In the early morning, Lin Pei woke from chaotic dreams. He drew open the curtains to reveal an apricot-gray sky outside, with the moon hanging low like a small piece of burnt-out charcoal. The last day of the year had arrived. Tomorrow would be New Year’s.

He sat on the bed, recalling his earlier dream. In it, he seemed to be departing on a long journey, with a stranger coming to the platform to see him off. At the moment of parting, the person suddenly ran up and pressed a handful of fennel into his hand. He stood at the window staring at the person’s retreating figure in a daze as the train swayed and began to move. In the dream, there was no station name on the platform, and the train was completely empty. He sat alone in the cramped carriage, not knowing where he was going. All of this was vague and unclear – a rather crude dream, like being on a hastily constructed stage that announced from the beginning that everything was fake, with no intention of inviting you into the performance.

Only the handful of fennel clutched in his hand, damp with moisture and sweat, emitting a strong, rich fragrance, was so real it was almost aggressive.

Dreaming of fennel meant that something lost would be found – a superstitious ex-girlfriend had told him this. Shortly after she dreamed of fennel, she was taken away by a former boyfriend. But her superstition seemed to have infected him. He had forgotten what she looked like, yet still remembered her strange superstitious pronouncements.

Lin Pei sniffed the hand that had clutched fennel in the dream and lit a cigarette. What could be lost and found again? He recalled the things he had lost – enough to make a list several pages long. For someone accustomed to loss, finding one or two items wasn’t particularly remarkable. But thinking it over, he couldn’t think of anything particularly worth getting back. He didn’t know why, but those things that had once been precious, when recalled after being lost, seemed merely ordinary, as if they had become much more mundane. He had no way to keep them, but he had a way of letting them rust in his memory.

When the phone rang at noon, Lin Pei was in the partition room of his studio, tending the stove. The stove wasn’t heating again. It had broken down countless times this winter. The wheat straw pellets he bought were mixed with impurities and couldn’t burn completely, filling the room with black smoke. He put down the iron hook in his hand and pulled out his phone from his pocket. Song Yu’s name jumped on the screen. He crouched on the ground, watching it flash and then go dark.

He walked out of the smoke-filled little room and removed his mask. The studio was as cold as a giant freezer. Above were two rows of incandescent lights with their blackened shades removed, the bright tubes exposed, illuminating everything like perpetual daylight and making one lose sense of time. This was precisely why he liked staying in the studio – isolation, self-sufficiency. He gradually derived a perverse pleasure from this solitude.

He walked to the sink in the corner, unzipped his pants with one hand, and stood slightly on his tiptoes. This sink was originally for washing brushes and paint palettes, but since the toilet’s water pipe had frozen and burst, he also urinated here. He watched his urine wash away the remaining cobalt blue paint from the sink’s edge, and then the remaining urine was washed away by water.

A few days ago, Da Chen next door had also moved away. The entire art district seemed empty. The snow that fell last week remained intact by the roadside, and the stray cat no longer came to check its empty bowl in front of the house. When evening came, everywhere was pitch black and desolate. When he left here, he occasionally saw lights in a few windows, but the people inside were no longer those he used to know. They looked very young, probably recent art school graduates, several of them sharing a studio, making silly sculptures and feeding a mangy local dog. Sometimes they called it Jeff, sometimes Koons – they couldn’t seem to make up their minds. It took him a long time to realize it was the famous Jeff Koons!

All the artists who had originally moved in with Lin Pei had left. Either they had moved to better places or changed professions. He couldn’t move to a better place and couldn’t convince himself to change professions, so he remained here. Several times, he felt those young boys regarding him with pitying looks, as if he were something as ridiculous as the Cultural Revolution slogans left on the walls.

He put the kettle on the induction cooker and took down the tea canister from the shelf. While waiting for the water to boil, he took out his phone and looked again at the missed call. It was indeed Song Yu. A long-lost name. By his count, they probably hadn’t been in contact for five or six years, perhaps even longer.

Song Yu was one of the first people to collect his paintings. In his early years in Beijing, they had been quite close. At that time, Song Yu wasn’t as wealthy as he was now, and he was still a highly regarded young painter. His first solo exhibition had generated enormous response – various magazines competed to interview him, collectors all wanted to meet him, auction house people searched everywhere for his paintings. The future looked bright, and success seemed only a step away.

To this day, he still couldn’t understand what had happened afterward. It seemed that overnight, the wind had changed direction and the goddess of fortune had turned away. Unconsciously, everything began going downhill. Try as he might, he couldn’t find the reason, so he had to attribute the turning point to a grain of sand.

On a windy day that April, a grain of sand blew into his eye. He rubbed it vigorously a few times, and his vision became blurred. At the hospital, they said it was partial retinal detachment. The doctor prescribed medicine and told him to rest at home. He lay in bed listening to the radio for a month, during which he didn’t paint a single stroke. Perhaps it was then that his talent was quietly taken away. When he stood before the canvas again, a feeling of disgust arose in his heart. He had no inspiration at all and didn’t want to paint anything.

He began spending time dating and attending various parties. He also joined wine tasting groups organized by friends, getting drunk once or twice every week. After living such a dissolute life for a while, he was forced to return to studio work because he owed too much in painting commissions. Later, several paintings failed to sell at auction. Several girlfriends left him. Several galleries fell out with him. After experiencing these setbacks, his life regained its quiet, just like when he first came to Beijing. The difference was that he had developed a drinking problem.

He couldn’t remember how Song Yu had stopped associating with him. Too many friends had left him during those years – Song Yu was just one of them, disappearing quietly from his world like everyone else. The last time seemed to be when he called Song Yu, and Song Yu didn’t answer. Now, looking at Song Yu’s missed call on his phone, he thought they were finally even.

