Tulane Review Digital

ed: patients, doctors, children. The final image
fell
upon a small boy kissing his mother goodbye
as she donned her white coat and stepped
into a
van that would take her into the heart of
darkness.
The announcer’s flawless faces returned
with fists held skyward.
“Come on, Wuhan!”
“Come on, China!”
The live studio audience cheered.
Music indicated a return to televised festivities
as we reverted to our phones.
“Annie,” with a second thought Mengqi’s father
set his phone down, “What do your
parents think of this?”
“America seems worried but it’s hard to
know from here.”
“Are they worried because they don’t trust
our country?” Perhaps it was a leading
question, or perhaps he knew more about
America than he initially let on.
“I believe that Americans who don’t trust
China do so not because it is China but
because it isn’t America.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Are you afraid to travel through the train station?”
I tried to imagine the least insulting response, something
that could balance between
truth and propriety.
“A bit.”
He nodded again and looked at his phone.
“My older brother is driving back to Chongqing tomorrow,
you can go with him so you
can avoid the crowds.”
He did not offer the one remaining seat in the car to his
daughter or son who would
inevitably make the same trip.
“That way if you need to fly back to America it will be
safer.”
His words rested between us.
“Thank you,” I nodded, he held my eyes, “I’ll tell my parents.”
When the hour encroached on midnight we left the
couch, each grabbing a bundle of
fireworks, passed through the kitchen, out to the balcony,
and climbed the stairs on to the roof
where the flashes of light could awaken the sleeping
plants in the rooftop garden. Mengqi’s
father and brother each took a hoe and dug a small trench
in the dirt to ensure the stability of
the tubes. We held lights to guide their digging.
The city was dark, the only dimensions of the
skyline defined in varying shades of grey.
There was the light ash of the small ledge that
was Mengqi’s building; beyond, the pewter of
the
surrounding apartments; further the iron mountains
backed by an ebony sky, for a moment
their
shapes remained vague and untraceable. Then,
in less than a blink, color erupted. To the east,
a series of firecrackers spewed in machine-gun
fire: to the south, arms extended beyond their
balconies holding dancing sparklers; to the west,
small, arching fireworks reached into the near
night while Mengqi’s father took the tubes from
our hands, placing them firmly in the ground,
packing the dirt. Mengqi’s brother offered me a
lighter. “For our guest,” he said with a quiet
smile.
I came close in order to see the fuse, my heart
galloping around the catching flame. The
five of us stepped back with hands against our
ears and quiet anticipation on our faces; we
inhaled a collective breath, exhaling into the
night air. It seemed like the whole world was