Behind him someone laughed. Even Danzhu couldn't help giggling. Most of the male students hadn't laughed at first, but when they heard Danzhu they let themselves go. When Professor Yan saw that the whole room was breaking out in laughter, he thought Chuanqing must be deliberately clown­ing around. He frowned and banged his book down on the lectern.
"I see," he said coldly. "That was supposed to be funny. Sorry, but I don't share your sense of humor."
Now the students stopped laughing, one by one.
"Nie Chuanqing," Professor Yan continued, "I've been watch­ing you. For two whole semesters, you've been in a daze. Have you taken in anything I've said? Have you even taken a single note? If you don't choose to study, no one's forcing you. It would be better if you simply stopped coming, stopped wasting your classmates' time, and my time too!"
Professor Yan's tone matched his father's exactly, and Chuan­qing's eyes filled with tears. He covered his face with his hands, but even so Yan Ziye could see that he was crying. Ziye had always hated crying-in his view, even a woman's tears were a kind of blackmail perpetrated by the weak, while a weeping man, tears rolling down his face, was an utterly shameless thing. He was outraged.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" he shouted. "If all the youth of China were like you, China would be done for!"
The words fell like hammer blows, breaking Chuanqing's heart. Down he sat, slumping across the desktop, sobbing openly.
"If you're going to cry," Ziye said, "go outside to do it! I can't allow you to disturb the others. We're still holding class here!"

Once he'd started weeping, Chuanqing couldn't hold back his tears; the sound of his sobs grew louder and louder. Since he was hard of hearing, he hadn't caught the professor's last few words.
Ziye stepped forward, pointed at the door, and shouted, "Get out of here!"
Chuanqing stood and stumbled out.
That night, there was a Christmas Eve dance at the boys' dormitory, up on the mountainside. Chuanqing hadn't finished his first full year, but, like the other first-year students at South China University, he'd been pressured into buying a ticket. His father felt that with the ticket already purchased Chuanqing must go, otherwise the school would be taking advantage of them. And so, for the first time ever, he allowed Chuanqing to attend an event on his own. Chuanqing took a bus to the foot of the mountain and simply headed uphill. He had no inten­tion of going to the dance. His plan was to wander around all evening, frittering away the whole joyous holiday. At home, he knew, he wouldn't have slept anyway; his heart was racked with turmoil.
Hong Kong lacks a true winter season, but even so Christ­mas Eve can be very cold. The mountain was covered with stubby pines and little firs; the sky was filled with clouds of azurite. A sighing wind stirred both trees and clouds, gathering them here, dispersing them there, pushing and piling them up; now they coalesced in a black mass, now they became green vapor. In the woods, the wind howled like a mad dog, but when it came across the distance from the sea, the sound was desperate and forlorn, like the cry of a lonesome hound.
Hunched over, with his hands thrust into his sleeves, Chuan­qing raced up the stone steps. Ahead, beyond the last lamp, the way was pitch-black, but he knew the path well and could just make out the pale white edges of the cement. And he liked the dark. In the dark he could lose himself for a little while. That scraping sound on the sandstone under his feet-what was that? Was it Nie Chuanqing? "If all the youth of China were like him, China would be done for"-that one? Was it really him? Even he wasn't sure. It was too dark, he couldn't see.
When his father cursed him, called him "pig" or "dog" or worse, he couldn't care less, because he didn't respect his father in the least. But the words uttered so lightly by Yan Ziye had ravaged his heart and sickened his mind; he'd never forget them, not even in death.
Chuanqing pressed forward, for how long he didn't know, groping through the darkness, maybe even going in circles. Then he turned a corner, and a lamp appeared along the path. Some young people were approaching, talking and laughing together. Was the dance already over? Chuanqing ducked his head and headed back the other way. "Chuanqing! Chuanqing!" It was Danzhu's voice behind him, calling. He walked even faster.
Danzhu followed him a short distance, then stopped and turned around. "See you later!" she said to her companions from the dance. "I want to catch up with that awkward little miss of ours and have a chat."
"But we have to see you home!" the others said.