“Our future master,” he remembered Song Yu liked to say while looking at him with a smile. At that time, he had bought so many of his paintings and had more confidence in his success than anyone. So later he must have been very disappointed. But that disappointment came too quickly. He couldn’t understand why they couldn’t wait a little longer (though facts proved that waiting longer would have been useless anyway). In the following year, Song Yu sold all the paintings he had previously bought. Businessmen of course always only value profit – he understood this and didn’t blame Song Yu. But what he couldn’t accept was that Song Yu had even sold the portrait he had painted of his son. To this day he still remembered every detail of that painting. The little boy lay on a table, staring at a spinning yellow top. Sunlight slanted in from the window, illuminating the boy’s right cheek. That patch of fuzzy light was extremely moving, with brushstrokes of incredible delicacy, displaying the sanctity and fragility unique to young life. He had spent nearly two months on that painting. “I’ll never be able to paint a better portrait,” he told Song Yu when delivering the work. “Fantastic! This is completely Wyeth’s light and shadow! I’m going to hang it above the fireplace in the living room!” Song Yu had said. A year later, “Wyeth’s light and shadow” was sent to a small auction company about to go bankrupt, sold for twenty thousand yuan, and bought by a businessman who sold hairy crabs.

The phone rang again. His taut nerves made the ringtone sound louder than it actually was. Still Song Yu – matching his most secret expectation. Seeing this name, his emotions were indeed difficult to calm. He admitted his feelings about Song Yu were somewhat fragile, perhaps because of those words of praise he had once spoken. Heaven knows how those charming words had come from Song Yu’s mouth. But he really felt Song Yu was different from others – he understood him.

After all these years, Song Yu owed him an apology, or at least an explanation. He thought of the dream about fennel, and with curiosity about what he might find again, he answered the phone.

Lin Pei brought a bottle of champagne, though he knew they wouldn’t drink it. But after all, it was celebrating the New Year – he wanted to appear happy and had deliberately worn a polka-dot shirt. He had left early to get a haircut at a nearby barbershop. Just out of politeness, he thought.

Song Yu no longer lived where he used to. The new house was somewhat remote, and it took him some time to find that Spanish-style villa district. It was already dark, and someone was setting off fireworks in the yard. The suburban sky had a merciless vastness. The fireworks bloomed in the air like thin daisies. Laughter came from inside the house. He stood at the door for a while before ringing the bell.

“How have you been lately? Are you free tonight? Come to my house to play – there’s a New Year’s party,” Song Yu had said on the phone, his tone so casual as if they had met just yesterday. But this kind of brief, ambiguous opening seemed to create even more expectation. So although he knew it would be cool to refuse immediately, he still said “okay.”

He stood at the door, waiting for the servant to fetch slippers.

“There are no slippers left…” A young girl with a short ponytail rushed out flustered. “Is it okay to wear these?” She held a pair of dark blue fuzzy slippers with a big-mouthed monkey head on each toe. Going in barefoot would be somewhat improper. He hesitated for a moment and took the slippers.

“These slippers are even glow-in-the-dark,” the ponytailed girl said. “In dark places, the monkey’s eyeballs will light up.”

The slippers were a bit small for him – he had to push forward forcefully to keep his heels from hitting the ground. He followed the maid through an entrance hall with a pair of blue and white general jars and into the living room. He had thought the girl would take him directly to see Song Yu, but she seemed to have no such intention and went straight into the nearby kitchen. He stood in the middle of the room looking around, launching into self-rescue like a drowning man. He didn’t recognize a single person. He actually felt relieved and walked to the long table to pick up a glass of champagne.

Alcohol was something he had to be especially careful with. To quit drinking, he had lived in Yunnan for a while. There he played soccer, rode bicycles, climbed mountains, exhausting himself every day and going to bed as soon as it got dark. Occasionally he would smoke some leaves, but that stuff didn’t work well on him. After staying like this for over two months, when he returned he felt like a new man.

He didn’t plan to drink this champagne, at least not now. He just wanted to hold something in his hand – it made him look less bored. The guests were mostly businessmen. He heard several people discussing a real estate project. Those women nearby discussing skiing in Hokkaido were probably family members – judging by their relaxed faces, they should all be first wives. A painting hung on the wall – one of Dalí’s worst late works. He stared at it for a while and decided to wander around the inner rooms.

It was a larger living room with dark red floral carpet. Near the door, a long table held Italian pasta, small sandwiches, and various desserts. Beside it, an alcohol burner heated plum-colored mulled wine. Guests holding plates chatted enthusiastically, occupying almost every corner of the room. He recognized two women leaning against the wall – one was an art magazine editor who had interviewed him before. The other worked at a gallery – he’d forgotten her name, and the gallery’s. They didn’t seem to recognize him. He was a bit hungry but felt that eating alone would look too lonely. He decided to wait until he met someone he could talk to.

Laughter came from the door behind him. That was Song Yu’s voice – he could tell, somewhat shrill and grating, especially when the laughter wasn’t very sincere. He turned around and peered through that door. It was a small parlor for smoking cigars, with sofas by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He couldn’t see the people sitting on them, only one man’s crossed leg and shiny black leather shoe. Walking in like this would attract attention from everyone inside. He didn’t want that. Song Yu should come out – he’d surely have to greet other guests, wouldn’t he? He decided to wait. Unfortunately, this room didn’t even have a decent painting to look at. The two oil paintings on the wall were by the same artist, both depicting women in qipao – one holding a sandalwood fan, the other carrying an oil-paper umbrella. He knew they were expensive but couldn’t understand what was good about them.

