A Thousand Years of Good Prayers: Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

with another woman’s scent, why should you care about what looks good or bad?”
    It is not her husband who is having an affair, Mrs. Su retorts in her mind, but she doesn’t want to point out the illogic. Her husband is indeed often used as a cover for Mr. Fong’s affair, and Mrs. Su feels guilty toward Mrs. Fong. “Mrs. Fong, I would help on another day, but today is bad.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Su says.
    Mrs. Fong complains for another minute, of the untrustworthiness of husbands and friends in general, and hangs up. Mrs. Su knocks on the door of Beibei’s room and her husband jerks awake, quickly wiping the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Fong wanted to know if you were meeting Mr. Fong,” she says.
    “Tell her yes.”
    “I did.”
    Mr. Su nods and tucks the blanket tight beneath Beibei’s soft, shapeless chin. It bothers Mrs. Su when her husband touches Beibei for any reason, but it must be ridiculous for her to think so. Being jealous of a daughter who understands nothing and a husband who loves the daughter despite that! She will become a crazier woman than Mrs. Fong if she doesn’t watch out for her sanity, Mrs. Su thinks, but still, seeing her husband smooth Beibei’s hair or rub her cheeks upsets Mrs. Su. She goes back to the kitchen and washes the dishes while her husband gets ready to leave. When he says farewell, she answers politely without turning to look at him.
    AT EIGHT-THIRTY Mr. Su leaves the apartment, right on time for the half-hour walk to the stockbrokerage. Most of the time he is there only to study the market; sometimes he buys and sells, executing the transactions with extraordinary prudence, as the money in his account does not belong to him. Mr. Fong has offered the ten thousand yuan as a loan, and has made it clear many times that he is not in any urgent need of the money. It is not a big sum at all for Mr. Fong, a retired senior officer from a military factory, but Mr. Su believes that
for each drop of water one received, one has to repay with a
well.
The market and the economy haven’t helped him much in returning Mr. Fong’s generosity. Mr. Su, however, is not discouraged. A retired mathematics teacher at sixty-five, Mr. Su believes in exercising one’s body and mind—both provided by his daily trip to the stockbrokerage—and being patient.
    Mr. Su met Mr. Fong a year ago at the stockbrokerage. Mr. Fong, a year senior to Mr. Su, took a seat by him, and conversation started between the two men. He was there out of curiosity, Mr. Fong said; he asked Mr. Su if indeed the stock system would work for the country, and if that was the case, how Marxist political economics could be adapted for this new, clearly capitalistic situation. Mr. Fong’s question, obsolete and naive as it was, moved Mr. Su. With almost everyone in the country going crazy about money, and money alone, it was rare to meet someone who was nostalgic about the old but also earnest in his effort to understand the new. “You are on the wrong floor to ask the question,” Mr. Su replied. “Those who would make a difference are in the VIP lounges upstairs.”
    The stockbrokerage, like most of the brokerage firms in Beijing, rented space from bankrupted state-run factories. The one Mr. Su visited used to manufacture color TVs, a profitable factory until it lost a price war to a monopolizing corporation. The laid-off workers were among the ones who frequented the ground floor of the brokerage, opening accounts with their limited means and hoping for good luck. Others on the floor were retirees, men and women of Mr. Su’s age who dreamed of making their money grow instead of letting the money die in banks, which offered very low interest rates.
    “What are these people doing here if they don’t matter to the economy?” Mr. Fong asked.
    “
Thousands of sand grains make a tower,
” Mr. Su said. “Together their investments help a lot of factories run.”
    “But will they make money from