A Map for the Missing(73)

The building was at a far corner of campus, at the edge of a scenic, man-made lake. It was an old Qing dynasty–style construction, made of gray brick and flanked with red columns, windows covered in shades with intricate cutout patterns. Upturned eaves revealed the sapphire blue painted with gold on the fascia. This was what he’d thought of when he imagined a university, not the imposing cement of the Soviet-style buildings later added, one of which housed the math department. This was the kind of building used by the old scholars who’d passed the imperial exam and came to Beijing. The only sign that the building had gone through the tumult of the past few decades was the red paint chipping in places, revealing wood underneath, and the years when the maintenance of beauty had been considered a bourgeois endeavor.

It was the kind of building he was meant to study in, too. As he entered, he thought of his grandfather and reminded himself to be brave. He might have been finding the math classes better than expected, but it was obvious that this was the department where he truly belonged. He’d made up his mind to ask the history dean for a transfer. Though his banzhuren had already told him such a thing would be impossible, Yitian hoped that if he appealed directly to the dean, no one could override him.

He hopped up the stairs to the top floor two at a time, all the while muttering to himself the speech he’d prepared. He would start by telling the dean his grandfather’s story. Then he would repeat everything he knew about the country’s history, showing the dean he was as prepared for the major as any other student. If that didn’t work, he would get on his knees and beg.

With his hand on the doorknob to the office, he took a deep breath, ready to burst in and interrupt the dean with his speech.

The room he almost fell into looked nothing like what he’d expected. There was no dean sitting behind a heavy oak desk. Instead, three women sat at shabby desks in three corners of the room, carefully carving characters onto wax paper. They all looked up, alarmed at the sight of him.

“Excuse me,” came the voice of the woman sitting in the far-right corner. Her hair was drawn into a tight, gleaming bun, which pulled all her features severely upward. “Who are you here to see?”

Behind her, there was a wooden door that he supposed must lead to the dean’s office.

“I’m here to see the dean.” His voice, which he’d practiced making confident and strong, came out so frail that he winced at the sound.

“What do you want to see the dean about?”

“I—I prefer not to say.”

“I can’t let you go see the dean unless I know the reason you’re here,” she said.

“Okay, then.” He swallowed, looking down at his feet as he spoke, so that he wouldn’t have to see the judgment on her face. “I’m here to see the dean about changing into your department.”

“So you’re not in our major.”

“No. I want to transfer in.”

When he looked back up, the secretary’s face was smug as she said, “The dean only meets with people in the history department. So I’m afraid that means he can’t meet with you.”

“But that’s exactly it. I want to be in your department.”

“As a student here, you should know that transfers are strictly forbidden.”

“I know that, but I was hoping you could make an exception for me. I have a special case.”

“There are no special cases with this policy.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you even a student at this university, anyway?”

He hurried to show her his student identification card.

“Fine, then. But the policy is the policy. Do you have any other business here?”

“Please, I have a special case. If I could just explain to the dean—” he said, but she’d already begun to ignore him. One other secretary had returned to her engraving, the sound of the stylus cutting against the steel grating in his ears. The woman at the desk directly in front of him was staring at him with naked surprise. He must have shocked her with the extent of his desperation.

He looked down at himself, at his plain rubber shoes against the clean green carpet, and felt suddenly embarrassed. He backed quickly out of the door and ran down the hallway. Turning the corner, he took a deep breath and pressed his back against the wall, allowing its cement surface to cool his scalp.

From the direction of the hallway behind him, he heard the sound of hard-heeled shoes clacking upon the linoleum. He hurriedly began walking away.

“Wait,” the voice came from behind him. It was gentle, certainly not the voice of the severe woman. He turned around to see the secretary who’d been sitting closest to him.

She walked up to him and said to him in a low voice, “If you come back in twenty minutes, the dean will be back in the office.” She spoke to the floor, so quietly that he had to lean in to hear her. “Everyone else will be at lunch. If you come by then, I can let you in.”

“Really? Will I get into trouble?” He looked at her face to see if it was some trick, but her eyes appeared kind. She had a small mole in the cupid’s bow above her mouth, which was held tightly in worry. She seemed even more nervous than he about breaking the rules.

She shook her head. “The dean’s not like them.”

“I can’t thank you enough—”

She shushed him and was already walking away, gaze still directed at the floor.