Kinder Than Solitude (39 page)

“Protesting.”

“What’s the difference between the two?”

“Protesting makes one feel a better person,” he said. “Though there’s really not any difference, if you ask me.”

“Do you protest often?”

“No,” he said. “I often don’t see the point.”

“Then what’s the point today?”

He turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“I think something I said put you into this protesting mood. What was it? Did I overstep and share too much information? Did I disappoint you because I’ve decided to stop playing your game?”

He sighed. “I’ve not been playing a game with you.”

“How do I know that?”

How does anyone know anything about another person? Our mind, a slate that does not begin as large as we wish, grows smaller with what we believe to be experience: anything we put down has to be erasable, one passion making way for another, one connection replaced by an equally precarious one. Once and again we lie to ourselves about starting with a clean slate, but even the most diligent wiping leaves streaks—fears, distrusts, the necessity of forever questioning the motives of others.

Later, as Boyang sat in the hotel lobby, he tried to focus his thoughts on Sizhuo; his standing with her in the immediate future—the next day, the next week—provided solid footing for him as he waited for Ruyu. Sizhuo had been quiet when he dropped her off; he had promised to call soon. He would have to say something when he saw her again—what, though? She had given him an ultimatum; in laying her past open, she had demanded from him a kind of honesty he did not believe he had in him.

He looked up at the clock—ten past seven, not far enough into the hour to think of Ruyu as being late, but what if she had had a change of heart and would never show up? He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He wondered if he should go to the receptionist and announce himself, though that would indicate impatience, and worse, loss of faith in the eventuality of their meeting. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. This, he told himself, was not a first date, nor an illicit rendezvous.

The elevator door opened, releasing Ruyu among a few other guests. He recognized her at once. Her body was no longer a girl’s but
remained slim; her face was serene with an expression closest to contentment. He wished, against logic, that she were attached to one of the other guests and would disappear in a moment, but they quickly dispersed, leaving Ruyu, who met his eyes but did not move closer. He stood up and stepped forward. Having neither the proper gesture nor the right words for a greeting, he felt caught again, underprepared. “Here we are,” he said finally.

Ruyu studied him with an unequivocal gaze. “I imagine you know a quiet place nearby, where we can sit down and talk?”

Of course, he said, and added that he had called to reserve a private room at a nearby restaurant. “It’s Sichuan-style. I’m not sure if you eat spicy food, but they have good non-spicy choices, too. It’s just across the street, and it’s quite clean there. But if you prefer somewhere else, we could find another place.”

She said that sounded fine, and he led the way. Neither spoke until they were shown to the reserved room, the glass door of which bore the name “Reuters” and was a one-way mirror, allowing those eating inside to view the restaurant without being observed. Ruyu pointed that out to him and asked if this was a place for foreign journalists to gather, and he said that he doubted that was why the room was named as it was. There were other rooms in the restaurant that had names like CNN, BBC, Agence. Not Xinhua? she asked, and he said no, no one wanted to dine in a room named after a news agency they could not trust. Ruyu said she could not see how any of the foreign agencies were more trustworthy. “They are all the same,” she said.

“Surely that can’t be,” he said.

“They are the same the way people are the same,” she said. “Would you look for a better person in a foreign country if you couldn’t find one at home?”

“To you, perhaps, but not many people have seen the world as you have. You’ve got to allow people the hope for something better.”

The waitress brought tea and started to recite the restaurant’s Saturday special. Boyang stopped her and told her to leave the menu with them and wait outside the door. The waitress readily gave up her post.

Through the glass, Ruyu watched the waitress standing straight next to the door. “I haven’t seen the world as you think,” she said, turning her attention to Boyang. “But that’s all right, as I don’t see the point in doing that. But you, what is your life like these days? To get away from whatever engagement you have for a Saturday night at such short notice—you must be in a good position to be able to do that.”

Her words had an undertone that he could not read well, or perhaps he’d forgotten how she always seemed to be asking for more than an answer. “There’s nothing more important than seeing you,” he said.

“Why?”