Returning from the restroom, he found his champagne had been cleared from the long table. With empty hands, he immediately felt uncomfortable. He had to go pour himself a cup of mulled wine. The hot wine with apple and cinnamon gave off a seductive aroma. But he didn’t want to drink yet, at least not before seeing Song Yu. A little girl, about five or six years old, appeared from somewhere and quietly approached the long table. She looked around carefully, then suddenly stood on tiptoe and grabbed a fruit tart, stuffing it into her coat pocket. She was thin with fine hands and long legs, perhaps too thin. After standing still for a few seconds, she quickly took another fruit tart and stuffed it into the other pocket. After waiting a bit, she launched another round of action, continuing until both pockets were bulging.

She spread her fingers and carefully licked between them, her eyes revealing an incredible hunger. Then she turned and ran toward the inner room. She must be a child brought by some guest – it was hard to imagine what her parents were like. Her behavior clearly didn’t fit this house or this party. However, this rather comforted Lin Pei, as if he had finally found someone even less suited to this place than himself.

“Hey, those are my shoes!” a shrill voice yelled.

He turned around to see a boy glaring fiercely at his feet.

“Your shoes?” he muttered.

The boy was about ten years old, wrapped in a dark blue tracksuit, so fat it was almost hopeless. So much fat surrounded him like a mighty army, giving him a kind of royal bearing – the kind of “royalty” whose luck had run out and been captured as a prisoner.

“Who told you to wear them?” The boy’s voice was thin and piercing. The fat had obviously blocked his hormone glands.

Lin Pei ignored him and walked away with his wine glass. After two steps, he stopped and turned around. He suddenly realized this fat boy was Song Yu’s son – the very one he had painted in that portrait.

He stared at the child, trying to find some trace of former spirit in his fat face – he had painted him and knew every subtle line on his face. But the fat rushing in from all directions had almost squeezed away his features. His heavy eyelids were about to collapse his eye sockets, and his formerly clear pupils were reduced to thin slits of light. In that best portrait he had ever painted, he still remembered sunlight kissing the tender cheeks like a blessed miracle. The boy was bathed in transparent light, as holy as an angel. How had he become like this? Every pore on his face was oozing oil, his gaze fierce, exactly like a butcher’s son. For this child, growing up had been a huge disaster.

“Do you remember? When you were little, I painted your portrait,” Lin Pei said. “You were much more adorable in that painting than you are now.”

“Who are you?” The boy was annoyed.

“Still eating so much?” Lin Pei pointed at the plate in the boy’s hands, piled high with food. “You can’t just give up on yourself…”

The boy trembled with anger, his whole body of fat shaking.

A middle-aged woman who looked like a nanny hurried over, apparently having been looking for him everywhere.

“Dudu, come on, let’s go.” The woman took the plate from his hands.

“Why is he wearing my shoes?”

“Alright, come on, your mother and the others are still waiting!”

The woman grabbed the boy’s hand and forcefully dragged him away.

“You wait!” the boy shouted back at him.

Lin Pei watched his round, thick back, feeling a wave of sadness – the beautiful things in the painting no longer existed. But quickly, the sadness was overwhelmed by a malicious satisfaction. They no longer deserved to own that painting, he thought. Maybe it was precisely because they sold that painting that the boy had grown to be the complete opposite of the person in the painting. This was their retribution.

Song Yu must have changed too. He suddenly felt apprehensive, worried that Song Yu had also become something terrible. He felt he should probably leave now. But he still felt somewhat unwilling – after thinking it over, he finally decided to go in and see Song Yu once.

He carried his mulled wine to the cigar room door, pretending to be attracted by a painting on the wall inside, and casually walked in.

“Ah, there you are,” he said to Song Yu with feigned surprise. Song Yu had indeed gotten somewhat fatter, but not to the point of losing his shape. He wore new gold-rimmed round glasses perched on his short, fat nose, looking somewhat cunning.

Song Yu was startled for a moment, immediately recognized him, smiled and greeted him, then looked him up and down meaningfully.

Lin Pei immediately felt the presence of those two big-mouthed monkeys on his feet, like a huge joke. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off Song Yu’s gaze, then smiled somewhat awkwardly.

Song Yu turned to ask the people on the sofa: “This is Lin Pei, you all know him, right?”

The person sitting next to Song Yu lazily raised his hand. Lin Pei recognized him as the owner of a major auction house.

“We’ve met.” The gray-haired man in the single armchair nodded. More than met – back then at Song Yu’s house, Lin Pei had drunk with him many times. This person didn’t understand art but always loved pestering Lin Pei with questions, acting very admiring.

The other two men continued talking with their heads down, as if they hadn’t seen Lin Pei at all. They were both currently red-hot painters whom Lin Pei had seen at some exhibition openings, and they had certainly seen him too. He had been introduced to them several times, but when they met again, they still acted as if they didn’t know him.

Lin Pei was arranged in another single armchair. This chair was a bit far away, so he leaned forward.

“How are things? How have you been lately?” Song Yu held a lighter, relighting the cigar in his hand.

“Same as always,” he answered.

Song Yu nodded without speaking. When he realized Song Yu was looking at him with a sympathetic gaze, he understood that even “same as always” could be interpreted in completely different ways. For him, everything being as usual was the greatest comfort. But for Song Yu, this probably meant stagnant water and hopelessness. After a while, Song Yu suddenly exhaled a puff of smoke and said loudly:

“Oh right, you got married! Who told me that?” He seemed very excited, as if he had finally found some change in Lin Pei’s unchanging life.

Lin Pei immediately felt his scalp tighten. This was obviously the topic he least wanted to hear. For a long time, he had judged whether people harbored ill will toward him by whether they would bring up this topic.

“Don’t underestimate marriage. Sometimes, for artists, marriage is a new stimulus. When your living situation changes, your work might change too,” Song Yu looked like he was offering guidance. “How about it? Do you feel this kind of change?”

