Part 25 (1/2)

JUNE WAS A BUSY MONTH, and I tried to start the goodbyes early, so there wouldn't be such a rush at the end.

Qian Manli and w.a.n.g Dongmei were two young women from the local Bank of China who had always been particularly helpful, so Adam and I asked them out for hot pot on a Friday night. It was the first date of any sort I'd had in two years of living in Fuling.

We met them on Gaosuntang. Both of them had dressed carefully-very short skirts, very bright makeup, silk blouses, highlights in their hair. We hadn't expected that; Adam and I were wearing T-s.h.i.+rts and baseball caps.

The best hot pot places were on Xinghua Road, winding down toward the center of town, and the four of us walked past the open-air restaurants that lined the sidewalk. It was a warm night, with hundreds of people eating outside, and all of them stared as we walked past. Qian Manli and w.a.n.g Dongmei were very pretty women in their mid-twenties, and it was clear that they enjoyed the attention of going out with the waiguoren waiguoren-in fact, this appeared to be why they had prepared themselves so elaborately.

We chose a restaurant and took a table on the sidewalk. There was a hush as we arrived. The women ordered for us, and Adam and I started one of our Chinese routines, referring to each other as foreign devils, running dogs, and Capitalist Roaders. w.a.n.g Dongmei and Qian Manli laughed, as everybody always did when we peppered our conversation with Cultural Revolution insults and anti-foreigner remarks. We ordered local beer and it was nice to eat on the sidewalk, chatting and watching the crowd.

The incident with the video camera seemed far away, and I realized that one thing I would never forget about Fuling was its unpredictability-the way things could change so quickly, a bad day followed by a good week. The town wasn't simple, and neither was my role there; it would be wrong to say that I had failed in my efforts to make Fuling a comfortable home, and it would be just as inaccurate to claim that I had been entirely successful. There were good days and there were bad days. To some degree this was what I liked most about Fuling: it was a human place, brightened by decency and scarred by flaws, and a town like that was always engaging. For two years I had never been bored.

Today was one of the good days, and sitting there at the hot pot restaurant I felt completely comfortable with everything, the language and the crowd and the women at our table. It wasn't much different from a Friday night at home, hanging out with friends and joking around. And I liked the fact that Adam and I were also comfortable with each other's Chinese personalities-Ho Wei and Mei Zhiyuan were just as close as our other ident.i.ties. It seemed ages since our first semester, when we had avoided going into town together because it doubled the hara.s.sment.

After an hour I got up to use the bathroom, and I returned to find Adam and w.a.n.g Dongmei talking loudly.

”You're not married!” Adam said.

”Yes, I am,” she said, laughing. ”I was married two months ago.”

”You're joking!”

”No, it's true.”

”But you never said anything about getting married!”

”You didn't ask.”

”You can't be serious-you're lying to me.”

But she seemed sincere. I turned to Qian Manli. ”Are you married?”

”Yes.”

”I don't believe it!”

”It's true,” she said, smiling. She had a nice smile and very pretty black eyes, and I realized that in Fuling a woman like this would never make it past twenty-five without marrying. I had been a fool for ever thinking otherwise.

”Where's your husband?” I asked.

”He's at home.”

”What's he doing?”

”I don't know. Probably watching television.”

It was the same way with w.a.n.g Dongmei. Both of them were newlyweds who had left their husbands at home on a Friday night to go out with the waiguoren waiguoren.

I glanced over at Adam. At the beginning of the evening we had promised the women that we wouldn't speak any English, but now we didn't need to; each of us knew what the other was thinking. Regardless of how comfortable certain moments were in the city, life still wasn't normal, and never would be. That had always been part of Fuling's charm and there was no reason to be surprised by it now.

We stayed for another two hours. The best aspect of eating hot pot was that it took so long-it was a slow, lazy meal, perfect for a warm night out on the sidewalk. The restaurant had cold beer and we ordered a few. Everybody had a good time. After dinner we walked the women back to their apartment buildings. I was hoping that they would invite us inside, so we could meet their husbands-sort of like meeting a girl's parents when you went out in high school. But they just smiled and waved goodbye, and we caught a cab back to the college.

TEACHER LIAO WAS PREGNANT; she was due in July. In June she invited Adam and me to a farewell dinner. She gave us some calligraphy that had been written by her father-in-law, who was famous for his brushwork, and we gave her some baby clothes. she was due in July. In June she invited Adam and me to a farewell dinner. She gave us some calligraphy that had been written by her father-in-law, who was famous for his brushwork, and we gave her some baby clothes.

