◎ Bloody Mary ◎

Luo Peiyin heard the words “Xiao Luo” and fixed his gaze on the mouth that had spoken them. Gu Qiao’s lips were very red. Under that gaze, she nearly felt her face flush as well.

She thought of those moments in private — the warm flush, the heat rising to her face and ears. At home she sometimes thought of them, and her face would suddenly bloom with color. Fortunately it was winter, and cold could be blamed.

Luo Peiyin shifted his gaze from Gu Qiao’s lips to her eyes: “Look at your eyes — you didn’t sleep well last night.” He glanced down at his watch. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you before mealtime. Don’t worry — I’m right here; nothing will go missing.”

Gu Qiao had indeed not slept well last night. She had spent the night mentally working and reworking the inventory for Erenhot, trying to figure out how to assemble four full carloads of goods. By the time drowsiness finally came, she had already heard the morning cockcrow. And to make things worse, she had to catch the early train.

Gu Qiao agreed: “All right. In the afternoon you should catch up on sleep too — I’ll be here to keep watch.”

When she lay down, she made herself into a narrow strip, facing the wall. Yet the quilt was full and billowing. Gu Qiao wrapped herself completely in it, and everything — her money and anything she considered valuable — was tucked tightly inside. This was her first time in a sleeper carriage. She had never before bought a sleeper ticket when traveling — the cost was one consideration, but more importantly, how could someone traveling alone with money and goods dare to fall asleep on a train?

After Gu Qiao had sold everything she had brought, she insisted on treating Luo Peiyin to a meal in the dining car. It was her first time in a train’s dining car — and not purely a matter of money, either. Moving through the train required constant attention to your surroundings on all sides; it was far less safe than planting yourself in a seat and staying there for the entire journey. She used to avoid even going to the toilet, and had made a point of drinking almost no water on trains.

In the dining car, Gu Qiao generously passed the menu to Luo Peiyin: “Order whatever you like. It’s my first time here too — I’d like to try a few things.”

Trying them would quickly reveal that there was nothing particularly good in the train’s dining car, but Luo Peiyin did not say so.

Seeing that Luo Peiyin had only ordered two dishes, Gu Qiao said: “Don’t hold back on my account — I can afford it.”

“I know. But save some room — there’s a Yunnan provincial liaison office restaurant near the station that’s quite good. We’ll go together after we get off the train. After dinner, come with me to the bar near your place — the band needs someone, and I promised to help out. Come with me.”

The table was too small for the number of diners, and someone came to share it with them. The space immediately shrank. Their knees occasionally knocked together beneath the table — Gu Qiao pretended not to notice.

By the time they got off the train, Luo Peiyin had not once lain on the berth Gu Qiao had slept in — not for a single second. He was either standing or sitting in the seat beside her.

Off the train, Gu Qiao said to Luo Peiyin with a trace of apology: “I have something to do for business — I need to make a phone call.” It was a call to Peng Zhou. She had said she would phone him once she had confirmed the sources and quantities.

Gu Qiao laid out what she had worked through the previous night for Peng Zhou in a clean numbered sequence, each point concise and clear, not a single wasted word. When she finished, she added in a low voice: “But we need to settle the commission split up front.”

The voice on the other end said: “Would I really cheat you?”

“We should still put it in writing — it protects you too. Let’s not talk about this further now. We’ll hash out the sourcing and the split in detail tomorrow afternoon.” By tomorrow afternoon, Luo Peiyin would already be on his flight back to America.

Hanging up the phone, Gu Qiao smiled at Luo Peiyin — as if the money for Erenhot were already as good as earned.

After the train, the schedule became tight. After the restaurant, Gu Qiao returned to her own home to drop off her luggage. Her place was near the embassy district, which was closer to the bar they were heading to.

Luo Peiyin went back to Gu Qiao’s home with her. Since no fire had been lit inside, the room was just as cold as the street.

Gu Qiao made no effort to hide anything from Luo Peiyin as she put away her belongings — only when she was about to change her clothes did she say quietly: “I need to change.”

Hearing this, Luo Peiyin turned around and pulled the door gently shut behind him.

It had grown dark. A crescent moon was tucked among the trees. Before long, Gu Qiao opened the door and poked her head out: “Come in quickly — it’s cold out there!” Then she laughed — it wasn’t much warmer inside either.

She had dressed completely differently from the train. Her hair was loose now, spreading across her shoulders, and her earrings swayed gently.

By the time they reached the bar, there were hardly any customers yet. The server asked Gu Qiao what she would like to drink. Gu Qiao said to Luo Peiyin: “This time I’m definitely having alcohol.” She was no longer that girl who could only drink chocolate milk.

She turned to the server: “I don’t know much about drinks — do you have any recommendations?”

“What kind of flavors do you enjoy? Is there any fruit you particularly like?”

Before Gu Qiao could answer, Luo Peiyin spoke for her: “A Bloody Mary.”

Luo Peiyin had not chosen Gu Qiao’s drink according to his own tastes. He ordered her a Bloody Mary — a cocktail that any person who disliked tomatoes would absolutely never enjoy.

For himself, Luo Peiyin ordered a glass of water.

The server specifically reminded Luo Peiyin: “We do charge for plain water.”

Luo Peiyin repeated himself: “A glass of plain water.” His tone was unhurried and level, with no particular inflection.

When the server brought over a basket of french fries and a bowl of popcorn, Gu Qiao quickly said: “I only need the drink, thank you.”

Luo Peiyin explained to Gu Qiao: “The popcorn and fries are complimentary here.”

“Water costs money but popcorn and fries are free?”

“You’re a businesswoman — if you think about it carefully, you’ll understand the logic.”

