This was when I learned that Dalong had never set foot in any kind of school. He was from the poorest section of Shanghai, and I was shocked to find out that there were still people there who didn’t have enough money to send their children to school. He said that the reason he liked to hang around with me so much was that I seemed to be so cultured and well educated.
Dalong liked to read the newspaper, and he always showed up at my door carrying a rolled-up newspaper.
Kitten liked reading books about antiques. From the time she was a child, her older brother had taken her around with him to pick out antiques. He was in prison for dealing in antiquities. She said that her brother looked a lot like Leslie Cheung.
Ever since my return from Beijing, I’d been phoning Saining every day, but I had yet to speak with him. Once, I asked Sanmao, Tell me the truth, does Saining have a new girlfriend? Why doesn’t he call me? He doesn’t care about me anymore. Sanmao said, I don’t know why he hasn’t called. But lately everybody’s been busy doing performance art. I said, Didn’t you go to Beijing to play music? Sanmao said, There’s no contradiction.
When I thought about Saining, I couldn’t turn off the voice in my head that went on and on about how Saining’s favorite guitar was gone, stolen by that bunch of bastards, and I was afraid he was going to be sad, but what could I do?
One morning, about two weeks after the robbery, I got a call from the local police station. The police said that one of the thieves had been caught.
It turned out that Kitten had hired a few guys from Xinjiang to look for Hunanese all over town and to personally inspect all of the usual Hunan gangster haunts. Before long, they had caught up with one of the gang in a third-rate nightclub. I heard that Kitten went to where they’d tied him up, and she hit him and kicked him, shouting at him all the while.
The precinct office was calling us down to give statements and identify the suspect.
I saw an overgrown boy in handcuffs and recognized him as the one who had slapped Luobu. He was a real mess. He was dull-eyed and dirty, and he stank. His fingernails were especially filthy. I stood outside the cell and identified him through the iron bars of the door, and then I picked out the others from a stack of photo IDs. I knew that two of them had already been arrested. The police scolded me and said that by not reporting the crime, I was condoning it. When I asked the cops how the thieves might be punished, they said that these boys had done all sorts of bad things and might face execution—a bullet to the head.
I felt sick at heart for the rest of the day. Nanjing Noodles and I were both terrified by the idea of “a bullet to the head.” My watch and jewelry had all been recovered, and the guitar too. The rest was gone, but I caught a glimpse of those boys’ black backpacks. The police said everything would be held as evidence.
Saining came back alone, and he seemed depressed. I asked him why he’d come back by himself and ahead of the others.
The artists in Beijing have such an inflated opinion of themselves, he complained. They’re all drunk with their sense of mission, and they’re always jumping onto bandwagons, looking for ways to make it big.
He couldn’t get used to this collective way of life; it was too chaotic for him. And the bands there had taken what should have been heavy metal, pure and simple, and stuck in all kinds of fancy effects that threw the music off kilter. On top of that, there were too many people with big ideas and too many hardships for Saining’s taste. He couldn’t relate to any of it.
Saining came over and held me, and we made love feverishly. He had changed.
That night I put ten sleeping pills that I’d set aside earlier into his drink. He slept for two days. He awakened several times, and I kept watch over him, never leaving his side, helping him to the bathroom. Seeing him in such a daze, I felt a sense of peace that I had never experienced before.
When he had fully awakened, I told him what I had done. I said I’d done it because he’d been ignoring me for so long that I doubted he loved me anymore.
Well, this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, he said. But ten sleeping pills is the most dangerous amount you could have given me. Any more than that and I would probably have thrown up and been fine. But you didn’t give me enough to make me sick, and when it’s not enough to make someone throw up, things can go very wrong. I could easily have never woken up.
Then he came over and held me, saying, I’m not in love with anyone else. You shouldn’t punish me when you don’t have any real grounds.
I wasn’t trying to punish you. That wouldn’t get me what I want. All I want is you, all of you, forever. I’ve never stopped wanting you, not even for an instant. I was hoping that I could move God.
11.