A couple of evenings earlier, the college authorities had invited all four of the foreign teachers and our tutors to a banquet. Mr. w.a.n.g, the waiban waiban representative, had always enjoyed making fun of Adam's and my Chinese, speaking with patronizing slowness and accusing us of not understanding. He sat at my table during the banquet, mocking me mercilessly, until finally Teacher Liao snapped at him. representative, had always enjoyed making fun of Adam's and my Chinese, speaking with patronizing slowness and accusing us of not understanding. He sat at my table during the banquet, mocking me mercilessly, until finally Teacher Liao snapped at him.

”Ho Wei understands what you're saying!” she said. ”We studied that a year ago. You don't need to talk to him like that!”

Mr. w.a.n.g laughed lightly, as he always did; but the point had been made, and I took great pleasure in watching this tiny pregnant woman set the cadre straight. It reminded me of the way she had defended Li Peng during our tutorial a year ago-it was the same fierce pride, and, despite being indirectly linked with Li Peng, I was happy to share in her loyalty.

She knew that I didn't like Mr. w.a.n.g because that spring I had been very open with her about my feelings regarding the waiban waiban and the English department. Teacher Liao's final a.s.signment had been to summarize my experience in Fuling, and I spent our last two cla.s.ses doing that. I was blunt-I told her about the things I didn't like, the administration's pettiness and the mocking catcalls in town, and never once did she try to defend any of it. But I spent most of the time talking about the good things that had happened in Fuling, and I said that by far my best experience had been learning Chinese and meeting people in the city. I told her that in particular I respected the way that she and Teacher Kong had extended their friends.h.i.+p as well as their patience; others wouldn't have done the same. and the English department. Teacher Liao's final a.s.signment had been to summarize my experience in Fuling, and I spent our last two cla.s.ses doing that. I was blunt-I told her about the things I didn't like, the administration's pettiness and the mocking catcalls in town, and never once did she try to defend any of it. But I spent most of the time talking about the good things that had happened in Fuling, and I said that by far my best experience had been learning Chinese and meeting people in the city. I told her that in particular I respected the way that she and Teacher Kong had extended their friends.h.i.+p as well as their patience; others wouldn't have done the same.

Those cla.s.ses ended in May, because of her pregnancy. My office was on the sixth floor of the teaching building, and I strongly recommended that for our final tutorials we meet in her apartment, or someplace else that was more convenient. She was not a physically strong woman, and it tired her to climb all the way up to my office.

But until the end she was very Chinese-it was appropriate for us to meet in my office, and so that was where we had cla.s.s. This had nothing to do with stairs or pregnancy; it was simply how things were done. It was the Chinese way.

In early May we had my last tutorial. She struggled up the steps, gasping for breath, and I gave her a couple of minutes to recover. As was true of so many Chinese women, most of her body remained thin throughout the pregnancy-it was as if somebody had sewn an awkward bundle onto her stomach. Finally she stopped wheezing and we began cla.s.s.

After thirty minutes she suddenly sat bolt upright, puffed out her cheeks, and rushed out the door. I could hear her getting sick in the spittoon outside my office, and then she hurried down the hallway to the bathroom.

I waited for her to return. A year ago, I would have a.s.sumed that she would cancel cla.s.s, but now I knew better-we would finish the two hours today. I knew exactly how she would act when she returned, and what she would say. And I knew that I would always remember this woman's quiet pride and toughness, and the way it had gone from being infuriating to something whose consistency was admirable and even comforting.

Five minutes later she came back. She smiled, blushed, and said, ”Duibuqi. Sorry.”

”Do you want to stop cla.s.s?” I asked.

”No. It is nothing-often at this time in the morning I am a little sick.”

”Certainly we don't have to finish today if you feel poorly.”

”It is nothing,” she said firmly. ”Now-please continue with what you were saying before I left.”

And I did.

I HAD MADE SOME MONEY from a story I had written for the from a story I had written for the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times, and I donated the payment to the Fuling Catholic church. I knew that Father Li had been looking for some extra cash so he could have a mural painted on a new wall in the courtyard, and he thanked me when I made the donation.

”Thank you for your kindness to me,” I said, shaking the old man's hand. We were sitting in his office, with the poster of Mao and Deng on the wall. Father Li gripped my hand tightly.

”We'll remember you after you're gone,” he said. ”I'll say a Ma.s.s for you.”

”Thank you,” I said, and then I thought of something. ”Could you also say a Ma.s.s for my grandfather?”

”Certainly. Write his name here.”