Chapter 1

He stood in the waiting hall of the station, searching the crowd for a seat, the Chinese squatting among their baggage and eyeing him like children through the half-muted light of the clerestory. The air was smoke-filled and dusty and close and very hot, and, as the sun set, the shadows from the muntins tracked its course overhead. He reached down and gathered his belongings. Although he did not have much, what he did had been packed in the luggage at his feet – a carryall, a trolley case, a plastic-shelled valise – and, lifting them up, he could feel the disappointments that had come to form their weight. Above him, a female voice warned the crowd against mountebanks and thieves, but he could not understand her, for the hall was loud and the speakers old, and it was all Chinese to him.

The departure board changed, and, as it did, those who were seated slowly turned and raised their heads. If there was hope in their eyes for encouraging news, the foreigner could not say. He limped through the crowd with the carryall over one shoulder in the manner of a baldric and the trolley case behind him on its loose and broken wheels. The valise he carried endwise, like a duffel, at his side. He could feel them watching him as he set down his things, but, by now, that was common, and he paid it no mind. The split-flaps rustled. Then they were hushed. He squinted to read the departures.

For two years now, he had been living in their country, in a crowded metropolis where you rarely glimpsed the sun, forgotten by his people and his people lost to him. Yet, despite this estrangement from his family and friends, he felt no greater bond of kinship among the Chinese with whom he lived. He was a man of perhaps sixty, gaunt and disheveled, with sparse gray whiskers surrounding his mouth. A sharp, protruding jaw that called attention to his chin. Scanning the crowd, he reached into his pocket and produced a small leather book, whereupon the word PASSPORT had been printed in relief across the front. There was little money inside, but, from what he could tell, it would likely be enough. He folded the bills, then he tucked them away at his breast.

The ticket counter was a collection of twelve separate windows, but only half of them were open. He stared at the Chinese as they pushed their way forward, importunate as refugees. Stanchions meant to inspire order did nothing of the sort. The whole scene had the look of some cattle fair, and, as he thought this, he picked up his bags and moved them forward, mindful of the money in the pocket of his shirt. He rotated the carryall so that it covered his chest, then shook his head sadly, in what was either an expression of patronage or grief. Barging his way into the heart of the crowd, he muttered under his breath.

By the time he reached the window, he had frightened a child and lost a hold on one of his bags and shouldered a man to the ground. The Chinese regarded him coldly but said nothing as he leaned up to the speak-thru. Dao Ningyuan, he shouted. His spittle flecking the glass.

The attendant turned at the sound of his voice and considered him briefly, as one might a tramp. If she knew the town of which he spoke, it did not show on her face. She furrowed her brow, tilted her head querulously.

Ng?

Dao Ningyuan, he repeated.

Shenme difang?

Ningyuan.

Still, she did not understand him, and so, retrieving his passport, he dug out the card which the school had sent him and slid it beneath the glass. She inspected it quickly, then snorted and passed it back.

Ningyuan, she said. But it sounded the same to him.

He waited while she went through the system, arranging his money on the counter between them. The crowd, unruly, pulsed. The departure board changed, and, when he next looked back, the woman was shouting something at him through the perforated glass. Exactly what he could not tell. She reached down and pressed a button. Static crackled to life.

Maiwan le.

Eh?

Piao dou maiwan le, she said, pointing him off to the side. Ni zhan guoqu.

He grimaced, wagging one finger in front of the glass. I don’t think you’re getting me here, hun. I want to go to Ningyuan. He held up the card and pointed at the address. Dao Ningyuan, ya?

The attendant gave him an exasperated look, then rose in her chair and called the next man forward. He tried to protest, but, before he could, his place had been lost and his money dropped, his luggage toppled over. Presently, a bus entered the station, and many of those who were seated got up and stretched and headed toward the gate, but he just stood there, glaring at the crowd like a slighted immortal, committing these acts to memory, as if for some future and terrible use. Lamenting in his heart of hearts the sorry ways of men.

*

With his back to the wall, he closed his eyes and lowered himself to the floor. The ground was covered with cigarette butts and seed hulls and something that smelled like fish, but, given the circumstances, he was too upset to care. The next bus did not leave until the morning, and, because the town of Ningyuan was inaccessible by train, he would have to spend that night in the station, alone. It had taken him pains to learn this by reading the schedules over the front as well as by enlisting the help of an officer who did not speak English and had balked at the task. Taking out his cigarettes, he tamped them against his thigh, then lit one and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The nicotine, however, did little to settle his thoughts. He was in desperate need of a job.

