Love's Ambition

Cheng Zheng had never hated snow so much before. The heavy snowfall had paralyzed the airport, and the speakers kept broadcasting apologetic announcements as flight arrivals were repeatedly delayed. The benches were packed with people—a baby wailed loudly beside her, while a red-haired boy across from her scattered potato chips all over the floor. She stepped outside for a cigarette, and immediately, a woman in a sari took her seat, relieved to finally set down her heavy backpack. Outside, the sky was already dark, and the snow continued to fall. The road in front of the entrance had just been cleared, only to be dusted white again. She pulled up her hood, shielding the flame as she lit a cigarette in the biting wind.

After a four-hour delay, the plane finally landed at JFK Airport. Cheng Zheng stood behind the railing, watching Xia Hui emerge, her heart inexplicably anticipating something. He was an utterly ordinary-looking middle-aged man, dragging a bulky suitcase, appearing especially slight among a crowd of white passengers. He must have slept for a long time on the plane—his hair was slightly disheveled from dreams. As Xia Hui approached, she folded the white sign with his name on it, her arm sore from holding it up for so long. She took his suitcase and briefly introduced herself.

The car pulled away from the airport, heading into the city. They made small talk, discussing New York. He had been here three times before, all short visits. He said he didn’t like it here, feeling that all international metropolises were the same. He preferred ancient, compact cities, like Toledo in Spain. He asked how long she had been here. Five years, she replied.

"Studied for two years first, then started working."

"Always at this Chinese association?"

"No, just helping out temporarily for the literary festival."

"You like literature?"

"Ah, no. The other girl had something come up, so I’m filling in for her." She turned and smiled at him. "I know nothing about literature."

He nodded magnanimously. She sensed a gaze looking down from above, tinged with a hint of pity.

As they neared the hotel, he took a call. After hanging up, he sighed.

"Still have to meet two friends. I haven’t even written my speech for tomorrow."

"Writers can probably speak off the cuff, right?"

"It’s easy enough to wing it—just the same old lines, rephrased over and over. Sometimes I want to say something different, but, well, there’s just no time."

"Yeah." She nodded, signaling her understanding.

The car stopped in front of the hotel, where a doorman in a black overcoat stepped forward to take the luggage. The lobby was styled in a nostalgic 1930s aesthetic, dim lighting flickering faintly, soft jazz brushing past like feathers against the ear. He walked over to embrace a couple seated on the sofa—an elegant American pair in their fifties. The man had silver hair and a ruddy complexion, somewhat resembling a pre-weight-loss Clinton, while the woman wore large pearl earrings and bright red lipstick.Cheng Zheng went over to help him check in, handing his documents to the young man at the front desk. She stood there waiting, elbow propped on the counter, idly picking up a nearby flyer to glance at. It turned out Woody Allen played the clarinet here every Monday. She remembered watching Midnight in Barcelona with Lulu—a love story about taking small risks. But the tickets for the performance cost a staggering two hundred dollars, which seemed exorbitant even if dinner was included.

She walked back, apologizing for interrupting their conversation, then asked if he preferred a smoking room and had him choose a complimentary newspaper from the hotel’s selection.

“This is Cheng Zheng—she’s very capable,” Xia Hui introduced her, casually resting a hand on her shoulder. She greeted them awkwardly. As she walked away, she overheard them discussing the novel he had just finished.

“I read it in one sitting—it was absolutely brilliant. I loved it,” the woman said excitedly, her Chinese perfectly fluent. “Jeffrey thought so too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” the man named Jeffrey paused, seeming less confident in his Chinese. He rolled his eyes a few times before settling on the right words. “Very… passionate.”

“The theme is excellent—it’s bound to attract foreign media attention,” the woman added.

Xia Hui smiled faintly. “I hope the English version will be out by next fall.”

The woman nodded. “We’ll do our best.”

Once the check-in was complete, she handed him the room key and bid them goodnight. Just as she turned to leave, he called out to her:

“Care to join us for a drink?”

She shook her head with a smile, wished them goodnight again, and walked out through the hotel’s revolving doors. A group of reporters stood shivering in the cold, cameras raised. The dark lenses swept past her face like a sniper’s scope, indifferent, before refocusing on the spinning doors. They were waiting for some celebrity staying at the hotel—this place was famous, she knew, though she’d only heard of it from gossip magazines. Something about a secret rendezvous between two stars, though she couldn’t remember who.

The hotel was on Madison Avenue, surrounded by high-end boutiques and tasteful galleries. She headed toward the nearest subway station. Though long past closing time, the shop windows still blazed with light, glowing like fireplaces in wealthy homes against the snowy cold. A homeless man sat cross-legged beneath one, leaning against the glass as if for warmth. If she weren’t afraid of losing control, she might have wanted a drink herself. Xiaosong always said she was like the White Snake—if she drank too much, her true form would emerge, writhing on the ground, trying to shed her human skin. But when she woke up, she remembered nothing, only an overwhelming exhaustion, as if she’d been desperately reaching for something just out of grasp.

