Up at Night

Yue Xiaoqi phones me around nine but I’m still playing soccer at Si’de Park and I miss his call. By the time I’ve changed and can call him back, he’s not answering. I get home and have a shower while Ge’er makes dinner. Our earnings have been down recently, so we let our helper go. One of the stunt doubles on the film I was shooting died, and that affected morale so badly that we had to stop production. Ge’er’s been struggling with her novel, which has sent her into a tailspin. Just the fact that she made dinner tonight probably means she’s hit a good stretch. A few days ago, she announced she was skipping dinner because eating sent blood to her brain, which prevented her from working. She wouldn’t let me eat either. According to her I look overly contented after I’ve had my dinner, and that annoys her. Hunger keeps me looking humble. When she was starting on this novel I said to her, Maybe you should wait. Now that you’re pregnant your office might not let you take on such a big project. She said it wasn’t her decision; a voice was telling her what to write, and she could grow a baby at the same time. For the past two months she’s been running around doing research with a private eye named Huang. He used to work at a legal firm until he offended one of the higher-ups and got tossed into prison for a few months. A few days after his release, they accused him of soliciting prostitutes and locked him up for another fortnight. When he got out, he resigned and struck out on his own. I ask Ge’er if he’d actually been with a hooker, and she says well not exactly, the woman came to him for help with a court case. What case? I ask. One of her clients smeared a chemical substance on his condom, and now she can never have children, she says. Good god, I say. It wasn’t his first time either, she says. He did the same thing in Shanghai and Wuhan. He’s a retired college professor. Used to research reproduction. How did the woman track him down? I say. He’d hired her before, she says. Got it, I say. But why are you writing about all this? You’re a producer, not an author, she says. Don’t ask questions outside your area of expertise. Remember our motto: you’re the man of the world, I’m the artist. Right, I say, but the child’s mine too, and my work as a father began the night I met you. I’m stuck at home all day, she says, and I always feel like drinking. Do you think alcohol would hurt the baby? That’s her trump card. Ge’er has always enjoyed a drink, especially during the times when she’s not writing—those periods she refers to as the lacunae of her soul. She can get through a bottle of red wine a day, more if she’s out for dinner. She holds her liquor well enough that it’s hard to tell when she’s drunk, though I’ve been with her long enough that I know if she’s had so much as a glass. Not that I can say exactly what changes, it’s more that every individual has their own connection to the world, and hers shifts the instant she starts drinking, like a Bluetooth speaker moving too far from the phone. Be careful of that Huang fella, I say. He’s crooked, always ducking and diving. For all we know they’re tapping his phone. Make sure you don’t get dragged in. It’s fine to play ping-pong along the edge of the table, but if you keep using your forehand smash, someone’s going to take you out sooner or later. Relax, she says. It’s all going to turn out fine. I’ll be more or less done with the book by the time the baby arrives, and then I’ll be nothing but a mother for a couple of years. If I can even bear to let you do that, I say. Let’s have dinner.

Yue Xiaoqi calls again at half past eleven, and this time I answer. Why weren’t you at soccer? I ask. We ended up with an odd number of players. Bro, he says, I’m downstairs. Downstairs from my place? I say. Why? I need to talk to you, he says. Can you make some time? He sounds drunk, though still on an even keel, not yet in the trough of despair. Ge’er is in bed. We’ve been in separate rooms recently because she sleeps so fitfully. Sometimes she’ll nap from afternoon to midnight, leap out of bed to grab a pen, look all around her, put the pen back down and fall asleep again. I’m not a particularly light sleeper, but when I get woken up like that it’s hard for me to drop off again, and then the next day is a write-off. Now I sleep in the room where the helper used to be. The cot stands ready next to the bed, its bare boards like exposed ribs, still reeking of paint from Shenzhen. I think of the stunt double who died. He was only nineteen, a professional diver. He drowned (to be accurate, he had a heart attack while underwater, and that was it for him). I emerge from my room and gently push Ge’er’s door open. Her face is nestled into her shoulder, making her look a little like a gourd. I call her name. Nothing. I shut the door, throw on some clothes and go downstairs.