He smoked quickly, and, when he was finished, he drew up his legs and surveyed the crowd. A mother and her child stood beside him, craning their necks up at the board, and he could hear the woman reading the names of cities to the boy. Hangzhou. Nanchang. Wuhan. Across the aisle, several old men squatted flat-soled in sandals, with their elbows on their knees and their forearms turned out, in what appeared to be a posture of either offering or defeat. The foreigner looked at them, and they at him, without smile or other acknowledgement, and, as others passed between them, he slowly came to recognize the ruin on their faces. Frowning, he turned away.

Just then, a girl came down the aisle, clacking in heels, and seated herself behind them. She was young and pretty and dressed in white knee socks, and the men nearby all turned when they saw her. She crossed her legs, studied her nails, crossed her legs again. The foreigner dug into his pack and lit another cigarette. For all of her beauty, there was something about her look that seemed to imply a certain warmth, which he rarely saw in others – and even less so in women – and, as she sorted through her clutch, he smoked and chewed on what this was. Ankles, calves, thighs. Hem of gusseted skirt. For a moment, he lost himself to prurient thought, and, when the girl looked over, she caught him leering like a fool. He cursed himself, lowered his eyes, and felt his cheeks go red. Beside him, the child spoke.

Mama, kan. Laowai!

His expression clouded and, turning to face the boy, he drew in on his cigarette and cocked a snook, but this elicited no response. The boy considered him, eyes glasslike and disbelieving, before erupting into a fit of coughs resulting from the smoke. His mother turned and scowled, coughing as well, then took him by the arm and led him away across the hall. The foreigner sat there, watching them go.

Please, a voice said. Do not take it personally. They are not accustomed to Westerners.

He started at the English, searching his way down the wall, until he came to find a girl sitting with her legs crossed atop a gingham-print bag. A rosacea birthmark spoiling her chin. She wore a white cotton shirt with the placket unbuttoned and the image of an osmanthus tree sewn across the heart. Feigning indifference, he looked at her but continued to smoke. Eventually, he spoke.

I don’t like it when you people call me that is all.

The girl shrugged. He didn’t mean anything by it. After all, he is just a kid!

Still. It’s the tone. Ya?

She nodded, sympathetically. As though she too were a foreigner in that land. You have to understand, she said. Seeing you comes as a surprise to them. Many Chinese – they cannot help it but to stare.

The foreigner considered this. What about you? he asked. I don’t seem to be making you all that uncomfortable.

That is because I have had many foreign teachers in the past.

Oh, ya? He turned and coughed. I’ve gotta admit – your English is pretty good. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have to say that you were a native speaker.

He expected the girl to deflect this praise in an act of self-effacement, but, to his surprise, she did not. Glancing up at the departure board, she smiled instead. I took fourth place in the provincial English contest last month. Hopefully, next year, I’ll win.

When’s that?

June.

The foreigner nodded, emitting a thin line of smoke in the process. Still got plenty of time.

The girl waited for him to continue, but he did not offer anything else. In time, the announcement system rang overhead, bruiting another arrival. The sounds of the station returned. After a moment, she got up and approached him, extending one hand with the palm facing down. How ladylike, he thought. My name is Bella, she said. What’s yours?

Thomas, he said. Then, correcting himself: Mr. Guillard.

It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Guillard. She had trouble pronouncing the name. A group of travelers got up to go, and he looked across the aisle to see if the girl in heels was among them. She was not. Bella sat down next to him, excitedly, and pointed up at the board. Where are you going? she asked.

Nowhere, he said. Tickets are all sold out.

Oh. It is such a pity! Guillard exhaled, and, as he did, Bella drew back noticeably, waving one hand between them in an effort to chase down the smoke. What are you going to do?

He shrugged.

Is there any way I can help?

No. Not unless you’ve got an extra ticket to Ningyuan.

At this, her countenance brightened. Ningyuan? she said, in a pair of tones only slightly different than the ones he had used. I am going there, too! Then, suddenly, her face grew dim. Why do you want to go there?

I have to see about a job.

You are a teacher?

He nodded.

Where?

Well, until recently, here in Changsha. Yali Zhongxue. Before that, at Number Twelve.

Yali Zhongxue? It is such a good school! You must be an excellent teacher.

