I remember the basement.
Mold on the walls. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling, always on, always dim. Old Li's bed was against the left wall. A photo tucked into the frame of his bed. His son. Eighteen. Military uniform. Shenyang train station behind him.
"When I left, he was still in high school," Old Li said one night. He was sitting on his bed, cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled up toward the light. "He should be in college now."
He said it like he was telling me the weather. No tears. He was smiling. He believed his son was doing well.
I asked him why he didn't go back.
He was quiet for a long time. The smoke kept rising. Then he said, "Can't go back. Wife remarried. Son doesn't know me anymore. What would I go back for?"
He lit another cigarette.
I remember learning to wash dishes.
The sink was iron. Rusted. The water heater was broken. My hands in the cold water. They went numb quickly. Then they cracked. Blood in the dishwater. I wiped it off before anyone saw.
Master Zhang watched me one day. He didn't say anything. The next morning, he handed me a pair of rubber gloves. One of them had a hole. But better than nothing.
"You'll get used to it," he said.
He was from Shenyang. Big man. A mole on his face. He sang while he cooked. Old Chinese songs. Out of tune. He sang so he wouldn't go crazy, he said.
He showed me a photo once. His son. Eighteen. Looked like him. "When I left, he was still in high school. He should be in college now."
Same words as Old Li. But different. When Old Li said it, he was smiling. When Master Zhang said it, he was looking at the oil in the wok. Not at me.
I remember learning to cook.
Master Zhang taught me. Knife skills first. Vegetables into thin strips. Even. He watched my hands. "Too slow," he said. Then, "Too thick." Then, "Too uneven."
I practiced every night after work. In the basement. No one to watch. Just me and the knife and whatever vegetables I'd saved from the market.
Later, he taught me fire. "Too hot," he said. "Too cold." Then, one day, he said nothing. He just nodded.
He said once: "Cooking is like life. Too much fire, you burn. Too little, nothing cooks. You have to wait. You have to watch."
I said, "I understand."
He laughed. "You don't understand."
I laughed too.
Later, I understood what he meant.
I remember the first dish I made that someone paid for.
A Polish customer ordered fried rice. Master Zhang was sick. Lost his voice. Couldn't cook. Lin stood at the kitchen door, looking at the orders. Swore under his breath. Looked at me.
"You cook?"
"Yes."
I'd never made fried rice for a customer. I stood at the stove. Hands shaking. Oil. Egg. Rice. Soy sauce. I remembered what Master Zhang taught me. Fire not too hot. Not too cold. Wait. Watch.
The customer ate it. Didn't say anything. Didn't complain. That was enough.
Lin looked at me. Didn't say anything either.
The next night, Master Zhang came back. I made fried rice again. He tasted it. Chewed. Thought about it.
"Not bad," he said.
First time anyone said that to me. Not sure he meant it. But I took it.
I remember the smell of cigarette smoke in the basement.
Old Li smoked Marlboro Reds. One after another. The pack was always on his bed. Next to the photo of his son.
Sometimes he fell asleep with the cigarette still burning. I'd wake up to the smell of smoke. Not from his cigarette. From something else. I'd get up and put it out.
He never woke up.
One night, I heard him coughing in his sleep. Not like a cough. Like something breaking inside him.
I didn't say anything. I should have said something.
I remember the day he didn't come to work.
I went down to the basement in the morning. He was still in bed. That wasn't unusual. He was often slow to get up. But he wasn't moving.
I called his name. "Old Li."
No answer.
I walked to his bed. His eyes were closed. His hand was cold.
I stood there for a long time. I don't know how long.
The photo was still tucked into the bed frame. His son. Eighteen. Military uniform. Shenyang train station behind him.
I didn't know how to find his son. I didn't even know his son's name.
I remember burying him.
Outside the city. A patch of dirt by some trees. No marker. No stone. Just a mound of earth.
I stood there. The wind was cold. The sky was gray.
I had a pack of Marlboro Reds in my pocket. I'd bought them that morning. I put them on the mound.
"Old Li," I said. "I owe you."
I didn't know what else to say. I stood there a little longer. Then I walked back to the city.
I remember the basement after he was gone.
His bed was empty. The sheets were gone. Lin had taken them. Burned them, probably. The photo was gone too. I don't know what happened to it. I hope someone kept it. I hope his son knows his father was thinking of him when he died.
I don't know if he knows.
The smell of cigarette smoke stayed in the walls for weeks. Then it faded. Then it was gone.
I remember the first time I went back to the basement after he was gone.
Xiao Liu was sitting on his bed. He was looking at the empty bed across from him.
"He was a good man," Xiao Liu said.
I nodded.
"He taught me how to hide from the police," Xiao Liu said. "When I first got here, I didn't know anything. He showed me everything."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You think his son knows?" Xiao Liu asked.
I didn't know how to answer.
I sat down on my bed. The mattress creaked. Same sound it made the first night. When Old Li showed me where to sleep.
"I don't know," I said.
I remember the spring after he died.
The snow melted. The old town was still there. Colorful houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. Cobblestones. Not slippery anymore.
Anna was still at the bread stand. She left me a roll every day. Still warm. Still with sugar on top. She still tried to say "chi" and got it wrong.
She asked me once: "Are you okay?"
I said yes.
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she didn't ask again.
She put her hand on mine. Her hand was cold. The bread roll was warm.
I didn't say anything. She didn't either.
I remember the day I made spring rolls for her.
Scraps of cabbage from the market. Flour I'd saved. The doubanjiang my mother had packed in my bag. Oil from the restaurant.
I made them in the basement. No one was there. Xiao Liu was working upstairs. Old Li's bed was empty.
I fried them in the small pan I'd found in the kitchen. They weren't pretty. The wrapper was too thick. The oil was too hot. Some of them burned.
I took them up to Anna.
She was at her stand. No customers. The afternoon light was gray. Winter light.
I gave her the plate.
She took one. Bit into it. Chewed for a long time.
"Good," she said.
"Really?"
She smiled. "Really."
She ate three more. Then she looked at me.
"You should be a cook," she said.
"I wash dishes," I said.
"Not forever," she said.
She touched my hand. Her fingers were cold. The spring rolls were gone.
I remember the first time I made fried rice for the restaurant.
It was a slow night. Lin said, "Make it for yourself. Don't waste ingredients."
I made it. Simple. Egg, rice, salt. The way Master Zhang taught me.
I ate it in the kitchen. Standing by the stove.
It tasted like nothing. Like everything.
I thought about Old Li. I thought about his cigarettes. I thought about his son. I thought about the photo. I thought about the mound of earth outside the city.
I finished the rice. Washed the bowl. Put it away.
The kitchen was quiet. Master Zhang was gone for the night. Lin was in the front. Xiao Liu was somewhere.
I was alone.
I thought about what Master Zhang said. "Cooking is like life. Too much fire, you burn. Too little, nothing cooks."
I didn't know what I was cooking. I just knew I was still here.
I remember the night I found Old Li's lighter.
It was under his bed. Plastic. Transparent. The fluid was almost gone.
I picked it up. It was cold. The same temperature as everything else in the basement.
I put it in my pocket.
I still have it. Somewhere. In a box. With other things I don't know what to do with.
I don't use it. I don't smoke.
But I keep it.