The Season of the Stranger (21 page)

“I know,” she said.

Han-li dropped her cigarette to the concrete floor and left it burning. Li-ling did the same. “What about your father?” Han-li said.

Li-ling could feel a change inside her when Han-li said it, something shifting upward in her chest and fighting to break out. But today she would be all right. There would be nothing of that today. She could see her father sitting in his study, old and alone. “He is against it,” she said.

Han-li grunted. “I thought he would be.”

“I do not know yet what to do.”

“Go slowly. Let the problem exhaust itself. Perhaps when the City falls.” Han-li frowned. “You did not mean what you said about his forcing you to leave, did you?”

“No,” Li-ling said. “He could not force me to leave. I would run away from him.”

“If he leaves you will be free.”

“And I will have lost a father.”

“And gained a husband.”

“If he wants me.”

“Ah,” she said. She got up and looked into the teapot. Then she poured water into it. “Then you are not sure of him.”

“I am almost sure of him,” Li-ling said. “But there is always doubt.”

“Perhaps you should go to bed with him.”

She laughed. She was becoming afraid of something and she did not know what it was, so she laughed. “That would not mean enough,” she said. “And even if it did, I would not want to force him.” For a moment Han-li was silent and in the moment Li-ling could feel it, not knowing what it was for, the fear, beginning in her chest and unfolding through her like quick coldrunning blood.

“No,” Han-li said, “it would not do any good. It might be the quickest way to lose him. And then you would have neither of them.”

Then I would be alone, that is what she means
. Inside her it was bigger and sharper suddenly and then she caught it and squeezed and compressed it, knowing that somewhere she had made a mistake and that now she might lose everything. She told herself again that today she would be all right, today she would resist, tonight she would not dream the dream. So she caught the feeling and squeezed and compressed it and drove it out of her and when she knew it was gone she looked at Han-li and smiled.

“Here,” Han-li said. “Have some tea.”

14

It would begin like this: a thundering blackness, and out of the blackness the swift naked man rushing on horseback. The train would move. The horse would follow, white against the blackness. There on the rear platform holding the iron gate she would know he had come for her. In the thunder of the blackness the fear began; the horse neared the train and the fear rocketed hammeringly in pushing bursts exploding against her heart and when the rider smiled her father's smile she was sure of death and then the rider disappeared and someone was with her on the platform and the darkness was silver and angry; silver and angry and not black, he again with no head; someone with her on the platform, perhaps Andrew, and hopefully futilely she would twist to see. It was never Andrew; it was the cold smiling trunkless face of the rider (trunkless; hanging; bobbing); the silver close and warm and nothing from her throat, no sound, no needed scream as she reached, sobbing, wet-bodied, grasping Andrew, waking.

Waking and breathing, but too early: sleep clutched him hard and thoroughly, and she would wake, he still asleep, his back to her. So she would hold him in the ebbing of the dream and lie wakeful until he moved. When he was awake it would all be gone and she would be well. He never knew what was happening to her. She never told him. The first time it happened she was frightened but later she laughed. Then when it came twice again she was not sure. Now today was the fourth time.

They got out of bed. He kissed her reluctantly in a wet-eyed stuporous resistance to rising, and went in to wash. After the kiss the fear left her. After breakfast she could not remember the dream so well and there was nothing left but a sluggish worry.

When he had left the house she went into the kitchen. Wen-li was teaching her to cook. He knew that she did not like being alone. She was happier near his strength, and he smiled often. So she went into the kitchen and sat down.

“So,” he said. “What do you want to do today?”

“Onion cakes,” she said. “He likes onion cakes.”

“All right. Let me finish the dishes.”

While he finished the dishes she read his fingerworn account book. Andrew had never asked to see it; and Wen-li did not steal; but Wen-li kept an account book nevertheless. Somewhere he had learned the English names for different foods, and there, in a child's angular handwriting, she found the expenses listed the way they were listed in bookkeeping texts.

