It Was a Good Day | Short Story

Fang Yi was soon busy preparing for the move. She invited Baixin to have dinner with her. It would be their final chance to get together before she left. As they parted, Baixin reminded Fang Yi to call her if she needed any help with anything. But it wasn’t until Fang Yi had settled into her new job that Baixin heard from her again. Her message said that the office was large and she had a great view. A cleaning lady came in once a day to tidy up. She hoped that Baixin would come to visit her. She sent a picture, too: a view out the window of green trees and a blue sky, everything bathed in sunshine.

After doing her undergrad, Baixin decided to get a job. She worked so much overtime that the company always cut her year-end bonus. After two years of this, she decided she’d go to grad school, hopefully at a university with a better reputation than the one she’d done her undergrad at. She and Fang Yi didn’t share an advisor, nor were their fields the same, but they took courses together sometimes, since they were in the same department. One of these was a semantics seminar, taught in the early afternoon. The professor mostly stood in front of a screen and read off his slides in an unhurried monotone. When he occasionally had to write characters on the blackboard, he stayed at the lectern and reached lazily behind him. One time, when Baixin was fighting off sleep, she woke up to Fang Yi poking her with her pen. She held out a sketch she had made in a blank space on the handout of a figure propping up her chin with one hand. Baixin smiled. After that, they became friends. Although Fang Yi was two years ahead of her, they were born only a couple of days apart. Fang Yi loved telling other people this—how only a few short days separated their birthdays—since it seemed proof that her friendship with Baixin was special.

In general, students like Baixin were treated with suspicion. Transferring from another school or taking a detour into the workforce was not considered the proper course. She knew she was looked down on by the good and loyal students that had gone directly from the university’s undergraduate college into graduate school. They couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. They knew there was nothing to be gained by it. But Baixin didn’t feel inferior to them. She had experienced the hardships of working life and made it back into the ivory tower on her own merits. Each time she walked the lonely and secluded path through the trees to the library, she felt an indescribable thrill. It was simply wonderful. Even the air tasted sweet. The only way to tame the excitement was to run wildly until she was calm.

Fang Yi was in the same position as Baixin—she had done her undergrad elsewhere—and they had plenty to talk about. Fang Yi would pass along news about academic goings-on. One week, she had news about an upcoming conference at the school; the next about a graduate seminar. In fact, it was because of Fang Yi that Baixin got the chance to travel to Shanghai one autumn for her first major academic conference beyond their own school. Officially, anyone could submit a paper, but Fang Yi knew that it required a recommendation from someone within the academic bureaucracy. They traveled together and wound up being assigned to the same room. They stayed up late, chatting across the nightstand, while the streetlights filtered in through the curtains, making shadows dance on the wallpaper. Fang Yi slipped off to sleep first. Baixin fell asleep to her gentle, steady snore. Fang Yi did her best to look after her junior, introducing her to professors and even accompanying her to the refreshments table, afraid that she would be too shy to go by herself. The group photo showed the taller Fang Yi standing beside her, tilting her head toward Baixin in an intimate way. Both women posted it to their WeChat Moments, careful to position it discreetly, so that it would fade into the background of the grid, lost among conference candids and shots of paper title pages.

In the past, Baixin had been fond of posting pictures of campus scenery and stray cats to her WeChat Moments. A student ahead of her in the program commented on one of her posts: “You sure are taking it easy,” along with a thumbs-up emoji. Eventually, she came to understand that WeChat Moments should be restricted to pictures of piles of textbooks, notes from conferences, and papers written by her colleagues or professors. “You need to cultivate a persona,” Fang Yi told her. “It won’t be the real you, but you don’t need to show the real you to any of these people.” Fang Yi had experience with this: she had been blocked by her own advisor for reposting an article about measures against sexual harassment in academia. Of course, the professor never told her directly that the article was the reason he had blocked her, but Fang Yi figured it out pretty quickly. She had been blocked by another professor for failing to like enough posts. Another student reported the professor’s private remarks: “She’s a bit stuck-up. I feel like she’s watching and silently judging me. I can’t get a feeling for what she really thinks of me.” When Baixin heard these stories, she was always astounded. She could scarcely believe these people could be so petty. Baixin was an outsider, still, and unaware of how the cloistered world of academia really worked. Fang Yi sometimes found her naivete exasperating. She couldn’t resist scolding Baixin, “You need to wise up.”

