February Flowers

by Fan Wu

  “You can tell he’s from the northeast at first sight. Loud voice, big temper, stubborn—all characteristics of northeasterners. If he decided to do something, nothing could make him change his mind,” Miao Yan said.

  “Miss Miao, didn’t we agree earlier that we wouldn’t argue in front of Ming? Someday I’ll come up with ways to describe you people from Yunnan.” Du Sheng caressed Miao Yan’s hair with one hand, smiling at me.

  Miao Yan turned away from him.

  Finally, a shiny aluminum bowl was placed on the table, on a small charcoal burner alive with blue flames. A stainless steel wall divided the bowl in half. One side held whitish soup, plain, for Miao Yan and me; only Du Sheng dared to dip food in the other side. A moment later the waiter put a dozen dishes of hotpot ingredients on our table: sliced lamb, shrimp, pork blood, sliced beef stomach, fresh bean curd, dry clear noodles, mushrooms, bean sprouts, baby taros, fresh eggs…the variety excited us. “Bravo!” exclaimed Du Sheng. We began to place the food into the bubbling bowl of soup. In less than a minute we used our spoons to scoop out the hot food. We ate busily for a while, fully content. Between mouthfuls, Miao Yan drawled, “Yummy! Yummy! Dirty or clean, done or rare, it ’s all good for my stomach.”

  After eating a little more lamb and bean curd, Du Sheng put down his chopsticks and said to me, “Yan told me you like reading.”

  “Ming is much more knowledgeable than you are,” Miao Yan interjected. “You’re a company man, thinking about how to climb the corporate ladder every day. You don’t have time for anything.”

  I smiled at their bantering and said to Du Sheng, “I do. When I was growing up, books were all my parents had. Also, I’m a student. I have time.”

  “Don’t be so modest. He always thinks highly of himself and is so arrogant. You need to help me punish him.” Miao Yan kicked my leg playfully under the table.

  Du Sheng didn’t look at Miao Yan. He said, “My undergraduate study was in philosophy. I used to read Dostoevsky, Kafka, and Sartre. Later, forced by the job market, I changed to business and management.”

  I was peeling a shrimp that I had just scooped out from the boiling soup. The shrimp was like burning charcoal in my fingers, and then in my mouth. After swallowing it and gulping water, I said, “I like those writers, too.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s pretending he has good taste in books. I’ve been with him for ages and he has never mentioned their names to me.”

  Du Sheng ignored Miao Yan. “Let’s talk about books some other time. My job has been keeping me busy. It ’s hard to find time to read. Shenzhen is a materialistic city and the people there only care about money. It’s good to be a student. When you study, you have time to read. When you don’t study, you wander around spending money.” He poured almost half the bottle of chili sauce into his bowl, spread green onion on top, and stirred the mix with his chopsticks.

  “No wonder my ears are burning—somebody is bad-mouthing me. Mister Du, what’s going on? You have a problem with me spending money? I’ve yet to depend on you for a living,” Miao Yan said, caressing Du Sheng’s cheek.

  Du Sheng didn’t smile.

  Miao Yan gazed at him for a moment and lowered her hand. She stood up, circled around the table, and stood beside me. She bent and put her hands on my shoulders. “Ming, you’re the only person in the world who treats me nicely. No -body else cares about me.” She took a pack of Camels from her handbag, moved the bowl from the burner onto the table, and leaned toward the charcoal to light the cigarette between her lips. The charcoal darkened where it touched the cigarette, forming a black circle, then glowed again, brighter than before. Miao Yan put the bowl back and exhaled a plume of smoke. The smoke and the steam from the bowl mixed and rose, like a hand waving.

  Du Sheng blew away the white cloud. He said to me, “Perhaps you should take Miao Yan to the library occasionally, so she won’t waste time hanging out with bad people. If she doesn’t change, she’ll be in trouble sooner or later.”

  I didn’t know what to say—it seemed wrong for someone to say such things about his girlfriend.

