chutzpah 天南

THE AIR SMELLED of trash. A dead rat lay pasted to the middle of the road, flattened by car wheels. The rain washed garbage from the nooks and corners, and it collected on the sewer grates—plastic bags, wrapping paper, wutong leaves, disposable containers—their wet surfaces reflecting the dawn.

A pair of flip-flops squeaked. With every step Zhang Yingxiong took, the bottoms of his feet slipped a bit against the plastic soles. He turned and caught sight of Lu Shanshan. She was near the frybread vendor’s cart, holding a transparent plastic pouch stuffed with what looked like hundred-yuan bills. Zhang put his hand in his pocket and fingered his switchblade. He walked half a meter behind Lu Shanshan, pretending to watch as the vendor sprinkled on sesame seeds, shaking the jar like dice so they scattered over the half-burnt, scallion-dotted frybread.

Lu Shanshan craned her head forward to bite into the frybread. It shattered and crumbs tumbled down her front. She kept brushing her mouth and clothing. Zhang followed right behind as she crossed the street and stopped in front of an iron gate to an alley. She pushed at the gate but it didn’t open. She stood there and focused on eating her frybread. Zhang pretended to swat at a fly, grabbing at the air with his left hand and flicking with his right, while he made sure there was no one else around. He held the switchblade in his pocket, feeling its shape, rubbing it against his pant leg, as he walked toward her.



EVERYONE SAID THAT Zhang Yingxiong had grown into an elegant young man. His father, Zhang Suqing, would retort: “Elegant my ass. He’s like an embroidered pillowcase over a bag of straw.” Zhang Suqing liked to set up a small table by the door with a pot of braised pork and three bottles of erguotou, and would make his son sit there with him.

Zhang Yingxiong gulped down a shot of liquor and his face turned red.

“You worthless shit.” Zhang Suqing made a fist and thrust out his arm. “Here, get a load of this.”

Zhang poked at the arm with his finger.

“What do you think?”

“Hard as a rock.”

“With muscles like these, nobody’s going to try anything on me.”

After they’d had quite a bit to drink, Zhang Suqing would grab his son from behind by the armpits, trying to swing him as though he were still a child. Sometimes, still unhappy despite all his drinking, he would slap Zhang Yingxiong on the side of his head—wham wham wham—until his glasses flew off. Zhang Yingxiong would run away and squat down to look for his glasses, pretending not to find them. Zhang Suqing would soon forget that he was angry and propose a loud toast: “Son, come have some meat!”

Zhang Yingxiong’s mother, Feng Xiujuan, urged him to not to eat too much meat, but Zhang Suqing told her: “Who says eating meat isn’t healthy? Chairman Mao ate meat his whole life and he lived until he was over eighty. I won’t last that long, but I’ll at least make it to seventy.”

The pork was greasy, covered in soy sauce and stewed until the flavor was overwhelming. There was also a plate of sweet and sour fish. A stray cat caught scent of it, and he started to meow frantically and jumped up onto the windowsill, scratching at the window railings. Zhang Suqing stuck his chopsticks into the fish and teased the cat, jabbing the fishy tips of the chopsticks at his eyes. “Worthless shit, he won’t even catch rats for me.” He spoke as though lecturing another son.

The old Zhang residence went back to Zhang Suqing’s grandfather’s generation. The rats that burrowed through the sewers were fine specimens, indolent and completely unafraid of people. One of them ran along the foot of the wall, starting and stopping, at first glance looking like a windblown ball of fuzz. The ants colonized the ground, the concrete was sticky, and a bluish mildew grew all over the backs of the furniture. Zhang Yingxiong was often startled awake by rainstorms, as the rain would seep through the roof to drip onto his face and ting into the dishes left on the table from the night before.

Zhang Suqing would say: “Zhang Yingxiong, that worthless shit—he can’t even buy his old man a new place.”

The neighborhood’s few dozen two-story buildings formed a little valley surrounded on all sides by high-rises. Zhang Yingxiong often went up to the top of one of the high-rises to peer down on his home. It was a mess of tiled roofs, and underwear, strips of meat, and rags were hung out to dry on the electrical wires. The cheap green corrugated PVC roof panels were scratched and faded gray from being out in the elements. Under the awnings were the backsides of air conditioners and little ads for ID cards written in red paint. The white sign with black lettering, “Old Yu’s Barbershop,” belonged to the Zhangs’ next door neighbor. Old Yu would cut Zhang Yingxiong’s hair and hack at his sideburns, and as he helped him up from the stool, he would say with a laugh: “Kid, I really shouldn’t take your money.” Zhang would pull a ten-yuan bill from his pocket. Old Yu would resist for a moment, then take it.

Old Yu’s younger daughter’s husband was the head of the neighborhood Tourism Bureau. Zhang Suqing said to him: “Old Yu, when are you going to help us out? I’d like to take a trip or two, see America.”

Old Yu said with a smile: “He doesn’t do America, just this neighborhood.”

“What’s there to see in our neighborhood—a bunch of old hovels?”

Old Yu laughed and brushed a towel across his leg. It was the towel he used for washing feet and shaving heads.

Last December there’d been a rumor that they all might have to move. First only a few people were talking about it, then everyone was. Men and women, wringing their hands, hunching their shoulders, gossiping under the eaves. Talk was that a Hong Kong businessman had bought their land for three hundred million yuan, and then it was said that it wasn’t three hundred million, it was one billion.

Zhang Suqing went hoarse from so much chatter, so he’d gone to bed and only talked to Feng Xiujuan. He wanted to buy a new place in Baoshan, ideally right on the subway line. Feng Xiujuan said: “You were laid off, I’m retired, why do we need the subway? I just work temporary jobs now, and I can get everywhere by bicycle.”

Zhang Suqing said: “Hey son, what kind of place would you get?”

After he’d been asked twice, Zhang answered with an irritating sluggishness, “Doesn’t matter so long as it has a toilet.”

Zhang Suqing said: “That’s all you can hope for, you worthless shit.”

He started chattering at his wife again, and the more he talked, the more worked up he got. He called his sister Zhang Sujie. She said: “The first thing is to think about getting a decent relocation compensation fee. If money’s tight, you won’t be able to buy any kind of apartment at all.” Zhang Suqing hung up on her and waited until she called back. Then they continued to discuss the matter for more than an hour.

The next morning at dawn, Zhang Suqing hurried to the police station. At 8:30, the officer working the Residence Permit Bureau window came in leisurely. She’d gone to the bathroom, made some tea, and straightened up her desk, and now she squinted at him and asked, “What do you want?” As soon as she heard he wanted to change his residence permit, she said: “That service is frozen for this area.”

“There’s no way to do it? No way at all?” Zhang Suqing pestered her fruitlessly for a while, then stalked to the corner, scratching his scalp ferociously until it hurt. He left to find a convenience store, and he had to go to seven or eight in order to buy three packs of Zhonghua cigarettes. He went back to the police station to find that the officer had gone out to lunch. When she finally came back at 2:30, Zhang Suqing pressed against her window and passed the cigarettes through.

“What’s this for?” the officer said, looking nervously at her coworkers to either side. “Take them back, take them back!”

“Help me out, comrade!”

The officer pushed the cigarettes back out, then stared at her computer screen, refusing to look at him. Zhang Suqing sat dejectedly on a bench by the door, watching the people coming in and out. Then his eyes caught on a silk banner hanging on the opposite wall. It said in gold characters: “ Our gratitude to comrade Zhang Yingxiong for his great public service.” Zhang Suqing’s heart leapt a beat, but when he looked at it again, he saw that it said “Zhang Yinghao” and not “Zhang Yingxiong.” He slumped back in disappointment, resting the boxes of cigarettes on his thigh, twisting his white gloves between his fingers.

When three o’clock rolled around, he was so hungry he went out for a bowl of noodle soup, and then slowly made his way home. At the entrance to the alley, he bumped into Zhang Yugen. “Have you applied for a new residence permit?” he asked her.

“There’s no time to do it now. We’re planning to clean up the old pigeon coop and put a bed in it.”

“That’s illegal.”

“We’ve made good with the right people, and calculated out the living space. You can come over and have some pigeon with us.”

“No thanks.”

“Pigeon is very nutritious. Besides, we can’t eat a whole pigeon coop’s worth of meat—it’ll go to waste.”

“Nutritious my ass.”

“Hey, why are you pissed at me? Do you know how many new residence permits Old Yu got? Eight.”

Zhang Suqing turned and headed to Old Yu’s house. He banged on the door.

Someone called from inside: “Who is it?”

“Me.”

“What is it?”

“You didn’t bother to fucking tell me? What kind of man are you?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you got so many new residence permits—why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t get any permits.”

“You get yourself eight permits and you still say you didn’t get any! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Residence permits are a matter of timing. If you wait until you’ve heard something, it’s already too late. You shouldn’t blame other people just because you didn’t plan ahead.”

“Am I blaming you? I’m just mad at you for not telling me what you knew.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything.”

“If you didn’t know anything, why did you apply for new residence permits?”

“Everyone has to figure this stuff out for himself.”

“If you don’t know anything, how can you figure it out?”