Fang Yi also provided Baixin with plenty of gossip in their department. Much of this was about factional showdowns, with the rest about romantic indiscretions. Most of the professors had been divorced at least once. When a glowing profile came out about one of their professors, centered on his marriage to another scholar, Fang Yi told Baixin all about his habit of sexually harassing male undergrads. There was no official mention of a scandal when one of their professors was transferred to a regional college, but Fang Yi had all the details on him being reported for soliciting prostitutes. This gossip formed the foundation on which Baixin rebuilt her view of academia. Her former naivete was swept away. Fang Yi showed her how the world really worked.

There was gossip about Fang Yi herself, too. One of the senior students in Baixin’s own program let her know that Fang Yi had a strained relationship with her advisor. She’d heard that the professor had once slammed Fang Yi’s thesis draft angrily down on his desk during a discussion group, saying that the topic was useless. “It all started when Fang Yi applied for the program,” the senior student told Baixin. “She wanted to study under someone else, but all the slots were full, so she wound up with her current advisor. The two professors aren’t on good terms, but Fang Yi didn’t find that out until it was too late. Things haven’t been easy for her.” But Baixin had already heard most of this from Fang Yi herself. She explained that when she knew she’d failed her advisor’s loyalty test, she gave up struggling to placate him. But the senior student shared this with Baixin as a cautionary tale: it was unwise to tie your future to anyone whose position within the school was unsteady.

When they joined their respective PhD programs, the two women gradually drifted apart. They were too busy. And Baixin got a boyfriend. He was a senior student in the same department. He worked at the library. That was where he had noticed Baixin, always studying by herself in a distant corner. Like her, he had come back to academia after a stretch in the workforce. This helped her feel more comfortable around him, as well as the fact that he was a few years older than her. She had never gotten used to addressing people younger than herself as her seniors. They got along like a house on fire. He was the one that took the initiative, taking her hand one day as they walked on the path to the library. With the scent of flowers in the air, she fell into his arms. He gave a low sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him, as if he were so happy it made him despair. Baixin took this as sincerity. The senior student had a good reputation. His work was highly regarded. She was moved that someone like him would devote a bit of his energy to a girl like her.

When the senior student asked that she temporarily conceal their relationship, Baixin agreed. She knew that workplace relationships needed those sorts of pacts in the early stages. Co-workers were advised to keep their relationship a secret and proceed cautiously. The clandestine nature of their affair served to heighten the passion.

The senior student gave Baixin a reading list and began helping her with her work. There were always new tasks for her to complete. He told Baixin that she needed to be systematic about building academic accomplishments. Baixin was quite pleased with all of this. Privately, she took great pride in the sense that she was finally striding down the correct path toward the hallowed heights of academia.

Baixin knew the senior student’s story: while teaching at a top-rated high school in his hometown, he’d begun studying in secret for the graduate school entrance exam, not telling his colleagues or students. He got in on the first try. He wrote a blog post detailing his undercover test preparation and advising others on how to pull off the same trick: “Don’t say a word until you know how you scored on the exam. Before that happens, though, you need to withstand the stress by yourself. You need to deal with the pressure alone.”

The story played out in the expected way. Even Baixin herself had some inkling of what sort of hackneyed plot she’d fallen into. She noticed the way the senior student avoided mention of his family. Sometimes he glanced at the caller ID, instinctively shielded the screen from Baixin, and went to take the call in another room, talking in low tones. It clashed with his mood at other times, when he would talk volubly about their life together after graduation. He talked about what schools they might apply for teaching jobs at, and how much they could expect to make. Once things settled down, they could perhaps think about getting married. He wanted kids—but he didn’t want to pressure her: “All in good time.”