  Miao Yan seemed to be completely ignoring Du Sheng and me. She raised her right hand, cutting the smoke from her mouth slowly. She looked serious, as though she was creating art.

  The charcoal was still burning but a thin layer of white ash dimmed the brightness of the flame. The soup in the bowl was boiling, lifting the food with each bubble, but all three of us had had enough.

  Du Sheng went back to Shenzhen early the next morning. That night Miao Yan called from the duty room, asking me to meet her on the rooftop after curfew.

  When I got to the rooftop Miao Yan was already there, sitting in the corner she usually sat in, a half-smoked cigarette between her fingers. I sat down next to her. It had been a while since we had last met there. I noticed that her eyes were red and swollen. She and Du Sheng must have had a fight after the hotpot.

  “You once told me that your ma said something to you when she sent you off at the train station. You said her words made you think for a long time. What did she say exactly?” she asked.

  “Why does it interest you?”

  “Just curious. My ma never talks much with me. I ’d like to know what other mothers say to their daughters.” Miao Yan dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the cement, put her left foot on it, and twisted it a few times to crush it.

  I told her what my mother had said.

  She was silent for a while, then said, “I wish my ma would say something like that. She isn’t a mute but she doesn’t talk much. She never has a chance to talk anyway. My ba is boss at home. We’re all afraid of him. Whenever he beat me or my brothers, my ma would hide in the kitchen. She’d cry. That’s all she did. I don’t blame her. She has no education and doesn’t know any better. Your ma is an intellectual. That ’s nice. I guess she wanted you to become a strong-minded person. Really, you can’t please everybody. Some people are doomed not to be understood and liked, like all the geniuses.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think it’s easier for normal people like you and me to be understood by others?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I think it’s the opposite. We normal people don’t believe strongly in what we do in life. We’re fragile. We get scared and lost when others don’t agree with us.”

  “Are you scared and lost?”

  “All the time.” She laughed. “But it doesn’t matter. I ’m nobody.”

  “You’re somebody to me.”

  “You’re so sweet to me,” she said, her eyes fixed on the cement. “But what’s the point of getting yourself understood? What does that get you? Do you dare to open up and make yourself vulnerable to others?”

  I had no answers to her questions but she didn’t seem to expect any. She continued, “Perhaps whether you can be understood by others or not isn’t important at all.”

  I stared at her, silent.

  “You know what? Even if you wanted to be understood, who would want to listen to you and try to understand you anyway? Nowadays, who cares what you think and what you do. You’re on your own. If you must struggle, suffer, cry, or even die, that ’s your fate, your destiny.”

  I didn’t know how to interpret her words. I wanted to say something positive, something like “people are always trying to help each other” or “that’s why friendship matters,” but none of those replies sounded convincing. I muttered only, “I’m always here for you.”

  “Will you go to Yunnan with me?” She raised one eyebrow, her voice suddenly cheerful.

  “Of course. I can go there with you in the winter break. I’ve saved enough money for the trip.” I was glad that we had finally dropped the earlier subject and switched to something fun.

  “Will you live there with me?”

  “You’re not going back forever. You’ll find a job here. You’ll stay here with me,” I said jovially.

  She rested her head against the wall and her mind seemed to be somewhere else. “
Ming, do you want to be understood?”

  I sighed—she had reverted to the earlier topic. I said, “I don’t know. I don’t think about it. Maybe I’m too young to think about it. I ’m not worried. I ’m happy with who I am, especially now I have you as my best friend. I don’t need anybody else in my life.”

  She shook her head. “I think you need a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have time to date.”

  “You’re either with me or studying at the library. How can you find time to meet boys?”

  “I don’t want to meet boys. I can’t think of one I’d fall in love with. At least not right now. What’s good about them anyway? They’re only interested in shallow girls. I must look like a geek to them. I like being with you. We always have so much fun together.” I suddenly thought of the naked picture I had drawn of her in class. I blushed and bent to retie my shoelace.

