Fang Muyang brought gifts for Martin and his family.
Martin warmly welcomed Fang Muyang, preparing a special room for him. Before becoming a stockbroker, Martin had aspired to be a painter and was devastated when forced to acknowledge his lack of artistic talent. Martin’s wife was a gallery partner, and through Martin’s mediation, Fang Muyang signed a representation contract with the gallery.
They regarded Fang Muyang as a rural artist, which was how he had initially introduced himself to Martin. Before moving to the city to become a waiter, he had farmed while painting. He had even discussed American crops with Martin, though the conversation didn’t go far since Martin lacked rural living experience. Martin saw Fang Muyang as an unspoiled country person, a simple younger brother who knew nothing but painting and arranged everything meticulously for him. He saw a childlike joy in Fang Muyang’s paintings and became convinced of his pure and innocent nature.
Fang Muyang had planned to buy a map and explore on his own—he disliked troubling others and being managed—but Martin had already filled his first few days with activities, leaving him no choice but to follow his host’s arrangements. When Fang Muyang had mentioned that half his meat back home came from hunting, Martin took him to a Long Island hunting club. After a week in New York, Fang Muyang hadn’t seen a single painting in an art museum; instead, he spent his time hunting, boating, and sunbathing on beaches. Under Martin’s supervision, he even drove a car. After several days of “capitalist corruption,” Fang Muyang envied nothing except owning a car—not necessarily one as nice as Martin’s, even a used Ford would do—so he could take Fei Ni wherever she wanted to go. Meanwhile, he proved his rural vigor through hunting and boating.
Fang Muyang declined Martin’s subsequent well-intentioned arrangements, saying that if he never got lost in his rural hometown, he certainly wouldn’t get lost in New York. He bought a map and spent several days getting a general sense of the city. Unable to afford restaurants, not even hot dog sandwiches from street vendors, he bought discounted near-expiry food from supermarkets to eat while exploring. After getting a general impression of the city, he focused on art museums, taking the subway daily and spending entire days there. The museum restaurants were certainly not meant for someone of his means. He still ate his discounted food outside the museums, watching people pass by—people-watching was its pleasure in good weather. At these times, he was reminded of his fellow villagers eating by the fields after work; he was like them now, except they usually squatted while he stood. After eating, he would return to view the paintings. Seeing the original works he and Fei Ni had only seen in art books, he naturally wanted to look longer. With Fei Ni absent, he looked extra carefully on her behalf.
He spent his days viewing art in museums and his evenings spreading Chinese culture at Martin’s home, finding time to teach Martin’s children Chinese characters. Though his formal education was limited, he had absorbed calligraphy basics from Old Fang. He taught the children to write “Fei Ni” in various styles—seal script, clerical script, running script… Within days, the children could “draw” Fei Ni’s name in different fonts.
With so many paintings to see in the museums, he went daily, sometimes making copies—not on canvas, but on T-shirts. He had found cheap white T-shirts at a charity market with fabric perfect for painting. Rather than making exact copies, he would either cartoonize the images, transform oil paintings into freehand style, or abstract them into simple lines. After finishing the front, he’d have Martin’s children write on the back, filling it with “Fei Ni” in various scripts…
In foreign museums, Fang Muyang boldly wore T-shirts with “Fei Ni” written on the back, as if she were behind him viewing the paintings too. Martin’s children loved his T-shirts, so he painted on their clothes as well—white T-shirts, white shirts, white dresses… Each had different paintings on the front but all bore Fei Ni’s name on the back, each in a different style. Fang Muyang borrowed a camera to photograph them standing together, capturing their backs.
When Fang Muyang took Martin’s children to the museum, their unique collection of clothing drew attention, with the various “Fei Ni” scripts on their backs forming a condensed history of Chinese calligraphy.
Most often, though, Fang Muyang went alone, preferring solitude.
