Kinder Than Solitude. Yiyun Li
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people boring.”
“Do you find them interesting, then?”
“Many of them hire me,” Ruyu said. “Celia is a friend.”
“Of course,” Edwin said. “I forgot that.”
What was it he had forgotten—that the women in the living room provided more than half of Ruyu’s livelihood, or that his own wife was the angel who’d made such a miracle happen? Ruyu placed the plates in the dishwasher. She wished that Edwin would stop feeling obligated to keep her company while she played the role of half hostess in his house. In the cottage, she cooked on a hot plate and ate standing by the kitchen counter, and the dish drain, left by a previous renter, was empty and dry most of the time. In Celia’s house Ruyu enjoyed lining up the plates and cups and glasses, which, unlike people, did not seek to crack and break their own lives. When she continued in silence, Edwin asked if he had offended her.
“No,” she sighed.
“But do you think we take you for granted?”
“Who? You and Celia?”
“Everyone here,” Edwin said.
“People are taken for granted all the time,” Ruyu said. Every one of the women in the living room would have a long list of complaints about being taken for granted. “I’m not a unique case who needs special attention.”
“But we complain.”
Ruyu turned and looked at Edwin. “Go ahead and complain,” she said. “But don’t expect me to do it.”
Edwin blushed. Do not expose your soul uninvited, she would have said if Edwin were no one’s husband, but instead she apologized for her abruptness. “Don’t mind what I said,” she said. “Celia said I wasn’t my right self today.”
“Is anything the matter?”
“Someone I used to know died,” Ruyu said, feeling malicious because she would not have told this to Celia even if she were ten times as persistent.
Edwin said he was sorry to hear the news. Ruyu knew he would like to ask more questions; Celia would have been chasing every detail, but Edwin seemed uncertain, as though intimidated by his own curiosity. “It’s all right,” Ruyu said. “People die.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“No one can do anything. She’s dead already,” Ruyu said.
“I mean, can we do something for you?”
Superficial kindness was offered every day, innocuous if pointless, so why, Ruyu thought, couldn’t she give Edwin credit for being a good-mannered person with an automatic response to the news of a death that did not concern him? She had only known the deceased for a short time, she said, trying to mask her impatience with a yawn.
“Still—” Edwin hesitated, looking at the water.
“Still what?”
“You look sad.”
Ruyu felt an unfamiliar anger. What right did Edwin have to look in her for the grief he wanted to be there? “I don’t have the right to feel that way. See, I am a real bore. Even when someone dies, I can’t claim the tragedy,” Ruyu said. Abruptly she changed the topic, asking if the boys were excited to see the T-shirts signed for them.
Edwin seemed disappointed, and shrugged and said it mattered more to Celia than to the boys. “Mothers, you know?” he said. “By the way, did you grow up with a tiger mom?”
“No.”
“What do you think of this fuss, then?”
If only she could, as was called for by the situation, say something witty—but rolling one’s eyes and saying witty things were as foreign to her as eight-year-old Jake’s contempt for his friend’s family, who ate the wrong kind of salmon; or Celia’s fretting over their Christmas lights, lest they seem too flashy or too modest. The freedom to act and the freedom to judge, undermining each other, amount to little more than a well-stocked source of anxiety. Is that why, Ruyu wondered, Americans so willingly make themselves smaller—by laughing at others, or, more tactfully, at themselves—when there is no immediate danger to hide from? But danger in the form of poverty and flying bullets and lawless states and untrustworthy friends provides, if not a route to happiness, at least clarity to one’s suffering.
Ruyu looked harshly at Edwin. “I don’t think,” she said, “it is a worthwhile subject.”
Midsummer in Beijing, its extreme heat and humidity occasionally broken by a relieving thunderstorm, gave the impression that life today would be that of tomorrow, and the day after, until forever: the watermelon rinds accumulated at the roadside would go on rotting and attracting swarms of flies; murky puddles in the alleyways from overspilled sewers dwindled, but before they entirely disappeared another storm would replenish them; old men and women, sitting next to bamboo perambulators in the shadows of palace walls, cooled down their grandchildren with giant fans woven of sedge leaves, and if one closed one’s eyes and opened them again one could almost believe that the fans and the babies and the wrinkle-faced grandparents were the same ones from a hundred years ago, captured by a rare photograph in the traveling album of a foreign missionary, who would eventually be executed for spreading evil in a nearby province.
Life, already old, did not age. It was this Beijing, with its languid mood, that Moran loved the most, though she worried it meant little to Ruyu, who seemed to look at both the city and Moran’s enthusiasm askance. Moran tried to see Beijing for the first time with a newcomer’s eyes and felt a moment of panic: perhaps there was nothing poetic in the noises and smells, in the uncleanness and over-crowdedness of the city. When we place our beloved in front of the critical eyes of others, we feel diminished along with the subject being scrutinized. Had Moran been a more experienced person, had she mastered the skill of self-protection, she would have easily masked her love with a cynical or at least distant attitude. Tactless in her youth, she could only corner herself with hope that turned into despair.
“Of course none of them is really a sea,” Moran said apologetically as she leaned her bicycle on a willow tree and sat next to Ruyu on a bench. They were on the waterfront of the Western Sea, a manmade lake, and Moran had pointed out the direction of the other seas: the Back Sea, the Front Sea, and the Northern Sea, to which Boyang and Moran had taken Ruyu the day before, as it was one of the essential places for a tourist to visit. In the past week they had taken Ruyu to temples and palaces, as they would have shown the city to a cousin from out of town.
“Why are they called seas, then?” Ruyu asked. She was not interested in the answer, yet she knew that each question granted her some power over the people she questioned. She liked to watch others feeling obliged, and sometimes more foolishly, elated, to answer her: people do not know that the moment they respond they put themselves on a stand for their interrogators to judge.
“Maybe because Beijing is not next to the ocean?” Moran said, though without any certainty.
Ruyu nodded, feeling lenient enough not to point out that Moran’s words made little sense. Within days of her arrival, Ruyu knew that Moran had been placed in her new life because of the convenience such a person would provide, though that did not stop her from wishing that Moran could be kept at a distance, or did not exist at all.
“Have you ever been to the seaside?” Moran asked.
“No.”
“Neither have I,” Moran said. “I would like to see the ocean someday. Boyang and his family go every summer.”
This was so like Moran, Ruyu thought, offering information when no one asked her to. The flowers every family kept on windowsills, Moran had explained to Ruyu when she’d caught Ruyu looking at the blossoms the morning after her arrival, were geraniums, and they were known to