It’s late December and the brisk night air feels good after the stuffiness of the apartment. The game today has left my body feeling lithe and young. Xiaoqi is smoking by the gate, his back to me, a blue scarf around his neck. He’s not bad looking, a typical northern man: tall, square-faced, jowly, long torso, short legs. He’s played so much soccer that even just standing there his legs joggle like bedsprings. He used to be an athlete, on the national team for middle- and long-distance running, then somehow he wound up in the arts. He was an actor for five or six years, first as an extra, then a featured extra, eventually graduating to minor TV roles like the female lead’s little brother, the sort of character who’s always storming out of rooms shouting, Sis, I forbid it! He hasn’t been acting much recently. He was the executive director of two low-budget films that neither earned nor lost money but made the rounds of the festivals, not a bad result. Sometimes people say to him, Xiaoqi, weren’t you doing well as an actor? You went from playing the female lead’s cousin to playing her little brother. Why mess around with movies? They’re exhausting and won’t make you rich. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with movies, he replies. Don’t underestimate me. I’ll make a real go of this, I’m sure of it. After all, I grew up watching Landmine Warfare. Xiaoqi is from the northeast, but after many years in the capital as an actor, he’s picked up a strong Beijing accent. Now he calls everyone bro and shakes his head while sighing, What can I do, who asked me to be so fond of you?

He hands me a cigarette. How’s Ge’er? he asks. You fighting?

– Not if I do as I’m told. So, what do you want? How do you know where I live anyway?

– It’s a long story. Let’s find a place to sit down.

– Let’s stay here. Ge’er will be frightened if she wakes up and I’m not around.

Xiaoqi looks up and, staring into my eyes, says, It’s life and death, bro. This will take two or three hours, but I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. He’s squinting and his nose is running. His neglected cigarette slowly becomes a column of ash. Looking more closely, I realize he’s wearing a coat over pajamas and no socks: I can see his bare ankles.

– Where should we go?

– Si’de Park. It’s quiet there.

– I was just there this afternoon.

– I know. That’s why I picked it—it’s a place we both know.

Along the way he stops at a supermarket to buy a bottle of blended whiskey and cadges a couple of paper cups from the clerk. I’ve never been to Si’de Park at night. I’d imagined it would be empty, but a man of indeterminate age wearing a mask and a cap is in the middle of the field doing keep-ups. He’s no good—he keeps dropping the ball, but each time he stubbornly hooks it back up with his foot and keeps going. His problem is a lack of coordination. His arms flap by his side and he can’t make the ball spin, it just rises and falls like a stone. I watch through the net of the goal and wish I could advise him to stop spending money on soccer shoes, he should just jog around the park instead. I don’t actually say anything, of course, even though his arms remind me of a fat duck waddling.

It’s not that I don’t want to pay for what I did, but I have a bellyful of words I can’t say to the cops.

I don’t really know Xiaoqi, we’ve only met a few times at filmmakers’ kickabouts. He’s quite good at soccer and usually joins the group for beer afterwards, but I’ve never hung out with him alone. We’re both from the northeast, him Changchun and me Shenyang. After a couple of drinks, we often end up talking about our hometowns, which I guess brought us a little closer. I heard you were in a gang? he once asked. Only when I was a kid, I said, which doesn’t count. I robbed slot machines for them. I’ve been to Shenyang, he said. It’s fine, no major disasters. My grandfather died there during the siege.

We sit on a bench. Go ahead, I say. How did you know where I live? The bench we’re sitting on is one I’ve passed by many times, but this is my first time on it. Usually it’s occupied by sneaker-wearing old people who bring their own cushions. Si’de Lake ahead of us, grass behind.

– I asked around.

