A Thousand Years of Good Prayers. Yiyun Li

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СКАЧАТЬ Fong? Yes, my husband is meeting your husband for breakfast.”

      “Are you sure? Do me a favor. Follow him and see if he’s lying to you. You can never trust men.”

      Mrs. Su hesitates, and says, “But I’m busy.”

      “What are you busy with? Listen, my legs are hurting me. I would’ve gone after him myself otherwise.”

      “I don’t think it looks good for husbands to be followed,” Mrs. Su says.

      “If your husband goes out every morning and comes home with another woman’s scent, why should you care about what looks good or bad?”

      It is not her husband who is having an affair, Mrs. Su retorts in her mind, but she doesn’t want to point out the illogic. Her husband is indeed often used as a cover for Mr. Fong’s affair, and Mrs. Su feels guilty toward Mrs. Fong. “Mrs. Fong, I would help on another day, but today is bad.”

      “Whatever you say.”

      “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Su says.

      Mrs. Fong complains for another minute, of the untrustworthiness of husbands and friends in general, and hangs up. Mrs. Su knocks on the door of Beibei’s room and her husband jerks awake, quickly wiping the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Fong wanted to know if you were meeting Mr. Fong,” she says.

      “Tell her yes.”

      “I did.”

      Mr. Su nods and tucks the blanket tight beneath Beibei’s soft, shapeless chin. It bothers Mrs. Su when her husband touches Beibei for any reason, but it must be ridiculous for her to think so. Being jealous of a daughter who understands nothing and a husband who loves the daughter despite that! She will become a crazier woman than Mrs. Fong if she doesn’t watch out for her sanity, Mrs. Su thinks, but still, seeing her husband smooth Beibei’s hair or rub her cheeks upsets Mrs. Su. She goes back to the kitchen and washes the dishes while her husband gets ready to leave. When he says farewell, she answers politely without turning to look at him.

      AT EIGHT-THIRTY Mr. Su leaves the apartment, right on time for the half-hour walk to the stockbrokerage. Most of the time he is there only to study the market; sometimes he buys and sells, executing the transactions with extraordinary prudence, as the money in his account does not belong to him. Mr. Fong has offered the ten thousand yuan as a loan, and has made it clear many times that he is not in any urgent need of the money. It is not a big sum at all for Mr. Fong, a retired senior officer from a military factory, but Mr. Su believes that for each drop of water one received, one has to repay with a well. The market and the economy haven’t helped him much in returning Mr. Fong’s generosity. Mr. Su, however, is not discouraged. A retired mathematics teacher at sixty-five, Mr. Su believes in exercising one’s body and mind—both provided by his daily trip to the stockbrokerage—and being patient.

      Mr. Su met Mr. Fong a year ago at the stockbrokerage. Mr. Fong, a year senior to Mr. Su, took a seat by him, and conversation started between the two men. He was there out of curiosity, Mr. Fong said; he asked Mr. Su if indeed the stock system would work for the country, and if that was the case, how Marxist political economics could be adapted for this new, clearly capitalistic situation. Mr. Fong’s question, obsolete and naive as it was, moved Mr. Su. With almost everyone in the country going crazy about money, and money alone, it was rare to meet someone who was nostalgic about the old but also earnest in his effort to understand the new. “You are on the wrong floor to ask the question,” Mr. Su replied. “Those who would make a difference are in the VIP lounges upstairs.”

      The stockbrokerage, like most of the brokerage firms in Beijing, rented space from bankrupted state-run factories. The one Mr. Su visited used to manufacture color TVs, a profitable factory until it lost a price war to a monopolizing corporation. The laid-off workers were among the ones who frequented the ground floor of the brokerage, opening accounts with their limited means and hoping for good luck. Others on the floor were retirees, men and women of Mr. Su’s age who dreamed of making their money grow instead of letting the money die in banks, which offered very low interest rates.

      “What are these people doing here if they don’t matter to the economy?” Mr. Fong asked.

      “Thousands of sand grains make a tower,” Mr. Su said. “Together their investments help a lot of factories run.”

      “But will they make money from the stock market?”

      Mr. Su shook his head. He lowered his voice and said, “Most of them don’t. Look at that woman there in the first row, the one with the hairnet. She buys and sells according to what the newspapers and television say. She’ll never earn money that way. And there, the old man—eighty-two he is, a very fun and healthy oldster but not a wise investor.”

      Mr. Fong looked at the people Mr. Su pointed out, every one an example of bad investing. “And you, are you making money?” Mr. Fong asked.

      “I’m the worst of all,” Mr. Su said with a smile. “I don’t even have money to get started.” Mr. Su had been observing the market for some time. With an imaginary fund, he had practiced trading, dutifully writing down all the transactions in a notebook; he had bought secondhand books on trading and developed his own theories. His prospects of earning money from the market were not bleak at all, he concluded after a year of practice. His pension, however, was small. With a son going to college, a wife and a daughter totally dependent on him, he had not the courage to risk a penny on his personal hobby.

      Very quickly, Mr. Fong and Mr. Su became close friends. They sat at teahouses or restaurants, exchanging opinions about the world, from prehistorical times to present day. They were eager to back up each other’s views, and at the first sign of disagreement, they changed topics. It surprised Mr. Su that he would make a friend at his age. He was a quiet and lonely man all his life, and most people he knew in his adult life were mere acquaintances. But perhaps this was what made old age a second childhood—friendship came out of companionship easily, with less self-interest, fewer social judgments.

      After a month or so, at dinner, Mr. Fong confessed to Mr. Su that he was in a painful situation. Mr. Su poured a cup of rice wine for Mr. Fong, waiting for him to continue.

      “I fell in love with this woman I met at a street dance party,” Mr. Fong said.

      Mr. Su nodded. Mr. Fong had once told him about attending a class to learn ballroom dancing, and had discussed the advantages: good exercise, a great chance to meet people when they were in a pleasant mood, and an aesthetic experience. Mr. Su had thought of teasing Mr. Fong about his surrendering to Western influences, but seeing Mr. Fong’s sincerity, Mr. Su had given up the idea.

      “The problem is, she is a younger woman,” Mr. Fong said.

      “How much younger?” Mr. Su asked.

      “In her early forties.”

      “Age should not be a barrier to happiness,” Mr. Su said.

      “But it’s not quite possible.”

      “Why, is she married?”

      “Divorced,” Mr. Fong said. “But think about it. She’s my daughter’s age.”

      Mr. Su looked Mr. Fong up and down. A soldier all his life, Mr. Fong was in good shape; except for his balding head, he looked younger than his age. “Put on a wig and people will think you are fifty,” Mr. Su said. “Quite a decent bridegroom, no?”

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