Nowadays, the ways by which people carry out “the struggle” have evolved considerably. When dealing with those who have been morally compromised, it’s best to launch a precision attack physically, psychologically, and socially, to strike at their body, mind, and reputation.

One early winter night, when bare branches stood out in stark relief against the dark blue sky, Baixin emerged from the library carrying her backpack. The wind was strong, and the air was full of the stench of burning coal. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the voice: “Are you Dr. Zheng Baixin?”

Baixin was just working up her usual friendly smile when the slap connected with her cheek.

It was not really on target. The woman’s fingers had grazed Baixin’s face. It was probably the first time that she had ever slapped someone. It was something that she must have seen on TV dramas plenty of times, but it takes a bit of practice to pull off a slap with accuracy and style. But she took another shot at it. The second slap hit Baixin a bit harder and with more accuracy. The icy cold fingers burned her cheeks, which were still warm from the library. Baixin saw her attacker through a haze: a young woman, clearly furious. The image came into focus for a moment, then went blurry again.

People gathered to watch the fracas. Some raised their phones to record. “I am engaged to Zou Li from the Department of Literature,” Baixin’s attacker roared. “Zheng Baixin is trying to steal him from me!“ After repeating this several times, the woman sat down on the steps, buried her face in her arms, and began to weep. Baixin was stunned. Before the security staff could arrive, someone patted her on the shoulder and told her she should probably leave. Someone else bent to console the fiancée. The crowd soon dispersed. But even then, people were reading the report that the fiancée had posted on Xiaohongshu, Weibo, and the campus message board. It was a detailed account of the affair, complete with incontrovertible evidence. She had also mailed it as a PPT to the department head and every faculty member. She explained that she had been Zou Li’s colleague. She had been in charge of a teaching and research group. The exposé was carried out with her usual diligence. Both of their parents had given their blessing.

Department staff worked urgently to soothe the fiancée. They said that they would hear her appeal, as long as she took down the posts. But the fiancée refused. She provided extensive documentation of Zou Li’s relationship with Baixin, including screenshots of their chats (and her chats with Zou Li during the time he was unfaithful). She showed receipts for the gifts that he had given her and Baixin (he had given both women a set of Bose noise-canceling headphones, which Baixin hadn’t yet had a chance to unbox). Department staff also reached out to Zou Li and Baixin. Facing ironclad proof of the affair, Zou Li had no choice but to admit the relationship. He described the fiancée as merely a disgruntled former colleague. He admitted that they’d had a relationship, but insisted that there had been no proposal of marriage. They had dinner with each other’s parents, but there had been no engagement ceremony. She had been merely a girlfriend, not a fiancée. When they broke up, he made sure she knew that things were over before pursuing Baixin. Unfortunately, the ex-girlfriend regretted breaking things off. Zou Li tried to console her. He sent the gifts thinking they might lift her out of her depression. He didn’t want her to take drastic measures. He hoped she would be able to move on.

The department was conciliatory. They brought in the fiancée for a meeting, served tea, and told her that they were looking into the matter and took it very seriously. The fiancée’s demands were clear: strip Zou Li and Baixin of eligibility to receive academic awards and any opportunities to study abroad. The department avoided giving a firm answer. They advised her to wait calmly. They also requested again for her social media posts to be taken down. This came with a warning: “This is a private matter. You created a public disturbance outside the library. This has disrupted campus order.” They reminded her that coming back on campus would count as trespassing. The department had plenty of experience in handling this sort of issue. Disputes involving doctoral students were elementary to resolve, since they rarely involved organizational disputes. Outsiders unfamiliar with university regulations were easy to see off. There was no clear pressure point involved with the affair. Even if the PPT had been impressive, the dispute was not unlike others that the university had handled in the past. There was no way to pin responsibility on school administrators. A public-opinion crisis was unlikely.

It was the first that many had heard about Baixin and Zou Li’s relationship. But then they recalled the signs. They remembered how they used to walk across the campus together. One person said he’d seen them eating together in the cafeteria. Another said that she’d noticed Zou Li and Baixin having a long conversation in the library.

