals a day! By the time you can afford to buy me an iPhone 4s, they’ll be selling the iPhone 40s.”
“I told you I will get you an iPhone 4s.”
“You’re not serious, are you? You’re just bullshitting me.”
“I am being serious.”
“I can’t be bothered to discuss this with you. Tomorrow I go to the club.”
The next thing I heard was a series of loud slaps—bap, bap, bap.
“Beat me, would you?” she sobbed. “Just beat me to death, why don’t you?”
He started crying too. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“How can you dare beat me?” she cried. “You’re always broke, but still I stay with you, because I thought you would treat me right. And now you beat me! You’re a brute!”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that!” he wailed.
Again I heard a series of rapid slaps — it sounded like he was slapping his own face. Then there was the sound of a head hitting a wall—bang, bang, bang.
“Don’t! Don’t do that!” she begged, sobbing all the while. “Stop, please. I won’t go to the nightclub. Even if I have to starve, I won’t go.”
At this point, my memory paused. Looking at this young woman with her desolate expression, I nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen you before, in the bedsit.”
She smiled faintly, but her eyes were anxious. “How long have you been here?” she asked.