by Cai Jun
Moon cakes had been placed on the small pedestal standing underneath the portraits of Shen Ming and Shen Yuanchao’s wife.
“May I light some incense?” The young man stood up with a solemn expression. “For my dad.”
With tears in his eyes, Shen Yuanchao found three sticks of incense and called to his daughter, “Min, help him light these.”
She looked at him dubiously, like he was a mental patient, but ultimately she obeyed him. Si Wang bowed three times to the portraits, lit the incense, and turned around like he was a ghost, looking at Shen Yuanchao with such bitterness.
“Kid, what’s wrong?”
“Mr. Shen, if you ever run into new clues, please let me know.” Si Wang jotted down his cell phone number. “I’ll help you find the killer.”
“You’re too young to be thinking about such things. Catching killers should be left to grown-ups.”
“I’ll wait for your call,” Si Wang said, watching Shen Min, who was hiding behind the sofa and blushing.
His gaze lingered on her face. He left the living room, put on his shoes, and walked out the front door.
He rode his bicycle in the setting sun until he arrived at the dirty street where he lived. Greasy takeout joints and hair salons staffed by heavily made-up women lined the block. High-rises seemed to go up everywhere except here. His neighborhood had become a slum. Many of the buildings seemed ready to collapse, thanks in great part to all the illegal construction. A two-story building turned into a five-story monstrosity. The older residents had mostly moved to the suburbs, renting out their places to migrant workers; five or six people stayed in one room. Ever since Huang Hai died, He Qingying worried about safety every night. She cautioned Si Wang not to go out because of all the fights. Calling 1-1-0 was useless.
Si Wang came in late. He Qingying had prepared dinner and wanted to know why he hadn’t returned home earlier. Now forty-one, He Qingying had left beauty behind. No one took a second look anymore.
It was a holiday, but she was in a bad mood.
Si Wang asked what was wrong.
“Didn’t you see the sign? They’re making us move. I don’t know how much money they’ll give us. Everyone’s saying it’ll be a big amount. I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t want to move.”
“Wang Er, you were born here, so you’re used to the place. But I’ve always wanted to get us a better home. You lived well with the Gu family.”
Si Wang hugged his mother, saying, “Mom, let’s not mention them anymore.”
The moonlight outside was so bright that it hurt his eyes.
CHAPTER 50
Dear Xiaozhi,
Reading my letter is like seeing me.
I never told you how I once saw a ghost.
You know how there used to be a large forest by the steel factory near Nanming High? In 1988, when I was a senior, I often played soccer there. Whenever the ball got kicked over the factory walls, I’d go get it. One day, it was very late. When I got over the wall, everyone else had left. Days get dark early in winter, and it was windy. There was no one around me, just the Demon Girl Zone and the woods.
Supposedly, it was easy to see ghosts at times like that.
I saw her.
She came out of the wild reeds. She wore a tight Mandarin dress, and the cold weather didn’t seem to bother her. She looked at me oddly. I was just seventeen. She actually spoke to me in Cantonese. I remember the soft sounds of her voice, but I don’t remember what she said. I didn’t feel afraid. I walked with her among the ruins and watched night fall. The moon rose above the run-down chimneys. I saw the sadness in her eyes. Her twenty-five-year-old self was frozen in that wasteland, never changing or getting hurt again.
Time turned into thick dust.
My young self stood alone. I was holding a soccer ball. The reeds sang next to me, rustling in the wind.
She smiled at me, but she didn’t take me away.
I grew up, just like other people. I went to college, had a life. I didn’t change the world; it changed me.
I changed so much that she would never recognize me again.
I was old then.
She was born in 1910; she died on March 8, 1935. She was buried in a public cemetery for Guangdong descendants. The graves turned into a factory, and her remains became part of the Demon Girl Zone.
Would I die like her at twenty-five?
Your teacher,
Ming
March 8, 1995
Fall of 2011.
Ouyang Xiaozhi sat alone in a corner of the Nanming High library. She smoothed out the sixteen-year-old letter; Shen Ming’s neat handwriting filled the yellowed paper.
It was the last day of school before the October holiday break. As a student, Ouyang Xiaozhi spent countless hours in the library, indifferent to the haunted attic. She believed back then, as she did now, that every book was precious. She sometimes became so immersed in a book that she’d forget to eat.
The library had been renovated since she’d been a student. The reading room was still there, just with new desks and chairs. Many more books were available, both old and new. She walked among the shelves and found that copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. The blue cover had a drawing of Hitler. She flipped to the last page, where the checkout card was kept. Shen Ming’s name was among the many who’d checked out the book. She put the card to her lips, almost smelling the scent of a past life. So many people had borrowed the book, but no one recognized the secret. Someone had drawn a pencil sketch of her face on the back.
Why this book? Because no girls read it.
There was a Japanese movie from 1995 that showed a similar scene.
Someone else entered the library. Ouyang Xiaozhi put away the letter and returned the book to the shelf.
