“Why are the lights off and the window open?” Song Mingmei asked, returning from visiting someone’s room. Despite the cold weather, she wore a dress with bare arms and long legs exposed.
Ding Zhitong quickly closed the window and turned on the desk lamp, trying to cover up her actions. “It’s too hot in here. When will they fix the radiator?” She took off her coat, preparing to wash up.
Song Mingmei lingered in the doorway. “Thanks for your help today. I wouldn’t have known how to get rid of Bian Jieming otherwise.”
Bian Jieming was one of her suitors, number 3 to be precise. He had been pursuing Song Mingmei intently, often driving over four hours from New York just to have dinner with her.
At 35, Bian seemed quite mature to the girls. However, he was a promising financier with a consulting and investment firm in Midtown Manhattan. Song Mingmei had met him during her internship in New York, where he was her boss’s client.
Ding Zhitong admired Song Mingmei’s networking skills. Some said girls had a natural advantage in networking, but Ding didn’t dare use it, unsure how to strike the right balance as Song Mingmei did.
Her thoughts drifted to Gan Yang and their earlier conversation. What did he mean? She had been certain when they parted downstairs, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Was she overthinking this? After all, he had just helped her get home, shared a meal, and had a caramel apple juice with her. It seemed like nothing more than friendly interaction between compatriots.
Ding Zhitong didn’t dare dwell on it. She felt it was more practical to focus on hoping for an offer from M Bank.
Oh, right, he had also invited her to go running with him.
But that invitation held great uncertainty—would she even get the offer from M Bank? Suddenly, even this practical wish seemed less straightforward.
Shit!
Then she remembered the strange test results. Halfway through removing her makeup, she couldn’t help but ask Song Mingmei, “Do you think soulmates exist?”
Song Mingmei, forgetting her earlier joke, answered without hesitation, “Of course they do.”
Ding Zhitong was surprised, expecting Song Mingmei to advise her to abandon such childish notions.
But Song Mingmei continued, “It’s just that a person’s soul has countless facets, and each facet has a different soulmate. Take me, for instance. I don’t believe one person can satisfy all my needs.”
This sounded more like the Song Mingmei she knew. Ding Zhitong smiled at her reflection and asked, “So numbers 1, 2, and 3 are all your soulmates?”
Song Mingmei shook her head. “They’re my observation samples.”
“What do you mean? What are you observing?” Ding Zhitong didn’t understand.
“These three men—one’s an entrepreneur in Shanghai, another’s doing research in Pasadena, and the third runs a finance company on Wall Street. They’re quite representative, don’t you think?” Song Mingmei explained. She always kept clear boundaries between her suitors, both geographically and professionally.
“Hmm,” Ding Zhitong agreed, “but the sample size seems small. Have you considered adding more individuals? At least a hundred?”
Song Mingmei, unfazed by the possible sarcasm, reconsidered, “You’re right, ‘samples’ isn’t quite accurate. Let me rephrase: they’re my current investment portfolio—internet, artificial intelligence, and finance, spanning China and the US, ages 23 to 35. See the diversity in my investments? Isn’t that how a banker should think?”
Ding Zhitong was speechless. “I’m impressed,” was all she could say.
But Song Mingmei’s curiosity was piqued. She stared at Ding Zhitong, asking, “What happened to you today? Why are you pondering such profound questions?”
“Oh, it’s nothing…” Ding Zhitong quickly grabbed her pajamas and headed to the bathroom, afraid Song Mingmei would remember Gan Yang.
The next afternoon, Ding Zhitong called Qin Chang to thank him for the interview, following the standard protocol from interview guides.
The call connected, and Qin Chang’s voice came through in smooth English. After exchanging pleasantries, he suddenly switched to Chinese, asking, “Are you feeling better now?”
Ding Zhitong froze, then panicked, feeling her carefully constructed image crumbling. She had applied for an analyst position in IBD, the lowest rung of the investment banking ladder, known for its grueling hours. The most crucial quality was resilience—being available 24/7. During the interview, she had been pale, unfocused, with ice-cold hands, barely able to walk straight. What made her think others wouldn’t notice?
Forced to maintain her composure, she explained with a smile, “I skipped breakfast yesterday and had a bit of low blood sugar. I’m quite healthy and could easily handle the IBD work intensity during my internship…”
Qin Chang, clearly guessing her thoughts, interrupted, “I have one more question. I didn’t get to ask yesterday because you weren’t feeling well.”
“Go ahead,” Ding Zhitong waited.
Qin Chang spoke slowly, “If you constantly encounter failed deals like A and B, and see various dark sides of the industry, how do you convince yourself to love this job?”
