Fantastic Five

Li Hongwei (李宏伟)

Dylan Levi King

A time-bending tale of love and life from author Li Hongwei

Almost time.

He looks around the room one more time. Three silent bunks. The beds clean, the desks below tidy.

His bed—all in order… Not a single crease in the sheets. The blanket folded into a perfect block.

On his desk, only a computer. Books on the shelf or in drawers. The only item left out is the mug. It is new. A light blue glaze. Two holographic zebras nuzzling each other and whispering. He reaches out his right hand and turns the mug, so that the zebras seem to move. One of their tails swishes. He sees the trace of his last cup of tea. Why wasn’t it cleaned? He takes the cup and goes to the washroom. A knock at the door. He rushes back to the desk and sets the cup down. He pauses, squints, moves it to the other side of the computer, and then takes a longer look. He pushes it in a bit further. Knocking again. Two steps, then back. Feet on the ladder up to the bunk. Pull down the blanket. Finally, two bounds toward the door. He rips the door open on the second knock of the third round.

Five years, eight months, three days later, he pulls the door open on the fourth knock of the first round. Outside the door, there is a solemn, gorgeous radiance. Fourteen years later, he opens the door in the same instant she takes out the key. Unexpectedly, a soft pink haze rushes in. Fourteen years, one month, and twenty-seven days later, she hammers on the door, and he sits at his desk, staring at her on the screen, crouched between two girls. Thirty years later, at around the same time, two minutes to four, he stands in front of the bedroom door, straightens his collar, strokes his cheek, reaches out and knocks. From inside she answers, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s May 15,” he says.

On May 15, at the present moment, he hurriedly wipes his hands dry on his pants, composes himself, and pulls open the door, as if he had never opened a door before. She stands there, in the same clothes she wore when they met in the cafeteria, the same shirt and the same pants. She has put on white sneakers with three dark purple stripes. When he asks about them later, she says she has no idea where she lost them. Nine years, nine months, nine days later, she sorts through her closet and finds the shirt and the pants. She holds them up against herself, sighs, and says, “I can’t wear these.” Before he can say anything, she tosses them into a garbage bag.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “It’s taking forever.”

“Nothing,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in.” He pauses. “They aren’t here.” He says nothing more. She hesitates. Fourteen years, one month, twenty-six days later, when she said those words to him, he saw the same hesitation. But the hesitation was more fleeting than it had been at that moment in the present. It gave way to a firmer determination.

“Where did they go off to?” she asks, walking inside, not paying attention to the closed bathroom door or the three other bunks, going right to his desk as if she knew it was his. When she gets to the desk, she stands there as if sizing it up, or as if she was dazed for a moment and surprised to find herself there.

He begins to panic. “Homework, shooting hoops... They went out...” He takes two steps toward her. She turns back. Her expression is inquisitive and probing. He quickly adds: “Sit, sit, please.” He gestures at his own chair. He pulls up the chair from the other bunk. It creaks as he scrapes it across the floor. She frowns. Eight months and one day later, six hours later than the present moment, in the same room, she says, “Aiya!” He turns around in his chair and sees her holding up her right index finger, which has a bead of red blood hanging from it. Leaning toward her across crossed legs, his chair gives a harsh, multilayered creak. She forgets or doesn’t have time to frown at the sound. He takes her hand and inspects her finger. He sits down. He sits back in the chair. She sits back, too. He gets to his feet soon after, and asks, “What do you want to drink?”

She looks at him, tilts her head, and asks, “You got any beer?” A year, ten months, five days later, she waves off the bottle of soda he offers her, tilts her head, and asks, “You got any beer? We should be celebrating.” That day, she drinks three bottles, accepting a toast from all his friends, sometimes by herself, sometimes with him. When they leave the hot pot restaurant, she throws her arms around him for a hug. When he lowers his head, she says, “It’s good, to still be a student.” Without waiting for him to answer, she asks, “Why do you love me?” Four years, one month, one day later, she waves off the cup of tea that he offers her, doesn’t tilt her head, smiles, and says, “You got any beer? Let’s celebrate.”