After that, the Yu house was quiet, cutting off the argument.

Zhang Suqing beat at the door: “Come out here and talk to me face to face.”

“It’s chilly out. I have a cold.”

Zhang Suqing grabbed the “Old Yu’s Barbershop” sign and furiously ripped a hole in it before he went home. He couldn’t eat a thing, and instead opened a pack of Zhonghua cigarettes and lit one up. “Damn it, that convenience store sold me fakes.” He smoked one after another.

Feng Xiujuan said: “Fake or not, you spent real money on it. How can you stand to smoke such expensive stuff?”

Zhang Suqing said: “A new residence permit costs a few hundred thousand kuai. That would buy a truckload of Zhonghua cigarettes.”

“What are we going to do?”

“If you have to ask that, what is there to do?”

When he was done smoking, he lay down in bed depressed with his head pounding. When he got up his fingers were numb. After a while he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he went to the local emergency room, where they found that his blood pressure was up at 160. He was prescribed an imported high blood pressure medication that cost more than three hundred yuan. He crumpled up the prescription. “This poor life isn’t worth that much.”

After the Spring Festival, the neighborhood Razing and Relocation Subcommittee sent someone to go door to door to talk to the residents. Her name was Qian Li, and she wore a black and white acrylic cap that revealed her stiff reddened earlobes. Every night at seven, she came and knocked on the door. There was a rumor that after the houses were torn down, a public park would be built in their place. “As for you,” she said, rifling through her papers, “you’ll receive three hundred and fifty thousand yuan!”

“Highway robbery!” Zhang Suqing slammed the table. Qian Li flinched back and unconsciously raised her arm in defense. Feng Xiujuan pressed Zhang Suqing’s hand.

“Think about it. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The next night at seven o’clock, she returned and knocked on the door. Zhang Suqing didn’t let Zhang Yingxiong answer. Qian Li called out crisply: “Sir, open the door. I’m begging you, help me do my work.” Feng Xiujuan sighed and stood up. Zhang Suqing said: “What are you doing?” She sat back down. No sound came from outside the door. Zhang Suqing said: “It has to be this way.”

By spring, everyone had moved out one by one, leaving behind empty rooms and a pile of rumors. It was said that Old Yu had received eight million yuan, bought himself a place with three bedrooms and two living rooms in the center of the city, and was living a high class life. It was said that Zhang Yugen had secretly slipped the surveyor five thousand yuan, and the pigeon coop had been measured three square meters larger than it really was.

“Did you have some of their pigeons?”

“Who wants to eat their pigeons?”

“Exactly. They were all droopy-headed and sickly anyway.”

“One time when I got a new shirt, the first time I washed it and hung it out to dry, it got covered in pigeon shit. I told him he should compensate me for it and he refused. We should’ve told him to leave before, raising pigeons in that nasty shed, it’s all illegal. The people who suffer are always the good law-abiding folks like us.”

Zhang Suqing couldn’t resist listening to every last rumor. Afterward, he couldn’t eat a thing and instead drank himself to within an inch of his life. He called his relatives, friends, old classmates, and one after another, they told him: “It’s over. We’re just ordinary folks too, there’s nothing we can do.” Zhang Suqing said: “Goddamn it, if I had a section chief for a son-in-law, I’d be sitting pretty too.” Sometimes he hit Zhang Yingxiong, saying: “You worthless shit, at your age you still eat your parents’ food, still depend on us for everything. If you had any prospects at all, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

One night, Zhang Suqing was woken from his drunken stupor by the sound of knocking at the door. “Don’t open it,” he ordered his wife. The knocking continued for more than twenty minutes, fast and slow, loud and soft, without giving up. Zhang Suqing tossed and turned, then rose with a groan.

Outside the door was a skinny middle-aged man. “I’m Mr. Lu, head of the Razing and Relocation Subcommittee for parcel 52-3.” He waved an ID.

Zhang Suqing steadied himself with both hands, taking up the entire doorway. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to talk with you.”

“It’s the middle of the night, can’t you let a man sleep?”

“Miss Qian comes every day, but you won’t open the door. It hasn’t been easy for her.”

“There’s no one here during the day.”

“Which is why I’ve come. Someone’s home at night.”

His name was Lu Zhiqiang, Zhang Suqing saw as he carefully examined the ID card. He said a few times: “I’m not going to forget you.” But no matter how much Zhang Suqing blustered, Lu Zhiqiang spoke slowly and softly. He spread his papers over the table, pulled out a calculator and tapped in some numbers. “Four hundred fifty thousand. That’s my best offer.”

“What can anybody do with that? You can’t even buy a bathroom for that much.”

“We’re just following regulations. Whatever amount comes out, that’s the amount.”

“So how come my neighbor Mr. Yu got so much money?”

“How do you know how much he got? You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

Zhang Suqing lowered his voice and said: “Cut me a little slack, okay? I’m asking nicely. You can’t live on that amount of money.”

“What do you mean, you can’t live on it? You have a Shanghai residence permit, you have a house, a pension, a wife and child. You can just sit around drinking all day. Think of the recent grads who weren’t born in Shanghai, like Qian Li. Her parents are farmers in the countryside. She doesn’t have any relatives here, and she makes about a thousand kuai a month. You don’t even know how much better off you are.”

“I have a family, of course I have to have a house. And if I lose my house, I’ll make a complaint. I’m warning you.”

“There are 1.3 billion people in this country. If people file complaints about every little thing, how can the country possibly keep up? We have legal policies, we have to do things by the law, that’s the basis for administering a country.”

Lu Zhiqiang pulled out a stack of pamphlets titled “Foundations for Administering a Country,” and handed Zhang Suqing the one called “Rules and Regulations for the Compensation for Razing and Relocation.” Zhang Suqing flipped through a few pages, then threw it to one side. He continued to argue, sometimes pounding on the table and sometimes passing over water and cigarettes. Lu Zhiqiang pulled out his calculator again, punching in numbers as he explained his methods of calculation. The final number came to 42.742.

“Qian Li said three hundred fifty thousand, which is in strict accordance with the regulations. I’m giving you a break and counting that big sink outside the door as part of your living area, and then I’m rounding up. Is four hundred and fifty thousand yuan a small number? Your pension can’t be that much.”

Zhang Suqing lifted the calculator up in the air and stared at him fiercely. Lu Zhiqiang held his hands out, fearing he might suddenly smash it on the ground. Zhang Suqing put the calculator down and went back to bed. Feng Xiujuan followed him. Zhang Yingxiong turned his head under the covers to spy on Lu Zhiqiang. From that vantage point, he looked like a teacher correcting papers, with his brow furrowed and pen in hand, deciding whether to pass or fail a student. Finally, he drew a thick line across the paper, collected his things, and left.

The next day, Zhang Suqing woke up early and sat on the edge of the bed in a daze. “Feng Xiujuan, get me a hot water bottle, my stomach hurts.”

“You drink and drink and then your stomach hurts. What are we going to do?” She filled a hot water bottle and sealed the top.

After a while, Zhang Suqing said: “I feel awful. I’m going to sleep a bit more.”

He slept until five in the afternoon. Feng Xiujuan was cooking dinner when she heard him suddenly cry out: “I’m dying! I’m dying!” She dropped her spatula to go look and found him tearing at his collar and gasping loudly. She rubbed his chest and said: “I’ll call an ambulance.” As they were waiting, she massaged and comforted him, and finally cradled his head against her body. She thought of when her water had broken twenty-two years ago, how as they were going to the hospital in the back of a pedicab, he had held her the same way. She caressed his face, the soft flesh and rough stubble. She caressed his hair, that white hair that bent under her hand like grass rippling in the wind. And against her chest, Zhang Suqing suddenly went quiet.



AFTER ZHANG SUQING died from a heart attack, Feng Xiujuan signed the agreement to have their house torn down, and they moved in temporarily with her brother Feng Baogang. She told Zhang Yingxiong: “Don’t ever forget that bastard, Lu Zhiqiang.”

Zhang Yingxiong couldn’t sleep. He kept picturing Lu Zhiqiang. One of Lu’s eyelids had a single fold, the other a double fold. When he spoke, the eye with the single fold kept wandering. He wore a blue and gray checkered sweater, and the hand that hung from the sleeve was small and white like a woman’s.

Feng Xiujuan told Zhang Yingxiong to go look for work. He said: “Mom, you don’t understand how it is. There are college graduates everywhere, and even the ones from famous universities can’t find a job, let alone someone like me from a technical school.”

Feng Xiujuan said: “Didn’t you go to night school to study English? It shouldn’t have to do with education, hard work is what matters.”

“Mom, no one cares about hard work anymore. You can give it your all and still not be able to buy a house, and then no woman will want you.”

“Why would you say such things? Are you trying to hurt me?”

Zhang Yingxiong couldn’t stand to see his mother cry, so he turned his head and grunted, “Huh.” The next morning at seven o’clock, he was woken by his mother. He ate some rice porridge, put on a white shirt and imitation-leather shoes, and went out to look for a job. The clear sunlight was scattered by the morning breezes and settled on the pedestrians. They were all carrying bags and chewing their breakfasts with furrowed brows as they hurried forward, unaware of their own glimmering beauty.