She descended into the subway, emerging from the underground passage only to be met by a gust of wind that stung her eyes. It reminded her of the first time she’d met Lulu—right at this intersection. Back then, Lulu had already rented the apartment they now shared and was searching online for a roommate. She’d come to the subway station to pick Cheng Zheng up and show her the place. While waiting for the light to change, Lulu had turned to her and said:

“You know what? Every time I step outside and see the people on the street, I can’t help but shout in my heart—‘I love New York!’”Cheng Zheng stared blankly at Lulu. She didn't love New York; she didn't love any place at all. Perhaps moved by that kind of enthusiasm she would never possess herself, she had already decided to live with Lulu before even seeing the apartment.

She walked to the apartment building. The entire structure looked desolate. The Singaporean girl next door had moved out, and some had gone back for Christmas and hadn't returned yet. She wondered if they would ever come back. She fished out her keys to open the door. The lock was newly replaced, but the old key hadn't been removed from the keyring yet. Every time, she would insert the wrong one first, always needing an extra try.

Yesterday, Lulu's aunt had moved out those two boxes of belongings. Now that room stood empty, with only the Polaroid photos stuck on the walls still remaining. The girls' powdered faces on the photo paper reflected a faint, cold glow in the darkness.

She returned to her own room. Large cardboard boxes and overstuffed travel bags littered the floor, along with expired magazines and tangled charger cables. There was only one week left until the end of the month, and there were still so many things left to pack. She sat down at the desk, took out the smoked meat sandwich and macaroni salad she'd bought on the way, opened her laptop, and checked emails while eating. Xiaosong called.

"Come over for dinner tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night? I have a cocktail party to attend."

"It's my mom's birthday."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"How was I supposed to know you'd be so busy?"

"Who says I'm busy?"

"Aren't you? No one picks up when I call."

"Look at how much snow is out there, please. The flight was delayed for hours—I didn't even pick them up until past eight and had to take them to the hotel."

"See, you are busy. Was I wrong?"

"Enough, Xiaosong."

"Right. Enough."

Both fell silent. Lately, they had been arguing constantly over work and moving arrangements. They'd fought so much that they'd developed a tacit understanding—whenever an argument was about to start, both would shut their mouths.

After a while, she said, "You guys go ahead and eat. I'll come over right after the cocktail party ends. It shouldn't be too late."

"Whatever you say." Xiaosong hung up.

Cheng Zheng continued eating her sandwich. The smoked meat was awful, but she felt a strange obligation to finish it. "Don't be willful," she could almost hear Xiaosong say. She realized she was becoming more and more like Xiaosong's family—having no particular likes or dislikes about things, only a sense of duty.

Actually, attending that cocktail party wasn't strictly necessary; it wouldn't matter if she skipped it. She just didn't want to go to Xiaosong's place for dinner. Everyone would have nothing to say, silently devouring the food in front of them—there was nothing more tedious in the world. Xiaosong's mother used to work in a factory cafeteria and was accustomed to cooking in large batches. She always made too much food, constantly refilling everyone's bowls and plates, terrified someone might leave hungry. That kind of enthusiasm was rare to see in America, and it had initially made Cheng Zheng feel warm.

Xiaosong's parents ran a grocery store in Chinatown, selling Chinese pickles, hotpot seasonings, frozen fish balls, and egg dumplings. They carried a strong odor of pickled vegetables. Every time she smelled it, she was reminded of her childhood when her mother would take her to state-run food stores, where salesclerks in sleeve protectors would stir enormous pickle vats with long-handled ladles.Xiaosong's parents had always lived within the Chinese community. Even after more than a decade in the country, they still couldn't string together a complete English sentence. For their family, immigration seemed to mean nothing more than loading their entire household onto a cargo ship, transporting it across the Pacific to the American continent, and finally depositing it in an apartment building in Queens, New York. Even if they'd been shipped to the Himalayas or Antarctica, they'd still be living in the exact same house. That home was like a tightly closed clam shell—not even a whisper of New York's wind could penetrate it. By the end of this month, she would be moving in with them. Just thinking about it made her feel short of breath. The thing she'd been resisting for so long was finally happening.

She took out a shrimp-colored dress from the closet, planning to wear it to tomorrow's cocktail party. The dress belonged to Lulu. It was classic Lulu style—deep V-neck, studded with glittering beads, cinched at the waist, with subtle lace trim along the hem.

While sorting through Lulu's things, she discovered many items that were actually hers. Glittery eyeshadow, tropical-style wide headbands, charm-covered bracelets, and pearl earrings. Lulu had preyed on her indecisiveness, always egging her on to buy things that didn't suit her, then quietly appropriating them after they'd sat unused for a while. The first time she found her own belongings in Lulu's room, she'd been shocked.

"In my heart, there's no distinction between us—what's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine. If you ever asked me for anything, I'd definitely give it to you," Lulu had argued.

As she packed everything into boxes, she kept a few of Lulu's clothes and a half-finished pack of Marlboro cigarettes.

She put on the dress and looked at herself in the mirror, faintly recalling how Lulu had looked wearing it before.