“You don’t happen to be in town often. Or at least I don’t happen to hear from you often.”

“You’ve heard from me
and
seen me in person. Now what? You can go home to your wife and child with one thing ticked off your list, no?”

“I have neither of those, as a matter of fact.”

“Why not? Isn’t that bad news for a man your age? Or you prefer the freedom of a diamond bachelor?”

“I was married once. It didn’t work out.”

“You don’t want to try again?”

“Once bitten by a snake, one has to be cautious around ropes for ten years,” he said, feeling momentarily apologetic toward his ex-wife. Though she had been the who had betrayed the marriage, what was wrong with his playing the victim for now? “And you? Are you visiting the country by yourself?”

“I suppose it’s only fair that you get a chance to ask me about my
personal life, too,” Ruyu said. “I had two marriages. Neither worked, of course, as you can very well imagine.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“That I could fail at not one but two marriages?”

“That you would ever be married.”

“But you knew I left the university to get married.”

“You left the university to go to America was how I looked at it,” Boyang said. “I don’t count that marriage as a real one. And the second—was it a better … a different kind of marriage?”

She shook her head. “As pointless as the first one.”

“Why get married at all, then?”

“Why not? You got married, too.”

“Mine was a real marriage,” he said. At least for a while; at least he preferred to think so.

Ruyu smiled. The expression seemed a new addition; it occurred to Boyang that he had never seen her smile. “I can’t, of course, defend my marriages. I would have preferred not to use marriage to solve my problems, but there are issues of practicality. And I don’t think I’m good at figuring them out.”

“So marrying yourself off was the only option?” Boyang said, and realized that he sounded more bitter than he meant to. Selling yourself off, Sizhuo would say.

“Certainly not the only one.”

“But the easiest one?”

“Let’s not get into these arguments,” Ruyu said. “I’m not back here to discuss my marriages with you, and I’m sure there is little I can say about yours.”

“What are you here for?”

“To see you, of course.”

“That’s it?”

“Who else? There are not many people for me to see in this country.”

“Your grandaunts, are they still … around?”

“They are with their god now.”

“When did that happen?”

“Maybe nine, ten years ago?” Ruyu said. “You don’t have to look at me that way. I know how ungrateful I must sound to you. To be honest, I only got the news afterward. No, I didn’t come back for either of them.”

“Typical of you not to return for a funeral.”

Ruyu opened her mouth as though she had something to say, and then smiled forgivingly. Boyang apologized for his unfriendly tone.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m as heartless as everyone thinks,” she said. “Though my grandaunts would not have liked me to come back either. They disowned me when I left China for the marriage, you see.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t turn out as they wished, and then they also found out that their little brother was alive in Taiwan, with a full family of children and grandchildren. So everything worked out just fine.”

“For whom?”

“For them, and for me too,” she said. “They didn’t raise me to be someone’s wife, nor did they raise me to defy God’s will by speaking of suicide. But then they didn’t expect to find their brother, so I suppose they were two happy women in the end. Perhaps their god did see how much they sacrificed to raise me and grant them something better than me as a reward. Who knows? They might have told each other that God had other plans for me, and it was good for them to wash their hands of me.”

Boyang shifted in his seat. He had once wanted so much to ask Ruyu about her grandaunts, but being young then, he had not found the courage or the right words, and now the women were just two anecdotal names in her life. If he asked about her ex-husbands, would she shrug and say there was little to tell? Did everyone in her life end up like that—had he himself already been in that position? No, he
denied this violently: she would not have come back to see him if he had already become a fossil.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Ruyu asked. “Shall we order something so the poor girl doesn’t have to stand there all night?”

He ignored her prompting. “Did you … love them?”

“My grandaunts?”

“Yes,” he said. “Did they love you?”

“I’m afraid that was beyond their capacity. I don’t think they loved me more than one would love a pig one raises as a sacrifice. Why? Do you think I’m unfairly harsh toward them? Perhaps I should withdraw that comment. No, they might have loved me in a way I didn’t understand. As for me, they were the only family I had, but I wasn’t raised to love them, or any mortal.”