Zhang wasted the morning in an Internet café, ate lunch at a little noodle shop, then decided to go see the old house. The temporary office for the Razing and Relocation Subcommittee that had been set up at the alleyway entrance had already disappeared. A white-lettered red banner still hung between electrical poles: “To show good sense is honorable; to complain is shameful.” Tall buildings silently encircled the pile of ruins: hemp ropes, cloth, cotton batting, crushed bricks, broken concrete flooring, national flags. Weeds sprouted from crevices, withered and yellow from lack of nourishment. Someone had set up a bamboo frame and was airing out clothes over the bricks and tiles. A man with long hair was kneeling in front of a broken window frame, taking pictures with an enormous camera.

Zhang wiped away a few tears and went back to the Internet café to play “League of Legends.” He’d killed a lot of monsters, but was still progressing slowly. Someone who had no money to buy pearls of knowledge or diamonds of protection was destined to be insignificant even in the virtual world. Zhang “died” again. He rubbed his shoulders, rolled his neck, and went off to find something to eat. It was already dark outside. As he walked, he lost his appetite and slowly came to a stop, not knowing where to go. On the roof of the market across the street was a large advertisement with a family of three. They were close together, their mouths open with laughter, and their teeth looked like rows of corn. The young mother was holding a tube of toothpaste, and next to her was written: “Family Love Toothpaste: Your whole family will love it.”

Zhang stared at those enormous teeth, feeling like nothing was real. A fat little man hurrying past bumped into him, and scolded: “Idiot, standing in the middle of the road!” Then a girl brushed past him. “I’ll be there in a minute. You all start without me.” Hanging from her ear was the thin cord of a cell phone earpiece, but it seemed at first like she was talking to herself.

Zhang thought to send his mother a message, but as he felt in his pocket, he realized he had forgotten his cell phone. He walked into a convenience store and saw a public telephone by the cash register. But he didn’t want to call anymore, and instead asked for a pack of cigarettes. At that moment, a voice behind him said: “A bottle of yogurt. Ring it up for me.” Zhang’s heart jumped. He stepped aside, pretending to look for money in his pocket. Lu Zhiqiang glanced at him, lifted the dripping bottle of yogurt, and left.

“Forget the cigarettes,” Zhang said to the cashier. He ran out, searched left and right, and fixed on that gray and white checkered jacket. He crossed two streets, turned left, turned left again, and walked into an old state-owned building complex. He stared at the windows on the hallway as they gradually lit up, and a tendon in his knee started to pulse. A guard with a truncheon at his waist appeared from somewhere. Zhang met his eye, then left.

It was already eleven when he got back to his uncle’s house. His cousin was still out on the balcony studying. His aunt came out of the bathroom, twisting her wet hair between her hands: “We’ve been waiting for you.” His uncle Feng Baogang said, “It’s late. Do you have anything to show for yourself?” Zhang muttered something. Feng Baogang’s house had one bedroom and a living room. Zhang’s cousin slept on the balcony, his aunt and uncle slept in the bedroom, Feng Xiujuan slept on the sofa in the living room, and Zhang Yingxiong made a bed on the floor next to her.

Everyone said Zhang was like his uncle. Feng Baogang had a long thin face and wore gold-plated glasses. He was a middle school politics teacher. “No, he isn’t. How is he like me?” Feng Baogang responded, when he first heard someone say they looked alike. After a while, he just pretended not to hear, and would turn away so as not to look at his nephew.

Feng Xiujuan lowered her voice and said: “Forget about what the others will say. Really, where did you go?” She dug her nails into Zhang’s arm, and although it didn’t hurt, he began to cry.

She whispered to him: “Have a little pride. Your father never once cried. Now where did you really go?”

“I went to look for work.”

“You’re lying. How could you be out looking this late?” She raised a hand to slap him, then hesitated, and laid her hand lightly on his cheek. “There’s no news from the Home Management Office either. If things keep up like this, we won’t have the money to pay your uncle rent.”

Zhang opened his eyes wide and tried to speak.

She called: “Brother, tomorrow we’ll figure out how much we owe you. I’m the type of person who always makes good.”

There were a few coughs from the bedroom, either from his uncle or aunt. Feng Xiujuan stopped talking and pulled her son into her arms, stroking his hair and rubbing his ears. Then she pointed to the floor, and Zhang Yingxiong obediently lay down.

The next morning, Feng Xiujuan woke her son. Breakfast was fried pork buns, and she had bought nearly a pound of them. Feng Baogang said: “Did you buy them at the place downstairs? Those traveling venders all use that recycled gutter oil. You watch the news, right? You know about gutter oil, right?” His uncle’s family all ate wheat rolls that came wrapped in plastic. He offered some to Feng Xiujuan, but she said: “We’re having pork buns.”

Zhang finished breakfast and was pushed out the door. He wandered along the street for a while, then took the bus to Lu Zhiqiang’s building. He sat in the last row, taking up a lot of space with his legs spread and his hands clasped over his belly. The bus was oddly empty. Was it the weekend? He wanted to take out his cell phone to look at the date, but his eyelids were too heavy to open. The bus jolted and bumped along, and with each bump, the taste of pork buns returned to the back of his mouth: oil, onions, gravy. He felt quite content and drowsy, and for a while he forgot what he was up to.

When he got off at the Fazhan Street stop, half of his rear end and a leg were asleep. Twenty meters north of the bus stop and through an iron gate was his old home. The iron gate had been put up two weeks before the buildings were knocked down: an unturnable turnstile. Zhang had once seen a middle-aged man get his bicycle stuck in the gate. People passing by cursed and competed to help him, but they just managed to force the bicycle further between the iron bars.

Zhang hesitated, not sure he wanted to see that pile of ruins again. He stopped in front of the iron gate for a moment, then turned around and went back the way he came. He walked for ten minutes, his back starting to sweat, and then saw Lu Zhiqiang’s building. It was an old six-story state-owned apartment block built like an army barracks, two solitary rows stuck between Fu’an Street and Funing Street where the two roads intersected at an angle. From the time he was a kid, Zhang had passed by too many times to count. Then he remembered that he was exhausted and he started slowly walking along Fu’an Street. The cars honked their horns, spitting out exhaust from their tailpipes, passing him one by one. He and Lu Zhiqiang had probably crossed paths at just such as moment. But who would’ve noticed? Ahead was the vegetable market, where Feng Xiujuan often asked him to get onions and eggs. Sometimes he remembered and sometimes he forgot. On one side of the street was a row of vendors selling snacks, and the scent of the hot frying pans stopped pedestrians in their tracks. Zhang liked the rice-flour pancakes and fritters wrapped in frycakes. He carried his lunch across the street to the “Ottoman Internet Café.” When it got dark, his cell phone started to vibrate at his waist without pause. It was Feng Xiujuan urging him to come home for dinner. He closed his phone, paid his bill, and started for home.

Only once had Zhang Yingxiong noticed those two rows of apartments through the dense scaffolding. The wall of the apartment block facing the street had just been painted pink. Why hadn’t the other three sides been painted? He was curious, but too lazy to think about it.

This time, Zhang stopped in front of the building. The pink side had gotten dirty and turned gray. A banner hung halfway up the building: “The city makes life even better!” A new two-meter tall Haibao cartoon figure stood next to the building. Something that looked a lot like a dishrag was hung out to dry on his outstretched arm, making him look like a big blue waiter.

Fu’an Street was paved with asphalt and stone. A yellow and black striped construction roadblock was blocking the sidewalk, forcing bicycles to go around. No one thought to move it aside. The fast lane had been separated off by a new silver-colored iron guardrail. In the divider grew periwinkle flowers, lily turf, and tawny daylily, and their leaves and branches had gotten covered with silver paint, which in the mornings sparkled in the sunlight.

Zhang went around to the back of the building. Every entrance was protected by a security grate. The night before, Lu Zhiqiang had entered the door marked 12. Below the number hung two metal signs: “No Parking” and “Peddlers and scavengers not allowed.” Zhang retreated a few steps and leaned against a car. It was a black Citroën, with a rounded head and top. He wanted to scratch it, or mess with it somehow. But he only thought about it. An older woman wearing a silky turquoise sweat suit, two red fans for dancing stuck under her armpits, came out of number 12. He scurried forward and stopped the door from closing.

In the building, there were two apartments on each level, and each door had an iron grille. The corridors were scattered with brooms, mops, bicycles, open trash bags. Zhang guessed that Lu Zhiqiang ought to live on the top floor, though he had no reason to think that. He climbed up five flights of stairs, panting a bit. He stopped and pressed himself against the wall. Thinking of how close Lu Zhiqiang was, he heard his own bones clacking against each other. On the sixth floor, the two apartments belonged to the same family, since it was the stairway exit that was blocked off by an iron grille. The corridor was painted a honeycombed red and white mosaic pattern, and a heavy walnut armoire stood on the side. One of the armoire doors was inlaid with a full-length mirror, and in it, Zhang Yingxiong saw an image of his own reckless self. A woman wearing fleece pajamas opened the door marked 601 and crossed over to 602. She caught sight of Zhang, and thrust out her awl-shaped chin at him: “Who are you looking for?”

