“One crepe and a cup of soy milk.”
The middle-aged lady smiled at him and started his crepe. Dunhuang reached out and picked up a cup of soy milk with plastic film over the top, stuck a straw through the film, and started drinking. By the time he was done the crepe was ready, and the lady had cracked an egg on top.
“How much?” he asked, the crepe already in his mouth, so hot it made him jump.
“It’s free,” the lady answered. “Go ahead.”
Dunhuang’s brain short-circuited for a moment, then he understood. He hurled the crepe on the ground, then pulled ten kuai from his pocket, slapped it on her stall, and said, “I’m not a fucking beggar! I don’t need your pity!” He snatched up his bags and left, not even turning his head as the lady cried “Hey, your money!” behind him. Holding his back stiffly upright, he strode awkwardly, like a tragic monster. As people passed him they turned their heads for another look, curious about the young man with tears streaming down his face. Dunhuang ignored them and continued straight on until he came to a round traffic mirror at a curve in the street. In the mirror he saw a completely unfamiliar person. His head and face were coated in dust, his medium-length hair a grayish-white, and there were two clean tracks left by his tears. Basically, he was a clown. His jacket hung askew on his body, the left side higher than the right, his round-collared sweater was misshapen and bulging. His pants were horribly wrinkled, and from the look of his shoes he appeared to have just crossed a desert. What could he be but a tramp? What could he be but a beggar? Even his three bags were ugly as sin. Dunhuang wiped his face and turned around. The middle-aged lady’s head was bent forward as she made crepes for someone else.
“Ma’am.”
She looked up at him, then back down at her crepes, as though she hadn’t seen him.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry.” Dunhuang ducked his head in apology. “Please don’t be angry. I’d like to buy another crepe and a cup of soy milk.”
“Wait until I’m done with this one,” she answered. “You’re a hot-tempered guy.”
Dunhuang grinned bashfully, and apologized again.
Two crepes and two cups of soy milk came to eight kuai; she gave him two kuai change. She told him she’d felt sorry for him, the way he looked — it was hard being away from home. Dunhuang lied, saying he’d only gotten off the train the night before, when it had been too late to find a hotel. She began dispensing hackneyed advice with relish, saying things like “home is mother, on the road there’s no other,” and how he should watch out for bad people. Seeing that she was picking up steam, Dunhuang quickly excused himself and left.
The problem now was where to stay. He couldn’t afford rent — Beijing’s landlords were all penny pinchers, wanting three months, six months, or even a year’s rent in advance. Short of selling his body, he had no way to produce three months’ rent. He needed to find a place he could rent by the day or the week, preferably a bed in a dorm, four or more to a room — the more people, the cheaper the rent. Dunhuang headed toward Peking University. Three Corners, in the center of campus, was blanketed with ads for places like that.
A basement in Chengzeyuan, near Peking University, four beds, 25 kuai per bed per night. Dunhuang contacted the landlord and asked to see the place, and the landlord arranged to meet him at the west gate of PU. He arrived a half-hour later, a thin, sickly looking man in his forties, his back a little bent. Last night’s wind could have launched him into the sky without much trouble. They passed through Yuxiuyuan and crossed the bridge to Chengzeyuan. Dunhuang had been to the building a year ago, delivering goods. There was an old intertwining willow in the yard, it’s belly rotten hollow, big enough to crawl inside.
The basement room was small, with a dank chill, and laid out like a cramped student dorm. Two bunk beds nearly filled the place, and a small table and basin stand took up the rest. Odds and ends covered the table, and the basin was full of towels and toothbrushes and whatnot. Three of the beds were already occupied, only one upper bunk was empty. Bags were shoved under the beds. The landlord said the other three were all auditing classes at Peking University, planning to apply for master’s programs, and they were guaranteed to be safe and reliable roommates. Dunhuang had a bad feeling about the place, though — it reminded him of something you’d see in a horror movie. He wasn’t serious about staying, so he made a casual counter-offer.
“How about 20?”
“How long are you staying?”
“Won’t be long. A week.”
“All right then,” the landlord agreed swiftly, then added in a conspiratorial tone, “When the other three come back don’t tell them you’re paying 20, they all pay 25.”
Dunhuang considered, and decided to stay. It was better than the breakfast hut. “All right. I’ll say I’m paying 30.”
The landlord laughed, but even his laughter was sick, tinged a hollow and choleric red.
7
So he found himself living on a top bunk. After he put away his things, Dunhuang went to take a shower in the washroom, which was barely big enough to turn around in. Scrubbed and proper, he shouldered his bag and went out onto the street. He ate noodles and planned where he’d go to sell the rest of his DVDs; he couldn’t let the morning go to waste. He’d go to Peking University and set up in the street-side flea market outside building 32.
The market had started as a perfectly ordinary stretch of street, a place where graduating students sold their old books and supplies at the end of the year. Then it slowly became an on-campus flea market, where minor trade took place year-round. By the time dusk fell, Dunhuang had gotten rid of eleven DVDs, one of them in exchange for books. The next vendor over was selling used books and the two of them chatted idly all afternoon, and when customers were scarce they pawed through each other’s goods. Dunhuang picked up a book on film criticism and saw it contained a whole essay on Run Lola Run. He glanced through it, and found himself drawn in, thinking the author made some good points. After selling 31 copies of the movie, he’d finally gotten curious, and steeled himself to watch it. He honestly didn’t like it, he couldn’t figure out what the director and that constantly sprinting Lola were trying to express. The essay, however, explained it all perfectly, sweeping away the confusions that had cluttered his mind. He bit his nails as he read.
“Fuck,” said Dunhuang to the guy selling books. “Who’d have thought it was such a deep film.” He continued flipping through the book, muttering as he did, “Not bad. . not bad. . ” He thought the book was good, in part, simply because he could understand it. He’d always assumed academic writing was lofty and profound, and a real bitch to get through. This was exciting — he practically felt like an intellectual.
“If it’s good, buy it,” said the guy. “We’re buddies, I’ll give you half off.” It cost twenty.
“Half off, huh?” answered Dunhuang, “Why don’t we just trade? Take whatever DVD you like.”
The guy picked a Chow Yun-Fat movie, A Better Tomorrow. Just like a lot of girls, he liked Chow Yun-Fat’s smile.