Running Through Beijing
Описание книги
Chinese literature published in the United States has tended to focus on politics — think the Cultural Revolution and dissidents — but there's a whole other world of writing out there. It's punk, dealing with the harsh realities lived by the millions of city-dwellers struggling to get by in the grey economy. Dunhuahg, recently out of prison for selling fake IDs, has just enough money for a couple of meals. He also has no place to stay and no prospects for earning more yuan. When he happens to meet a pretty woman selling pirated DVDs, he falls into both an unexpected romance and a new business venture. But when her on-and-off boyfriend steps back into the picture, Dunhuahg is forced to make some tough decisions. Running Through Beijing explores an underworld of constant thievery, hardcore porn, cops (both real and impostors), prison bribery, rampant drinking, and the smothering, bone-dry dust storms that blanket one of the world's largest cities. Like a literary Run Lola Run, it follows a hustling hero rushing at breakneck speed to stay just one step ahead. Full of well-drawn, authentic characters, Running Through Beijing is a masterful performance from a fresh Chinese voice.
Отрывок из книги
I'm out.
As Dunhuang opened his mouth to shout, a dust devil rose up and filled his eyes, nose, and mouth with fine grit, obliging him to sneeze and rub his eyes. The little iron gate clanged shut behind him. He spat the sand from his mouth. The dust devil had already moved on. Tilting his head back he looked at the sky, a blur of yellow dust behind which the sun glowed, mild but rough, like a polished piece of ground glass or a copper mirror that had seen years of use. The sunlight had no power to dazzle, but it still made Dunhuang’s eyes tear up—it was sunlight, after all. Another dust devil leaned toward him and he dodged out of its way. It was a sandstorm, he’d heard of them on the inside. They’d talked of only two things over the past few days: his getting out, and the sandstorms. In jail, he’d seen the storms picking up, seen the yellow dust settling on the steps and windowsills, but there wasn’t enough room inside for it to really get going. If he could, he’d like to go back and tell that pack of old cabbage heads that if they wanted a real sandstorm, they had to get out into the wide open spaces.
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“Mmm.” Dunhuang nodded in sympathy. The weather affected his line of work, too. Rain or wind sent the world scurrying; no one was in the mood.
She was no stranger to cigarettes—her smoke rings were better than his. The two of them sat there, watching the sky darken. The pedestrians thinned out. Dunhuang heard someone in a nearby bookstore say, “Close it up, who’s going to buy books when the gravel’s flying?” Then there was the sound of a gate rattling down and banging into the ground. Flying gravel . . . Hardly. Dunhuang did his best not to look at the girl. All of a sudden he wasn’t sure how to talk to her, he wasn’t used to lounging around with girls he didn’t know. What, exactly, was this turning into? He wanted to leave.
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