River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 13

"A sweeper?"

"Yes. She sweeps the streets."

He said it without any self-consciousness, the same way that all of them described their backgrounds. I told Noreen that she should be proud to be the daughter of an Irish peasant-of all the Fuling waiguoren waiguoren, she had the most revolutionary cla.s.s origins.

Noreen and I went to church on Sundays, which was one of my favorite routines in Fuling, because I liked watching the priest and the old women who went there every week. They were survivors-there was a quiet strength to the congregation, and they had none of the well-dressed smugness of American churchgoers. All of them had paid for their faith, in ways that money could not measure, and Father Li had paid the most of all.

Watching the priest also made me remember my mother's father, who had been a Benedictine monk. He had grown up in Arkansas, where his parish sometimes awarded promising students with scholarships to Italy, and in 1929 my grandfather was sent to San Anselmo Abbey in Rome. He was eighteen years old, and his plan was to become a priest and perhaps a missionary.

I had read his diary from those years and it was full of homesickness, but it was also full of the beauty and wonder of Rome, the stunning churches and the history that caught the young man's eyes everywhere he turned in the city. He was in the middle of that history, too; often his diary mentioned nationalistic rallies in the streets, and a few times he caught sight of Mussolini at parades.

In the spring of 1931, a group of priests returned to the abbey from Catholic University in Beijing. On March 1 of 1931, my grandfather's diary reads, in neat black script: A bunch of us Americans visit Fr. Sylvester Healy in his room this morning, and have a long talk about China in general and the Catholic University of Peking in particular. Fr. Healy made his Solemn Profession this morning in the College Church. He seems very optimistic about the future of the Catholic University and to have given himself wholeheartedly to the work.

After that day, the diary changes. There is less of Rome and more of China; the fascination grows quickly, until "China" is capitalized and underlined, a sacred word: March, 18, 1931: Fr. Francis Clougherty, Chancellor of the Catholic University of Peking, arrives here to-day on his way back to China. A big strapping Irishman.March 22, 1931: Fr. Clougherty holds an informal "at home" this morning and about 15 of us troop up to his room. Of course there are smokes and a general spirit of congeniality. Fr. Clougherty is very interesting to listen to. According to him the University is now on a perfectly solid foundation and he has received promises to come out to China from a considerable [number] of very capable teachers, both Benedictine and otherwise.March 23, 1931: All small talk among Americans is about China now.March 25, 1931: Talk to Raph and Donald about China upon my return. Fr. Clougherty had a big day to-day but comes down to Donald's room and gives Donald, Hugh, Edward and me an inspiring talk. We are so wrought up that when Clougherty leaves at 12 o'clock Donald, H., and I stay up and talk it over till almost 3 A.M. I believe that this is the turning point in my life and I am going to sign up for China. G.o.d be with us!March 26, 1931: CHINA! Get up rather late this morning after last night. Spend most of the morning in Donald's room discussing China. Fr. Clougherty comes down and brings pictures of the statues about which he spoke last night. It seems there will be quite a little colony of Americans emigrating from San Anselmo, Rome, to Catholic University, Peking. Deo Volente Deo Volente, I am one of them.March 27, 1931: Everything is China at present. I breathe, eat and sleep China and I think that is about the case with all of our "China group."

As my grandfather came closer to taking his vows of priesthood, his superior informed him that he would be sent back to Arkansas. My grandfather responded with a long letter explaining that deep in his soul he had a call from G.o.d to serve in China. But his superior countered by saying that sometimes this is how G.o.d works-occasionally He gives a young man a false call, simply to test his loyalty to his earthly superior, and sometimes you feel truly that you are meant to go to China when in fact you are intended to go to Arkansas.