  “Don’t like me too much. It’s dangerous. You’ve spent too much time with me. Your parents wouldn’t be happy if they knew that. You should meet other people, to talk about books and literature. And you should meet boys. Not all are immature and shallow. Believe me, you’re attractive and there must be lots of boys dying to get your attention. You won’t grow up until you begin to learn how to love. You can’t live in your books forever. Being with me doesn’t help you grow up. Lovers and friends are different. You need a lover. I’ll find you a boyfriend. It’s good for you. I want somebody to take good care of you when I’m away.”

  “You’re talking nonsense now. You’ll certainly find a job here.”

  “What do you think of Du Sheng?” she asked suddenly.

  “Du Sheng? He seems nice.”

  “I can tell he likes you. Remember, a long time ago you told me about your ideal boyfriend and I laughed at you. Actually, he’s pretty close to what you described.”

  “Don’t say that! He’s your boyfriend.” I covered my ears.

  “He was.”

  “Don’t joke about it. I ’m sure he’ll come to visit you soon. I can find myself a boyfriend if I want.”

  “I bet you can.” She smiled. She put her right hand on my waist and moved it up my spine to my neck. Her hand was soft and warm. She rested it on the back of my neck, caressing my neck in small circles, then withdrew it quickly.

  “Ming, I ’m starting to like you too much.” She laughed.

  I bent forward, head on my knees. I had been holding my breath when her hand was on my neck. The few seconds her hand was there seemed eternal.

  “By the way,” she said, “your hair is too long at the back. You need a haircut. Let me call my stylist and make an appointment for you. I’ll go with you sometime next week.”

  She was silent for a while, then clapped her hands. “Now,” she said, her eyes beaming, “tell me something about me. Tell me what kind of person I am.”

  “You’re pretty, sexy, funny—”

  “No, no, no.” She shook her head sharply. “Not that superficial stuff. Say something deep about me. Something that would explain why you like being with me and why you think I’m different from the rest of the people in your life.” She straightened up and gazed at me with intensity.

  “Easy!” I said, but as soon as I’d said the word I hesitated. I was searching frantically to catch fleeting words and phrases to describe her. I realized that I didn’t know much about her. We had had lunches and dinners together, we had skipped classes and wandered about together, we had joked and laughed together, but I had never spent time thinking about what kind of person she was.

  She was waiting for my answer and disappointment was beginning to show on her face.

  “You don’t really know me. You just think it’s fun to be with me. You need my friendship just as much as I need yours. No one knows me.” She looked away from me. “You don’t need me. You’ll have a better life without me. You only need your books, your violin, your rooftop. Your world is full of smiles and sunshine. During my twenty-four years, no one ever asked me why I’d become today’s Miao Yan, why I thought the way today’s Miao Yan thinks. But even if you knew me well, what difference would that make? You’re still you and I’m still myself.”

  My first impulse was to deny all her statements but nothing came out of my mouth.

  “He doesn’t need me, either.” Her voice was low. I knew “he” meant Du Sheng.

  She stood up and walked toward the other side of the rooftop. Before she reached the wall, I rose and followed her. I was afraid she would do something silly.

  She leaned on the wall and turned to look at me. I stopped. She put a cigarette between her lips, inhaled, and blew the smoke at me. I didn’t wave it away as I would have normally. The smoke was thick at first, then thinned as it dissipated in the darkness.

  The air was still, like before a storm. With a few long stripes of black cloud on its uneven blueness, the sky looked like a scarred face.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said.

  Finals were around the corner. These days, the library was packed. It now opened at six, instead of the normal six thirty, and didn’t close until midnight. In the mornings the waiting crowd would form by five thirty. Once the door was opened, I would have to fight my way through to sit in my window seat in Room One.

  Somehow this year’s winter was especially cold. For a few days the temperature dropped to one or two degrees Celsius, and exhalation was no longer transparent but a cloud of whitish mist. For the Cantonese, this kind of cold weather was very unusual—the familiar winter was typically about seeing more fallen leaves on the ground than in the autumn.

