Love's Ambition

In the early morning, Lin Pei woke from a chaotic dream. He pulled back the curtains to reveal an apricot-gray sky, the moon hanging low like a small piece of burnt-out charcoal. The last day of the year had arrived. Tomorrow would be the new year.

He sat on the bed, recalling the dream. In it, he seemed to be embarking on a long journey, and a stranger came to the platform to see him off. Just before parting, the stranger suddenly rushed forward and pressed a handful of fennel into his hand. Standing by the window, he stared blankly at the figure’s retreating back as the train lurched into motion. In the dream, the platform bore no name, and the train was empty. He sat alone in the cramped compartment, unsure of his destination. Everything was vague—a rather crude dream. It was like being on a hastily constructed stage, where everything was declared fake from the start, with no intention of drawing you into the story.

Only the handful of fennel in his grip felt real—damp with sweat, exuding a pungent aroma, so vivid it was almost aggressive.

Dreaming of fennel meant something lost would be found—or so a superstitious ex-girlfriend had once told him. Not long after she dreamed of fennel, she was taken back by her former boyfriend. But her superstitions seemed to have rubbed off on him. He could no longer remember her face, yet he still recalled her bizarre superstitious claims.

Lin Pei sniffed the hand that had clutched the fennel in the dream and lit a cigarette. What could be recovered? He mentally listed the things he had lost—enough to fill several pages. For someone accustomed to loss, retrieving one or two items wouldn’t be anything special. Yet, after much thought, he couldn’t think of anything particularly worth reclaiming. For some reason, things that had once seemed precious now felt trivial in hindsight, as if they had dulled with time. He couldn’t hold onto them, but he could let them rust in his memories.

When the phone rang at noon, Lin Pei was in the back room of his studio, stoking the stove. It had gone cold again—who knew how many times it had broken down this winter. The wheat-straw pellets he bought were mixed with impurities, unable to burn completely, filling the room with black smoke. He set down the iron poker and pulled his phone from his pocket. Song Yu’s name flashed on the screen. Squatting on the floor, he watched it blink repeatedly before going dark.

He stepped out of the smoke-filled room and removed his mask. The studio was as cold as a giant freezer. Above him, two rows of incandescent lights hung bare, their sooty covers removed, exposing the stark fluorescent tubes that bathed everything in an eternal daylight, erasing all sense of time. This was why he liked staying in the studio—isolated, left to his own devices. Gradually, he had come to find a strange pleasure in this solitude.He walked over to the sink in the corner, unzipped his pants with one hand, and slightly raised himself on his toes. This sink was originally meant for washing brushes and paint palettes, but ever since the water pipe to the toilet froze and burst, he had also been using it to relieve himself. He watched as his urine washed away the remnants of cobalt blue paint by the sink, and then the remaining urine was rinsed away by the water.

A few days ago, Old Chen from next door had also moved out. The entire art district seemed deserted. The snow from last week still lay untouched by the roadside, and the stray cat no longer came to check its empty bowl in front of the house. As evening fell, everything was pitch black, desolate beyond words. When he left this place, he occasionally saw lights in a few windows, but the people inside were no longer those he had once known. They looked very young, probably fresh out of art school, sharing a studio among several of them, making silly sculptures and feeding a mangy mutt. Sometimes they called it Jeff, other times Koons—he couldn’t quite tell. It took him a long time to realize it was the famous Jeff Koons!

All the artists who had moved in with Lin Pei back in the day were gone now. Some had relocated to better places, others had changed careers. He couldn’t move to a better place, nor could he convince himself to change careers, so he remained here. More than once, he had noticed those young boys looking at him with pity in their eyes, as if he were something as absurd as the Cultural Revolution slogans still lingering on the walls.

He placed the kettle on the induction stove and took the tea canister down from the shelf. While waiting for the water to boil, he pulled out his phone and checked the missed call again. It was indeed Song Yu. A name he hadn’t heard in a long time. It must have been five or six years since they last spoke, maybe even longer.

Song Yu had been one of the earliest collectors of his paintings. In the years after he first arrived in Beijing, they had been quite close. Back then, Song Yu wasn’t as wealthy as he was now, and he himself was still a promising young artist. His first solo exhibition had garnered tremendous acclaim, with magazines clamoring to interview him, collectors eager to meet him, and auction houses scouring for his works. The future seemed bright, success and fame just a step away.

To this day, he still couldn’t figure out what had happened afterward. It was as if the wind had shifted overnight, and Lady Luck had turned her back on him. Before he knew it, everything had started going downhill. He racked his brain but couldn’t pinpoint the reason, so he attributed the turning point to a grain of sand.

On a windy day in April that year, a grain of sand had blown into his eye. He rubbed it hard a few times, and his vision became a blur. A hospital checkup revealed partial retinal detachment. The doctor prescribed medication and told him to rest at home. He lay in bed listening to the radio for a month, not painting a single stroke. Perhaps it was during that time that his talent had quietly slipped away. When he stood before a canvas again, he felt a twinge of disgust. No inspiration, no desire to paint anything.He began passing his time by dating and attending various parties. He also joined a wine-tasting club organized by friends, getting drunk once or twice every week. After living this dissipated life for a while, he was eventually forced to return to his studio to work because he had accumulated too many unpaid painting commissions. Later, several of his paintings failed to sell at auction. A few girlfriends left him. Several galleries severed ties with him. After these upheavals, his life returned to quietness, much like when he had first arrived in Beijing. The only difference was that he had developed a drinking problem.

He couldn’t remember exactly how Song Yu had drifted out of his life. Too many friends had left him during those years, and Song Yu was just one of them, disappearing from his world as quietly as all the others. The last time they had any contact, he recalled calling Song Yu, but Song Yu hadn’t answered—now, staring at Song Yu’s missed call on his phone, he thought they were finally even.