“I’m already divorced,” Lin Pei said.

“Oh…” Song Yu looked slightly embarrassed, then said to the auction house owner, “See? Artists are more carefree than us – they marry when they want to marry, divorce when they want to divorce.”

The auction house owner looked at Lin Pei and smiled slightly:

“You still have it easy. For us, it would be devastating.”

“More than that! We’d lose half our lives,” said the gray-haired man.

They all laughed. After laughing, there was a brief awkward silence. The three men lowered their heads and silently smoked their cigars. After a while, Song Yu said:

“Lin Pei, it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. I really want to chat with you properly. But we still have some business to discuss here, so you see—”

He looked at Song Yu, not quite understanding, then hurriedly stood up. Just a second before, he had still harbored that sliver of hope, believing Song Yu wanted to repair their friendship. So even when the conversation was uncongenial, even when the topics were embarrassing, he had endured it. He never would have imagined that Song Yu could so directly tell him to leave. He was caught off guard, unable to say even one casual line to make himself appear indifferent.

“Stay and play a while longer – at midnight they’re going to set off fireworks, really big ones,” Song Yu said behind him.

His wine glass was left on the coffee table. He actually hadn’t forgotten, but he didn’t want to delay even the time it would take to pick it up, so he left that room as quickly as possible.

He drove those short slippers back to the living room. There seemed to be even more guests than before. A servant came out of the kitchen carrying hot grilled chicken skewers, and he had to dodge to the wall to let her pass. After she left, he still stood by the wall in a daze. He recalled Song Yu’s earlier expression, becoming more and more certain that he had known about his divorce all along but had deliberately made him say it himself. But he still couldn’t understand – had Song Yu made those two phone calls inviting him over just to see how down and out he was now? To toy with him like a clown and then tell him to get lost? Had rich people become so bored that they used this as entertainment? And he had actually thought Song Yu’s conscience had stirred and he wanted to apologize – what an absurd idea! He felt ashamed of his naivety. Laughter kept bursting from that cigar room. He felt they were all laughing at him. His hands and feet grew cold in waves. He had to leave – just drink something hot and go. He returned to the long table, poured another cup of mulled wine, and took a big gulp with a frown.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

He turned around – it was Song Xia. She was smiling at him:

“Hi.”

She wore a taro-purple bodycon dress, her long curly hair swept into a loose chignon at the back of her head. Her full, luminous forehead, meticulous eyeliner. After five years of not seeing each other, every part of her seemed to be desperately proving to him that not only had she not aged, but she had become even more beautiful.

“I’m starving, are you hungry?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “How about we get some food and go eat together?”

He stared at her in a daze. She was so warm and friendly, he was actually a bit moved. He thought again of the fennel dream, that revelation about things lost and found.

Song Xia led him through the corridor and into a half-open door. That room was a place for tea and rest, more private, connected to a bedroom. It was very quiet, with only two middle-aged women sitting at a table drinking tea and chatting. They sat down on the sofa in the corner. The sofa was unimaginably soft – their bodies sank completely into it, startling them both. The wine in his hand nearly splashed onto her. She giggled.

He remembered there seemed to have been a similar scene before: they had sat side by side on a sofa eating. She laughed beside him, though at that time she didn’t yet have those teeth so white they were dazzling. It should have been at his place. But during that period he had moved several times, and he couldn’t remember which specific home it was. They had dated briefly, or rather they had slept together for a while – he didn’t know which description was more appropriate. From beginning to end, neither seemed to have any intention of living together. At least he hadn’t thought about it. But why? He had forgotten. In his memory, she was a somewhat flighty girl who had just graduated from school and worked at a gallery. They met through work, slept together after only a few meetings. After that they met irregularly, usually after she got off work – they’d have dinner together, then go to his place to make love. What was it like making love with her? Sitting beside her now, he tried hard to remember (this should count as affirmation of her current charm). Back then she was fatter than now, had some acne on her face, and her eyeliner wasn’t as smooth as it was now.

That kind of relationship lasted several months. Later when he asked her out, she always said she was busy. After two or three times like this, he stopped calling. After that he occasionally heard news about her: she had switched to another gallery, there were rumors about her and the boss there, then she left not long after. He didn’t know what happened after that, nor did he have any curiosity about it. Among the women he had dated, she belonged to the kind who left no trace. When he was young he found her too bland, but now he realized that was actually good. At least she wouldn’t bring any harm.

In the end, he still couldn’t remember any details of making love with her. He gave up. This instead made her seem more mysterious. Sometimes mysterious, sometimes intimate – the pendulum of emotion swung back and forth between the two, stirring his heart. He kept lifting his eyes to steal glances at her. Her profile was beautiful, a small pearl on her earlobe emanating soft light. He felt this evening was starting to improve.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, hesitating whether to explain why he was here. “Song Yu called me this morning…”

“I asked him to call you,” Song Xia said.

“Hm?”

“I said it had been so long since I’d seen you, why not invite you too.”

“Oh, really?”

“This spring he held a charity dinner, and I wanted to invite you then too. Someone from his company called you, but it seemed they couldn’t get through.”

“I was living on a mountain in Yunnan for a while.” He didn’t understand why, if she wanted to see him so much, she didn’t just call him herself.

“On the mountain,” she nodded. “Were you meditating every day?”

He shook his head. Song Xia laughed:

“Not copying sutras? That seems very popular lately.” She waved her index finger. “Let me tell you, now whenever I hear someone say they believe in Buddhism, I immediately get a headache.”

He smiled.

“This is your first time here, right?” she asked.

“Mm. What about you? You seem very familiar with it.”

“I haven’t been here for a long time either. Song Yu has been busy building his new palace, and this year he’s hardly organized any parties like this.”

