What should I say? I met her through the King Net Film website; she had posted a note in their chat-room asking for help finding a copy of "The Tin Drum" and listing a bunch of discs she was ready to part with. Among them was one that interested me: an early Steven Chow film (he actually only had a bit part) called "He Who Chases After the Wind". So I mailed her my copy of "The Tin Drum" and, a couple of weeks later, she dutifully sent me her "He Who Chases After the Wind". From there we developed a correspondence over the net, exchanging ideas on all sorts of subjects. Sometimes we seemed like intimate friends; others, like complete strangers.

　　What I mean to say is that our contact was sporadic. There were periods when we would write back and forth nearly every day, or even several times in a single day. Other times many days or even weeks would pass without an E-mail. I know that this had to do with my character: I very seldom take the initiative in writing letters. There is also a part of me that wants to destroy everything, that actually does destroy everything, even friendship. In the midst of the most ardent enthusiasm I will suddenly turn cold and, utterly routed, retreat into my little shell, fearing that other people will see through my secrets, secrets that only I in this world should hold. Because of this, although I had maintained this correspondence with Pei Zi for quite some time, we had never met face to face. This sort of virtual relationship is usually rather insipid: though it might hold out some hope of soulful depth, it seldom develops any real substance.

　　I hadn't heard from her for a long time, though, when about a week ago she had sent me the following E-mail:

　　"These last days, I have been sad beyond measure. Although I know you are very busy, and even though we can't really count each other as friends yet, I don't know why, but I feel you are the right person to see just now. In any case, right now, I don't want to see any close friends. Next Monday I can meet you at Nanjing's Jinling Hotel; I can wait there till early Tuesday morning. If you don't come, it doesn't matter. Actually, I just need to find a place to think things over, to be alone for a while. You don't need to reply; I don't even want to know if you receive this or whether you will come or not. If I did know I might lose my resolve. Sometimes, if everything is left uncertain, people have more courage."

　　

　　I knew that I would go.

　　Pei Zi was a person; she needed someone at her side to talk to: I couldn't not go.

　　Moreover, it had been several years since I had left Nanjing; I had often thought of going back to have a look around, but had never actually brought myself to do it. Now Pei Zi had decided for me.

　　Next to the Jinling Hotel was a bar and grill called "The Black Cat", where I often went when I was a student. Anna, my girlfriend at the time, was also at Nanjing University. She was one of those Americans who are totally enamoured of Chinese culture, but don't much like the food. When we went window shopping, we would always end up at Xin Jiekou: the Nanjing of that time really had nowhere else to go. We would sometimes ride the commuter buses randomly, getting off of one and hopping on another till we got back to our point of departure. Nowadays, that sort of fun seems all rather silly, but at the time we never tired of it. Tightly squeezed together, hand in hand we would ride the crowded buses all day long. We would often encounter elegant, free-and-easy looking people, yet we had our own sort of pride: these other people were all rushing about to their worldly destinations. But us? We were only there for our love. On our journey, every stop was our destination, just as every stop was our starting point.

　　In those days, every time we arrived at Xin Jiekou, we had to stop in at "The Black Cat" for a coffee and some Western food. The food at "The Black Cat" was not up to much, but it was cheap and well suited to our needs as impoverished students and lovers.

　　When Anna and I broke up, we held our last supper there.

　　That evening, Anna wrote our names on a red card, and stuck it up on the bulletin board. As we were leaving she added in bold letters, "We will love each other forever." Then she handed me the pen.

　　What was I supposed to write? We were breaking up but would "love each other forever"? That only increased the sorrow. I stood holding the pen for a long time, but in the end I didn't write anything. I knew that Anna would be terribly disappointed if I didn't write something; I could practically see the tears glistening in her heart. But my mind was a complete blank and I couldn't get a word out.I was very young at the time. Love was love; not love was not love. There wasn't any middle ground. My attempts to see love and not love in perfect clarity were like my attempts to see my own life in perfect clarity. In those days I could easily wound other people.

　　"Breaking up means we don't love each other anymore." I told Anna. "You can't say that we do."

　　At the time I didn't realize that love and not love were but two sides of the same coin, that they were a single entity; to try to separate the two in perfect clarity was merely the result of not loving, or not understanding love, and in no way the manifestation of a loving understanding.

　　In those days I was too stingy with the word "love"; I was only just beginning to see other people's stirrings. I, myself, had no experience, no personal knowledge of the loneliness of existence on this earth. Most young people are like that.

　　Of course, that year was also the low ebb of my life to date. At twenty six years old, my oldest brother had just died of fibrosis of the liver. For the first time, the presence of death came strolling by my side, forcing me to consider my own mortality. What I mean to say is, a certain unknowable reality came to dominate my fate. I couldn't predict what form it would take, the length of its course, or the breadth between attacks, but I felt I knew what the end result would be. My brother's death had foretold it.

　　Our Lord had already ordained it; I could not feign ignorance. I was unable to offer people happiness, most especially those whom I loved. I told Anna that we could never be happy. Anna remained puzzled, and after much pondering, asked me, "What do you think happiness is? What sort of happiness do you need? Do you think we are unhappy?"

　　Anna, my dear Anna, how could you know? You couldn't know anything about this. Just as I could not allow other people to know Our Lord's decree, I myself could not comprehend my own fate, and you could not understand yours.

　　Now, so many years later, what was "The Black Cat" like? And Anna? Since our parting we had had no contact. Where was she today?

