In the winter of 2001, Ru Yuan had already gone to Japan. Wang Hai called from Shanghai and complained, “Jiang Cheng, why didn’t you even show up for the classmate directory meeting?” He gave her the address and phone number of his new company as well as his mobile number. Jiang Cheng was working on reports at the time; the Arabic numerals blurred into crawling ants. She jotted down his new phone number in her digital assistant but soon forgot the password to access it.
By spring of 2002, Ming Yuan’s face had finally begun to blur in her memory. Even Wang Hai’s voice had become unfamiliar. She listened for a long time before realizing it was him. He sighed repeatedly: “Gu Jiang Cheng, oh Gu Jiang Cheng, you must have found a new love and forgotten your old friends, asking me, ‘Who is this?’ like a stranger.” Jiang Cheng cheerfully talked about all the wonderful things about her new partner. Wang Hai’s last words in that call were, “Qi Mei, I’m genuinely happy for you.” Over the years, no one ever called her that again. She sat in a daze for a long time, melancholic for the youthful spring attire of those days.
In the summer of 2003, Jiang Cheng went on a business trip to Shanghai and arranged to meet Wang Hai in the hotel lobby. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, while she wore an embroidered long dress made of Jiangnan fabric, her long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, looking like an effortlessly elegant gypsy. It took him a moment to recognize her, and he remarked with a smile, “I’ve never seen you in a long dress or with long hair. You’re like a completely different person.” Jiang Cheng smiled. In Wang Hai’s memory, she was forever the mischievous girl from campus, always in T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, wreaking playful havoc as a troublemaker.
Wang Hai drove Jiang Cheng out for dinner, taking them from Zhabei to Gangcheng, crossing a significant portion of Shanghai. The elevated roads seemed like endless bridges, and the wind outside the car window whispered softly. Jiang Cheng, as usual, talked incessantly, chattering about all that had happened since they last met, recounting past rights and wrongs. Without any hesitation, she brought up Ru Yuan, complaining about how she had once been kept in the dark. Wang Hai recalled how Jiang Cheng had first learned of his relationship with Ru Yuan—her face full of astonishment, which quickly turned into a beaming smile. Quoting literature, she said, “When did Meng Guang take up the task of handing over the beam?”. Ru Yuan didn’t read Dream of the Red Chamber, but Wang Hai understood the reference and dismissed it with a laugh.
Wang Hai’s girlfriend, Mei Yue, was waiting for them at the restaurant. Introducing them, Wang Hai said, “This is our department’s Qimei from back in the day.” Jiang Cheng corrected him, “It was Liu Mei.” Then, smiling warmly at Mei Yue, she added, “It’s just a ranking system; Xu Dage doesn’t actually have so many sisters.” Back in university, people often sang the old song, How Many Good Sisters Do You Have? Even the melody had faded from memory now.
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