"Don't worry," said Danzhu. "I'll ask Chuanqing to see me home, that'll work just as well."
The others hesitated, but Danzhu said, "It's fine! It's fine! There's nothing to worry about!" Then she picked up the hem of her skirt and ran toward Chuanqing.
When Chuanqing saw that she really was coming after him, he had to slow down.
"Chuanqing," Danzhu asked, a bit breathless from running, "why didn't you come to the dance?"
"I can't dance."
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing."
"Would you take me home?"
Chuanqing didn't say anything, but they began to make their way up the mountain. Danzhu's house was near the top. It was still completely dark, except for the flashing toes of her silver-white shoes.
Danzhu spoke again, and Chuanqing felt that never before had she spoken so haltingly. "You know," she said, "I looked for you for a long time after class today, but you'd already gone home. I know where you live, but then you never want us to go to your house ...
Chuanqing still didn't answer.
"About what happened today," Danzhu continued, "you should forgive my father. He ... he is always too serious about things, and the situation at South. China University, for anyone who's serious about teaching, is very discouraging. Most Hong Kong students have terrible Chinese, but they think Chinese is unimportant, and they're not willing to really study the lan­guage. How could he fail to be upset? You're the only one with a decent foundation in Chinese, and then you disappoint him. You ... if you think about it ... you can see how it is for him ..."
Chuanqing said nothing.
"Do you see now," Danzhu said, "why he got angry with you? ... Chuanqing, if you do forgive him, then go and explain things to him, tell him why you've been so preoccupied re­cently. You know my father is a kindhearted man, and I'm sure he'll do anything he can to help you. Tell me about it, and I'll pass the message on to my father, how's that?"
Tell Danzhu about it? Ask Yan Ziye, do you still remember Feng Biluo? Maybe he would remember, but he was a man who'd seen a lot over the years, and certainly he'd had other love affairs. But Biluo had loved only him ... and in the old days women kept the tiniest little things locked in their hearts, turning them around, over and over again, musing at a window at dusk, on a rainy night, in the gloomy dawn. Yes, back in the old days, people were like that ...
Chuanqing's chest was tight with pain and resentment; he couldn't relieve the pressure. Danzhu drew closer and asked, "Chuanqing, is it something to do with your family?"
"You're such a busybody!" he said with a weak laugh.
Danzhu didn't take offense; instead, she laughed with him. Everyone liked her—she had no idea that Chuanqing was standing there full of hate. The wind stirred a pine-tree branch and it brushed against her head; she cried out in surprise and dodged behind. Chuanqing. This gave her a chance to take his arm. "Please tell me why," she asked softly.
Chuanqing swept her hand away. "Why? Why? Let me ask you something-why are you always hanging around me? Aren't girls supposed to be worried about their reputations? Shouldn't you be wondering what your father might think?"
When Danzhu heard this, she fell back a step. He walked ahead and she followed, but at a distance.
She sighed deeply and said, "I'm sorry. I forgot again. Boys and girls are different from each other! Here I am, always thinking that we're all still just children! Everyone in my family treats me like a little child."
"Can't stop talking about your family, can you?" Chuanqing retorted again. As if everyone didn't know that you come from a model family! What a pity you're not a model daughter!"
"The way you talk, it seems that you can't stand me! As if my happiness made you unhappy. But, Chuanqing, I know you're not like that. So why—"
"Why? it must be that I'm jealous of you because you're so
pretty, so smart, so popular!"
"You're still not being open with me! Chuanqing, you know I'm your friend! I want you to be happy—"
"You want to give me a bit of your happiness, is that it? You've got enough, so you toss a scrap to the dog, is that it? I don't want it! I don't! I'd rather die!"