Though he wasn’t particularly interested in knowing, out of politeness he still asked:

“New house?”

“He bought a courtyard house in the city center. After living in the suburbs for so long, he wanted to move back to the city. Sigh, they’re all like that.” She sighed, looking very concerned about ‘them.’ “But that courtyard house is really wonderful after renovation – next time we can have gatherings there. Actually they’ve already moved there. Today they came out to the suburbs just because of the fireworks. After the party ends, they’ll go back again. Hey, this house has been empty for a while and is already starting to feel a bit desolate – do you feel it?”

Lin Pei had already zoned out. He suddenly thought of a question: how did Song Xia know Song Yu? Wasn’t it through him? Back then he had taken her to Song Yu’s house, seemingly just that once. Not long after that, she started making excuses not to meet him.

Had the two of them gotten together? This thought circled in his mind, making him very irritated. Why should he be troubled by this? He didn’t care about her at all, did he? But for them to continue their relationship after dumping him – didn’t they feel any guilt? Now she could so naturally discuss Song Yu in front of him, even flaunting their friendship – it was simply too brazen.

Were the two of them still together? Maybe. They had maintained a secret lover relationship all these years. Or maybe not even lovers, just sleeping together sometimes. On the surface they looked like friends, so Song Xia could freely come and go from Song Yu’s house. Were the jewels on her body gifts from Song Yu? Was her perfume scent also what Song Yu liked? Undoubtedly, her beauty had changed in Lin Pei’s eyes. But this vulgar beauty built up with money could still arouse desire. A furious lust rippled through his body. The only way this terrible evening could end might be to take her away from here. That’s right, he had to take something away from this place.

When he picked up his glass again, he found the wine was finished. But his unsettled emotions demanded he drink more. So he went to get another glass of red wine.

Song Xia had cut the beef on her plate into fingernail-sized pieces. When she put them in her mouth with a fork, she tried as much as possible not to touch her bright red lipstick.

“You seem to rarely come to these kinds of occasions anymore,” she glanced at him quickly, “especially after your divorce…”

He didn’t speak.

“The melon and prosciutto rolls taste good – I forgot to tell you to get some. Should I share one with you?”

“No need, thank you.”

“Several of my friends know Li Xin. Everyone was very surprised at the time that you would actually marry her…”

“Oh, really?” He could almost imagine her wrinkling her nose while discussing him with others. Now he remembered why he had never thought about living with her. He hated her malicious, gloating expression when talking about others. It made him feel she wasn’t kind enough. (Good God, kindness was actually his standard for choosing women – if Song Xia knew this, she’d probably laugh until she couldn’t stand up straight.)

“Actually quite a lot of people know Li Xin’s background: constant lies, cheating people out of money everywhere, she couldn’t survive in this circle long ago. This time she owed so much money to others, everyone thought she was definitely finished, but unexpectedly there was still someone… you’re too easy to fool.” Her greasy mouth moved rapidly, looking triumphant. Seeing he didn’t speak, she sighed:

“You must have helped her pay back quite a lot of money.”

“Consider it charity – I believe in good karma,” he said with self-mockery.

“A while ago I saw her at a Western restaurant, wearing a very old hoodie, no makeup, messy hair – she seemed to have aged a lot suddenly. But she was never very good-looking anyway, never was. I just don’t know what you saw in her…”

His patience was finally exhausted. He interrupted her and asked:

“Honestly, you had Song Yu call me – is there something particular?”

“No.” She shook her head nonchalantly. “I just felt it had been so long since we’d seen each other, especially after hearing about your divorce, I was quite concerned about you…”

“Want to see just how miserable I am?”

“Good God, you really misunderstood! I just felt it had been so long since we’d seen each other…” She pondered for a moment, then finally spoke again: “And also – last year I opened my own gallery. Though it’s not large, I’ve already signed several excellent young artists. Maybe we’ll have a chance to collaborate in the future. I’ve always wanted to share this good news with you.”

Seeing him look at her with confusion, she smiled slightly:

“Do you remember? Back then I said I wanted to open my own gallery someday, and you lectured me not to aim too high. In your heart, I was probably destined to be a receptionist at galleries forever.”

“First, congratulations on opening your own gallery. Second, I really don’t remember saying anything like that. Okay, maybe I did, but I really didn’t mean any harm. If it made you unhappy, I apologize.” He paused. “But you wanted to see me so much just for this?” He was somewhat amused and exasperated.

“What else?” She blinked. “Good God! You don’t think I’m still interested in you now, do you?” Her voice was loud, and the two women chatting at the table both looked over.

“Of course not. How could that be?” he said immediately.

But she still looked at him suspiciously. He was extremely embarrassed, not knowing how to resolve this awkward situation.

Fortunately, at that moment the door directly in front opened with a bang. The fat boy walked out.

“Why can’t we set off fireworks yet!” he said in a tearful voice.

“Didn’t we tell you? We have to wait until twelve o’clock. It’s still early.” His nanny followed behind, holding his down jacket.

A little girl also came out of that door, standing quietly behind the fat boy like a ghost. It was the girl who had stuffed fruit tarts in her pockets earlier – now the pockets were flat.

“But everyone else is setting them off!” The fat boy stomped his feet and shouted. His small eyes glanced around and suddenly spotted Lin Pei sitting on the sofa. He pursed his lips and glared at him fiercely. The nanny also recognized him by the big-mouthed monkeys on his feet and quickly said to the boy:

“Let’s go, didn’t you want to go outside and look?”

She grabbed one of the boy’s arms and stuffed it into the down jacket sleeve.

“Don’t follow me!” The boy suddenly turned around and yelled at the little girl behind him.

The girl didn’t speak, just looked down at her feet.

