Granny Lin sighs. Forgive me, Kang. But Granny cannot do this for you.
But why? You said youd do anything.
Anything that we can do here, in the school, in the mountains. Kang, good boy, we cannot leave the school.
It takes a minute for Kang to burst into tears. Granny Lin tries to quiet him and pull him into her arms. Kang pushes her away, and his eyes, with the cold anger that Granny Lin once saw in Old Tangs eyes, chill her. Kang runs across the school yard. Granny Lin runs after him, but has to stop and catch her breath after a few steps. Her old body is failing her young heart.
GRANNY LIN THOUGHT that Kang would be crying in his bed, but the boy is not there. She calls out his name as she walks in the building, checking each unlocked door, the activity room, the music room, the dining hall. She looks under tables and behind curtains, and her heart sinks deeper each time her hope proves unfounded.
For an hour Granny Lin searches, until it occurs to her that the boy may have left the building, and even the school. Paralyzed by such a thought, and imagining all kinds of disasters, she calls the two guards, who are playing poker in the small room by the school gate. Neither wants to admit the possibility that the boy has squeezed through the gate, both insisting that the boy must be hiding somewhere in the building. More searches are carried out by the three of them. When nothing is yielded, they each start to panic with different worries.
The police are called. The school supervisor is called. The dorm mothers are called. The guards make phone calls to whomever they can think of. Granny Lin watches one of the young men punch the number with a shaking hand, and wonders why he is so nervous. The guards are only losing a peaceful weekend. They will lose at most a months salary, as both are relatives of the trustees. Boys disappear every day what would they remember of Kang a year from now even if they never found him again? Granny Lin begins to cry.
But Kang shows up by himself, in the middle of the turmoil, unharmed, hungry, and sleepy. He must have played hide-and-seek with Granny Lin while she was looking for him. Or did he want to punish her for disappointing him? Granny Lin does not know. All she knows is what he told the school supervisor, that he fell asleep under the piano.
Granny Lin remembers looking under the piano, but nobody trusts an old womans memory. Besides, whats the difference even if she is telling the truth? She has proved herself incapable. More stories are remembered of her eating the students ration, of her carelessness with the laundry.
On the evening of the day the children return, Granny Lin is asked to leave. Her things are packed and placed at the gate: a duffel bag, not heavy even for an old woman.
The happiness of love is a shooting meteor; the pain of love is the darkness following. A girl is singing to herself in a clear voice as she walks past Granny Lin in the street. She tries to catch up with the girl; the girl moves too fast, and so does the song. Granny Lin puts the duffel bag on the ground and catches her breath, still hanging on to the stainless steel lunch pail with her other hand. All the people in the street seem to know where their legs are taking them. She wonders since when she stopped being one of them.
Someone runs past Granny Lin and pushes her hard on the back. She stumbles and catches a glimpse of a hand before falling down; a man in a black shirt runs into the crowd with her duffel bag.
A woman stops and asks, Are you all right, Granny?
Granny Lin nods, struggling to recover from the fall. The woman shakes her head and says aloud to the passersby, What a world! Someone just robbed an old granny.
Few people respond; the woman shakes her head again and moves on.
Granny Lin sits on the street and hugs the lunch pail to herself. Hungry as people are, it is strange that nobody ever thinks of robbing an old woman of her lunch. Thats why she has never lost anything important. The three thousand yuan of dismissal compensation is safe in the lunch pail, as are several unopened packages of socks, colorful with floral patterns, souvenirs of her brief love story.
After a Life
MR. AND MRS. SU ARE FINISHING BREAKFAST when the telephone rings. Neither moves to pick it up at first. Not many people know their number; fewer use it. Their son, Jian, a sophomore in college now, calls them once a month to report his well-being. He spends most of his holidays and school breaks with his friends families, not offering even the most superficial excuses. Mr. and Mrs. Su do not have the heart to complain and remind Jian of their wish to see him more often. Their two-bedroom flat, small and cramped as it is, is filled with Beibeis screaming when she is not napping, and a foul smell when she dirties the cloth sheets beneath her. Jian grew up sleeping in a cot in the foyer and hiding from his friends the existence of an elder sister born with severe mental retardation and cerebral palsy. Mr. and Mrs. Su sensed their sons elation when he finally moved into his college dorm. They have held on to the secret wish that after Beibei dies she is not destined for longevity, after all they will reclaim their lost son, though neither says anything to the other, both ashamed by the mere thought of the wish.
The ringing stops for a short moment and starts again. Mr. Su walks to the telephone and puts a hand on the receiver. Do you want to take it? he asks his wife.
So early it must be Mr. Fong, Mrs. Su says.
