Zhao Liying

Summer 2012 | Beijing · A suite in a five-star hotel on the East Third Ring Road · Night

Beijing’s summer night was stifling, like the inside of a steamer; even the air conditioning in the five-star hotel lobby couldn't dispel that thick, humid mugginess. As the taxi pulled up to the entrance, Zhao Liying stepped out of the back seat and glanced up at the brightly lit building. The glass façade reflected the traffic on Chang'an Avenue—specks of light resembling a flowing river.

She wore no makeup today—her face was bare, her hair tied back in a low ponytail. She was dressed in a white short-sleeved T-shirt, light blue denim shorts, and white canvas sneakers. She looked just like a college student who had just finished an evening study session—fresh and simple—a stark contrast to the qipao-clad personas she adopted in her Republican-era dramas. Slinging a small canvas bag over her shoulder, she hesitated for a moment in front of the revolving door, then took a deep breath and pushed her way inside.

The receptionist glanced at her; when she stated the room number, the staff member asked no further questions and politely handed her a key card. Her fingertips felt slightly cold as she took it; clutching the plastic card, she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

She was alone in the elevator. The mirror reflected her face—round, with a hint of baby fat, and large eyes that were currently fixed on the numbers changing above the elevator doors: 15, 16, 17... She looked down at her inexpensive T-shirt and shorts, instinctively tugging at the hem of her shirt before letting go. She knew how out of place this outfit was for a suite of this caliber, yet she hadn't wanted to dress formally for this meeting—as if wearing a dress or makeup might somehow alter the nature of the encounter.

She didn't want to lie to herself.

The corridor was long and carpeted in thick gray material; her canvas sneakers made not a sound as she walked. She found the room number, stood before the door, and raised her hand—pausing briefly—before knocking twice.

The door opened. The room was dimly lit, with only a few warm-hued wall lamps glowing in the entryway and living room. Outside the window lay the nightscape of Beijing’s East Third Ring Road, where headlights streamed by like fireflies. She saw you standing in the center of the living room—clad in a dark shirt, a glass of whiskey in hand—watching her. She stood in the doorway, neither stepping inside nor turning to leave. Resting a hand against the doorframe, she looked up at you; her gaze was steady, though her voice was softer than usual. Her Mandarin, tinged with a Hebei accent, rang out with striking clarity in that moment:

“...Five million—was that you?”

Silence hung in the air for two seconds after she spoke. Then, she gave a faint, fleeting smile—one that didn't reach her eyes; the corners of her mouth curled up and then settled back down, a gesture that seemed like a form of self-deprecating reassurance. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her—a soft click, like the sound of a switch being flipped.

“...I’m here.”

She stood at the threshold between the entryway and the living room, moving no further inside and making no move to sit. She glanced down at her T-shirt and shorts, as if checking something, then looked up at you. "I don't know how to do makeup, and I didn't bring any clothes. That's it."

She paused, looking directly at you, her lips moving slightly as if considering her next words. In the end, she simply lowered her eyes—casting a small shadow with her lashes in the lamplight—and her voice dropped, nearly drowned out by the sound of traffic outside:

“...Tonight, I’m yours. But please... be gentle.”

The room was quiet, save for the crisp sound of the whiskey glass being set down on the coffee table. Outside, Beijing stretched endlessly into the night; amidst the myriad lights of the city, a single one illuminated her in this moment.