by Jennie Liu
“Yun? No. I just got back in town.” His eyes move over me as he swigs his beer.
“I’ve been looking for her. Since yesterday. She left the factory. I don’t know where she went.”
“Why don’t you call her?”
“No phone.”
He reaches into his back pocket for his phone. “She called me a few times yesterday, but I was traveling.” He dials now and holds the mobile to his ear. After a moment, he shrugs and puts his phone away. “She’s not answering.” He stays half turned on his stool and drinks his beer, watching the dancers.
I try to think what to say. I guess he still doesn’t know about the baby, but of course, I’m not going to say anything about that. “Do you know where she could be?” I finally ask.
His eyes move left and right like he’s thinking. He shifts to the edge of his stool, putting his mouth close to my ear. “She’s not in her room? Out with her friends?” I can smell the beer and cigarette on his breath.
I shake my head. “She got fired yesterday. No one’s seen her.”
His head rolls back, and he chuffs out a noise of irritation.
“Could she be at your place?” I ask.
“I told you I’ve been away. And she doesn’t have a key.” Yong catches the bartender’s eye and ticks his head toward the door. The bartender gets his bag and hands it over. Yong drains his beer, peering at me over the edge of the glass, before setting it on the bar. “What’s your name?”
“Luli.”
“You’re from the orphanage too?”
I nod. He nods back and gets up to leave.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“What about Yun?”
“I’ll tell her to call you if I see her.” He holds up a hand in a wave and leaves.
For a moment I just stand there, again not knowing what to do. But finally I push through the crowd to follow Yong. I see him outside, strapping his bag onto his motorbike, which is parked under a streetlight just outside the nightclub. He’s my best chance of finding Yun. In the back of my mind, I want to ask if I can go with him to check his place, but I hold back, not sure.
“You need a ride?”
I don’t answer. I want to find Yun, but I’m a bit afraid of him.
“Come on. I’ll drop you off at the factory.”
I look up and down the street. It’s a small side street, not many cars, but several small groups of clubbers are making their way to the restaurants and bars. I tried to pay careful attention when I walked here with Ming, and I think I know the way back to the factory, but I’m not certain.
Finally I say, “What about bride collecting?”
He stops working on his bag. Any hint of friendliness falls away. “What?”
I bite my lip and draw back. I can feel my heart beating in my chest, but I can’t just leave it. “Yun told me you’re a bride collector.”
He narrows his eyes at me, his mouth a short line. “Yes.”
“Some people say you”—I swallow, not wanting to say kidnap—“take girls to men in the countryside who pay for them.”
“Husbands.” He hooks the last strap onto his bag, then throws his leg over the bike. His casualness is back, as if he has nothing to hide.
“What about the girls?” I press on, even though I really just want to drop it. But I want to make sure, for Yun’s sake. “Do they want to go?”
Yong sneers. “I don’t make the deals. There are lots of girls from poor families. Maybe their family gets some money from the husband, or they want to unburden their family of having to feed them. It’s no fun living in a starving household. Look at you and Yun—given to the orphanage. Plenty of girls need homes. Men need wives. And if they can afford to pay something, then you know they can afford to feed a family.” He hops up and pushes his motorbike off its stand. “Want the ride?”
I step back, shaking my head.
Chapter 8
Yun
I sleep in the Taiyuan Railway Station, dozing sideways on a hard metal seat, jerking awake every few minutes when my head falls too far back. It’s not much warmer here than outside—I wish for my own fluffy comforter—but at least I’m out of the wind. The huge waiting hall, as large as a factory building, echoes with the noise of people coughing, a baby crying, the occasional screech and clack of a train. This late at night the station isn’t very busy. Only a few people have bags or luggage at their feet as if they’re waiting to go somewhere. Most of the others are sleeping, not bothered by the fluorescent light. They probably have nowhere else to go, like me.