When she first arrived in New York, Lulu told her not to miss a single cocktail party, even if she didn't have an invitation. In fact, Lulu never had invitations. She would buy an art magazine, flip to the last page, find exhibition opening announcements that interested her, and jot down the times and addresses. Lulu had bought this dress specifically for one such party. That time, she had gone with Lulu. It was the only cocktail party she'd ever attended.

Lulu had weaved through the crowd with a cocktail in hand, nimble as a panther despite her 10-centimeter heels. She quickly identified who among them was important and went up to strike conversations. She discussed the paintings on the walls with them, along with recent popular exhibitions and concerts. All her opinions came from magazines and hearsay at other social events. But that was enough, Lulu said—the most important thing was never to praise anything, but to complain. Complain about how some restaurant's flavors weren't as good as before, how Broadway operas were unwatchable now, how that hidden bar in Brooklyn was overrun with foreign tourists. The other person would surely respond enthusiastically—New York's defining characteristic was that it gathered the world's most dissatisfied people.Lulu looked stunning, dressed in a dress that closely resembled the latest season's collection from Barneys, carrying a knockoff Celine bag. No one would have guessed she shared a cramped room in the Bronx. This kind of confidence was something Cheng Zheng could never muster. Unconsciously, she had already retreated to the edge of the crowd, standing alone in a corner, hoping not to be noticed.

Yet, she was noticed. First, a woman approached to ask where the restroom was. A while later, a man scanned the room and handed her his empty glass. To appear occupied, she pretended to study the paintings on the wall with intense focus, even reading the names and dimensions on the accompanying placards. Eventually, a Chinese boy in a baseball cap saved her. He walked over and struck up a conversation, remarking that she was the only one at the party truly appreciating the art. She worried he might ask for her thoughts on the paintings, but thankfully, he didn’t. They chatted for a while, and she gradually relaxed.

The gallery had invited important guests to dinner, and Lulu, having charmed one of them, left with him. Cheng Zheng and the baseball cap boy were among the few who stayed behind. They drank the remaining cocktails on the table, standing there talking until a waiter came to collect their glasses.

They went to a motel. The room was as cold as a freezer, the air conditioner dripping like it had a cold. When they made love, the boy kept a quilt draped over them, and Cheng Zheng felt as if she were in a pitch-black tunnel. Most of that winter was spent in such tunnels.

The boy’s name was Xiaosong. He hadn’t been invited to the party either—it was his first time at such an event, tagging along with a friend who had also abandoned him. She realized they were quite alike. And so, two discarded people found each other, unsure whether to feel sorrow or relief.

“You really have a talent for finding the most out-of-place person at a party,” Lulu said, exasperated.

“I’m not like you. I’m not someone who enjoys taking risks,” Cheng Zheng replied. Lulu loved thrillers—flings, murders, inheritances—while Cheng Zheng preferred long, uneventful films, like an old person basking in the sun, recounting trivial memories.

“I don’t think so. You like it deep down. Otherwise, why would you come to New York alone?”

Coming to New York alone was the biggest risk Cheng Zheng had ever taken in her life. Perhaps too big—it felt like gravity had vanished, and for a long time, she was in a state of freefall.

“Didn’t you come here to live differently from before?” Lulu pressed. “You said that yourself.”

Cheng Zheng shook her head. “Now I feel like everywhere is the same.”

Dating Xiaosong might have meant a full surrender to life. The only thing she insisted on was continuing to live with Lulu. Xiaosong disliked Lulu and had long urged her to move in with his family, but she refused. She needed Lulu, even if not desperately. Lulu was like a skylight, allowing her to occasionally look up and glimpse the ever-changing scenery outside—the scenery of New York.

She knew it was only a temporary state, yet she clung to it, like lingering in bed in the morning. Until one day, a deafening alarm jolted her awake.That was her first time dealing with American police. On her way home in the evening, she saw them standing below the apartment building. The blue uniforms made her inexplicably nervous, as if she were an undocumented stowaway.

The entire building was cordoned off. The door was wide open, the interior brightly lit and crowded with people. She desperately wished it was Lulu throwing a party at home. She sat on the sofa, waiting for the police to take her statement. They were still bustling about, moving in and out of that room as if something could still be salvaged. Numerous feet shuffled across the floor, carefully avoiding a dark shadow in the center. A deep plum-colored shadow that filled the periphery of her vision. She hugged her knees and buried her face.

The Singaporean girl who lived next door stood at the doorway, asking what had happened. The police told her a woman named Li Wenjuan had been murdered. He pronounced the three syllables of "Li Wenjuan" in flat tones, unfamiliar with the proper inflection. Li Wenjuan was Lulu's real name. Though she had never liked it, in death, she was still called by that name.

The police initially suspected a crime of passion—the perpetrator being the victim's new boyfriend of two weeks, a Russian man.

"Have you seen him before?" The officer waved his photo.

She shook her head. The man looked like he carried the chill of the Caucasus, aged and bearded. She remembered Lulu once had a bearded boyfriend.

