Moving (Pt.3)

Aimlessly, I wandered through the streets and alleys. It was past noon, the passersby sparse, and the early summer carried an unexpected trace of desolation.

Drowsiness struck again. On the map, I found a highly-rated drink shop nearby. I had intended to get a coffee, but came out instead with a cup of bubble tea.

Roadwork was underway nearby, the sidewalks fenced off into a maze; a gust of wind sent dust billowing through the air. I walked to a small park at the center of the street, sat down on a bench, and watched a little girl swing carefree under the sun.

Just then, another landlord from RedNote messaged me to arrange a viewing. We finally settled on 5 p.m.

The avenue was filled with the hum of traffic, a light breeze stirring the air. I nearly drifted off on that bench, the days of stress and struggle at last beginning to ebb. When the clock reached two, I rose and set out for the metro station, intending to first stroll around the neighborhood near the house in Montcada i Reixac, at the foot of the mountain.

But when I tapped my transit card at the entrance turnstile, the sensor lit red—my rides had run out.

I had no bank card on me, no cash either, so I couldn’t top up at the machine. I thought I might find a nearby tobacconist to recharge the card, but when I checked the navigation app, every shop listed was outside its business hours.

I was miffed about losing a favorite cap and wasting a ride for a house not worth seeing, but in that moment I felt oddly relieved—had I gone all the way to the foot of the mountain eight kilometers away, only to find my card empty for the return trip, that would’ve been worse.

My phone battery was also down to half, unlikely to last until five. I decided to simply walk home.

The escalator lifted me slowly out of the underground; the dim tungsten glow above gradually gave way to clear daylight, until the sky stretched wide and unbroken overhead.

I had barely stepped forward when the laughter of children drew my gaze, and there it was—a great cathedral standing quietly not far away.

Inside, Mass was underway.

I slipped through the inner door and stood quietly to the side. There were not many people, all gathered in the front rows. It wasn’t until the Sign of Peace that anyone seemed to notice me.

Like a drifting boat that had found, at last, a small anchor among human souls.

I knew every part of the Mass by heart, yet understood not a word. They chanted the liturgy, and with the singing, the Middle Ages seemed to drift through modern time.

I let my eyes roam over the statues of Christ and the Virgin, and lifted my gaze to the stained glass windows, saints gazing back in a kaleidoscope of color—like a child seeing photographs of long-lost kin.

My eyes welled with tears.

When the time came for Communion, I followed the slow-moving line, eyes blurred, and when I reached the priest, I cupped my hands to receive the Host, placing it gently on my tongue.

Why is the Host so light? I tried to feel its weight, as though self-imposed suffering might somehow yield a rush of dopamine. I wished it were heavy as the cross—or at least heavier than the hat the wind had taken from me.

Yet it was featherlight, dissolving instantly, leaving no taste at all.

I sat in the back pew, not understanding the pastor’s sermon—only wanting to cry.

I removed my glasses, wiped my tears. A Chinese girl in the front row turned and, upon seeing my face, lit up with surprise.

But I couldn’t muster even a smile—only looked at her with a kind of wounded grievance, still dabbing at my eyes.

She turned back, a little awkwardly.

Back at the apartment, I slipped my bank card into my bag. On my way out, I noticed the balcony door was open. My first impulse was to shut it, but then I remembered all the times the landlords had falsely accused me of leaving it unlocked. My good will curdled instantly.

From that day on, I decided I would never set foot on the balcony again, nor even into the living room that led to it. Still, before leaving, I doubled back to snap a photo of the open door and sent it to the landlady on WeChat, reminding her to close it herself.

After all, under their long-trained paranoia, I too feared a thief might slip in.

On my way to the metro station, I spotted the landlord. My face was cold, but I still told him the balcony door was open. He said nothing. I walked away without hesitation.

Another hour-long ride, two transfers, nearly twenty minutes’ wait for the short suburban train L11. The carriage was almost empty, and noticeably cooler.
At my stop, the platform was shorter than usual.

It was still early, and in my idleness I started chatting with Tina on WhatsApp again.

Eventually, we landed on the topic of Lida. I told her about some of our past conflicts—Lida’s deception and manipulation—and sent her a copy of the admonitory letter, redacted of any private details.

I hadn’t intended to tell anyone about it, but at that moment, speaking of her, I only wanted to vent the frustration I’d bottled up since Holy Week.

Tina, an uninvolved bystander, offered nothing but righteous-sounding spiritual platitudes, giving me a little sermon and telling me to pray for Lida.

I told her, helplessly, that I had prayed for Lida throughout Holy Week.

“The landlord will be here soon, let’s talk later.” Irritated, I shut my phone.

A few steps ahead, a steep elevator—taller than usual in the city metro—delivered me into winding mountain roads.

Here there was a calm absent from the city. In the city, one’s gaze was always filled with busy streets and the crush of traffic; here, the sky was the centerpiece.

Apartment blocks dotted the slopes along the road. It took me a while to find the right address. A cat meowed eagerly from the balcony, and just then, I ran into the landlord returning home.

She was a tall, slender young woman in her twenties, glasses on, full of energy and casual charm. She was the sublandlord, also living there.

From the moment we met until we stepped inside, she kept chatting with family on the phone, mentioning her insomnia and depression—though I couldn’t see the slightest trace of it in her demeanor.

I waited quietly, playing with her cat.

Once off the call, she warmly introduced me to the place and showed me the room. Opening the door startled a small army of flies.

The room was bright and spacious, dominated by a large bed. There was a small wardrobe, a little desk and chair by the window. The view wasn’t wide—just tree branches—but enough to let my eyes rest on green during work, a small privilege. All in all, it was fine, except that the current tenant was very unhygienic; the room was a mess, a pot of leftover rice still on the desk.

She told me the tenant was away traveling and had always clashed with the others over cleanliness.

I briefly explained my own situation. She seemed intrigued, went into the kitchen, and returned with a bowl of cherries. We sat cross-legged in her room, talking as we ate.

We spoke of our families, our childhoods, our visions for the future.

She breezily claimed nothing in life had meaning, yet clearly wrestled with the emptiness of that belief.

She embraced certain politically correct ideals, preaching tolerance, yet seethed with moral outrage—especially toward that messy tenant.

She was acutely aware of the world’s darkness and decay, yet clung to a whimsical idealism about life.

I tried to answer her doubts through the lens of Scripture. She respected this, even seemed curious, though she insisted she did not believe in any absolute spiritual being.

Often, before I could finish speaking, she would leap to another topic. I stayed calm, though a bit resigned—perhaps this was “youth”: needing an ultimate answer, but in no hurry to pursue it, as if there were still endless time to chase what is fleeting.

Yet through our conversation, I felt a vitality returning to me—perhaps drawn from her youth, perhaps because I was, in some subtle way, evangelizing.

We talked happily until nearly nine in the evening before parting.

Even if I didn’t end up moving in, I thought, I had made a friend. Maybe one day, when she could see no more possibilities in this world, when her spirit grew parched, she might remember our talk of faith that day.

On the way home, Tina sent a message about some trivial matter. Excited, I told her about the sublandlord.

“I think she might well become a Christian. She doesn’t believe in God, but she’s seeking truth. She listened to everything I said and asked me so many questions.”

In that moment, I was almost certain I would rent this room. I even thought I could change her.

A strange sense of mission began to take root in my heart.