“Happy Birthday.”
On the day of his twenty-eighth birthday, Qi Bailu opened the card in his hand to find those two words staring back at him.
An X-Acto knife and a cardboard box wrapped in layers of tape lay discarded on the floor. Leaning against the wall beside them was the object he had just unpacked: a large oil painting covered with a white cloth.
It was indeed his birthday, but Qi Bailu stood in the middle of his living room in his pajamas and slippers, lost in thought over who could have sent such a gift. There was no signature on the card, only a line of French printed on the back—perhaps the name of an art exhibition. It was utterly baffling. At first, he thought it might be a surprise from Ruan Qiuji, but the handwriting didn't look like Ruan’s.
Qi Bailu mentally cycled through everyone he knew who might send him an expensive oil painting, but he came up empty. His gaze fell back onto the card. The more he looked at the handwriting, the more familiar it became, as if he had seen it somewhere long ago. The final stroke of the character for "joy" was written with particular force.
He remembered someone else whose handwriting was like that—someone whose dots in the character for "jade" always seemed to pierce through the paper.
Qi Bailu’s hand suddenly went limp, and he instinctively dropped the card. It fluttered to the floor, landing face-up. He took two steps back until his back hit the wall, standing there in a daze for a long time, unable to compose himself.
It was Zheng Kunyu’s handwriting.
Qi Bailu could hear his own heavy breathing. He turned his gaze toward the oil painting. A sliver of green peeked out from beneath the white cloth, and in the bottom right corner was the artist’s signature, which appeared to be French. He stepped forward and pulled the cloth away, revealing an Impressionist-style painting of the death of Ophelia.
Qi Bailu remembered this painting. Five years ago, he and Zheng Kunyu had seen it at an exhibition in Paris. He had stood before it for a long time, only to turn around and find Zheng Kunyu watching him from behind, having stood there just as long.
How could a dead man write "Happy Birthday" to him, let alone send him a gift? Qi Bailu felt as though he were going mad, or perhaps the world was. He slowly crouched down to stare at the card, confirming once more that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him and that this wasn't a delusion. This truly was Zheng Kunyu’s writing.
The words were written in black fountain pen ink, slightly faded now. The strokes revealed the writer’s rigid personality. Qi Bailu immediately looked away, snatched the card up, and tossed it onto a cabinet. He walked as far away from it as possible, stopping by the window to pull out his phone and call Cheng Wenhui.
Cheng Wenhui had mentioned a few days ago that there was an international package for him, but Qi Bailu hadn't paid it much mind. Since Cheng Wenhui was out of town, he had asked him to forward it. This was that package. But when the call connected, Cheng Wenhui was just as confused. He said that while the package had his phone number and address, the recipient’s name was Qi Bailu. He had assumed Qi Bailu had specifically asked him to receive it on his behalf, as had happened many times in the past. When Cheng Wenhui asked if there was a problem, Qi Bailu said it was nothing.
Contacting the art gallery staff took considerable effort. Qi Bailu waited a long time before someone picked up. His English was poor, so he could only vaguely grasp the other person’s meaning. After a long exchange, Qi Bailu finally learned that five years ago, a Mr. Zheng from China had purchased the painting in Paris, and they had simply delivered it according to the date the buyer had specified.
He understood all of that, but why five years later?
Was it because he had assumed they would still be together five years later?
Qi Bailu looked up blankly, seeing his own reflection in the windowpane. The person in the glass was thin, with short hair, yet his face remained beautiful. Time seemed to have left few marks on him. For a moment, he felt as if he were back on the Paris Metro, looking up at the tunnel outside the window. Advertisements would flash by like bright stars streaking through the dark, while Zheng Kunyu sat opposite him, watching him quietly.
In truth, he struggled to remember the man's face; it was as if he had been trying to forget on purpose. If this were a dream, his vision could only linger on the tip of Zheng Kunyu’s nose; no matter how hard he tried to look up, he could never find his gaze.
Yet the memories of Paris began to stir vividly. He gradually remembered the overcoat Zheng Kunyu wore, the scent of perfume on a passing blonde woman, the snow on the Pont Neuf, the tango at La Coupole. Finally, he remembered the eyes behind Zheng Kunyu’s glasses.