“Lu . . . Zhiqiang. Is Lu Zhiqiang at home?”

“Who’s Lu Zhiqiang?”

“Your neighbor?”

“I don’t know any Lu Zhiqiang. Now get out of here, or I’ll yell for help.” She banged on the iron grille.

Zhang Yingxiong flew back down the stairs, stumbling several times. That damn Lu Zhiqiang had hidden himself behind some peephole. Zhang hurried outside and heaved out a breath. The round-headed Citroën squinted at him with one headlight. He kicked it angrily, then took off running.

Funing Street had just been designated a commercial entertainment street. A big plastic arch stood at the entrance, adorned with multicolored light bulbs. One side of the arch sported a neon coffee cup, the other a high-heeled shoe. At nightfall, the steam rising from the cup and the butterfly bow on the shoe began to glow. Some of the storefronts were still being renovated, and the cloth that was spread out to catch stray paint and debris said in English: “New World Entertainment Street: Opening Soon.”

Construction had begun on the entertainment street before Zhang Yingxiong had moved. That sort of place is a rip-off, Feng Xiujuan had told him. They’ll sell you a slice of bread for more than ten kuai and it doesn’t even taste as good as a steamed bun you can get for a kuai and a half. Zhang went into a bakery and saw that they sold a little round loaf for four and a half kuai. He bought one and took a small bite. But he wasn’t really hungry, just a bit thirsty.

For every shop selling clothes or accessories, there were two selling food and drink. The restaurants all had “help wanted” signs on their doors, looking for wait staff, dishwashers, cooks, hostesses. Zhang went into a fast food place called “Good ‘n Fast.” The renovation odor was strong, and he coughed a few times before getting used to it. He ordered a cup of soymilk and sat down by the windows. He realized suddenly that just across the way was an old state-owned building. He leaned out the window and saw to his surprise that the number on the door was 12. He hurried out, his head pounding and hot. It was only ten meters away—if he threw a stone, he could break the glass or even smack someone inside. A waiter came over and said, “Hey.” Zhang sat back down, holding his cup with both hands, breathing hard. The soymilk had cooled, and it felt astringent against his tongue.

That night at ten, Zhang came out of the Internet café, went over to the building marked 12, and pressed the door buzzers one after another. “Is Lu Zhiqiang there?”

One answered, “Who?” One said, “Hello? Hello?” One said, “Wrong house.” One didn’t answer, and one just hung up. When he pressed the buzzer marked 302, it was silent for a few seconds, then a girl’s voice delicately called: “Dad.”

Building 12, apartment 302. Zhang Yingxiong lay in bed, trying to think back, but he couldn’t think of anything distinctive about that apartment. Some of the doors had upside down “Wealth” signs, some had “Cultured Family” signs, and one door had two cat eyes that stared at him balefully. None of those were 302. He decided not to think about it, since anyway Lu Zhiqiang couldn’t escape. He would hide in the corner, and when Lu came out, he would deal him a deathblow. And as Lu’s blood spurted out, the heavens would turn red. He would stand amid fountains of pouring blood, heroic and exalted. No, that was too easy. He should torture Lu first, just like in the movies, the way the arrested underground Communist party members were tortured. Do you know what it means to cry? How did they treat you at first? Have you thought about what it’s like for us? . . . Zhang tossed in bed, his mouth dry. Only when he heard his aunt get up to go to the bathroom did he return to reality, as though awakening from a dream. Daybreak came quickly, and he was awakened by Feng Xiujuan. He ate some rice porridge and left.

Zhang sat in the “Good ‘n Fast.” The apartment facing the window, was it 301 or 302? He thought back to the arrangement of the building floors, and concluded that it was indeed Lu Zhiqiang’s apartment. The balcony had concrete walls and composite aluminum windows hung with red and yellow curtains. A girl came out onto the balcony, opened the washing machine, and started to hang clothing up to dry on a line outside the window. Lu Zhiqiang’s gray and white checkered jacket flapped between a bra and some underwear. Zhang fixed it with a marksman’s gaze. The girl closed the window, sat at a table and began to embroider. She had inherited Lu’s round face, and her hair was pulled back with a plastic clip.

Zhang went to the restaurant office to find the manager and told him he wanted to work as a server.

The manager’s name was Mr. Luo. “We don’t hire Shanghainese.”

“I’m not asking for benefits. I worked at a convenience store before, and they didn’t give benefits.”

“Well, you’d have to write it in the contract, that you don’t want benefits.”

Manager Luo interrogated him about his work experience, home address, and schooling, and said: “We pay eight hundred a month during the probation period, then regular wages are a thousand. That includes food and lodging, but since you’re Shanghainese, it won’t include lodging.”

The next afternoon at four o’clock, Zhang Yingxiong went to the restaurant, filled out the forms, and gave them his ID. Then he followed around Shen Zhong. Shen was from Fujian and had lived in Shanghai for three years. His hair was dyed a yellowish red, and his fingernails were each a centimeter long. He had worked at “Good ‘n Fast” for a year, and a month before had been transferred to the new branch.

Shen taught him how to promote their new value meal: “The profits are good, but it won’t sell if you don’t push it. Thirty percent of people will think about it, ten percent will buy it . . .” Then a customer came in, and he left Zhang on his own.

Zhang watched Shen take the customer’s money. He watched a waitress named Yan put the meal together. In her hurry, she spilled some soup. Zhang went to help her, and she said in alarm: “Don’t mess with anything. I’ll do it.”

By eight that night, there were no more customers.

Shen said: “You, Zhang, mop the floor.”

Little Yan said: “The short mop and the long mop both need to be washed. They haven’t been washed in a long time.”

Shen said: “Just don’t use too much water.”

The mop had hardened into a slab. The window by the janitor’s sink in the men’s room faced building 12 at an angle. On the balcony of apartment 302, the round-faced girl was still doing her embroidery. The furniture was all from the ‘80s. A man was leaning over a desk, his white hair swirled around a bald spot. Zhang bored his eyes into him, ruthlessly plunging the mop into the sink. The wood handle stabbed his chest painfully.

Cleaning was finished at nine. Little Yan leaned idly against the wall, examining her fingernails. Shen played with his cell phone. Zhang saw his reflection in the window and started. His cheeks had sunk in, like caves.

Shen said: “Hey, got a cigarette?”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for? Go get some.”

Zhang went out to buy a pack of Double Pleasure. Shen said: “Fuck. These are peasant smokes.” Zhang opened the window. The embroidery girl was nowhere to be seen.

He got off work at eleven, and the last bus had already left. He waited by the side of the road. A motorbike came by.

“Where do you live?” The voice was muffled by a helmet. It was Shen Zhong.

Shen rented a place with a few other people, about a twenty minute walk from work. He’d bought a Suzuki motorbike with a borrowed rural residence permit and gotten a yellow C license plate. With that kind of license, he wasn’t allowed to drive in the city, so he only drove at night.

“You must have a lot of money, to buy a motorbike,” Zhang said. He got off the back of the bike, and found that his knees wouldn’t straighten.

“Coward. You practically broke my back, clinging to me like that.” Shen’s voice was hoarse. He’d been drag racing, and he’d taken off his helmet and howled like a wild man. In the light of the streetlamps, his hair looked like a twisting red snake. “I only ride at night. Wawawawa—it’s like flying.” He ran a hand over the bike. “I ride every single night. It’s the only happiness I have.”

“Gaming is fun too. I like to game.”

“Fucking little kids play games.” Shen made as if to hold a cigarette. “Want one?”

Zhang shook his head.

Shen took out a cigarette and felt in his pocket. “Shit. I don’t have a lighter.” He straddled his bike. “Just remember, I like to smoke Zhongnanhai.”

On the third day, Zhang Yingxiong began to do real work. Putting together a meal looked simple, but it involved a lot. Soymilk to be drunk in the restaurant had a lid fastened just on two sides, while soymilk ordered to go had to be capped tightly. Each time he made a mistake, Shen Zhong yelled at him and Manager Luo wrinkled his brows over his acne-scarred face.

Zhang finished work, grabbed his copy of Legend of the Condor Heroes, and hid himself in the “little banquet room.” They called the interior section closest to the window the “little banquet room,” where one table was set off from the others by an aluminum railing.

“Zhang Yingxiong, what the hell are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“Pretending to be some fucking intellectual.” Shen went back to flirting with Little Yan.

It was a pirated version of the book, which Zhang had stolen from his local library as a kid. The spine was broken, and the cover picture of Huang Rong had been scribbled on with a ballpoint pen to add long pointy teeth, curly hair, and a pair of large breasts. Zhang stroked the breasts and stared at the building across from him.

Sometime after five o’clock, Lu Zhiqiang finally appeared. He was wearing gray and light green striped pajama bottoms, and stood in his kitchen window chopping vegetables. The thin rusted red bars of the railing made him look like a convict. He and his daughter silently ate dinner. He ate quickly, washed his bowl, and then sat in his easy chair to watch the news. When the news was over, he read the newspaper. When he was tired of that, he got up to peel an apple for his daughter. His daughter stared dumbly at it. He grabbed her hand and pressed the apple into it. Some time before sleeping, he hid in the kitchen to smoke, flicking the ash into sink. With his round face, drooping features, and receding hairline, he looked like a political leader deeply concerned for the nation.