"Our future master," he remembered Song Yu saying with a smile. Back then, Song Yu had bought so many of his paintings and had more faith in his success than anyone else. So later, Song Yu must have been deeply disappointed in him. But that disappointment had come too quickly. He couldn’t understand why Song Yu couldn’t have waited a little longer (though, of course, history proved that waiting longer wouldn’t have changed anything)—within a year, Song Yu had sold every single painting he had once bought from him.

Businessmen would always prioritize profit—he understood that. He didn’t blame Song Yu for that. What he couldn’t accept, however, was that Song Yu had even sold the portrait he had painted of his son. To this day, he remembered every detail of that painting. The little boy lay sprawled across a table, staring at a spinning yellow top. Sunlight slanted in through the window, illuminating the right side of the boy’s face. That soft, fuzzy glow was incredibly moving, the brushwork so delicate it seemed impossible, capturing the sacred fragility unique to young life. He had spent nearly two months on that painting.

"I’ll never paint a better portrait than this," he had told Song Yu when he handed it over. "Amazing! This is pure Wyeth lighting! I’m going to hang it above the fireplace in the living room!" Song Yu had said.

A year later, "Wyeth lighting" was sent to a struggling little auction house and sold for 20,000 yuan to a businessman who sold hairy crabs.

His phone rang again. His frayed nerves made the ringtone sound louder than it really was. It was Song Yu again—coinciding with his most secret hope. Seeing that name, his emotions truly couldn’t settle. He admitted his feelings toward Song Yu were a little fragile, perhaps because of all the flattering things Song Yu had once said to him. God only knew how those enchanting words had flowed from Song Yu’s lips. But he had really believed Song Yu was different, that he understood him.

After all these years, Song Yu owed him an apology, or at least an explanation. Thinking of that dream about fennel, he answered the call with a faint curiosity about whether he might recover something.

Lin Pei brought a bottle of champagne, though he knew they wouldn’t drink it. Still, it was New Year’s Eve, and he wanted to appear cheerful, so he even deliberately wore a polka-dotted shirt. He had left a little early to get a haircut at a nearby barbershop. Just out of politeness, he thought.Song Yu had long since moved from his old place. His new home was somewhat remote, and it took him a while to find the Spanish-style villa district. It was already dark, and someone was setting off fireworks in the yard. The sky in the suburbs had a merciless vastness. The fireworks bloomed in the air like scrawny daisies. Laughter drifted from inside the house. He stood at the door for a moment before ringing the bell.

"How have you been? Are you free tonight? Come over to my place—there’s a New Year’s Eve party," Song Yu had said on the phone, his tone so casual it was as if they’d just met yesterday. Yet this simple, ambiguous opening somehow made it all the more intriguing. So even though he knew it would be cooler to refuse outright, he still said, "Sure."

He stood at the entrance, waiting for the maid to bring him slippers.

"We’re out of slippers..." A young woman with a short ponytail rushed out haphazardly. "Will these do?" In her hands was a pair of dark blue plush slippers with a grinning monkey face on the toes. Walking in barefoot would be impolite, so after a brief hesitation, he took the slippers.

"These slippers even glow in the dark," the ponytailed girl added. "When it’s dark, the monkey’s eyes light up."

The slippers were a bit small for him. He had to push his feet forward forcefully to keep his heels from slipping off. Following the maid, he passed through the foyer, where a pair of blue-and-white porcelain military jars stood, and entered the living room. He had expected the girl to take him straight to Song Yu, but she seemed to have no such intention, heading straight into the kitchen alone instead. Standing in the middle of the room, he glanced around, quickly scanning his surroundings like a drowning man grasping for rescue. Not a single familiar face. Strangely, he felt a wave of relief and walked over to the long table to pick up a glass of champagne.

Alcohol was something he had to be especially careful with. To quit drinking, he had spent some time in Yunnan. There, he played soccer, cycled, and hiked, exhausting himself every day and going to bed as soon as it got dark. Occasionally, he’d smoke a little weed, but it didn’t do much for him. After over two months of this, he returned feeling like a new man.

He didn’t plan to drink this glass of champagne—at least not now. He just thought it would be better to hold something, so he wouldn’t look too out of place. Most of the guests were businesspeople. He overheard a few discussing a real estate project. The women nearby chatting about skiing in Hokkaido were likely spouses, judging by their relaxed faces—probably all first wives. A painting hung on the wall, one of Dalí’s worst late-period works. He stared at it for a while before deciding to explore the inner rooms.

It was an even larger living room, with a dark red carpet patterned with floral motifs. On the long table near the entrance were plates of spaghetti, small sandwiches, and various desserts. A pot of plum-colored mulled wine simmered on an alcohol burner nearby. Guests balancing plates engaged in lively conversations, filling nearly every corner of the room. He recognized two women leaning against the wall—one was an editor from an art magazine who had interviewed him before, and the other worked at a gallery, though he couldn’t recall her name or the gallery’s. They didn’t seem to recognize him. He was a little hungry, but the thought of eating alone seemed too lonely. He decided to wait until he found someone to talk to.A burst of laughter came from the door behind him. It was Song Yu's voice—he recognized it, somewhat shrill and grating, especially when the laughter wasn't entirely genuine. He turned and glanced through the doorway. It was a small lounge for cigar smoking, with sofas by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He couldn’t see the people sitting there, only one man’s crossed leg and the gleam of his polished black shoes. Walking in now would draw everyone’s attention. He didn’t want that. Song Yu would probably come out soon—he’d have to greet the other guests at some point, wouldn’t he? He decided to wait. Unfortunately, the room didn’t even have a decent painting to look at. The two oil paintings on the wall were by the same artist, both depicting women in cheongsams—one holding a sandalwood fan, the other an oil-paper umbrella. He knew they were expensive but couldn’t quite grasp what made them special.