"Never date a man with a beard," Lulu had said through gritted teeth after the breakup. "They're all savages, dark inside."

Before leaving, the officer said they'd inform her if there were new developments. But no call ever came.

The next day was the opening of Literary Week. Xia Hui had an afternoon lecture, and Cheng Zheng really wanted to attend, but Chen Bin sent her off to arrange the evening reception instead. Chen Bin was the head of the Chinese Association. He insisted the opening cocktail party must be dignified, yet asked her to switch to a cheaper champagne.

By the time she arrived at the venue at three in the afternoon, Xia Hui's lecture had already ended. It was tea break, and people were mingling outside. Xia Hui was talking to two women, holding a cup of coffee. She hadn't eaten lunch and was dizzy with hunger, hastily grabbing some pastries. Chen Bin approached with a grim expression, whispering that Xia Hui was upset—he disliked being scheduled after those two exiled writers, and the host had mispronounced his book title during introductions. He called it the worst literary festival he'd ever attended and threatened to cancel his media interviews and skip the evening reception.

"Go soothe his temper. The guest list for the reception has been publicized—if he doesn't show, we'll be humiliated."

"Me?"

"Yes. He thinks highly of you. Before his lecture, he even asked why you weren't there," Chen Bin said.

One of the two women left, leaving behind the one in a mustard-yellow tweed suit gazing adoringly at Xia Hui. Cheng Zheng recognized this Mrs. Yang—she'd shown up two days earlier while they were setting up the venue, complaining that Chen Bin hadn't sent her an invitation. Chen Bin immediately shifted blame onto Cheng Zheng, even reprimanding her in front of the woman. After Mrs. Yang left, Chen Bin remarked, "There are too many like her, social climbers in the Chinese community who think they're socialites."Cheng Zheng took two more pastries and a cup of coffee. The fruit tart tasted wonderful—the strawberries glazed with syrup brought a sense of bliss. A cold, piercing gaze shot toward her from afar, as if eager to knock the plate from her hand. She looked up and saw Chen Bin staring at her.

She stuffed the remaining fruit tart into her mouth, tossed away the paper cup and plate, then walked toward Xia Hui. She didn’t approach him directly but stopped at a short distance, waiting for him to notice her. His gaze swept past her before returning, settling on her with a look of pleasant surprise.

"You seem to have lost a little weight," he said with a smile as she approached. Mrs. Yang turned and, seeing her, looked puzzled:

"You two know each other already?"

"We only met for the first time yesterday."

Mrs. Yang’s mouth parted slightly in astonishment. Cheng Zheng quickly changed the subject:

"Did the speech go well?"

"It was brilliant. Just too short—we all wanted to hear more from you," Mrs. Yang said to him with a smile.

Xia Hui smiled and turned to look at Cheng Zheng. "You really should have come with us yesterday. That bar was amazing."

Cheng Zheng remained silent, staring down at her boots. The air between them grew heavy. After a pause, Mrs. Yang spoke up:

"Excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. I'll take my leave." As she walked away, she cast a disdainful glance at Cheng Zheng.

Cheng Zheng asked Xia Hui, "Did I interrupt your conversation?"

"Of course not. You rescued me. Couldn't you tell?"

"I thought you were used to handling any situation with ease."

"I keep reminding myself not to become like that."

"Why?"

"A writer must feel out of place in this world to write. If they were perfectly comfortable with everything, what would there be left to write about?"

"Writers are quite willful, aren't they?"

"That's not willfulness."

"Then what about suddenly canceling interviews and refusing to attend banquets?"

"Ah, so that's where this is going," he laughed. "I'd forgotten you work here."

"I just thought since you're already here, why not participate?"

"To be honest, I usually decline literary festivals of this caliber. This time, I only came to catch up with old friends." He crushed the empty paper cup in his hand and walked over to toss it away. "I have to fly to Paris tomorrow evening. My French edition just came out, and several major newspapers want interviews." He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. "I'd like to take half a day off. Would Miss Cheng grant me permission?"

"What authority do I have to grant permission?" she said with a smile.

"But I don't want to put you in a difficult position." His smile faded as he looked at her earnestly.

"It's fine. I'm just handling some miscellaneous conference tasks," she replied.

A staff member emerged, announcing that the second half of the meeting was about to begin and requesting everyone return to the venue. Xia Hui watched as people filed back in, then turned to her.

"Alright, I'm going to leave now."

"Now? You're leaving right now?"

"Yes, slipping away before they send another persuader after me."

"I'm not a persuader," she muttered under her breath.

"Alright, you're not." He put on his coat and adjusted the scarf slipping off his shoulders. He didn't leave immediately, lingering where he stood. She kept her head down, shifting her feet to align them within the square tile borders.

"Is this job important to you?" He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Hmm?" She blinked in surprise, then shook her head. "I'm just here temporarily to help out."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then why not come with me?"

"Where to?" She lifted her eyes.

"Let me think," he said. "Go get your coat. I'll wait for you at the main entrance."