After his return from Beijing, Saining would disappear without saying where he’d gone, and he all but stopped making love to me. Finally he confessed to me that he’d been using heroin and had become addicted.
You, a junkie? I was incredulous. Really? No way! Do you have any right now? I want to try it.
Until now, I’d only tried grass and pills. That ten-year-old boy from Hong Kong had smuggled pills past customs when he’d come here, and he would sell them to other kids. I didn’t even know what kind they were, but I didn’t particularly enjoy the synthetic, chemical feeling they gave me. Sometimes, when he was in Hong Kong, Saining took acid, but he’d never brought any back for me to try, and he told me more than once that grass was really the only thing he liked.
He put a bit of faintly yellowish powder on some tinfoil and showed me how to “chase the dragon.” I inhaled and vomited and vomited some more as I kept inhaling. It made me feel very sick to my stomach.
That night I talked a lot.
You’ve been doing heroin—how come you’re so talkative? You’re giving me a headache with all your blabbing. You obviously didn’t get enough. I better give you more and knock you out.
When I passed out, my body had already dissolved, and my nose was full of the odor of photographic developing chemicals. Heroin was icy cold, and I didn’t think I liked it. It seemed as if there were cotton wadding packed all around my body, and I couldn’t keep from falling into sleep, and then, bit by bit, the cotton fell away from me, until at last it was all gone, and my body and mind became supersensitive.
Saining said that heroin made him euphoric, letting him forget what the world was like, bringing him peace and serenity, giving him a world of his own. But, he said, I never thought I could become addicted so quickly. I’m not used to this feeling of being controlled.
Why did you wait until now to tell me? I asked. How can you get high all by yourself?
I’m not high, he countered. I’m very low. Ever since I got back from Beijing I’ve been in a daze, and it’s something I need to deal with myself, on my own. It’s not that I don’t love you, you understand? When you’re feeling numb, the best thing to do is to jump into a whirlpool. As for me, I’ve stumbled into the heroin whirlpool, that’s all. Heroin is me, my way of coping; it’s my world, and who I am doesn’t matter anymore.
One day Saining said he wanted to kick his heroin habit. He said that heroin was too dangerous, and when he was using heroin he spent the whole day worrying about money or, when he did have money, worrying about scoring. It was never enough, and it was making him uneasy.
He took to spending long hours outside on the balcony, sitting motionless and looking out. This solitude of his was more than I could stand, and I joined him and we watched it all together, the chaotic street below. The sunlight in this city was always so full of poison. A drug that was a stranger to me had put up a wall between me and my closest friend. I couldn’t read his expressions, and I had lost the power to attract him, but I didn’t exactly feel hurt, just agitated.
I was determined to get my lover back.
Bit by bit, we were losing trust in each other. Actually there was no reason for Saining to lie to me, but heroin had turned him into a habitual liar. It was like a hobby for him; he just liked to say things that weren’t true. The medicines that were supposed to help him quit heroin were useless, and I watched him suffer torment every day. I didn’t realize that withdrawal made you feel like you were going to die, so I believed him when he said that it was killing him. I was genuinely afraid that withdrawal was going to be too much for him and that he could die at any moment. So I went back and forth between helping him quit and helping him use. We spent our days like a pair of criminals, going to whatever lengths we had to in order to get the drug. Sometimes I got completely fed up. This drug had reduced our lives to vulgar materialism. I watched our money carefully, and I always made sure there was a little packet of heroin in my pocket, just in case Saining started going into withdrawal.
When he was in the throes of withdrawal, Saining was oblivious to me. And when he was high he didn’t notice me either. Heroin had made him so boring. I’d tried it a few times, and I didn’t like it. I was a spoiled brat, and a spoiled child on drugs is no fun for anyone. Saining also found heroin boring, but he thought that was because he was a coward, because he was vacillating between using and quitting, and he said that there was nothing more boring than that.
Saining didn’t use a needle, and he didn’t snort it, he just “chased the dragon” across a piece of tinfoil. But people could tell at a glance that he was a junkie. He had a junkie’s gauntness and pallor, and a junkie’s jittery nerves.