Returning from the restroom, he realized his champagne had been cleared from the long table. Empty-handed, he suddenly felt awkward. He had no choice but to pour himself a glass of mulled wine—spiced with apple and cinnamon, its rich aroma swirling in the air. But he wasn’t ready to drink yet, at least not before seeing Song Yu.

A little girl, about five or six years old, appeared out of nowhere, tiptoeing to the table. After a careful glance around, she suddenly stretched onto her toes, snatched a fruit tart, and stuffed it into her coat pocket. She was slender, with delicate hands and long legs—almost too thin. After standing frozen for a few seconds, she quickly grabbed another tart and stuffed it into her other pocket. After a pause, she launched another round, filling both pockets until they bulged.

She spread her fingers and meticulously licked between them, her eyes betraying an almost unbelievable hunger. Then she turned and dashed toward the inner rooms. Probably some guest’s child—hard to imagine what her parents were like. Her behavior was completely out of place in this house, at this party. Yet Lin Pei found some comfort in that, as if he’d finally found someone even more ill-suited to the occasion than himself.

"Hey, those are my shoes!" a sharp voice screeched.

He turned to see a boy glaring furiously at his feet.

"Your shoes?" he muttered.

The boy was around ten, bundled in a dark blue tracksuit, his obesity bordering on tragic. The sheer mass of fat surrounding him gave him an almost regal air—like a fallen king, captured and paraded in disgrace.

"Who told you to wear them?" the boy’s voice was piercingly high. Clearly, the fat had already clogged his hormone glands.

Lin Pei ignored him, picking up his wine and walking away. After two steps, he stopped and turned back. It suddenly struck him—this pudgy boy was Song Yu’s son. The very subject of his portrait.He stared at the child, trying to find a trace of the boy’s former radiance in that plump face—he had painted him before and knew every subtle line of his features. But the flesh swelling from all sides had nearly squeezed his features into oblivion. Heavy eyelids threatened to collapse the sockets, and the once-clear pupils were now reduced to thin slivers of light. On that portrait—the best he had ever painted—he remembered how sunlight had kissed the tender cheeks like a blessed miracle. The boy was bathed in a transparent glow, as pure as an angel. How had he become this? Every pore on his face oozed oil, and his gaze was fierce, like a butcher’s son. Growing up had been nothing short of a disaster for this child.

“Remember? I painted a portrait of you when you were little,” Lin Pei said. “The boy in that painting was much more adorable than you are now.”

“Who are you?” the boy snapped, irritated.

“Still eating so much?” Lin Pei pointed at the plate in the boy’s hands, piled high with food. “You can’t just give up on yourself…”

The boy trembled with rage, his entire body shaking.

A middle-aged woman, likely a nanny, hurried over, clearly searching for him.

“Dudu, come on now,” the woman said, taking the plate from his hands.

“Why is he wearing my shoes?”

“Enough, let’s go. Your mother and the others are waiting!”

She grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him away with force.

“You just wait!” the boy shouted back at him.

Lin Pei watched his round, thick figure retreat, a pang of sorrow in his heart. The beauty captured in the painting no longer existed. But soon, that sorrow was overwhelmed by a malicious satisfaction. They didn’t deserve to keep that painting anymore, he thought. Maybe it was even because they had sold it that the boy had grown into the complete opposite of the child in the portrait. This was their punishment.

Song Yu must have changed too. A sudden unease gripped him—what if Song Yu had also turned into something terrible? He considered leaving right then. But unwilling to give up, he finally decided to go in and see Song Yu.

Holding a glass of fruit wine, he strolled to the door of the cigar room, pretending to be drawn by the paintings on the wall before casually stepping inside.

“Ah, there you are,” he said with feigned surprise to Song Yu. Song Yu had indeed gained some weight, though not to the point of losing his shape. He now wore small round gold-rimmed glasses perched on his short, plump nose, giving him a somewhat cunning look.

Song Yu froze for a moment before recognizing him, then greeted him with a smile before giving him a meaningful once-over.

Lin Pei immediately became acutely aware of the oversized monkey-faced slippers on his feet—they felt like a colossal joke. He shrugged slightly, as if trying to shake off Song Yu’s gaze, then offered an awkward smile.

Song Yu turned to the others on the sofa. “This is Lin Pei. You all know him, right?”

The man sitting beside Song Yu lazily raised a hand. Lin Pei recognized him as the owner of a major auction house.

“We’ve met,” the gray-haired man in the single armchair nodded. More than met. Back at Song Yu’s place, Lin Pei had shared many drinks with him. The man knew nothing about art but had always pestered Lin Pei with questions, acting as if he idolized him.The other two continued talking with their heads down, as if they hadn't noticed Lin Pei at all. They were currently red-hot painters whom Lin Pei had seen at some exhibition openings—they must have seen him too. He'd even been introduced to them several times, yet whenever they met again, they still acted as though they didn't know him.

Lin Pei was seated in another single armchair, which was placed a bit farther away. He leaned forward slightly.

"So, how have you been lately?" Song Yu asked, holding a cigar lighter as he relit his cigar.

"Same as always," he replied.

Song Yu nodded without saying anything. It wasn't until Lin Pei noticed the sympathetic look in Song Yu's eyes that he realized how differently the phrase "same as always" could be interpreted. For him, everything being unchanged was the greatest comfort. But to Song Yu, it probably meant stagnation, a life devoid of hope. After a pause, Song Yu suddenly exhaled a cloud of smoke and said loudly:

"Oh right, you got married! Who was it that told me?" He sounded excited, as if he had finally unearthed some change in Lin Pei's monotonous life.