She watches as he cracks a bottle of Wusu and fills a mug, watching the foam overflow and slip down the glass onto the table. She pauses, waiting for the foam to settle, picks up the glass, and clinks it hard against his. “This is great!” she says. “You’re staying, too.” She takes a sip and clinks her glass against his again. “The place I always want to go.” She finishes the glass. A moment later, she smiles, and says, “I’m not saying I don’t like my job!” She watches him pour two more glasses and asks, “Do you know why I told you not to invite anybody else?” She glances around. She leans forward. He moves, too. But she sits back and shoots him a smile he will remember for the rest of his life.

Thirty-six years, seventeen days later, she faces a room full of friends, and her eldest daughter, in a white wedding dress, and whispers to him, “Pass me that glass of beer.” He waves his hand, motioning his younger daughter not to move. He opens a bottle of beer and carefully pours it into a glass, taking care not to let the foam overflow. He lifts the glass and takes a sip before passing it to her.

At the present moment: he shakes his head, caught unprepared. “I don’t have any,” he says. “I’ll go get some. Is Yanjing okay? Maybe Tsingtao?” She smiles and he realizes that he looks foolish. He scratches his head and asks, “You want a soda? I’ve got tea, too. I think it was Dragon Well .”

“Tea is good,” she says. “I’ll try your Dragon Well.” She takes the mug and twists it around. The holographic zebra has six eyes. “Put my tea in here,” she says. “Pretty neat cup. The zebra’s so ugly it’s cute.” She looks into the cup. “It’s clean.”

“Of course,” he says. He loosens up a bit. He takes the cup and one for himself. “I just bought it. This one... I actually use it myself.”

“Do you need to this time?” she says, then stops, and looks uneasily at his cup. “Thank you!” she says. “If not, I wouldn’t be able to use it.” She glances at him.

He is uncomfortable again. Even more than he was before. At last, he could take the cup and go to the bathroom to wash it out. He rinses it out in the sink. Still dirty. He puts it down and scrubs the inside with the tip of his right index finger, then stops. She sits down again and tilts her head to scan the bookshelf. She makes no criticism, nor does she pull out any of the books. He returns and sets the mug down, takes a canister of tea from the shelf, and opens it.

“Strong or weak?” he says, and her expression returns.

“Either way,” she says. “How about you make it the same as yours?” Again: “Oh, right.” As time runs by, these words remain, plentiful and thick, so that what is true and what is false becomes hard to separate, and the meaning and the circumstance are obscure. They slide by in an instant. Naturally, nobody would notice the passing of time, or the speed at which it flowed, nor even the marks it left behind like stains in a mug. So, he does not pause, but carefully shakes an equal amount of tea into both cups. He lifts the thermos and pours in hot water.

“I put the water in this morning,” he explains. “This thermos doesn’t hold heat that well. It’s just right for green tea now.”

“So fine!” she says and reaches out for the handle of the mug.

“That’s what they say,” he says.

Six years, two months, seven days later, she leans over, examines his tea cup, watches the tea leaves floating upright in the water, takes a sip, and smacks her lips. She sets down the cup and goes to open her suitcase. She takes out two cakes of pu’er tea and hands them to him. “Start drinking this. It’s better for your stomach.” She pauses. “That’s what they say.” She adds, “I learned a lot this time. Drinking tea... All different ages… An old expert told me that this suits people like you, who don’t have many people stopping by to entertain.”

Twenty-three years, eight months, eighteen days later, he sits down beside the tea table, as he usually does, rinses out the cups with hot water, and prepares the leaves. She comes over, as she usually does, and sits down on the sofa, but she holds up a hand to stop him. “I don’t need a cup. Don’t make tea for me at night. I can’t sleep.” And then she says, “It’s strange. I drank tea at night for years and years without any problem, but suddenly I can’t sleep. I’m not sure it has anything to do with tea.”

Tea leaves are still floating on the surface, but they have begun to slowly unfurl in the water, releasing their fragrance. Her nostrils flare as she inhales twice, hard. She blows the tea leaves away from the rim and takes a small sip. “Not bad,” she says, setting her cup down, then glancing over it twice. “This is the first time I’ve come to your place. How are you planning to entertain me?”

