He had once told me that wild weasels release a foul-smelling liquid when attacked to ward off predators. His abrupt departure might have been his instinctive reaction to an attack—an attack from me.
I went downstairs to his mother’s apartment and knocked on the door.
“Auntie.”
She was surprised to see me.
“Come in, Miss Qiu. It’s been a long time,” she said.
I noticed his father sitting in a recliner. He was much older than his wife, frail, and had limited mobility.
As we spoke, his father gazed at his mother with affection, and she occasionally returned his gaze with equal tenderness. Their love was so deep, they seemed like a couple destined to reunite in the next life.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” I said.
“It’s alright. Hai Ming has always been headstrong. He left just like that, just as he ran away from home when he was a child.”
“Has he sent any letters?”
“He’s sent a few postcards,” she said.
I was overjoyed and asked, “Auntie, could I see them? I know I shouldn’t intrude, but I’m desperate to find him.”
“Alright, I’ll show them to you,” she said, fetching three postcards.
The first postcard, sent last year, was from Japan. It featured Mount Fuji, but there was no return address. The postmark was from December. December? Could he really have been in Room 606 that night at the hotel, only to leave when he knew I was about to enter?
The second postcard was from Prague, sent in March of this year. The cold weather must have been harsh. What was he doing there?
“Mom, Dad, it’s very cold here. Is it cold in Hong Kong too? I’ve been drinking, and it warms me up. Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourselves,” he had written.
His alcohol tolerance was poor, yet he had been drinking in the freezing cold. His life must have been difficult. It was my fault.
The third postcard had been sent just last week from San Francisco.
“He’s called home a few times, but he never says where he is,” his mother said.
“Auntie, if he calls again, please tell him I miss him terribly. I really miss him,” I said, choking back tears.
“I will,” she said. “I miss him too.”
I hurried to the travel agency and bought a ticket to San Francisco. If he was still there, I had to find him.
When I arrived in San Francisco, I thought of a new strategy. I copied down the addresses of every model shop listed in the city’s phone book and decided to visit them one by one. There was a chance that Gao Hai Ming might appear at one of these shops.
At a model shop on Chestnut Street, I spotted a beautifully assembled F-15 fighter jet.
“Who built this model?” I asked the owner.
“It was built by someone we contract for assembly. He’s very skilled,” the owner replied.
“Is he Chinese?”
“Yes, he’s Chinese.”
“What’s his name?”
“I only know his English name—he goes by Ming.”
Gao Hai Ming didn’t have an English name, but it wasn’t impossible that he had adopted one after coming to San Francisco.
“Does he only build fighter jets?” I asked.
“Yes, only fighter jets.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I don’t. But he’s scheduled to come here tomorrow at 11 a.m. to deliver another model.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep at the hotel.
“I think I’ve found him,” I said to Meng Meng over a long-distance call.
The next morning, I arrived at the model shop shortly after 9 a.m., worried he might come early.
I wore my best outfit as I waited for him. It had been two years—I didn’t know how he might have changed.
By 11 a.m., there was still no sign of him.
At noon, the model builder arrived, but it wasn’t Gao Hai Ming. Instead, it was a middle-aged man.
“Why do you only build fighter jets?” I asked him.
He shook his head and said, “No special reason. I just find jets easier to assemble than ships. I’m a new immigrant, and I couldn’t find any other work—”
So it was for an entirely unremarkable reason.
Disappointed, I left the model shop.
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