Cheng Cheng had never hated snow so much. The heavy snowfall paralyzed the airport, with apologetic announcements constantly coming through the speakers as flight arrival times were repeatedly delayed. The waiting chairs were packed with people, a baby next to her was crying loudly, and a red-haired boy across from her scattered potato chips all over the floor. She went outside to smoke, and an Indian woman in a sari immediately took her seat, setting down her backpack with relief. It was already dark outside, and the snow was still falling. The path in front of the door had just been cleared but was already covered with another layer of white frost. She pulled up her hood, cupping her hands around the flame to light a cigarette in the cold wind.

After a four-hour delay, the plane finally landed at JFK Airport. Cheng Cheng stood behind the barrier, watching Xia Hui come out, truly feeling as if she was waiting for something. He looked like an utterly ordinary middle-aged man, dragging a heavy suitcase, appearing particularly small and thin among the crowd of white people. He had probably slept for a long time on the plane, and his dreams had left his hair slightly disheveled. Xia Hui walked toward her. She put away the white paper with his name on it that she had been holding – her arm was sore from holding it up for so long. She took his suitcase and briefly introduced herself.

The car left the airport, heading toward the city. They made small talk about New York. He had been here three times, all brief visits. He said he didn’t like this place, feeling that all international metropolises were the same. He preferred ancient and quaint cities, like Toledo in Spain. He asked how long she had been here. Five years, she said.

“I studied for two years first, then started working.”

“Always at this Chinese association?”

“No, I’m just temporarily helping out for the literature festival.”

“Do you like literature?”

“Oh, no, another girl had something come up, so I’m replacing her.” She turned to smile at him. “I know nothing about literature.”

He nodded magnanimously. She felt a gaze looking down from above, tinged with some pity.

Near the hotel, he took a phone call. After hanging up, he sighed:

“I still have to meet two friends. I haven’t even written tomorrow’s speech yet.”

“Writers should all be able to speak off the cuff, shouldn’t they?”

“It would certainly be easy to muddle through – after all, it’s just the same old routine, said forward and backward. Sometimes I want to say something different, but alas, I just can’t find the time.”

“Mm.” She nodded, indicating that she understood very well.

The car stopped at the hotel entrance, and a doorman in a black cloak came up to carry the luggage. The hotel lobby was decorated in 1930s nostalgic style, with dim lighting that trembled slightly, and low jazz music brushing past their ears like feathers. He walked over to embrace the guests sitting on the sofa. They were an elegantly dressed American couple in their fifties – the man had silver hair and a ruddy complexion, looking somewhat like Clinton before he lost weight, while the woman wore large pearl earrings and bright red lipstick.

Cheng Cheng went over to help him check in, handing his documents to the young man at the front desk. She stood there waiting with her elbow propped on the desk, casually picking up a nearby brochure to read. It turned out that Woody Allen played clarinet here every Monday. She remembered watching “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” with Lu Lu – a love story about taking small risks. But the admission ticket cost two hundred dollars, which seemed too expensive even with dinner included.

She walked over, apologizing for interrupting their conversation, then asked whether he needed a smoking room and had him choose from among several newspapers the hotel provided for guests.

“This is Cheng Cheng, she’s very capable,” Xia Hui introduced her, naturally placing his hand on her shoulder. She greeted them somewhat awkwardly. As she walked away, she heard them discussing the novel he had just finished.

“I read it in one sitting, it was absolutely wonderful. I loved it so much,” the woman said excitedly, her Chinese extremely fluent. “Jeffrey thought it was great too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” the man called Jeffrey paused, seeming not very confident about his Chinese. He rolled his eyes several times, finally settling on the right words. “Very passionate.”

“This theme is so good, it’s sure to attract attention from foreign media,” the woman said.

Xia Hui smiled slightly: “I hope the English edition can come out next autumn.”

The woman nodded: “We’ll do our best.”

After completing the check-in procedures, she handed him the room key card and bid them goodnight. As she turned to leave, he called out to her:

“Would you like to join us for drinks?”

She smiled and shook her head, said goodnight again, and walked out through the hotel’s revolving door. A group of reporters stood in the cold wind, shivering as they held their cameras. The dark lenses were like sniper rifles, sweeping across her face before moving away coldly, continuing to aim at the rotating door panels. They were waiting for some celebrity staying at the hotel. This hotel was famous – she knew this from entertainment magazines, something about who was having an affair with whom here, though she couldn’t remember the details.

The hotel was on Madison Avenue, surrounded by high-end fashion stores and tasteful galleries. She walked toward the nearest subway station. Although it was long past closing time, those shop windows were still lit, burning brightly like fireplaces in rich people’s homes in the cold snowy weather. A homeless man sat cross-legged beneath them, leaning against the glass window as if seeking warmth. If she hadn’t been worried about losing her composure, she really would have liked to have a drink. Xiao Song always said she was transformed from a white snake and would revert to her true form when drunk, rolling on the ground trying to shed her human skin. She would wake up remembering nothing, only feeling very tired, as if she had desperately tried to reach for something but could never quite grasp it.