Gu Qiao was grateful for Luo Peiyin’s confidence in her, and by the time she had worked it out, her Bloody Mary had already arrived.

Gu Qiao felt that this drink of hers was essentially tomato juice with a stick of celery in it — calling it a cocktail was a stretch; something like a soup or tomato juice felt far more accurate. She genuinely wondered whether Luo Peiyin had made a mistake just now. How would a person who was allergic to tomatoes think to order this for her?

But Luo Peiyin said: “Give it a taste. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else.”

Gu Qiao sat in her seat while Luo Peiyin stood at an angle, one hand propped on the table, leaning slightly toward her. Gu Qiao couldn’t quite tell whether he was watching her or the glass.

Under his gaze, she bowed her head and took a small sip. The color of this drink was almost exactly the same red as her earrings — as if she were not drinking a cocktail at all, but blood.

“Would you like to exchange it?”

“I’ll keep this one.”

Luo Peiyin finished his glass of water and said quietly to Gu Qiao: “Drink slowly — I’m going backstage.”

Yang Cheng spotted Luo Peiyin the moment he stepped into the bar.

He noticed that this old acquaintance still carried exactly the same air as before. How had his appearance and bearing stayed unchanged, while the music he was drawn to had undergone such a dramatic shift?

Yang Cheng was the lead singer of Luo Peiyin’s former band. He had heard a few days ago that Luo Peiyin was back in the country and had reached out to ask whether he could come and help out on the sixth day of the New Year — though the main purpose was really just to catch up. It was as if their band’s keyboardists were cursed — not one of them could ever stay long. But now that the band had taken off, finding a keyboardist was no problem.

Luo Peiyin had said his hands were out of practice, and besides, he wasn’t familiar with the band’s current repertoire, so it was probably better not to.

Yang Cheng knew at once from this that Luo Peiyin hadn’t paid the slightest attention to them recently. Most of the pieces the band performed these days were still songs they had created together back in the old days, and for some unknown reason, tracks that had circulated only in small circles back then had now suddenly become popular. Yang Cheng also wanted Luo Peiyin to share in the recognition they were now enjoying. Though Yang Cheng often said that musical creation meant keeping your back to the audience and not caring what others thought — whether they praised you, criticized you, or ignored you completely — it would have been somewhat dishonest of old Yang to say the unexpected wave of admiration left him unmoved. He told Luo Peiyin it was just a small bar venue — basically friends entertaining themselves.

Luo Peiyin had turned him down flatly. Yang Cheng understood that Luo Peiyin’s relationship with music was different from his own. For Yang Cheng, music was a dream; for Luo, it was a hobby. When he committed to it, his commitment was genuine — but when he walked away, he walked away just as cleanly. Yang Cheng could never quite understand it: wasn’t playing music more interesting than spending day after day in a laboratory tending a furnace? And even having walked away — didn’t he ever get an itch in his hands? How could a person so decisively give up something he loved?

But then two days ago, Luo Peiyin had suddenly asked him whether they still needed a keyboardist — if so, he’d come, but they’d have to add one specific piece to the set. Upon hearing the title, Yang Cheng had been thrown off balance for quite a while. What had capitalism done to his friend over in America — when had he suddenly become obsessed with truth, goodness, and beauty? Having something like that pop up in the middle of a performance would feel entirely out of place. But he had agreed immediately anyway. Maybe Luo Peiyin had found a new arrangement angle for it. Back when Luo Peiyin had been in the band, Yang Cheng’s feelings toward him had been complicated — two people with strong convictions colliding was never a comfortable experience, and what made it even less comfortable was that he was always the one who ended up yielding.

Yang Cheng’s first words to Luo Peiyin were: “I knew you couldn’t hold out. Your hands must have been itching something terrible!”

Luo Peiyin smiled without answering.

Yang Cheng then noticed the girl beside Luo Peiyin. When he first caught sight of Gu Qiao, she had just finished a small sip of her drink, and her lips were a vivid red. Her red earrings swayed faintly — she looked like a beautiful vampire who had just finished drinking blood, smiling.

In the instant he saw that face, Yang Cheng nearly exclaimed: could it be that human aesthetic sensibilities are inherently consistent? This girl and the one from before looked remarkably alike. Yet the aura was completely different.

Yang Cheng thought the girl beside Luo Peiyin looked very much like someone — the first girl Luo Peiyin had ever brought to the bar, the one who had sat there drinking chocolate milk while everyone around her had alcohol. If it had only been that, the impression would have faded after a few months. But he had later seen that same girl outside the bar’s entrance selling leather jackets from a sidewalk stall. The girl seemed not to recognize him and warmly tried to sell him one of her jackets — a heavy pig-leather jacket. He had lingered in front of her for a while, not because he had any interest in the pig-leather jacket, but because he was puzzled: how had the girl who had sat so demurely sipping chocolate milk in the bar ended up running a sidewalk stall selling leather jackets? After he told her he wasn’t buying, the smile on her face remained completely unaffected. She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a name card — simple and rough, with her name and contact information printed on it, and most prominently, illustrations of various styles of pig-leather jackets.

But he had only seen Gu Qiao outside the bar that one time.

Yang Cheng swallowed his observation. Bringing up a past person in front of someone new was always impolite.

At the time, Gu Qiao had occasionally seen mentions in the newspaper that people in bands tended to wear leather, and guessed that bar patrons might be good potential buyers for her jackets. She had once set up a stall outside the bar — but one visit was enough to teach her that these bar-goers generally would not buy a pig-leather jacket just because it was cheap. After that setback, she had promptly switched her customers to market stalls and retail counters. Though she could only get the wholesale price there, higher volume meant higher total earnings.

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