I remember the basement in the morning.
The light was always the same. Dim. Yellow. The bulb never turned off. It hung from the ceiling, a single wire, and it buzzed. Not loud. Just there. Always there. Like the water in the pipes. Like Old Li's cough.
I woke before the others. Xiao Liu was still asleep. His breathing was slow. Even. His face was young. Younger than mine. He was from Wenzhou. A coastal city. He said the water there was warm. He said he used to swim in it. He said he missed it.
I didn't tell him I missed Chongqing. I didn't tell anyone.
I put on my apron. The apron was white once. Now it was gray. Stained with soy sauce. With oil. With dishwater. I tied it around my waist. The strings were frayed. They would break soon. I would have to ask Lin for another. He would complain. But he would give me one.
I went upstairs. The kitchen was quiet. Master Zhang wasn't there yet. Lin wasn't there. The stoves were cold. The pots were clean. I turned on the water. Cold. The same cold. I put my hands in. The cracks were closed now. Scars. White lines on my knuckles. They didn't hurt anymore. They just were.
I remember the morning Xiao Liu told me about her.
We were in the basement. Getting dressed. He was putting on his shirt. His back was thin. You could see his ribs.
"She's waiting for me," he said.
I didn't know who he was talking about. He didn't say her name.
"Back home," he said. "She said she'll wait."
He pulled his shirt over his head. His voice was muffled.
"I send her money every month," he said. "She saves it. For the wedding."
I had never heard him talk like this. Usually he was quiet. He laughed at my Wenzhou dialect. He told me about the restaurant. He didn't talk about home.
"When are you going back?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He was tying his shoes. His hands were shaking. Or maybe I imagined it.
"When I have enough," he said. He stood up. "When I have enough."
He went upstairs. I stayed in the basement. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. I thought about her. The girl who was waiting. I didn't know her name. I didn't know her face. But I thought about her. Waiting. In Wenzhou. By the sea. The water there was warm. He said it was warm.
I remember the phone.
It was in the hallway. By the kitchen. A black phone. Rotary. Old. It rang sometimes. Lin answered. He spoke in Fujian dialect. I didn't understand. He spoke fast. His voice was low. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he didn't.
Xiao Liu used the phone once a month. He called her. The girl who was waiting. He stood in the hallway. His back to the wall. His voice was quiet. I never heard what he said. But I saw his face after. He sat on his bed. Looked at the ceiling. Didn't move. For a long time.
One night, I asked him. "Is she still waiting?"
He didn't answer. He was looking at his hands. His hands were small. The fingers were thin.
"Yes," he said. "She's waiting."
He lay down. Turned to the wall. I didn't ask again.
I remember the day the phone rang and Xiao Liu wasn't there.
It was afternoon. The restaurant was quiet. Lin was in the front. Master Zhang was smoking by the back door. I was at the sink. The water was cold. My hands were moving. Wash. Dry. Stack. Wash. Dry. Stack.
The phone rang. I didn't move. It wasn't my place to answer. It rang again. Lin didn't pick up. Again. Again.
I went to the hallway. I picked up the receiver. A woman's voice. Speaking Mandarin. Fast. Urgent.
"Xiao Liu?" she said. "Is Xiao Liu there?"
"He's not here," I said. "He's working."
"When will he be back?"
"I don't know. Late."
She was quiet. Then she said, "Tell him. Tell him I called."
"Who should I say?"
"His mother."
She hung up. I stood in the hallway. The receiver was warm against my ear. I put it back. The kitchen was still quiet. The water was still running. I went back to the sink. Wash. Dry. Stack.
That night, I told Xiao Liu. He was sitting on his bed. His shoes were off. His socks had holes.
"Your mother called," I said.
He looked at me. His face was blank.
"What did she say?"
"She just wanted to talk to you. I told her you were working."
He nodded. He put his shoes back on. Tied the laces. His hands were steady.
"Thank you," he said.
He went upstairs. I sat on my bed. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. I thought about his mother. Waiting. In Wenzhou. By the sea. The water there was warm.
I remember the night he told me about the money.
We were in the basement. Late. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed next to him. Almost empty. Xiao Liu was sitting on his bed. His legs were pulled up. His arms around his knees.
"I have almost enough," he said.
"For what?" I said.
"The wedding. The ticket. The ring." He counted on his fingers. "I have enough for the wedding. Almost enough for the ticket. The ring, I don't know. Rings are expensive."
He looked at his hands. The fingers were thin. No rings.
"She doesn't need a ring," I said.
He shook his head. "She's been waiting. Two years. She needs a ring."
I didn't say anything. What could I say? I had nothing. No ring. No ticket. No one waiting. I had a mother in Chongqing. A sister. They were waiting too. But not for a ring. They were waiting for money. For news. For me to come back. I didn't know when.
"You'll get there," I said.
He didn't answer. He lay down. Pulled the blanket over his head. The blanket was thin. You could see his shape underneath. Small. Curled. Like a child.
I remember the morning he didn't come to work.
I went upstairs. The kitchen was loud. Master Zhang was at the stove. Lin was in the front. Xiao Liu wasn't there.
I asked Master Zhang. "Where's Xiao Liu?"
He didn't look at me. "He's gone."
"Gone where?"
He shrugged. "Back home. He took the train this morning."
I stood at the sink. The water was cold. I put my hands in. The scars were white on my knuckles. I thought about Xiao Liu. About his thin back. About his socks with holes. About the phone call. About his mother waiting. About the girl waiting by the sea.
I washed the dishes. Wash. Dry. Stack. The rhythm came back. The sound of water. The clink of plates.
I never saw him again.
I remember the day I found his shoes.
They were under his bed. His shoes. The ones he wore every day. Brown. Scuffed. The laces were tied together. I pulled them out. They were light. Empty.
I put them back. Under the bed. Where he left them.
That night, I lay in my bed. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed next to him. Xiao Liu's bed was empty. The sheets were gone. Lin had taken them. The shoes were still there. Under the bed. I thought about Xiao Liu. Walking to the station. In his socks. Or maybe he bought new shoes. Maybe he had enough. For the ticket. For the ring. For the wedding.
I thought about the girl. Waiting by the sea. She wouldn't wait anymore. She would see him at the station. He would get off the train. She would see his face. His thin face. His small hands. She would see him. And he would see her. And they would go home. To her house. Or his mother's house. I didn't know. I only knew they would be together.
I turned to the wall. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away. Like the sea. Like the sea in Wenzhou. Warm. He said it was warm.
I remember what Old Li said after Xiao Liu left.
We were in the basement. He was smoking. I was lying on my bed. Looking at the ceiling.
"He'll make it," Old Li said. "He's young. He has someone waiting."
I didn't answer.
"You have someone?" he asked.
I thought about my mother. My sister. The letters I sent. The money I sent. The words I didn't know how to write.
"No," I said.
He was quiet for a long time. He took a drag from his cigarette. Let it out. The smoke rose to the light.
"You will," he said. "Someday. Someone will wait for you."
He put out his cigarette. Lay down. Closed his eyes.
I looked at the ceiling. The light was dim. The water in the pipes was running. Not the sea. Not Wenzhou. A river. A cold river. The Vistula. The Jialing. The same water. Always running. Always leaving. Never waiting.