Saining disappeared again. I went out looking for him, wanting to find him before the police did.
After I became aware that Saining was using heroin, I discovered that people all around me were using heroin. It wasn’t just popular with prostitutes. Nightclub performers—singers, musicians, and dancers—were also using. Gangsters and small-time crooks used. Even taxi drivers used heroin. Suddenly I had the overwhelming impression that the entire world was floating on a sea of heroin.
I came home one day to find Saining sitting, dazed, in the middle of the floor and clutching his famous pillow. God only knew how much he loved that pillow of his—he’d even taken it with him to Beijing, saying that he couldn’t sleep without it. There were several guitars laid out before him. Altogether he kept six guitars at our apartment, and they were all different: different ages, different colors, different uses. He said, Each guitar has its own music, its own sensibility. I love them all, but they don’t have souls until I look at them. Sanmao hated it when Saining talked this way, and he would glare at Saining and say coldly, Right! That’s easy for you to say—you have money!
Saining didn’t look up, and I ignored him too. I straightened the room, took a bath, did the laundry. I ate the winter-melon-and-pork soup that Saining had made me. He always made the best soups. When I finished eating, I went and sat down in front of Saining. He was playing the same couple of melodies over and over.
Saining, I said, I’m tired of this. I called around today and got the number of the rehab clinic, and I went over and had a look. I’ve never sneaked around behind your back like this before. But the doctors there were really nice; they won’t treat you like a criminal. They said the government supports people who decide that they want to quit, and they’ll protect your privacy.
I’m not going to that hole.
But those drugs that are supposed to help you quit are bullshit! Now, if you don’t really want to give up heroin . . .
Can you go with me?
He looked up at me, his eyes unsteady. He always spoke very slowly, and the look of complete vulnerability on his face left me with the feeling that both of us were idiots.
The clinic has a strict no-visitors policy, but my heart will be with you every minute, I promise. Please, I’m begging you, please go! This stupid drug is ruining our lives!
Finally Saining agreed to go to the clinic. Early one morning I packed his things. My baby, my tears, he waited out on the balcony with a blank expression. He was so frail and so beautiful, sitting there in the first light of morning with his ice-cold hands hanging limply beside him. One of his songs went, “I know the shape of happiness.” Another song went, “Girl, I stole the purse with your soul.” Looking at him now, I thought of those two songs, and I saw the deadly pale of this winter morning cutting at him cruelly, but I could only watch him from another place. There was no way I could take him away from that place where he was.
I couldn’t stop crying that morning. I felt sick at heart, and I wasn’t sure that Saining really wanted to kick his heroin habit. I felt that that goddamned heroin had stolen my Saining away from me. All the way to the clinic, Saining held on tight to my hand. Neither of us could speak. The clinic gave me back all of the food I’d packed for Saining, and the portable CD player, the CDs, the mirror, the razor. The doctors and nurses searched his body thoroughly, but he never took his eyes off me. When the time came for an attendant to escort me into the elevator, I heard Saining softly call my name, but by the time I turned my head, he had already been taken into a room with a big iron bolt on the door. There was no sign of him—only the last brief, intense look he had flashed me, now etched so painfully into my mind that I wanted to die.
I began drinking heavily. Sometimes I would loiter in the neighborhood where the clinic was. I’d never equated drinking with taking drugs. I saw my relationship with alcohol as sweet and easygoing. It seemed natural. Alcohol had many moods, many attitudes. And it was useful. It relaxed me, warmed me up. I started to drown my feelings in scotch. I was having trouble sleeping, and soon I was keeping a bottle of booze by my bed. I recognized that this was risky business. But with Saining gone, how could I go on living if I didn’t drink?
The day he was released from the clinic, I got all dolled up, put on a pair of satin mules, and went to pick him up. We’d never been apart for this long, and when he gave me that first smile, I felt excited about life again.
He seemed to have put on weight, and he had this brainwashed look on his face, blank and stupid. We studiously avoided the subject of drugs. I was thinking that all of that was over and done with, and that things were only going to get better from now on.