By Mengqi Shi
* In the following text, I’ve decided to add its real name—东四十条—every time I mention that ugly translation.*
That street is called 东四十条 [Pronunciation: Dōng Sì Shí Tiáo]. On Google Maps, its name is translated into something ugly and unpleasant—“Dongsishi Aly.” A name with no beauty at all. But it shouldn’t be like this. In Chinese, this street name has rhythm and charm when spoken aloud. Its real meaning should be “as the tenth in order among the alleys on the east side of Dongsi North Street.”
If you open Google Maps and search for this street, you’ll see that it lies between Lama Temple (雍和宫) and the Forbidden City. This street, stretching from east to west, connects the old parts of Beijing. Walking through the alleys, you can see the modern buildings near the Forbidden City in the distance. Keep going, and you’ll reach Shichahai (什刹海) and the beautiful Drum Tower. I once told my friends that without that Drum Tower, nothing else in Beijing would have any meaning to me. But that’s another story.
Unlike the famous Chang’an Avenue, Dongsishi Aly (东四十条) doesn’t have wide roads or bright, giant traffic lights. It’s lined with alleys, bars, and experimental theaters. If I skip class in the evening, and have dinner with friends in one of the small alleyway restaurants, we can then wander slowly down Dongsishi Aly (东四十条), all the way to the shimmering waters of Shichahai. Our arms swing freely in the cool early spring air, as if we were swimming through a hidden river.
I met her when I was 18. She always wore a knitted hat, her short black hair looking like she had cut it herself. She had a piercing on the small area of skin between her nose and forehead, a tiny black metal stud. From a distance, it looked like she had a pair of symmetrical moles on either side of her nose. During an extracurricular activity, she led us in exploring photography, teaching us how to reach into a black fabric bag, pull out the film, and carefully place it into a dark canister before developing it in a darkroom. I don’t know when exactly I started liking her. I told my friend about it. I said, “It came out of nowhere.” My friend said, “Yeah, that’s how it is.” I said, “I’ve always thought I was heterosexual. How do I know if this is real or just some kind of subtle admiration?” My friend said, “If you feel it, then it’s real. Sexuality is a river—it flows. You just go with it, love whoever you love.” I said, “Alright.”
After the photography “course” ended, I kept looking for chances to see her again. I invited her to my favorite small restaurant in the alleys. She brought homemade kiwi soda and shared it with me. She pointed to a scar under her eyebrow, shaped like a tiny red dragon, and told me how she got it while running as a child. She wasn’t much older than me—maybe 23 at the time—but she lived like wild grass, resilient and free. She worked as a photography assistant at a dance academy. She told me she had watched 2,000 movies in 10 years, that she had a skydiving license, that she was learning boxing, that she adopted a cat, that she had traveled to Indonesia and wanted to study in Spain, that she was a photographer for a dance workshop. She said the dance workshop was in an experimental theater on Dongsishi Aly (东四十条) and asked if I wanted to come. I asked, “What if I don’t know how to dance at all?” She said, “Just move with everyone else.”
So I went. And I did exactly as she said—just moved with everyone else. That was the happiest I had ever been while dancing. I didn’t know anything, but in that theater, barefoot, following the music, I danced with everyone. During the break, the lights dimmed, and we all sat on the edge of the stage. A spotlight lit up the center, and a professional dancer stepped in to perform. Someone started playing a unique and exotic instrument, making soft chime-like sounds. Another person recited poetry as background music. In the dark, she showed me the silver bracelet on her wrist, carved with wobbly fish patterns. “I carved it myself,” she said. I touched it. Under the light, the tips of her hair and the silver bracelet shimmered.
A line from a movie suddenly came to my mind—“In the light, we leaped into old together. Reunions are like a darkroom.” I couldn’t explain what it meant, but it felt exactly like that moment.
When we left the workshop, we walked through a narrow alley next to Dongsishi Aly (东四十条). The alley was so tight that I could only follow behind her instead of walking side by side. Looking out from the alley, I could faintly see the lights of Chang’an Avenue in the distance. The spring breeze blew through the alley, wrapping around us. The scent of rosemary lingered in the air. The wind became the embrace I had imagined.
In the end, we caught the last subway home. On the train, she told me she was preparing to study in Spain. She had just learned two new Spanish words: “¡Hasta mañana!” and another one. The first meant “See you tomorrow,” but I can’t remember the second word. That second word feels like an eternal unsolved mystery—whenever I think of it, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve missed some piece of information. In my mind, I always associate it with love, by my imagination. That night, on my way home, I listened to a song called A Dance For Tomorrow. The melody spun in circles, just like that night’s dance. So many things were vague and uncertain, but it didn’t matter—after all, we could always meet again tomorrow in the spring breeze of Dongsishi Aly (东四十条).
Then 18 ended quickly, high school ended quickly. She went to Spain, and I came to the U.S. Everything blurred and came to an abrupt stop. I rarely watched arthouse films or used a film camera anymore. The spring breeze still blows on Dongsishi Aly (东四十条). But I have already drifted too far from those.
This summer, I went back to Beijing. I tried to walk down Dongsishi Aly (东四十条) again, hoping to feel something from that time. But I couldn’t catch even a shadow of it. It felt like everything had changed—the street had become noisy and harsh, the wind heavy and murky. I didn’t know what had happened.
Dongsishi Aly will always be there. But some things have changed forever. I can never go back.