She got off the subway and walked out of the underground passage. Cold wind rushed up, blurring her eyes. She remembered the first time she met Lu Lu, right at this intersection. At that time Lu Lu had already rented their current apartment and was looking online for a roommate. She came to the subway station to meet Cheng Cheng and take her to see the place. While waiting for the red light, Lu Lu turned to her and said:

“You know what? Every day when I leave home and walk onto the street looking at the people around me, I can’t help but shout in my heart, ‘I love New York!'”

Cheng Cheng stared at Lu Lu in a daze. She didn’t love New York; she didn’t love anywhere. Perhaps moved by that kind of passion she herself would never have, she had already decided to live with Lu Lu even before seeing the apartment.

She reached their apartment building. The whole building looked very deserted. The Singaporean girl next door had moved away, and some people had gone home for Christmas and hadn’t returned yet. She didn’t know if they would come back. She fumbled for her keys to open the door. The lock was newly changed, but the old key hadn’t been removed from the keyring yet, so she always inserted the wrong one first and had to try again.

Yesterday, Lu Lu’s aunt had moved away those two boxes of belongings. Now that room was empty, with only the Polaroid photos stuck to the wall not yet taken down. The girl’s powder-white face in the photos reflected an eerie light in the darkness.

She returned to her own room. Large cardboard boxes and bulging travel bags were piled on the floor, scattered with expired magazines and tangled charging cables. There was only a week left until the end of the month, and she still had many things to organize. She sat down at the writing desk, took out the bacon sandwich and macaroni salad she had bought on the way, opened her computer, and ate while checking emails. Xiao Song called.

“Come to my house for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night? I have a reception to attend.”

“It’s my mom’s birthday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“How was I supposed to know you’d be so busy?”

“How am I busy?”

“Aren’t you? No one answered when I called.”

“Please look at how heavy the snow is outside. The plane was delayed for several hours. I didn’t pick him up until after eight and take him to the hotel.”

“See, you really are busy. Was I wrong?”

“Enough, Xiao Song.”

“Right, enough.”

Neither of them spoke. Recently, because of work and moving, they had been fighting constantly – they fought so much they had developed an understanding. Whenever they were about to start fighting, both would shut their mouths.

After a while she said: “You all eat dinner first. As soon as the reception ends, I’ll rush over. It shouldn’t be too late.”

“Whatever you want.” Xiao Song hung up.

Cheng Cheng continued eating her sandwich. The bacon was terribly unpalatable, but she seemed to have a responsibility to finish it. “Don’t be willful,” she seemed to hear Xiao Song say. She realized she was becoming more and more like Xiao Song’s family – having no preferences about things, only responsibilities.

Actually, attending that reception wasn’t part of her duties; it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t go. She just didn’t want to go to Xiao Song’s house for dinner. Everyone would sit there with nothing to say, just silently eliminating the food in front of them – there was nothing more boring in the world. Xiao Song’s mother used to work in a factory cafeteria and was accustomed to cooking in large pots. She always made too much and kept adding rice and dishes to everyone’s plates, afraid someone might not have enough to eat. That kind of warmth was rare to see in America and had initially made her feel very close to home.

Xiao Song’s parents ran a food store in Chinatown, selling Chinese pickled vegetables, hot pot seasonings, frozen fish balls, and egg dumplings. They carried a strong smell of pickled vegetables that always reminded her of being led by her mother as a child to state-run food stores, where sales clerks wearing sleeve guards would use long-handled ladles to stir around in huge pickle vats.

Xiao Song’s parents had always lived within the Chinese community. After more than ten years here, they still couldn’t speak a complete English sentence. For this family, immigration seemed merely like packing up people and house onto a cargo ship, transporting them across the Pacific to the American continent, and finally placing them in an apartment building in Queens, New York. Even if they had been transported to the Himalayas or Antarctica, they would still be living in the same house. That house was like a tightly closed clam shell that wouldn’t let even a wisp of New York’s wind blow in. After this month, she would have to move in and live with them. Just thinking about it made her feel like she couldn’t breathe. Something she had always resisted was finally about to happen.

She took a shrimp-colored dress from the closet, planning to wear it to tomorrow’s reception. The dress was Lu Lu’s. Typical Lu Lu style – deep V-neck, embedded with glittering beads, tight at the waist, with understated little lace trim on the hem.

While organizing Lu Lu’s things, she discovered many of her own belongings. Glittery eyeshadow, tropical-style wide headbands, charm-filled bracelets, and pearl earrings. Lu Lu had spotted her weakness for being indecisive and always encouraged her to buy things that didn’t suit her. After they sat unused for a while, Lu Lu would quietly appropriate them. She was very surprised the first time she found her own things in Lu Lu’s room.

“In my heart, we’re inseparable – what’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine. If you asked me for anything, I’d definitely give it to you,” Lu Lu argued defensively.

When packing all the items into boxes, she kept a few of Lu Lu’s clothes and a pack of unfinished Marlboro cigarettes.

She put on that dress and looked at herself in the mirror, vaguely remembering how Lu Lu used to look wearing it.

