How did he get permission to leave his work unit to come to school? Maybe he has a lover with connections?
I smile to myself, I don't even know if he's gay and already I think he's got a lover in the army or something.
"That's a secret smile," he remarks.
"Thinking about how different it is here," I say.
"What's the biggest difference?" he asks.
I think for a moment. Everything is different. In New York I ride a subway system built sometime in the 1900's, here buses segment and flow off in different directions. There's a city above the city, a lace work super-structure that supports thousands of four tower living units and work complexes like the University complex we live in; what they call the xin gongshe, new communes. And there's the constant assault of Chinese, I get hungry for someone to speak English with. The food. I ate Chinese and Thai food at home, but not all the time. And there's food here I've never seen or heard of, from Australia and South America and Africa, at outrageous prices. Everyone here seems rich.
I laugh. "At home, I knew what was going on, and if I had something to talk about, I called somebody and talked to them. Here," it is my turn to shrug, "I am not quite sure what will happen, what things mean, and I don't have anyone to talk to about it." I glance at him, to see how he takes it.
He looks thoughtful.
It's time to leave, I stand. "I am sure you are tired," I say politely.
"Oh, no," he says, equally as polite.
We go through the ritual of leaving. I realize I am taller than he is, although not by much. This is important to me in some secret way.
"Saturday," he says, "perhaps you would like some extra tutoring? Not suggesting that you aren't picking it up fast," he adds, smiling.
"I'd like that," I say.
"Of course, the class is most important," he says, "but it never hurts to have a little left-handed help."
Left-handed. My heart starts to hammer. It is all code, he is testing me. Or perhaps it's an accident, he just used the phrase, unaware that it can have any other meaning. Back home, straights are right-handed, we are left. Not really, of course, just slang.
"Thanks," I say, "I'm grateful, and I always appreciate a little left-handed help."
"Oh," he says, politely delighted, "I wasn't sure you would."
"More than you know," I say. "It's very lonely here for a huaqiao."
"I think a huaqiao like yourself should make very many friends quickly. You do not really have to go yet, do you?"
I am filled with terror and joy. "Well, perhaps if you are not too busy," I say. I am all desire, and I see he is, as well. My knees are loosened, I feel as if I am seventeen again, waiting in the dark on Coney Island beach for someone to come along, while the smell of ash rolls off the burning harbor.
"Wait," he says, and does something swiftly with the room. The lights darken towards rose and then the sunset is inside the room, and the world is dark outside. Nanjing is lights that go on up the Yangtze River to the horizon; the river is marked by a curving road of lightlessness.
"I cannot believe this," I whisper.
"What can't you believe?" he asks, laughing softly.
"That you are here," I say, cliche, I know, but things become cliche because they express truths. And I cannot believe he is here.
We are waiting for something, I don't know what but we wait. I am shaking and aroused, he doesn't know what it is like to be alone in a foreign country. He doesn't know. And if he knew how badly I want him, would he want me at all?
"Lai, lai," he says, 'Come here.'
So for a few hours I can pretend that I'm not alone.
If to come is the petit mort, the little death-and it seems to me it is because everything is burned away for that brief, explosive time-then waking up in someone's bed is resurrection. It's only a little death and a correspondingly sordid resurrection. It is not life that falls on me so much as obligation. I have engineering at 9:00 a.m. and I am in Haibao's bed. At the hour before dawn I'm rarely in love.
I sit up, Haibao stirs and opens his eyes. His hair is a mess and he is naked and ordinary, as am I.
"I must go," I tell him.
"Weishemma"? 'Why?'
"I have engineering and I have to study."
He sits up, "Wait," he says, "I'll make tea."
Rituals, the same here as at home. You never let the coney go without making him breakfast, even though by that time you often can't stand the sight of each other. "Bei-keqi," I murmur, 'Do not be polite.'
He protests a little, but I dress and apologize for my rudeness in leaving so abruptly and asking him to understand. "I'll see you Saturday," I promise, not particularly wanting to at this moment, but knowing that by tonight I'll be thinking about nothing else. I press him gently back to the bed, and leave him going to sleep.
My eyes are thick, I'm slow. The hall is silent and dark and the lift opens with a sigh. I cross the empty arcade and stop to watch the sunrise. A sunrise is a special thing, I've lived north of the Arctic circle, where night lasts for months. Then up to the suite where I shower and make coffee, and sit down to study my engineering.
Engineering is better that morning. I am beginning to follow what is going on, and I find I study better in the morning than I do at night. But once engineering is over, I think of Haibao. Will he want to see me again? I think of how many people I have wanted only once, maybe it was only the unexpectedness of the moment, the always incestuous discovery of our particular brotherhood, that interested him.
I'm so tired of being a colony of one.
Xiao Chen says, "Last night, out late."
I answer in Mandarin, "I was with my tutor."
"Studying?"
I shake my head and smile. "No. I'm not that good a student."
A couple of Xiao Chen's friends come over and we watch a vid. I work on my mathematics homework. I get a letter from Peter which begins, "You're in love? I'm so jealous I can't stand it. Tell me all about her, is she beautiful?" You never know when a transmission will be monitored. I write back extolling the charms of Haibao who I rename Hai-ming, Sea-jade.
Empty afternoon, empty evening. I am waiting, suspended, until Saturday evening.
I dress in my new clothes; calf-high boots, black jacket with swallow tails over red, and brushed gray tights like Haibao wore. Am I doing it wrong, I wonder? Have I chosen well? I could disappear on the street in a thousand similar outfits. Will he approve?
When he opens the door he is preoccupied. "Lai, lai," he says absently, 'Come in, come in.' And he is not alone.
I despair at not having him to myself. I wonder if I have not been good enough. I am angry at him for doing this to us. I am curious about this other-one of us? And I am elated at the thought of meeting people.
"Hello," says the man on the couch, "You are Haibao's huaqiao."
"Hello, I'm called Zhang," I say, and we scrutinize each other. Haibao is not particularly handsome, in the face he is rather plain, but he has good hair and a good build and is so polished that the net effect is dazzling. This man is casually, even badly dressed. His hair is cut as if someone has dropped a bowl on his head and cut whatever showed and he hasn't bothered to comb it. But he has a handsome face; something easy to miss. In my experience, no one is truly handsome or beautiful without working at it.