“Entertain you? Oh...” He thinks for a moment. “You want to watch a movie or something?” He goes over and turns on his computer. It buzzes to life. “We bought a membership to a streaming site. Have a look to see if there’s anything you like.”

She took a glance. “A membership? You bought that? Why don’t you just download movies?”

“The four of us share it. You have to pay once every six months, and we take turns on that. It doesn’t add up to much.” The computer is on, so she slides her chair over to be closer to the mouse and keyboard. He clicks on the browser and types in the web address. “Downloading is fine, but nowadays, these video sites buy up the copyright, so things can be hard to find.” And then this scene, too—two people, three people, four people in front of the computer or the TV, discussing what they wanted to watch—became concentrated by time, and slipped away, without leaving any trace. They both make their recommendations, yet each picks up their phones, and watches the same video, and, as before, the traces are indistinct.

Thirty years and a day later, he thinks of dinner the night before, the stop-start conversation after returning home, and invites her again. She says, “Let’s skip dinner and go to the movies.” They arrive at the theater, where it turns out they are hosting a retrospective that includes the movie he wanted to show her. Of course, through the movie and during the trip home, he does not mention the past. Lying on his bed, the movie plays behind his eyelids. There is a scene of the hero sitting in a hard chair, watching a pair of flickering hands on a TV set.

The site doesn’t load. He glances down at the network status and sees it’s not connected. He moves the mouse but she stops him. “Don’t bother,” she says. “They’re changing the cables. The whole school is offline.” She picks up her tea cup, sips, and laughs. “Did you know what you were doing, inviting me over today to stream something?”

“Uh.” He feels as if he has been struck by lightning. He takes out his phone. It’s connected to the mobile network. “We can watch something on my phone.”

“No,” she says. “The screen is too small. Two people sitting together holding phones. Is that any way to entertain a guest?”

“I just bought this computer. I haven’t downloaded anything yet. I didn’t get anything off them, either. How about we watch something on one of the others’ computers?”

“That’s no good,” she says. “A computer is more private than a bed.” He goes over to stand in front of the desk, his hand hovering over the power button, then looks back at her. She looks at him, smiling cryptically, but the message to stop is clear enough. He hesitates for a second, then goes to the computer at the bunk across from his. His roommate won’t be angry. But if anything inappropriate pops up on the screen... She stands and sits down in the chair in front of him, takes the mouse, and begins clicking through files. “If the computer is new,” she says, “there shouldn’t be anything inappropriate on it, right?”

He is sure there isn’t. Eleven years, one month, fifteen days later, she picks up his phone as if by accident. “There shouldn’t be anything inappropriate on it, right?” she asks, holding it out to him. He assures her there is not, reaches out a hand, and unlocks it with his fingerprint. She looks at him and hands it back. “You really want me to take a look?” But in the present moment, he watches as she works, following the cursor from My Computer to E:, where she discovers a folder named “Movies.” She opens the folder and finds it empty. “Nothing here,” she remarks, moving back to Start and scanning the programs. Suddenly, she goes back to the “Movies” folder, clicks through the options under View and selects “Show hidden files and folders.” A folder called “New Folder” appears. She looks up at him and smiles devilishly.

Have he and the guys done anything? Are they hiding anything? He feels a bit of panic, but it’s too late to stop her. He watches as she opens the folder and discovers a movie file called “fantasticfour” in MKV format. “Can we watch it?” Double-click. It plays. His throat feels like it is closing. It feels as if he cannot breathe. If they renamed one of those sorts of movies under this innocent title, then...

He hears four drum beats followed by a familiar melody. It eases the constriction on his throat. He can breathe again. Spotlights sweep over a logo that looks like a monument. A comic book outline appears, with the Marvel logo shifting from blue to white. The film company’s name appears, then the title: FANTASTIC FOUR. He pulls over a chair. It appears to be the real thing. But why this movie? He had never watched any Marvel movies, nor had he heard that the three of them might be fans of superheroes. Was the hidden file installed as a gag by the kid that set up the computer, or was it something more innocent?

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