Dunhuang read all the way back to his underground bunk bed. He washed quickly and got into bed, continuing through a criticism of Hong Kong films. This was familiar territory — he’d seen nearly all the movies mentioned in the essay, which made it even more satisfying to read. His roommates didn’t straggle in until after ten thirty that night. One of them was applying for a masters degree in Peking University’s department of foreign languages — he had a fat, foreigner-loving face. Another was applying for a masters degree in mathematics. He wore glasses and was obviously malnourished, with a pointy chin and a body like a giant question mark. The third was applying for a doctorate in the philosophy department. He had poor eyesight but still looked at you over the top of his glasses, as if they hung on his nose just for decoration.
They didn’t have much reaction to their new roommate, only remarking politely, “You’re new, eh?”
“I’m new,” replied Dunhuang. Then they lined up and took turns in the toilet. The philosophy student was first in and first out. When he looked up and saw Dunhuang was reading an academic work on film, he asked, “Are you in the film department or the Chinese department?”
Dunhuang thought, then said, “Film department.” He didn’t see much point to studying Chinese. What could you be afterwards but a secretary or something, scribbling down the bullshit your leader spouted, or spouting bullshit yourself? The arts are cooler. Listen to this: “Oh, I’m in the arts.”
“Masters program or a doctorate?”
“Doctorate,” said Dunhuang modestly. “Just for fun.” The philosophy student’s eyes, small and spiritless, immediately flashed at him over his Coke-bottle glasses — Dunhuang thought he looked foolish. “We’re in the trenches together then, I’m also applying for a doctorate, in philosophy.”
Dunhuang ducked his head, a little nervous. It was all a big lie, for one thing. For another, of all the academic subjects that hinged on the Chinese language, philosophy was the one he respected the most. That instinctual reverence began while he was studying at his miserable vocational school. He had no idea how you did philosophy. It was mystery upon mystery; you couldn’t see it or touch it, and as far as he was concerned it was no different from witchcraft or sorcery. The philosophy student let the conversation drop, and climbed clumsily into bed, his neck craning like a goose as he read the book in his hand. He looked effortful, as if he were trying to glimpse some mysteries clearly, to establish a death grip on them. Dunhuang thought again that there was something foolish about him.
The foreign language student and the mathematics student weren’t impressed with his department of fine arts doctorate, and from the time they entered the room to the time they began grinding their teeth and talking in their sleep, they said nothing more to him. Dunhuang worried briefly that they’d already seen through him; he only relaxed later, once he found out that the three of them hardly spoke at all. You could understand a little coolness between competitors, but they were applying to different schools — why the tension? He didn’t get it. Dunhuang continued reading, and he thought with chagrin that if he had put in a little more effort early on who could say but he might actually be a Peking University masters or doctoral student — at the very least he could make it into the film academy after watching so many movies.
Early the next morning, his roommates got up and went to the university to eat breakfast and study. Dunhuang was in no hurry — no one was buying DVDs at this time of the morning. He didn’t get up until eight, had soy milk and fried dough at a stand at the gate of Chengzeyuan, then decided to sell movies at People’s University and then Shuang’an mall. Zhongguancun street was already jammed, like it was every day from morning till night. Why would you build a road just to have it jam up with traffic? Dunhuang thought about that on the bus, as they moved fifty meters in ten minutes. He decided to get off and walk, thinking of a pretentious phrase: a person lived only to die. The university gate was deserted, and Dunhuang worried he’d be too obvious there, so he headed toward Shuang’an. When he reached the other side of the street a few women came up to him, every one of them — how bizarre — carrying an infant. They said:
“Need an ID? Or receipts?”
“Since when do you sell receipts?” asked Dunhuang.
“We’ve always sold them!” they replied. “What do you need?”
“I used to sell IDs,” he said, “but we never sold fake receipts.”
The women exchanged glances. One of the infants started crying, and the woman holding him snapped, “What are you bawling about? Little asshole!” The other women glared at Dunhuang and walked off. He was secretly pleased, thinking Shit, that was actually meant for me! He really hadn’t heard of selling fake receipts before — apparently more and more people were squeezing reimbursements for expenses out of the government these days.
He’d only gone a few steps before another child-laden woman approached him. She was dark and thin, probably from the countryside. The child, sucking its fingers, was strapped to her waist. She came close and said, “You want DVDs? I’ve got all kinds.”
Dunhuang looked at her empty hands. “Where are they?”
She gestured at the building by the side of the road, her finger pointing vaguely toward the back of it. At first, he thought he’d go with her for a look, but then decided there was no point. He pretended he’d just gotten a text message and said someone was looking for him, he had to go. Disappointed, the woman called after him that he should come back any time, she was always there.
He ran into a few more sellers of DVDs and fake IDs. By and large they were women, and the majority of them carried nursing children. The children were there as an insurance policy, of course: Go ahead and arrest me, are you going to take responsibility for feeding my kid, too? He also noticed that the police were active in the area, which was why the women did their business empty-handed. Dunhuang thought better of setting up shop — it was too tight. He went to Mudan Gardens, over by Beitaipingzhuang.
Business was lukewarm over the next couple days of roving sales. By the third day, he was in trouble — all his popular movies were sold and choices were limited. What he had left wasn’t enough to attract eyeballs. The DVDs had only been meant to last a day. By the afternoon of the third day he had nothing left he could sell, and he packed it in early. He was at a loss. He had no way of restocking, and he regretted not working with Xiaorong. She wouldn’t necessarily have been willing, of course — people often wanted to keep their sources secret. Just like when he and Bao Ding were drumming up business — they’d meet their clients at appointed places, and wouldn’t tell anyone where. Dunhuang thought a couple times about calling Xiaorong, but each time closed his phone after dialing a few digits. He knew he had no business being jealous, but it bothered him to think that it was the hand of some guy named Kuang Shan, not his own, parked on Xiaorong’s thigh. It made his teeth ache to think that she allowed someone else’s hand on her thigh. He kept sticking his phone back in his pocket. This was going nowhere. He was just burning himself up. Dunhuang went to a small restaurant and ate three steamed buns before the ache in his teeth faded. Then he strolled very slowly back to Chengzeyuan. On the way, he passed by a shop selling five- and ten-kuai pirated books, and he bought another collection of essays on cinema — he’d finished the first one. When he’d nearly reached the Haidian sports gymnasium, it was Xiaorong who called him.
“Have you sold them all?”
“Yeah,” he answered.