– I see. And how did you know my wife’s name?

– I asked about that too while I was at it. Also, you posted about her. You treat her really well, you’re spoiling her.

– I think we’re straying from the point.

– I have a question.

– Ask away.

– I know we’re not close, and it’s a bit cheeky of me to ask, but why did you come with me?

– You said it was life and death.

– My life and my death. That’s still my business, not yours. The streets are full of people with life-and-death problems. Look at the beggars with small children singing on the subway. Real or not, that’s still a matter of life and death.

– I may not know you well, but we respect each other and I’ve always had a good impression of you. Besides, we’re from the same region. That’s why I came downstairs. If you’re just drunk and bored, go find a police officer to amuse yourself with, and I’ll go back to Ge’er.

He hands me the paper cup.

– I thought of going to the police too, but I wanted to ask your opinion first. Drink?

– Just a drop.

– All right. Warm yourself up. Not too sweet, is it?

– What is it you want to tell me.

– Let me pour you some more. Don’t drink if you don’t want to, I just hate seeing someone with an empty cup. It’s like this, I was a bit of a jock when I was young, didn’t do much book-learning, but I did have one skill: ever since I was little, I could tell with one look whether someone was reliable or not. And bro, I feel like I can count on you. That’s why you were the first person who came to mind. I’ve been in Beijing over ten years, but tonight I couldn’t think of a single person other than you. You remind me of a guy from my track team: a little shorter than me, stuttered, but could run really fast and always had my back in a fight. The coach made him lift weights and he snapped a tendon. Never saw him again. The first time I saw you I thought you sounded a bit like him. But you couldn’t possibly be him, I guess.

– Right. I couldn’t be, I’m in the arts.

– You’re not him. You make the same facial expressions when you talk but the words are different. You’re better than him at faking it. Bro, listen, I got into a fight with my wife just now and accidentally beat her to death.

I jump to my feet and yelp, Don’t joke like that! I have two kids, he continues, a boy and a girl.

She’s six and he’s four. They’re sound asleep in their bunk beds right now. The girl has the top bunk. He reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out an ancient-looking bronze dagger, two-inch handle and foot-long blade, no trace of blood. I got this while I was filming in Xi’an, he says. Gift from a friend, it’s the real thing. Don’t worry, I didn’t stab her or anything, I hit her with the handle. He raps the knife against his palm. Just like that, whap, ten times.

I look around. It’s not totally dark, here and there bushes are visible in the gloom, and I can see a building in the distance, a huge sign on top. I place a hand on his shoulder and say, Xiaoqi. He sighs. Thank you for trusting me, I say. Please put that thing away. I’ll go to the police station with you. A domestic squabble got out of hand, that’s all. I’ll find someone to get you out of this, it’s really no big deal. He looks up at me, gets to his feet, and with a flick of his hand sends the dagger into the long grass.

No way, he says. If I wanted to go to the police, I would have driven there myself. It’s not that I don’t want to pay for what I did, but I have a bellyful of words I can’t say to the cops.

My phone pings with a message from Ge’er: Where are you?

Xiaoqi pours himself another half cup and says, Go ahead and answer, I’m in no rush.

I reply: Nearby, with a friend. Then unsend it and instead type: Nearby. An old classmate had something urgent come up. Go back to sleep babe.

Her: An old classmate from when?

Me: Junior high. Haven’t seen him in a while. He insisted on meeting.

Her: Okay, have a nice chat. I’m not tired, I’ll write a bit more. Where’s the Murakami mixtape?

(I’d made her a CD of every piece of music mentioned in Murakami’s books.)

Me: Drawer of the right-hand bedside table in the spare room. The CD tray gets stuck sometimes, pull it out with your fingers if you need to.

Her: Our little one is being quiet, don’t worry. If you’re drinking make sure you pick up the tab, don’t let your friend spend his money.

Me: Let’s see how much we get through. Happy writing.