When she first arrived in New York, Lu Lu told her not to miss any reception, even if she didn’t have an invitation. In fact, Lu Lu never had invitations. She would just buy an art magazine, flip to the last page, find gallery opening previews that interested her, and copy down the times and addresses. Lu Lu bought this dress because of a reception. That time she went along with Lu Lu. That was the only reception she had ever attended.

Lu Lu moved through the crowd clutching a cocktail, wearing 10-centimeter high heels yet moving as nimbly as a leopard. She quickly identified who among those people had connections and went up to chat with them. She discussed the paintings on the walls with them, as well as recent popular exhibitions and concerts. All her insights came from magazines and hearsay from other social occasions. But it was enough, Lu Lu said. The most important point was that no matter what you said, don’t praise – complain. Complain that a certain restaurant’s taste was much worse than before, that Broadway operas were now simply unwatchable, that the hidden little bars in Brooklyn were now packed with foreign tourists. The other person would definitely respond enthusiastically – the biggest characteristic of New York City was that it gathered people from all over the world who were never satisfied with life.

Lu Lu looked very charming, wearing a dress that closely resembled this season’s new style from Barneys, carrying an imitation Celine handbag. No one would know she shared a room with someone else in the Bronx. Cheng Cheng would never have this kind of confidence. She unconsciously retreated to the outskirts of the crowd, standing alone in a corner, hoping not to be noticed. However, she was still noticed – first by a woman who came up asking where the restroom was, then after a while, a man looked around and handed his empty wine glass to her. To make herself look busy, she started pretending to look at the paintings on the wall, studying them with complete concentration, even including the names and dimensions on the cards beside them. Later, a Chinese boy wearing a baseball cap rescued her. He came over to talk to her, saying she was the only person at the entire reception who was seriously appreciating these paintings. She was worried he would ask for her evaluation of those paintings, but fortunately he didn’t. They chatted for a while, and she gradually relaxed. The gallery invited important guests to join them for dinner. Lu Lu had struck up a conversation with some guest and left with him. Cheng Cheng and the baseball cap boy were among the few who stayed behind. They drank the remaining cocktails on the table and stood there talking for a long time, until the waitstaff came out and took the glasses from their hands.

They went to a motel. The room was as cold as a freezer, with the air conditioner dripping water like it had a cold. When they made love, the boy wore a comforter on top, and Cheng Cheng felt like she was in a pitch-black tunnel. Most of that winter was spent in the tunnel.

The boy was called Xiao Song. He didn’t have an invitation either, and it was his first time at such a reception. He was also accompanying a friend, and his friend had also abandoned him. She found they were really very similar – just like that, two abandoned people found each other. She didn’t know whether to feel sad or fortunate.

“To find such an out-of-place person at a reception, you really have talent,” Lu Lu looked disappointed in her.

“I’m different from you – I’m not someone who likes taking risks,” Cheng Cheng said. Lu Lu liked watching thriller movies – affairs, murders, inheritances… while Cheng Cheng preferred long and bland ones, like an old person basking in the sun, carefully recounting trivial past events.

“I don’t think so. Deep down you like it too, otherwise what are you doing running off to New York alone?”

Coming to New York alone was the biggest risk Cheng Cheng had ever taken in her life. Perhaps it was too big – even gravity disappeared. For a long time, she felt like she was in a state of free fall.

“Didn’t you come here wanting to live differently than before?” Lu Lu said. “Those were your own words to me.”

Cheng Cheng shook her head. “Now I feel everywhere is the same.”

Dating Xiao Song perhaps meant a complete compromise with life. The only thing she persisted in was still living with Lu Lu. Xiao Song didn’t like Lu Lu and had asked her early on to move in with his family, but she had always refused. She needed Lu Lu, though not very much. Lu Lu was like a skylight that allowed her to look up from time to time and see the changing scenery outside. That was New York’s scenery. Knowing it was only a temporary state, she still tried to maintain it, like staying in bed in the morning. Until one day, a deafening bell woke her up.

That was her first time dealing with American police. When she came home in the evening, she saw them standing below the apartment building. Their blue uniforms made her inexplicably nervous, as if she were an undocumented stowaway.

The entire building was cordoned off. The door was wide open, brightly lit inside, with people standing everywhere. How she hoped Lu Lu was throwing a party at home. She sat on the sofa, waiting for the police to take her for questioning. They were still busy, going in and out of that room as if they could still save something. Many feet moved across the floor, carefully stepping around a shadow in the middle. A deep plum-colored shadow that filled the periphery of her vision. She hugged her knees and buried her face.

The Singaporean girl living next door stood in the doorway asking what had happened here. The police told her that a woman named Li Wenjuan had been murdered. He didn’t understand tones and pronounced the three characters “Li Wenjuan” all in flat tone. Li Wenjuan was Lu Lu’s name. Although she herself had never liked it, when she died, she still had to be called by this name.

The police initially suspected it was a crime of passion, with the perpetrator being a Russian man the victim had started dating two weeks earlier.

“Have you seen him?” The police officer waved his photo.

She shook her head. The man looked like he carried the coldness of the Caucasus, very haggard, with a full beard. She remembered Lu Lu had once had a boyfriend with a full beard.