“How many times have I told you, are you deaf!” The boy forcefully pushed the girl. She staggered and nearly fell. After steadying herself, she immediately shuffled closer to the boy again.

“Go back inside!” The boy grabbed one of her braids and dragged her toward that door. The girl let him drag her without making a sound. She was pushed forcefully inside, and the door slammed shut.

The boy left with the nanny in a huff. As soon as they left, the girl slipped out of the door again. Her braid had come loose, half her hair hanging down, and she wasn’t wearing her jacket. She ran in the direction they had gone.

“Who is this girl?” Lin Pei asked.

“A child Song Yu adopted from an orphanary. She was abandoned by her mother shortly after birth.” Song Xia put down her plate. “Do you have cigarettes?”

He took out cigarettes and lit one for Song Xia. She took a drag:

“It’s been six years now. At the time Ju Fen thought she couldn’t have children, so they wanted a girl and went to the orphanage to adopt one. Many of their friends had adopted – it’s trendy among rich people. If you haven’t adopted, it makes you look insufficiently noble, just like at charity auctions where you have to raise a paddle and buy something.”

“They don’t like her?”

“They say she steals. Always stuffing cookies and candy from the living room jars into her pockets, hiding them under her bed. Sigh, it’s not like they don’t feed her – it’s just her nature, can’t help it, like being possessed by a hungry ghost. Beating her doesn’t work either – she doesn’t remember, has no shame, acts crazy and heartless all day. They all suspect she has mental problems. She should start school next year but still barely knows any characters. And two years ago Ju Fen got pregnant again and actually gave birth to a girl. Now this girl is even more superfluous. But she’s grown so big already, they can’t send her away. It’s really sinful.”

“Does that fat boy bully her like this all the time? Doesn’t anyone care?”

“Maybe she quite likes it,” Song Xia shrugged and exhaled smoke. “Didn’t I tell you? Her mind isn’t right – she might have masochistic tendencies.”

Lin Pei looked at her in horror. Now he could be certain he had absolutely no desire for her anymore. His only wish was for her to disappear from his sight as quickly as possible.

After that he stopped talking. She changed topics several times, but no matter what she said, he just listened silently without expressing any opinions. She also felt bored, stood up listlessly, and said she was going to find another friend to discuss some business.

Shortly after Song Xia left, the two women chatting at the table also left. Only he remained in the room. The wine in his glass was finished again. Actually he didn’t understand why he still hadn’t left, until that little girl appeared again. He suddenly realized he seemed to be waiting for her. She ran in from outside, panting. Seeing him, she stopped. He almost had the illusion that she was also looking for him.

She tilted her head to study him, her gaze frank and without shyness.

He felt she looked very much like someone.

Slightly upturned eyes. Curved lips. Exactly like her.

Yin Yin – he dredged up this name from his mind.

How old was she then? Not even twenty-two, right? She’d been in Beijing less than two years, an unknown little model, beautifully lonely. He liked folding her slender body, holding her cold ankles.

The problem was that she really loved him. He always suspected she had gotten pregnant on purpose. She thought this way he would want her. But how could that be? It was indeed a wonderful affair, he admitted, but he had never thought of marrying her. At that time his career was at its peak, with many outstanding women around him – any of them would have been more suitable than her.

After their brief but intense involvement, it was time to withdraw. He made excuses about rushing to finish paintings in his studio, used business trips as pretexts, and didn’t see her for nearly two months. The relationship seemed to cool down smoothly, and he thought it was over like that. Then one day she suddenly came to find him, saying she was pregnant. She begged him not to make her abort the child, even confessing that she had had an abortion just a few months earlier and couldn’t have another surgery so soon. But his first reaction was: why should he bear responsibility for the previous man’s mistake too? Of course he didn’t say that, but his attitude was very firm. “This is the most critical period of my career,” “I’m not ready yet,” “This would be irresponsible to the child” – he said many such high-sounding words and urged her to have the surgery quickly. Looking back now, it was probably already too late. She kept delaying, naively thinking he would eventually change his mind.

They were entangled over this matter, meeting several more times, until the last time when he hardened his face and said many cruel things – “I could never marry you,” “The gap between us is too great, we can’t communicate at all,” “I don’t love you anymore.” Then he gave her a sum of money. She left and never contacted him again. He also never called her, afraid of rekindling old feelings and getting entangled again. Until much later, once when he was drunk, he misdailed her number – it was already disconnected. He believed this indicated she had started a new life and didn’t want to be disturbed by him anymore.

All these years he had never thought that she might have given birth to that child. Because of rashness, willfulness, or helplessness, she had brought her into this world. But she couldn’t take her any further, because she herself was still a child. She abandoned her. All of this he had never thought about.

Until this moment.

He stared at that girl. Swan neck, slender hands and feet. A natural model’s frame.

“Come here, come over here,” he said to the girl in a hoarse voice.

The girl walked over and stood by his legs.

“Is it cold outside?” He hesitated for a moment, then reached out to touch her red, frozen nose.

She didn’t resist, but instead smiled.

He also smiled, tears almost falling. He lowered his head and held her cold hands.

“Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Qiqi.”

“Qiqi.” He repeated it.

“Mm?”

“Qiqi, were the fireworks outside beautiful?”

“Beautiful.” She answered mechanically.

“You like watching fireworks, don’t you?”

“Mm.” She nodded, absentmindedly turning his hand over and poking his palm with her fingertips. She seemed to have some inexplicable curiosity about him. Inexplicable, yes – blood ties were things that couldn’t be explained.

Her body gently leaned against his leg. He held his breath, concentrating on feeling that small point of contact, warmly heartbreaking. He didn’t dare move at all, afraid she would immediately separate from him. His leg began to go numb, losing sensation.