There’s a haze in the night air that I feel rather than see. It gets into my lungs, chills me from the inside, it’s in my eyes like dandruff. I recall walking down the stairs, watching Xiaoqi buy the booze, sitting here, drinking—why did I do all that? Who is this guy anyway? Not family, not a close friend, just someone who passed me the ball a few times with reasonable skill. I only converted a couple of those passes into goals, but I always gave him a thumbs up after. A perpetually smiling midfielder, a left wing with a good eye.

I turn to him: Where’s the body?

– Your wife worried?

– Never mind about her. Where’s the body?

– In my trunk. His car’s by the park entrance, we passed it earlier.

– So was it an accident?

– Hitting her was on purpose, killing her was an accident.

– Have you thought of killing her before?

– It’s crossed my mind. I stare at him in silence.

– I wasn’t planning to kill her this time.

– Were you cheating on her?

– No. We’ve been married seven years, and I’ve never cheated, not once.

– You can’t get it up?

– Not to brag, but I’m definitely better in that department than most people.

– How much money did she leave you?

– Nothing. I earned all our money. Her parents got laid off.

– Then why did you want to kill her?

– It was an accident.

– I know, but you said you wanted to kill her before. Why?

– We grew up on Guilin Road in Changchun. Do you know it?

– No.

– It’s a chaotic place. We’ve known each other twenty-five years. Just imagine. Back in the day, everyone went skating at the northside rink. That’s where I met her. She was really good, led every conga line. I always pushed to the front so I could hold her waist. Finally she swung around and said, You again? I’m Yue Xiaoqi, I said. I’m at Eleventh High, and I do track and field. They gave us some canned beef Monday, you want some? I don’t know you, she said. Why would I want your canned beef? You know me now, don’t you? I said. What’s your name? Yang Buhui, she said. Yang Buhui? I repeated. You don’t know who Yang Buhui is? she asked. Isn’t that you? I said. That amused her. That’s a character from The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber. Don’t you have a TV? Yes, I said, but it’s not hooked up. It was a novel before it was a TV show, she said. Don’t you read? I want to, I said, but it makes me sleepy. I enjoy it, though. Yang as in the surname, Buhui as in no regrets, she said. Hold on tight, let’s shake off our tail. She pivoted sharply and the less experienced skaters behind us went flying into the side of the rink, as if we were a whip lashing the wall.

As Xiaoqi tells the story, he mimes skating. Through the gloom I see his hands on Yang Buhui’s waist, head bent so he can talk to her. He stumbles at the curve but manages not to let go. Past the turn he can relax.

Xiaoqi returns from the ice rink to the bench.

– I killed her because she’s sick.

– Sick with what?

– She’s always up at night.

– What do you mean?

– When it started, she’d get out of bed and spend a long time in the bathroom. In the morning I’d find her asleep on the toilet, lipstick in her hand. Then it was sticking photos on the wall, pictures of us from when we first met up to now. I’d find her asleep on the floor. When I asked her about it the next day, she wouldn’t remember a thing. Really? I’d say, and she’d say yes, not a thing. I know her, she wouldn’t lie. After that she started showing up at the train station, no idea where she wanted to go, just walking around the station. Whenever she saw someone, she’d say, Have you seen the Bright Left Messenger?

– What, as in Yang Buhui’s father?

– Yes, him.

– Sorry if this is a rude question, but when she went out like this, was she dressed?

– Fully dressed. Sometimes she got mixed up, like one time she wore our daughter’s scarf, then walked the five kilometers there and insisted on crawling into the luggage-screening machine. Drink that. Look, it’s starting to soak into the cup.

My phone pings again. I step aside to check it. It’s Ge’er: Detective Huang faxed to say he’s found sixteen victims in Xinjiang, Shandong, Xi’an, and Sichuan. He has statements. People he met online, prostitutes, old classmates. Five of them will never be able to have children. One of them got a high fever and lost all hearing in her left ear. The perp finally talked tonight. Detective Huang’s mole will get me a transcript. This is going to be the core of my novel. I need a drink.