“You can’t date men with full beards,” Lu Lu said through gritted teeth after they broke up. “They’re all savages, dark inside.”

The police said when leaving that they would let her know if there were any new developments. But they never called.

The next day was the opening of Literature Week. Xia Hui had a speech in the afternoon. Cheng Cheng really wanted to attend, but Chen Bin sent her to arrange the evening reception. Chen Bin was the head of the Chinese association. While saying the opening reception must be dignified, he also had her go change to a cheaper champagne.

She didn’t arrive at the venue until 3 PM – Xia Hui’s speech had already ended. It was tea break time, and people were all standing outside. Xia Hui was talking with two women, holding a cup of coffee. She hadn’t eaten lunch and felt dizzy from hunger, so she hurriedly took a few pastries. Chen Bin came over with an ugly expression and quietly told her that Xia Hui was unhappy, complaining that his speaking order had been arranged after those two exile writers, and that when the host introduced him, they had gotten the name of his work wrong. He said this was the worst literature festival he had ever attended, claiming he would cancel the media interviews and wouldn’t attend the evening reception either.

“You go soothe his mood. The guest list for the reception was announced long ago – if he doesn’t come, we’ll be embarrassed.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He has a good impression of you. Before his speech he even asked me why you hadn’t come,” Chen Bin said.

One of the two women left, leaving the one in a mustard yellow tweed suit gazing at Xia Hui with infatuation. Cheng Cheng knew this Mrs. Yang – she had come when they were setting up the venue the day before yesterday, complaining that Chen Bin hadn’t sent her an invitation. Chen Bin immediately shifted the blame to Cheng Cheng and even criticized her in front of that woman. After Mrs. Yang left, Chen Bin said there were many such people who mixed in various events in Chinese circles, thinking they were socialites.

Cheng Cheng took two more pastries and a cup of coffee. The fruit tart tasted good – the strawberries drizzled with syrup made one feel happy. A cold, stern gaze shot over from the distance, as if wanting to knock over the plate in her hands. She looked up to see Chen Bin staring at her.

She stuffed the remaining fruit tart into her mouth, threw away the paper cup and plate, and walked toward Xia Hui. She didn’t walk right up to him but stopped at some distance, waiting for him to notice her. His gaze swept past then returned, settling on her, his face showing surprise.

“You seem to have lost a little weight,” he said with a smile as she approached. Mrs. Yang turned around to see it was her, looking puzzled:

“You two already know each other?”

“We only met for the first time yesterday.”

Mrs. Yang’s mouth opened slightly, her expression astonished. Cheng Cheng quickly changed the subject:

“Did the speech go smoothly?”

“Very wonderful. Just too short – we all wanted to hear you say more,” Mrs. Yang said to him with a smile.

Xia Hui smiled and turned to look at Cheng Cheng: “You really should have come with us yesterday – that bar was fantastic.”

Cheng Cheng said nothing, looking down at her boots. The air congealed between them. After a while, Mrs. Yang said:

“Sorry, I have something else to do. I’ll leave first.” As she left, she glanced at Cheng Cheng with contempt.

Cheng Cheng asked Xia Hui: “Did I interrupt your conversation?”

“Of course not. You rescued me. Couldn’t you tell?”

“I thought you were used to it by now, able to handle any situation with ease.”

“I keep reminding myself not to become like that.”

“Why?”

“Writers must write because they feel unadapted to this world. If they’re adapted to everything, what would there be to write about?”

“Writers are all willful, aren’t they?”

“This doesn’t count as willful.”

“Then does suddenly canceling interviews and refusing to attend dinner count?”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re getting at.” He laughed. “I forgot you work here.”

“I just think since you’re already here, why not participate?”

“To tell the truth, I now refuse literature festivals of this caliber. This time I only came to see old friends.” He crushed the empty paper cup in his hand and walked over to throw it away. “Tomorrow night I have to fly to Paris – my French edition just came out, and several important newspapers want to do interviews.” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “I want to give myself half a day off. I wonder if Miss Cheng would approve?”

“How could I have the authority to approve anything?” she said with a smile.

“But I don’t want to make things difficult for you.” He stopped smiling and looked at her sincerely.

“You won’t. I’m just responsible for some administrative trivia.” she said.

Staff members came out announcing that the second half of the meeting was about to begin, asking everyone to return to the venue. Xia Hui watched people file back in, then turned to her and said:

“Well, I have to go.”

“Now? You’re leaving right now?”

“Yes, while they haven’t sent another lobbyist, I’ll sneak away.”

“I’m not a lobbyist,” she muttered quietly.

“Alright, you’re not.” He put on his coat and draped the scarf that had slipped down over his shoulders. He didn’t leave immediately but still stood in place. She looked down, moving her feet to position them within the borders of the square tiles.

“Is this job important to you?” He put his hands in his pockets.

“Hm?” She was startled for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m just temporarily helping out.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“Then why don’t you come with me?”

“Where to?” She looked up.

“Let me think,” he said. “Go get your coat. I’ll wait for you at the main entrance.”