She hid behind the shelf to watch the newcomer. It was him again.
The tenth-grader Si Wang walked around the library with familiarity, his fingers gliding over the spines of the books, until he stopped on The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. He plucked the book off the shelf, flipping to the last page. He took out the checkout card and put it to his lips.
Ouyang Xiaozhi couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t have seen what she’d done earlier.
Si Wang spent a long time with the book. Before he left, he took a quick but focused look up at the attic.
Once she knew he was gone, Ouyang Xiaozhi let out a deep breath. From the library’s second floor window she watched him walk across the sports field.
Half an hour later, she went back to the teachers’ lounge. No one else was around. Some of the teachers were in the cafeteria, while others had already gone home. Stacks of homework sat on her desk. Her computer’s screensaver was the poster for the Japanese movie Love Letter. Fatigue hit her. She absentmindedly rolled the mouse, making the screensaver disappear.
She found a note that had been tucked under the mouse. Someone had written a few lines of a poem.
Missing our enchanted meetings, you are now out of reach
The night is not the same, who am I yearning for
Longing coming undone like silken threads, unrequited in my heart
It may be the same time next year, but my longing has turned the wine bitter.
During the Qing dynasty, Huang Zhongze wrote that verse as part of his Sixteen Poems on Longing.
Not only did she know the poem, but she recognized the handwriting. Ouyang Xiaozhi’s heart pounded as she took out the old letter. Comparing the handwriting, she was sure it was the same person.
She reached for her teacup but knocked it over, spilling rose tea. Using napkins she scrambled to clean up the mess. The note was damp. Would the writing be lost forever? She put the note on the windowsill, under a paperweight to dry.
Ouyang Xiaozhi rushed into the hallway, frazzled. Students and teacher
s passed. Anyone could have gotten into the teachers’ lounge.
Anyone could have been possessed by Shen Ming’s ghost.
The night is not the same, who am I yearning for.
CHAPTER 51
Late fall. Serenity Road.
Miss Cao’s yard was littered with leaves.
Sixteen-year-old Si Wang arrived on time with food suitable for the elderly. In the last few months the two had become friends. They met almost every weekend.
During their last visit, she’d asked him bluntly, “You are like her, aren’t you?” Miss Cao never called Yi Yu by her name. “Who were you in your last life?”
“I was just an ordinary person who died at twenty-five. I didn’t have a crazy life like she did, so I envied her—just like I envy you, Miss Cao.”
“Twenty-five?” Her wrinkled lips shook as she waved her hand. “Child, come closer.”
He had become like her great-grandson; he lay in her arms and listened to her slow, dull heartbeat.
“I was married but never had kids. I miscarried from all the running during the war,” she said, stroking his hair. “I wanted a kid so badly. My husband went to Taiwan and became an important person. He married and had kids there. In the eighties, he came back and saw me once. After that we never saw each other again. I read about his death in the papers. I’ve seen so much death. You might want revenge, but it is often too much to ask for. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Time is like a river. One can never go back.” After uttering these words, she fell asleep.
Si Wang walked into the study, thinking about how she looked weaker than usual. The folds, sags, and marks of aging on her skin seemed more obvious than ever.
Still looking like she was sleeping, Miss Cao reached out a skeletal hand and hissed the words, “Is—she—dead?”
“Who? No. She’s in Hong Kong. Don’t think crazy like that!”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I just wrote her a letter.”
“I dreamed about her again last night.”
Another dream? Had Yi Yu really died in Hong Kong?
Miss Cao said, “She told me she was dead.” Tears fell down her cheeks. With a great deal of effort, as if she was using the last of her breath, she recited a poem: “No water could measure up to the sea. No clouds looked the same as those on Wu Mountain.”
Si Wang added the last two lines: “No flowers were worth lingering over. Meditation and missing my dead wife was all I could do.”
When he visited Miss Cao a week later, the door was locked. Trying to peek in, he met a neighbor who told him that Miss Cao had died seven days ago, the night he’d been there.
Si Wang knelt by the stairs and bowed three times.
He rode to the other side of Serenity Road with tears in his eyes. The old three-story building once had a mysterious owner who lived there in the eighties. The man lived through the tumultuous twentieth century.
He asked Policeman Ye Xiao about the owner of the house.
“The last Trotskyist of China.” Ye Xiao watched Si Wang’s expression. “Why are you asking?”
“He saw the young Shen Ming.”
“But he died in 1992—when he was ninety-two.”
“I know. He was my only friend.”
CHAPTER 52
Christmas Eve 2011. Saturday.
Using binoculars, Ma Li looked down at the street from his balcony on the twentieth floor. It was a festive sight: twinkling Christmas trees, young couples walking together. He noticed a man in a dark jacket and a beret walking toward his building. He looked like a professional killer.
Someone buzzed Ma Li’s apartment from the front door. Ma Li looked at the surveillance screen and saw that it was the man. But he’d taken off his hat, revealing Si Wang’s sixteen-year-old face.
“It’s you?”