“That must be a difficult place to be in.”

“I would say there’s no better place for anyone.”

“Do you really believe that?” Boyang asked, looking into Ruyu’s eyes.

She did not avert her eyes from his gaze. “At least I want to believe it.”

“Have you ever wondered if that’s unnatural?”
Unnatural—
Sizhuo’s word, but what could he use to protect himself but the younger woman’s willfulness?

“Nothing,” Ruyu said, “is natural with my life.”

“Including coming back?” he said.

“In fact—you don’t have to believe it—but coming back seems the most natural thing that has happened to me.”

“Did you come back because Sister Shaoai died?”

Ruyu’s eyes looked strangely out of focus for a brief moment. “No,” she said. “I’d have come back earlier, in time for her funeral, if it were for her.”

“Her ashes are not buried yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Aunt is not ready to bury her yet.”

“How is Aunt?”

“I can take you to see her tonight,” he said. “Or tomorrow. Or anytime.”

“I think we should order now,” Ruyu said and leaned over to tap the window. The waitress came in right away. Ruyu, without consulting Boyang, asked for enough food for two.

“Why change the subject?” Boyang said, watching the waitress close the door behind her. “You don’t like to hear about how Aunt has been struggling all these years?”

“I’ve not seen one person in this world who’s not struggling,” Ruyu said.

“That is quite a coldhearted comment,” Boyang said.

“Yet it is true. You’re implying that I’m responsible for Aunt’s struggling and should feel some sort of guilt. But the thing is, if it weren’t this struggle, it would have been another. If Shaoai had not taken ill, she would have turned out to be a pain for Aunt still.”

“Shaoai did not take ill. She was poisoned.”

Ruyu remained silent, her expression frosty—a more familiar face to Boyang.

“What? You don’t like me to remind you of that fact?”

“What,” Ruyu said, turning her eyes to Boyang and for the first time looking baffled, “do you want me to say?”

“Did you poison Shaoai?”

“Is that all you want to know?”

“I suppose, in a way, everyone wanted to know,” Boyang said. “I’ve never stopped wanting to know.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Me, my parents, Aunt and Uncle, the neighbors.”

“Moran, too?”

Boyang had been wondering when and how this would happen—he had not had the courage to bring Moran’s name into the conversation. “I suppose she must want to know, too,” he said.

“How is she doing these days? Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t keep in touch with her?”

“The way I’ve kept in touch with you, yes, but I’ve never heard from her.”

“Are you not curious about how she is? Are her parents still around?”

“Yes, but I’ve never asked them about her. I haven’t talked to them for years.”

“Why not?”

“She has a right to stay away.”

Ruyu smiled. “How sad for her.”

“Why?”

“If she mattered to you more than she does, you’d have sought her out,” Ruyu said. “It’s not as though this is a world where a person can hide away forever.”

“Perhaps I have reasons not to seek her out.”

“That’s why I feel sad for her.”

“Why?”

“She was quite smitten with you, wasn’t she?”

“Everyone has an adolescent crush. But that’s not a reason for me to continue being in her world,” Boyang said.

“I remember that Shaoai once said Moran was only a child,” Ruyu said, the expression on her face turning hazy. “Poor child.”

“What do you mean?”

“She really was a child when we knew her, no?” Ruyu said. “I always feel bad about all those things happening to her.”

“To her only?” Boyang said, feeling a sudden rage. “But was I not a child? For heaven’s sake, Shaoai was only twenty-two. Was she not still a child, in a way?”

Ruyu looked at Boyang as though amused by his anger. “Oh, don’t look like your life’s been destroyed. I imagine you’ve come through with little harm—right?”

He wanted to argue that that was not the case. He wanted to list
the years of care he had dedicated to Shaoai, watching her deteriorate and hiding her from his ex-wife and friends, separating his life into two compartments, neither of them real enough. But whatever he said would only amuse Ruyu more. “So you did poison Shaoai, didn’t you?” he said. He had only that question as a weapon.