After Lu Lu’s death, she took extended leave, then quit her job at the community library. She used to be quite good at memorizing numbers and could recite the long call numbers on book spines. But after Lu Lu died, she suddenly couldn’t remember anything – seeing long strings of numbers made her very irritated.

She still lived in that apartment. She had agreed with the landlord to stay until the end of the month and clean the place thoroughly when she left. No matter how Xiao Song tried to persuade her, she said she just wanted to be alone and slowly organize things. The landlord had already posted rental notices, and people kept coming to see the apartment. They hadn’t read the newspapers and hadn’t met the Singaporean girl next door, so they didn’t know what had happened here. They only saw that the walls of the room were covered with Lu Lu’s Polaroid photos.

“She went back to her home country,” she explained. For a moment, she felt Lu Lu might really have gone back. Dying in a foreign land was perhaps a way of leaving the foreign land.

When Chen Bin came, she thought it was another person looking at the apartment, but he said he was looking for Lu Lu – he couldn’t get through on the phone, so he came to check. The Chinese association where Chen Bin worked was responsible for organizing meetings and exhibitions related to China. Recently they were planning a Chinese Literature Festival, and Lu Lu had agreed to help.

“Lu Lu rarely participated in this kind of activity,” Cheng Cheng said. Lu Lu had always looked down on any activities connected with Chinese people, considering them vulgar and decadent.

“That’s right, but this literature festival invited many famous writers,” Chen Bin said, “including Xia Hui. You probably don’t understand Lu Lu – she was a literature enthusiast who had read all of Xia Hui’s books. She said she absolutely had to get his autograph this time.”

“I’ve heard her mention him,” Cheng Cheng said. She didn’t know why she was lying.

“I can’t believe she’s gone…” Chen Bin’s eyes reddened. Cheng Cheng suddenly had an intuition: Lu Lu must have slept with him. They sat in silence, mourning the deceased for a while. When leaving, Chen Bin asked if she would be willing to replace Lu Lu and help out.

“There’s compensation, though not very much.”

Cheng Cheng agreed.

Xiao Song was firmly opposed, convinced that everything related to Lu Lu was dangerous.

“I just want to meet more people,” she said. She couldn’t tell him how lonely she felt after Lu Lu’s death.

No one saw them leave the venue. She worried someone might chase after them and walked quickly with him following behind. There weren’t many pedestrians on the street, and very few cars passed by. The swept-up snow was piled along the roadside like half-built snowmen. Two discarded Christmas trees lay beside the garbage bins. She rarely came to Manhattan’s Upper East Side – these streets were unfamiliar, with a strange coldness like stage sets. Listening to the footsteps following behind her, she felt like she was in a movie.

They crossed the intersection and walked to Central Park. Large patches of snow lay intact. Their boots stepped on it, kicking up thick snow powder. Startled squirrels scampered up trees and stood on branches watching them.

“Hey, can we stop?” he called out breathlessly from behind.

She stopped and turned around to look – he was already dozens of meters away.

“Running so fast, just like two fugitives!” He walked quickly to catch up.

“That’s right, we are breaking out of prison.”

“Why are you so excited? Your desire to escape seems even more urgent than mine.”

“How so?” She pulled up her collar and buttoned the top button of her coat. “Where shall we go now?”

“Find a place to sit for a while, okay?”

“Then we’ll have to keep walking – there are cafes up ahead.”

Near noon, there weren’t many people in the cafe, just a very old man sitting in the corner reading the New York Times. When ordering, he let her decide for him. The waitress with a ponytail quickly brought their drinks – her coffee, his English tea.

“This reminds me of skipping school as a child.” She tore open a sugar packet and poured half of it into her coffee.

“You skipped school? I thought you were always a good student.”

“Actually just once or twice.”

“For what reason?”

“No reason at all. There were two students in our class who often skipped school. I was curious about what they did outside while we were in class, so one day I ran out with them.”

“So what did you do?”

“We didn’t seem to do anything. I can’t remember – I just remember running out like that.”

He laughed: “So today is the same? I’m like that student who always skipped school?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” she looked at him and asked tentatively, “Are you?”

“Yes, I started skipping classes in second grade,” seeing her surprised expression, he smiled knowingly, “but back then classes were suspended for revolution – even if you wanted to attend, there were none to attend.”

“What year was that?”

“1966. All of China was skipping school.”

“It’s really hard to imagine. It always sounds like another world.”

“I am someone who returned from another world,” he said.

“Well, alright.” She picked up her cup and found she had finished her coffee. The old man in the corner had left at some point, leaving only the two of them in the entire cafe. She felt momentarily dazed.

“Where shall we go now?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to stay here?” He squinted in the dense sunlight.

“Not particularly.” She said. She just felt they should go somewhere, so as not to waste this afternoon’s time.

“Do you have any ideas?” He leaned back against the chair.

“Didn’t you say you would think of something?”

“Mm, but I’m not familiar with this place at all. Every time I’ve come before, friends have taken me around.”

“Why not visit your friends then?”

“Which friends?”

“Any of them. Didn’t you say you have many friends here – sinologists, publishers, university professors… You could go see them. Don’t mind me, I can sit nearby. That would be nice – I like listening to interesting people talk.”

