Qi Rui · Chat

The night wind, carrying the damp mustiness of the old town north of the river, crept in through the gaps in the window frame, making the yellowed ceiling light sway. Qi Rui stood in the cramped room, taking one last look around: the corner where the plaster was peeling, his mother's bedroom door that had been locked for years, that creaky iron-framed bed. Nothing here had ever belonged to him; all he was taking away now was just himself. The suitcase lay open on the floor, its zipper gaping wide. At the very bottom were his only two spare T-shirts and a pair of work pants, folded neatly. On top of the clothes was the thing he had hesitated a full half hour before putting in. He crouched down, opened the cardboard box a crack, and peered inside by the dim yellow light: a few small clips, a cosplay tail, and those two sets of special clothes folded into neat squares. As if possessed, he reached out and touched the hem of the skirt, his fingertip brushing over the pilled tulle, and his chest suddenly tightened. "Bring it along," he told himself, his voice so low it sounded like begging. "Just in case... it comes in handy." He wrapped the cardboard box up again, tucked it between the clothes in the suitcase, and covered it with his pants. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the zipper shut; the lock clicked closed with a snap, as if sealing away every secret of his past twenty-eight years along with it. His mother's door remained tightly shut. Qi Rui stood at the door and waited for three minutes, hearing through the door panel the sound of the TV inside—that mediation talk show his mother loved most, the host screaming hoarsely, "Harmony in the family brings prosperity." He didn't knock. He only slid the envelope with three thousand yuan in cash underneath the door crack—his private savings accumulated over half a year, scraped together bit by bit from night-shift loading work and helping people move house on weekends. No reaction came from inside the room. The TV laughter continued as before. He lifted the suitcase. It was very heavy. The strap cut into the calluses on his palm. When he went downstairs, the sound-activated light in the stairwell was broken again, so he felt his way down step by step in the dark, his leather shoes making dull echoes on the concrete steps. Nights in Moss Alley were never peaceful—the shouts from the mahjong parlor next door, a drunk's cursing in the street, the sounds of stray cats rummaging through the trash bins. As he passed the alley mouth, Auntie Liu, who often bought vegetables from him, was packing up her stall. She glanced at him: "Xiao Rui, where are you going so late?" "On a business trip," he said. "Might... not be back for a while." Auntie Liu gave an "oh" and asked no more. People in the poor alley didn't pry into others' affairs—that was an unspoken rule of survival. Qi Rui walked out of the alley mouth and turned back one last time: the five-story red-brick building stood in the night, most of its windows dark, only his mother's window still lit, the TV light flickering on and off. He watched for three seconds, then turned around and left the whole alley, along with his past life, behind him. The car that came to pick him up was a black business van, parked on the roadside across from the alley mouth. The windows were tinted dark, so you couldn't see inside. The driver opened the door for him. He bent down and got in. The seats were genuine leather, the air conditioning was blowing hard, mixed with an unfamiliar, expensive perfume scent. He shrank into the corner, hands resting on his knees, a little nervous. The car stopped in front of a huge wrought-iron gate, which slid open silently to both sides. On both sides of the driveway were neatly trimmed plane trees, with the villa's warm yellow lights showing through the shadows between them. The main building was in that neoclassical style, with cream-white stone exterior walls. Two bronze wall lamps under the porch bathed the steps in a golden glow. The driver lifted the suitcase down for him and pointed at the front door: "Go on in. The master is in the study on the second floor." Qi Rui stood before the steps, dragging his suitcase, and looked up at the heavy oak door that seemed capable of shutting out all sound. He took a deep breath. The air held the scent of grass and night-blooming jasmine mixed together: clean, expensive, utterly unlike every breath he had ever taken before. He raised his hand and pushed the door open. It wasn't locked. The chandelier in the entryway was so bright it made him squint. The floor was paved with dark gray marble, polished to a mirror shine, and he could see the muddy prints on the soles of his shoes. He quickly shuffled to the side, took off his shoes, and stood barefoot on the floor, the chill shooting from the soles of his feet up to his spine. Carrying his suitcase, he walked a few steps further into the open living room. Not knowing where to go, he could only stand stiffly beside the sofa, both hands gripping the suitcase handle, his knuckles turning white. Footsteps came from the stairs. Qi Rui jerked his head up. Into his view came a pair of feet in house slippers, then dark pajama pants, a loose white linen shirt, and further up, a face much younger than he had imagined. The other person stood at the turn of the stairs, looking him over from above. Qi Rui's Adam's apple bobbed. He remembered what his mother had instructed him: "Don't look up. Don't look around. Speak first." So he fixed his gaze on the second button of the other's shirt, not daring to move it any higher. He let go of the suitcase handle, let his hands hang at his sides, hunched his back slightly, and spoke in that voice he had practiced countless times—lowered and trembling a little: "Hello... I've heard of you before." A pause. His lips quivered slightly, and when those final words were squeezed out of his throat, they carried a resigned tremor, like folding up the last shred of his self-respect and offering it up with both hands. "From now on, I'm yours."