During the period after the confrontation, Baixin found herself becoming skittish. She was called in for interviews with the department and was always treated by the staff with great care, as if they pitied her. This pathetic, mediocre girl really does seem to have been toyed with and humiliated. She stayed in her dorm room as much as she could. At first, she tried to avoid social media, but she eventually gave in. The comments mocking her situation or calling her names hurt far more than the original post. Senior colleagues and classmates tried their best to comfort her. They asked for her account of what had happened. When the student counselor came to see if she needed anything and whether or not she wanted to go to the school clinic to get checked out, Baixin felt as if she had been slapped once again.

She kept asking herself if she had known what was going on all along. Maybe she had let it happen. If so, then she certainly was morally compromised. But it wasn’t much better to imagine she had been completely in the dark. She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d been so stupid.

The counselor had careful instructions: “If a reporter or anyone else comes to ask you what happened, don’t say anything. Don’t make any statements. Don’t post anything to social media. The school doesn’t want the issue to escalate. And you should protect your privacy.”

Baixin silently nodded along. “If that woman comes looking for you, contact me or campus security immediately. I’m always here for you, but you could also consider seeking mental health counseling. I don’t think it would be a bad idea.” She was worried that Baixin might be upset enough to do something drastic. A diagnosis of depression would flag her in the system as requiring more support. Her advisor would get a note, and arrange to see Baixin more frequently. Baixin wasn’t sure yet whether or not she needed to go. But then she thought back to the exposé Zou Li’s fiancée posted. It said that she’d suffered from insomnia after “the scheme of betrayal meticulously planned by her fiancé and his lover.” She had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. There was a medical report attached to attest to this. The morally compromised had to take responsibility.

Baixin wanted to defend herself. She wanted to say that she had no idea he had a fiancée. She didn’t hear anything about her. He pursued her, not the other way around. It all started in the library. But their relationship had been a secret from the start. Being stupid was more humiliating than if she had simply been completely shameless.

After the department’s thorough investigation, Zou Li was reprimanded. Baixin received comfort and reassurance. The fiancée’s social media post, which had gained steam, was quietly restricted, with some heated comments hidden. Searches for the cheating scandal returned no results, except reports on Dr. Zou Li’s academic activities. The fiancée persisted with her accusations for a while, but attention flagged. The university’s lack of an official statement was unsatisfying to the social media mob. They wanted a clear-cut story about villains being punished. They offered what little support they could to the fiancée: “People should know about this!” “Keep your head up, girl!“ “Screw that scumbag!” “Don’t let this die!”

Apart from the reprimand, Zou Li suffered no official consequences. Baixin, of course, didn’t either. The fiancée was not so lucky: she was called in by her supervisor to talk about the social media firestorm. He sympathized with her, then got down to business: “I never expected this of Teacher Zou. You’re one of our best lecturers our school has. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. But you need to be aware of the impact this is having on us. At the moment, we haven’t yet received any complaints from parents, but if you keep beating the drum, it’s hard to say... Right now, you should be focused on your teaching. But perhaps you ought to take some time off, given what you posted about depression.”

Baixin didn’t bear a grudge against her, nor against Zou Li. Her tolerant attitude won her even more sympathy. Everyone proclaimed her innocent. They denounced Zou Li as a typical scumbag. But even though she had blocked him on every app and broken off contact completely, Baixin sometimes found herself waking up in the middle of the night thinking about his warm embrace and tender lips. She found herself longing for those sweet moments, and for the rushing desire and the sense of herself she had felt in them. It was pathetic.

A year went by, and Zou Li graduated. He took a job lecturing at a junior college in his hometown. The university uploaded a studio portrait of him in a shirt and tie, his hands clasped on his lap, his expression calm but resolute. His academic accomplishments were listed below. He had once selflessly passed on the secret of success to Baixin and dreamed with her about all they could do together. But he was a new man. The woman he once called a disgruntled ex really did become his fiancée, then his wife. They had been through so much together. Baixin was merely an intruder in the new world they created together. She was an insignificant relic of the past. That was how Zou Li described her to his wife. It wasn’t long before they had children.