And so pa.s.sed the turning point of my grandfather's life. He did not want to be a priest in Arkansas, and the Benedictines did not want him to be a priest in China; and thus he left the order and returned to America. He sold insurance. He married. He had children, grandchildren. He retired, played golf, traveled. On Sundays he always went to Ma.s.s. He never did go to China. He didn't talk much about his time as a monk, and I never knew about his interest in China until I came across his diaries as a graduate student. But by then it had been seven years since he had died in 1987, when I was seventeen years old-nearly the same age as the young monk in Rome and, like him, too young to have any sense of time, of what the future might hold and how the past might reappear.

I CONTINUED WITH MY CHINESE TUTORIALS in Fuling, alternating between Teacher Kong and Teacher Liao. We always started cla.s.ses with small talk, and often Teacher Liao told me about what she had watched on television the night before. Like most of my friends in Fuling, she watched an enormous amount of television, and one day she came to cla.s.s particularly interested in what she had seen. in Fuling, alternating between Teacher Kong and Teacher Liao. We always started cla.s.ses with small talk, and often Teacher Liao told me about what she had watched on television the night before. Like most of my friends in Fuling, she watched an enormous amount of television, and one day she came to cla.s.s particularly interested in what she had seen.

"Last night there was a waiguoren waiguoren on television," she said, "He was speaking Chinese." on television," she said, "He was speaking Chinese."

"Was it Da Shan?"

"No, it wasn't Da Shan; his Chinese wasn't nearly as good as Da Shan's. His Chinese wasn't as good as yours yours."

"That can't be true."

"Actually, his grammar was better than yours, but his p.r.o.nunciation was worse. His tones were bad."

"I don't believe it."

"I'm not kidding," she said. "I think your Chinese is better than that of the waiguoren waiguoren who was on television. And if you improved your grammar, it would be much better." who was on television. And if you improved your grammar, it would be much better."

"Where was he from?"

"Australia. He was very ugly-he had bad skin and very long hair. He was extremely hard to look at."

For a moment we sat there, silent in our shared distaste for the longhaired waiguoren waiguoren with bad tones on television. Then we started cla.s.s, and Teacher Liao paid particularly close attention to my grammar. with bad tones on television. Then we started cla.s.s, and Teacher Liao paid particularly close attention to my grammar.

After that she kept me updated on the waiguoren waiguoren who appeared on television. For the most part it was a small and select group, with Da Shan as the mainstay, and all of the regulars were very good at Chinese-it was clear that I still had years to go before I could enter that league. But Teacher Liao apparently felt that there was hope, and occasionally a who appeared on television. For the most part it was a small and select group, with Da Shan as the mainstay, and all of the regulars were very good at Chinese-it was clear that I still had years to go before I could enter that league. But Teacher Liao apparently felt that there was hope, and occasionally a waiguoren waiguoren with tone problems would appear and she would criticize him mercilessly. Always she was careful to point out any physical defects or shortcomings, especially if the with tone problems would appear and she would criticize him mercilessly. Always she was careful to point out any physical defects or shortcomings, especially if the waiguoren waiguoren was fat. Teacher Liao was an extremely slender woman and she did not like fat was fat. Teacher Liao was an extremely slender woman and she did not like fat waiguoren waiguoren.

There was still a certain formality to our relationship, but it had become a comfortable formality-the Chinese relationship between a teacher and a student. She took pride in my progress, and now that I was starting to read newspapers she carefully reviewed the Chongqing Evening Times Chongqing Evening Times and clipped articles that we could use in cla.s.s. She liked clipping stories about the j.a.panese atrocities of World War II, and she also liked stories about Hong Kong's improvements since its return to the Motherland (great things had happened in those three months). Occasionally she could not help but select articles that criticized America's imperialist tendencies. In late September, when France complained about American sanctions of Iran, our tutorials consisted of a slew of stories condemning America's role as "the policeman of the world." But even in those cla.s.ses there was no tension; our Opium Wars were long finished, and we had learned how to deal with each other. Both of us had changed, but probably I had changed the most: I was no longer strictly a and clipped articles that we could use in cla.s.s. She liked clipping stories about the j.a.panese atrocities of World War II, and she also liked stories about Hong Kong's improvements since its return to the Motherland (great things had happened in those three months). Occasionally she could not help but select articles that criticized America's imperialist tendencies. In late September, when France complained about American sanctions of Iran, our tutorials consisted of a slew of stories condemning America's role as "the policeman of the world." But even in those cla.s.ses there was no tension; our Opium Wars were long finished, and we had learned how to deal with each other. Both of us had changed, but probably I had changed the most: I was no longer strictly a waiguoren waiguoren, neither in her eyes nor in my own.