After Lulu died, she took an extended leave, then quit her job at the community library. She used to be quite adept at memorizing numbers, able to recall the long codes on book spines effortlessly. But after Lulu's death, she suddenly couldn't remember anything. Long strings of numbers now filled her with agitation.She still lived in that apartment. She had agreed with the landlord to stay until the end of the month and promised to clean the place thoroughly before leaving. No matter how hard Komatsu tried to persuade her, she insisted on staying alone to sort through her things slowly. The landlord had already posted the rental ad, and people kept coming to view the apartment. They hadn’t read the newspapers or met the Singaporean girl next door, so they had no idea what had happened here. All they saw were the walls covered in Lulu’s Polaroid photos.

“She went back to her home country,” she explained. For a fleeting moment, she thought Lulu might have truly returned. Dying in a foreign land could be one way of leaving it behind.

When Chen Bin arrived, she initially thought he was another potential tenant. But he said he was looking for Lulu—her phone was unreachable, so he came to check in person. Chen Bin was part of a Chinese association responsible for organizing conferences and exhibitions related to China. Recently, they were planning a Chinese literature festival, and Lulu had promised to help out.

“Lulu rarely participates in such events,” Cheng Zheng remarked. Lulu had always looked down on any activities tied to the Chinese community, considering them tacky and outdated.

“True, but this literature festival invited many renowned writers,” Chen Bin said. “Including Xia Hui. You might not know this about Lulu, but she was quite the literary enthusiast. She’d read all of Xia Hui’s books and said she absolutely had to get his autograph this time.”

“I’ve heard her mention it,” Cheng Zheng said. She didn’t know why she lied.

“I can’t believe she’s just… gone,” Chen Bin’s eyes reddened. Cheng Zheng suddenly had an intuition: Lulu must have slept with him. They sat in silence for a while, mourning the departed. Before leaving, Chen Bin asked if she’d be willing to take Lulu’s place and help out.

“There’s compensation, though not much.”

Cheng Zheng agreed.

Komatsu was firmly against it. He was convinced anything related to Lulu was dangerous.

“I just want to see more people,” she said, unable to tell him how lonely she’d felt since Lulu’s death.

No one saw them leave the venue. Worried someone might follow, she walked quickly, with him trailing behind. The streets were nearly empty, with few pedestrians or passing cars. Piles of shoveled snow lined the curbs, resembling half-built snowmen. Two discarded Christmas trees lay beside a trash bin. She rarely visited Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and the unfamiliar streets carried a strange, stage-like chill. Listening to the footsteps behind her, she felt as if she were in a movie.

They crossed the intersection and entered Central Park. Expanses of untouched snow stretched before them. Their boots crunched through the thick powder, startling a squirrel that darted up a tree and watched them from a branch.

“Hey, can we stop?” he called out breathlessly from behind.

She halted and turned to see him dozens of meters away.

“Running so fast—we look like fugitives!” He hurried to catch up.

“Exactly. We are escaping, after all.”

“Why are you so excited? You seem even more eager to break free than I am.”

“Nonsense,” she pulled up her collar and fastened the top button of her coat. “Where should we go now?”

“Somewhere to sit for a while, maybe?”

“Then we’ll have to keep walking. There’s a café up ahead.”It was close to noon, and the café was nearly empty. A very old man sat in the corner reading The New York Times . When ordering, he let her decide for him. The waitress with a ponytail quickly brought their drinks—her coffee, his English tea.

"I was just thinking about skipping school when I was little," she said, tearing open a sugar packet and pouring half into her coffee.

"You skipped school? I thought you were always a good student."

"Only once or twice, really."

"What for?"

"No reason, really. There were two kids in my class who skipped all the time. I was curious about what they did outside while the rest of us were in class, so one day I followed them out."

"And? What did you do?"

"Nothing, I think. I don’t remember. I just remember running away like that."

He laughed. "So today is the same? I’m like that kid who always skipped?"

"Oh, I didn’t mean it like that," she said, glancing at him tentatively. "Were you?"

"Sure. I started skipping class in second grade." Seeing her surprised expression, he smiled knowingly. "Back then, classes were suspended for the revolution. There was no school to go to even if you wanted."

"What year was that?"

"1966. The whole country skipped school."

"It’s really hard to imagine. It sounds like another world."

"I’m someone who came back from that other world," he said.

"Ah, well." She picked up her cup and realized her coffee was already gone. The old man in the corner had left at some point, and now the café was empty except for the two of them. She felt a little dazed.

"Where should we go now?" she asked.

"You don’t want to stay here?" He squinted in the thick sunlight.

"It’s not that." She just felt they ought to go somewhere, so as not to waste the afternoon.

"Any ideas?" He leaned back in his chair.

"I thought you were supposed to decide."

"Hmm, but I don’t know this place at all. Every time I’ve been here before, friends took me around."

"Then why not visit one of them?"

"Which one?"

"Any of them. Didn’t you say you have lots of friends here? Sinologists, publishers, university professors… Just go see them. Don’t worry about me—I can sit quietly. That’d be nice. I like listening to interesting people talk."