I glance at the time on my phone: 1:10. I text: Have a glass of red wine.

Her: Deal. Where are you?

Me: A bar. Not much going on. They’re closing soon.

Her: What are you talking about?

Me: Just the past. We don’t have much else in common. The time he scored an own goal at a school match and cried all afternoon. That sort of thing.

She sends me a hug emoji, a tiny monk-like man with green arms that look like balls.

Xiaoqi pisses into the grass. I pour myself some whiskey, down it and pour myself some more. I try to work out where we can go for more booze once we finish.

He shakes himself off and comes back to me. There’s someone playing ball over there, he says, pointing.

– Yes, the guy’s half-crippled.

– Maybe playing keep-up will fix him. Now I think about it, maybe I’m the one responsible for my wife’s sickness.

– How so?

– She caught me jerking off while she was asleep once.

– I don’t know about that.

– I didn’t do it on purpose or anything, I was just bored. Sometimes I jerk off three times a night. Rely on no one but yourself, I say. Just like those people who said they’d starve to death before they touched American rations.

– Was it really like that?

– Bro, I wrapped my wife in plastic.

– Why?

– She loves things to be clean. Everything in the fridge is covered in cling film. I took her to see the doctor, but he said there’s nothing wrong with her, she’s even healthier than me. She’s tried not falling asleep, but that’s impossible. I need sleep too, I need to work during the day to raise our two kids.

– Did you ever think about locking her up? I mean at night.

He nods: Of course, but then she blinded herself in one eye. I found her before she could do the other one. After that I stopped working and just followed her around at night. I thought maybe one day she’d grow tired and stop; we just hadn’t gone round the curve yet. But then she lost an eye.

A stray cat sashays elegantly past us. She’s on the prowl for a mate, says Xiaoqi. He flicks his cigarette butt, sending a shower of sparks through the air. The cat nimbly dodges it and minces away along the lakeshore. The soccer player is taking a water break, arms resting on one outstretched leg.

The furthest she’s ever been is Longguan, says Xiaoqi. When she’s out roaming at night, she doesn’t recognize anyone, not even me. She skips along, humming tunes.

– Which tunes?

– Children’s songs. I thought she might be homesick, so we made a trip to Changchun. Her ma’s dead, and her ba shacked up with another woman. He was shocked to see her missing an eye. They didn’t talk much. She was kind of numb—no childhood nostalgia there—but she kept slipping her ba spending money. I pretended not to notice. I asked her ba to sing her a nursery rhyme. He thought I was insane, so I beat him up and we came back home.

Xiaoqi tips some of the booze from my cup into his.

– She looks younger at night. She’s always smiling. She hasn’t worked for a few years now, since she was raising the kids. She’s done a good job with them. Do you know my son can recite over a hundred Tang poems?

I grunt noncommittally.

– She’s gained thirty jin in the time I’ve known her. Her ass is huge. Sometimes, coming out of the shower, when she puts on her knickers it looks like she’s stepping into a cooking pot. One night I got drunk and didn’t notice her leaving the house. She had our daughter on her back. When I caught up with them, they were playing hide-and-seek in the middle of the road. I called my daughter over and hugged her. Is she yours? my wife asked. Can I play with her a little longer? I promise not to hide under any other cars. That’s when I decided that she couldn’t go on living.

– You could have had her committed. You could have gotten her help. I guess it’s no use saying this now.

– And let her gouge out her other eye? Or bite off her own tongue? Or be raped by psychos? What if she started losing her mind in the daytime, when she was lucid, because she missed the kids so badly? Bro, there’s not much I could do. Maybe my uselessness put her in this state, and now I’ve taken her out of it.

He stands, tosses his cup in the air and kicks it into the fence.

