Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

was a rough wooden table that apparently also served as a desk. Sitting on it were books, an open notebook, an unwashed bowl, a small pot on an electronic burner like the one in the sampan the other day, and a bundle of noodles. Chen saw shoes peeping out from under the bed, including the shoes she had worn for the sampan excursion. It was nothing short of a miracle that she managed to store everything in such a small cubicle.
    It reminded him of his college years, when he had lived in a dorm room like this, only with three other students. At least he didn’t have to cook there, too.
    He couldn’t helping taking stock of this room in detail, as it was in such sharp contrast to the Lius’ home.
    “The problem with a dorm room is that you don’t really treat it as your own room, because you believe you’re going to move out one of these days,” she said, motioning him to sit on the only chair there, from which she’d had to remove a pile of newspapers. “And another problem is, believe it or not, that you might never move out.”
    It was an ironic comment, possibly a witty justification of the room’s messiness, but to him, the tiny room lent an air of intimacy to the moment.
    She’d been cooking in the room, and the water in the pot began to boil.
    “You’ve not eaten, have you, Chen?”
    It was a conventional greeting Chinese people made when running into each other on the street. It wasn’t exactly a question to which a response was expected. In the present context, however, the question meant something. So did the answer.
    “No, not really.”
    In the pub he’d only had the cup of beer. The other two had eaten the food on the table.
    She pulled a cardboard box out from under the bed, grabbed another bunch of noodles, and threw them into the pot of boiling water.
    “You know how to watch noodles?” she asked, pointing to a dented kettle on the floor. “There’s the cold water.”
    It became his responsibility to keep pouring cold water into the pot whenever the water started boiling. It wasn’t difficult. He just needed to repeat that two or three times, and the noodles would be done.
    She pulled out several jars of sauces, which she kept under the table, spooned a little out of each jar, and mixed them together in a bowl. She was absorbed in her work, which appeared to be an improvised concoction. He’d done similar experiments at home, tossing together whatever ingredients were available. In the somberly lit room, he couldn’t make out the labels on the jars, and he couldn’t help shifting his attention to her white thighs, revealed through the robe, which ended just above her knees.
    After adding cold water and then repeating the process one more time, he began to ladle out the noodles into two bowls. She then poured the sauce on top of them. In addition, she opened a small plastic package of Wuxi gluten and put pieces of gluten onto the noodles.
    So that was their dinner. She sat on the bed, and he on the only chair in the room, the noodles on the table between them.
    To his surprise, the noodles were quite delicious. The meal was more agreeable than the banquet at the center. For one thing, he liked noodles. He was a gourmet when he ate out, but not an enthusiastic chef when he had to cook for himself.
    It was probably the same for her. He then dismissed the thought almost instantly. She was much younger. An attractive girl like her probably had a lot of men her own age eager to invite her out to candlelight dinners. He felt a twinge of jealousy.
    Or was he suddenly feeling so much older?
    “Thank you. These are the best noodles I’ve had in a long time.”
    “Come on. How can someone who dines with the executives of the center really enjoy a bowl of plain noodles with me?”
    “It’s the truth, Shanshan. Noodles shared with you are no longer merely plain noodles.”
    “Someone who enjoys the special connections that you do,” she went on, without responding to his comment, “doesn’t have to say such things.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Uncle Wang told me that, on the morning I got into trouble at the company, you made some phone calls for me. Shortly after you called, a police officer rushed over, showed you all the respect he would if you were his boss.”
    “Oh, that. Yes, as I told you earlier, I did make some phone calls. I was concerned about you. As for the police officer,” he said, trying to think what the old man might have seen from across the road, “we