"They’re all very boring."

"How could that be?"

"Really. Just as boring as the people at the literary festival. Didn’t we just escape from that?"

"But they’re your friends. You should feel more comfortable with them."

"I’m more comfortable like this. Don’t you think? We can decide later, okay?"

"Mm." She nodded.

After a while, he suddenly straightened up.

"I have an idea. Why don’t you take me to the places you usually go? Cafés, restaurants, department stores, supermarkets—anywhere."

"What’s there to see?"

"Then I’ll know what your everyday life is like."

"You’ll find it boring."

"I think it’ll be interesting. Just do what you’d normally do. Don’t mind me—pretend I’m not here." He waved his hand to signal for the check. "Come on, let’s go."She followed him out of the café. Would they do the usual things—buy day-old bread sold in bundles at the food stand by the subway exit? Sit on the zigzag fire escape downstairs from her apartment, spacing out and feeding stray cats? She wished this afternoon could be just a little different.

Going to Union Square was a compromise. It was a place she frequented anyway, with plenty of shops and used bookstores—still better than staying near her apartment, a dull, noisy, and crowded residential area.

They decided to take the subway. Though the station was a bit far, he was happy to walk—he insisted, exactly as she would on any ordinary day.

At the subway station, she stood in front of the ticket machine to buy his fare. He watched her red, round-bellied coin purse with admiration.

"So many coins."

She tucked the change inside, cinched the drawstring, and handed it to him. He weighed it in his palm, bouncing it lightly.

"Haven’t seen this many coins in a long time."

"Because you’re too rich."

"No, in China, coins are becoming rare. They’re practically obsolete."

"Really? That’s a shame. I love using coins—trying to make exact change feels like an accomplishment." She laughed at herself.

He looked at her, his eyes sparkling as if he’d spotted an unnamed asteroid in the night sky.

She went to the restroom while he waited outside the subway entrance. When she returned, a Black man was speaking to him. He kept shaking his head, waving his hands dismissively, his expression impatient. He’d misunderstood the man’s intent, assuming it was a request for money or a sales pitch, when in fact, he was asking for directions. She stepped forward and told the man how to get there. Xia Hui looked a little embarrassed.

She hadn’t even noticed he didn’t speak English. At the conference, there had been interpreters. The friend he met yesterday spoke Chinese. There had never been a situation where he needed to speak English—perhaps never at all. He was always shielded, never exposed to such awkwardness. His pride seemed wounded, and he stayed silent the whole way, trailing closely behind her like a child afraid of being left behind.

They emerged from the subway at the center of Union Square, surrounded by shops of all sizes, their windows plastered with the thrilling red letters: "SALE." She asked if he wanted to buy gifts for his family, but he said no. She pointed out a large department store, mentioning that the third floor had a great home goods section—she’d bought a few cushions and a lampshade there. Did he want to take a look? He hesitated, then said it was up to her.

She had never gone shopping for home goods with a man before, let alone a stranger. The feeling was surreal—two people with no shared life, browsing objects meant for domestic spaces: cozy, soft things, things meant for bedside tables, things meant to touch skin. She helped Xiaosong’s mother pick out a coral fleece pajama set as a birthday gift.Earlier, she had worried the afternoon would pass too quickly, but now it felt interminably long. She took him to a famous secondhand bookstore. Unable to read English, he showed no interest in the books and asked her to guide him to the Chinese authors' section. She found it tucked away in a remote corner, occupying just the bottom two rows of a shelf—one had to crouch to read the titles. Among them was one of his books. He mentioned three had been translated into English and asked her to look for the others. Kneeling on the floor, her hair coming loose from the search, she could only find that single copy.

“This is a secondhand store. If a book isn’t here, it means no one wanted to part with it,” she consoled him.

He nodded. “It’s a shame—this one, The Substitute , wasn’t translated well.”

Still, she decided to buy it and asked for his autograph. Later, they sat in the bookstore’s café. He flipped to the title page, pen in hand, and looked up to ask how to write her name, “Cheng Cheng”—which characters? A thought flashed through her mind: this book should have been Lulu’s. Though she could still inscribe it for her now, Cheng Cheng didn’t. She didn’t believe much in spirits—death meant the end of everything. So, Lulu didn’t need any keepsakes.

The sky darkened. They decided to have dinner. Though he insisted he’d eat anything, she carefully chose a restaurant inside Central Park. They took a cab back there.

The restaurant was lakeside, designed like a boathouse. By chance, a window table was available, overlooking the vast frozen lake blanketed in thick snow.

“You picked a great place,” he said, gazing outside. “Do you come here often?”

“Just once before,” she admitted with some regret. “If only we’d come earlier. Once it’s dark, you can’t see anything.”

When ordering, he again left the choices to her. She selected beef for him and cod for herself. As she handed the menu back to the waiter, he said:

“Let’s have some wine.”

They ordered a bottle of Chilean red. After tasting it, she nodded, and the waiter poured their glasses.

He raised his glass to clink with hers. “This afternoon has been very pleasant.”

“Really?” she said. “I made you walk so much.”