– My daughter wanted to have a serious talk about all this with me. He does some leg-raises. Her ma fell ill when she was five and a half, and she’s seven now. She told me she wished her ma would vanish.

– Your daughter?

–Yes. She was sure her ma had become a different person, so why not let her disappear and get a new ma? Strange mothers are all the same anyway.

– And what does your son think?

– He wanted to keep taking care of her. He’d give her his newest toys, he’d put Band-Aids on her feet when they’re cut up from nightwalking. But it was two to one. He was outvoted.

I glance at my phone. Ge’er texted twenty minutes ago: Okay, here’s my hypothesis. One possibility is this guy has a terminal disease, and his wife left him, or maybe she slept with a co-worker of his, so now he believes all women are whores. A bit Hollywood, but sometimes life imitates art. Or else he adores his wife but she’s dead, and they never had any kids, so now he thinks no other women deserve children, since a woman as good as his wife couldn’t have them. What do you think?

She’s definitely had more than one glass of wine, is what I think. When Ge’er is drunk, her face blooms red like the scarlet-veiled rabbit demon in Journey to the West. She also gets very formal and earnest, as if nothing matters in the world except her opinion on this particular issue.

A second message arrives five minutes later: Detective Huang sent over the perp’s first statement. He’s been married for decades, two kids (one in the US, one in Shanghai), wife is a radiologist, still alive. No problems with the marriage. They go for evening strolls and weekend bike rides through the countryside. He likes to cook and he’s good at it, mostly Hangzhou cuisine. When they started questioning him, he gave detailed recipes for some of his favorite dishes, then went quiet. That’s going to be the opening of my novel. I feel like he’s balding, though I need to confirm with Detective Huang. I’m thinking multiple storylines, omniscient perspective, the intertwining narratives of victims and perpetrator that intersect halfway through, then the second part is the investigation and trial. If you have any suggestions, make them quickly. Once I start writing, I’ll be set on that path. And if you have a drink in front of you right now, I recommend leaving it. You always have exactly one glass too many. Restraint is a virtue, whether in art or in life.

There isn’t a drop of whiskey left, but it feels inappropriate to suggest finding another place to drink. The alcohol is slowly taking effect. I feel comforted, weary. Everything seems ridiculous, but also understandable. Xiaoqi is less affected, still tipsily good-natured and full of energy.

– What now, bro? Why did you come to me?

– I needed someone I could trust. Help me bury her. Then if I die, at least someone else will know where she is.

– Where do we do it?

– I wanted to ask your opinion. Do you think this park would work? Maybe by the lake?

– Not here. I play ball here all the time.

– Further away then. Shunyi maybe, or Tongzhou. I’m just worried that one day there’ll be construction and they’ll dig her up.

– I have a question. Isn’t someone going to notice she’s missing? She has friends and family, doesn’t she?

– The police know about her illness. I’ll report her missing. The owner of my building is in a fight with the management company, so all the security cameras have been turned off.

– That’s why you chose this moment.

– I thought I’d give it a try. I didn’t expect it to work the first time. This is just like when we decided to have a child.

– What kind of car do you have?

– A Subaru.

– Fine. I’m going to have a piss, then we can find a place. You came to the right person, by the way. I’m from the northeast, so we’re brothers. “For ten years now the living and dead have been parted”—you get me?

– Slow down, bro, he says.

– Don’t touch anything. You don’t want to leave any fingerprints. Let me handle everything. No one will suspect me. You’re clever to have picked me. To be honest, I’ve been drifting away from my friends all these years. I’ve been waiting for a chance to help someone out like this. You get me. You see me. Hang on while I pee.