At his gallery opening reception, Fang Muyang wore one of his self-made T-shirts. It wasn’t his solo exhibition but a group show with other emerging artists—he was the most peripheral, unlike the others who had already gained some recognition, one even sharing a critique with a famous painter. Fang Muyang suspected he had been squeezed in; after visiting over twenty galleries in the past few days, he understood the current art market trends, and his paintings didn’t align with collector preferences. He felt no regret—painting was deeply personal, with the greatest joy coming from the act itself. Others’ opinions neither affected his mood nor his self-judgment—they only affected his house prospects.
The gallery had priced his paintings high—unreachable for an unknown young artist. Fang Muyang thought they would be hard to sell at such prices; he would have preferred lower prices, enough to buy a courtyard house back home, or if not that, at least an automatic washing machine to free both his and Fei Ni’s hands—new automatic washing machines had just come out in China. But since his representatives had elevated his status this way, he couldn’t dampen their enthusiasm. At least his days spent viewing and copying art in museums hadn’t been wasted.
The opening reception would determine if the paintings would sell. After spending time with Martin’s family, Fang Muyang’s English had improved considerably—he could not only converse but even tell jokes in English. Having no expectations for his paintings to sell, he was particularly focused on sampling the reception’s wine and food. Neither humble nor proud, he didn’t initiate conversations but chatted freely with anyone who approached him. More people engaged him than he had expected, showing more interest in him and his shirt paintings than in his gallery pieces. His exhibited paintings were too realistic—in this period, realism meant outdated.
A well-dressed middle-aged man told Fang Muyang, “I’ve seen you before.” He had spotted Fang Muyang and his distinctive self-made clothes at the museum, though at the time, Fang Muyang had eyes only for the paintings.
If Fang Muyang had been a woman, he might have suspected the man was flirting. Though he had no memory of the man, this didn’t stop him from explaining the characters on his shirt’s back, even teaching the man to pronounce Fei Ni’s name in Chinese.
The man wanted to purchase the design rights for mass clothing production.
Fang Muyang responded formally, “Let my lawyer discuss the specific terms with you.” Though he had no lawyer, this didn’t stop him from immediately asking Martin to find one.
Had Martin been present, he would have wondered how his pure country boy had become so capitalistic in just days in New York.
While Fang Muyang’s formal paintings didn’t sell, he earned unexpected money from his casual T-shirt designs. The sum far exceeded his expectations.
Martin, as an admirer of Fang Muyang’s work, saw that no one was inquiring about his paintings and proactively purchased one. Fang Muyang once again displayed his uncorrupted rural simplicity, saying, “Why buy it? I’ll just give it to you.” Though Martin was a shrewd businessman, he couldn’t take advantage of this generous country fellow and insisted on writing him a check. Since Martin insisted, Fang Muyang accepted—arguing back and forth over money wasn’t his style.
With money in hand, Fang Muyang immediately treated Martin’s family to dinner at the city’s most expensive Chinese restaurant and bought them gifts to thank them for their hospitality.
After spending a few more days copying paintings at the museum, Fang Muyang bought a ticket to California to visit his sister.
He delivered his parents’ and Fei Ni’s gifts to Second Sister, while Mu Jing, had a check.
The amount on the check was beyond Mu Jing’s imagination.
His sister wouldn’t consider him a simple country boy, so Fang Muyang had to explain his good fortune again.
Mu Jing said she wasn’t short of money and told Fang Muyang to keep it for himself.
Fang Muyang laughed, “If you don’t need money, you could add some more and buy my paintings from the gallery—help raise my market value.”
Mu Jing hadn’t expected this response and couldn’t help but laugh.
Fang Muyang then took out another envelope.
Before leaving, he had called his second brother-in-law, asking if he wanted anything brought for his sister. His brother-in-law was practical, giving him just an envelope. Inside were dollars for Mu Jing’s journal subscriptions. Even during his days of eating discounted food, Fang Muyang hadn’t opened this envelope.