“Truly,” he replied. “Every time I travel abroad, my schedule is packed—meetings, speeches, rushing from one place to another. I’ve never had an afternoon like today—”

“So aimless, right? Not knowing where we were going at all.”

“Exactly—no purpose. People are always so driven by goals, and that’s why life feels exhausting.”

By then, the last light had faded outside. The lake lost its outline, leaving only a pale glow suspended in the night.

After a few sips of wine, his spirits lifted.

“Do you live alone or with a boyfriend?” he asked. It was the first personal question.

“Alone. I used to have a roommate.”

“Not living with a boyfriend?”

“How did you know I have one?”

“A feeling,” he said. “Or don’t you?”

“I do,” she nodded."But you seem like a very independent girl, with your own space," he said. "You're quite different from the young women back home—there's none of that restlessness or greed in you." He frowned with distaste, as if he had suffered deeply from it before.

"Sometimes I feel quite distant from this world," she smiled. "Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarius."

"Astrology again. Young people these days seem to really believe in it. Is it really accurate? Are all people just divided into a dozen or so types?"

"If God has to create so many people, He must need to number and categorize them," she said. "Like books in a library—each one is different from the others, but they're still classified and numbered. That way, when you want a particular book, you can find it quickly. And when adding new books, it's easier to avoid duplicates."

"You're amazing," he said. "Turning God into a librarian."

"I was just making an analogy..." she quickly explained, afraid he might think she was blasphemous. In her imagination, writers all had firm beliefs.

The waiter brought the main course. The beef and cod looked very appetizing, and they cut portions to share with each other. She felt she should ask him some questions, but her knowledge of literature was truly limited.

"When you write, do you need a very quiet environment, completely isolated from the world?" she asked.

"When I was younger, that's how it was. I always wanted to hide away in deserted places to write."

"And now?"

"Now I prefer lively places, meeting friends every day, having a drink or two."

"Shouldn't people prefer peace and quiet as they get older?"

"Maybe I'm not old enough yet. Or perhaps the older I get, the more I'll crave company," he chuckled. "I'm just speaking for myself, though. Other writers might not be like this."

"You're the only writer I know. Whatever you're like, I assume they're the same," she said.

"Then I'd better behave well," he replied.

She laughed, but he didn't.

"Sometimes I think, what's the difference between writing one more book or one less? It's all the same. I really don't have the ambition I used to." He gazed melancholically at the lake outside.

After a while, he turned back:

"I just remembered something from the past. Want to hear it?"

"Of course."

"When I was writing my first novel, my son had just been born. Our place was small, and for the sake of quiet, I went to live in the countryside for a few months. It was a desolate place, with only a few empty houses—rumored to have bad feng shui, so everyone had moved away. I wrote my novel there, going to the nearest village for meals in the evening. One day, after drinking, I tripped on my way back and rolled down a hillside. I was so drunk I just fell asleep there. When I woke up, I found myself lying on a large rock, facing a vast, boundless lake. It was just like a Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio story—waking up to find everything gone. At that moment, I didn't think of my wife or child. My first thought was, what about the half-finished novel? Was it all an illusion? Did it even exist?"

He sat there dazed, as if waiting to slowly return from the story. The waiter came over and took away their plates.

"Back then, I might have been a proper writer," he said.Two middle-aged men came in from outside, snow shaking off their leather shoes onto the floor. The fireplace crackled with flickering flames in the corner. The couple at the next table silently perused their menus.

"I know the feeling you're talking about," she said after a while.

Often, she felt like she was in a dream. Lulu wasn’t dead because she had never existed. The Xiaosong family didn’t exist either—she had never even come to America. All of this was a dream, and dreams were like long tunnels—you just had to pass through them.

On her way to the restroom, she followed a gap between the wooden floorboards, testing whether she could still walk in a straight line. In the mirror, her lips were stained black-purple from the wine, as if poisoned. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Xiaosong’s name flashed on the screen. She reached out and silenced it, feeling a faint thrill of satisfaction.

Xia Hui suggested grabbing another drink at the bar, and she agreed without thinking. She needed something sharp to slice open the dream, just enough to wake herself up.

Pushing open the restaurant door, the cold air swept away the alcohol on her face. Her heart, clenched like a fist, slowly loosened.

"Let’s walk out onto the lake," she said, turning back with lingering reluctance.

"Ice skating?"

"I just want to stand on it for a moment. Doesn't it look like an untouched piece of land to you?"

"Don't be silly, the ice will crack as soon as you step on it," he said.

A few beautiful girls stood on the street, the cold wind carving out their sculpted features, their blue eyeshadow tracing flickers of phosphorescence in the air. One of them approached Cheng Zheng and asked for a cigarette, shrugging her eyebrows in resignation at being under eighteen. Cheng Zheng handed her one, flicked the lighter, and cupped her hand against the wind. The girl held the cigarette between her thin lips, tilting her head toward the flame. She caught the scent of sweet orange perfume on the girl’s skin.

The other girls came over too, smiling at them. She gave them the nearly empty pack of Marlboros.