“They’re all very boring.”

“How could that be?”

“Really, just as boring as the people at the literature festival. Didn’t we just escape from there?”

“But they’re your friends. Being with them should be much more comfortable.”

“It’s more comfortable like this now. Don’t you think so? Let’s see how we feel later, okay?”

“Mm.” She nodded.

After a while, he suddenly sat up straight:

“I have an idea. Why don’t you take me to see those places you usually go? Coffee shops, restaurants, department stores, supermarkets – anything.”

“What’s there to see in those?”

“That way I can know what your ordinary life is like.”

“You’ll find it very boring.”

“I think it’s interesting. You just go about doing what you normally do, don’t take special care of me, just pretend I don’t exist.” He waved his hand, signaling for the check. “Come on, let’s go.”

She followed him out of the cafe. Things she normally did – buying day-old bread sold in bundles at the food store by the subway exit? Sitting on the zigzag fire escape below her apartment building daydreaming and feeding stray cats? How she wished this afternoon could be a little different.

Going to Union Square was a compromise choice. It was also a place she often went, and there were many shops and used bookstores – better than going near her residence, a plain, noisy, crowded residential area.

They decided to take the subway. Although the subway station was somewhat far, he was happy to walk there – he emphasized, completely following her usual way.

At the subway station, she stood in front of the automatic ticket machine to buy him a ticket. He looked at the red, round-bellied coin purse in her hands with an admiring expression:

“So many coins.”

She put the change into it, pulled the drawstring tight, and handed it to him. He held it in his palm and weighed it a few times:

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many coins.”

“Because you’re too rich.”

“No, in China, coins are becoming increasingly rare – they’ve become obsolete.”

“Really? That’s such a pity. I really like using coins. When paying, I try my best to come up with the exact amount – it gives me a sense of accomplishment.” She laughed at herself.

He looked at her with bright eyes, like discovering an unnamed asteroid in the night sky.

She went to the restroom while he waited outside the subway entrance. When she returned, a Black man was talking to him. He just shook his head, waving his hands repeatedly with an impatient expression. He had misunderstood the man’s intention, thinking it was begging or sales, when in fact he was asking for directions. She walked up and told him how to get there. Xia Hui looked somewhat embarrassed.

She actually hadn’t noticed that he couldn’t speak English. At the conference there were translators, the friends he met yesterday spoke Chinese, and there was no occasion that required him to speak English. Perhaps there never had been – he was always protected, never falling into such an awkward situation. He seemed to have his pride wounded and remained silent all the way, just following closely behind her like a child afraid of being lost.

They came up from the central subway exit at Union Square, surrounded by a circle of shops large and small, with exciting red “SALE” signs pasted on the windows. She asked if he wanted to buy any gifts for his family; he said no. She pointed out a large store to him, telling him the third floor had a very good home goods section where she had bought several cushions and a lampshade. She asked if he wanted to go up and look; he hesitated for a moment and said either way was fine.

She had never shopped for home goods with a man before, let alone a strange man. The feeling was really odd – two people with no intersection in their lives looking at various things meant to be placed in homes: warm, soft things for bedside, things that touch the skin. She picked out a coral fleece pajama set as a birthday gift for Xiao Song’s mother.

Earlier she had worried this afternoon would pass too quickly; now she felt it was extremely long. She took him to a famous used bookstore. But he couldn’t read English and wasn’t interested in those books, only asking her to show him books by Chinese writers. She found them in a deep corner, occupying just the bottom two rows of a bookshelf – you had to squat down to see the titles. One of the books was his. But he said three of his books had been translated into English and asked her to look for the others. She knelt on the floor searching until her hair came loose, but there was still only that one book.

“This is a used bookstore. If you can’t find the books, it means no one was willing to sell them,” she consoled.

He nodded: “Just this one, ‘The Double,’ was translated poorly. What a pity.”

But she still decided to buy it and ask him to sign it. Later they sat down in the bookstore’s cafe. He turned the book to the title page, gripped his pen, looked up and asked her name – which two characters made up “Cheng Cheng.” A thought flashed through her mind: this book should belong to Lu Lu. Although she could still write her own name now, Cheng Cheng didn’t do so. She didn’t really believe in souls – death was when everything ended. So Lu Lu didn’t need any mementos.

The sky gradually darkened. They decided to go for dinner. Although he said anything was fine, she still carefully chose a restaurant in Central Park. They took a car back there.

The restaurant was by the lake, built to look like a boathouse. There happened to be an unreserved table by the window, looking out onto the frozen lake covered with thick snow.

“You chose a good place,” he said, looking outside. “Do you come here often?”

“I’ve only been here once,” she said with some regret. “If only we’d come earlier – once it gets dark, you can’t see anything.”

When ordering, he still wanted her to decide for him. She ordered beef for him and cod for herself. As she closed the menu and handed it to the waiter, he said:

“Let’s have some wine.”

They ordered a bottle of Chilean red wine. After she tasted and nodded, the waiter poured for both of them.

He raised his glass and clinked it with hers: “This afternoon has been very pleasant.”

She said: “Really? I made you walk so much.”