I’m so tired. When I can’t stand it anymore, I tuck my bag into my coat and squeeze myself under the armrest that divides the seats so I can stretch out.
Next thing I know, I’m being woken by a bright flashing light. The morning sun slants directly into my face through the three-story windows.
A man with a shaven head leans over me. He bows, rocking forward and back with his hands together, muttering.
“What are you doing?!” I scream.
The man blinks, the quiet expression on his face not changing. He backs up as I scoot out from the seats and stand, pulling my coat tightly around me. He keeps up his short little bows and mumbling: “. . . those frightened cease to be afraid, and may those bound be free. May those powerless find power . . .”
I notice now that he’s wearing a brown-yellow padded gown. A monk of some kind.
His words are lost to my ears as he moves on toward an old man slumped over in the next row, a spilled drink pooling under his feet.
A few people turn to us, but their attention follows the monk or drifts off to other things. The station is getting crowded now, people streaming in through the row of glass doors. I get up and smooth my coat the best I can before I go to the toilets. Once I’ve used the squat, washed my face at the sink, and rinsed out my mouth, I go back to the waiting hall and find a new seat.
I feel awful. A sick headache behind my eyes, the bad feeling from my stomach coming back up my throat. I remember again about the baby and press my hands against my middle.
I sit at the railway station for hours, watching the flow of people cross the waiting room. Queasy and still exhausted, my mind is mostly empty. I don’t even have enough feeling to worry about the pregnancy or Yong. I know I should go over to the job market and start looking for another position, or get my things from where I left them with Gatekeeper Wu, but my legs won’t get started. One by one, I pluck out hairs from the nape of my neck until I realize I’ve made a coin-sized bald spot. I snatch my hands away and jam them under my crossed arms. My fists are so tight I can feel my nails digging into my palms, but my hands still itch with the urge to yank at strands or at least run my finger on the smooth patch of skin.
I jump out of my seat and start pacing around the waiting hall, fingering my mobile in my pocket, pulling it out and jabbing at the numbers. It lost its charge yesterday, but I can’t stop checking it.
I hadn’t realized how dependent I’ve become on this phone. Even though I don’t really want to talk to anyone except Yong, I would like to see who’s tried to call me. I know a lot of people, and people call me because they know I’m usually ready to go out for snacks or to the dance clubs. Zhenzhen and Hong I see the most, but Luli is my closest friend, since she knows how it was at the orphanage.
Until Luli arrived, I felt all alone there. When she came, I had someone to talk to.
Even the last time she was shown, just before she turned fourteen and would no longer be eligible for adoption, she kept hoping. That morning, she asked me to check her for lice and comb her hair until it was slick and shiny. She put on a clean shirt she had washed herself the previous night. Then she went and sat quietly in the dayroom, waiting until she was called downstairs. In her lap, one hand rested on the other, the fingers on top fluttering every now and then to pat the hand beneath.
I thought about reminding her that people just wanted babies, or occasionally little ones. One
of the caretakers had mentioned that at some of the bigger orphanages, some people—especially foreigners—were adopting older children and even handicapped children. But I’d stopped holding out hope that those foreigners would turn up in our little institute in Gujiao. I was fifteen, my documentation had never come through, and the time had come and gone for me to be shown.
Still, I didn’t say anything. Later, when Luli came back to our dayroom, her face red and streaky-wet, I patted her on the shoulder and whispered that in another year or two we would leave here. She was shock-faced then, surprised or scared, perhaps a little of both.
I’m not mad at her anymore for what she said about Yong. But she can’t help me.
***
About midafternoon at the railway station, I begin to feel better. I go outside and breathe in the smoggy-white cold, which feels as good as water splashing on my face. Across the expanse of concrete, I spot a food seller with an oil-drum stove. I buy some roasted sweet potatoes, and while I’m eating them, I decide to go back to Yong’s place. He’s been gone four days now, and I have the feeling that he’ll be coming back soon. Besides, what else do I have to do?