I liked Teacher Liao because now I could see that she was a very traditional Chinese woman-in my mind, she was the most Chinese person I ever came to know in Fuling. She refused to allow a waiguoren waiguoren to condescend to her, because she was a fiercely proud woman, but at the same time she was capable of extending this pride to me after months of work. Along with her pride, she had a strong sense of propriety and tradition. She didn't dress in revealing clothes like many other young women did, and she didn't Westernize her hair by dyeing. Unlike Teacher Kong, she refused to have our cla.s.ses in my apartment. Teacher Liao was a married woman and I was a single man, and people might talk if she spent six hours a week in my home. We always met in my office. to condescend to her, because she was a fiercely proud woman, but at the same time she was capable of extending this pride to me after months of work. Along with her pride, she had a strong sense of propriety and tradition. She didn't dress in revealing clothes like many other young women did, and she didn't Westernize her hair by dyeing. Unlike Teacher Kong, she refused to have our cla.s.ses in my apartment. Teacher Liao was a married woman and I was a single man, and people might talk if she spent six hours a week in my home. We always met in my office.

I also liked studying with Teacher Liao because I could get some sense of the prevailing Chinese att.i.tude to nearly any issue by simply asking her, because she was so Chinese, and often I used our cla.s.ses to untangle things that I had seen or heard in my encounters with other people. For a while I was intrigued by the Chinese fascination with Hitler-if you ever talked with Old Hundred Names about the Fuhrer, they generally gave good reviews. The summer before in Xi'an, I had known a German student who was disturbed by the way many Chinese became excited when they discovered her nationality.

"Oh, you're from Germany!" they would say. "Xitele-Hitler! Very good!"

Out of curiosity I often asked the Chinese about him, and many people said the same thing-that he had made some mistakes, but he had been a great leader who did some fine things for his country. It seemed natural enough that Chairman Mao had left the Chinese with a certain appet.i.te for dictators, but I was still curious, and I asked Teacher Liao why the Chinese were so positive about Hitler. As usual, she was extremely helpful. She said that for years Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator The Great Dictator had been seen in theaters and on television; everybody in China had watched it. had been seen in theaters and on television; everybody in China had watched it.

"Have you seen it?" I asked.

"Certainly!"

"How many times?"

She paused and counted in her head. "Four, I think," she said. "Maybe more."

"What's it like?"

"It's very wonderful! I always liked the way Hitler talks in the movie, like a crazy man. He's like this"-and she imitated Charlie Chaplin imitating Hitler; she raised her shoulders and shook her fist, chin in the air.

"Wah wah wah wah wah!" she shouted, as if giving a speech in a foreign language, and then she collapsed into giggles.

"But doesn't that movie make fun of Hitler?" I asked.

"Of course!"

"So why is it that so many Chinese people tell me that there are some good things about him?"

"Most of us have two contrary ideas-that Hitler was a great leader, and that he was a crazy man who did terrible things. We have both of these ideas at once, you see. And I think people believe that he is an interesting character, and that also makes them like him. He's very interesting to watch."

Perhaps the strangest part of the Chinese fascination with Hitler was that simultaneously they had a deep respect for the Jewish people. Jews were the next best thing to the Chinese-they were an extremely intelligent race, as one could tell from the examples of Einstein and Marx. In Xi'an, I had studied with an Israeli student, and the teachers and workers had made an enormous fuss over him. Everybody was very impressed by his intelligence, despite the fact that he was not particularly bright and a horrible student of Chinese. But he was Jewish, and all Jews were intelligent; everybody knew that and so they overlooked the reality of his particular case. It was the same as my blue eyes.

