whole spicy fish at the Golden Chicken
they returned to Tiantan Park to hear karaoke
and admire the ballroomers.
One Sunday Uncle Ping sat with them, sharing out sweets.
âMy niece and I were wondering if you would ballroom with
us next Sunday?â
Cherry touched Wengâs sleeve.
âI think you would be successful if you tried.â
Uncle Ping said, âWeâre not getting any younger.â
Then he gave Weng another sweet.
âCâmon,â Cherry said. âYou may as well try.â
But Weng just stared at the sweet in his hand.
âBashful?â Uncle Ping said. âNothing wrong with that.â
It took two weeks for Uncle Ping and Cherry
to persuade Weng to try ballrooming.
âSome people even dance without partners . . . ,â
Cherry kept saying as she showed him basic steps:
quick-quick, slow, quick-quick, slow . . .
â. . . but the important thing is theyâre dancing.â
Fairly soon, Weng was doing something he had never imagined,
with a large chattering group who descended en masse
to dance and sometimes try out their voices.
It was an unspoken law that the older a person was,
the earlier he or she had to arrive at Tiantan Park.
Apartments that skirted the boundaries
were getting harder to rent,
as karaoke machines were in full swing by first light.
Sometimes Weng and Cherry got to Tiantan early.
Listened to songs they had never heard,
then drank coffee-flavored tea in little bakeries,
watching the steam
roll from boiling pots.
Weng even bought a cell phone so Cherry could send him texts
to encourage his steps,
or just friendly symbols like this:
âºâºâº
For Cherryâs thirtieth birthday Weng gave her a silk scarf.
They celebrated in a small restaurant where three roads meet.
When Weng asked if she liked her present
Cherry told him she was married.
âI also have a daughter named Shirley,â she said.
All the uneaten dishes of food on the table
made Weng feel foolish.
He put some money down and went outside.
Cherry appeared a few moments later.
âYou should have told me before I gave you
one of my motherâs scarves,â he said.
Cherry fingered the silk knot around her neck.
Her hands were dry and callused from long shifts
in the factory where she worked.
âWhere is your husband?â Weng asked. âWith Shirley
in your hometown of Ningbo?â
âItâs a long story.â
âWhy donât they live here with you? I donât understand.â
âSomeday Iâll explain the situation,â she said.
âBut itâs shameful, I warn you.â
âWhy did you come to Beijing alone? Isnât there plenty
of work in Ningbo?â
âUncle Ping got me a better job here as I also
support my parents.â
When it was almost dark they parted at the edge of her district.
âAll this time,â Weng said, âI thought your
uncle was a matchmaker.â
Cherry untied the silk scarf and held it out.
âKeep it,â he said. âEven though youâre married,
today is still your birthday.â
å
For the next month, Weng didnât iron his white shirt
nor his mouse-gray trousers, nor clip on his tie
or the sock garters from Hong Kong.
And each evening, as he packed up his vegetables,
the mannequins of Chanel
were transformed by twilight into a window of Cherrys.
One evening, Uncle Ping came to see him,
said heâd heard from Cherry what happened,
and felt responsible for not telling Weng sooner
about his nieceâs situation.
They sat very still before cooling cups of tea.
Weng turned off the television to be polite.
At last Uncle Ping spoke. âDid Cherry tell you
that I was once almost married?â
Weng shook his head.
âShe was so beautiful I couldnât look at her.â
âIt was hard in China then, with Mao and the Red Guards,
your parents probably told you. But after a few months of
dating, the thought of
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