When I reach his lane, I peer down it, making sure that that detective isn’t there. I only see a woman‘s backside, shopping bags hanging from each hand. Yong’s motorbike isn’t where he usually parks it. Still, I go over and knock on his door several times. No answer. I move to the window and peep through a little gap between the pieces of cloth tacked up for curtains. I can’t see much.
I start looking for something to get the window open. I scan the hard pack of the lane where he usually parks his motorbike, thinking maybe he left a screwdriver or some other tool. When I don’t find anything, I dig into my bag and find my nail clipper. With a little scraping, I wedge its file blade between the side-by-side panes that open out like doors and pry them apart enough to get my fingers in. I yank back one side, then the other. Now I need something to stand on so that I can actually climb in. I have to go over to the next lane before I find an old crate that’ll do the job.
I scramble through the window and jump down into the flat. Empty Yanjing beer bottles and Coke cans are scattered everywhere. The place smells stale and damp. Old cigarette butts overflow from ashtrays and are squashed out on the floor. Dirty laundry is piled on a stool in the corner. I heave and close my mouth tightly, trying not to take any deep breaths.
At the sink, I strip off my clothes and wash myself the best I can. I find a clean undershirt of Yong’s and fall into his bed. It seems all I want to do anymore is sleep . . .
I bolt upright in bed as the door flings open and the light, a single fluorescent fixture screwed to the wall, snaps on.
“Fuck, Yun! It’s you! I saw the window open! You broke into my house!” Yong slams the door behind him, drops his bag, goes to the window, and begins to crank it closed. It’s dark out, though I can’t say how late. The room is freezing. I pull the blankets around me.
“You’re back,” I say.
He goes to the table, picking up bottles, shaking them. When he finds one half full of beer, he takes a swig, then pulls a face. He locates one with Coke and drains it, before he sits at the table and lights a cigarette, gazing at me through the smoke. “So you got fired.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw your friend. That one from the orphanage. What was her name? Luli?”
“Where?” I stiffen. “What did she say?”
“She’s looking for you. Worried about you.”
I slump back into the bed.
“Why did you get fired?” Yong asks. “Have you found another place yet? It should be easy, right?”
I nod and shrug at the same time. It should be easy for a young person like me to get hired on, even though Foreman Chen’s words still ring in my ears. But I don’t want to think about all that. Already my mind is turning to what to say about the pregnancy.
Yong finishes his cigarette and looks for a place to put it out. The ashtray’s full, so he drops it into a bottle. “Well, you can find something else. One factory job is like another.” He gets up, grabs a plastic bag from a shelf, and starts chucking bottles and cans into it. “How long have you been here? You could have cleaned some of this up.”
“Yong, I need 450 yuan for an abortion.”
The bottle in his hand drops into the bag, clanking against a can. He spins around, his head cocked like he isn’t sure he heard me right.
“Fuck! What did you say?” His smooth face makes an ugly scowl around his mouth and eyes.
I flinch. Of course he’s angry. My hands itch to pull on my hair, but I keep them on the blanket and steel myself, ready for an outburst, for insults. “I’m pregnant. The abortion costs 450 yuan.”
He drops the trash with a clatter, bottles and cans rolling out, and puts his hands up to his head, grabbing his hair in his fists. “Shit!”
I clutch the quilt up around me. “Probably more than that with all the other tests.”
He plops back onto the stool, slowly shaking his head. “How could this happen? Didn’t we use the condoms? Didn’t I tell you to get the birth control?”
I keep quiet, hugging my knees on the bed. My hand snakes up to my hair, pinching a lock but not plucking. We haven’t always used the condoms. He would make a big show of using them, but if we didn’t have any, he didn’t mention them.
He stares at me. I drop my gaze to the old blue quilt, studying the stains and burn holes from cigarettes as I try to block all feelings. For a long time, neither of us says anything.