Ideas of this sort were standard and completely predictable, and the longer I lived in China the more I realized that in this sense the country wasn't as complicated as outsiders often said. Foreigners always talked about how difficult it was to understand China, and often this was true, but there were also many ways in which the people's ideas were remarkably uniform and predictable. There were b.u.t.tons that you could push-Hitler, Jews, the j.a.panese, the Opium Wars, Tibetans, Taiwan-and 90 percent of the time you could predict the precise reaction, including specific phrases that people would use. It was natural enough, given China's conditions: virtually everybody was the same race, the country had been isolated for centuries, and the current education system was strictly standardized and politically controlled.

And it was also natural that these conditions resulted in some particularly bizarre notions, like the admiration of Hitler or the fascination with Thai transvest.i.tes. This was something else I had realized over the summer: if you asked random Chinese people about Thailand, virtually all of them would say the exact same thing, that the Thais are famous for their renyao renyao, or transvest.i.tes.

It was interesting to figure out these common beliefs, and occasionally you could work them to your advantage. During the summer, my sister Angela and Todd, her Stanford colleague, had been bored by eating meals with their Chinese interpreter, so I gave them a list of subjects that would surely make things more entertaining. Todd was Jewish, and I told him that this was a trump card that should not be wasted. After I left, he broke the monotony of a meal by announcing his ethnic background.

"You are Jewish?" the interpreter said, eyes wide.

"Yes."

"You must be very clever!"

After that, he treated Todd with new respect. It had been the same way with a teacher in the second Peace Corps group; everything changed once the people discovered that she was Jewish. One of her Chinese friends apologized to her, because before the revelation the friend had not treated her with the appropriate respect that should be accorded a Jew.

Once during the summer I had studied my Chinese textbook while riding a train, which impressed the other pa.s.sengers. As a waiguoren waiguoren it was never hard to impress-even the most pathetic command of the Chinese language made the people respect you. But on that train there was one woman who studied me with particular interest. it was never hard to impress-even the most pathetic command of the Chinese language made the people respect you. But on that train there was one woman who studied me with particular interest.

"You are a Zhongguotong Zhongguotong," she said. "A China hand. I can see that you study very diligently."

"That's not true," I said. "If I studied diligently my Chinese would be better."

She peered at me, and it was clear that she was thinking hard about something. "Are you Jewish?" she finally asked.

"No," I said, and something in her expression made me want to apologize. But I suppressed the urge, and we talked for a while longer. I sensed her disappointment as she returned to her berth, but there was nothing to do about that: I was just another waiguoren waiguoren, and not a Jew at all.

EVERYTHING IN FULING was new that second year. I had new students-all of last year's seniors had graduated, and most of them were teaching in the countryside. My own Chinese tutors were as good as new; they were real people now, and we could talk comfortably about anything. The city didn't seem as dirty and loud as last year, and the people were friendlier. When they spoke, it made sense. The only thing that hadn't changed was my job; I still taught literature, but now it was easier because I had last year's notes. I spent most of my spare time in the city, wandering around and talking to people. was new that second year. I had new students-all of last year's seniors had graduated, and most of them were teaching in the countryside. My own Chinese tutors were as good as new; they were real people now, and we could talk comfortably about anything. The city didn't seem as dirty and loud as last year, and the people were friendlier. When they spoke, it made sense. The only thing that hadn't changed was my job; I still taught literature, but now it was easier because I had last year's notes. I spent most of my spare time in the city, wandering around and talking to people.

I had city routines for every day of the week, every time of the day. Sometimes in the mornings I went down to South Mountain Gate and sat in the park, watching the city come to life. Tuesday afternoons I talked to the photographer and went to w.a.n.gzhou Park. Monday evenings I walked along the busy streets of Mid-Mountain Road. On Sundays, I went to church, and afterward I sat and talked with Father Li, who served me bad coffee. I did not like good coffee but I drank the priest's coffee out of respect, just as he served it to me out of respect for the waiguoren waiguoren tendency to prefer coffee to tea. tendency to prefer coffee to tea.