Lin Pei immediately felt his scalp tighten. This was clearly the topic he least wanted to hear about. For a long time, he had used whether people brought up this subject as a gauge to determine if they harbored ill will toward him.

"Don't underestimate marriage. Sometimes, it can be a new stimulus for an artist. A change in life circumstances might bring about changes in one's work too," Song Yu said with the air of someone offering sage advice. "So, have you felt any such changes?"

"I'm already divorced," Lin Pei replied.

"Oh..." Song Yu looked slightly embarrassed, then turned to the auction house owner and said, "See? Artists are more free-spirited than us. They marry when they want and divorce when they want."

The auction house owner looked at Lin Pei and smiled faintly:

"You make it seem so easy. For people like us, it would be a devastating blow."

"Devastating? More like losing half your life," the gray-haired man chimed in.

They all laughed. After the laughter died down, an awkward silence fell. The three men lowered their heads and silently puffed on their cigars. After a while, Song Yu said:

"Lin Pei, it's been so long since we last met. I really wanted to have a good chat with you. But we still have some matters to discuss here, so you see—"

Lin Pei looked at Song Yu, momentarily stunned, then quickly stood up. Just a second ago, he had still clung to that sliver of hope, believing Song Yu wanted to mend their friendship. That's why he had endured the awkward conversation, even when the topics became uncomfortable. He never imagined Song Yu would so bluntly dismiss him. Caught off guard, he couldn't even muster a casual remark to save face.

"Stay a while longer. They're setting off fireworks at midnight—really big ones," Song Yu called after him.

The wine glass remained on the coffee table. He hadn't forgotten it, but he didn't want to waste even a second retrieving it. He left the room as quickly as possible.

He shuffled back to the living room in those short slippers. There seemed to be even more guests now. A servant emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of sizzling chicken skewers, forcing him to press himself against the wall to let her pass. Even after she was gone, he remained standing by the wall, lost in thought. He replayed Song Yu's earlier expression in his mind and grew increasingly convinced that Song Yu had known about his divorce all along and had deliberately made him say it himself. But he still couldn't understand—had Song Yu called him twice just to see how far he'd fallen? To toy with him like a clown for a few moments before shooing him away? Had wealthy people really become so bored that they found entertainment in this? And he had actually believed Song Yu had a change of heart and wanted to apologize—what a ridiculous notion. He felt utterly ashamed of his own naivety. Bursts of laughter kept erupting from the cigar room. He was certain they were all laughing at him. Waves of coldness washed over his limbs. He needed to leave—just have something hot to drink and then go. He returned to the long table, poured himself another glass of fruit wine, and took a large, frowning sip.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

He turned around to see Song Xia. She was smiling at him:

"Hi."She wore a snug taro-purple dress, her long curls loosely pinned up into a voluminous bun. Her forehead was full and glowing, her eyeliner immaculate. After five years apart, every inch of her seemed determined to prove to him that she hadn’t aged—if anything, she was even more beautiful.

“I’m starving. Are you hungry?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “How about grabbing some food and taking it inside?”

He stared at her, dazed. She was so familiar that it almost moved him. Once again, he thought of Fennel’s dream—that revelation about loss and recovery.

Songxia led him down the hallway and through a half-open door. The room was a private space for tea and relaxation, connected to a bedroom. It was quiet, with only two middle-aged women chatting over tea at a table. They settled onto a sofa in the corner—so soft that they sank right into it, startling them both. The wine in his hand nearly spilled onto her, and she giggled.

He vaguely remembered a similar scene from before: the two of them sitting side by side on a sofa, eating. She had laughed beside him then, though of course, she hadn’t yet had those dazzlingly white teeth. It must have been at his place. But he had moved so many times during that period that he couldn’t recall which home it had been. They had dated briefly—or, more accurately, slept together for a while. He wasn’t sure which description fit better. From start to finish, it seemed neither of them had ever considered building a life together. At least, he hadn’t. But why? He couldn’t remember. In his memory, she had been a somewhat boisterous girl, fresh out of school, working at a gallery. They’d met through work, slept together after just a few encounters, and afterward met irregularly—usually after her shifts, sharing dinner before heading to his place to have sex. What had it been like with her? Sitting beside her now, he strained to recall (which, he supposed, was a testament to her current allure). Back then, she had been heavier, her face dotted with acne, her eyeliner less expertly applied.

That arrangement had lasted a few months. Then, when he tried to see her again, she was always too busy. After two or three rejections, he stopped calling. Occasionally, he’d hear updates about her: she’d switched to another gallery, sparked rumors with the owner, and left not long after. Beyond that, he knew nothing—nor had he ever been curious. Among the women he’d been with, she was one who left no trace. In his youth, he’d found her too unremarkable, but now he realized that was a good thing. At least she hadn’t left any scars.

In the end, he still couldn’t recall a single detail about their intimacy. He gave up. Strangely, that only made her seem more mysterious. Shifting between enigmatic and familiar, the pendulum of emotion swung back and forth, tugging at his heart. Every now and then, he lifted his eyes to steal a glance at her. Her profile was lovely, a small pearl on her earlobe casting a delicate glow. The night, he felt, was taking a turn for the better.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, hesitating over whether to explain his own presence. “Song Yu called me this morning…”

“I asked him to invite you,” Songxia replied.

“Huh?”

“I said it’d been ages since I last saw you, so why not bring you along?”"Oh, really?"

"He hosted a charity dinner this spring. I wanted to invite you too, but someone from his company called you and couldn’t get through."

"I was staying in the mountains in Yunnan for a while." He didn’t understand why, if she had wanted to see him so badly, she hadn’t just called him herself.