Looking out from the hotel balcony, one could see a corner of the Eiffel Tower. Qi Bailu set down his suitcase, captivated by the view the moment he saw it. Zheng Kunyu tipped the bellhop and turned to see Qi Bailu standing by the French windows, bundled in a thick down jacket.
The room was well-heated, and before long, Qi Bailu felt hot. Just as he turned around, Zheng Kunyu tossed a garment from the suitcase onto the double bed. “Wear this.”
Zheng Kunyu had chosen a cashmere coat. It wasn't particularly cold in Paris that day, so it was a perfect choice. But the fact that the man even controlled what he wore made Qi Bailu feel a surge of stifled irritation. This man’s desire for control extended to the very strands of his hair. While he was changing, Zheng Kunyu even cast a glance at his waistline.
He knew Zheng Kunyu had been complaining lately that he was too thin—not only was he uncomfortable to hold, but his old clothes were becoming slightly ill-fitting. Before they left, they had been quarreling constantly. Qi Bailu couldn't even stomach a meal if he sat at the same table as him. Seeing his despondent state, Zheng Kunyu was naturally displeased as well.
In fact, during the first winter he spent with Zheng Kunyu, he had gone on a hunger strike for a while. Zheng Kunyu had watched coldly, and when Qi Bailu couldn't hold out any longer, he had him put on a nutritional IV. Qi Bailu still remembered the final day when Zheng Kunyu brought him a piece of cake. When he regained full consciousness, he found himself sucking cream off his fingers while Zheng Kunyu kissed the smudges off his face and took him from behind. Qi Bailu realized too late what kind of expansion Zheng Kunyu had used; it was as if he were merely a piece of sweet food to be tasted, and Zheng Kunyu had effortlessly broken his will.
They went to the hotel restaurant to eat. After a few bites, Qi Bailu stopped. Zheng Kunyu, sitting opposite him, set down his knife and fork and looked at him. It was as if the knife in his hand were meant for carving Qi Bailu instead.
“I’m full,” Qi Bailu said.
Zheng Kunyu glanced at the abundant food on his plate. “If it’s not good, change the dish.”
“It has nothing to do with the food.”
“Then change the restaurant.”
Qi Bailu sat motionless. Zheng Kunyu stood up, walked over, and took the napkin from his lap. He rested a hand on the back of the chair as if to pull it out for him with forced consideration. “If you don’t want to eat at the next place, we’ll go to the one after that, until you find something you like.”
The restaurant servers were already starting to notice. Qi Bailu was silent for a moment, then snatched the napkin back, smoothed it out, and picked up his fork. Zheng Kunyu straightened up and returned to his seat. Only after he saw Qi Bailu stuffing food into his mouth and chewing did he resume using his knife. The food was delicious; Qi Bailu simply had no appetite and was being somewhat deliberately difficult. Despite his efforts, he couldn't eat much, and Zheng Kunyu noted it.
Later, while trying on clothes in a shop, Zheng Kunyu had the clerk take Qi Bailu’s measurements. As the clerk recorded the sizes and read them aloud, Zheng Kunyu leaned against a mirror and glanced at the top of Qi Bailu’s head. “You’ve grown taller.”
He had only grown a tiny bit; he still always had to look up when facing Zheng Kunyu. Qi Bailu hated the man’s tone—it was as if he were still a child. Finally, the clerk handed the credit card slip to Zheng Kunyu. Qi Bailu said he could pay for it himself, but Zheng Kunyu lowered his head to sign, ignoring him completely.
Qi Bailu watched him sign. The final stroke of the character for "jade" was sharp, almost piercing through the paper.
They spent the first day resting at the hotel. On the second day, Qi Bailu had to shoot a cosmetics advertisement he had signed for back in China. The person in charge planned to finish in two days, though if Qi Bailu was in good form, it could be done in one. But while Qi Bailu was skilled at acting, he was not at all suited for commercials. Furthermore, the staff on-site spoke only French or English, making the process fraught with difficulty. That afternoon, Zheng Kunyu went to the studio to pick him up. Qi Bailu’s temporary assistant and translator recounted the situation to him, saying helplessly, “His state is terrible.”