“Really,” he said. “Every time I go abroad it’s scheduled very full – meeting people, conferences, speeches, rushing from one place to another. I’ve never had an afternoon like today—”

“So aimless, right? Not knowing where to go at all.”

“Exactly – no purpose needed. People always have such strong purpose, which is why they live so tiredly.”

At this moment, outside the window the last light had faded, the lake’s outline had disappeared, leaving only a patch of fluorescent white suspended in the night.

He drank a little wine and gradually recovered his spirits.

“Do you live alone, or with your boyfriend?” he asked. This was the first time touching on personal topics.

“Alone. I used to have a roommate.”

“You don’t live with your boyfriend?”

“How do you know I have a boyfriend?”

“A feeling,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“I do.” She nodded.

“But you should be the kind of very independent girl who has her own space,” he said. “You’re very different from young women back home – you don’t have that restless, greedy quality.” He frowned with disgust, as if he had suffered greatly from it.

“Sometimes I feel quite distant from this world,” she smiled. “Maybe because I’m an Aquarius.”

“Astrology again. Young people nowadays all seem to believe in it. Is it really accurate? Are all people divided into just a dozen or so types?”

“God has to create so many people, he must give them numbers and classifications,” she said. “Like books in a library – each one is different from all the others, but they’re also classified and numbered. That way when you want a particular book, you can find it quickly, and when adding new books, it’s easier to avoid duplicates.”

“You’re amazing,” he said, “turning God into a librarian.”

“I’m just making an analogy…” she quickly explained, afraid he’d think she was being blasphemous. In her imagination, writers all had firm beliefs.

The waiter brought their main courses. The beef and cod looked very appetizing. They cut them into pieces and exchanged with each other. She felt she should ask him some questions, but she really knew too little about literature.

“When you write, do you need a particularly quiet environment, completely isolated from the world?” she asked.

“When I was young, yes. I always wanted to hide somewhere with no people to write.”

“What about now?”

“Now I’m willing to stay in lively places, meeting friends every day, having some drinks.”

“Shouldn’t people prefer quiet as they get older?”

“Maybe I’m not old enough yet. But perhaps the older you get, the more you love liveliness,” he smiled. “I’m just talking about myself – other writers might not be like this.”

“I only know one writer – you. Whatever you’re like, I think they’re all like that,” she said.

“Then I’d better behave well,” he said.

She laughed. But he didn’t.

“Sometimes when I think about it, what difference does it make to write one more book or one less book? It’s all the same. I really don’t have the ambition I once had.” He gazed sadly at the lake outside.

After a while he turned back:

“I’m reminded of something from the past. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course.”

“When I was writing my first novel, my son had just been born. Our house was small, so for peace and quiet, I went to live in the countryside for a few months. The place was very desolate – just a few empty houses. They said the feng shui was bad, so people had all moved away. I wrote my novel there, going to the nearest village for dinner in the evenings. One day I had been drinking and on the way back I stepped into empty space and rolled down the hillside. I was quite drunk and fell asleep right there. When I woke up I found myself lying on a big rock, facing a vast lake. It was just like a story from ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio’ – waking up to find everything had vanished. At that moment I didn’t think of my wife and child. My first reaction was: what about my half-finished novel? Was it all an illusion that never actually existed?”

He sat there in a daze, as if waiting for himself to slowly return from the story. The waiter came over and took away the plates in front of them.

“At that time, I was perhaps a competent writer,” he said.

Two middle-aged men came in from outside, snow shaking off their leather shoes onto the floor. The fireplace crackled with flames in the corner. The couple at the neighboring table silently studied their menus.

“I know that feeling you’re talking about,” she said after a while.

Many times, she also felt like she was in a dream. Lu Lu hadn’t died because she didn’t exist. Xiao Song’s family didn’t exist either – she had never come to America at all. It was all a dream, and dreams were like long tunnels that you just had to pass through.

Going to the restroom, she followed a crack between the wooden floorboards, testing whether she could still walk in a straight line. In the mirror, her lips were stained black-purple by the wine, as if she’d been poisoned. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, Xiao Song’s name flashing on the screen. She reached out and turned it off, feeling a hint of malicious pleasure.

Xia Hui suggested going to a bar for another drink, and she agreed without thinking. She needed something sharp to cut open the dream, then she could wake up.

Pushing open the restaurant door, cold air blew away the alcohol from her face. Her heart, like a clenched fist, slowly relaxed.

“Let’s walk onto the lake,” she turned around and said reluctantly.

“Ice skating?”

“I just want to stand on it. Don’t you think it’s like a piece of land no one has ever been to?”

“Don’t be silly – the ice will crack as soon as you step on it,” he said.

Several beautiful girls stood on the street, the cold wind carving sculptural features, their blue-violet eyeshadow trailing phosphorescent fire in the air. One girl came up and asked Cheng Cheng for a cigarette. She shrugged her eyebrows, helpless about being under eighteen. Cheng Cheng handed her a cigarette, pressed the lighter, and cupped her hand against the wind. The girl held the cigarette between her thin lips, tilting her head toward the flame. She smelled the girl’s sweet orange perfume.

