The waiter brought the main courses. The beef and cod looked very appetizing; they cut pieces and exchanged. She felt she should ask him some questions, but she knew too little about literature.
“When you write, do you need a particularly quiet environment, isolated from the world?” she asked.
“When young, yes—always wanting to hide in a deserted place to write.”
“Now?”
“Now I like staying in lively places, meeting friends daily, drinking a bit.”
“As people age, shouldn’t they prefer quiet?”
“Maybe not old enough yet. But perhaps the older, the more they love bustle,” he smiled. “I’m just talking about myself; other writers might not be like that.”
“You’re the only writer I know. Whatever you’re like, I think they’re like that too.” She said.
“Then I have to behave better.” He said.
She laughed. But he didn’t.
“Sometimes I think, writing one more book or one less—what difference? It’s just like that. Really no initial ambition left.” He gazed somewhat desolately at the lake outside.
After a while, he turned his head:
“I recall some past events; want to hear?”
“Of course.”
“When writing my first novel, my son was just born; the house was small, so for quiet, I went to the countryside for months. The place was desolate, just a few empty houses—said to have bad feng shui, people moved away. I wrote there, eating in the nearest village at dusk. One day, after drinking, on the way back, I misstepped and rolled down a hillside. Drunk badly, I slept there. Woke up lying on a big rock, facing a vast lake. Like a Liaozhai tale—one sleep, everything gone. I didn’t think of wife or child; first reaction was, where’s my half-written novel? Was it an illusion, never existing?”
He sat there dazed, as if waiting to slowly return from the story. The waiter came over and took the plates.
“At that time, I was perhaps a competent writer.” He said.
Two middle-aged men came in from outside, snow from their leather shoes shaking onto the floor. The fireplace crackled flames in the corner. The couple at the next table silently looked at the menu.
“I know the feeling you mean.” After a while, she said.
Many times, she also felt in a dream. Lulu wasn’t dead because she didn’t exist. Xiao Song’s family didn’t exist; she’d never come to America. It was all a dream, like a long tunnel to pass through.
Going to the restroom, she followed a seam in the wooden floor, testing if she could still walk a straight line. In the mirror, her lips were stained black-purple by wine, like deadly poison.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, Xiao Song’s name flashing on the screen. She reached to reject it, feeling a thrill.
Xia Hui suggested another drink at a bar; she agreed without thinking. Needed something sharp to slit the dream open, then she could wake.
Pushing open the restaurant door, cold air dispersed the alcohol on her face. Her heart, like a clenched fist, slowly loosened.
“Let’s walk onto the lake.” She turned back reluctantly.
“Skating?”
“Just want to stand on it; don’t you think it’s like an untouched land?”
“Don’t be silly; the ice breaks with one step.” He said.
Several beautiful girls stood on the street, cold wind carving sculptural features,deep blue eyeshadow streaking phosphorus fire in the air.
One girl came up asking Cheng Cheng for a cigarette; she raised her eyebrows, helpless about not being eighteen. Cheng Cheng gave her one, lit it, shielding the wind with her hand. The girl held the cigarette between thin lips, tilting her head toward the flame. She smelled the girl’s sweet orange perfume.
The other girls came over, smiling at them. She gave them the nearly empty pack of Marlboros.
“Seeing these girls makes me very sad.” She said, watching their backs.
“Why?”
“I feel old, and as if I was never young.”
“Little girl, you’ve only walked this far? The road is still long.” He reached over, patting her head. Her eyes reddened instantly.
From the lakeside restaurant to the bar was like falling from clouds to earth. Ambiguous light melted snowflakes in hair; winter’s solemnity drowned in frivolous music.
People shouted, as if intimate with everyone. They sat there, somewhat out of place.
Coats on chairs, the phone in her pocket vibrated against her back like a heart about to leap out. She felt a bit sorry for Xiao Song.
Xia Hui gestured to the waiter for another bottle.
“You have a flight tomorrow.”
“No problem.” He looked at her, as if saying they had plenty of time.
“You know,” she downed the just-poured wine, “I have a friend who admires you greatly, read all your books.”
“Really?” He smiled, seeming accustomed.