At last I speak. “What about the money?”
He sighs heavily and hangs his head.
“I have to get this over with,” I insist. “I have to get another position.”
“I just got paid, but I have to pay the rent.” He kicks a can on the floor, and it skitters across the room. “How much money do you have saved?”
I think about my 532 yuan. “A hundred,” I lie. “But even if I get a position tomorrow, it could be two months before I get my first pay.”
He snatches up the trash bag and starts picking stuff up again. “I have to think about all this. You can stay here for now.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, but there’s no friendliness there either.
I’m relieved that I at least have a place to stay. I climb out of bed and realize I still have nothing clean to put on. I go over to the sink where I took off my clothes and pull on my dirty pants and coat, covering the undershirt I borrowed from Yong. I help him straighten the room before I mention that I need to get my things. He nods, not looking at me, not offering to drive me over.
I’m halfway out the door before I remember the detective. I poke my head out and peer down the dark lane. No one there. I pull back inside and shut the door. I decide I have to tell him. If he gets caught up in something, he won’t be able to help me. “Yong, someone was looking for you yesterday.”
Yong’s head jerks around. “Who?”
“He said he was a detective. He said he’d been trying to find you because of . . .” I bite my lips.
His eyes start the dark flashing. “What?!”
I mumble, “He was looking for some girl.”
He waits for me to say more.
“I told him he had the wrong person because you’re with me.”
He pitches his head back, relieved. “Good. You said the right thing. The bartender at the club said he was looking for me there too.”
“He didn’t want me to tell you he was here. And, Yong, he thinks you’re a kidnapper. He said you make women think you’re their boyfriend—”
“I hope you didn’t listen to any of that! Did you tell them that I’m a driver for someone else? If he’s looking for someone, he should be looking for my boss. He’s the one who runs the business.”
Business? Bride delivery . . . or trafficking? I shut it out of my mind. “I didn’t say anything. Just that he was wrong. That you’re with me.”
A tight smile comes to his face. “You
really said the right thing. He pats the pocket of his jacket until he finds his keys. “You’re with me.” He holds up the keys, clacks them in his hand. “I’ll go with you to get your things.
Chapter 9
Luli
The box of salted, dried plums bounces in my lap as the bus grinds through the city, lurching with the Sunday morning traffic. I finger the gold lettering on the clear plastic box before I go back to staring out the window. Six-lane avenues, stores and apartment buildings that span entire blocks, parks with bare trees, the leaves long fallen away. We pass through the city center, and when the streets get narrower and the buildings smaller and shabbier, I know we’re getting close to Gujiao Children’s Social Welfare Institute 17.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen or heard from Yun. The only clue I have is that she picked up her things late in the night after Ming and I went to the Cradle Club to look for her. Gatekeeper Wu said that she had come for them when the other guard was on duty. He had no information as to where she was going or how she carried her things away or if she was with anyone. He could only say that he had found it in his generous heart to give her one more night before he chucked it all to the rag pickers. And that she was lucky she got everything when she did.
A few days after she disappeared, I bought a cell phone and got Yun’s number from Ming. I’ve tried calling her, but the phone just rings and rings and eventually goes to voicemail. She hasn’t answered my texts either. Her other friends have gotten the same treatment. They tell me that if something was really wrong—if she’d been hurt—her phone would be dead by now. The fact that the calls still go through means she’s just ignoring us.
I still feel as if I’m waiting for her. That she’s somewhere nearby and will get in touch with me soon. At the end of my shifts, as I walk by the other factory buildings, I always stop to scan the faces of the girls flooding out.
Ming says it’s unlikely she’s still at our factory working in another division. He said he was sorry for leaving me at the club, and I’m glad we’ve made up. But he still doesn’t want to dwell on Yun. He says not to worry about her, that finding a job will probably be easy for her despite what his dad said about her being an orphan. He’s sure she moved on to another factory, embarrassed that she was fired.