"In the mountains," she nodded. "Meditating every day?"

He shook his head. Songxia laughed brightly:

"Not copying Buddhist scriptures, right? It seems to be all the rage lately." She wagged her index finger. "Let me tell you, nowadays, the moment I hear someone say they believe in Buddhism, I immediately get a headache."

He smiled faintly.

"Is this your first time here?" she asked.

"Yeah. What about you? You seem very familiar with the place."

"It’s been a while for me too. Song Yu has been busy building his new palace—he’s hardly organized any parties like this all year."

Though he had no real interest in knowing, out of politeness, he asked:

"A new home?"

"He bought a courtyard house in the city center. After living in the suburbs for so long, he wanted to move back downtown. Ah, they’re all like that." She sighed, adopting an expression of deep concern for "them." "But that courtyard house is truly amazing after the renovations. Next time we have a gathering, it’ll be there. Actually, they’ve already moved in. It’s just because of the fireworks tonight that we’re out here in the suburbs. After the party, they’ll head back. Honestly, this place hasn’t been lived in for a while—it’s starting to feel a bit desolate. Can you sense it?"

Lin Pei had already zoned out. A question suddenly occurred to him: How did Songxia know Song Yu? Wasn’t it through him? He had taken her to Song Yu’s place once—just that one time, as far as he could remember. Not long after, she began making excuses to avoid meeting him.

Had the two of them gotten together? The thought lingered in his mind, making him restless. Why should he be bothered by this? He didn’t care about her at all, did he? Yet, the fact that they had continued their relationship without him, without even a hint of guilt—wasn’t that too brazen? Now she could talk about Song Yu so casually in front of him, even flaunting their connection. It was downright shameless.

Were they still together? Maybe. All these years, maintaining a secret affair. Or maybe not even an affair—just sleeping together occasionally. On the surface, they appeared as mere friends, with Songxia freely coming and going from Song Yu’s home. Were the jewels she wore gifts from him? Was the perfume she wore to his taste? There was no doubt that her beauty, in Lin Pei’s eyes, had taken on a different quality. But this vulgar, money-fueled allure could still stir desire. A surge of angry lust rippled through him. The only way to salvage this wretched evening might be to take her away from here. Yes, he had to leave with something.

When he picked up his glass again, he found it empty. But his unsettled mood demanded another drink. So he went to fetch another glass of red wine.

Songxia had cut the beef on her plate into pieces the size of fingernails. As she lifted them to her mouth with her fork, she took care not to smudge her bright lipstick.

"You don’t seem to come to these kinds of events much anymore," she said, glancing at him quickly, "especially after the divorce..."

He said nothing."The honeydew and ham rolls are quite tasty. I forgot to offer you some earlier. Would you like me to give you one?"

"No, thank you."

"Several of my friends know Lixin. Everyone was quite surprised when you married her..."

"Oh, really?" He could practically picture her wrinkling her nose while gossiping about him with others. Now he remembered why he had never considered spending his life with her. He despised the spiteful, gleeful way she talked about people—it made her seem unkind. (Goodness, kindness was actually his standard for choosing a woman. If Songxia knew, she’d probably laugh herself silly.)

"Honestly, a lot of people know Lixin’s true colors—a compulsive liar, always scamming money, long since unwelcome in this circle. This time, she owed so much to so many people. Everyone thought she was done for, but who knew someone would still... You’re just too easy to fool." Her greasy lips moved rapidly, her expression animated. When he didn’t respond, she sighed:

"You must have helped pay off quite a bit of her debt, didn’t you?"

"Consider it charity. I believe in good karma." He gave a self-deprecating smile.

"A while back, I saw her at a Western restaurant. She was wearing a ratty hoodie, no makeup, her hair all messy—looked like she’d aged a lot. Not that she was ever much of a looker to begin with. I really don’t know what you ever saw in her..."

His patience finally ran out. Cutting her off, he asked:

"Seriously, why did you ask Song Yu to call me here? Is there something specific?"

"Not really." She shook her head casually. "Just felt like it’s been a while, especially after hearing about your divorce. I was a bit concerned..."

"Wanted to see just how miserable I am?"

"Goodness, you’ve got it all wrong! I just thought we hadn’t seen each other in so long..." She hesitated, then finally added, "Also—last year, I opened my own gallery. It’s small, but I’ve already signed a few talented young artists. Maybe we could collaborate someday. I’ve been wanting to share this good news with you."

Seeing his puzzled expression, she smiled faintly:

"Remember? Back then, I said I wanted to open my own gallery someday, and you lectured me about not aiming too high. In your mind, I was probably destined to be a front desk girl at a gallery forever."

"First, congratulations on your gallery. Second, I honestly don’t remember saying that. Fine, maybe I did, but I didn’t mean any harm. If it upset you, I apologize." He paused. "But was this really the reason you were so eager to see me?" He was torn between laughter and exasperation.

"What else?" She blinked. "Oh my God! You didn’t think I still had feelings for you, did you?" Her voice was loud enough that the two women chatting at the nearby table turned to look.

"Of course not. How could I?" he said immediately.

Yet she still eyed him skeptically. Utterly mortified, he had no idea how to escape the awkwardness.

Fortunately, the door ahead suddenly swung open with a bang. The chubby boy stepped out."Why can't we set off fireworks yet!" he whined in a tearful voice.

"We told you, we have to wait until midnight. It's still early," his nanny replied, following behind with his down jacket in hand.

A little girl also emerged from the door, standing quietly behind the chubby boy like a ghost. It was the same girl who had stuffed the fruit tart into her pocket earlier—now the pocket lay flat.

