by Hao Jingfang
“What is it?”
“I don’t think I should have been picked five years ago. I think I took someone else’s place. Do you know what happened?”
She waited for his reaction. Although he said nothing, she could tell he was trying to decide how to respond. The mood between them felt odd.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“No one. I just had a feeling.”
“You can’t trust random feelings.”
“It’s not random. We had a discussion.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“The Mercury Group. On the way back, on Maearth, we talked about the exam. I figured out that everyone must have scored much higher than I did. They had solutions to problems that I had left blank. And all of them had been interviewed but not me. I remember how it happened. There was no notice that I was even being considered until all of a sudden I was told to get ready. It was so abrupt that I was shocked. I must have been switched in at the last minute. Do you know why?”
Rudy shrugged. She stared at him, but couldn’t read his expression.
“Maybe … someone backed out at the last minute.”
“Is that what happened?”
“It’s possible, I guess.”
In that moment, Luoying suddenly felt a vast gulf separating her and her brother. She had the feeling that he knew the truth but didn’t want to tell her. His apathy in the face of her suspicions was not at all normal. The deliberate attempt to downplay her doubts, to not seek clarification, showed that he was trying to hide something from her.
They had always shared everything, she and Rudy. As children, they had been allies against the adults, and he had taken her to places they shouldn’t have gone, to see things they shouldn’t have seen. He had never, until this moment, allied himself with the adults against her.
She felt utterly alone. She had thought she could at least count on the help of her brother if she couldn’t ask her grandfather, but she had lost Rudy, too. What else does he know? What else isn’t he telling me?
“Why was I chosen, then?” she persisted. “You knew about the switch, didn’t you?”
Rudy said nothing.
She screwed up her courage. “It was Grandfather, am I right?”
Rudy still said nothing.
They had never spoken to each other like this. After five years of not seeing him, this was not how she imagined their first conversation at home would go. They each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak. The air was tense, like a taut bowstring.
Luoying sighed, thinking of giving up and changing the topic. But in a composed tone, Rudy asked, “Why do you care so much?”
She looked at him, forcing her own voice to betray no emotion. “Even a soldier discharged from the army deserves to know why the war was fought, don’t you think?”
“What’s the use if the war is over?”
“Of course it’s of use!”
She had drifted through so many places already and lost her faith. Didn’t she deserve to know why she had been sent on her journey?
Rudy looked thoughtful. “You were too young back then … and too emotional.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You were always so sad after Mom and Dad died.”
“Mom and Dad?” She held her breath.
“Yes. You took their deaths hard. So … Grandfather thought perhaps a change of scenery would lead to an improvement in mood.”
After a silence, Luoying asked, “Is that the real reason?”
“I don’t know. I’m just offering a possibility.”
“But … they died five years before the selection process.”
“Sure, but you were sad for all those years.”
She tried to remember her younger self. Five years ago she had been thirteen. She couldn’t even recall what she had thought or been obsessed with back then. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. Her brother’s suggestion wasn’t unreasonable, and she decided she would accept the explanation provisionally.
They fell into an awkward silence again. Luoying gazed at her brother, at his broad shoulders, tall figure, and steady eyebrows, which no longer moved animatedly as she had remembered. He was twenty-two, an adult now, a group leader at an atelier. He would no longer run around with her, no longer tell her endless stories he made up about spaceships and rockets and war against aliens. He understood the value of being silent; he now spoke to her as one of the adults.
Rudy smiled. “Isn’t there something else you wanted to ask? This is your chance.”
After a moment she understood. There was indeed something she had forgotten to mention. When they were little, he had always waited for her to say something specific after he had shown her something wonderful.
“The bench—how did you do it?”
Rudy snapped his fingers. “Simple! The bench itself is made from standard molded glass, but the surface has been plated with a nickel film with strong magnetic properties. As soon as there’s a sufficiently powerful magnetic field in the yard, the bench will float into the air.” He pointed outside the window to show her the circle of white pipes running around the yard—a simple electromagnetic coil.
“Oh, that’s fantastic,” Luoying said admiringly.
That was the line he had been waiting for. When they were little, these were the words that accompanied so many incredible new toys and inventions.
Rudy laughed and told her to get plenty of rest before leaving to go downstairs. She gazed at his back, knowing that he had deliberately tried to invoke their childhood, to ignore the break in time, to pretend that everything was the same. But nothing was ever the same, even if people always tried so hard to deny it.
Her brother gone, Luoying stood by the window and looked out again.
Under the bright sun, everything was outlined in golden light and long, deep shadows. Other than the white coil, everything looked the way she remembered: the flowers, the patio furniture, the tube train station. The flowers wilted and bloomed year after year, wiping away the invisible past. She saw her younger self running alone through the garden: pink shoes, a pair of pigtails, looking up and laughing a pure, carefree laugh—she gazed up at the window and saw right through Luoying, saw right through the gloom behind her.
