Closer

May Li stands at the periphery of the asphalt, waiting. She shifts her body uncomfortably as she tries to penetrate traffic at all sides with her eyes and takes note of each rusty bicycle that passes her way. To a passing pedestrian, she might resemble an octopus in its death throes. She is waiting for Jin—the love of her life, her yang—to say the final farewell before she embarks on a trip that will take her to the other side of the globe. Although Jin has promised to use his hoe to dig a tunnel through the center of the earth and line it with fresh bok choy leaves for her, somehow she has a passing suspicion that it will be too much for one man to complete by himself. For such an immense task, you would need at least half the men working in his commune.

The bicycles speed up, as a huge storm cloud looms closer still. Old men with missing teeth pack up their graying chess pieces and a tattered paperboard for the prerequisite afternoon wulong tea. The sky smells like old clams, and the moist air distorts the increasing clamor of bicycle bells. May instinctively quickens her gaze to look for any signs of her Jin. A sliver of wheat skin, milky teeth, or equine strides, perhaps.

A look of disappointment combined with hints of denial colors May’s face. Her tears bleed out of her sockets and drop like molasses through her oily cheeks, onto a tiny straw cage she is holding. It is to be a gift for Jin.

Jin Hai stands at the periphery of the concrete, waiting. Not by choice, but by the multitudes of tourists dressed in flowery pictures, squeezing him, and displacing him toward the cliff of the sidewalk. The lush avenue is lined with glittery boutiques covered with furs, feathers, and miniaturized Temples of Heavens. The perfume clouds collide and coalesce into one another--a storm of effluvia, which to a peasant like Jin smells worse than an outhouse.

The sidewalk is polished by many pairs of high heels, the erosion exposing the underlying dirt road that was paved over for this. Economic Development Zone, it is called. Jin tries to take note of the drivers in luxury cars to catch a glimpse of May, the love of his life, his yin, and finally kiss her before she leaves forever.

She told him about this trip. Mei guo, beautiful country it means, a place immersed in light when he is haunted by darkness. America.

It is a hot and dry day. The mirage caused by the refraction of hot air on smooth pavement confuses him, and he constantly has to adjust his vision, as cars, lovely metallic insects, fly pass him in their usual anonymity. Pedestrians meld back and forth into incoming traffic, like reflections from a magic mirror, becoming lanky and then turning fat. Once in a while, homeless children would approach him and ask him for a coin. He doesn’t have any money except a return fare back to his village, and a tiny silver ring for May wrapped around his pinky, the only size he could afford. And he won’t know until he takes it off and sees the black dusty circle that this ring is indeed made of brass.

May stands without an umbrella, drenched in sour raindrops and her tears. If she could just see him, she would kiss him hard, his fortress-like teeth, rough tongue, everything. She wants to give Jin this cricket residing in its octagonal prison. It won many fights without losing an antenna, and he had always asked for it but could never afford to buy it.

But the rain has increased to such intensity that even her palm could not shield it. Out of profound sympathy for this poor creature, she passes the cage to a dusty peasant child roaming the street, who carefully deposits it on top of greasy coins. (The boy has his face, she thinks). With the song of a cricket and the splatters of rain, May walks back with heavy steps, absorbing the mud water into her shoes, and steps inside a pastry shop to drink the last cup of bean curd soup before she leaves. It was hard to swallow.

Jin stands feeling contempt for this place, but he is not going to leave. He hopes this isn’t another game of hide-and-seek, of which May always teases him about. He swears he could hear a cricket chirp somewhere over at the street corner, but he can’t risk leaving this spot, where they decided to meet for the last time.

A taxi conveying the last of the day’s customers drive like a lonely beast through the wet street, sketching two lines of foam on the pot-marked asphalt road. A half-eaten bun with sweet red bean filling is crushed by it sadistic wheels into a smear of red chaos. The vehicle continues on its final destination, turning left onto an avenue full of foreigners. The road is dry and warm, and merchants continue their haggles to get genuine American dollars. The vehicle almost careens into a burly Chinese peasant standing off the curb under the cloudless sky, his hair brushed by a soft wind carrying red loess soil from the Gobi dessert. With the waning of the sun, you might mistake him for a young willow tree.

After dropping off his final passenger, the driver accelerates, leaving behind bittersweet tracks of rain, red bean paste, and the salty tears of a forgotten happiness.

This was the most localized storm ever recorded in the city’s history.