The conversation paused for half a second. Ding Zhitong was at a loss for words. The truth was, she just wanted to make money—how could she claim to love it?
At that moment, she felt completely transparent. Just like her technical skills honed through practice problems, her memorized behavioral responses, and her deliberately imitated extroversion and confidence, Qin Chang had seen right through her.
“I suppose determination is a form of love,” she managed to answer.
A soft chuckle came from the other end of the line. Qin Chang switched back to English, exchanged a few polite words, and ended the call.
Putting down her phone, Ding Zhitong began to worry. She had thought she performed well in the interview, but this routine thank-you call made her doubt whether she still had a chance.
Unable to figure it out, she recounted everything to Song Mingmei, seeking expert opinion.
Song Mingmei always believed that encountering a fellow Chinese person in an interview wasn’t a good thing. Some people, to appear fair or for other subtle reasons, were tougher on their kind. After hearing about Qin Chang’s situation, she became even more disapproving: “And he’s a VP in his thirties…”
“What’s wrong with a VP in his thirties?” Ding Zhitong asked.
Song Mingmei calculated quickly, “If he went to an American university or has a finance master’s like us, he would have started working at 22 or 23. Two years as an analyst, two as an associate, then promoted to VP. That means he has at least seven years of experience and has been a VP for at least three years. Even if he got an MBA after working and started directly as an associate, it would still be about the same.”
“Three years isn’t that long,” Ding Zhitong didn’t understand. This was the typical career path in investment banking, and reaching this level in one’s thirties was quite impressive.
Song Mingmei had to spell it out, “A third-year VP is eligible for promotion to Director. On a snowy Saturday, he drove over four hours to Ithaca for a first-round campus interview. Think about it.”
Ding Zhitong finally understood, impressed by Song Mingmei’s insight.
This was just the initial interview. Most interviewers they might encounter would be at the associate level. A VP like Qin Chang should have had a more comfortable assignment.
She had initially found Qin Chang polite and composed, but now she saw him differently. She couldn’t quite describe it, but he reminded her of a high school math teacher.
That teacher taught the competition class and was secretly brought in by their homeroom teacher to provide extra lessons for a few students with decent grades. The math teacher wasn’t talkative or strict, patiently yet somewhat distantly teaching mediocre students the last big question from past college entrance exams. During breaks, while waiting for students to solve problems, he would stare out the window with a vacant expression—as if wondering, “Who am I? Where am I? Why am I wasting my life here?”
Years later, she watched a movie about teachers called “Detachment,” and the main character reminded her of someone familiar. Even later, a fitting word appeared online: “dejected.”
When Ding Zhitong first encountered this expression, she thought it perfectly described Qin Chang back then. But at that time, she didn’t know why he was like that. She could only guess—this was America after all, and rumors said the glass ceiling for Chinese people on Wall Street was at the VP level. Perhaps Qin Chang was stuck there, unable to advance or retreat.
That evening, Feng Sheng came to visit them, and Ding Zhitong asked for his opinion.
Feng Sheng wasn’t optimistic either. He had inquired among his classmates and heard that many financial institutions had reported significant profit declines in the third quarter, making this year’s job market worse than the previous year. Only a handful of people, like Song Mingmei, had been retained after internships. Some had even received return offers, only to be informed later that the offers were rescinded due to a hiring freeze. When they called to inquire, they were told there were no permanent positions available, but they could continue as interns until full-time positions opened up.
Looking back, they should have sensed the coming storm a year in advance. But before it happened, everyone thought it was just an ordinary fluctuation, consistent with the capitalist economic patterns taught in textbooks, nothing particularly special.
After Feng Sheng left, Ding Zhitong had to face reality. She opened her laptop to prepare for another company’s interview. Through the wall, she could hear Song Mingmei on the phone, her voice unusually tender, though the conversation was too vague to guess which suitor she was talking to.
Suddenly, her phone on the desk vibrated. It was a message from Gan Yang, with an abrupt greeting: “Hey, Ding Zhi Tong.”
Ding Zhitong replied: “What’s up, A-Gan?”
He brought up the very thing she was worried about, asking: “Have you received a call from HR?”
Ding Zhitong was speechless and only answered: “It’s too soon for that…”
A-Gan: “All right, I’m going for a run then.”
He ended with an elongated face emoji: ——【
Ding Zhitong didn’t reply. She put down her phone and continued preparing for the interview, but Gan Yang’s face kept appearing in her mind. Come to think of it, he did look a bit like that emoji. She chuckled softly, exhaling through her nose.