She locked up her bike and went into the clinic, where she made a phone call. She heard the person who answered shouting two stories above her. After a while, she heard a door open. The door to what used to be her home. She heard Jianjun’s footsteps coming down the stairs to the phone and could tell he was still wearing the fake leather slippers she’d given him. He said, “Hello, who is this?”

She said nothing. He could already hear it.

Five minutes later, he had entered the clinic. He’d changed into an almost-new shirt, and his hair was styled the way she liked it. He said, “Let’s go.” Not even thinking about it, she followed him out the clinic’s front door and up the stairs. Along the way, he asked her when she was leaving for America and if her parents were coming to see her off. She answered his questions one by one. As for the hurt and humiliation she’d brought him, she pretended it had nothing to do with her; as for the revenge and punishment he owed her, he’d let it go.

His girlfriend wasn’t home. Hongmei didn’t ask why, and he didn’t explain. She noticed the set of imported furniture she’d chosen had finally arrived—three years from ordering to delivery. The pale yellow couch with a print that made it look embossed, the four-door wardrobe—a break from the uniformity of local products—the stainless-steel desk lamp. Even the dust cover for the TV set was exactly what she had wanted. While she’d been mired in detention, unemployment, and homelessness, the home she’d designed had been completed as planned. Everything was good, so good it felt like a scam. She thought grimly that Jianjun had enlarged and completed the trap she’d set for him.

He asked if she’d eaten and, without waiting for a reply, went into the kitchen and turned on the stove. He said it was only canteen food, but luckily they had been serving her favorite lion’s head meatballs. They sat at the small table. He kept her company as she ate, not saying much but touching on all the painful or sensitive points. There was laughter, and also tears. So Jianjun could be this gentle too, no longer the imposing, coarsely bellowing, mid-ranking army officer.

They talked about when they first met. He had been president of their senior class. He’d sent her love notes back to her but secretly bought her a pair of gloves and a set of Lu Xun: Selected Works in English translation. He admitted that he had wanted to possess her. When they went out together, if their hands happened to touch, it had felt like torture. She asked if he remembered their first time. He blushed and said, “How could I not remember? Didn’t you write it all out in your self-criticism?”