She walked over, apologizing for interrupting their conversation, then asked if he needed a smoking room, and let him choose one from the several newspapers the hotel offered for free.
“This is Cheng Cheng, she’s very capable.”
When Xia Hui introduced her, he naturally placed his hand on her shoulder.
She greeted them somewhat awkwardly. As she walked away, she heard them discussing the novel he had just finished.
“I read it in one go, it was really wonderful. I like it very much.”
The woman said excitedly, her Chinese very fluent,
“Jeffrey thinks it’s great too, right?”
“Yes,”
the man named Jeffrey paused, seeming not very confident in his Chinese, he rolled his eyes a few times, finally selecting the right words, “Very passionate.”
“This theme is so good, it will definitely attract attention from foreign media.” The woman said.
Xia Hui smiled faintly: “I hope the English version can come out next fall.”
The woman nodded: “We’ll do our best.”
With the procedures complete, she handed him the room key card, bid them good night. As she turned to leave, he called out to her:
“Want to join us for a drink?”
She smiled and shook her head, bid good night again, and walked out the hotel’s revolving door. A group of reporters holding cameras stood shivering in the cold wind.
The dark lenses like sniper rifle muzzles swept over her face, coldly moving away, continuing to aim at the rotating door leaves.
They were waiting for some star staying there; this hotel was famous, she knew it also from entertainment magazines, like who and who had a rendezvous here, she couldn’t remember.
She shook her head with a smile, said goodnight again, and walked out through the hotel’s revolving door.
A group of reporters, holding cameras, stood shivering in the cold wind. The dark lenses, like sniper rifle muzzles, swept over her face, coldly shifting away to continue aiming at the rotating door leaves.
They were waiting for some celebrity staying there—this hotel was famous, she knew it from entertainment magazines, something about someone having a secret rendezvous there, but she couldn’t remember.
The hotel was on Madison Avenue, surrounded by high-end fashion stores and tasteful galleries.
She walked toward the nearest subway station. Although it was long past closing time, those shop windows were still lit, burning brightly like fireplaces in wealthy homes amid the snowy, cold weather.
A homeless man sat cross-legged beneath one, leaning against the glass window as if warming himself.
If not for worrying about losing composure, she really wanted a drink. Xiao Song always said she was a white snake incarnate—drinking too much would reveal her true form, writhing on the ground, trying to shed her human skin.
But when she woke, she remembered nothing, just feeling exhausted, as if desperately reaching for something but never quite grasping it.
She got off the subway, exited the underground passage, and the cold wind hit her, stinging her eyes. She recalled the first time she met Lulu, right at this intersection.
Lulu had already rented the current apartment and was looking online for a roommate.
She came to the subway station to pick up Cheng Cheng, taking her to see the place. While waiting for the red light, Lulu turned her face and said to her:
“You know? Every day when I go out, walk onto the street and look at the passersby around, I can’t help but shout in my heart, ‘I love New York!'”
Cheng Cheng stared blankly at Lulu. She didn’t love New York; she didn’t love any place. Perhaps moved by that enthusiasm she could never have, before even seeing the apartment, she had already decided to live with Lulu.
She arrived at the apartment building. The whole building looked very quiet. The Singaporean girl next door had moved out, and some people had gone back for Christmas and hadn’t returned yet.
She didn’t know if they would come back. She fished out her keys to open the door. The lock was newly changed, but the old key hadn’t been removed from the ring, so she always inserted the wrong one first and had to try again.
Yesterday, Lulu’s aunt had taken away those two boxes of things, and now that room was empty, with only the Polaroid photos still stuck on the wall, the girls’ powder-white faces on the photo paper reflecting a ghostly cold light in the darkness.
She returned to her own room. The floor was piled with large cardboard boxes and bulging travel bags, scattered with expired magazines and tangled chargers.
There was only a week left until the end of the month, and many things still unsorted. She sat down at the desk, took out the smoked meat sandwich and macaroni salad bought on the way, opened her computer, and ate while checking emails. Xiao Song called.
“Come to my place for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night? There’s a cocktail party I have to go to.”
“It’s my mom’s birthday.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“How was I supposed to know you’re so busy?”
“Where did that come from?”
“Aren’t you? You don’t even pick up calls.”
“Please, look at how heavy the snow is outside—the flight was delayed by hours, and I only picked the person up after 8, then dropped them at the hotel.”
“See, you are busy. Was I wrong?”
“Enough, Xiao Song.”
“Yeah, enough.”
Neither spoke. Lately, over work and moving, they always argued, and with too many arguments came a tacit understanding. Whenever a fight was brewing, both would shut their mouths.
After a while, she said: “You guys eat first. As soon as the cocktail party ends, I’ll hurry over—it shouldn’t be too late.”
“Whatever.” Xiao Song hung up.
Cheng Cheng continued eating the sandwich. The smoked meat was awfully bad, but she seemed to have a responsibility to finish it.
“Don’t be willful.”
She seemed to hear Xiao Song say. She realized she was becoming more like Xiao Song’s family—indifferent to likes or dislikes, only duty-bound.
Actually, going to that cocktail party wasn’t part of her job; it didn’t matter if she didn’t go.
She just didn’t want to go to Xiao Song’s for dinner. Everyone had nothing to say, just silently devouring the food in front of them—there was nothing more boring in the world.
Xiao Song’s mom used to work in a factory cafeteria, accustomed to cooking in big pots, always making a lot, constantly serving more rice and dishes to everyone, afraid someone might not eat enough.
That kind of enthusiasm was rare in America and had initially made her feel warm.
Xiao Song’s parents ran a food store in Chinatown, selling Chinese pickled vegetables, hot pot seasonings, frozen fish balls, and egg dumplings.
They carried a strong pickled vegetable smell, which always reminded her of being led by her mother to the state-run food store as a child, where the clerk with arm sleeves used a long-handled ladle to stir in the huge pickle vats.
Xiao Song’s parents had always lived in the Chinese community; after over a decade here, they still couldn’t say a complete English sentence.
For their family, immigration seemed like loading people and house onto a cargo ship, shipping across the Pacific to the American continent, finally placed in an apartment building in Queens, New York.
Even if shipped to the Himalayas or Antarctica, they’d still live in the original house.
That house was like a tightly closed clamshell, not letting in a whiff of New York’s air. After this month, she would move in with them. The thought made her feel suffocated. The thing she’d been resisting was finally happening.