Zheng Kunyu didn't seem disappointed or dissatisfied. But when the translator mentioned that Qi Bailu had nearly been hit by a falling dyke light, Zheng Kunyu turned to look at her. The translator stumbled over his gaze, nearly forgetting how to speak, and watched as Zheng Kunyu walked toward Qi Bailu, who was sitting in a chair.
Aside from a shallow scratch on the back of his hand, he wasn't injured anywhere else. Qi Bailu didn't want to make a scene, so Zheng Kunyu didn't pursue it. After two days, there was still no progress. Zheng Kunyu showed up in person, but Qi Bailu’s performance was, as the translator said, truly abysmal.
There were no accidents this time, but Qi Bailu remained stiff and awkward. The director had a foul temper, and from morning till night, the studio was shrouded in a heavy atmosphere. Finally, when communication broke down over a minor detail, Qi Bailu couldn't help but toss aside the script. Ignoring the director’s orders, he walked away from the camera, nearly throwing the set into chaos.
It wasn't just a matter of being in a bad state. Qi Bailu looked anxious and restless, like a startled cat. Seeing him walk out, Zheng Kunyu went up and grabbed his arm. Qi Bailu shook him off, only realizing it was Zheng Kunyu a second later. Zheng Kunyu led him to the dressing room and locked the door. Before Zheng Kunyu could say a single harsh word, Qi Bailu’s voice sank.
“I don’t want to shoot this anymore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it.” If he wasn't in an environment where he felt safe, it was difficult for Qi Bailu to get into character. Moreover, being touched by strange men triggered a stress response, causing an uncontrollable revulsion. He couldn't tell Zheng Kunyu these things, so he could only give a blunt answer.
“Rest for a while and then go back. Don’t be willful.”
Since Zheng Kunyu had said so, Qi Bailu leaned against the vanity and searched his pockets for his sedatives. Zheng Kunyu squeezed his wrist.
“You won’t even let me take my medicine?” Qi Bailu asked.
“You’ve taken a month’s dosage in these past fifteen days.” Zheng Kunyu glanced at Qi Bailu’s shirt collar, which had been ruffled by the stylist, and took the small paper packet from his hand.
Qi Bailu tried to snatch it back, but Zheng Kunyu looked at him coldly and pinned him within his arms. No matter how much Qi Bailu struggled, the man remained unmoved. Qi Bailu was too angry to speak; eventually, he quieted down and hung his head in a sulk. Seeing that he had settled, Zheng Kunyu kissed his lips, but Qi Bailu immediately turned his face away. Maintaining his position, Zheng Kunyu lowered his head to kiss his collarbone, then sought another kiss.
Zheng Kunyu never understood tenderness. Qi Bailu was halfway through the kiss before he remembered—damn it, he was here for a beauty ad. He was wearing makeup, and now his lipstick was being eaten away. He tried everything to push Zheng Kunyu off. When he saw the man’s face, he tried to keep a stern expression but failed. Zheng Kunyu saw his look, glanced at the mirror behind Qi Bailu, and wiped a corner of his own mouth with his finger.
Qi Bailu was in even worse shape; the area around his mouth was smeared with a light cherry red. Zheng Kunyu lowered his head slightly. “It’s sweet.”
Qi Bailu couldn't tell if he was ashamed or annoyed; either way, his face was flushed. He turned around in Zheng Kunyu’s arms, looked in the mirror, and found a cotton pad. He soaked it in makeup remover and wiped his lips clean. Zheng Kunyu used his hand to wipe his own mouth and chin as well. Qi Bailu found the lipstick from earlier and carefully reapplied it. As he pursed his lips, he saw Zheng Kunyu staring at him.
“Give me back the medicine,” he said.
Zheng Kunyu stood before him in silence. Qi Bailu sat in the chair, waiting for the surge of anxiety to pass. After a while, Qi Bailu slowly buried his face against Zheng Kunyu’s coat and took the man’s hand. The gesture looked deeply dependent, but Zheng Kunyu knew what he really wanted was the sedative in his hand.