  Everywhere on the streets vendors sold eiderdown coats. One night I couldn’t stand the cold weather any longer and bought a jacket from one of them. Students pedaled their bikes rapidly, forming a stream rushing toward the libraries and classrooms. The sounds of their loud bells rose and fell. Only the rows of palm trees remained unchanged. They wore the same summer yellow outfit, sparse leaves on the head, against the cold air.

  Then it began to rain a lot, mostly just drizzle. No raindrops were visible but they were there: on tree leaves, sticking to walls, seeping into the earth. The whole world was a big wet sponge. Occasionally the ocean currents of the South China Sea brought showers and storms. Raindrops as big as beans would pour down. Sometimes, when it rained hard, wind would accompany the rain, to create a bigger mess. I liked the heavy rain. I would spend hours looking at the window glass being beaten by raindrops, blurry with each new splatter.

  I didn’t see Miao Yan for over a week after the night she told me she was pregnant. That night when she broke the news, I didn’t feel surprised or anxious; it was as though getting pregnant was as normal as getting a period. I asked her only what she wanted to do next.

  “Disco!” she said.

  “Disco?”

  “Let’s dance. Let ’s dance a hell of a lot. Why should I care if nobody else cares?” Her face was red and her eyes burning.

  We headed to the bus station, which was swarming with students going to the city for the nightlife. Miao Yan ran into the traffic and stopped a red Volkswagen taxi. We got in. “You idiot! Stop honking,” she shouted at the car behind us before closing the door. Then she said to the driver, “Beijing Road. Dynasty Ballroom.”

  On the way she clenched her hands over her chest, leaning forward, gazing out the window on her side. She frowned at every red light and cursed every traffic slowdown. A few times she burst out with a remark like, “Let’s have a good time. Tonight, let ’s have a good time.”

  The door of the Dynasty Ballroom was blood red. Two big red lanterns hung on each side, with the name of the ballroom written in extravagant calligraphy like a figure of a ghost. At the entrance I heard rip-roaring heavy-metal music coming from inside. Once we entered Miao Yan left me. Before I could stop her she ran through the lobby and the hallway as though called by a voice only she could hear. She was quickly with the dancing crowd. At first I could still see her among all the other people—she was waving her hands, inviti
ng me to join her—but then she was pushed away to the far side of the hall. The moment I blinked, she disappeared.

  Seeing hundreds of people squeezed together in a tiny space, twisting their bodies like snakes, I lost my desire for dancing. Miao Yan once asserted that my blood type must be B and said that explained my passive personality—preoccupied, pensive, difficult to get excited and all that. As for herself, she said her blood type must be O, and that people with this blood type were passionate and adventurous. When she told me that I laughed it off; now I felt that what she had said might be true.

  I found an empty table and sat. Visibility inside was obscured, partly because people were smoking, partly because the dance hall had a dry ice machine to create a mysterious ambience. On the table was a red candle, its soft yellowish flame quivering with the music: Michael Jackson’s Dirty Diana.

  “Excuse me, would you like to smoke?” Somebody was yelling in my ear. I turned my head and saw a girl with dyed blonde hair in a sky-blue miniskirt. She carried a square blue bag with “Marlboro” printed on the front. She wore heavy makeup: thick black eyeliner circled her eyes, silver powder covered her eyelids. Her severely plucked eyebrows tilted upward in the middle and flattened toward the ends. I knew from Miao Yan that this kind of Western eyebrow shape was in fashion. She smiled at me—a hurried but polite smile, her teeth slightly exposed between dark purple lips.

  She was sizing me up. Following her eyes, I looked at my brown sweater and black flat-heeled leather shoes, the toes of which were worn and scuffed. A little embarrassed with my unfashionable appearance, I pulled my feet out of view under the chair.

  “Where is Miao Yan?” she asked. Her smile had been replaced by an indifferent and casual expression. She glanced at the bar where two bartenders were busy serving drinks, sat down with her Marlboro bag on her lap, and crossed her legs slowly and elegantly.