Guillard raised one hand and pretended to balance it like a scale. Mamahuhu, he said. Bella laughed.

Your Chinese is so wonderful! Why do you want to go to Ningyuan, though? It is such a poor place.

Guillard coughed, shielding himself from the girl, then began to hammer away at his chest. Then he hawked and leaned and spat. Trust me, he said. This isn’t my decision. Yali screwed me. I need a job, and, at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. There’s only two weeks left on my visa.

Where are you from, America?

Mei cuo.

She smiled. Which state?

Minnesota.

Her eyes grew wide in recognition. The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. She said the name as if reciting it from a book. It must be beautiful there. I had a teacher once from Minnesota. His name was Sean. Do you know him?

Guillard smiled weakly, stubbing out his cigarette. No, he muttered. I don’t know Sean.

Oh, well. If you’re having trouble finding work, why don’t you just go back to America? It is such a powerful country, and, surely, you must have a family.

Guillard tried his best to conceal the pain occasioned by this remark. I like it better over here, he said. Life is more exciting. The split-flaps rustled. He gazed across the hall. There’s this fella here I know told me that his brother had to leave Ningyuan last month. Apparently, he didn’t give the school much of a heads-up. From what I’ve heard, they’re still scrambling to find a replacement.

Who? Bella asked, anxiously. What was his name? The teacher who left.

I don’t know. He’s African. Anyway, it’s been hard getting in touch with the school. Can’t say I’m much surprised. I’m gonna have to get on the first bus out of here in the morning. Hope I get there before they find someone else. Otherwise – he looked at her – bu hao.

Don’t worry, Mr. Thomas. Where there is a will, there is a way! Guillard eyed her obliquely and winced. She did not appear to notice. I’ll find a seat for you on my bus. Rummaging through her knapsack, she pulled out a small, plastic bag, nearly bursting at the seams. By the way, she asked him. Have you eaten dinner yet?

*

They sat together on the floor of the station, eating noodles from paper bowls. Bella told him of the town and its people and the places she had been, while Guillard listened impatiently, slurping at his food. He had already made his way through two oranges and a moon cake and an egg that had been steeped in tea, and the rinds from the fruit lay strewn about his person, like so many fallen leaves. As though he himself were deciduous in nature. Fragments of the eggshell littered his clothing, and, with a contorted hand, he set down the noodles and wiped at his chin, then began to pick them individually from the surface of his chest. In time, he was able to tune out Bella, carping aloud in his head.

The others in their vicinity had all left by now, save the girl he had eyes for and a small group of Uighurs and a man who sat at the end of their aisle, scrolling through his phone. He did not have any luggage on him, nor did he appear to be waiting for someone, and, as the Uighurs talked, he took a swig from his beer, then set it back down at his feet. A yellow tassel hung from the corner of his phone, swaying as he typed. Guillard picked up his noodles and dumped in the shells. He was full, and, at that, he was glad. When his focus finally returned to their conversation, Bella had not stopped talking.

It was such a coincidence, she said, laughing. Don’t you think? Guillard nodded and told her that yes, it was, even though he had no idea what she was talking about. She smiled. What about you, Mr. Thomas? Have you ever been to Fenghuang?

No, but I’ve heard of it. That’s the town with the river running through it, ya?

Yes. The Tuojiang. But it is also the home to some minority people. In Chinese, the name means phoenix.

Hey. We’ve got one of those, too.

Excuse me?

Phoenix. There’s a city by that name in America, too.

Oh, yes. Of course. The capital of Arizona.

Wryly, Guillard smiled to himself. You sure do know your geography, don’t you?

Teacher Daniel taught us all about the states and their capitals in school. I can still name them. Would you like to hear?

Guillard leaned forward and studied the floor, picking a few of the shell shards he had missed from his lap. That’s alright, he said. He was growing tired of this girl and her know-it-all comportment. She was boring and officious and ugly to boot. He attempted to change the subject. How is it you’ve been able to visit all of these places? he asked.

Bella turned and pouted, as if suddenly disappointed, and, in that moment, he realized she must have just been telling him. My aunt and uncle, she said. They have very much money. They live here in Changsha, and, every summer holiday, we go traveling together. This year, they took me to Wulingyuan. Zhangjiajie. Do you know it?

Of course, he lied.

It is beautiful, yes?

You bet. He sat there, examining her birthmark, trying to determine which of the states it resembled most. What about your parents? he asked. Where are they?