Fang Yi reached out first. Baixin was ready to explain everything that had happened, as she had been forced to do so many times over the previous year, but Fang Yi didn’t seem interested. She apologized for falling out of touch. She had been busy. She sent Baixin a link to a conference in South Korea that August and asked if she might be free.

Fang Yi had been quite genuinely very busy. When all of the exchange programs put on hold for the pandemic reopened, she had spent day and night preparing materials to make the deadline. She got accepted and spent ten months at an overseas university. She had attended plenty of conferences, but made little progress on her dissertation. She was eager to share everything she had experienced with Baixin.

Baixin raced to complete the application. She could get a recommendation to go, so she wouldn’t need to submit a paper right away.

The conference was set for the summer break. Fang Yi said she wanted to stay in Korea for a few extra days. “It’ll be easier to order food if there are two of us,” she explained.

Baixin hadn’t gone to a conference in a long time. She was shy to speak in front of a crowd, and she had no motivation. She was suddenly conflicted. She had seen the pictures that Fang Yi posted of conferences. She studied the group photos. She thought Fang Yi had intentionally distanced herself.

The conference was at Kongju National University in Chungnam. Baixin noticed several people she had seen at conferences with Fang Yi. Some of them remembered her and asked about her research. They didn’t care about any unhappy private affairs. But why would they? What did it matter to them?

Baixin had been to Seoul on a business trip years back, before she went back to graduate school. She flew into Incheon International and met Fang Yi, who flew into Gimpo, at a hotel in Yongsan. The room had a large window that looked out on Namsan Tower and Myeongdong Cathedral. They took a rest in the room, then took the subway to the National Museum. Fang Yi had a miniature electric fan around her neck and a folding fan in her hand. She charged so quickly around the city that Baixin almost broke into a jog to keep up. The heat was oppressive and there wasn’t much shade. The pavement was so hot that it burned the soles of their feet. Walking into the National Museum was like jumping into a cold pool. Fang Yi slowed her pace as they wandered the galleries. Each had their own areas of interest: Baixin liked the Goryeo ware and bronzes; Fang Yi was into the artifacts of early bookprinting and took many pictures.

“When it gets really hot, you need a piping bowl of samgyetang,” Fang Yi proclaimed as they sat down at a restaurant near the museum. “Fight fire with fire.” There was an even better place near Gwanghwamun for samgyetang, she explained, but time was tight, since they had to get up early the next morning.

As Baixin copied Fang Yi to shred the chicken with her spoon and metal chopsticks, picking out scoops of the glutinous rice and red dates stuffed inside, she thought of the Goryeo tin-copper tableware in the museum. She followed Fang Yi’s lead and chewed on a raw green pepper. It wasn’t nearly as spicy as she’d imagined. Fang Yi laughed: “I’ll take you for something seriously hot next time.”

The next morning, they went to the bus station to catch an express to Gongju. The station reminded them of the ones back home. Fang Yi took Baixin to buy iced coffee and snacks. She loved planning trips and always knew how to make good use of spare moments. The two women were as excited as high school students about to set off for a hike. They chattered excitedly while they waited, hoping the other passengers would forgive their enthusiasm. Aboard the bus, they watched towns, hills, and fields flash by the window. Fang Yi studiously checked the map and informed Baixin of the names of any landmarks they passed by. She could read hangul and figure out the characters they represented. Suwon was Shuiyuan. Osan was Wushan. Cheonan was Tian’an. Gyeonggi was Jingji. Chungnam was Zhongnan. Hangang was Hanjiang. Geumgang was Jinjiang…

Conferences at Korean schools are not much different from those held at Chinese schools. There are banners hung to welcome visiting scholars. The students working the registration desk were incredibly courteous. They had to file into the main hall for an opening ceremony and keynote speeches. Officials from the university made their remarks, then everyone piled on stage to take group photos. Student volunteers ensured that everybody looked their best and nobody was caught with their eyes closed. After that, presentations were held in smaller classrooms. The speakers and moderators had been carefully selected. The refreshments table was kept well stocked. The visiting scholars also received a gift bag with snacks and a tube of hand cream with the university logo on it.