"But other families are already setting them off!" the boy stomped his feet and shouted, his small eyes darting around until they suddenly landed on Lin Pei sitting on the sofa. He pressed his lips together and glared fiercely at him. The nanny recognized Lin Pei by the cartoon monkey on his shoes and quickly said to the boy:

"Come on, didn’t you want to go outside and see?" She grabbed one of the boy’s arms and stuffed it into the jacket sleeve.

"Stop following me!" the boy suddenly turned and roared at the little girl behind him.

The girl said nothing, staring down at her feet.

"How many times do I have to tell you, are you deaf?!" The boy shoved the girl hard. She staggered, nearly falling. As soon as she steadied herself, she inched closer to him again.

"Get back inside now!" The boy yanked one of her braids and dragged her toward the door. The girl let herself be pulled without a sound. He shoved her inside, and the door slammed shut.

The boy stormed off with his nanny in a huff. The moment they left, the girl slipped out again. Her braid had come undone, half her hair loose, and without her coat, she ran off in the direction they had gone.

"Who is that girl?" Lin Pei asked.

"Song Yu brought her back from the orphanage. She was abandoned by her mother shortly after birth," Song Xia replied, setting down a plate. "Got a cigarette?"

He took out a cigarette and lit it for her. She took a drag:

"It’s been six years now. At the time, Jufen thought she couldn’t have children. They wanted a girl, so they adopted one from the orphanage. Many of their friends did the same—it’s trendy among the wealthy. If you don’t adopt, it makes you seem less virtuous, like not bidding at a charity auction."

"They don’t like her?"

"They say she steals. Always stuffing cookies and candies from the living room jars into her pockets and hiding them under her bed. It’s not like they don’t feed her—it’s just her nature, like she’s possessed by hunger. Beating her doesn’t help; she doesn’t learn, doesn’t feel shame, just drifts around mindlessly. They suspect she might be a bit slow. She’s supposed to start school next year, but she barely knows any words. And then two years ago, Jufen got pregnant again and had a girl. Now this one’s even more of an outsider. But she’s already grown so much—they can’t just send her back. What a tragedy."

"That chubby kid bullies her like that all the time? And no one stops him?"

"Maybe she likes it," Song Xia shrugged, exhaling smoke. "Like I said, she’s not right in the head. Might even have a masochistic streak."

Lin Pei stared at her, horrified. Now he was certain he felt not even a shred of desire for her. His only wish was for her to disappear from his sight as quickly as possible.After that, he fell silent. She tried changing topics a few times, but no matter what she said, he just listened quietly without offering any opinions. Feeling disheartened, she stood up unhappily and said she needed to find another friend to discuss something.

Not long after Songxia left, the two women chatting at the table also departed. He was the only one left in the room. His glass was empty again. Truthfully, he didn’t understand why he was still lingering—until the little girl reappeared. Suddenly, he realized he might have been waiting for her. She came running in from outside, panting slightly. When she saw him, she stopped. For a moment, he almost had the illusion that she had been looking for him too.

She tilted her head and studied him, her gaze clear and unflinching.

She reminded him of someone.

Those slightly upturned eyes. The pouty lips. The resemblance was uncanny.

Yinyin—he dredged the name from his memory.

How old had she been back then? Not even twenty-two. A small-time model who had only been in Beijing for a couple of years, beautiful in a lonely way. He had loved folding her slender body in his arms, gripping her cool ankles.

The problem was, she had truly loved him. He had always suspected she got pregnant on purpose. She thought it would make him commit to her. But how could that be? It had been a delightful affair, he admitted, but he had never once considered marrying her. At the time, his career was at its peak, and there were plenty of remarkable women around him—any one of them would have been a more suitable match than her.

After a brief but intense fling, it was time to pull away. He made excuses—claiming he was swamped with work in his studio, then citing business trips—and avoided seeing her for nearly two months. The relationship seemed to cool off naturally. He thought it was over, until one day she suddenly showed up and told him she was pregnant. She begged him not to make her abort the child, even confessing that she had just had an abortion a few months prior and couldn’t undergo another procedure so soon. But his first thought was, why should he bear the consequences of another man’s mistake? Of course, he didn’t say that outright, but his stance was firm. “This is the most critical time for my career,” “I’m not ready,” “It would be irresponsible to the child”—he spouted plenty of such high-sounding words and urged her to get the procedure done as soon as possible. Looking back now, perhaps it was already too late. She kept delaying, naively believing he would change his mind.

They met a few more times, entangled in arguments over the matter, until the final time when he hardened his heart and said cruel things—“I will never marry you,” “The gap between us is too wide, we can’t even communicate,” “I don’t love you anymore.” Then he gave her a sum of money. She left and never contacted him again. He didn’t call her either, afraid of rekindling old feelings and getting entangled once more. Much later, when he was drunk, he accidentally dialed her number—only to find it disconnected. He took it as a sign that she had moved on and didn’t want to be disturbed by him anymore.All these years, it had never crossed his mind that she might have given birth to that child. Out of recklessness, caprice, or sheer helplessness, she had brought her into this world. But she couldn't take her any further—because she herself was still a child. She had abandoned her. And he had never once considered this possibility.

Until now.

He stared at the girl. A swan-like neck, slender hands and feet. The natural frame of a model.

"Come here," he said to her in a hoarse voice.

The girl walked over and stood beside his legs.

"Is it cold outside?" He hesitated for a moment before reaching out to touch her nose, red from the chill.

She didn't resist. Instead, she smiled.

He smiled too, tears nearly falling. Lowering his head, he took her cold little hands in his.

"Tell me, what's your name?"

"Qiqi."

"Qiqi," he repeated.

"Hmm?"

"Qiqi, are the fireworks outside pretty?"

