A Thousand Years of Good Prayers. Yiyun Li

nostalgic about the old but also earnest in his effort to understand the new. “You are on the wrong floor to ask the question,” Mr. Su replied. “Those who would make a difference are in the VIP lounges upstairs.”

      The stockbrokerage, like most of the brokerage firms in Beijing, rented space from bankrupted state-run factories. The one Mr. Su visited used to manufacture color TVs, a profitable factory until it lost a price war to a monopolizing corporation. The laid-off workers were among the ones who frequented the ground floor of the brokerage, opening accounts with their limited means and hoping for good luck. Others on the floor were retirees, men and women of Mr. Su’s age who dreamed of making their money grow instead of letting the money die in banks, which offered very low interest rates.

      “What are these people doing here if they don’t matter to the economy?” Mr. Fong asked.

      “Thousands of sand grains make a tower,” Mr. Su said. “Together their investments help a lot of factories run.”

      “But will they make money from the stock market?”

      Mr. Su shook his head. He lowered his voice and said, “Most of them don’t. Look at that woman there in the first row, the one with the hairnet. She buys and sells according to what the newspapers and television say. She’ll never earn money that way. And there, the old man—eighty-two he is, a very fun and healthy oldster but not a wise investor.”

      Mr. Fong looked at the people Mr. Su pointed out, every one an example of bad investing. “And you, are you making money?” Mr. Fong asked.

      “I’m the worst of all,” Mr. Su said with a smile. “I don’t even have money to get started.” Mr. Su had been observing the market for some time. With an imaginary fund, he had practiced trading, dutifully writing down all the transactions in a notebook; he had bought secondhand books on trading and developed his own theories. His prospects of earning money from the market were not bleak at all, he concluded after a year of practice. His pension, however, was small. With a son going to college, a wife and a daughter totally dependent on him, he had not the courage to risk a penny on his personal hobby.

      Very quickly, Mr. Fong and Mr. Su became close friends. They sat at teahouses or restaurants, exchanging opinions about the world, from prehistorical times to present day. They were eager to back up each other’s views, and at the first sign of disagreement, they changed topics. It surprised Mr. Su that he would make a friend at his age. He was a quiet and lonely man all his life, and most people he knew in his adult life were mere acquaintances. But perhaps this was what made old age a second childhood—friendship came out of companionship easily, with less self-interest, fewer social judgments.

      After a month or so, at dinner, Mr. Fong confessed to Mr. Su that he was in a painful situation. Mr. Su poured a cup of rice wine for Mr. Fong, waiting for him to continue.

      “I fell in love with this woman I met at a street dance party,” Mr. Fong said.

      Mr. Su nodded. Mr. Fong had once told him about attending a class to learn ballroom dancing, and had discussed the advantages: good exercise, a great chance to meet people when they were in a pleasant mood, and an aesthetic experience. Mr. Su had thought of teasing Mr. Fong about his surrendering to Western influences, but seeing Mr. Fong’s sincerity, Mr. Su had given up the idea.

      “The problem is, she is a younger woman,” Mr. Fong said.

      “How much younger?” Mr. Su asked.

      “In her early forties.”

      “Age should not be a barrier to happiness,” Mr. Su said.

      “But it’s not quite possible.”

      “Why, is she married?”

      “Divorced,” Mr. Fong said. “But think about it. She’s my daughter’s age.”

      Mr. Su looked Mr. Fong up and down. A soldier all his life, Mr. Fong was in good shape; except for his balding head, he looked younger than his age. “Put on a wig and people will think you are fifty,” Mr. Su said. “Quite a decent bridegroom, no?”

      “Old Su, don’t make fun of me,” Mr. Fong said, not concealing a smile. It vanished right away. “It’s a futile love, I know.”

      “Chairman Mao said, One can achieve anything as long as he dares to imagine it.”

      Mr. Fong shook his head and sullenly sipped his wine. Mr. Su looked at his friend, distressed by love. He downed a cup of wine and felt he was back in his teenage years, consulting his best friend about girls, being consulted. “You know something?” he said. “My wife and I are first cousins. Everybody opposed the marriage, but we got married anyway. You just do it.”

      “That’s quite a courageous thing,” Mr. Fong said. “No wonder I’ve always had the feeling that you’re not an ordinary person. You have to introduce me to your wife. Why don’t I come to visit you tomorrow at your home? I need to pay respect to her.”

      Mr. Su felt a pang of panic. He had not invited a guest to his flat for decades. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” he said finally. “A wife is just the same old woman after a lifelong marriage, no?” It was a bad joke, and he regretted it right away.

      Mr. Fong sighed. “You’ve got it right, Old Su. But the thing is, a wife is a wife and you can’t ditch her like a worn shirt after a life.”

      It was the first time Mr. Fong mentioned a wife. Mr. Su had thought Mr. Fong a widower, the way he talked only about his children and their families. “You mean, your wife’s well and”—Mr. Su thought carefully and said—“she still lives with you?”

      “She’s in prison,” Mr. Fong said and sighed again. He went on to tell the story of his wife. She had been the Party secretary of an import-export branch for the Agriculture Department, and naturally, there had been money coming from subdivisions and companies that needed her approval on paperwork. The usual cash-for-signature transactions, Mr. Fong explained, but someone told on her. She received a within-the-Party disciplinary reprimand and was retired. “Fair enough, no? She’s never harmed a soul in her life,” Mr. Fong said. But unfortunately, right at the time of her retirement, the president issued an order that for corrupt officials who had taken more than a hundred and seventy thousand yuan, the government would seek heavy punishments. “A hundred and seventy thousand is nothing compared to what he’s taken!” Mr. Fong hit the table with a fist. In a lower voice, he said, “Believe me, Old Su, only the smaller fish pay for the government’s face-lift. The big ones—they just become bigger and fatter.”

      Mr. Su nodded. A hundred and seventy thousand yuan was more than he could imagine, but Mr. Fong must be right that it was not a horrific crime. “So she had a case with that number?”

      “Right over the limit, and she got a sentence of seven years.”

      “Seven years!” Mr. Su said. “How awful and unfair.”

      Mr. Fong shook his head. “In a word, Old Su, how can I abandon her now?”

      “No,” Mr. Su said. “That’s not right.”

      They were silent for a moment, and both drank wine as they pondered the dilemma. After a while, Mr. Fong said, “I’ve been thinking: before my wife comes home, we—the woman I love and I—maybe we can have a temporary family. No contract, no obligation. Better than those, you know what they call, one night of something?”

      “One-night stands?” Mr. Su blurted out, and then was embarrassed to have shown familiarity with such improper, modern vocabularies. He had learned the term from tabloids the women brought to the brokerage; he had even paid attention to those tales, though he would never admit it.

      “Yes. I thought ours could be better than that. A dew marriage before the sunrise.”

      “What will happen when your wife comes back?” Mr. Su asked.

      “Seven years is a long time,” Mr. Fong said. “Who knows what will become of me in seven years? I may be resting with Marx and Engels in heaven