If You Could See the Sun (64)
* * *
The old districts of Suzhou are beautiful.
Like a magical secret kept safe and hidden from the outside world. A soft, milky fog spills across the winding waterways, the crooked, crowded alleys and faded white houses, blurring the lines between land and sky. There are women wringing out their laundry by the banks, leathery-skinned men hauling nets of fish from the murky green canals, college-aged girls posing and snapping photos by the willow trees, pretty oil paper umbrellas rested over their shoulders.
“Oh—oh, it’s like the Chinese version of Venice!” Julie Walsh gasps when we step out of the bus, her high heels clacking against the century-old pavement.
But the place doesn’t look like Venice to me. It doesn’t look like anywhere else in the world.
We start walking down the side of a canal, with Wei Laoshi leading the way. Every now and then, he stops to point at things—a statue of a solemn-looking official, a slanted inn, a boat drifting atop the waters—and call out random facts, saying how the Qianlong emperor once stayed in Suzhou for ten days and couldn’t bear to leave, even reciting a few lines of the emperor’s poetry.
I’m sure Qianlong’s poem is great, but all I can get out of it is something about a bird and a mountain and blood—no, snow—no—
“Wait, Wei Laoshi,” Chanel ventures. “I keep forgetting—which one was Qianlong and which one was Qin Shihuang again? Like, who was the dude that buried scholars alive?”
Wei Laoshi halts in his tracks and turns, fixing Chanel with a look that quite clearly implies: you uncultured swine.
“What?” Chanel says, defensive. “I used to go to school in Australia. It’s not like they teach you much about Chinese history there.”
Wei Laoshi just sighs and casts his eyes heavenward, like he might be apologizing to the spirit of the Qianlong emperor himself.
The bus ride took twice as long as the teachers predicted, thanks to peak-time traffic, and soon everyone’s hungry again. Wei Laoshi’s tour is cut short as a result, and with another long-suffering look, he abandons his lecture on the history of paper umbrellas to take us all on a spontaneous trip to the night market.
The market teems with life, and everything feels sharper here. Brighter.
Children chase each other over the steep steps and arched bridges, skirt around the canal edge, flirting with the danger and thrill of it all while their parents yell at them to be careful. A woman lifts the lid off a giant wok, white steam rising from the braised meats and sizzling fried buns. Neon lights flicker over endless displays of food, some laid out in bamboo baskets and others in deep, sauce-filled trays: grilled lamb and quail egg skewers, green sticky rice cake stuffed with sweet bean paste and glazed, flaking mooncakes stamped with red characters. Little discount labels and QR codes are printed beneath them, likely for people using WeChat Pay.
“Pe-ter, what are you doing?”
Wei Laoshi’s voice cuts through the vendors’ calls and the distant splash of oars in water.
I whirl around.
A beggar who looks at least seventy years old has latched onto Peter Oh, her wrinkled hands seizing the fabric of his new Supreme hoodie. I would’ve expected Peter to shake her off—Baba’s always warning me about how some beggars are really just scammers hiding iPhones under their rags—but to my surprise, he’s holding out a crisp 100 RMB note. I search his expression; there’s no trace of mockery or malice in his eyes, only sincerity. Even a hint of shyness.
The old woman’s eyes widen, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing either. It makes my heart hurt. But before she can take the money from him, Wei Laoshi steps in between them and drags Peter away by the sleeve, ignoring his spluttered protests.
“Don’t be so naive,” Wei Laoshi scolds, grabbing the shiny pink note and tucking it firmly into Peter’s pocket.
“It’s not naive,” Vanessa says as she paces forward suddenly, matching her steps to Peter’s. Somehow, that girl manages to appear everywhere. Or maybe I’ve just been noticing her a lot more ever since the art scandal. “He was just being nice. Right, Peter?”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest of their conversation. I don’t want to hear it, to start thinking of Peter as the nice boy who trusts strangers and gives money to those who need it. He is a target for tonight, and nothing else.
My heart cannot soften.
“You all right?” Henry asks, slowing down near a small bridge. I realize then that the whole time I was watching Peter and Wei Laoshi, Henry was watching me.
“Sure,” I say. Try to smile. “I guess... I just want to get it over with, you know?”
There’s no need to elaborate; he nods.
Wei Laoshi calls for everyone to stop, tells us we’re free to wander around and buy whatever snacks we want, but we’ll be meeting back here in two hours so please be punctual and don’t get kidnapped in the meantime. Everyone laughs at that, but my throat seizes up, and it takes three attempts before I can remember how to swallow again.
When the crowd disperses, Henry and I stay near the bridge, eventually finding an old bench to sit on. For a while, we simply look out at the canals and crowded alleys in silence. Then he shifts closer toward me—only by an inch, maybe less, yet it somehow makes all the difference in the world—and the silence changes, crackles with electricity, demanding to be filled. His lashes lower. His eyes flicker to my lips...