After talking with Father Li, I would wander through the old city and watch the blacksmiths at work near the river. Then I would walk up to the teahouse in the middle of town, because on Sundays a group of middle-aged and older men brought their pet birds there, hanging the cages from the rafters. They were always happy to see me, especially Zhang Xiaolong, who was the Luckiest Man in All of Fuling. Ten years ago he had been injured in a motorcycle accident, shortening one leg, and now he walked with a limp. It was a wonderful injury because it meant that he was officially cla.s.sified as disabled, and thus he could never be fired from his job at the Hailing factory. It was a state-owned enterprise, and reforms were leading to layoffs, but none of this concerned Zhang Xiaolong, whose job was completely secure. It was more luck than one could expect from a motorcycle accident, but Zhang Xiaolong had beaten the odds again when his wife became pregnant and gave birth-not to a daughter, or to a son, but to twin twin sons. To be slightly but certifiably disabled, and to have twin sons-that was fantasy; it didn't happen in real life; people wrote books about good fortune of that sort. sons. To be slightly but certifiably disabled, and to have twin sons-that was fantasy; it didn't happen in real life; people wrote books about good fortune of that sort.

Every Sunday, Zhang Xiaolong limped proudly to the teahouse, carrying his birdcage, and he sat beaming in the sunshine as he drank his tea. He was the Happiest Man in All of Fuling, as well as the Luckiest, and I liked talking with him-not because he was particularly interesting, but simply because he was always pleasant. And he reminded me that my own life in Fuling was also charmed. Almost everywhere I went, people knew who I was, and I could follow my routines and be a.s.sured that the regulars would be happy to see me. There were still plenty of young men who shouted a mocking "Hah-loooo!" when I walked down the street, but it was less of a problem than last year, and in any case the hara.s.sment was drowned out by the kindness of most people. It was the same paradox that I had realized during the summer-the Chinese could be hard on foreigners, but at the same time they could be incredibly patient, generous, and curious about where you had come from. I felt I had spent my first year coping with the hard part of being a waiguoren waiguoren, and now I enjoyed all the benefits.

In many ways the city had turned full circle for me, but of course I was the one who had really changed. I was a new person, He Wei, or, as the Sichuanese p.r.o.nounced it, Ho Wei. That was the name I had been given during Peace Corps training, and it was common in China: the given name, Wei, meant "great" and was as run-of-the-mill as John in America. The family name was also prevalent; there were plenty of Hos wherever I went in Sichuan, and when I introduced myself they always said that we were jiamenr jiamenr, family. There was even another Ho Wei at the college, who taught in the physical education department.

It was different from living in most countries, where you could use your real name or something similar to it, which was a clear link to who you had originally been. My Chinese name had no connection to my American name, and the person who became Ho Wei had no real connection to my American self. There was an enormous freedom in that-at the age of twenty-eight, I suddenly had a completely new ident.i.ty.

And you could tinker with that ident.i.ty, starting with changing your name itself. Adam had done this at the end of our first year, because his original name, Mei Erkang, sounded too much like a foreigner's name (it also sounded a lot like a popular Sichuanese brand of pig feed). Looking for something that was more authentically Chinese and less agricultural, Adam asked his students to propose new names, complete with explanations, and after several rounds they came up with Mei Zhiyuan. The given name, Zhiyuan, meant "Motivated by Lofty Goals," and it was shared by Ma Zhiyuan, a Yuan Dynasty poet who seven centuries ago had written a famous verse on homesickness. Virtually all educated Chinese recognized the allusion, and there were subsequent writers who had used the two characters in other poems. Suddenly, Adam went from pig feed to a n.o.ble-sounding cla.s.sical allusion-that was how easily a waiguoren waiguoren could redefine himself in China. could redefine himself in China.

