Wang nearly laughs. ‘We’re not friends. And here’s some advice for chasing men in the future. Don’t write them letters. Don’t stalk them, and don’t break up their marriages. It’s the wrong way to go about things.’
Zeng says nothing in his defence. Blood seeps through the fingers clamped to his nose, and there’s hurt and confusion in his eyes.
‘Now get out of my sight,’ Wang says.
But it’s Wang who turns to walk away, pushing back through the crowds, bumping into a woman carrying a toddler in split pants and mumbling an apology. When he gets back to his taxi, the passenger-side door is wide open, and the passenger gone, leaving 20 RMB on the meter, unpaid. Wang gets back in the driver’s seat and lights a cigarette with shaking hands, his knuckles grazed and smeared with his own blood and Zeng Yan’s. He inhales long and deep, but the lungfuls of smoke don’t calm him. The confrontation has changed nothing, of that he is sure. Nothing short of death or a jail sentence will keep Zeng away.
27. The Fire
NIGHT. OUT IN the street, traffic murmurs. Halogen lamps glow through the curtains, and the bantering of drunks rises up from below. The July night is hot, and Wang can’t sleep. He smokes a cigarette on the mattress and watches the spirals of smoke rising up, then diffusing to the corners of the room.
Knock. Knock. Knock. . Someone has the wrong door, Wang thinks. No one ever visits Baldy Zhang. Wang ignores the knocking and wills the caller to go away. But the striking of the knuckles becomes louder, more demanding. Knock. Knock. Knock. . Knock. Knock. Knock. . Wang stubs out his cigarette and drags himself to the door.
‘Who is it?’ he calls, pulling down the latch.
The woman standing in the hall is in her forties, shabby as a poor migrant worker, with threads of grey in her hair, face as round and pale and impassive as the moon. Wang knows at once there’s something not right about her. Though the night is sweltering, over 30 degrees, she wears a padded Mao jacket and looks cold to the touch. Her piercing eyes settle on Wang, waiting for him to recognize her. When recognition comes, Wang is light-headed, and he holds the door frame to steady himself.
‘Ma?’ he says.
Shuxiang nods. Wang speechlessly pulls the door wider and she walks in. Under the 30-watt bulb she looks younger than Wang remembers, and he understands that while he has aged twenty years, Shuxiang has stayed the same. He is catching her up. Wang drags a chair over for her. Though old and creaky, the chair makes no sound as Shuxiang lowers her substanceless body on to the seat.
‘Can I have some water?’ she asks. ‘I have walked very far today, and I am thirsty.’
Wang’s throat constricts at the sound of his deceased mother’s voice, and his hands are shaking as he pours a cup of boiled water from the thermos by the mattress. He passes the cup to her, careful not to brush her hands, which look icy and repellent to the touch. He watches his mother take cautious sips, as though the water is not room temperature but scalding.
‘Are you a ghost, Ma?’ Wang asks.
Shuxiang pretends not to hear, and Wang remembers her habit of ‘not hearing’ questions she didn’t want to answer from his childhood. She gazes at the beer bottles, pellets of cockroach poison and the stuffed bin liners ‘packed’ by Yida before her eyes come to rest on her son. Wang shifts awkwardly in his T-shirt and boxers.
‘I don’t live here. I am staying here for a week or two while I work out some problems with my wife. .’
‘I know.’
How much does Shuxiang see of his life from beyond the grave? Wang wonders, with a creeping sense of shame. But Shuxiang knows the truth about what people are like. She has seen humans at their worst, and nothing much shocks her. Wang thinks of where they put her before she died.
‘I’m sorry about what happened to you, Ma,’ he says. ‘Father lied to me. He told me you were dead. I only found out the truth last week. .’
Wang thinks of Shuxiang, drugged and incarcerated in the hospital. He thinks of his twelve-year-old self, grieving on cold, damp dormitory sheets, and tears flow down his cheeks. Irritation stirs the blankness of Shuxiang’s face. Even when Wang was a child, she had no patience with tears.
‘Why get upset over that now?’ Shuxiang says. ‘Even had you known the truth, what could you have done? You were twelve. That’s in the past, anyway. That’s not why I came to see you. I am here because of a danger in the present.’
‘Danger?’
Wang notices for the first time the strange humming in the air, as though the atmosphere is agitated by Shuxiang’s presence, the molecules vibrating, tense and volatile.
‘That man,’ Shuxiang says, ‘is worse than you thought.’
‘Who?’ Wang asks. ‘Father?’
‘Not him. Your friend. You must go and check on Yida and Echo. They are in trouble.’
There’s a sickening thud in Wang’s chest. Zeng Yan. She must mean Zeng Yan.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go to them,’ Shuxiang urges. ‘Before it’s too late.’
Wang curses, pulls his trousers from a bin liner, staggers into them and zips up the fly. He grabs his keys and wallet and runs out of the door.
‘Hurry,’ Shuxiang calls after him as he runs on panicking legs down the hall. ‘Hurry, Xiao Jun. .’
The phone is ringing, shrill and electrifying as it jolts him awake. Wang sits up in the dark. ‘Ma?’ he says. The chair is empty, Shuxiang no longer there. Disappeared upon waking from the strange dream. Wang gropes for the ringing phone. It’s Yida, and she is hysterical. Wang can’t make sense of her breathless torrent of words. He hasn’t heard her so distraught since that harrowing night nine years ago, when they woke to blood-soaked sheets and the miscarriage of their first child.
‘Slow down, Yida. What did you say?’
She repeats herself. Wang can’t believe what he is hearing. If he didn’t know Yida better, he’d think it was a sick practical joke.
‘I am coming now,’ he tells her. He hangs up and heads out into the night.
Echo is in a private room at the hospital, on a white-sheeted bed. A high-flow oxygen mask is strapped over her nose and mouth and connected to a ventilation machine by a long corrugated plastic tube. Wang touches his hand to her clammy forehead, and her eyelids, pale and faintly blue-veined, remain shut. Her hair is spread across the pillow, and the pallor of her face, partially obscured by the transparent muzzle of the oxygen mask, is as though her blood drained in fright and has yet to return. The odour of fire clings to her. Smoke and the chemical fumes of burnt plastics: toxic and harmful to the lungs of little girls.
The last time he’d seen Echo in hospital was the day of her birth. Wang had watched the midwife pull her out and hold her up in her latex-gloved hands under the fluorescent strip light. Echo had wailed, and Wang had sympathized with her protest at being wrenched out of the womb. He understood the terror of her ears, hearing for the first time the stainless-steel clatter of the delivery room. He understood the terror of her lungs, breathing the chill, disinfectant-scented air. Echo had wailed and kicked her tiny feet and Wang had vowed then to protect his newborn daughter. A vow that, standing over Echo’s hospital bed eight years later, he knows he has not honoured.
Dr Shu waits quietly, allowing the father time with his child, before explaining, ‘The smoke inhalation is unlikely to cause any lasting damage. We will prescribe your daughter some antiinflammatory drugs, and the irritation in her lungs and respiratory tract should be gone in a week or two. Echo is a very lucky girl. Her mother was very brave and quick-thinking to get her out of there as fast as she did.’