"Pretty," she answered mechanically.

"You like watching fireworks, don't you?"

"Mhm." She nodded, absentmindedly flipping his hand over and poking his palm with her fingertips. She seemed inexplicably curious about him. Inexplicable—yes, blood ties were something beyond explanation.

Her body leaned lightly against his leg. He held his breath, intently focusing on that tiny point of contact, so warm it broke his heart. He didn't dare move, afraid she might pull away immediately. His leg began to go numb, losing sensation.

After playing by herself for a while, she seemed to grow bored and let go of his hand.

"Do you want to see Uncle do a magic trick?" Worried she might leave, he quickly offered.

She nodded, showing no particular excitement.

He performed the trick where he pretended to pull off his thumb and reattach it. His movements weren't fast enough, making him seem a bit flustered. She watched quietly until he finished, her face expressionless. It was unclear whether she hadn't understood or simply found it uninteresting.

As he pondered what else he could do to please her, he suddenly noticed her attention had been drawn to the food on the table—a fruit tart left by Songxia. The strawberries on top had been eaten, leaving only the bare crust covered in thick custard. She stared at it unblinkingly, her gaze growing increasingly fierce, transforming in an instant into a wild beast. Just like before, she swiftly reached out and snatched the tart, her movements as quick as a frog catching insects. Without even glancing at it, she stuffed it into her right pocket. Then, the softness returned to her face.

Watching this, his heart ached as if cut by a knife, and he repeatedly repented in his mind for the wrongs he had committed, the harm he had ignored. He recalled the last time he saw Yinyin. When he spoke those cruel words to her, they were still in bed, having just made love. Every time they met, they had to make love—it had been that way from the start, like some kind of ritual, even when they met for the last time to discuss the abortion. At that point, making love might have been harmful to her body, but as a man, he could easily pretend not to know. And because he knew their relationship was coming to an end, he greedily demanded her body, desperately thinking he would never enter it again, never again, his mind filled with thoughts of destroying it. In the violent, extreme coupling, he reached an unprecedented climax. Then he calmed down and got up to shower. When he returned, he took out the money he had prepared and said those terrible things to her. As he spoke, she sat on the edge of the bed, naked, her back to him. Her neck looked unusually thin, evoking an impulse to snap it. She was so delicate, so fragile, as if she existed solely to be hurt. For a brief moment, he did realize the harm he was causing her, but then he felt as though this harm was something inherently hers. Inflicting it upon her carried a cruel kind of beauty.Now he believed it was all retribution. Shortly after she left, a series of changes occurred in his life. That pivotal grain of sand had blown into his eye. The disappearance of inspiration. A sudden turn of fate. Friends drifting away. Everything was retribution. Even Songxia's betrayal and his absurd marriage with Lixin.

He had cast aside Yinyin to chase a better future. In the end, Yinyin was gone, and the better future never came. Left with nothing, he had become utterly empty.

No, he still had her. He looked at the girl before him. He still had her. He would take her away. A firm voice inside him said, take her away from here.

If all the misfortune before was because he had lost her, now that he had found her again, it meant reconciliation with his past life. Everything would start anew.

He leaned closer to the girl and asked in a hushed voice:

"Have you ever seen fireworks shaped like animals?"

She shook her head.

"Do you want to see them? Uncle can take you."

"Okay," the girl replied in a soft voice, still devoid of any emotion.

As he stood up, he felt a wave of dizziness. It was a feeling of being enveloped in happiness. He still couldn’t quite believe it—he had found something far more precious than he had ever imagined.

They left the room. Walking down the corridor, the large living room where food was served lay ahead.

From afar, the clamor of voices could be heard—loud and chaotic. Bright light spilled out from the doorway.

He stopped in his tracks.

"Listen," he bent down to look at the girl, "the place where we can see animal-shaped fireworks is a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Uncle can only take you there alone. If we run into others and they find out where we’re going, they’ll all want to come with us, and that would be terrible. So we can’t let them see us."

He watched her face for a reaction, worried that he had made it too complicated and she hadn’t understood. He explained again:

"We have to sneak out quietly..."

"Garage," she said.

He paused, then tried to confirm:

"You mean we can go out through the garage?"

She nodded.

"Perfect, can you lead the way?"

Just as they were about to head toward the other end of the corridor, the ponytailed girl who had handed him slippers came walking toward them from that direction.

He quickly lowered his head, patting his pockets as if searching for a lighter.

"What are you doing standing here?" the ponytailed girl said to the child. "Be careful, don’t let me catch you stealing food again!" Without stopping, she walked straight into the living room.

He exhaled in relief and put the lighter back in his pocket. When he came to his senses, he realized the girl was looking up at him. Her gaze was bright and intense, leaving him nowhere to hide. She must have seen the panic on his face, and the thought filled him with shame. Her emotionless calm unsettled him—he had no idea what she thought of him. He was afraid her curiosity and trust in him would suddenly vanish. Children were like that, weren’t they? Easily swayed by novelty? He wasn’t sure; he had almost no experience with children."Let's go," the girl said, naturally taking his hand. They reached the other end of the corridor and descended the stairs there. The wall sconces cast small pools of orange light, and the wooden steps creaked beneath their feet. Her hand grew slightly slippery from his sweat, and he gripped it tightly, afraid it might slip away like a little fish.

"You've definitely never seen fireworks like that," he said, raising his voice. "They don’t disappear in the sky—they just float there. Some are green rabbits with long ears, others are pink elephants spraying water from their trunks..." She watched as he gestured with one hand. Though her expression remained unchanged, her steps quickened, as if eager to see them sooner.

"And zebras and giraffes, walking across the sky, now here, now there... so more children can see them," he said.