She played by herself for a while, seeming to find it boring, and put his hand down.

“Do you want to see uncle do magic?” He worried she wanted to leave and immediately said.

She nodded without showing much excitement.

He performed that trick of pretending to remove his thumb and put it back on. His movements weren’t fast enough, looking somewhat flustered. She quietly watched him finish the performance with no expression on her face. He didn’t know if she hadn’t understood or found it uninteresting.

He was pondering what else he could do to please her when he suddenly noticed her attention had been attracted to the food on the plate on the table – a fruit tart left by Song Xia. The strawberry on top had been eaten, leaving only the bare tart shell covered with thick custard. She stared at it intently, her gaze becoming increasingly fierce, instantly transforming into a wild beast. Just like before, she quickly reached out and grabbed the fruit tart, her movement as agile as a frog catching insects. She didn’t even glance at it before putting it in her right pocket. Immediately, the expression on her face returned to gentleness.

Watching this broke his heart, as he confessed his sins over and over in his mind, those injuries he had ignored. He recalled the last time he saw Yin Yin. When he said those cold words to her, they were still in bed, having just made love. Every time they met they had to make love – it had been like that from the beginning, like some kind of ritual, even their final meeting to discuss the abortion was no exception. At that time making love might have been harmful to her body, but as a man, he could completely pretend not to know. And because he understood their relationship was coming to an end, he greedily demanded her body, desperately thinking he would never be able to enter it again, never again, his mind full of thoughts of destroying it. In their coupling that reached an extreme intensity, he achieved an unprecedented climax. Then he calmed down, got up to shower. When he returned he took out the money he had prepared and said those terrible words to her. While he spoke, she sat on the edge of the bed the entire time, not dressed, with her back to him. Her neck looked unusually thin, giving one the impulse to break it. Her whole person was so slender, so fragile, as if she existed just to be hurt. For that instant, he had indeed been aware of the harm he was bringing her, yet immediately after he felt that this harm seemed to belong to her originally. Inflicting it upon her had a cruel beauty.

Now he believed everything was retribution. Shortly after she left, his life underwent a series of changes. That pivotal grain of sand scraped into his eye. The disappearance of inspiration. Fortune’s sharp decline. Friends’ estrangement. Everything was retribution. Even including Song Xia’s betrayal and his absurd marriage to Li Xin.

He had cast aside Yin Yin to pursue a better future. In the end, Yin Yin was gone, and the better future was gone too. It all came to nothing – he had become nothing.

No, he still had her. He looked at the girl in front of him. He still had her. He would take her away. A voice in his heart said firmly: take her away from here.

Since all his previous misfortunes were because he had lost her, now that he had found her again, it meant reconciliation with his former life. Everything would start anew.

He leaned close to the girl and asked in a low voice:

“Have you seen those animal-shaped fireworks?”

She shook her head.

“Would you like to see them? Uncle can take you there.”

“Okay.” The girl answered in a soft voice, still without any emotion.

When he stood up, he felt dizzy. It was a feeling of being surrounded by happiness. He still couldn’t quite believe he had found something far more precious than he had imagined.

They left that room. Through the corridor, ahead was the large living room where food was served.

From far away they could hear voices, very noisy. Bright light spilled from the doorway.

He stopped.

“Listen to me,” he crouched down to look at the girl. “That place where you can see animal-shaped fireworks is a secret, you can’t tell others. Uncle can only take you there alone. If we meet other people and they know where we’re going, they’ll all want to come with us and that would be terrible. So we can’t let them see us.”

He observed the reaction on her face, worried he had spoken too complexly and she hadn’t understood at all. He explained again:

“We have to sneak out quietly…”

“Garage,” she said.

He was startled for a moment, trying to confirm with her:

“You mean we can get out through the garage?”

She nodded.

“Wonderful, will you lead the way?”

Just as they were about to walk toward the other end of the corridor, the ponytailed girl who had brought him slippers came walking toward them.

He quickly lowered his head, patting various pockets on his body, pretending to look for a lighter.

“What are you standing here for?” the ponytailed girl said to the girl. “Be careful – don’t let me catch you stealing food again!” She didn’t stop but went straight into the large living room.

He breathed a sigh of relief and put the lighter back in his pocket. When he came to his senses, he realized the girl was looking up at him. Her gaze was bright and intense, leaving nowhere to hide. She must have seen his panicked expression – thinking about this made him feel very ashamed. Her emotionless calm made him very uneasy; he had no idea what his image was like in her mind. He worried her curiosity and trust in him would suddenly disappear. Children were all like that, weren’t they – easily attracted to new things and abandoning the old? He wasn’t very sure; he had almost no experience dealing with children.

“Let’s go,” the girl said, naturally taking his hand. They came to the other end of the corridor and went down the stairs there. Wall lamps on the walls cupped small clusters of orange light, wooden steps creaking under their feet. Her hand had become wet with his sweat and a bit slippery. He gripped it tightly, afraid it would slip away like a little fish.

“You definitely haven’t seen fireworks like that,” he said loudly. “When they reach the sky they don’t disappear, they just float there. Some are green rabbits with two long ears standing up, some are pink elephants with trunks spraying water…” She watched him gesture in the air with one hand. Though her face still showed no expression, her steps quickened, as if she wanted to see them sooner.

“There are also zebras and giraffes, walking around in the sky, sometimes here, sometimes there… this way more children can see them,” he said.

For a brief moment, he seemed to hallucinate, seeing her running on a hillside holding a bunch of light purple wildflowers. He had already begun irrepressibly imagining their future life. He wanted to take her to a small, distant city with clean skies and sweet water. He should have left Beijing long ago. That he hadn’t done so wasn’t so much unwillingness as fear – fear of giving up that miserably managed life. Now she gave him enough courage to choose another kind of life. No, his career wouldn’t be abandoned. He had a premonition that he would rediscover the joy and inspiration of painting.

