She took out a shrimp-colored dress from the closet, planning to wear it to tomorrow’s cocktail party. The dress was Lulu’s. Typical Lulu style—deep V-neck, embedded with sparkling beads, cinched at the waist, with subtle ruffles on the hem.
While sorting Lulu’s things, she found many of her own items. Shimmery eyeshadow, tropical-style wide headbands, beaded bracelets, and pearl earrings.
Lulu, spotting her indecisive weakness, always urged her to buy unsuitable things, then quietly claimed them after they sat idle. The first time she found her stuff in Lulu’s room, she was shocked.
“In my heart, we’re inseparable—mine is yours, yours is mine. If you asked for anything, I’d definitely give it.” Lulu quibbled.
When packing everything into boxes, she kept a few of Lulu’s clothes and an unfinished pack of Marlboro cigarettes.
She put on the dress, looking at herself in the mirror, vaguely recalling how Lulu used to look in it.
When she first arrived in New York, Lulu told her not to miss any cocktail party, even without an invitation.
In fact, Lulu never had invitations. She just bought an art magazine, flipped to the last page, and noted down interesting gallery opening previews with times and addresses.
Lulu bought this dress for one such party. That time, she went with Lulu. It was the only cocktail party she’d been to.
Lulu weaved through the crowd with a cocktail in hand, agile like a leopard in 10-cm heels. She quickly identified the important people and approached them to chat.
She discussed the paintings on the walls, recent hot exhibitions, and concerts. All her insights came from magazines and overheard social chatter.
But it was enough, Lulu said—the key was, whatever you say, don’t praise; complain. Complain about a restaurant’s declining taste, how Broadway operas are unwatchable now, hidden Brooklyn bars crammed with foreign tourists.
The other would respond eagerly—New York’s biggest trait was gathering the world’s most dissatisfied people.
Lulu looked charming in a dress resembling Barneys’ new season style, carrying a fake Celine bag—no one would know she shared a room in the Bronx.
Cheng Cheng could never have that confidence; she unconsciously retreated to the crowd’s edge, standing alone in the corner, hoping not to be noticed.
Yet she was—first a woman asking for the restroom, then a man scanning around and handing her his empty glass.
To seem occupied, she pretended to study the wall paintings intently, even the name cards with titles and sizes.
Later, a Chinese boy in a baseball cap saved her. He came over, saying she was the only one seriously appreciating the art.
She worried he’d ask her opinion, but he didn’t. They chatted, and she relaxed. The gallery invited key guests to dinner; Lulu hooked one and left with him.
Cheng Cheng and the baseball boy were among the few left, drinking the remaining cocktails, talking until the waiter collected their glasses.
They went to a motel. The room was freezer-cold, the AC dripping like it had a cold. During sex, the boy was under a quilt; Cheng Cheng felt in a pitch-black tunnel. Most of that winter was spent in tunnels.
The boy was Xiao Song. He had no invitation either—first time at such an event, accompanying a friend who ditched him. She found they were alike—two ditched people picking each other up, unsure if pitiful or fortunate.
“Finding such an uncool guy at a party—you’re talented.” Lulu looked disappointed.
“I’m not like you; I’m not adventurous.”
Cheng Cheng said. Lulu liked thrillers—affairs, murders, inheritances—while Cheng Cheng preferred long, mundane ones, like an old person sunbathing, recounting trivial pasts.
“I don’t think so. Deep down, you like it too, or why come to New York alone?”
Coming to New York alone was the biggest risk Cheng Cheng ever took. Too big—gravity vanished; for a long time, she felt in free fall.
“Didn’t you come here to live differently?” Lulu said. “You told me that yourself.”
Cheng Cheng shook her head. “Now I feel everywhere’s the same.”
Dating Xiao Song perhaps meant total compromise. Her only persistence was staying with Lulu. Xiao Song disliked Lulu and early on urged her to move in with his family, but she refused.
She needed Lulu, though not much. Lulu was like a courtyard, letting her occasionally look up at changing scenery. New York’s scenery. Knowing it temporary, she strived to maintain it, like lingering in bed. Until one day, a deafening bell woke her.
The deafening bell startled her awake.
That was her first encounter with American police. When she returned home in the evening, she saw them standing below the apartment building.
The blue uniforms made her inexplicably tense, as if she were an undocumented stowaway.
The entire building was cordoned off. The door was open, the inside brightly lit, filled with people everywhere; how she wished it was Lulu hosting a party at home.
She sat on the sofa, waiting for the police to take her statement. They were still bustling about, going in and out of that room, as if they could still salvage something.
Many pairs of feet moved across the floor, carefully skirting around a patch of shadow in the middle. A deep plum-colored shadow, filling the corners of her vision. She hugged her knees and buried her face.
The Singaporean girl from next door stood at the doorway, asking what had happened here.
The police told her that a woman named Li Wenjuan had been murdered; he didn’t understand tones and pronounced the three characters “Li Wenjuan” all in flat tones.
Li Wenjuan was Lulu’s name. Although she herself had never liked it, in death, she still had to be called by that name.
The police initially suspected it was a crime of passion, with the perpetrator being the victim’s boyfriend of two weeks, a Russian man.
“Have you seen him?” The police waved his photo in hand.
She shook her head. That person looked as if carrying the chill of the Caucasus, very aged, with a full face of stubble. She remembered Lulu once had a boyfriend with stubble.
“You can’t date men with stubble,” after the breakup, Lulu said through gritted teeth, “They’re all barbarians, with dark hearts.”
As the police left, they said if there were new developments, they would inform her. But they never called.
The next day was the opening of Literature Week. In the afternoon, Xia Hui had a speech; Cheng Cheng really wanted to attend, but was sent by Chen Bin to arrange the evening cocktail party. Chen Bin was the head of the Chinese Association.
He insisted that the opening cocktail must be dignified, while also telling her to switch to a cheaper champagne.
She arrived at the venue only at three in the afternoon; Xia Hui’s speech had already ended. It was tea break time, and people were standing outside.
Xia Hui was talking to two women, holding a cup of coffee. She hadn’t eaten lunch and was dizzy with hunger, hurriedly grabbing a few pastries.
Chen Bin came over, looking displeased, and whispered to her that Xia Hui was unhappy, complaining that his speaking order was placed after those two exiled writers, and the host had mispronounced the name of his work during the introduction.
He said this was the worst literature festival he had ever attended, claiming to cancel the media interviews and not attend the evening cocktail.
“You go soothe his mood; the guest list for the cocktail has long been announced, if he doesn’t come, we’ll be embarrassed.”
“Me?”
“Yes. He has a good impression of you; before the speech, he even asked me why you hadn’t come.” Chen Bin said.
One of the two women left, leaving the one in the mustard-yellow tweed suit, gazing at Xia Hui with a face full of infatuation.
Cheng Cheng knew this Mrs. Yang; she had come when setting up the venue the day before yesterday, complaining to Chen Bin about not sending her an invitation.
Chen Bin immediately shifted the blame to Cheng Cheng and criticized her in front of the woman. After Mrs. Yang left, Chen Bin said there were many such people.
mingling in various scenes in the Chinese community, thinking themselves socialites.
Cheng Cheng grabbed two more pastries and a cup of coffee. The fruit tart tasted good, the strawberries drizzled with syrup making one feel happy.
From afar, a chilling gaze shot over, as if wanting to knock the plate out of her hand. She looked up; Chen Bin was staring at her.
She stuffed the remaining fruit tart into her mouth, threw away the paper cup and plate, and walked toward Xia Hui.