Mr. Thomas…

At this, the Uighurs sitting across the aisle from them started from what they were saying, disgruntled and vaguely alarmed, then, eventually, returned to their conversation. They work in Guangzhou, Bella said. Remember? She considered him for a moment, rubbing her chin. Pennsylvania, he thought. No. More correctly, Iowa. Is everything alright? she asked.

Guillard frowned. He still had several questions, but he kept them to himself. Who was Teacher Daniel? Were there any other foreigners in Ningyuan? From the brother of the man who had left, he had been given the impression that this was a dirty, backwater town. He had not been expecting company. Glancing across the aisle, he rearranged his luggage, then started to get up. Watch my stuff for a minute, he said. I need to take a leak.

Bella looked at him. A leak?

WC.

Oh, she said, shyly. I know.

The lavatory was located directly across the hall, but he took the long way around to avoid passing the girl. She had been watching him as he talked to Bella, and he had been watching her too, although strictly out of the corner of one eye, like a boy sitting nervous at school. She smiled at him as he went down the aisle, picking his way among the row of dirty shoes, with his flail arm suspended and his bad leg in tow. Vendors sat perched like birds in their stalls, watching him as he passed.

He purchased a new pack of cigarettes after trying to bargain down the price, but the man he bought them from was humorless, suggesting initially that he look somewhere else. Outside the lavatory, there was a woman charging admission by the door, dressed in a coarse, woolen jacket that made her seem larger than she was. She gave Guillard a pack of tissues and eyed him warily as she counted out his change. He pushed his way past her into the washroom, scowling at the others in the way, negotiating the pools of water and phlegm and vomit that lay exposed about the floor. A heady smell of excrement flooded his nose. Behind him, a few Chinese squatted idly, like panners over their stools. Toadish sounds of flatulence issued from the stalls.

After finding a place in front of the tiling, he felt his bladder begin to work, and, as he stood there, making water, the girl reentered his thoughts. She had been flirting with him – that much was certain – and, what’s more, she had been hot. By that point, Guillard had come to know the facial subtleties of the Chinese by heart: admiration, bewilderment, circumspection – sometimes, fear. The status they afforded him in their country was one of the few points of merit he was willing to acknowledge in their favor – that and a certain freedom: a disconnection from his past.

Once he finished, he went back to the washroom and held his hands beneath the sink, shaking them out like rags in the darkness, wiping them down his pants. There was a large crack running down the face of the mirror with dried bits of sputum about the glass, and, as he stood there, inspecting his image, he searched for features, not faults. He was a runt of a man, with little kindness on his face, and, though his cheekbones suggested a hardness that often appealed to the opposite sex, he could no longer bear with any favor the reflection opposed to him in the glass. Nor even that lonely and guarded figure to make some attempt to acknowledge him back. He took off his glasses and wiped them with water – baring his teeth, combing his hair – then made for the exit, hobbling slightly, his elbows leading the way.

Please, a bystander muttered, but he was not seeking alms. He held out a phone to Guillard in the darkness, its screen lit by the naked photo of an underage girl. She sat milking a hard piece of candy, its handle protruding from her lips, her blouse unbuttoned and parted like curtains, her tiny chest exposed. Guillard attempted to brush past the man, withdrawing his hand in a look of disgust, but the pimp was faster and countered to block him, not so easily discouraged. The two men shuffled back and forth, as though engaged in some odd form of dance, their tempo arrythmic and shambling, the footwork of the drunk. The lighting was stronger in the doorway, but, still, Guillard could not see who it was. At last, his eyes adjusted. He noticed the tassel from before.

Beautiful, the pimp said. When he spoke English, he elongated each syllable, as if uncertain of the sounds. With an effeminate thumbnail, he browsed through the roll, tapping on the screen at points for emphasis, quoting prices with his hand. The girls had numbers to accompany their pictures, and they all had extremely large eyes, but there was a sadness to them also, and, in this way, more than any other, they were the same.

Bu yao, Guillard muttered. He pushed his way back out into the hall. The concourse was crowded with incoming travelers. He could smell their bodies on the air. He limped back to Bella, taking the same route as before, the vendor from whom he had purchased his cigarettes earlier smiling broadly now, flirting with a pair of women who spoke in rapid Changshahua. Bella was right where he had left her – encamped among their bags – and, when she saw him, she started waving frantically, as if his reemergence were somehow surprising to her, or he had been away for too long.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7