The girl stood on tiptoe and pressed a switch on the wall, turning on the lights for the basement level. It was much colder here than upstairs. Only then did he realize he was wearing just a shirt. His coat was left on the sofa, and of course it was impossible to go back for it now. But thinking about walking in the ice and snow dressed so lightly actually excited him. It matched his current mood perfectly – a crazy feeling. Yes, he was doing something very crazy: stealing her away from here.

The basement ceiling was high and spacious. The pretentious owner had built it into a small-scale library. All four walls had built-in bookshelves filled with art books and literary classics. From the heavy musty smell in the air, no one had been here for a long time. This house indeed had an air of abandonment.

To the left of the study was a narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor was a door.

“Over there,” she said.

He opened the lock on the door – inside was indeed a garage. But there were no lights, and nothing could be seen. It just felt unusually cold, like an ice cellar. He took out his lighter, cupped the flame and peered inside. It was larger than he had imagined, seeming able to hold two cars. But now it was piled full of cardboard boxes and plastic woven bags, without even a place to step. Looking through the gaps between the stacked boxes, at the other end of the garage was an iron rolling door – they could get out from there. But those electric doors were all controlled by remote keys – without a key, it couldn’t be opened at all.

“We can definitely get out, don’t worry,” he turned to tell the girl. Would the girl know where the key was? No, he couldn’t possibly let her take such a risk alone. Should he try to pry open this door? He tried hard to hide his panic, squeezing out a smile for the girl:

“Don’t worry, those animal-shaped fireworks are all still there, they won’t disappear… What’s your favorite animal?”

“Bear,” she answered slowly.

“Yes, of course there are. The fat kind with a round belly, right? Their fur is gray, some white too. Soon you’ll see it floating in the sky…” He wanted to go look at the rolling door. But first he’d have to move those boxes. He almost decided to do this, but what use would going over empty-handed be? He needed at least some tools… Where could he find tools in such a big house?

“Damn, what time is it now?” he muttered. Once the midnight fireworks finished, people would start leaving gradually. Wasn’t Song Yu’s family also going back to their courtyard in the city? They would soon discover she was missing. He paced back and forth like a trapped animal, panting.

The girl stood there quietly, playing with her twisted fingers. He no longer had the mood to continue telling her stories. He leaned wearily against the door and took out a cigarette. With the cigarette in his mouth, he pressed the lighter switch repeatedly. In the leaping flames, he suddenly saw on the opposite wall, near the baseboard, a smooth iron box embedded in the wall. Because it was also white, it was hard to notice its existence. He opened it and saw a row of ordinary orange circuit breakers. At some distance from them, in the farthest position, was a dark blue round button. That was it – he had a strong premonition that it could open that electric door. But what if it wasn’t? What if it controlled power somewhere upstairs, and pressing it would turn off all those lights, quickly bringing people here – wouldn’t they be discovered? He stared at that button, but there was no other choice; he could only gamble. He reached out his finger and pressed it.

The rolling door rose. A cold gust of air rushed toward them.

“God, we can get out!” he shouted happily to the girl.

The girl looked at him, and her consistently expressionless face seemed to show a trace of faint joy. If it weren’t for the lack of time and the need to get out quickly, he really wanted to take her in his arms and hug her properly.

“Come on, dear, let’s go,” he said gently. She walked forward a few steps, following behind him. He cupped his lighter’s flame and walked toward the depths of the garage.

He was moving a large box in front of him when he suddenly heard a “bang.” The door behind him had closed. Immediately came the creaking sound of rotating shafts. Before he could understand what was happening, the rolling door had completely dropped to the ground. He felt the wind stop.

“Qiqi?” No one answered. He was alone in the static darkness.

It took him some time to understand his situation: he was locked in the garage. Himself. The girl wasn’t inside.

What was happening… his head was splitting with pain, unable to make himself think further. He groped his way back to the door and forcefully turned the handle. But the door was locked. He twisted it futilely for a while, finally stopping, pressing his face against the door, listening to the activity outside. He faintly heard the girl’s laughter. Clear and joyful. He had thought she couldn’t laugh like that. Imagining how she looked when laughing, he felt very pained. Then he heard that fat boy’s laughter. Spine-chilling, shrill laughter.

They laughed together. Loud laughter. Haha, haha, hahahaha.

He could barely breathe, lying motionless against the door. He felt their laughter rolling over his back.

After a while, accompanied by the sound of footsteps going upstairs, the laughter gradually faded.

He buried his head until that dizzy feeling passed.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed two blazing gazes shooting up from below, cold and eerie.

He looked down and saw those two big-mouthed monkeys on his feet. They were staring with fluorescent green eyeballs, grinning with bright big mouths, smiling at him.

Haha, haha, hahahaha.

His ears were filled with laughter – he couldn’t tell whose it was: the girl’s, the boy’s, or the monkeys’.

Haha, haha, hahahaha.

Then he heard intense firecracker sounds from outside. Midnight had arrived. He stood in the darkness, imagining fireworks shooting up into the sky, exploding overhead, revealing mysteriously changing shapes. He seemed to see them floating in mid-air, motionless, as if someone had pressed pause. What animals did they look like? He tried hard to identify each firework. Seeing animal-shaped fireworks should also have some special meaning, right? He really wanted to ask that superstitious ex-girlfriend of his.

In the rumbling sound of firecrackers, he leaned against the door and sat on the ground, shivering as he lit his last cigarette.

[1] Jeff Koons (1955- ), a famous contemporary American Pop artist, called the most important Pop artist after Andy Warhol.