　　As soon as I got off the motorway, I felt that things were different. In my right rear-view mirror was the Sun Yat-Sen Mausoleum, in the left, Crescent Moon Lake. Directly ahead lay the Ming Dynasty wall, covered in withered grass, sparse trees, and graying, restless Boston ivy. With the sun lowering on the wall, the trees became silhouettes and the Boston ivy turned dark and gloomy. The whole of it seemed like a lugubrious painting. This is the most beautiful place in Nanjing, but also the place best suited to make you sad. Looking at the wind-blown Ming wall standing somber in the late fall of this Autumn of 1999, I was nevertheless stirred by a warm inner feeling: people sometimes yearn for the past, trying to revisit their previous state, hoping to open a dialog with the former self that time has altered from within. But externally, time can seem to intentionally halt its pace. So many years ago, when I lived in Nanjing, the city wall was just like it is today. Therein lies the dichotomy: the world goes on eternally, it is everlasting. But what of us?This place held a historical feeling; every object here had a story which resided in my heart. Though I had left Nanjing so many years ago, returning I rediscovered a strong intimacy that bound me to the city. It felt like I had only been off on a short trip, and now, once again had returned home. It took me quite by surprise.

　　Once I got to the Jinling Hotel and parked the car, there was nothing left to do but wait in the bar. I didn't have Pei Zi's cell number; I didn't even know what she looked like. But God had already brought us this far, and I felt no doubt that he would also help us recognize each other.

　　Mozart's piano sonata in C major, K. 545 was playing as background music in the bar. Its simple, light melody mingled with the faintly discernable aroma of coffee lingering in the air reminded me of the voice of one of my old professors[w2][徐晓维3], "The coffee here is really not bad; the Cappuccino is quite authentic." Many years ago, with these words, my master's degree tutor pushed open the door to the Jinling Hotel to invite us for coffee.

　　So much water under the bridge, so much wasted time, and finally I had returned to Nanjing. Some things had collapsed and disintegrated, some feelings had gone up in smoke, a few people had departed this world, and many former circumstances were now lost from memory, but this place appeared to have changed not at all, as if nothing here ever could change, except for me.

　　Time has no function at the Jinling Hotel. Hotels are among the world's places least susceptible to time. The people and things they contain change too quickly, too frequently; time seems to have no opportunity to leave its mark.

　　I ordered a beer and nursed it as I waited. Beer is the best companion when waiting for people. Ice-cold beer gradually helps you to forget the passing time.

　　After a while, a waiter appeared, asking me, "Excuse me sir, are you perhaps waiting for Pei Zi?"

　　"Yes! I am."

　　The waiter handed me a note, saying, "She has asked that you call this number."

　　I dialled the number and a voice answered, "Hello?"

　　"I've arrived in Nanjing!" I swallowed a slug of beer.

　　"Is it you? Across the street is a place called the 'STICK'. Could you come over to the front door?" Her voice was very pleasant, but seemed a bit downcast, and perhaps a little artificial.

　　There was nothing for it but to go across the street. The setting sun lingered in the doorway, its slanting rays giving the illusion of walking at the water's edge. The cars on the street and the crowd on the sidewalk also seemed to be floating along. The scene suddenly reminded me of a poem of James Dickey's:

　　Feeling it with me

　　On it, barely float, the narrow plank on the water,

　　I stepped from the clam-shell beach,

　　Breaking in nearly down through the sun

　　Where it lay on the sea,

　　And poled off, gliding upright

　　Onto the shining topsoil of the bay

　　Three hours before, I was still in Shanghai. But now, three hours later, I was in Nanjing, three hundred kilometers away. After receiving Pei Zi's phone call, I had but to cross the street to the other side. Concerning Nanjing and the street I was about to cross, what could I really grasp? Apart from some memories, I had basically become a stranger in this town. Now the name Pei Zi, and her voice, had become my only connection to the city.

　　My cell phone rang. It was Pei Zi. She spoke into the phone, "Are you out the door?"

　　"I'm out the door."

　　"Why haven't you crossed the street?"

　　"I've already crossed the street!"

　　"You have not!"

　　"You can see me?" Where was she watching me from?

　　"Well then, just cross the street!" She rang off without leaving me time to reply.

　　When I reached the other side of the street, the phone rang again. No need to check the number; it had to be Pei Zi. Sure enough, her voice spoke, "I'm sorry, but I'm not at the 'STICK'. Can you come to the Hilton? I have a room here. You can see the Sun Yat-Sen Memorial. It's room 1617." With that she rang off, once more leaving me no time to answer.

　　I immediately hit the call-back button; it rang through, but she didn't answer.

　　This Pei Zi was too capricious. How did she know that I would show up at all, or put up with her little game of cat and mouse?

　　I walked back to the Jinling Hotel, got the car and started back towards the Zhongshan gates, wondering whether I should go to the Hilton or not. I couldn't help feeling rather put out.

　　Perhaps our predestined affinity was not so great after all. I had come. I had not failed to keep our appointment, even if we had only talked on the phone. In the end that still was some kind of contact. Sometimes, when travelling on business, getting in touch with old school friends can come down to just this and nothing more; you give them a call and that's it. You can't say that's impolite, it's just the way things happen.

　　Absorbed in these thoughts, without realizing it I passed through the Zhongshan gates and the Shanghai-Nanjing entry ramp was fast approaching. Just then the phone rang again. It was Pei Zi. "Have you passed the Zhongshan gates?"

　　"Just now! I was hoping to be able to say goodbye to you. I have to get back to Shanghai", I said.

　　"If I say I'm sorry will that do? I know that I've behaved badly towards you, but we've never met, and I'm just a woman. I had to be a little cautious; can you understand? Do please come; I'll still be waiting here."

　　Without answering her, I shut my cell phone, turned the car around, and headed back