He was audacious, presumptuous, and willful, and yet he sounded so urgent and insistent, as if he could summon up such things at will. Just listen, and imagine him pointing with his left hand.
Then he points with his right hand.
Who else but Chu Tian could use “you” in such a heroic and carefree manner, and make it sound so spontaneous and ingenious? And what did he mean by “You’re sonorous / You’re aflame”? That was magical, inconceivable. The lack of punctuation only increased the singular quality of his poetry.
She had heard that an elderly teacher had once questioned Chu Tian about the lack of punctuation. He had replied with only a sneer, turning the teacher’s face so red that it looked as if it were about to explode. When the teacher proctored an exam, he kept a close check on Chu Tian, hoping to catch him cheating so he could give him a warning.
But Chu Tian did not need to cheat, for he excelled in every subject except physical education. He was part of the landscape—someone of interest at the school, coming and going alone, ignoring everyone. No one meant a thing to him, not even Director Qian. With her own eyes Yuyang had seen Chu Tian walk past the director, head held high as he refused to acknowledge the man’s existence. And yet, the famous and intractable Chu Tian actually spoke to her; in fact, it was he who started the conversation. She was sure that no one would believe her.
It was noon. Yuyang stood at the magazine rack, holding Poetry Journal in one hand and picking her nose with the other. Chu Tian was standing beside her, staring at her intensely. She looked up, saw him, and dropped the magazine. He bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her.
With a cordial smile that had no hint of superiority, he asked, “Like poetry?”
Finding it impossible that he would actually be talking to her, Yuyang turned to see if someone was standing behind her before she responded with a nod. He smiled again. His teeth were uneven and discolored, but at that moment they seemed bright and sparkling. She wished that she could smooth her hair, but it was too late, for he’d already floated away. Yuyang stared until Chu Tian disappeared behind a door before realizing that her face was burning hot and her unreasonable heart was pounding wildly. This is none of your business, heart.
She stood there, savoring what had just happened, asking herself over and over, “Like poetry?” Her mind refused to concentrate, and when she returned to her seat, she picked up her pen and began to doodle.
She looked down at her notebook, shocked to see that she was writing poetry. This was poetry. What else could it be? Sadly, she realized that she had been a poet all along. What a pleasant surprise—she was already a poet.
The new poet sat in her seat with a blank look on her face, but she could feel her heart flutter as she recited silently.
She was amazed when she finally recovered her senses. She remained motionless while the wind blew wildly against the branches outside.
Once you meet someone, it seems that you’re always running into each other. That is exactly what happened to Yuyang and Chu Tian. They ran into each other over and over—in the cafeteria, on the athletic field, and, of course, in the library. But mostly it happened when they were headed somewhere. It was invariably accidental, but to Yuyang, the repeated encounters began to take on a special meaning and became a secret that she buried deep in her heart. Girls of her age are good at keeping secrets; they keep a tidy record of neatly categorized secrets in a corner known only to themselves, with a tender wish for two hearts to beat in unison. Like I’m a part of you and you’re a part of me.
To Yuyang, the campus seemed to have shrunk now that it felt as if there were only the two of them. Life on campus had a miniature quality that enabled her to manipulate it. For instance, she might be walking along on campus when she’d have a sudden premonition that she would run into Chu Tian. So she’d turn or look around and there he’d be.
There was even an extreme example. One day when she was in her dorm room, she was suddenly restless and felt an urge to go out for a walk. She went downstairs and had barely taken a dozen steps before—there he was again. He wasn’t looking at her, but she was overwhelmed, yes, overwhelmed, nearly to the point of tears. She was positive that heaven was on her side, secretly helping her; otherwise, how could such coincidences take place? Chu Tian was intentionally keeping his eyes averted, which had to mean that he was thinking about her. She knew she wasn’t pretty, but he was a poet, and poets have tastes that cannot be judged by ordinary standards. His attitude toward her only confirmed the fact that he was different from everyone else.
Every encounter felt blissful to her and constituted a moment of sheer joy. The feeling could even be characterized as intoxication, though that is an uncommonly vile thing that always stands in opposition to you. Intoxication is invariably brief and disappears before you know it. Then comes the endless, bottomless waiting while you yearn for it to happen again, like an addict.
And so intoxication is a void, a boundless entanglement and a lingering that accompanies a sense of loss and heartache, as well as an unending anticipation and waiting. Intoxication is essentially a different kind of suffering, a dull torture.
But for Yuyang defeat was nullified by patience, and even more by a sense of excitement.
She asked herself what was happening to her. It took a long time, but she finally realized that what she felt for Chu Tian was, simply stated, tender affection. She was attracted by his chicken-feather hair, his solitude, his knitted brows, and the way he walked. Everything about him demanded that someone bestow tender affection on him and cherish him. Yuyang knew she was the only one who could do that. If a rock were to fall from the sky and threaten Chu Tian, she would shield him with her body. She wished she could find a way to let him know that she was prepared to stop at nothing to make sure nothing happened to him.