UNTIL IT RAINED by Lingyue Zheng
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UNTIL IT RAINED By Lingyue Zheng Submitted to the Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of American University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing __________________________________________________ Stephanieh i GGrant,M M.A.A ___________________________ Dolen Perkins-Valdez, Ph.D ________________________________________ Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences April 27, 2021 ________________________________________ Date 2021 American University Washington, D.C. 20016 © COPYRIGHT by Lingyue Zheng 2021 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2 UNTIL IT RAINED BY Lingyue Zheng ABSTRACT This short story collection explores the intersectionality and alternative interpretation of race, sexuality, class, and identity among underrepresented communities. Each story ponders on the relation of nationality and individual identity, revealing the nuanced emotional ties between them even when their divergent interests persuade individuals to perilously break from the bond. The collection also discusses the intricacy between identity migration and society assimilation against the backdrop of transformative cultural and political changes, searching for alternative interpretation of the concept of time and societal progression. These short stories depict the marginal of the marginal, with an observing, interrogating but no judging, fun but thoughtful undertone. 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT .................................................................................................................................... 3 THE FUNERAL OF JIIN LEE ....................................................................................................... 5 LILIAN AND LI LIAN ................................................................................................................ 28 BLACK-NECKED CRANE ......................................................................................................... 49 ONE MISSING HEART............................................................................................................... 71 UNTIL IT RAINED ...................................................................................................................... 86 4 THE FUNERAL OF JIIN LEE I. After picking me up from work, Shen-yi took me to one of the oldest and most overlooked hotels in Beijing, which was made popular by those who were seeking to hide their secret affairs. I was overwhelmed with the agarwood incense which had burned for years beyond my imagination; the scent filled every crack on the red-soil wall. After downing two cups of rice wine at the restaurant where I waitressed, I found it impossible to maintain an upright position. Slumped in a wooden armchair in the hotel lobby, I pressed my index finger to a glass jar next to me. Two golden fish waved their tails and fins, spewing out a rapid stream of bubbles. “Nihao, little fish.” I greeted them in Mandarin. Even after three years in China, there was still an abruptness to my North-Korean-accented Mandarin. Some Chinese people say that fish only maintain a memory of seven seconds, counting down from seven, and then they would forget about everything. I was jealous of their inimical memory. If only I could have left all my North Korean memories behind, I could start anew. “It’s all done.” Shen-yi tapped the jar. The two fish swarmed away. There were five rows of electronic red lanterns that lit the lobby but remained dim enough to provide a healthy look on everyone. Shen-yi looked much more alive tonight than he did under the sunlight. He sprayed some fish food into the jar; I traced the minuscule letter H on his wedding ring. After the first time I slept with Shen-yi, he told me, in a nonchalant bemusement, that his wife insisted on paying an extra seventy thousand yuan to get that almost an unnoticeable H carved on the ring’s inner rim, just to send whoever had a sharp eye one clear message: it was expensive. The fact was that nobody had ever noticed the lonely H, if not for Shen-yi to remove 5 the ring and ask others to observe closely. Shen-yi looked so unremarkable that no one would cast him another glance, not to mention examine his fingers. While he babbled on, I learned the brand name: Harry Winston. Harry Winston the coveted, plain-looking ring. I wanted no ring from Shen-yi, but to me he was the H on the rim: ordinary at first sight, but of value overlooked by others. I needed him to get me a new identity, and because my inarticulate Mandarin did not allow me to speak in riddles, I always tried to speak straight my mind. “Get me a Chinese ID. I cannot always hide behind the jar and avoid the hotel registration,” I mumbled behind him. The alcohol had loosened me up; I would have made it sound less coy were I sober. Shen-yi strode to the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. One time we ran into Shen- yi’s supervisor, who was walking out from the elevator that we were about to get on. Both men panicked, because only corrupted government officials spent time at a hotel like this, but the supervisor resumed normalcy faster. He quickly sized me up, gave Shen-yi an endorsing nod, and left. This encounter made Shen-yi frown at me, as if I had made it happen. He turned and left without casting a second look at me, and I had to walk two hours to my dormitory in the cold. Since then, Shen-yi had been avoiding the elevator because, for him, the best way to avoid acquaintances was to preempt all possible congregation. He might enjoy the tantalizing excitement of having an affair, but not the risk of helping a North Korean woman defect to China, which, if known by the Chinese authority, would not only end Shen-yi’s career and family, but send him to prison. Without acquaintances in sight, Shen-yi would indeed entertain the thought of helping me escape. He did so by persistently asking about what really happened to my father, which, to me, meant that I had to descend deeper to my memory pit and extract unvisited details; sometimes I found myself making up outrageous minutiae which I added to the 6 previous version. After several rounds of asking and telling, I realized his probing into my past was a kind of foreplay, exciting him into further entanglement with me. He justified and ennobled his extramarital affair with humanitarian motives, envisioning himself extending his arms, warm and firm, to a fledgling North Korean chick. I took pleasure in entertaining him in this way. When a country was scrutinized constantly, but barely known by the outside, its people, no matter how ordinary, became desirable objects of intense fetish. I then could easily guide their curiosity around and around in the maze of secluded North Korea, speaking in my deep, soothing voice to make the country oscillate between a seething demon and a petulant, unliked kid, the sorrowful type. At other times, he seemed to forget that I was North Korean, and tried to maintain the boundary he had previously upheld when he was with women other than his wife. He executed his precaution in flawless elegance. His gait was stable and fast. He always looked like he was off to take care of some important business. I have to hurry a bit to follow him into the stairwell. He coughed two or three times in order to alert the automatic light, but in vain. The sultry late July air had crept in through windows; I felt the sweat on my face. I thought about those nights when power had been cut in Pyongyang. The entire city would sink into a deep black hole, save the sole brightness from the national emblem in Grand Square. Glistening with a fuzzy orange aura, the national emblem would become a sun alone in the universe. In old days, I would always draw back the curtain, wishing to be a moth, twirling in the midnight air, and hoping to be carried away by the wind. I would fly through the dying walnut tree branches over the empty four-lane asphalt avenue, rising up to the memorial’s roof, finally perching on one of the five shining, pointed stars on the emblem’s face. There I would melt in the light. 7 “Why did you drink so much?” Shen-yi grunted. “Are they still asking you to sing and drink with those inane men?” Once we were completely alone in the staircase, Shen-yi would start talking. All I could do was smile back at him. “They” referred to my co-workers and supervisor at the restaurant. As part of North Korean’s government mission to promote its international tie with ally countries, the government installed state-owned restaurants in foreign cities. They had three in Beijing, and I was working at Pyongyang Begonia Flower Restaurant, the one near the bustling Chaoyang Gate. Unlike Shen-yi, I took relief in my supervisor still assigning me to sing patriotic Korean songs and dance for Chinese customers because, at least for now, he did not suspect me of doing anything out of line. I relished in their tentative ignorance of my wrongdoing and slyly took pride in my effective tactic to seduce those Chinese men: I maintained careful but suggestive manner when I looked into their eyes and poured the wine, while calculating if they were interested in me. If so, I left them a tiny paper patch hidden up to my sleeves on which my break time was written in Mandarin. Later, I would complain about my chronic headache to my co- workers, ask one of the girls to cover my tables while pretending to retreat to the dorm. I would then sneak out to meet the man in the parking lot during the peak time of the restaurant, when everyone was occupied with their orders. I wouldn’t immediately sleep with those men. The parking lot meeting was the initiation. Sometimes it worked, and we would see each other several times until they stopped showing up or frankly told me they simply would not take the risk, while others did not even make it to the parking lot.