At the opening ceremony, one of the organizers—Professor Choi—had greeted them in flawless Chinese with a slight Taiwanese accent: “I would like to welcome visiting scholars to our university on this grand occasion of academic exchange.” At the banquet that night, he explained that he had learned Chinese from textbooks sent from Taiwan, since South Korea didn’t yet have diplomatic relations with the Mainland. He switched textbooks later, and spent a couple of years studying in Beijing. Professor Choi had a close relationship with several scholars in China, and before the pandemic, the conference had been held at and funded by Chinese schools every second year. He explained that over the past several years, the humanities in South Korea had gone into severe decline, and it was hard for students to secure funding. When he stood at the end of the meal, his already pale face seemed white. It had been the shots of soju and makgeolli that did it. “I don’t know whether or not the coming years will bring us together again,” he said, “but for now, let my gratitude be embodied in this cup of wine. Cheers!“ He spoke in a peculiar way, sometimes with a classical tinge, and then slipping in a colloquial phrase, always with a hint of melancholy. His Chinese was quite impressive.

Fang Yi led Baixin over to Professor Choi to offer him a toast. He had been impressed by their conference papers and invited them to publish in his department’s journal, which he described “just barely staying afloat.” The two papers went into the year-end issue, and Professor Choi made sure they were right at the front. It was a mark of respect. Too few visiting scholars bothered submitting new papers. Most saw it as a minor conference. They knew that they could get by with something they had already written.

After the conference concluded, Professor Choi led the visiting scholars on a two-day tour of Baekje cultural sites. After a tour of Gongju, they boarded a bus for Buyeo. There was a lot of grumbling about the heat and the meager offerings in the museums. “Massive buildings—with nothing inside,” one of the Chinese scholars observed.

Professor Choi nodded: “That’s right. Baekje is so distant from our present time. Few artifacts survived.”

A South Korean female professor suggested a visit to Gungnamji Pond. She said it was a popular destination for local tourists. The lotuses were famous. But the visiting scholars were disappointed to find a rather unremarkable stretch of water, interrupted here and there by green patches of lotus. The blazing sun made the water shimmer. There was a muddy aroma in the air, and the lotus carried a faint scent of mature lotus root.

The Chinese scholars lost interest. They returned to the nearby Jeongnimsaji Museum, where the air conditioning was strong. When the complaints subsided, someone asked where they were going to get lunch. Someone else laughed and said, “You should let us tour Seoul next time, Professor Choi! Myeongdong and Gangnam are better for walking around in. And we could shop!”

Professor Choi apologized and promised them he’d arrange a more appropriate tour for their next visit: “We’ll go to Hanseong”—he always used the ancient name for the city—“and shop!”

Fang Yi was one of the few that retained her enthusiasm. She still had her miniature fan around her neck, and had picked up a new folding fan at the museum. She snapped pictures at every historical site, never missing an information panel. Baixin tried her best to keep pace, but eventually she fell behind and sat in the shade with everyone else. “I’m touched by Dr. Fang’s diligence,” Professor Choi said.

Back in Gongju that evening, Professor Choi hosted a farewell dinner at a luxury Chinese restaurant for those visiting scholars that had not already boarded buses or trains back to Seoul. Fang Yi and Baixin shared a table with Professor Choi. Once the liquor started flowing, they found it easy to talk. They gossiped about academics they knew, then Professor Choi told stories about his time in Beijing. He talked a bit about the bleak future for regional universities in South Korea. They promised to try to see each other at a conference again soon.

“I look forward to seeing what you two can accomplish,” Professor Choi told them.