For a brief moment, he seemed to hallucinate—seeing her running across a hillside, clutching a bouquet of pale purple wildflowers. He couldn’t help but start imagining their future life. He wanted to take her to a distant small town with clean skies and sweet water. He should have left Beijing long ago. That he hadn’t wasn’t so much reluctance as fear—fear of abandoning the life he’d built, one that had turned out so bleak. Now, she gave him the courage to choose a different path. No, his career wouldn’t be wasted. He had a feeling he’d rediscover the joy and inspiration in painting.

The girl stood on tiptoe and flicked a switch on the wall, turning on the lights in the basement. It was much colder down here. He realized he was only wearing a shirt—his coat had been left on the sofa, and there was no going back for it now. Yet the thought of walking out into the freezing snow dressed so lightly excited him. It matched his mood perfectly—a sense of recklessness. Yes, he was doing something reckless: stealing her away from here.

The basement had a high ceiling, and its pretentious owner had turned it into a small-scale library. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls, filled with art books and literary classics. The thick musty smell in the air suggested no one had been here for a long time. The house truly had an abandoned feel.

To the left of the study was a narrow hallway. At the end stood a door.

"There," she said.

He unlocked the door, revealing a garage. But there were no lights, and he couldn’t see a thing. It was unnaturally cold, like an icehouse. He pulled out a lighter, cupping the flame as he peered inside. The space was larger than expected—big enough for two cars. But now it was crammed with cardboard boxes and plastic sacks, leaving no room to step. Through the towering stacks, he spotted a metal roll-up door at the far end—the way out. But those electric doors were controlled by remote keys. Without one, there was no way to open it."We'll definitely get out, don't worry." He turned to the girl. Would she know where the key was? No, he couldn't let her take the risk alone. Should they force the door open? Struggling to hide his panic, he forced a smile at the girl:

"Don't worry, those animal-shaped fireworks are still there, they won't disappear... What's your favorite animal?"

"Bear," she answered slowly.

"Yes, of course. The chubby ones with round bellies, right? Their fur is gray, sometimes white. You'll see them floating in the sky soon..." He wanted to check the rolling shutter door. But first, he needed to move those boxes. He was almost decided, but what good would going empty-handed do? He needed tools at least... In such a big house, where could he find tools?

"Damn it, what time is it now?" he muttered. Once the midnight fireworks ended, people would start leaving. Wouldn't the Song Yu family return to their city courtyard house? They'd soon notice she was missing. Pacing like a caged animal, he breathed heavily.

The girl stood quietly, twisting her fingers. He didn't even have the heart to continue telling her stories. Exhausted, he leaned against the door and took out a cigarette. Clenching it between his teeth, he flicked the lighter repeatedly. In the flickering light, he suddenly noticed a smooth metal box embedded in the opposite wall near the baseboard. Painted white, it was nearly invisible. Opening it, he saw a row of ordinary orange-red circuit breakers. At the far end, separated from them, was a deep blue round button. That's it—he had a strong hunch it could open the electric door. But what if it wasn't? What if it controlled some upstairs power source? Pressing it might plunge the place into darkness, and someone would come to investigate. They'd be discovered. Staring at the button, he realized he had no choice but to gamble. He reached out and pressed it.

The rolling shutter door rose. A rush of cold air hit them.

"My God, we can get out!" he shouted excitedly to the girl.

The girl looked at him, and for the first time, a faint hint of joy seemed to flicker across her perpetually expressionless face. If they hadn't been in such a hurry to leave, he would have hugged her tightly.

"Come on, sweetheart, let's go," he said gently. She took a few steps forward, following him. Cupping the lighter's flame, he walked deeper into the garage.

As he moved a large box aside, he heard a loud "bang." The door behind him had shut. Then came the creaking sound of the rolling mechanism. Before he could process what was happening, the shutter door had fully closed. The wind stopped.

"Qiqi?" No answer. He was alone in the solid darkness.

It took him a moment to understand his situation: he was locked inside the garage. Just him. The girl wasn't there.What on earth was going on... His head throbbed violently, making it impossible to think straight. Groping his way back to the door, he twisted the handle with all his might. But it was locked. After struggling fruitlessly for a while, he finally stopped and pressed his face against the door, listening to the sounds outside. Faintly, he heard a girl's laughter—bright and carefree. He never thought she could laugh like that. The mental image of her smiling like that pained him. Then came the fat boy's laughter—a high-pitched, spine-chilling cackle.

They were laughing together. Laughing hard. Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha ha ha.

He could barely breathe, frozen against the door. He felt their laughter rolling over his back like a crushing weight.

After a while, accompanied by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, the laughter gradually faded away.

He kept his head down until the wave of dizziness passed.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed two pairs of glowing eyes staring up at him from below—cold and eerie.

Looking down, he saw the two grinning monkey slippers on his feet. Their fluorescent green eyes were wide open, their shiny mouths stretched into broad smiles.

Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha ha ha.

His ears were filled with laughter, indistinguishable now—whether it was the girl's, the boy's, or the monkeys'.

Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha ha ha.

Then, from outside, came the violent crackling of firecrackers. Midnight had arrived. Standing in the darkness, he imagined fireworks shooting into the sky, bursting overhead, revealing bizarre and ever-changing shapes. He could almost see them suspended mid-air, motionless, as if someone had hit the pause button. What kind of animals did they resemble? He strained to identify each firework. There must be some special meaning behind seeing animal-shaped fireworks—he suddenly wished he could ask his superstitious ex-girlfriend.

Amid the deafening explosions of firecrackers, he slumped against the door and sat on the floor, trembling as he lit his last cigarette.

[1] Jeff Koons (1955–), an influential contemporary American pop artist, regarded as the most significant pop artist after Andy Warhol.