"Seeing these girls makes me sad," she said, watching them walk away.

"Why?"

"I feel old, and like I was never young to begin with."

"Little girl, you’ve barely started. There’s still a long way to go." He reached over and patted her head. Her eyes reddened instantly.

Moving from the lakeside restaurant to the bar felt like falling from the clouds into the mundane world. The dim lighting melted the snowflakes in their hair, and winter’s solemnity drowned in the flippant music. People shouted as if everyone was intimately close. Sitting there, they seemed out of place. Her coat draped over the chair, the phone in its pocket vibrating against her back like a heart about to leap out. She felt a pang of sympathy for Xiaosong.

Xia Hui gestured to the waiter for another bottle.

"You have a flight to catch tomorrow."

"It’s fine," he said, looking at her as if to say they had all the time in the world.

"You know," she downed the freshly poured drink in one go, "I have a friend who admires you. She’s read all your books."

"Oh?" He smiled faintly, as if accustomed to such praise.

She swirled her glass mournfully. "She should’ve been the one here. But me? I’ve never read your books. I don’t know anything about you."

"Isn’t that better?" he said. "Nothing stands between us."

"No. If it were her, she’d have so much to talk to you about."

"Silly girl, we don’t need words. Come here," he murmured, "sit closer."

She stood up, knocking over her glass. Stumbling forward, she was pulled into his arms. He kissed her, one hand gently stroking her back as if she were a cat. She felt her pulse hammering in her temples. The glass rolled noisily on the table. Wine dripped over the edge, splashing onto her boots. He whispered in her ear:

"Let’s go to your place, okay?"

"I don’t want to go back. Never again." She shook her head desperately.

"Why?"

She didn’t answer.

Cupping her face, he kissed her again. The wrinkles around his sunken eyes trembled with each ragged breath.

"Let’s go," he said.

She smiled faintly, picturing the hotel where he was staying—the revolving door, the chandelier, the closing elevator, the corridor lined with patterned carpet, ending at a tightly shut door. His room, like a mysterious drawer, slowly opening. Jazz drifted up from the bar downstairs—she had almost forgotten, an improvisation meant only for tonight.

"Woody Allen," she whispered."What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head. The black bill holder was already on the table. He took out mold-green bills from his wallet, and the waiter closed the holder and picked it up. She watched the waiter leave, his silhouette split in two by a slash of light. She was too hot, about to melt.

"Let's go," he said.

"Where?" she murmured.

She remembered getting into a taxi, kissing in the backseat. Part of her was acutely aware, like the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, staring brightly at her. She could even recite the apartment’s address and direct the driver down a few side streets, stopping precisely at the building. She also remembered fumbling with the wrong key again when unlocking the door. She took the old one off the keyring and flung it away.

After that, her memories grew hazy. It was as if she were alone, tossing painfully in bed, her skin scorching like iron, sparks flying. Until the unreal morning arrived, and she saw herself stumbling down the stairs. The sky was a merciful pale gray. A stray cat sat on the fire escape, eyeing her warily, as if she were a stranger.

Lulu approached from afar to meet her, wearing another black dress she had left behind, its long hem perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle.

"Let’s hurry, we’re running late," Lulu said, taking Cheng Zheng’s hand.

"Where to?"

"Don’t be afraid," Lulu laughed. "There are still so many places in New York you haven’t seen."

They walked for a long time until they reached the lake. In the middle of the water was a small island, dazzlingly white.

"We have to swim there. Can you do it?" Lulu turned to ask her.

She couldn’t swim, but it didn’t matter. She nodded.

With a splash, Lulu vanished into the water. She leaped in after her, following closely. Then a strange sound came from afar, like someone beating a drum. Before she could make sense of it, the sound coiled around her like a rope, pulling her in some direction.

Cheng Zheng opened her eyes to the sound of urgent knocking.

"Open the door! Open up!" Xiao Song roared outside.

She sat up and saw Xia Hui clutching a bundle of clothes, darting to the wardrobe, yanking the door open, and slipping inside nimbly.

"Open the door! I know you’re in there!" Xiao Song pounded the door with his fists.

Cheng Zheng jumped out of bed and pulled open the wardrobe door. Xia Hui was curled in the corner, his face buried in a hanging lotus-pink dress.

"That’s Lulu’s dress," she frowned, grabbing his arm and pulling him out.

"Get out," she said.

"Now?" Xia Hui looked at her in terror, pointing at the door. "But—"

She seemed not to hear him, dragging him by the arm toward the door.

"At least wait—" His face was deathly pale, almost pleading.

She yanked the door open and shoved him out. Just as she was about to close it, something snagged her foot—Xia Hui’s coat. She kicked it out and shut the door.

She returned to bed and closed her eyes. Xiao Song bellowed outside, as if grappling with Xia Hui. Gradually, the noise grew distant, like looking back at the shore, watching everything shrink into tiny black dots. She gazed ahead but could no longer see Lulu. The white island was about to disappear. She plunged into the water, arms slicing through, swimming desperately toward it.