Fang Yi and Baixin spent the next three days in Seoul, returning to the hotel with a view of the tower and the cathedral. They went to Paju, the Imjin River, and the Hwaseong Fortress in Suwon. They stopped by a few antiquarian bookshops in Insadong. Fang Yi planned everything, right down to which bus or train line they took. She lined up top-rated local restaurants for their meals. On the final day, with a typhoon approaching, heavy rains poured on the city. Their vacation and happy reunion were at an end. They parted ways when Baixin headed for Incheon and Fang Yi for Gimpo. When Baixin landed, she saw an email from Fang Yi. Attached to it was a zip file of all the photographs she had taken of artifacts and historical sites and information panels. There were a number of pictures of Bai Xin herself, as well, and even a few of the two women together.

By the time Fang Yi completed her PhD, the academic job market was getting steadily worse. She took a postdoc, but then failed to get hired. She started over at another school as an associate professor. She sometimes urged Baixin to finish her doctorate as quickly as possible: “You need to get a job as soon as you can. It’s one step at a time...” Baixin graduated a year later and found her experience was about the same. Faced with difficult choices, she turned down a job as an assistant lecturer at a regional college, where she’d have to navigate the up-or-out system, and took a less secure postdoc fellowship at a slightly more prestigious school.

Their discipline was in shambles, as far as job seeking went. But some fields were doing a bit better.

“Eventually, all the universities are probably going to shut down,” Fang Yi said. “Many kindergartens are closing already, right? AI is going to get smarter. It’s already smarter than me. I used to get angry at students that submitted papers written with AI, but I use it all the time, too.”

She tried to console Baixin over the precarity she faced. Academia was by its nature precarious, after all.

But Fang Yi worked hard. She even did Invisalign. And she managed to secure a permanent faculty position.

“She seems so relaxed now,” Baixin thought to herself. She was envious of her. Fang Yi had never bothered to wear makeup, never paid much attention to her clothes, and kept her hair cut short.

That summer, Fang Yi invited her to a conference she was organizing. She invited Professor Choi, too. Baixin visited Fang Yi’s office, which a cleaning lady tidied once a day. The window and the view were shaded by a spreading camphor tree. Fang Yi was still wearing her Invisalign, but she no longer covered her mouth self-consciously when she smiled. She cleared a space among the tall stacks of papers and books on her desk and laid out snacks and tea for Baixin. The conference wasn’t large, but the quality of papers was quite high. The WeChat posts of the conference highlights did decent numbers. Students that had assisted with the conference were also invited to the dinner at an off-campus restaurant. Fang Yi was solicitous. She remembered allergies and preferences. She was popular with her students, it seemed to Baixin. She often made her way over to her old friend and put her arms around her as she introduced her. “Professor Zheng and I were born a couple days apart,” she said. Fang Yi’s success made Baixin hopeful. And it made her feel lonely. One more comrade had ascended out of the suffering class.

Baixin remembered the summer she had gone to South Korea with Fang Yi. She remembered the journey to the Imjin River. They took the Gyeongui Line, then got on a minibus at Munsan and bounced along a cement road for ages. The road went by a long stretch of farmland. Gray mountains rose behind them. When they got to the river, Fang Yi wanted to take a cable car across. Baixin protested that it was too hot. She was afraid of heights. But she went anyway. They had to register their passports when they bought tickets. It was a controlled area because the river at that point was only a few kilometers from the 38th parallel. On the other side of the river, Fang Yi dragged Baixin up a hill. They stood for a long time looking at the rushing water. They found a small shop and bought ice cream. War, separation, displacement, borders, memory...They thought about those sorts of things. They wondered where their imaginations diverged from the documentary record and what they saw before them. On the way back, they took the cable car with a pair of older women. Each cable car fit four people. The two women nodded and smiled to each other as they climbed aboard and took their seats. One of them said, “I ate delicious food. I saw amazing sights. All my wishes came true. I’m satisfied. It was a good day.” Baixin didn’t understand, but Fang Yi translated it for her when they got on the train to Seoul. That stray sentence spoken by a stranger stuck with them. It drew them again and again into chance encounters along their many journeys, keeping them company for a long time, sometimes close and sometimes distant.