She shook her glass sadly: “It should have been her coming. But me? I’ve never read your books; I know nothing about you.”
“Isn’t that good?” He said. “Nothing between us.”
“Not good. If it were her, she’d have lots to say to you.”
“Silly girl, no need to talk; come,” he said softly. “Sit here.”
She stood, knocking over her glass. She stumbled over, pulled into his arms. He began kissing her, one hand gently stroking her back, as if she were a cat.
She heard blood pounding her temples. The glass rolled clunking on the table. Wine dripped along the edge, pattering on her boots. He said in her ear:
“Let’s go to your place, okay?”
“I don’t want to go back, never again.” She shook her head desperately.
“Why?”
She didn’t speak.
He held her face, capturing her lips again. Many wrinkles around his sunken eyes trembled in intense breathing.
“Let’s go.” He said.
She smiled, his hotel room flashing in her mind. Revolving door, chandelier, closing elevator, corridor with patterned carpet, a closed door at the end. His room, like a mysterious drawer, slowly opening. Jazz from the downstairs bar—she almost forgot, an improv just for tonight.
“Woody Allen.” She said softly.
“What?” He asked.
“Nothing.”
She shook her head. The black bill folder was on the table; he took moldy green bills from his wallet. The waiter closed it and took it. She watched him go, his back split into two by light. She was too hot, about to melt.
“Let’s go.” He said.
“Where?” She murmured.
She remembered they got into a taxi, kissing in the back seat. A part of her consciousness was very clear, like the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, brightly watching herself.
She could even say the apartment’s address and direct the driver to take a few small roads, stopping accurately downstairs.
She also remembered when opening the door, she took the wrong key again. She removed the previous one from the key ring and flung it away.
The memories after that became very blurry. It seemed like only she was left, painfully turning over, her scorching hot skin like iron sparking embers.
Until the unreal morning arrived, she saw herself stumbling down the stairs.
The sky presented a merciful light gray. A stray cat sat on the fire escape, glaring at her vigilantly like encountering a stranger.
Lulu came from afar to meet her, wearing the other black dress she had left, the long hem without a single wrinkle.
“Let’s go quickly, there’s no time.” She took Cheng Cheng’s hand.
“Where to?”
“Don’t be afraid,” Lulu laughed, “New York has many places you haven’t been to yet.”
They walked for a long time, arriving at the lakeside, with a small island in the middle of the water, blindingly white.
“We have to swim over, can we?” Lulu turned her head to ask her.
She couldn’t swim, but that wasn’t important. She nodded.
With a “plop,” Lulu disappeared into the water. She also leaped in, following closely behind Lulu.
At that moment, a strange sound came from afar. It was like someone beating a drum; before she could distinguish it clearly, the sound had already bound her like a rope, pulling her toward some direction.
Cheng Cheng opened her eyes and heard urgent knocking.
“Open the door! Open the door!” Xiao Song roared outside.
She sat up and saw Xia Hui holding a bundle of clothes, rushing to the wardrobe, pulling open the door and nimbly ducking inside.
“Open the door! I know you’re in there!” Xiao Song pounded the door with his fists.
Cheng Cheng jumped out of bed and pulled open the wardrobe door. Xia Hui was huddled in the corner, his face buried in the hanging lotus root pink dress.
“That’s Lulu’s dress.” She frowned and said, reaching out to pull him out.
“You go out.” She said.
“Now?” Xia Hui looked at her in terror, pointing at the door, “But…”
She seemed to hear nothing, grabbing his arm and coming to the door.
“You at least wait…” His face was pale, almost pleading.
She yanked the door open and pushed him out. Just as she was about to close the door, she felt something tripping her foot—Xia Hui’s coat—she kicked it out and shut the door.
She returned to the bed and closed her eyes. Xiao Song roared loudly, seeming to scuffle with Xia Hui.
Gradually, the sounds outside grew farther, like looking back at the scenery on the shore, they shrank bit by bit into black dots.
She gazed ahead, already unable to see Lulu’s figure. The pure white small island was about to disappear. She plunged into the water, parting her arms, and swam forcefully toward it.