“Ma Li, it’s Shen Ming.”
“How did you find me?”
“I have your phone number and license-plate number. It was easy to find the address.”
“You knew I was home?”
“I had a feeling.”
Ma Li let in the boy. He hadn’t been out for days. About a minute later, Si Wang was at Ma Li’s door.
“Merry Christmas,” the young man said in English.
Ma Li shook his head in a daze. He fumbled around a pile of slippers for adults and kids, looking for a pair for Si Wang.
“You got married?”
“Divorced,” Ma Li said, relieved.
Si Wang walked across the polished wood floor into the spacious living room. Expensive ceramics lined the wine cabinet and there was a real leather sofa.
“How old is your kid?”
“Four.” He took out the child’s photo. “A girl. She lives with her mom in Guangzhou.”
“Do you miss her?”
“I’m used to it. She visits once a month, but she doesn’t really know me.” Ma Li poured him a glass of milk. “Why did you need to see me?”
“Two things. One, I’m back at Nanming High. Two, you still haven’t told me everything.”
“You should go.” Ma Li grabbed the glass and pushed Si Wang to the door. “I must be crazy! You’re not Shen Ming. You’re a deluded teenager. Why did I let you in?”
But the young man didn’t want to leave.
“I’m sorry, I’ve done enough for you. I’ve done too much for you. Don’t make me call security.”
“You forgot what you carved in the windowsill for Dead Poets Society?” Si Wang returned to the living room and started reading:
A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
“I don’t remember that.”
“It’s by Emily Dickinson, an American poet. I first read this poem in the Nanming High library, about seventeen years ago tonight. The only people there were you, Liu Man, and Ouyang Xiaozhi.”
Ma Li stopped himself from saying something. He got a can of beer from the fridge and took a big gulp. Foam covered the edges of his mouth.
“Thank you for not throwing me out,” Si Wang said.
“Are my words still on the windowsill?”
“Yes.”
“What a miracle.”
“My homeroom teacher is Zhang Mingsong.”
Ma Li shook his head and took another gulp of beer. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Some people said he killed me.”
“Not possible.”
“Do you know who did?”
Ma Li grabbed at his hair and mumbled, “God, am I dreaming? Why did I have to run into Mr. Shen’s ghost?”
“Think of it as a dream.”
Ma Li pushed Si Wang aside and opened the window to take in all of the glitz of Christmas Eve. He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. The wind quickly carried away the blue smoke. “Kid, are you schizophrenic? You think there’s a ghost on your shoulder? Let me tell you something. You’re living a fantasy. Everything you’re talking about never happened! There is no Zhang Mingsong, no Liu Man, and no Ouyang Xiaozhi!”
His face turned cold. He flicked the cigarette out the window.
“I’m not a kid. I’m your high school homeroom and Chinese teacher. I’m Shen Ming. If I were still alive, I’d be forty-one.”
“It’s too cold!” Ma Li closed the window.
“You’re saying I made up Ouyang Xiaozhi? I see her every day. You can see for yourself when you go to Nanming High.”
“No. I never want to go back there.”
“Ouyang Xiaozhi is my Chinese teacher.”
“Why is she teaching? Why did she return to Nanming High?”
“She came back this year. I don’t know why.
”
“Xiaozhi doesn’t know you’re Shen Ming?” Ma Li heard himself and changed his phrasing. “Or doesn’t know that you claim to be Shen Ming?”
“I haven’t told her yet. I might soon.” Si Wang paced back and forth in the living room until he noticed a limited edition copy of Farewell My Concubine. “You still watch this?”
“I took it out this morning. I was going to watch it if I got bored tonight.”
Ma Li remembered that when the school organized a viewing for the film in 1994, Mr. Shen left the theatre crying.
“I want to watch it again.” Si Wang almost sounded petulant. He fed the disc into the DVD player. Ma Li turned off the lights and the two sat on the sofa and watched the movie. An arena appeared on the screen; the emperor and his concubine, wearing Peking Opera makeup, went in together.
Almost three hours later Ma Li and Si Wang walked out of the building together. They got to the garage; Ma Li still had the same Porsche.
On the drive home, as they got to the Wuning Road Bridge over Suzhou River, Si Wang shouted, “Stop the car!”
“We can’t stop here!”
“Stop!”
Ma Li always listened to his teachers. He hit the brakes and pulled up to the bridge railing.
“Thanks.” Si Wang jumped out of the car and waved. “Good-bye!”
“You OK?”
Standing under the bridge light, Si Wang smiled. “Don’t worry! I’m not going to jump.”
The Porsche sped away to join the other cars zooming over the bridge.
Si Wang watched the quiet Suzhou River and screamed.
CHAPTER 53
The last day of 2011.
“I’m a ghost.”
“Fine, can you please just stop watching Detective Conan?”
“Officer Ye Xiao, I’m serious.”
“Si Wang, it’s late, and you should head home. Or your mom will call me again.” Ye Xiao shaved in front of the bathroom mirror.