At six in the morning, his daughter would go out to buy breakfast. At eight, Lu Zhiqiang would leave for work. His daughter stayed at home all day, doing her embroidery and taking care of the house. Sometimes she would get bored and play with her hair. Her hair was shiny and thick, and she would braid it, put it up in a twist, pull it into a ponytail, then twist it up again. As she pulled at her hair, she would reach out to touch her reflection in the mirror. Zhang laughed at that. He liked to look at himself in the mirror, and he often practiced smoothing his bangs, or swinging his jacket smoothly over his shoulder. He could never make it seem natural—he was the nervous type. Security guards always gave him a second look.

Every weekend, a young man came to visit. Lu’s daughter would wear a dress and her hair would be slicked back into a bun. When she moved her neck, Zhang Yingxiong would think of swans.

The young man would sit on the balcony and take out his cell phone or laptop, a bulging plastic bag tossed by his feet. Lu’s daughter would hand him tea, cookies, fruit, roasted melon seeds. The man pushed them back like they were in his way. Lu’s daughter would pick up the plastic bag and pull out underwear, shirts, socks. When she was done washing and hanging them up, she would rub her moist hands and walk back and forth to get his attention. He wouldn’t move. She’d bend over the computer. He’d wave her off. She’d go over to his side. He’d close the computer and glare at her. She’d leave and sit on a stool by the door.

After a month, Zhang Yingxiong was formally hired. His pay was docked three hundred yuan for a uniform and one hundred yuan in training fees, so he was left with four hundred yuan for his whole training period. Zhang spent two hundred and fifty yuan on a pair of pocket-sized binoculars. Through the lens, Lu’s daughter’s cheeks were covered in moles and her nose was small and pointed. He could even see the books on the shelves clearly. The first two were Theories of Civil Law and China Is Not Amused.

“What are you looking at?” Shen Zhong snatched away the binoculars. “Some pretty girl in the shower?” He peered through them, then said dryly, “What are you up to? You’ve been holding out on me.”

By the time their shift ended, Zhang Yingxiong couldn’t endure any longer and told him.

Shen exclaimed: “So it isn’t a girl. You’re watching a cop.”

“He isn’t a cop. He does razing and relocations.”

“They’re practically the same, or just as bad, anyway. I once beat a cop half to death. He searched me. Like he could just search anyone he wants. He didn’t even look at who I was. Pfffh—”

Zhang wiped spit off his face.

“Take it from me, you’ve got to get mean.” Shen threaded his fingers together and stretched his palms. Zhang took out a pack of cigarettes, saw it was Double Happiness, and put it back. He pulled out a pack of Zhongnanhais and gave one to Shen.

“So what should I do?”

“Beat him up.”

“That’s too good for him. My dad’s dead because of him.”

“What do you want to do? Kill him?”

“It’s not impossible.”

Shen bared his teeth and a spurt of cigarette smoke hit Zhang in the face. “You? You’ve got the guts of a chicken, and you still talk like that!”

Zhang Yingxiong’s expression turned solemn. He hesitated, then put the pack of Zhongnanhais into Shen’s hand.



SHEN ZHONG TRIED to convince Zhang Yingxiong to move into his apartment. “Two bedrooms, one living room, facing south. It has an air-conditioner, a shower, even a DVD player. There are five people including me. The others are pretty boring. So are you, but at least you’re not a jerk.”

Zhang Yingxiong told Feng Xiujuan that he wanted to cut down on his commuting expenses and move closer to work. The rent was three hundred kuai, which was the same as what his uncle asked.

“Who’s going to cook for you?”

Zhang looked at the mole on his mother’s chin and said in a low voice, “Don’t worry about it.”

The other four roommates were all white-collar workers, and they resisted the idea of Zhang moving in. Shen said: “Their bark is worse than their bite. Don’t pay attention to them.” The bedroom was packed with three bunk beds. Zhang slept above Shen. Each morning, he was awoken by a smell like mustard, which came from the German hair gel the other roommates used. When he heard Zhang complaining, Shen threw the hair gel out the window. “Still not satisfied? You complain like a little girl. Like you Shanghainese say, you’re just a moocher. You go out and act like you’re really somebody, but when you come in and take off your shoes, you’ve got holes in all your socks.”

Shen and Zhang were on the same schedule, one week on morning shift, the next week on evening shift. Their white-collar roommates complained on and on: “You come back late at night and make so much noise it drives us crazy.” Shen said: “Don’t blame me if you can’t sleep because you’re thinking about some girl!” He threw open the bathroom door and peed in a resonant stream.

When they had morning shift, around five or six a.m. there was a battle for the bathroom, and someone would manage to lock everyone else out. Shen would curse whoever it was, and then would go out to piss in the hallway. The white-collar roommates debated behind his back: “How can he be so uncultured—even a dog won’t just shit and piss anywhere.” They worried when he came home late that he would go up to some other floor and piss where no one would see him.

Shen said: “Yingxiong is a good name. It means ‘hero,’ but you’re an insult to the word. You ought to be named ‘coward’.” He made Zhang Yingxiong examine his tattoos. On his bicep was the word “fist,” faded to bluish-black. On his inner arm was a tattoo of an animal, and judging by the word “king” on its forehead, it was supposed to be a tiger. Zhang poked at the “tiger’s head” and the flesh was soft and flabby. He thought of his father Zhang Suqing’s muscles, firm and striated like chestnuts.

Shen said he had a lot of friends, some of whom had made a ton of money, and others of whom were gang leaders. But popular Shen Zhong stuck with Zhang all day long—eating out, cruising the supermarket, looking at girls on the street. Shen’s wallet was sometimes fat and sometimes thin, but he was never broke. One time, Zhang saw him playing with an iPhone, and he went over to watch for a while. The phone had a lot of photos on it, all of a young girl. The girl puffing out her cheeks and making a V sign with two fingers. The girl with another girl, leaning their heads together and seeming to compete to open their eyes the widest. The girl carrying a Louis Vuitton bag and standing in the entrance of the Henglong Shopping Mall. The girl sitting with her legs crossed in a sushi restaurant, leaning forward slightly. The girl stretching out her arm as though waiting for someone to kiss her hand, with a Cartier ring on her middle finger.

Shen quickly flicked to another photo. “Goddamn. There are so many nice things out there.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“Don’t know her.” He paused, then added, “I found the phone on the street.”

After a few days, the iPhone disappeared, and Shen invited Zhang to a sushi dinner and a movie after.

Most of the time, they just watched videos at home. Shen made Zhang watch the same Hong Kong gangster movie over and over again. The disc was all scratched up, and it often pixelated and froze, and the actors’ mouths would get stuck. Shen would do voice-over for them. The line he liked best was: “I’ll tell you three things I want to get. The first is money, the second is money, and the third is money!”

“A lot of people say I look like Zheng Yijian.” Shen put on the sunglasses he’d bought from a vendor for ten kuai and smoothed his t-shirt. “My old girlfriend was even prettier than Li Zi.”

“Why aren’t you with her anymore?”

“I got tired of her, so I dumped her.” He gave Zhang a few whacks. “Next time I’ll pass the girl on to you.”

One night at work, Zhang went to buy Shen some cigarettes. He was five minutes late getting back, and when he came through the door, he saw a bunch of people waiting at the counter. Little Yan’s voice carried ten meters: “Someone was murdered last night.” Everyone started to stir, and the customers forgot what they wanted to buy, pushing and shoving, perking up their ears, afraid to miss something wonderful. Little Yan kept coming in and out, gathering information: “Julia from the coffee shop said that the guy who was killed was a city official.” “Ah Fen from the nail salon says he worked in razing and relocations.” “Xiaobing says, last night a group of people beat someone up, and she heard the sound of bones breaking, crack snap—it was terrifying.” “Kevin says he didn’t die, but he was taken to the hospital with serious injuries. His cousin works in the police station.”

Manager Luo said: “Okay, okay. Let’s focus on work.”

“Aiya, Manager Luo, to this day I’ve never seen a dead body. Have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” Manager Luo stared at her fiercely, then gave up and laughed. “Why would you want to see a dead body?”

Shen and Zhang snuck away. Sure enough, beside the newspaper stand on the street were traces of blood, which at first glance looked like a dirty water stain. Shen squatted down and swatted away a fly. “Smell it, it reeks even worse than dog’s blood.”

Zhang took a step back, pretending to check out a girl passing by.

Shen said: “Was it your nemesis?”

“I’m not that lucky.”

“Yeah, you’re not. So you still have a chance. You’ve seen that gangster movie so many times now, did you learn anything from it?”

The whole day, Zhang couldn’t stop thinking about the blood, and the flies landing on it. He felt a bit sick, like he’d been forced to take a bite of raw fatty meat, and it had gotten stuck in his throat and wouldn’t go down. He hid himself in the “little banquet room,” lost in thought. Lu Zhiqiang hadn’t returned home on time. His daughter was standing on the balcony with a tin of cookies. She slowly stopped chewing, although her cheeks were still bulging. In the binoculars, she seemed so close that if he stretched out his hand he could touch her.

