And then they feebly smiled at one another because they knew they needed no words, not when
something invisible - a mutual hurt - provided a telepathic thread through which no verbalization was needed.
But for them it didn’t really matter anyway, because in the vast encapsulation of three long years, some things
were best left unspoken-
“...
or over some Xiao Long Bao,” Jia Li suggested. “Three years as a tourist guide has taught me
enough. We’ll be able to find some good Xiao Long Bao; just follow me.”
George could just make out Jia Li amid the steam fogging up his glasses. In his mouth he could taste
the deliciously sweet juice of his Xiao Long Bao, a dish he had cherished and missed - the last time he had eaten
one was the day he met Jia Li, three long years ago.
“
So tell me George,” Jia Li said through a mouthful of meat, “How are you doing?”
“
Same as ever,” George replied, “Living, breathing, writing, going to work.”
They ate.
Suddenly, Jia Li settled her chopsticks down in a clatter. The scrape of her plastic chair on the concrete
floor temporarily silenced the surrounding sounds of the busy kitchen and the wayfarers who had come to fill
their bellies.
After a moment, her eyes looking down morosely at her half-eaten dumpling, she murmured: “Aren’t
you going to ask me something?”
“
Hmm?”
“
Don’t you want to know how I’m doing?”
George shuffled uncomfortably before settling down his chopsticks.
“
Jia Li,” he murmured, grabbing her wrists, “tell me - is there something wrong?”
“
For three years I’ve been watching, waiting, for someone to ask me that very question.” Jia Li laughed
bitterly. “Because if there’s one thing you’ll learn today, it is that I am not - have not been - living a happy life.
Everyday is an arduous toil, unending, identical and terrifyingly dull, and I don’t like this, George. I want the
old Jia Li.”
A sudden tremble overshadowed Jia Li’s fragile demeanor as a look of fear swept over her quavering
eyes.
“
But the thing is, George... I can’t find her.
“
Two thousand years ago, a million workers were forced into building the Great Wall. They lived
under an illusion, a twisted idea that they were protecting their motherland by piling stone upon stone, mud
upon mud, rock upon rock. But guess what, George? Some didn’t even make it back in time for dinner. Some
never saw their families again.
“
Sometimes I wonder if I’m a worker all the way back in 7th century BC, working for a dream - a
distant picture - always toiling but never seeing. Never being able to see, either. Perishing before my efforts
yield any fruit because... because... because I subject myself to this hideous life that does nothing but mislead.
“
Can’t you see George? I’m stuck in a vicious cycle and there’s no way out. Life is impossible for me,
George, and the only relief I have is the knowledge death is waiting for me. But if I continue to degrade myself
and lose more of me, there’s no use in waiting any longer, is there?
“
I might as well die now; might as well kill myself. It’d be better than living the hell I’m in.”
George stood up in reply.
“
But Jia Li! You’ve forgotten something.
“
All those workers back in 7th century BC - look at what their toil has yielded! Yes, it was arduous, yes
it was tough, but look at the marvel they have created! The immensity and profundity of the Great Wall is
enough. The beauty of achievement is something nothing, not even decades of sweat and tears, can overshadow.
Although it took time - like everything does - I bet you, Jia Li, those mud-hardened souls are smiling right
now in their very graves.
“
It will get better. You will get out, I promise. And although you may never live to see it, one day you
might end up creating something as renowned and venerated as the Great Wall itself.”
“
And you, George Lee of all people, say so?”
It fell upon him like an avalanche falls upon an untouched plain of perfect white. It was wrong for him
to say such things when he, himself, lived a life equivalent to the pallid girl withering before his very eyes. He,
too, toiled everyday. He, too, was forced to do so. He, too, ignorantly lived for a distant dream, a dream that, he
knew, dissolved by the day. He had always wanted to write: but with writing now a painful task, leaving him
nothing but a meagre pay and a perpetuated sense of failure, would he see anything past the horizon?
There was no Great Wall for George. The realization was like the broken sink in his dilapidated flat:
something worth fixing but always - even worse, purposely - forgotten. But cowering back was no longer an
option. If there was anything in the world that could make Jia Li cherish instead of waste, laugh instead of cry,