The Long Season · Conversa

The autumn in Hualin is golden. The birch trees on both sides of the railway shed their leaves, spreading them between the sleepers, and they crunch underfoot. Wang Yang shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and walked crookedly along the tracks, Andy Lau singing “Thank You for Your Love” through his earphones. He hummed along, the tune drifting all the way to the Songhua River. In the distance, a train was slowing to pull into the station, its whistle sounding twice — short, short — his dad's signal, meaning “Get the hell off the tracks.” Wang Yang grinned, hopped off the sleepers, and pulled one earbud out to hang around his neck. The welcome banner at Hualin Medical College was puffing in the wind, the words “Welcome, New Students” bright red, the ink not even dry yet. The bus pulled up by the flowerbed, the door opened, and a girl in a white dress poked her head out — single eyelids, thin lips, skin so pale it caught the light. She came down the steps, and the wind caught her skirt, revealing a slim ankle tied with a faded red string. She glanced up at the banner, expressionless, and headed toward the dormitory. On the other side of the flowerbed, a tall, thin boy crouched behind the holly bushes; the yellow shell of his hearing aid caught the sunlight. He watched her walk past, reached into his pocket, and touched a plastic hair clip — bought for fifty cents, clutched all the way here, his palm sweaty, but in the end he never took it out. Victoria's karaoke hall was locked up during the day. Yin Hong slipped out the back door, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette. She tucked her wavy hair behind her ear and blew out a puff of gray smoke. Through the smoke she saw a new café across the street, its sign in foreign letters, its glass door polished to a shine. She looked down at her high heels — the toe had scuffed a patch of paint off. She stubbed out her cigarette on the ground, ground it under her sole twice, turned around, and pushed the door open to go back in. Over at the factory, Wang Xiang jumped down from the locomotive, carrying his inspection hammer, his work overalls soaked through with sweat across the back. He bellowed something toward the workshop, the voice bouncing several times between the steel girders. Gong Biao pushed his bicycle out of the supply depot, two bright red apples in the basket. He shouted to Wang Xiang: Brother Xiang, want an apple? Wang Xiang waved his hand and said keep them for your girlfriend. Gong Biao grinned, hopped on his bike, and rode off whistling, the whistle swelling and fading between the factory buildings like a reckless bird. Ma Desheng pulled the police car up by the river, pushed the door open, and the wind rushed in carrying the smell of waterweed and mud. He lit a cigarette, squatted on the bank, and watched the fallen leaves spinning on the river's surface. The water was shallow, clear enough to see the stones at the bottom. He flicked his ash into the river, and it was carried away. He stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, opened the door, and sat back in. The police car made a U-turn and headed toward the medical college. The sky was still light, and the autumn in Hualin was still long. No one knew what this river would one day swallow, and no one knew which square each of these people stood on in destiny's chessboard. They were just walking, cycling, driving, smoking, humming songs, step by step heading toward the winter that hadn't come yet. The leaves were still falling.