The mountain path turned a corner and the land dropped away, opening out onto the ocean and sky. A cliff hung over the empty space, guarded by a semicircular metal railing. Chuan­qing was walking in front, but when he looked back he couldn't find Danzhu. He looked again, and saw her leaning against the railing. At the foot of the cliff the pines surged and bil­lowed, along with another kind of tree that stayed leafy even in winter; the leaves of that tree flashed green on one side, white on the other. The wind swallowed everything. All over the mountain leaves were fluttering, sprinkling a silver light every­where. When the clouds parted, the pale yellow winter moon came out; the dark white sea and sky stretched away, behind Danzhu, like a standing screen plated with mica. Danzhu was wearing a hooded cape of emerald green velvet with a white velvet lining. Even in very cold weather she liked to wear white, because the contrast with her dark complexion was so striking. Chuanqing had never seen her so dressed up before. Her hood was pushed halfway back, revealing the curls that were piled high on her head; the light was behind her, and her face was hidden, though he could feel her burning gaze fixed upon him.
Chuanqing's own gaze dropped. He clasped his hands be­hind his back and stood stiffly for a long moment. Finally, he raised his head. He spoke tersely: "Shall we go?"
She had already turned, and her back was to him. The wind blew wildly; it filled her cape until it billowed out, taut and bulging, then whipped it up over her head. Her white velvet cheongsam gleamed green in this light, and wafting up in the air her cape looked, at first glance, like an immense parachute from which her lustrous white body floated down-was she in fact a paratrooper who had been dispatched from the Moon Palace?
Chuanqing slowly approached her. Could Danzhu be in love with him? Surely that couldn't be, could it? And yet she had repeatedly found an opportunity to be with him. Right now, for instance-here she was running around with him on a deserted hillside in the middle of the night. Usually, no mat­ter how much she laughed and played around with her class­mates, she kept a certain distance-she really wasn't a flirt. Why did she treat him so differently? He thought back over her words and behavior just now. For a girl, wasn't that already clear enough?
He hated her, and yet what use was his hate? It was as utterly ineffectual as he was. If she loved him, he would have power over her, he could subject her to all sorts of subtle psychological tortures. That was his only hope for revenge.
"Danzhu," he asked, in a trembling voice, "do you like me a little? ... Just a little?"
She really didn't mind the cold. She reached out from under the cape and rested her bare arm on the railing. He grasped the railing with both hands and leaned forward, meaning to press his cheek to her arm. But for some reason, he stopped in midair, his tears streaming down. He bent over the railing and pillowed his face on an arm-his own arm.
Did she love him, at least a little? He didn't want revenge, he just wanted love especially from someone in the Yan family. Since he and the Yan family weren't, in fact, blood relations, a relation by marriage would be good enough. He simply had to have a link to the Yan family.
Danzhu pulled the flying cape back down and wound it tightly around her. "Not just a little," she smiled. "If I didn't like you, why would I want to be your friend?"
Straightening himself up, Chuanqing gulped and said, "Friends! But I don't want to be your friend."
"But you need friends."
"Just being friends isn't enough. I want a father and a mother."
Danzhu stared at him, dumbfounded. He seized the metal railing as if it were her arm. "Danzhu," he burst out, "if you fell in love with someone else, to him you'd only be someone to love. But to me, you'd be much more than that. You'd be creator, father, mother, a new world, a new everything. You'd be past and future. You'd be God."
There was a moment's silence, and then Danzhu spoke softly. "I'm afraid I don't have such wild ambitions. If I loved someone, I could be his beloved. I could be his wife. As for anything else, I—I think I know my limits."
The wind surged. Inside Chuanqing everything was blocked. He turned his head away, his hands gripped the rail even more tightly. In a low voice he said, "Then you don't love me. Not even a little."
"I've never thought about it before."
"Because you take me for a girl."
"No! No! Really... but ..." At first she was embarrassed, then suddenly she was irritated. Frowning, she coughed wearily and said, "You won't want to hear this, so why are you pushing me to say it?"
Chuanqing turned his back to her and said through clenched teeth, "You take me for a girl. You ... you ... don't even take me for a person!" He'd lost control of his voice, and by the time he got to the end he was almost screaming.