“Why do you keep accounts?”

He shrugged. “In part for practice, in part for caution. When I started with him I never knew if he would ask about expenses or not, so I kept a book. Then it came to be a habit. Also I do not want to forget the English words.”

“Do you know what the letters mean, or do you just copy?”

“I know what the letters mean,” he said. “I know the alphabet and how to say the letters. But the only words I know are for food.” He looked up from the dishes. “You read English very well, I suppose.”

“Fairly well,” she said.

He looked at her and squinted. “I would like to learn.”

She smiled knowing his shyness and said, “It would be very useful,” meaning that she would speak to Andrew. He smiled too and bent over the dishes again.

When they were dry and gleaming he hung up the towel and said, “Let's go.” He took the flour from the cabinet, and the salt and pepper, and gave her four onions. “Peel them and chop them,” he said. “You know already how to make the dough. The same as for dumplings. But you cook it differently.” He made the dough and she chopped the onions. They made her cry terribly.

He took the jar of oil from the shelf and said, “Pay attention. This is difficult.” He pointed to the tabletop. “You see what I have done?” He had patted the dough into circles about four inches across and half an inch thick. “Watch,” he said. He took a stick from the drawer and cut a groove into the dough, all around it, about half an inch in from the edge. Then he cut a cross into the inner circle. “What is that for?”

“The oil,” she said.

“Correct.” He took the onions and scattered some of them over the dough and when they fell in the grooves he picked them out and put them on the raised part. He crowded them. Then he took another piece of dough just as big across but not as thick and laid it beside the first one. “Watch,” he said again. He poured oil on the first piece of dough. It wetted the onions and when the onions were soaked the oil ran off into the grooves. He poured until the grooves were full. Then he took the other piece of dough and curved it, like a shallow bowl, and put it on top of the first piece with the inside of the bowl down, so that it touched only around the edge, and he squeezed the dough together where the two pieces met until the line between them disappeared and instead he had a nice row of small scallops. “There,” he said. “Finished. Ready to bake.” He grinned. “Go ahead. Make one.”

She made one, badly. She made the grooves too shallow and scrimped with the oil. He told her that it would not be wet enough inside after cooking. The second was better, but she dented the edge of the circle carelessly and when she raised the cake oil spilled through the dent. After that she had no trouble. His scallops were neater than hers, but he said that hers would be better after practice.

They made twelve of them and she ranged them on the baking sheet. They looked like little boys' faces and she was thinking that they should make bodies of dough and cook them as little men. Wen-li was poking at the fire. “We will cook them now,” he said. “It does not matter when we cook them, but he prefers them cold.” She took some of the leftover dough and made a boy's body and joined it to one of the cakes. She laughed. Wen-li came to see what she was laughing at and when he saw it he laughed. In the middle of the laughing she looked up and out the window and saw a soldier coming toward the house.

Wen-li heard her stop laughing and saw her face. “What is it?” he said. She shook her head. She looked down at the cake with the legs and arms and noticed then that the legs and arms tapered to a blunt rounded end but she had put no hands and feet on him.
No hands
,
no feet
. She thought she would scream but her throat was dry and cottony. Then she was sitting on the cold hard floor and the soldier was with her father and she was the beggar lying dead. There was something about a dream, too, but there was no time for it because there he was in the doorway.

“Hello,” he said.

Wen-li said, “Hello.” She was not on the floor. She was sitting in a chair. She had been sitting in a chair all the time. The inside of her head stopped expanding. She could feel it contract sharply and the clear images come into it and then cunningness stealing over all of her.

“Mr Girard is not at home?”

“No,” Wen-li said.

“Ah,” the soldier said. “Too bad.” Then he said, “Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I apologize for intruding, but I am very thirsty.”

“Yes,” Wen-li said.

The soldier saluted her and bowed. He came in and sat in the chair across the table from her. “You were cooking,” he said. “I have interrupted.” She did not say anything. The soldier looked at his hands and sighed. He was hulky but she saw that he was clean and that his uniform was clean. “Am I right in thinking that Mr Girard lives here? Andrew Girard?”

