Xu Zechen

Running Through Beijing


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it would be impolite not to buy, and said, “All right, I’ll take one.”

      “Thanks. Which one do you want?”

      “Anything, as long as it’s good.”

      The girl stopped and looked at him. “If you really don’t want one then don’t bother.”

      “Who said I don’t want one?” He was laughing at himself now. “I’ll take two! Hell, give me three!” He quickly rummaged through the movies under the building’s lights.

       The Bicycle Thief. Cinema Paradiso. Address Unknown.

      “Hey, you’re a film buff!” Excitement was obvious in her voice. “Those are classics!”

      Dunhuang said he didn’t really understand film, he’d picked them nearly at random. It was true, he didn’t understand film. He had seen The Bicycle Thief before, and he’d once heard a pair of college students talking about Cinema Paradiso on the bus—the boy saying it was good, the girl saying it was great. He’d picked Address Unknown merely because the name seemed awkward; he wondered why it wasn’t Unknown Address.

      The DVDs bought, he sat on the steps looking at the neon lights on the building across the street. Four characters: “Hai Dian Chess Academy.” He’d seen that name many times before. He drew out a cigarette, lit it, and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sign.

      The girl packed the other DVDs into her bag and stood up, saying, “Aren’t you going?”

      “You go on, I’m going to rest a bit.” Dunhuang saw no need to tell a stranger that he had no place to go.

      She said goodbye and walked off, but then came back and sat on the step beside him. Dunhuang unconsciously shifted to make room.

      “Got another?” She meant a cigarette.

      Dunhuang looked at her, surprised. He passed her the pack and lighter. She made a comment about the mildness of Zhongnanhai. He had no cause to disagree. He’d crossed paths with many, many people during his time in Beijing, but his interactions with them were nearly all transactions, conducted for the sake of cash, and the girl’s behavior threw him off balance. He only felt uneasy for a second, though—what could possibly go wrong? The barefoot don’t fear the shod. Whatever happens, happens. Suddenly relaxed, he asked, “How’s business?”

      “Business is business. Weather’s bad.” The sandstorm had driven all the idlers indoors, and it was mostly idlers who bought DVDs.

      “Mmm.” Dunhuang nodded in sympathy. The weather affected his line of work, too. Rain or wind sent the world scurrying; no one was in the mood.

      She was no stranger to cigarettes—her smoke rings were better than his. The two of them sat there, watching the sky darken. The pedestrians thinned out. Dunhuang heard someone in a nearby bookstore say, “Close it up, who’s going to buy books when the gravel’s flying?” Then there was the sound of a gate rattling down and banging into the ground. Flying gravel . . . Hardly. Dunhuang did his best not to look at the girl. All of a sudden he wasn’t sure how to talk to her, he wasn’t used to lounging around with girls he didn’t know. What, exactly, was this turning into? He wanted to leave.

      “What do you do?” the girl asked him abruptly.

      “What do you think?”

      “A student? I can’t tell.”

      “I don’t do anything. I’m homeless.” Dunhuang found the truth was as easy as a lie.

      “I don’t believe you,” she said, standing, “but even if you are homeless, let’s have a couple of drinks. My treat.”

      Dunhuang smiled. You’ve showed your hand now, he thought. I knew selling DVDs couldn’t be your only profession. He’d never even had sex, let alone paid for it, but Bao Ding and Three Thou had, and he had a basic grasp of the process. But a girl like this in that line of work . . . it was heartbreaking. Though the newspapers said many prostitutes were actually college students. Even college students—such a grand thing to be—had to sell themselves. Dunhuang once again pictured furtive women with their babies, selling movies.

      “Why don’t I treat you?” Dunhuang said, throwing caution to the wind. What the hell. “I don’t know this area, you pick a spot.”

      2

      They went to a hotpot restaurant called Ancients next to Changchun Park. The girl said she was frozen through and needed to warm up. Dunhuang agreed; the storm had blasted Beijing right back into winter. From outside, the windows of the hotpot place were blanketed in heavy steam; only shadows milled within. Inside, there was a huge crowd, all red faces and thick necks, it looked as though half of Beijing had squeezed in. Countless beer glasses were hoisted over heads, the smell of alcohol and hotpot mixed with the chatter, all rising on billowing steam. Dunhuang hadn’t felt such a welcoming intimacy in months, and his heart warmed so suddenly he nearly teared up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten hotpot. He loved hotpot. He remembered the first time he’d gone home for the spring festival. He had bought an electric pot with his own money, and eaten hotpot from the first of the year straight through to the sixth, when he returned to Beijing.

      They picked a table in the corner, the girl seated against the wall and Dunhuang with a crowd of boisterous diners behind him. A split pot; Dunhuang liked it spicy. Three half-liter bottles of Yanjing beer. He noted that she ordered two plates of winter melon and mushrooms. The pot boiled, the mutton floated. Dunhuang lifted his glass and said, “What are we toasting?”

      “Nothing. Drink your beer.”

      The first glass was awfully refreshing. The girl turned out not to be much of a drinker. Dunhuang could drink, he considered it his only true talent. Not many people knew it. Bao Ding thought he could hold his liquor, but once he’d gotten five shots of Erguotou in him, he never lasted to see how much Dunhuang could handle.

      “You can really drink,” said Dunhuang.

      “You’re not bad yourself.”

      “Nah, after one bottle I start talking nonsense.”

      “So go ahead, I’m listening,” she said carelessly, smoothing out her sleeves. She hadn’t noticed Dunhuang pouring the beer straight down his throat, hardly swallowing. “Let’s drink until we talk nonsense.” They started gulping beer by the half glass. Over the roiling, steaming pot, they looked like a pair of lovers. Dunhuang hadn’t faced such lush temptation in months. His eyes glittered; he shoveled mutton into his mouth with his chopsticks.

      “You must be starved.”

      “Kind of,” he responded, pausing to look at his dining partner. Her face had become flushed and soft, and she appeared much younger than she had out in the wind. Not bad looking.The freckles on her nose looked pretty good.“You should eat, too.”

      A phone rang, and the girl quickly looked in her bag. By the time she found her phone, a man nearby had already picked his up. Her disappointment was obvious. She turned the cellphone over in her palm a few times, then put it on the table.

      “What’s your name?” she asked.

      “Dunhuang.”

      “Dunhuang? That’s nice. Is it your real name?”

      “Of course—money back if it’s not.”

      “Who gave it to you? Sounds pretty educated.”

      “My dad. Educated? He’s basically illiterate; he just got lucky. My mom said that a couple days after I was born he was so frustrated by trying to pick a good name he got constipated. In the end he dragged some old newspapers over from the neighbors’. He spent a whole day looking through them, but couldn’t decide on anything. Finally, he saw the headline of a People’s Daily article about the Dunhuang Buddhist cave paintings, and that was me.”

      “Your dad’s nuts, he should have had a name picked