After eight, Lu Zhiqiang came home. Carrying a cookie tin, he put a dried pork roll on the table, and, leaning on the door to the balcony, he took a bite of his own roll. His daughter didn’t look at the food. Lu came back over, and put the dried pork roll in her hand. She still didn’t look. Lu put down his roll, stroked her hair lock by lock, stopping at the nape of her neck. His daughter just gazed forward as before, but her hand nimbly grabbed hold of the roll. With each bite, her head rocked back, as though eating was hard work for her. Lu held her in his arms. His face was entirely gray, while hers was white with a hint of a flush. Tears dripped slowly down her flushed white cheeks.

Zhang put away his binoculars. The whole night, he kept seeing her chewing the roll as she cried. For some reason, it made him think of Feng Xiujuan, and he called her but her phone was off. The curtains on Lu’s balcony windows were drawn, though the lights were still on. Shen told him to rinse out the cleaning rags, and he said angrily: “Wait a minute, can’t you see I’m mopping?” His own vehemence startled him.

Shen laughed and said: “Maybe you’ve grown a pair, talking back to me like that.”

When they got off work, Zhang said to Shen: “You go ride your motorbike, I have to go see my mom.”

“You’re so full of shit, you’re about to explode.”

“I’m going home to see my mom.”

Shen Zhong stared at him. After a moment, he said: “Okay. I’ll give you a ride.”

His aunt opened the door, fluffed up her hair, glared at Zhang Yingxiong without saying hello, then turned around and went back inside.

Feng Xiujuan came out and asked worriedly: “What happened?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to come see you.”

“At this time of night?” She looked at him, her eyes shining.

Zhang took her hand and put it against his head. She stroked his hair. There were footsteps inside, and she pulled back.

“Sweetie, are you sleeping here tonight?”

“No, my friend’s waiting downstairs.”

“Are you used to living on your own now?”

“Mm.”

“Are you eating okay?”

“Mm.”

His uncle came over: “Don’t stand in the doorway. The neighbors will think something’s wrong.”

“I’m going.”

“You’re really not staying? Okay then . . . say goodbye to your uncle.”

“Bye, uncle.”

His uncle didn’t answer, just kept his hand on the door, ready to close it. Zhang waved to them. Feng Xiujuan and Feng Baogang stood side by side, with their matching long faces and the same wrinkled foreheads. Feng Baogang closed the door, and Feng Xiujuan’s face disappeared behind it.

Zhang hid in the stairwell until he’d stopped crying. His phone rang. He rubbed his eyes, then slowly went down.

Shen was leaning on his motorbike, his t-shirt rolled up to his chest. He held his phone against his sagging belly. “That took forever. What’d you do, die up there? And why were you crying?”

Zhang sniffled: “My mom . . .”

“Don’t give me that mom shit. It’s like you want to be breastfed again or something.”

“You don’t miss your mother?”

“My mother’s dead. I didn’t even have time to be happy about it,” he said angrily.

“My dad’s dead too.”

“You idiot, my mother isn’t really dead. I just treat her like she is.”

“Why?”

“That fucking bitch, if she’d ever acted like a mother, I wouldn’t be this way. You really think I was born to be an asshole, a fuck-up, a scumbag? Who doesn’t want to be a good person?”

Zhang touched his face. His tears had stopped and his skin was tight under the tearstains.

“I’m a scumbag,” Shen paused. “A scumbag, admit it.”

Zhang hesitated: “Mm.” He shook his head.

Shen raised his eyebrows and slipped his phone back in his pocket. He started punching his motorbike.

Zhang said quickly: “I mean, actually, you’re great.”

“Oh? How am I so great?”

“You’re generous. And loyal . . . and . . . um . . .”

“Okay, okay.” Shen waved his hand, then gestured for a cigarette.

Zhang pulled out one Zhongnanhai and one Double Happiness.

Shen said: “Get real, do you really care that much?”

Zhang switched to Zhongnanhais, a cigarette for each of them, and started to smoke with Shen.

The wisps of smoke intertwined in the moonlight. In the breezeless air, they looked motionless, neither falling nor rising. Shen Zhong and Zhang Yingxiong silently stared at the smoke the other expelled.

“Nothing’s wrong, is there? . . . Brother?” Zhang said.

“What could be wrong?” Shen threw away his cigarette and straddled his motorbike. “You’re being a complete dumbass today.”

Zhang threw away his cigarette too, and silently got on the back of the motorbike. Halfway home, he took off his helmet. The night air blew against his ears, stuffed up his nostrils, even blew his eyelashes back up against his eyelids. Shen howled as though he were crying or singing. They were on a wide open road, and they passed a truck carrying wastewater, passed a dump truck, passed all the furtive-looking people out at night. The streetlights stretched out the distances between every object. Zhang closed his eyes. He felt like his spirit had left his body.

“Do I really need revenge?” he asked Shen. “My dad’s dead, what good can revenge do?”

“I knew if you delayed long enough, you’d back out. Just quit talking and practice on the weekends.”

“Practice” meant stealing things.

Zhang asked: “How do I practice? Snag coins out of boiling water?”

Shen said: “You’ve watched that movie too many times. Forget that, just go out and give it a try. I taught myself how to do it. First you have to know how to look at people—who has money, who doesn’t. And where they keep their money. The first time, don’t go after someone with money. Find somebody totally ordinary, someone who looks stupid, preferably someone from out of town. That way if you get caught, there won’t be too much trouble.” Shen didn’t like to use a knife. “Crowded places always have a few ‘freebies.’ We’re just small fry, don’t think too big.”

Shen helped Zhang pick his first mark. A woman of about forty with a nylon bag slung over her shoulder, carrying a little boy. The boy’s nose dripped snot and he kept wriggling like he didn’t want to be held. The woman stopped in front of a window display. The manikin was wearing silk, and its wig was askew. It had no features on its face, and was tilted slightly toward the window. Shen pushed Zhang forward: “Go.”

Zhang said: “Are you sure she keeps her money in her purse?”

“You idiot, look, does she have any pockets?”

The woman started to walk again, and stopped in front of another display with her nose pressed against the glass. Her son saw Zhang over his mother’s shoulder, and Zhang stared back without blinking. The boy turned his face away. Shen dug his nails into Zhang’s arm. Zhang crept up behind the woman and he could smell the rusty odor of her sweat. He caught hold of her nylon bag’s zipper, and pretended to look up at the display. The zipper was tight, and the bag swayed a bit. Zhang heard Shen singing quietly: “Sweetheart, fly slowly, be careful of that rose’s thorns . . .” The song seemed to get louder and louder, rising above the hubbub, booming in Zhang’s head. The woman bounced her son, and switched her weight to her other foot. Shen pushed Zhang again. Zhang wiped his sweaty hand on his pants, held his breath, and pulled the zipper open.

Suddenly the woman started walking again. Zhang slipped his hand out of the bag, and said to Shen: “Let’s just forget it.” Shen slapped his hand on his forehead. Zhang followed him silently. The woman passed by a food stand and her son started to cry. She hushed him, then pretended to get angry. The boy refused to calm down, so she went back to the store and got in line to buy a meat pastry. The boy immediately stopped crying. Zhang and Shen stood behind her. Shen made a signal with his eyes and Zhang fished around in the woman’s bag. A bottle of moisturizer, a sticky handkerchief, a folded newspaper. There was something about the size of a hand, something not too hard that felt like a wallet. The newspaper chafed Zhang’s hand. Suddenly, the woman turned her head and glared at Zhang. She started to look down at her bag, but Shen pushed his way forward, shouting: “What’s taking so long? How long are we going to have to wait?” The woman looked confused, and she said angrily: “What are you doing? Be civilized, would you? Stupid hick!” Shen pulled Zhang away, and they quickly left.

They went to McDonald’s and ordered two meals. Zhang drank half of his Coke in one gulp. The square plastic wallet held an ID card, one hundred fifty-four yuan and eighty cents, and three tickets for a train from Shanghai to Anzhuang, Anhui Province, which left in four hours. The photo on the ID made her look older than she was in person, her hair oily and plastered to her scalp. One eye was opened wider than the other, as though she had just asked a question that hadn’t yet been answered. Her address was in Yuexi, Anhui, and her name was nearly the same as Feng Xiujuan’s—Wang Xiujuan.

“If these tickets were for tomorrow or the next day, we could sell them on the Internet.” Shen tore them into strips.

Zhang picked up one of the strips and twisted it between his fingers. “Why did we pick her to steal from?”

“She was a good one to practice on.”

“Stealing from her has nothing to do with getting revenge on Lu Zhiqiang . . .”

“Stealing takes guts, and beating someone up takes guts. Being evil just takes some guts and two hands.” Shen started to laugh. “Teaching someone to be evil is pretty fucking awesome.”

Zhang looked over the ID card. “I still think stealing from her wasn’t such a good idea.”