Receiving no response, Qi Bailu looked up at him. His movements gave the illusion of acting spoiled and weak, but his eyes remained stubborn and pained.
Zheng Kunyu hesitated for a fleeting moment.
It took five full days to finish the two commercial series. A few days later was the Chinese New Year. Qi Bailu was still in a cold war with Zheng Kunyu because the man had not only cut off his medication but also made an appointment for him with a psychologist. The doctor was a gentle Chinese-American woman who spoke fluent Mandarin, but Qi Bailu didn't say a single word.
At the end of the day, the doctor told Zheng Kunyu, “His guard is very high. If he refuses to speak, I can’t help him. I suggest you don’t stop his medication just yet.”
Zheng Kunyu looked through the glass door at Qi Bailu sitting on the sofa. Qi Bailu happened to be looking at them too. Light and shadow reflected on the glass, dividing the world into two halves.
It was snowing in Paris when they stepped out. The Pont Neuf Metro station was nearby, within walking distance. By the time they neared the bridge, the snow was falling heavily, covering everything in a thick white layer. Streetlamps stood by the bridge; looking up, one could see snowflakes rushing down through the dim yellow light.
Qi Bailu looked up at the dark, gloomy sky. Suddenly, he heard Zheng Kunyu say, “We’re coming back tomorrow.”
“What if I say no?”
Zheng Kunyu stopped and looked at him.
“I’ve told you many times, I don’t want to be in Paris, and I don’t want to see a doctor.”
Snowflakes pelted Zheng Kunyu’s glasses. He said coldly, “You need to.”
“Zheng Kunyu, this is my own business.”
Qi Bailu was wearing a new white cashmere coat. His ears and face were red from the cold, and snow clung to his hair and lashes. He looked pitiful, but his tone was harder than stone.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Zheng Kunyu watched him for a moment, then turned to keep walking. “I will bring you here again tomorrow.”
Qi Bailu called out to his back, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Boots crunched in the snow. Zheng Kunyu didn't turn around. Qi Bailu shouted, “My illness is all because of you!”
This time, Zheng Kunyu finally stopped. Qi Bailu said, “As long as I’m by your side, I’ll never get better! If you have any conscience at all, stop trying to control me. Let me go.”
Zheng Kunyu stood still for half a minute. Qi Bailu couldn't see his expression and assumed he was being his usual cold self. At the very least, his voice sounded cold. “I don’t want to say it a second time.”
Just as Zheng Kunyu stepped forward, he heard the sound of Qi Bailu’s footsteps behind him. But the footsteps weren't following; they were moving in the opposite direction, growing more distant. Zheng Kunyu turned and saw Qi Bailu had walked to the edge of the bridge. Without hesitation, he began to climb over.
Just as Qi Bailu was about to jump, a pair of hands caught him around the waist. Zheng Kunyu used immense force, and they both tumbled backward into the snow. Because Zheng Kunyu’s body cushioned the fall, Qi Bailu wasn't hurt, but Zheng Kunyu’s breathing was ragged. Amidst the whistling wind and snow, Qi Bailu broke free from his arms and turned back. Zheng Kunyu was lying on his back, his glasses having fallen into the snow nearby. His eyes were terrifyingly bright as he stared coldly at Qi Bailu’s face.
The next moment, Zheng Kunyu mercilessly throttled him, his thumb pressing hard against his windpipe. With just one hand, Qi Bailu felt a sense of suffocation. He struggled to draw in oxygen, trying to pull Zheng Kunyu’s hand away, but the hand felt as if it were trying to tear him apart. Snowflakes fell on Zheng Kunyu’s face, melting into icy liquid. The white mist from Qi Bailu’s mouth gradually thinned, and his gaze turned wretched.
“There are many things more terrifying than death,” Zheng Kunyu said.
Qi Bailu grabbed a handful of snow and slammed it hard against Zheng Kunyu’s neck, nearly hitting him in the face, finally forcing the man to let go. There wasn't a single pedestrian on the road. They were like two bears fighting in the snow. Qi Bailu rolled off him and touched his neck with frozen fingers. Zheng Kunyu picked up his silver-framed glasses; seeing they were splashed with melted snow, he put them back on without wiping them.