Seeing the money, Mu Jing’s first reaction was surprise at the amount.
She knew Qu Hua’s salary and bonuses couldn’t add up to this much—he must have sold his stamp collection, which she knew was valuable.
Besides money, there was also a letter in the envelope.
Holding it, Mu Jing asked her brother, “What else did he say?”
“Everything he wanted to say is in the letter.”
Every time Qu Hua wrote, Mu Jing feared he would mention divorce.
Originally a visiting scholar, Mu Jing felt that only earning a doctorate would make her time here worthwhile. With only an undergraduate degree, she had to pass an academic evaluation by a committee before officially registering as a doctoral student. Passing the evaluation wasn’t difficult; the challenge was telling Qu Hua. She had previously told him she would return after her visiting scholarship, but now she wanted to pursue a doctorate. The distance between registration and graduation was vast. Undergraduates rarely completed American doctoral degrees in less than five years, with six or seven years being common.
She would start writing letters only to tear them up and start over. She had sent Qu Hua some photos of herself, looking quite impressive—waiting for such a person seemed worthwhile. She wrote asking him to wait two years, promising to return once she earned her doctorate. If she hadn’t returned after two years, he could divorce her or do as he pleased. She asked him to send a photo of himself; she wanted to see him.
Getting a doctorate in two years in America was an impossible dream. But she couldn’t ask Qu Hua to wait longer—he was a normal man who wanted a normal married life. He was good to her because she was his wife, not because she was Mu Jing, and the law would allow him to divorce and find another wife.
With her letter, she sent neuroscience journals she had subscribed to for him, so he could keep up with his international colleagues’ work. His reply came without directly addressing whether he would wait, but as requested, he included a photo—far less formal than hers, looking as if it was taken casually after leaving an operating room. She kept his photo close to her heart.
Afterward, Mu Jing sent her diary along with the neuroscience journals to Qu Hua. In it, she wrote about wearing a loose dress one day, how the wind would press it against her then release it, feeling like Qu Hua’s caress—so pleasant that she deliberately walked slower to prolong the sensation. Words she could never speak to his face flowed easily on paper. To recapture that feeling, she had bought a shirt of the same material.
She didn’t tell Qu Hua the shirt cost her $1.20 at a flea market—quite expensive for her, considering the second-hand men’s small shirts she usually wore cost only fifty cents. She spent eighteen hours a day studying, but still made time to iron her clothes, using that time to contemplate accumulated questions. Her shirts were always wrinkle-free. People assumed her clothes were expensive. She had pursuers at school, including a quarterback popular with girls and much younger than her. The boy completely misunderstood her, both her age and status. Mu Jing didn’t bother explaining everything; she just told those blue eyes that she was married to a neurosurgeon. She could only appreciate certain Asian faces—if Qu Hua’s appearance hadn’t matched her aesthetic preferences, she would have needed much time to convince herself to marry him, yet at the time, she had agreed almost without thinking. She had needed him completely then, and she hated that beginning—choosing him when she had no choice made her choice seem worthless.
She wrote down her scattered thoughts daily, usually during meal breaks. Between earning credits and writing papers, she had too much to do for dedicated letter-writing time. When enough accumulated, she mailed them to him. She never wrote about her pursuers—using others’ attention, sincere or not, to show off would be tasteless. Besides, Qu Hua wasn’t that type of man—some men get jealous but also take pride in others pursuing their wives. Qu Hua wasn’t like that; if she deliberately wrote about such things to prove her worth, he would likely despise her for being shallow.
She also sent the journals. Subscriptions were expensive, but she never mentioned it in her letters—it would seem like seeking credit. She also worried Qu Hua would insist on paying for the subscriptions. She didn’t want them to keep such strict accounts.
Yet Qu Hua had still sent money for the journals, more than necessary.
Mu Jing unfolded the letter. At first, she was afraid to read it, but as she read line by line, she couldn’t help but smile.