“God, are you still on this? It’s not a lot of money, but it’s still money. This McDonald’s meal was more than sixty kuai, you go ahead and pay for it!”

Zhang shoved his straw up and down and the ice in the paper cup clinked. Shen grabbed the ID back and put it in his pocket. “This’ll pay for a few more meals at McDonald’s.”

It was dinnertime and every seat was taken. A plump server stood to one side holding a tray. Shen chewed slowly and deliberately. The french fries had gone cold and limp. A man called to his daughter. “Come here, this table will be free soon.” He lowered his head and asked Shen: “Are you guys done eating?”

Shen licked salt off of his fingers. Zhang continued to suck through his straw, making an empty slurping sound. The man sized them up, and went off to find another table.

Shen started to laugh: “Hey Coward Zhang, did you know, I screwed Little Yan.”

Little Yan was small and slight, but she had a big head. When she got off work, she would put on a tight t-shirt and jeans, and from afar she looked just like a lollipop. She called herself Lily, and made all of her coworkers call her that too, even telling Manager Luo: “I think everyone should pick an English name. Our corporate culture would improve if we did.” Manager Luo coldly answered: “We sell soymilk, not coffee.”

“Lily is the name of a flower.” The background picture on her phone was a lily, and the case was covered with stickers of pretty young girls and some rhinestones, a few of which had fallen off. She’d made Zhang look everywhere for them.

“Look at her, all phony-pure, like she’s still a virgin,” Shen said. “Nowadays, they’ve done it before they even get to kindergarten.”

Little Yan liked it from behind, Shen said, and there were little moles between her butt cheeks. That kind of woman was hot for it all the time. Zhang stopped playing with his straw and listened.

Shen saw his expression and laughed nastily: “What’s the matter with you?”

Zhang tried to relax and said: “Nothing.”

“Let’s talk about you for a minute. One time in the middle of the night when you were sleeping, you suddenly started moaning like a woman.”

“Me? No way.”

“Hell yes. It was a week ago. You must’ve come in your sleep, but when you woke up you didn’t remember it. What a waste.”

Zhang shook his head.

“Have you ever fucked a woman?”

Zhang continued to shake his head.

“Shit, you can’t still be a virgin, are you?” Shen poked Zhang painfully between the ribs.

“Do it while you’re young, cause you won’t be able to get it up when you’re old . . . Hey, why don’t you go screw Lu’s daughter? If you’re afraid you’ll get hurt if you beat him up, you can screw his daughter and that’ll make you feel better.”

Zhang had once seen Lu’s daughter naked. It had been raining and sticky that day. She’d taken off her nightgown and walked to the edge of the bed to put on some clothes. The whole process was extremely slow, and Zhang’s brain had kept tick-tick-ticking without end, like raindrops falling on his body. Her waist was long, her rear end flat, and her panties got caught on her hipbones. Whenever he thought of her breasts, the ticking started up again. Her breasts were nothing like the ones in porn. Perky but delicate and small, they quivered slightly with her every movement. After she’d changed clothes, she realized it was raining. She’d stood out on the balcony, her two hands pressed against the glass. For a moment, Zhang thought she had seen him watching. But she turned her head away, and stared at something in the air. Her body was hidden inside her floral dress, and her neck jutted out from the tight lace collar as she turned away silently. The rain grew heavier, hitting the glass and dripping off. She seemed not quite there, like a character in a romantic film.

One weekend, Shen Zhong disappeared. Zheng Yingxiong went by himself to the New World Commercial Entertainment Street and bought a pair of counterfeit Nike socks. He went into the store just to look, but the large-eyed salesman said: “This kind is very athletic. Your calves are so good-looking, it would be a shame not to buy them.” He also said: “They’ll be on your feet, who can tell if they’re real or fake?” Zhang looked down at his calves, hesitated for a minute, then bought the socks.

He tore open the package and was stuffing the socks into his pockets as he thought about going to the Internet café when he caught sight of Lu’s daughter. She had just crossed in front a group of gaudily dressed girls. They could have been models or a bunch of cheerleaders. A few of them turned their heads to look at her. She was wearing an old-fashioned yellow checkered blouse and straight black pants that came down over the tops of her shoes, making her trip with each step. She went into a clothing store. Two salesgirls in tiny miniskirts were standing between clothing racks chatting. Lu’s daughter picked up a t-shirt. A salesgirl came over to her and said: “That one’s three hundred kuai.” She held up another shirt. Everyone had stopped talking and watched her. The salesgirl snatched the shirt back and said: “Are you here to buy?” Lu’s daughter still held her arms out. After a moment, her hands dropped and she ducked her head and stumbled out of the store. “I could tell she was crazy the instant I saw her,” the salesgirl said. Then she asked Zhang, “Can I help you find something?” Zhang said: “You’re the one who’s crazy.”

Lu’s daughter walked to the next store and stood hesitantly in the doorway. She went down the whole row that way. When she got the end of the street, she went into a convenience store and bought a lollipop. Ten kuai minus two-eighty—is that eight-twenty or seven-twenty? The old man behind the counter pointed to the total on his cash register. She stared at it, seeming not quite to understand. Her body smelled of mothballs. “He’s right, it’s seven-twenty,” Zhang broke in. Lu’s daughter shot a glance at him, then she picked up her change. Zhang bought a pack of cigarettes and left after her. “Hey,” he called. Lu’s daughter just kept walking. Zhang tapped her shoulder, and she turned her head.

“Is your . . . is your dad Lu Zhiqiang?”

She thought for a moment, and then as though in the midst of a sudden realization, she nodded vigorously.

“I’m Lu Zhiqiang’s friend. What’s your name?”

“Lu Shanshan.”

“So . . . what’s your boyfriend’s name?”

Lu Shanshan sucked on her lollipop, running her tongue around it.

“You know, your boyfriend. The one who comes around on Sundays.”

She hunched her shoulders and giggled, looking uncomfortable.

Zhang wanted to say: Come hang out with me, or, I’ll take you somewhere fun. But he couldn’t manage to get any words out. He watched Lu Shanshan turn around and walk away. The last button on her shirt had come undone and the hem flapped and flapped.



THE WHOLE NEXT week, the weather fluctuated wildly. It rained on and on, then turned bright and sunny, then rained again, then turned hazy. Shen Zhong said: “Is God going through menopause or something? That guy Luo sure is.” Manager Luo’s face had grown hard, and he paced around the store with his hands clasped at his back. If he suddenly spotted an unclean corner, he would pick up a dust bunny, march over to the nearest worker, poke a finger in his face and say: “Look, there’s ten years of dust over there.”

All the workers had to line up by the entrance and listen to his scolding: “How many times have I told you, you have to be responsible workers. You have to pay attention to the details. You’re all a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings.”

Shen said quietly: “With so few customers, why bother to clean? Who does he think he is, anyway? He’s just a part-timer too.”

Manager Luo was a little afraid of Shen, and so he scolded Zhang the most. When he yelled, he would get excited and wave his arms about. Shen had somehow drifted apart from Zhang. One morning, Zhang had seen him with Little Yan, holding hands as they came out of a movie theater. Little Yan put on the helmet and sat on the motorbike, holding so firmly onto Shen that it seemed she’d grown out of his back. They hadn’t noticed him there.

The apartment that Zhang rented with the others was also across from an old state-owned building. In that building, apartment 302 belonged to a young married couple, and on their balcony, they were raising a little gray dog. The dog would stick its head between the balcony railings, and stare out in a daze. When the couple was at home, they would eat dried sweet potato and play computer games. Zhang quickly grew bored and put away his binoculars, hiding them under his bed. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lu Shanshan’s body. He felt like he’d known her for a long time. If he revealed his frustration to her, she’d probably smile and stroke his hair.

One Saturday, a dozen customers finally came in for lunch. Manager Luo kept yelling at Zhang. The tables hadn’t been set up properly and the rags for wiping them down were dirty.

Shen interrupted: “The rags are always dirty.”

Manager Luo said: “Can a dirty rag get a table clean?”

“If you wipe it enough, it will.”

“Shen Zhong, Shen Zhong, I see you think you’re really clever. What’s headquarters going to think of you?”

Shen was about to answer back, but a man had just come in with a freckle-faced woman. Zhang recognized him. The two of them went into the “little banquet room.” The woman dropped her bag and sat down angrily.

“What the hell are you up to, Song Fang?” she said.

“Quiet down,” Song Fang said.

“I don’t care. No one’s in here. Tell me, what are you really up to?”

“I already explained it to you . . .”

Little Yan came by and tossed a menu down on the table. She asked lazily: “What do you want?”

Song Fang ordered a cup of milk, and the woman ordered lemon tea and vanilla ice cream. Shen sat nearby, playing with his cell phone. Zhang noticed that he turned the ringer off.

“I just don’t get it,” the woman said. “You’re really going to marry that retard?”

“It’s only a fake marriage.”

“A fake marriage is still a marriage.”

“Old Lu just bought two old apartments. He’s getting insider information, and he’s just waiting for them to get knocked down. When they are, he’s going to make a lot of money.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not your money.”

“If I’m married to his daughter, isn’t it my money? She’ll be easy to deal with.”