Zheng Kunyu extended a hand toward Qi Bailu. Looking at his grim expression, Qi Bailu grabbed a snowball and threw it at his face, his voice raspy. “Bastard!”
The snowball hit Zheng Kunyu’s collar. His coat was already covered in snow; a little more made no difference. Zheng Kunyu sneered, “Do you think you’re in a movie? Death isn't romantic.”
Qi Bailu sat up and packed an even larger snowball, throwing it at him with hatred. “Get lost.”
Zheng Kunyu crouched before him. Just as Qi Bailu was about to push him, Zheng Kunyu grabbed his beet-red hand. Zheng Kunyu was wearing black lambskin gloves, while Qi Bailu’s fingers were like frozen twigs. “Have you had enough?”
Qi Bailu stared back at him coldly.
Zheng Kunyu’s anger hadn't fully dissipated; for a moment, he really wanted to pick Qi Bailu up and throw him into the Seine. He pulled off one glove, then the other, and threw them at Qi Bailu’s chest. “Put them on,” he commanded. Qi Bailu didn't move, so Zheng Kunyu forcibly seized his wrist.
Qi Bailu forgot what they argued about after that, or how they got from the Pont Neuf to the Metro. That night back at the hotel was also terrible; Zheng Kunyu had ways of showing him what was more painful than death.
At the time, he lay on the floor, unable to move. His eyes could only see the bleak snowy light on the balcony. He felt like a piece of iron being repeatedly hammered—from skin to flesh, he was scorched hot, quenched sharper with every strike. His body could hold no will; even if it did, it would be hammered into something twisted and deformed. No one could stay sane under such desire.
No one told him if this counted as love. They kissed, argued, and had sex like lovers, but no lovers were like them—each wishing the other would die.
If he could do it over, Qi Bailu would have dragged him down into the icy river at the Pont Neuf.
When Qi Bailu woke up on the sofa, the snow hadn't stopped. He was naked, wrapped in a blanket. No lights were on in the room, but there was a light source not far from him. He struggled to open his eyes and saw a fire in the fireplace, the wood crackling.
Zheng Kunyu sat in a chair by the fireplace, having changed into a fresh shirt, staring at the flames. He remained so still that Qi Bailu almost thought he was asleep, until Zheng Kunyu suddenly raised his arm and brought a glass to his lips. Qi Bailu glanced at the clock on the wall. Three in the afternoon. He had slept until now, missing his appointment with the psychologist.
His discarded clothes were still by the door. Qi Bailu didn't feel like picking them up, so he walked to the dressing room to find a change of clothes. By the time he finished showering and tidied the room, Zheng Kunyu was still sitting there. Qi Bailu knew they wouldn't be seeing that doctor again.
The Paris trip returned to a temporary peace. They visited many places and didn't reconcile until the day of the Chinese New Year. They had dinner on a cruise ship, followed by a New Year’s fireworks display. After watching from the deck for a while, Zheng Kunyu stepped aside to take a call. Qi Bailu guessed it was his parents because Zheng Kunyu was speaking Cantonese.
Qi Bailu leaned against the railing, lost in thought. He didn't even notice a pickpocket reaching into his pocket until Zheng Kunyu stepped forward and seized the thief’s arm. Qi Bailu only had a thin travel brochure on him. The thief dropped it and fled. Zheng Kunyu bent down to pick up the brochure.
No wonder Zheng Kunyu always called him stupid.
On their last night in Paris, they went to La Coupole for dinner. They were to fly back to Beijing the following afternoon. The interior was brightly lit and the tables were packed close together; many films had been shot here. A dance event was being held in the hall tonight. The performers wore long red dresses, their arms draped over their partners. They were dancing the tango, their skirts flying to the melody of the violins as if they could stir the whole world.
Every table had a vase with vibrant red roses. As the dancers brushed past, the flowers seemed to rustle in their wake.
Qi Bailu couldn't read the menu, so he left the ordering to Zheng Kunyu. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror, his eyes meeting his own reflection.