Wen-li said, “Yes.”

The soldier took off his stiffly wired cap and said to her, “Excuse me. I had forgotten.” He put the cap on the table. He had shaved his head and now there was a little growth, a stubble of perhaps two weeks. She was glad that she did not have to stand up. She examined him, cleverly, slyly, marking him, knowing him. He had white teeth and a scar on his cheek, high up. She had seen a scar like that before. In the library there was a book with a picture in it of a slender, confident nobleman from Europe. He wore a uniform with a collar something like the collar of her gown and he wore an eye-glass. She had never forgotten him because of the scar he had, a scar like this one that she was looking at.

“Cold today,” the soldier said. “Mr Girard is out teaching?”

“Yes,” Wen-li said.

“Ah, well,” the soldier said, “vacation will be here soon. Six weeks of it.” He rubbed his hands. “Good to be in the kitchen. That is a big stove you have. Warm.”

When he rubbed his hands she saw that he lacked the last two fingers on his left hand.

“The war is coming closer,” he said. “Slowly, but coming closer.” Wen-li put a cup of tea on the table near him. “Ah, thank you,” he said. He looked at her. “You will not join me?”

She shook her head.

“A pity,” he said. “Forgive me if I go ahead.” He drank a little. “Good, good. Hot.”

The drawer was partially open and she could see the cleaver lying with the blade toward her. She closed her eyes.

“I regret that Mr Girard is not at home,” he said. “I would enjoy talking to him. Is he usually at home later in the day?”

Wen-li said, “Yes.”

“Yes, of course,” the soldier said, looking past her toward the house. “It is a lovely little house. How many rooms?”

Wen-li said, “Three.”

“Three,” the soldier said. “Three and a kitchen and the cook's room. Very nice.” He stood up and walked to the door with the teacup in his hand. “Which is the bedroom?” he asked, looking across the court. “On the left or the right?”

Wen-li said, “Left.” Wen-li was shaking down the fire. His hands were white around the poker and sweat rested trembling on his eyebrows.

“And the room on the right is the living room.” The soldier nodded to himself. “Cozy.” He turned and looked at the boiler next to the stove. “And hot water,” he said. “Marvelous.” He looked in the soap dish and then at Wen-li. “How would it be if I washed my hands?” he said. “We have no hot water at the garrison.”

“All right,” Wen-li said.

The soldier took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He ran the hot water and took off his watch and then put both hands under the hot water, plunging them quickly beneath the faucet as though he were afraid the water would stop running before he got to it. He grunted. The water splashed into the sink, sounding like rain. There had been no rain for a long time. He turned off the water and reached for a towel. When his hands were dry he rolled down his sleeves and put his watch on. Then he put his jacket on. She did not want to look at him but she had to see what he did.

“Not many neighbors here,” he said. “Mr Girard does not get along very well?”

“Everybody likes him,” Wen-li said.

“Really? He must work very hard at his teaching. It is not easy for a foreigner. Do the students like him too?”

There was a silence and then she said, “Yes.” She looked away and then back.

“Well,” he said. He looked at her clothes. Then he looked at her face. “You are a student?”

She was not sure what she should say. She said: “Yes.”

“And you visit him often?” There was nothing in his voice but polite interest, not even that perhaps.

“Sometimes.”

“And the others?”

“Sometimes.”

“How often?”

She looked at Wen-li. Wen-li had stopped poking at the fire when he heard her voice. He was watching the two of them. “For conferences about classwork,” he said.

The soldier said, “And socially?”

“Occasionally,” Wen-li said. “For games and refreshments.”

The soldier said, “Did Ma Chi-wei ever come here?”

“I do not know who he is,” Wen-li said. Li-ling looked at the boy-cake and stopped breathing.

“They seem to have known each other,” the soldier said.