I never changed my Chinese name, but I sensed the ease with which my Chinese ident.i.ty became distinct from my American self. Eventually, I came to think of myself as two people, Ho Wei and Peter Hessler. Ho Wei wasn't really a person until my second year in Fuling, but as time pa.s.sed I realized that he was becoming most of my ident.i.ty: apart from my students, colleagues, and the other foreigners, everybody knew me strictly as Ho Wei, and they knew me strictly in Chinese. Ho Wei was completely different from my American self: he was friendlier, he was eager to talk with anybody, and he took great pleasure in even the most inane conversations. In a simple way he was funny; by saying a few words in the local dialect he could be endlessly entertaining to the people in Fuling. Also Ho Wei was stupid, which was what I liked the most about him. He spoke with an accent; he had lousy grammar; and he laughed at the simple mistakes that he made. People were comfortable with somebody that stupid, and they found it easy to talk with Ho Wei, even though they often had to say things twice or write new words in his notebook. Ho Wei always carried his notebook in his pocket, using it to study the new words, as well as to jot down notes from conversations. And when Ho Wei returned home he left the notebook on the desk of Peter Hessler, who typed everything into his computer.

I had two desks in my apartment. One was for studying Chinese, and the other was for writing; one desk was Ho Wei's and the other belonged to Peter Hessler. Sometimes this relationship unnerved me-it seemed wrong that behind Ho Wei's stupidity there was another person watching everything intently and taking notes. But I could think of no easy resolution to this divide; I had my Chinese life and my American life, and even if they occupied similar territory, they were completely different. My apartment was big and I kept the desks in separate rooms. Ho Wei and Peter Hessler never met each other. The notebook was the only thing they truly shared.

ONE SUNDAY there was a funeral at the church. Noreen was sick that day and I sat alone, trying to follow the service in my missal. I always liked doing that, because it was good Chinese practice and it reminded me of boyhood, when some of my earliest reading had been done during Ma.s.s. there was a funeral at the church. Noreen was sick that day and I sat alone, trying to follow the service in my missal. I always liked doing that, because it was good Chinese practice and it reminded me of boyhood, when some of my earliest reading had been done during Ma.s.s.

People milled around the courtyard after the service and I could see that it was a special event. Father Li and I sat in the rectory, where he called for coffee and cookies, and one of the old women who lived there brought them on a tray. The coffee was even worse than usual. I thanked the woman and drank as much as I could bear, eating cookies to dull the taste. Father Li and I asked about each other's health, and then he mentioned that today's service had been a funeral.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said. "Who was it for?"

He said a woman's name that I didn't recognize. "How old was she?" I asked.

"Eighty years old."

"She had a very long life."

"Yes," the priest said. "And she was very good for our church. She was here every Sunday."

"What was her job?"

"She was retired, of course. But before that she worked at the Hailing factory."

There was a small number of parishioners who went to Ma.s.s every week, and I asked some more questions to see if I could remember the woman. Father Li answered patiently, and then finally he pointed behind me and said, "She's right there."

I turned around and saw the woman laid out ten feet behind me, on a table at the back of the room. The place was dimly lit and I hadn't noticed her when we came in. A white sheet was pulled up to her chin. She was a small woman with gray hair and her mouth was pinched shut. I remembered seeing her in church. I was in the middle of eating a cookie and now I put it down on the tray.

"Oh," I said. "There she is."

"Yes," said Father Li. "That's her."

"Well," I said. "I think I'll go outside now."

It was sunny in the courtyard and the parishioners were writing memorials on long strips of white paper. A number of big funeral wreaths, made of white tissue and bamboo, were set against the wall of the church. In the sunshine I recovered quickly from the shock of seeing the body on the table, and I watched the people as they went about the business of mourning. All of the old ladies had been waiting patiently for me to finish my coffee, and now they entered the room to pay their respects to the body.