Qi Bailu remembered—in the movie, this was where Marlon Brando decided to confess to his young lover. The roses in the mirror hung their heads just as silently, as if there really were another world, with heaven and hell separated by a thin line, forming an endless cycle of duplication and contrast.
An East Asian girl had been watching them since they sat down. Qi Bailu noticed she was looking at Zheng Kunyu, while the French girl opposite her was looking at him. Qi Bailu met their eyes in the mirror; the blonde girl smiled faintly and turned to say something to her friend.
As they were finishing their meal, the dance hall grew more lively. Sure enough, the East Asian girl walked over and asked Zheng Kunyu in English if he wanted to dance. Zheng Kunyu poured himself some wine and glanced at her. The girl added, “My friend can keep your friend company.”
“We aren't friends.”
Zheng Kunyu maintained a sense of aloofness. The girl understood his meaning, gave Qi Bailu a friendly arch of her brow, said a few polite words, and moved to the next table to invite another man. Moments later, the two were walking arm-in-arm to the dance floor.
Couples embraced in the dance hall. Qi Bailu toyed with his pudding spoon, thinking that perhaps they didn't even look like a pair of lovers. At the next table, a couple held hands while they ate, even leaning across the table to kiss regardless of others' gazes, their eyes full of tenderness.
They left the restaurant fifteen minutes later. Zheng Kunyu took Qi Bailu’s scarf for him. As they stepped out, they could still hear the passionate, lively tango music. It wasn't until they turned the corner and the lights dimmed and the crowds thinned that Zheng Kunyu hooked his arm around Qi Bailu’s waist and kissed him in the dark shadows.
Zheng Kunyu’s kiss was urgent and fast. Qi Bailu was forced to tilt his head back against the wall. His response was slow and sluggish, so Zheng Kunyu impatiently gripped his chin, making the kiss more aggressive. Zheng Kunyu had drunk quite a bit, and his hands began to wander over him. If it weren't for the heavy winter clothes, Qi Bailu feared he might lose control right there.
They had been kissing for a long time when they suddenly heard applause and cheers from the restaurant, as if the fervent ovation were for them. Zheng Kunyu breathed in, burying his face in the side of Qi Bailu’s neck, inhaling his scent and pulling him into his embrace. Qi Bailu had to wrap his arms around Zheng Kunyu’s shoulders, burying half his face against the man's coat as he steadied his breathing.
“Let’s go,” Zheng Kunyu said. And so they left.
It felt as if he might truly die. Qi Bailu’s hand rested on Zheng Kunyu’s body, feeling as though those burning lips could melt him. They were leaving Paris tomorrow. Time was like a bottle of red wine that had been uncorked; it would eventually run dry. The final drops would sooner or later slide from the tilted rim and fall into the cup of fate.
It happened in a moment Qi Bailu least expected. He had no premonition. Zheng Kunyu pulled his lips away from Qi Bailu’s—perhaps for only a second—and whispered, “I love you.”
It had to be the alcohol talking.
It had to be.
Qi Bailu waited, motionless. The scent of wine enveloped them. Zheng Kunyu’s eyelids drooped, and he soon kissed him again. His movements were even more roughly aggressive, driving Qi Bailu into a corner with nowhere to hide. It was neither rational nor sober; it had nothing to do with the word "love." He only said such things when he was drunk. Besides, it was a lie.
A lie, a lie, a lie. It had to be a lie. Qi Bailu was left with only this single thought. If he believed it, he would be the world’s biggest fool.
The next morning, Qi Bailu woke up and stared at the ceiling. Zheng Kunyu was already dressed impeccably, tying his tie in front of the full-length mirror. They were going to an art exhibition that morning; a friend of Zheng Kunyu’s had given him an invitation. Sunlight shone on the messy sheets and blankets.
“Do you remember what you said last night?” Qi Bailu suddenly asked.
“What did I say?” Zheng Kunyu’s tone was uninterested.
“Nothing.”
Zheng Kunyu looked at his pale reflection in the mirror, then turned and said nonchalantly, “It couldn't have been 'I love you,' could it?”