The other girls also came over, smiling at them. She gave them her remaining pack of Marlboros.

“When I see these girls, I feel very sad,” she said, watching their retreating figures.

“Why?”

“I feel old, and like I was never young.”

“Little girl, where have you gotten to? The road is still long ahead.” He reached over and patted her head. Her eyes immediately reddened.

Going from the lakeside restaurant to the bar was like falling from clouds to earth. The ambiguous lighting melted the snowflakes in their hair, winter’s solemnity drowned in frivolous music. People shouted as if everyone was intimate with everyone else. Sitting there, they seemed somewhat out of place. Their coats draped over chairs, the phone in her pocket vibrating against her back like a heart about to jump out. She felt a little sorry for Xiao Song.

Xia Hui gestured to the waiter for another bottle of wine.

“You have to catch a flight tomorrow.”

“It’s fine.” He looked at her as if saying they had all the time in the world.

“You know,” she drained the wine that had just been poured, “I have a friend who really admires you. She’s read all your books.”

“Really?” He smiled slightly, seeming already accustomed to it.

She swirled her glass and said sadly: “She should have been the one to come. But me, I’ve never read your books. I know nothing about you.”

“Isn’t that good?” he said. “Nothing between us.”

“No, it’s not. If it were her, she’d have so much to talk about with you.”

“Silly girl, no need to talk. Come here,” he said softly, “sit over here.”

She stood up and knocked over the wine glass in front of her. She stumbled over, and he pulled her into his arms. He began kissing her, one hand gently stroking her back as if she were a cat. She heard blood pounding against her temples. The glass rolled clinking on the table. Wine ran down the table edge, dripping onto her boots. He said in her ear:

“Let’s go to your place, okay?”

“I don’t want to go back, never again.” She shook her head desperately.

“Why?”

She didn’t speak.

He cupped her face and kissed her lips again. Around his sunken eye sockets were many wrinkles, trembling with his heavy breathing.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She smiled, her mind conjuring the hotel where he was staying. The revolving door, chandeliers, closing elevator, corridor with dark-patterned carpet, at the end a tightly shut door. His room, like a mysterious drawer slowly opening. Jazz music drifted up from the bar downstairs – she almost forgot, an impromptu performance belonging only to tonight.

“Woody Allen,” she said softly.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She shook her head. The black check folder was already on the table. He took moldy green bills from his wallet, the waiter closed the check folder and took it away. She watched the waiter leave, his figure split in two by a beam of light. She was too hot, about to melt.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?” she murmured.

She remembered getting in a taxi, kissing in the back seat. Part of her consciousness was very clear, like the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, staring intently at herself. She could even give the apartment address and direct the driver around several small streets, stopping accurately downstairs. She also remembered taking the wrong key again when opening the door. She removed the old key from the keyring and threw it away.

After that, her memory became very vague. It seemed only she remained, painfully turning over, her skin burning like iron, sparking. Until an unreal morning arrived, she saw herself stumbling downstairs. The sky showed a merciful light gray. A stray cat sat on the fire escape, staring at her warily like encountering a stranger.

Lu Lu walked over from the distance to meet her, wearing another black dress she had left behind, its long hem without a single wrinkle.

“Let’s go quickly, we’re running out of time.” She took Cheng Cheng’s hand.

“Where to?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Lu Lu smiled. “There are still many places in New York you haven’t been to.”

They walked for a long time and came to the lakeside. In the center of the water was a small island, blindingly white.

“We have to swim across. Is that okay?” Lu Lu turned to ask her.

She couldn’t swim, but that didn’t matter. She nodded.

With a splash, Lu Lu disappeared into the water. She also dove in, following closely behind Lu Lu. Then a strange sound came from the distance. Like someone beating drums. Before she could identify it clearly, the sound had wrapped around her like a rope, pulling her in some direction.

Cheng Cheng opened her eyes and heard urgent knocking on the door.

“Open up! Open up!” Xiao Song roared outside.

She sat up and saw Xia Hui clutching a bundle of clothes, rushing to the wardrobe and nimbly slipping inside after pulling open the door.

“Open up! I know you’re in there!” Xiao Song pounded the door with his fists.

Cheng Cheng jumped out of bed and opened the wardrobe door. Xia Hui huddled in the corner, his face buried in a hanging lotus-pink dress.

“That’s Lu Lu’s dress.” She frowned and reached in to pull him out.

“You need to leave,” she said.

“Now?” Xia Hui looked at her in terror, pointing toward the door. “But…”

She seemed not to hear anything, grabbing his arm and bringing him to the door.

“At least wait…” His face was deathly pale, almost pleading.

She yanked open the door and pushed him out. About to close it, she felt something trip her foot – Xia Hui’s coat. She kicked it out and shut the door.

She returned to bed and closed her eyes. Xiao Song roared loudly, as if fighting with Xia Hui. Gradually, the sounds outside grew fainter and fainter, like looking back at scenery on shore as it grew smaller and smaller, shrinking to black dots. She gazed ahead – she could no longer see Lu Lu’s figure. The white island was about to disappear. She plunged headfirst into the water, spreading her arms and swimming toward it with all her might.