The garden was at peace, and the passage of time could be discerned only in a few details. She saw that the conveyor belt behind the mailbox was empty, as clean as a newborn’s skin. Once, Rudy and she had secretly installed a round plate there, a sensor that allowed them to tell whether packages in the mailbox contained some interesting toy. The plate was gone now, and the curved, cylindrical surface behind the mailbox was smooth and empty, like her departure, like time’s arrow.
* * *
In the afternoon, after waking from her nap, she found Grandfather in her room.
He was standing by the wall and looking out the window, holding something in his hand. He didn’t hear her waking up. She gazed at his back. The sun was about to set and lit up half the room. Grandfather stood in the dark half, and his stiff, straight figure loomed like a stone tablet. This was a familiar sight to Luoying. She had thought of Grandfather many times on Earth, and each time she pictured him, she had imagined him in just such an ambivalent pose: standing next to the window, gazing into the distance, half of his body in shadows.
She sat up, hoping to ask him why he had sent her to Earth.
He turned at the noise, smiling. He was already dressed in a tuxedo for tonight, his silver hair combed neatly. The coat draped over his shoulders gave him the air of a soldier, not just of a man in his seventies.
“Slept well?” Hans sat down at the edge of her bed, his dark gray eyes staring gently into hers.
She nodded.
“You must be tired from such a long trip.”
“Not too tired.”
“Maearth is an old ship. Probably not very comfortable.”
“I slept better there than on Earth.”
>
He laughed. “And how are Garcia and Ellie?”
“They are well. They send their greetings. Oh, the captain asked me to bring you a message.”
“What is it?”
“ ‘Sometimes the fight over the treasure is more important than the treasure itself.’ ”
Grandfather looked thoughtful at this. After a while he nodded.
“What does it mean?” asked Luoying.
“Just an old saying.”
“Our relationship with Earth … it’s very tense right now, isn’t it?”
He waited a beat, then smiled. “Hasn’t it always been?”
Luoying waited for him to clarify, but he didn’t, and she didn’t ask again.
She wanted to ask the question that had been plaguing her, but the process of picking and assembling the right words was interrupted when she saw the object in Grandfather’s hand. It was a photo of her parents. Her mother’s hair was loosely tied back, and she held a sculpting knife in her gloved hands, streaks of clay and a relaxed smile on her face. Standing behind her, her father wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin against the curve of her neck. They both looked so happy.
Hans saw she was looking and handed her the photo. “You came back just in time. Tomorrow is the anniversary of their deaths. Why don’t we pray for them at dinner tomorrow night?”
Luoying nodded, her heart heavy.
“You’re growing to look more like your mother.” Grandfather’s voice, deep and low, seemed to leave behind a silence that did not want to be broken.
Luoying felt a tangled web of emotions. The photograph in her hand felt warm, maybe from Grandfather’s hand or maybe because her parents were smiling so warmly. She had rarely seen her grandfather like this, a complicated anguish in his eyes. The four people in the room, two in the photograph, two outside, seemed to be holding a silent conversation. Her parents had been dead for ten years, and Luoying couldn’t remember the last time they had been together like this. The last rays of the sun winked out, and a gentle warmth, unique to death, connected her to her grandfather.
An urgent ringing.
The red light on the wall came on, indicating an emergency call. As though shaking off a dream, Hans got up and strode to the wall to press the button to connect. The wall flickered and then the face of Grandfather’s good friend Juan—Luoying had always called him Uncle Juan—appeared on the screen, his expression severe and cold.
Uncle Juan didn’t even bother to start with a greeting. “Can you talk? In person.”
“Before the reception?”
“Yes.”
Hans nodded, his face calm. He turned off the screen, exited Luoying’s room, picked up his scarf, and went downstairs.
Luoying remained sitting on the bed. The whole episode with her grandfather had taken no more than a minute or two, and the dream that had reunited her family was gone.
The door to her room gently swung shut by itself, the hallway beyond empty.
She knew that she couldn’t ask Grandfather the question directly; she had to find out the truth from others, a comparatively easier task. Grandfather was the flying warrior, perpetually in motion. He would always have secrets, and she didn’t know how to ask about them.
Staring at the photograph in her hand, she tried again and again to remember her self from five years ago and how she had felt after her parents had died.
* * *
The official reception for the Martian and Terran delegations, as well as the Mercury Group, was held in the Glory Memorial Hall, the site of Mars’s most important ceremonial functions. The hall was a long rectangle with sixteen columns in two rows. Between the columns were miniature models and informative displays of important events in Martian history. The murals on the ceiling and the walls were projections that could be changed for each occasion.
For tonight, the hall was brightly lit, decorated in a refined manner that did not tip over into luxury. Projected lilies covered the walls, the overall effect resembling green-and-white wallpaper. Four VIP tables were set up on the raised stage at the center, and sixteen more tables were arranged around it. White tablecloths covered them all. Since cotton fabric was rare on Mars, this was a sign of high respect for the guests. Pots of African violets served as centerpieces, and poinsettias sat atop pedestals at the sides. Glass strands dangled from the ceiling, glowing in different colors.