How could it be? How could he possibly have said "I love you"?
Qi Bailu laughed for a while, then pressed his lips tight. Zheng Kunyu glanced at him. Qi Bailu couldn't help but laugh again, laughing until he almost cried.
The wall clock struck six, startling Qi Bailu as he leaned by the window. His thoughts, like pigeons taking flight, returned from the depths of memory. He returned to reality, to the room. He turned back to look at the oil painting of the death of Ophelia.
That day, he had grown tired of walking through the exhibition and sat down to rest. Zheng Kunyu stood not far away, talking to a French woman. After a while, Zheng Kunyu took a fountain pen and lowered his head to write. At the time, Qi Bailu had been looking out the window, wondering what he was writing.
Summer was approaching outside. Every snowflake of memory melted the moment it touched the ground. Qi Bailu seemed to see the shadow of the deceased flowing down the river—that green river whose banks were overgrown with flowers. The water flowed out of the frame, soaking his feet. Qi Bailu pulled the white cloth back over the painting.
He still remembered the cadence of Zheng Kunyu’s voice.
*It turns out there are many things more terrifying than death. Like committing an unforgivable evil. Like being separated from your lover forever, and being forgotten by them forever.*
But Qi Bailu still couldn't understand why it was five years later.
He stared blankly at the "Happy Birthday" card.
Until the sound of a key turning in the lock came from behind him. Ruan Qiuji walked in from the entryway. He changed his shoes, set down a cake, and walked straight to Qi Bailu, wrapping both arms around him from behind.
He, too, said, “Happy Birthday.”
***
Back in that winter in Paris, after Qi Bailu had walked away, Zheng Kunyu stood before the painting for a while longer. The Ophelia in the painting didn't have the vacant eyes depicted by some artists; instead, she was full of the agony of struggle. She had stepped into the river clearly and resolutely. Perhaps that was why Qi Bailu had looked so moved when he stood there.
Zheng Kunyu found the curator. As it happened, the artist’s agent was also there. He quickly bought the painting, intending it as a birthday gift for Qi Bailu that year. He filled out the forms, the delivery date, Cheng Wenhui’s address and number, and the recipient’s name. For privacy reasons, Qi Bailu’s packages were always received by Cheng Wenhui.
The fountain pen ink bled into the paper. The curator asked if he wanted to write a postcard.
After writing a line, Zheng Kunyu glanced at Qi Bailu sitting by the window. Qi Bailu was wearing a white mohair sweater, his coat draped over the back of the chair. He was resting his chin on his hand, looking out the window, looking like a soft, fuzzy ball. Zheng Kunyu always felt that Qi Bailu was still young, yet when he frowned, he had a melancholy that didn't fit his age.
What was he looking at? Zheng Kunyu also glanced out the window. There was only a garbage truck and people coming and going.
Zheng Kunyu tossed the written postcard into the trash. Under the curator’s surprised gaze, he asked if he could write another one.
This time, he wrote only four words: *Happy Birthday.* The final stroke of the character for "joy" was sharp, almost piercing through the paper.
The exhibition ended at dusk. The hallway lights were extinguished one by one until only a small lamp remained, illuminating two young women tidying up by a glass display case. One of them held a laptop, organizing the day’s data. When she reached a certain page, she stopped and pointed at the year of the delivery date.
“Do you think this is a 3 or an 8?” she asked. “It looks more like an 8.”
They discussed it for a while and agreed that the somewhat blurred digit looked like an 8. And so, the girl hit the keys.
The snow on the streets of Paris had melted. A sanitation worker in a green uniform stepped off a garbage truck, wearing gloves as he emptied the trash cans at the exhibition entrance. The two girls locked the door and walked past him. Just as he was about to close the back door of the truck, he saw a card on the ground. He bent down to pick it up from the slush.
It was a line of Chinese. The handwriting had been blurred by the melted snow. He couldn't read it, of course. He shook his head and tossed it into the truck, closing the other door. The postcard lay atop fruit peels, old newspapers, and empty beer cans, finally sealed into total darkness.
No one knew that the line of text read:
*On our last night in Paris, what I said to you was the truth.*
***