Astonished, and without thinking about it, Danzhu stepped away from the railing above the cliff, finding a safer place. But then that struck her as an overreaction, a ridiculous one. She steadied herself and spoke gently. "If you want me to treat you like a man, that's fine. I'll do what you ask, and I'll certainly try to see you in a different light. But you have to show a bit of manliness too. It doesn't help when you keep crying all the time. So sickly, so easily upset-"
Chuanqing laughed rudely. "You really know how to sweet talk a child! 'Be good, don't cry! Such a big boy now, it's not good to cry!' Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" Laughing, he spun away and headed down the mountain on his own.
Danzhu stood there in confusion. It had never occurred to her that Chuanqing was in love with her. But of course, it wasn't at all unnatural. There wasn't anyone he was close to, and she was the only one who, time and time again, had shown him a little kindness. She had led him on (even though she hadn't meant to), but she couldn't satisfy his need. it was clear that lately something had been bothering him a lot. Was it because of her? When all was said and done, was all this fuss because of her? Here she'd wanted so much to help him, and she'd only hurt him! She couldn't let him go off in such a deranged state-if something happened to him she'd never forgive her­self!
His selfishness, his rudeness, his unreasonable behavior-she could forgive him for everything, because he loved her. Such a weird person, and even he was in love with her-that was very satisfying. Danzhu was a good woman, but she was still a woman.
Already he was quite far away, but in the end she caught up. "Chuanqing! Wait!" she shouted as she ran.
Chuanqing pretended not to hear. When she was at his side everything seemed complicated again; she didn't know what to say. "Tell me ... tell me ..." she began, still gasping for breath.
Chuanqing's teeth were clenched. He spat the words out: "I'll tell you—I wish you were dead! If there's you, there's no me. And if there's me, there's no you. Get it?"
With one arm he squeezed her around the shoulders hard, then, with his free hand, he jammed her head down as sharply as he could, as if to jam it into her chest. She shouldn't have been born into this world, he wanted her to go back. He didn't know where his terrible strength came from; he seemed to have lost control of his hands and feet. She didn't cry out, but she struggled, and the two of them tumbled down the stone steps together. Clambering to his feet, Chuanqing kicked furiously at the body on the ground.
He kicked, and the curses came flooding from his mouth. He was speaking too fast, even he couldn't hear himself clearly, but it was something like: "So you think that I'm a goody-goody, do you? Out on the mountain in the middle of the night, just you and me ... if it had been someone else you wouldn't have felt so safe? You think that I'm not going to kiss you, or beat you, or murder you, is that it? Is that it? It's Nie Chuanqing-don't worry! 'Don't worry, Chuanqing will see me home!' ... You really think you know me!"
After the first kicks, she moaned softly. Then she was silent. He kept kicking fiercely. He had to. He was afraid that she might still be alive. And yet he was also scared to go on. His legs were shaky and numb from kicking. Torn between these two fears, he finally left her there. He began to run down the hill. His body seemed to be moving in a nightmare, sailing on the clouds, riding on the mist like an immortal, his feet skim­ming above the ground, the moon shining on row upon row of stone steps that pranced boldly before his eyes, like agile lines of calligraphy.
When he had run quite some distance, he stopped. No one else on the whole black mountain-just him and Danzhu. Seventy or eighty yards lay between them, but in his trance, he could hear her whispery, labored breathing. In that moment, his heart and hers were one. He knew that she hadn't died. And so? Did he have the courage to go back, to finish her off?
He stood there motionless for two or three minutes; to him it seemed two or three hours. Then he started running down­hill again. He didn't stop this time, he ran all the way down the hill to the road and the traffic.
The house was so cold, even the white plaster walls were frozen green. There was no charcoal brazier in Chuanqing's room, and the air was so cold that his nose ached between breaths. The window had not been opened in a very long time. The room smelled like greasy hair.
Chuanqing lay facedown on the bed. He heard his father, speaking to his stepmother in the next room. "That child is getting crazy. See how late he's back from the dance!"
"It looks like we should find him a wife."
Chuanqing's tears ran, and his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh. But he couldn't stir a muscle; it felt as if a shell of ice had frozen across his face. His body was encased in ice too.
Danzhu was not dead. In a few days, when classes started again, he would still have to see her at school. He couldn't escape.

Translated by Karen S. Kingsbury