The woman's son was there, a man in his fifties, and he was thrilled that a waiguoren waiguoren had come to his mother's funeral. I told him that his mother had always been very kind to me, which made him even happier. It was a tradition for the family to give small gifts at a funeral, and the son gave me some fruit and a box of Magnificent Sound cigarettes. I thanked him and accepted the cigarettes. It was hard to imagine a more appropriate funeral gift. had come to his mother's funeral. I told him that his mother had always been very kind to me, which made him even happier. It was a tradition for the family to give small gifts at a funeral, and the son gave me some fruit and a box of Magnificent Sound cigarettes. I thanked him and accepted the cigarettes. It was hard to imagine a more appropriate funeral gift.

Later I went to the teahouse, where Zhang Xiaolong, the Luckiest Man in Fuling, grinned and waved. He was with some of the other old men and I took an empty table nearby. The waitress came over, smiling, and asked me what I wanted.

"The yangguizi yangguizi wants a cup of tea," I said. Calling myself wants a cup of tea," I said. Calling myself yangguizi yangguizi, "foreign devil," was one of the easiest and most disarming jokes in Fuling. I had started using that word to describe myself during the summer, and people often didn't know how to react; sometimes they were embarra.s.sed and tried to persuade me to call myself something different. But I always responded by proudly saying something like "We foreign devils have a long history" or "We foreign devils have a great culture."

At the teahouse it was an old joke between me and the xiaojie xiaojie, the young woman who worked there. She covered her mouth and laughed, and then she poured me a cup of tea. I had bought a newspaper on the street and now I read it while the tea cooled.

It was a typical day at the teahouse and a few people came up and talked with me. At the end of the morning, a young woman whom I had never met came and sat at my table. We talked for perhaps ten minutes. It was slightly unusual for a woman to approach me, but not so unusual that I thought anything of it. Her name was Li Jiali, and she asked for my phone number. This was also common-I always gave my number to people in Fuling. The only problem was that some of them had a tendency to call between the hours of five and seven o'clock in the morning, so I often took my phone off the hook when I was sleeping. I gave my number to Li Jiali and thought no more about it.

A week later I returned to the teahouse, and once again she sat at my table. She was dressed in a very short skirt and tights and she wore a great deal of makeup. She was not pretty, but she had successfully adopted a number of the habits that you saw in a certain type of xiaojie xiaojie, who smiled too much and talked in a cutesy way, drawing out her words at the end of sentences. The woman who worked at the teahouse was not like this, and I saw her shaking her head as Li Jiali sat posing at my table. The old men were staring; even their birds seemed stunned into silence. I could see that something was happening that I didn't understand, and so I excused myself, paid for the tea, and left.

Li Jiali followed me out of the teahouse. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"I have to go now," I said. "I'm going to eat and then I'm going home."

We pa.s.sed a noodle restaurant where I often ate. Suddenly I had a great fear of this woman following me home and being seen with me on campus. "I'm leaving now," I said. "I must eat at this restaurant. Goodbye."

"Oh, I'll eat with you," said Li Jiali.

The owner of the restaurant cleared a table and I found myself sitting there with the woman. That was how everything always went in Fuling-things happened to me. Usually I liked the pa.s.sive unpredictability but today I was suspicious of her intentions, and yet I had no idea what to do. She sat there chattering about something and I asked her where she worked.

"That's not important," she said, and suddenly it became very important.

"Do you work here in Fuling?"

"It's not a good job," she said, shrugging. "But my uncle is getting me a better job in Chongqing. He owns a big restaurant-he's very rich! He's giving me a job there as a xiaojie xiaojie. The xiaojie xiaojie at my uncle's restaurant wear fine clothes-I'll have to wear a at my uncle's restaurant wear fine clothes-I'll have to wear a qipao qipao like this"-she showed me how it would look: no shoulders, tight around the neck, slit high up her thigh. like this"-she showed me how it would look: no shoulders, tight around the neck, slit high up her thigh.

"Oh," I said.

"But it's very expensive," she said. "I'll have to buy the qipao qipao myself." myself."

"That's too bad," I said.

"Do you like to sing karaoke?"

"No," I said. "I do not like to sing karaoke. Most Americans do not like to sing."