Mr. Fong is a man of courtesy. He wont disturb other peoples breakfast, Mr. Su says. Still, he picks up the receiver, and his expression relaxes. Ah, yes, Mrs. Fong. My wife, she is right here, he says, and signals to Mrs. Su.
Mrs. Su does not take the call immediately. She goes into Beibeis bedroom and checks on her, even though it is not time for her to wake up yet. Mrs. Su strokes the hair, light brown and baby-soft, on Beibeis forehead. Beibei is twenty-eight going on twenty-nine; she is so large it takes both her parents to turn her over and clean her; she screams for hours when she is awake, but for Mrs. Su, it takes a wisp of hair to forget all the imperfections.
When she returns to the living room, her husband is still holding the receiver for her, one hand covering the mouthpiece. Shes in a bad mood, he whispers.
Mrs. Su sighs and takes the receiver. Yes, Mrs. Fong, how are you today?
As bad as it can be. My legs are killing me. Listen, my husband just left. He said he was meeting your husband for breakfast and they were going to the stockbrokerage afterward. Tell me it was a lie.
Mrs. Su watches her husband go into Beibeis bedroom. He sits with Beibei often; she does, too, though never at the same time as he does. My husband is putting on his jacket so he must be going out to meet Mr. Fong now, Mrs. Su says. Do you want me to check with him?
Ask him, Mrs. Fong says.
Mrs. Su walks to Beibeis room and stops at the door. Her husband is sitting on the chair by the bed, his eyes closed for a quick rest. Its eight oclock, early still, but for an aging man, morning, like everything else, means less than it used to. Mrs. Su goes back to the telephone and says, Mrs. Fong? Yes, my husband is meeting your husband for breakfast.
Are you sure? Do me a favor. Follow him and see if hes lying to you. You can never trust men.
Mrs. Su hesitates, and says, But Im busy.
What are you busy with? Listen, my legs are hurting me. I wouldve gone after him myself otherwise.
I dont think it looks good for husbands to be followed, Mrs. Su says.
If your husband goes out every morning and comes home with another womans scent, why should you care about what looks good or bad?
It is not her husband who is having an affair, Mrs. Su retorts in her mind, but she doesnt want to point out the illogic. Her husband is indeed often used as a cover for Mr. Fongs affair, and Mrs. Su feels guilty toward Mrs. Fong. Mrs. Fong, I would help on another day, but today is bad.
Whatever you say.
Im sorry, Mrs. Su says.
Mrs. Fong complains for another minute, of the untrustworthiness of husbands and friends in general, and hangs up. Mrs. Su knocks on the door of Beibeis room and her husband jerks awake, quickly wiping the corner of his mouth. Mrs. Fong wanted to know if you were meeting Mr. Fong, she says.
Tell her yes.
I did.
Mr. Su nods and tucks the blanket tight beneath Beibeis soft, shapeless chin. It bothers Mrs. Su when her husband touches Beibei for any reason, but it must be ridiculous for her to think so. Being jealous of a daughter who understands nothing and a husband who loves the daughter despite that! She will become a crazier woman than Mrs. Fong if she doesnt watch out for her sanity, Mrs. Su thinks, but still, seeing her husband smooth Beibeis hair or rub her cheeks upsets Mrs. Su. She goes back to the kitchen and washes the dishes while her husband gets ready to leave. When he says farewell, she answers politely without turning to look at him.
AT EIGHT-THIRTY Mr. Su leaves the apartment, right on time for the half-hour walk to the stockbrokerage. Most of the time he is there only to study the market; sometimes he buys and sells, executing the transactions with extraordinary prudence, as the money in his account does not belong to him. Mr. Fong has offered the ten thousand yuan as a loan, and has made it clear many times that he is not in any urgent need of the money. It is not a big sum at all for Mr. Fong, a retired senior officer from a military factory, but Mr. Su believes that for each drop of water one received, one has to repay with a well. The market and the economy havent helped him much in returning Mr. Fongs generosity. Mr. Su, however, is not discouraged. A retired mathematics teacher at sixty-five, Mr. Su believes in exercising ones body and mind both provided by his daily trip to the stockbrokerage and being patient.
Mr. Su met Mr. Fong a year ago at the stockbrokerage. Mr. Fong, a year senior to Mr. Su, took a seat by him, and conversation started between the two men. He was there out of curiosity, Mr. Fong said; he asked Mr. Su if indeed the stock system would work for the country, and if that was the case, how Marxist political economics could be adapted for this new, clearly capitalistic situation. Mr. Fongs question, obsolete and naive as it was, moved Mr. Su. With almost everyone in the country going crazy about money, and money alone, it was rare to meet someone who was nostalgic about the old but also earnest in his effort to understand the new. You are on the wrong floor to ask the question, Mr. Su replied. Those who would make a difference are in the VIP lounges upstairs.