I walk into the long grass and let rip. It’s as cold as it’s going to get, and my piss melts the frost as it spatters the undergrowth. Twenty years ago, I’d often be out with my crew at this time of night. If a woman walked by, we’d escort her home, bantering all the way to her corner, then we’d sit back down on the sidewalk and shoot the breeze. I didn’t like going home. My parents were always fighting, and my ba used to put my ma in hospital. She was at fault too, but so what? I tried to step in, but I could never beat him, couldn’t reach far enough to land a punch on his head. By the time I was old enough to match him, he’d gotten ill and died. That old saying about revenge being best served cold? Bullcrap. After peeing, I crouch down and hunt around until I find the dagger behind a bush. I wrap the blade in my scarf, take off my shoes and hold them in my other hand, then sneak around in a big arc until I’m behind Xiaoqi. He’s sitting with his hands on his knees, as if he’s thinking over what I just said. I aim for his head, and try to recall the proper stance, which reminds me of chopping garlic for my ma as a kid. I touch the back of my own head and have a sudden flashback to my wedding vows, not the actual words but this moment when we were both sobbing like we might never stop. That threw the officiant off, and the rest of the ceremony was a mess. I bring the handle of the dagger down hard, then Xiaoqi is on the ground. I roll him over. He’s still breathing, probably won’t be out long. I feel the back of his head. His skull is still intact. I lift him back up onto the bench, cover him with my jacket and get his car keys from his pocket. After a moment’s thought I place the empty whiskey bottle in his hand.

Restraint is a virtue, whether in art or in life.

The soccer player has started up again, left leg right leg left leg. The ball refuses to cooperate, keeps slipping off his foot as if it’s been greased. I put my shoes back on, open the gate and walk out onto the pitch. He turns to look at me, and for the first time I see him clearly. Fifteen or sixteen, red headphones, pasty white face, eyebrows that look trimmed. The ball rolls past me. I pick it up and knee it a couple of times. Even though I’ve been drinking, I’ve still got my balance. I manage over twenty keep-ups before letting it fall beneath my foot, where I puncture it with the dagger. I toss the deflated ball to the teenager and walk back out the gate.

It takes some time to find the car—Xiaoqi parked further away than I expected, down an alleyway. I hesitate, then get in without looking in the trunk. A ping. Ge’er has texted: Detective Huang says the perp killed himself. He had a poison capsule hidden in a false tooth. No one knows why he did it or how many victims there actually were. How many women are out there not even knowing they can no longer have kids? Did he hate all women? How did he choose his victims? Did these women do something wrong? Was he working to some kind of debt sheet given to him by god? My novel is ruined, and I’ve started bleeding. That’s not a metaphor, it’s actually happening. I’m not in any pain, don’t worry, it’s just a little blood. I can feel a part of me, like a rib, tumbling out into the filthy flood of life. He doesn’t know what’s happening, he doesn’t feel any fear. Raise a glass to him. I’m waiting for you.

I start the car and drive home. The tank is full. There’s a red booster seat next to me. The Subaru’s pedal is loose, and I have to step down hard on it. It takes about three minutes to get to our building. I get out, walk around the car, and summon the courage I’ll need to open the trunk. If it’s empty, I’ll drive Ge’er to hospital, then go back to the park for Xiaoqi. Inside the trunk is a woman in a pink nightie, wrapped in clear plastic with only her head poking out. Her hands are clasped before her chest and her hair is loose. No make-up. Her face is as placid as a pasture in winter. White eye patch over one eye. I take a deep breath, then like a midwife I lift her from the trunk. She’s on the plump side but lighter than I expected. Where am I taking her? I have no idea now why I picked her up. Her body is still warm. Her arms dangle loosely. Where do you want to go? I mumble. Out of nowhere she gasps for air. Gunk spews from her mouth and her nose starts bleeding. Her good eye blinks open and she looks at me. Great, she says. What? I say. It’s great, this winter. And you—she reaches out and gently strokes my nose. You’ll never know how long it took me to walk here, but I have no regrets. And then, with all the strength in her body, she lets out a sob like a thunderclap.

This story will appear in Hunter by Shuang Xuetao, translated by Jeremy Tiang, to be published in the UK on June 19 by Granta Magazine Editions.