That can’t be. From my observation, your husband believes you’ve entered into a period of absolute stability in your marriage. So stable you don’t even need to share what’s in your hearts. Not even those meaningful glances—those were gone long ago. Like most Americans, you fill the silence with chitchat and laughter, killing off the countless possibilities that lurk within quietness. Isn’t silence its own form of understanding? Be boldly silent, and understanding will grow. Your husband’s already lost the courage to say nothing. How many people lose this courage? Soon you will too.

The secret talker was growing cryptic, even mysterious.

8

Hongmei talked about the weeks leading to her departure from Beijing. A storm had swept over the city, and like the prince in “Cinderella,” Professor Glen had found his bride. He returned to America before her but made sure to mail money for a plane ticket and two beautiful dresses. Half a year and mountains of paperwork later, she was preparing to leave the country.

It was early November, a night not too different from the night of her interrogation two years previously. She cycled back to the courtyard she’d once left each day to go to work, where she’d engaged in political study, taken part in the spring-cleaning, and distributed New Year’s goods. A classic Beijing northern wind was blowing, catching fallen leaves and garbage. She knew her ex-husband had a girlfriend. She’d said to him on the phone, “Congratulations on finding a good woman, Jianjun.” That was when he’d told her to come fetch her clothes and books.

Now she told the secret talker that after that phone call, the guilt she felt toward Jianjun stopped rearing up. He was very calm, telling her to bring someone to help when she came for her things, as it might be hard for a lone woman to run up and down the stairs so much—hinting that he wouldn’t be lending a hand. He also told her that his girlfriend would be there.

She rode past the canteen, bathrooms, and convenience store, and then abruptly remembered that the latter made their own ice creams in the summer. These melted easily because they contained a lot of milk. Jianjun would buy a dozen at a time, tying them together with a hankie, then would sprint the hundred yards to her sixth-floor office. They’d be half melted by the time he got there, and Jianjun would be too, smiling as he dripped with sweat. Next was a clinic, the light in the shift room as dim and grubby as it had been two years ago. The ambulance driver was still playing cards with Old Wang from the boiler room.