the folder, jabbing at the passport picture.
‘Please, I need to find my daughter, where is this girl?’
The others came in and a discussion began, with people talking over each other and looking flustered and students craning forward to watch the show. These people used a lot of hand gestures. It made them look excitable.
Delaware dressed very casually for a teacher. He made a placating signal – hands raised, then lowered – said something to his class and studied the passport photo. He didn’t recognise her, Jian could tell, and he began to dislike the man, knowing in his stomach that he would bear no good news. He dug folders from a briefcase and showed a list of names with rows of ticks next to them, and the student translated.
‘Here her name, see? This is how we write it in English. These the records of the classes Wei Wei went to. She here at start of course, in September last year.’
All the names had a row of ticks beside them, extending to the edge of the form. Except Wei Wei’s. There were only three ticks by her name.
‘She here only three week.’
‘No no no. She rings me every week and tells me how her studies are going. There’s a mistake.’
‘These records…’ now a faltering tone showed that the lad thought of his language skills as a curse – he was to deliver ill tidings. ‘These records say she no here. She no go to lecture or hand in work since after that time.’
Jian realised his mouth was open, and closed it.
‘She said she was learning about the hotel trade and all that kind of thing. She was a member of the East Asian student society and she was going to act in a play. She was here. She was learning here, and he was her teacher.’
Jian pointed at Delaware, who raised his eyebrows at the security guard.
‘No here,’ said the student. ‘She go, long time ago. She no come here for… four months. Four month no come here.’
The room seemed to be tipping upside down, so Jian put his hand on the whiteboard for support. Suddenly the world was a strange place, he was in the territory of dreams, everything seemed normal but the details were all wrong. He was surrounded by words but he couldn’t read them, the faces around him were the wrong shape and a man with blue eyes was telling him he didn’t know his own daughter.
‘You’re telling me that my daughter rang me every week to lie to me?’ He pressed his palms against his face. The sad thing was, he could believe it. He felt ashamed of her, then of himself. ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Let us now go out.’
‘Go where? That’s it. Where am I going to go? Where?’
He kicked a chair, and the security guard put a hand on his arm.
‘Now how am I going to find her?’
( 4
Standing outside the university, Jian looked gloomily at a billboard across the street. The giant image of a pretty Asian girl flanked by a black man and a white man seemed to be taunting him. It was impossible to tell what it was advertising.
The student had called a taxi for him. When it came he showed the driver a print-out teacher Delaware had made, lines of squiggles which apparently showed the address his daughter had given when she enrolled.
In the back seat, Jian took from his briefcase a slim hardback book. Wei Wei had sent a portrait photo to a magazine and been invited to Beijing to take part in a ‘prestigious modelling competition’. He’d forbidden it: he knew what those competitions involved. She’d thrown a sulk, and to mollify her he’d paid for this portfolio of fashion images to be made.
Before leaving home he’d scoured the house for recent pictures, and because he couldn’t find any better alternatives he’d bought a copy of the dumb book along. He flicked through it. In one image she posed in a tight military uniform , cradling a gun, legs wide apart, lipstick as red as the star on her beret. In another she was in a red qipao slit right up the thigh, and here she was in a little black dress cocking a champagne glass and a
‘Please, I need to find my daughter, where is this girl?’
The others came in and a discussion began, with people talking over each other and looking flustered and students craning forward to watch the show. These people used a lot of hand gestures. It made them look excitable.
Delaware dressed very casually for a teacher. He made a placating signal – hands raised, then lowered – said something to his class and studied the passport photo. He didn’t recognise her, Jian could tell, and he began to dislike the man, knowing in his stomach that he would bear no good news. He dug folders from a briefcase and showed a list of names with rows of ticks next to them, and the student translated.
‘Here her name, see? This is how we write it in English. These the records of the classes Wei Wei went to. She here at start of course, in September last year.’
All the names had a row of ticks beside them, extending to the edge of the form. Except Wei Wei’s. There were only three ticks by her name.
‘She here only three week.’
‘No no no. She rings me every week and tells me how her studies are going. There’s a mistake.’
‘These records…’ now a faltering tone showed that the lad thought of his language skills as a curse – he was to deliver ill tidings. ‘These records say she no here. She no go to lecture or hand in work since after that time.’
Jian realised his mouth was open, and closed it.
‘She said she was learning about the hotel trade and all that kind of thing. She was a member of the East Asian student society and she was going to act in a play. She was here. She was learning here, and he was her teacher.’
Jian pointed at Delaware, who raised his eyebrows at the security guard.
‘No here,’ said the student. ‘She go, long time ago. She no come here for… four months. Four month no come here.’
The room seemed to be tipping upside down, so Jian put his hand on the whiteboard for support. Suddenly the world was a strange place, he was in the territory of dreams, everything seemed normal but the details were all wrong. He was surrounded by words but he couldn’t read them, the faces around him were the wrong shape and a man with blue eyes was telling him he didn’t know his own daughter.
‘You’re telling me that my daughter rang me every week to lie to me?’ He pressed his palms against his face. The sad thing was, he could believe it. He felt ashamed of her, then of himself. ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Let us now go out.’
‘Go where? That’s it. Where am I going to go? Where?’
He kicked a chair, and the security guard put a hand on his arm.
‘Now how am I going to find her?’
( 4
Standing outside the university, Jian looked gloomily at a billboard across the street. The giant image of a pretty Asian girl flanked by a black man and a white man seemed to be taunting him. It was impossible to tell what it was advertising.
The student had called a taxi for him. When it came he showed the driver a print-out teacher Delaware had made, lines of squiggles which apparently showed the address his daughter had given when she enrolled.
In the back seat, Jian took from his briefcase a slim hardback book. Wei Wei had sent a portrait photo to a magazine and been invited to Beijing to take part in a ‘prestigious modelling competition’. He’d forbidden it: he knew what those competitions involved. She’d thrown a sulk, and to mollify her he’d paid for this portfolio of fashion images to be made.
Before leaving home he’d scoured the house for recent pictures, and because he couldn’t find any better alternatives he’d bought a copy of the dumb book along. He flicked through it. In one image she posed in a tight military uniform , cradling a gun, legs wide apart, lipstick as red as the star on her beret. In another she was in a red qipao slit right up the thigh, and here she was in a little black dress cocking a champagne glass and a
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