The old man in the corner had left at some point; the whole cafe had only the two of them left. She felt a bit dazed for a moment.
“Where are we going now?” She asked.
“You don’t want to stay here anymore?” He squinted his eyes in the dense sunlight.
“Not really.” She said. She just felt they should go somewhere, so as not to waste this afternoon’s time.
“Do you have any ideas?” He leaned back against the chair.
“Didn’t you say you’d think of something?”
“Yes, but I’m not familiar with this place at all; every time before, friends took me around.”
“Otherwise, go visit your friends?”
“Which friend?”
“Any one; didn’t you say you have many friends here, sinologists, publishers, university professors… You go see them, don’t mind me, I can sit on the side, that’s fine, I like listening to interesting people talk.”
“They are all very boring.”
“How could that be?”
“Really, as boring as the people at the literature festival; didn’t we just escape from there?”
“But they are your friends; it should be much more comfortable being with them.”
“It’s still more comfortable like this now; what do you think, we can see later, okay?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
After a while, he suddenly sat up straight:
“I have an idea; why not take me to see the places you often go? Cafes, restaurants, department stores, supermarkets, all fine.”
“What’s there to see?”
“That way, I can know what your usual life is like.”
“You’d find it very boring.”
“I find it very interesting; just do what you usually do, no need to take special care of me, pretend I don’t exist.” He waved his hand, signaling to settle the bill,
“Let’s go, let’s go.”
She followed him out of the cafe. Usual things, like buying bundled day-old bread at the food store by the subway station exit? Sitting on the Z-shaped fire escape downstairs the apartment, daydreaming, feeding stray cats?
She so hoped this afternoon could be a bit different.
Going to Union Square was a compromise choice. That was also a place she often went, with many shops and used bookstores, better than going near her residence, an ordinary, noisy, crowded residential area.
They decided to take the subway. Although the subway station was a bit far, he was very willing to walk over—he emphasized, completely following her usual way.
At the subway station, she stood in front of the automatic ticket machine buying him a ticket. He looked at the red round-bellied coin purse in her hand, with a very admiring expression:
“So many coins.”
She put the returned change inside, tightened the drawstring and handed it to him. He held it in his palm, weighed it a few times:
“Haven’t seen so many coins in a long time.”
“Because you’re too rich.”
“No, in China, spare change is becoming increasingly rare; they’ve already become obsolete.”
“Is that so? That’s a shame. I really like using spare change—when paying, trying every way to make the exact amount feels very accomplishing.” She laughed to herself.
He looked at her, his eyes sparkling, as if discovering an unnamed asteroid in the night sky.
She went to the restroom, and he waited outside the subway entrance. When she returned, a Black man was speaking to him. He just shook his head, waving repeatedly, showing a very impatient expression.
He misunderstood the man’s intention, thinking it was begging or selling, but in fact, he was asking for directions. She walked up and told him how to go. Xia Hui seemed a bit embarrassed.
She hadn’t noticed that he couldn’t speak English. There were translators at the conference, and the friends he met yesterday spoke Chinese; no occasion required him to speak English.
Perhaps never; he was always protected, never falling into such an awkward situation.
He seemed hurt in his pride, remaining silent all the way, just following closely behind her like a child afraid of being left behind.
They came up from the central subway exit at Union Square, surrounded by a circle of large and small stores, with exciting bright red “SALE” signs on the windows.
She asked if he wanted to buy any gifts for his family; he said no need. She pointed out a large store to him, telling him the third floor had a nice home goods section where she had bought some cushions and a lampshade.
She asked if he wanted to go up and see; he hesitated, saying either way.
She had never shopped for home goods with a man, especially a stranger; that feeling was truly odd—two people with no overlapping lives looking at various items placed in homes, warm, soft, bedside, skin-touching things.
She picked a coral fleece pajama for Xiao Song’s mom as a birthday gift.
Earlier, she worried the afternoon would pass too quickly; now it felt extremely long. She took him to a famous used bookstore. But he couldn’t read English and wasn’t interested in those books, just asking her to show him Chinese writers’ books.
She found them in a deep corner, occupying only the bottom two shelves; one had to squat to see the titles. One book was his. But he said three of his had been translated into English and asked her to look again.
She knelt on the ground, her hair coming loose as she searched, but there was only that one.
“This is a used bookstore; books you can’t find mean no one is willing to sell them.” She comforted.
He nodded: “This one, *The Stand-In*, is poorly translated—such a pity.”
But she still decided to buy it and ask him to sign it. Later, they sat in the bookstore’s café; he flipped to the flyleaf, held the pen, lifted his head to ask her name, which two characters for “Cheng Cheng.”
A thought flashed in her mind—this book should be Lulu’s.
Though she could still write her name now, Cheng Cheng didn’t do so. She didn’t really believe in souls; death meant everything ended. So, Lulu didn’t need any mementos.
The sky gradually darkened. They decided to go for dinner. Though he said anything was fine, she still carefully chose a restaurant inside Central Park. They took a car back there.
The restaurant was by the lake, built like a boathouse. There happened to be an unreserved window table, looking out at the frozen large lake covered in thick white snow.
“You chose a good place.” He looked out the window. “Do you come here often?”
“I’ve only been once.” She said with some regret. “If only we’d come earlier; once it gets dark, you can’t see anything.”
When ordering, he still wanted her to decide for him. She ordered beef for him, cod for herself. As she closed the menu and handed it to the waiter, he said:
“Let’s have some wine.”
They ordered a bottle of Chilean red; after she tasted it and nodded, the waiter poured for them.
He raised his glass to clink with hers: “This afternoon was very pleasant.”
She said: “Really? I made you walk so much.”
“Really.” He said. “Every time I go abroad, the schedule is packed—meeting people, conferences, speeches, rushing from one place to another; I’ve never had an afternoon like today—”
“So aimless, right? Completely not knowing where to go.”
“Exactly—no purpose. People always have strong purposes, so they live so tiredly.”
At that moment, outside the window, the daylight had fully faded; the large lake lost its outline, leaving only a fluorescent white, suspended in the night.
He drank a bit of wine and gradually regained his spirits.
“Do you live alone, or with your boyfriend?” he asked. This was the first personal topic.
“Alone; before, I had a roommate.”
“Not living with your boyfriend?”
“How do you know I have a boyfriend?”
“A feeling.” He said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“But you seem like a very independent girl, with your own space,”
“You’re very different from young girls back home; you don’t have that restless, greedy thing.”
He frowned in disgust, as if he’d suffered from it.
“Sometimes I feel quite far from this world.” She smiled. “Maybe because I’m Aquarius.”
“Star signs again. Young people now seem to believe in them; are they really accurate, dividing all people into just a dozen types?”
“God has to create so many people, always has to assign them numbers, classify them.” She said. “Like books in a library—each different from others, but they’re still classified and numbered. That way, when you want a book, you can find it quickly, and when adding new ones, it’s easier to avoid duplicates.”
“You’re amazing,” he said. “Turning God into a librarian.”
“I was just making an analogy…”
She quickly explained, afraid he’d think it blasphemous. In her imagination, writers all had firm beliefs.