“So you’re saying you’re selling yourself.”

“To who? I came to Shanghai without a cent. Only you wanted me.”

“I’m not even better than that retard.”

“Yaoyao, are you for real? I have no house and no car, are you really going to marry me?”

She said nothing.

“So,” Song Fang snorted, “don’t say I don’t want you. You’ve got somebody too, the one who buys you Gucci.”

She put her bag on her lap and leaned forward to protect it: “I bought this myself. It’s the real deal.”

“Don’t try to fool me, you—” He stopped short and changed his tone: “What I mean is, whether it’s real or fake, it sure looks good on you.”

Shen suddenly coughed. The couple in the “little banquet room” went quiet.

“It’s called ‘working with what you’ve got’.” Song Fang lowered his voice. “After we have a house, we can really be together.”

“But she’s a retard. A retard, a retard!”

Zhang rubbed his hand on a rag, stopped Little Yan, and dipped all five fingers into the two cups on her tray. Little Yan and Shen sniggered silently.

The couple drank their dirty milk and lemon tea, and talked a little while longer. She asked him where he was going, and he said: “Back to the retard’s place.” They started to leave. Song Fang took her hand. She pulled it away. He took her hand again and wouldn’t let it go.

Shen said: “Shit, what a pair of idiots. They act like they’re on a TV show.”

Zhang hurried into the “little banquet room.” The balcony across the way was empty. Where had Lu Shanshan gone? For some reason, he thought of the way she ate, nibbling at her food with her sharp teeth and little mole-like mouth.

Zhang asked Manager Luo if he could get off early because he wasn’t feeling well. He really did feel some pressure in his chest. “Feeling lazy again?” Manager Luo looked at his face, then said, “Okay, if you’re sick, go lie down, and drink some water.”

Zhang went to the convenience store and bought a switchblade. He squatted by the entrance to building 12. The knife was twenty centimeters long and had a dark red case. He poked the tip into the bottom of his foot and felt a dull pain in his toes. He turned the knife, wanting to really experience that kind of pain. His stomach had twisted into a knot, as though the cigarette smoke he’d breathed in had coiled in his abdomen and refused to disperse.

Sometime after eight, Song Fang came out of the building. With his khakis, leather shoes, briefcase, and slicked-back shiny hair, he looked like a broker who’d just failed to make a sale. Zhang followed him, stepping on his shadow. The shadow kept lengthening and shrinking back down. Between streetlamps, he had one shadow in front and one behind. He stopped at a bus stop. The back of his head was flat, and his hair covered his collar. Motherfucking white-collar worker, Zhang secretly cursed, just as he’d learned from Shen Zhong. The bus came too quickly. Zhang grasped his switchblade tightly, and just as Song Fang was getting on the bus, he poked him in the back with the closed knife. The bus doors closed, and Song Fang looked back at him. Zhang couldn’t see his expression clearly, but his eyes were yellow like a wolf’s.

Zhang hung out in the Internet café until three in the afternoon. He’d just gotten home when Feng Xiujuan called: “When they tore our house down, they said they wanted to put up a park. Now they’re putting up a building. The compensation is different if they put up a building. We would’ve been able to buy an apartment . . .” Zhang heard his mother breathing heavily, then he realized she was crying. He felt dizzy and hung up the phone. He slept until six-thirty, when he was woken by one of his housemates gargling. He thought of what his mother had said and gradually came wide awake. He tried to call her back, but his phone kept saying “outside the coverage area.” He rubbed his face and went out.

On the ruins of their old house stood a new building, surrounded by scaffolding and green safety netting. It was taller than the other buildings, with a bright red mosque-like dome on top. The dome seemed to expand. Zhang stared at it. It really was expanding. What’s going on? Where am I? He thought of Zhang Suqing, and he suddenly couldn’t remember what his father looked like. He thought of Lu Shanshan. God, he hadn’t realized she was retarded. He came to his senses, and saw that he was standing in front of a print shop. Next to the door was a life-sized cardboard woman in a blue uniform and red silk scarf, holding an ink cartridge. Her face was wide and her hair was pulled back in a bun, which made Zhang think of Lu Shanshan. In reality, they looked nothing alike. Zhang took out his switchblade and thrust it at her a few times. The cardboard woman was light and swayed away from him. Zhang thrust at it again. Someone came out of the store. Zhang turned around to leave, and realized that the passersby were looking at him strangely. He lowered his head and saw that he was still holding the knife.

He sat down on the sidewalk in a shady spot, and some time after his phone rang.

“Your mom is sick.”

“Who is this?” Zhang asked weakly.

“Feng Baogang.”

He thought for a moment. His uncle.

“We’re busy working double shifts. Your little cousin is taking his college exams soon. There’s no one there to look after your mother.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, I know?”

“I know means I know.”

“You can only help somebody for so long, you know. We can’t just let her stay here forever. We have to look after our own . . .”

Zhang lifted the phone from his ear, brought it to his mouth and started to blow on it. He heard “Hello? Hello?” and then several beeps. He wiped a few fingerprints from the screen. He suddenly remembered how his father had looked, lying in his coffin, his face so pale, with lipstick on his mouth, his throat a grayish yellow. He had shrunken a size, and seemed like a stranger.

Shen Zhong said: “What’s the matter with you, have you been shooting up or something? You look like you’re going to turn into a skeleton.”

Zhang said: “I’d shoot up if I had the money.” He couldn’t eat. Sometimes he felt desperately hungry, but no food enticed him. He couldn’t sleep either. His housemates ground their teeth, farted, talked in their sleep. The stray cats outside cried like infants, little creatures chirped. Someone rode by on a bicycle with flat tires, kacha kacha, as though riding out into the void.

Endless days followed endless nights. As soon as Zhang got off work, he would stroll over to building 12. One time, a middle-aged woman asked him: “I’ve seen you here a lot lately. Your girlfriend leave you?”

Each morning at eight, Lu Zhiqiang went to work. It took him about half an hour to get to his office. Once someone was biking on the sidewalk, and he jumped aside as the bike sped past as though he could see through the back of his head. Once he stepped in dog shit, rubbed his shoe against a tree, and kept walking. Aside from that, his movements never varied. His head tilted forward, his shoulders were slightly raised, one hand carried a briefcase and the other swung back and forth like a pendulum. After swinging for a while, he would switch hands. He switched more often the farther he went, like walking was some horrible duty he had been assigned.

A bit earlier, around six in the morning, Lu Shanshan would come out to buy breakfast, wearing her pajamas, her face slightly swollen and her hair messy. She would stroll around, eating her breakfast right there. She liked to buy frycakes, crullers, fried wontons. She took large oily bites, and then would start to sing, crooning like a little animal. She would reach out and pick a few weeds and stick them in her hair so they looked like sales labels. Once she choked on her breakfast, and squatted down, curling up into a little ball. A fat guy carefully picked his way around her.

Serves you right, you retard, you idiot, you mental case. Zhang silently cursed her, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

That Sunday, it rained for half the night and then cleared up. Zhang went home from work but then couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until five in the morning, until he finally got up and went out. His flip-flops quickly got wet and his feet felt a little chilled. The faint gray light started to brighten, and after another hour turned golden. A taxi was stopped by the side of the road, its windows cleaned by the rain. The driver was lying on the lowered front seat, his mouth half open, his eyes showing a bit of their whites. Zhang took out his switchblade and scratched a line down the side of the car. He suddenly felt amazing, and he looked around hoping someone had seen him.

After a few minutes, he closed the switchblade and kept walking. Past the next bend in the road, he saw Lu Shanshan standing in front of a frycake cart. She was out early today.

She was eating the frycake as she crossed the street toward the alley. The alley gate was locked, and she stopped in front of it, concentrating on her breakfast. Zhang touched the switchblade in his pocket and walked over. “Hey,” he said.

She kept eating her breakfast.

“Hey, Lu Shanshan.”

She turned her head. She had crumbs on her chin and she didn’t stop chewing. Zhang walked up to her. “How are you?

She didn’t recognize him. Her pupils were big, one eyelid open wider than the other, as though they wanted to pull him in.

Zhang put his arms around her. She started to cry and pulled her hand away, lifting the frycake so she wouldn’t drop it. He pressed her against the iron gate and kissed her once, on the forehead. Her hair smelled of honey shampoo. He used the same kind. She was short and thin, and her breasts felt cool, like two drops of jelly. Zhang lifted her shirt and took one in his hand. He felt something like an electrical shock and was overwhelmed with shame. Lu Shanshan hadn’t moved. Her head was bent over his arm, the nape of her neck burning hot. Her back was stained in strips by the rust from the gate. Zhang hugged her tightly, then let her go. He recalled a few happy moments in his life. She still hadn’t moved. He straightened her body like she was a doll. Hating to let go of her, he held onto her arm. She picked up her frycake and brushed off the dirt. He took out some money and held it in front of her face. “For your breakfast.” She clutched the frycake to her chest and avoided his hand. She held it so tightly it might have been her child. At that moment, the dawn suddenly turned warm. Zhang blinked his eyes. Lu Shanshan was walking away. She went around a bend and disappeared into the golden light.