A buffet on a slow-moving conveyor belt was set up on one side of the hall. There were no waiters at all. One corner was set up to resemble a stall that might be found at a country market on ancient Earth, with piles of vegetables and fruits. This was meant to show off the triumph of Martian agriculture.
The Terran delegates were irked by the lack of waitstaff, which to them made the banquet a shabby affair. They were used to well-dressed waiters at the ready, filling glasses with red wine as soon as they were empty and bringing out new silverware between courses, as though only through such pampering could the attendees demonstrate their elegance.
The semicircular conveyor belt, on the other hand, progressed at its own pace, neither too fast nor too slow, content to let the honored guests take care of themselves. Dishes emerged from the wall, carried on the conveyor belt until the guests had picked what they liked, and retreated back into the wall again. Wine flowed from spigots whenever guests held their glasses under them. To the Terrans, the whole setup reminded them of some third-rate country buffet, and they conversed loudly among themselves, describing how their own countries would have hosted such an important state dinner in style.
There were no waiters on Mars. Indeed, the entire service economy seemed absent. At most, one might find volunteers and interns, but no service workers, no servants, no tertiary industry at all. Everyone on Mars worked as a researcher affiliated with an atelier, and no one waited tables or took orders. The reception had been prepared and would be cleaned up by the hosts themselves.
The Martians didn’t bother to explain this background to their guests, and so the cultural misunderstandings grew. A few European delegates discussed the origin of modern etiquette among the aristocrats of Old Europe; a few East Asian delegates offered praise to the cultivated manners and rites of their ancient civilizations; a few Middle Eastern delegates then proudly explained that in their countries men were strong enough that women had the leisure to host grand parties in luxurious mansions and take care of the guests themselves. The Martians listened, smiling politely. Then they got up in threes or twos to go to the conveyor belt for another serving. The Terrans, confused by the lack of embarrassment on the part of their hosts, grew even more angry, whispering among themselves and shaking their heads.
The Mercury Group took up two of the tables. Luoying sat next to Chania and Anka. They were enjoying the tastes of home and chatting happily, glad to be free from the adults for the moment. The conveyor belt brought out desserts, and Chania brought back a large plate to share with the whole table.
“This is so delicious,” said Chania. “I’ve been missing real cooking.”
None of them liked the food on Earth. To them, it was all just sustenance.
“I wonder who made these,” said Anka.
Luoying took a bite. “I bet it’s from Old Maury’s. I love her pudding. When I was little, whenever I felt down, I begged Mom to go get some. It always cheered me up.”
The joyful mood of the students contrasted sharply with the tension in the air. Luoying could feel it. Their table was next to the VIPs’, and she was seated with her back right up against the stage. Snatches of conversation from up there drifted into her ears from time to time. Although she couldn’t hear what everyone said, Uncle Juan’s booming voice always stood out.
“Don’t you dare tell me ‘That didn’t happen,’ ” he was saying. “Let me tell you, I watched as my grandmother died in one of your bombing raids. One second she was trembling in her bedroom, praying for God to save her, and the next second she was a bloody smear across the rubble. No, I’m sure they didn’t
teach you that in your schools. But that’s what you bastards did. You murdered civilians. You rank right up there with the worst butchers in human history.”
The person he was lecturing said something in a low voice, which only enraged Juan further.
“Oh, fuck off! I don’t give a damn about your ‘lack of involvement.’ I’ll toss your ass right out the airlock if you try to spew that legalistic garbage again.” He paused and then added, “You’ve never been outside on Mars, have you? Ha! If you’re out there with no protection, pop! and you’ll be dead like a swollen octopus.”
Luoying couldn’t help but laugh at the image. Discreetly, she looked behind her. The man sitting next to Uncle Juan was Mr. Beverley, the head of the Terran delegation. His expression was awkward as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
Luoying was fascinated. On Earth, Beverley was a big star, well-known for his elegance and fine manners. Someone else might respond to Juan’s rage in kind, but Beverley couldn’t. He was dressed in a retro-style fashionable suit with velvet and gold trim and two rows of brass buttons, giving him the air of an aristocrat from centuries ago. He had to look serious and thoughtful, the image of the consummate diplomat. Rage, as a mode of expression, was forbidden to him.
For a long time no one spoke again, and Luoying turned her attention back to the food. The next time she heard Uncle Juan’s voice, he sounded even more excited than before. He stood up abruptly, his chair legs scraping against the stage. Everyone in the hall stopped and stared at him.
“No!” he shouted. “Absolutely not!”
The diners became agitated and whispers filled the hall, as no one was certain what had happened. Someone at Juan’s table tried to pull him back down, but he refused. A Terran delegate at the table tried to get up but was held down by a friend. Finally, Hans Sloan stood up. He put a hand gently on Juan’s shoulder, and the man finally sat down.
“Honored guests from Earth,” Hans said, and raised his glass. “Let me say a few words. First of all, we offer our sincere welcome to you. The past is the past, but in front of us lies a long road to the future. The goals of this world’s fair are our mutual benefit, mutual profit, and the pursuit of our separate goals. Exchange between our peoples will always be necessary.
