The Border of Paradise: A Novel by Esmé Weijun Wang Page A

known he was wealthy, what with his extravagant car and lavish parties, and what funds he did need to raise were easily coaxed from his multitudes. What did I care if he took my place? I’d lost my marbles, or I was possessed. Either way, there was no hope for the future of the company with me at the helm. I made the choice to sell the factory, the brand, and the whole rest of a mess of it to Pawlowski. This is where the Nowak fortune is from. Half of it went to my mother, and the rest to me. This is the money that I’ve been living off of; this is the money that will be left behind for Gillian and William and Daisy when I’m gone, which ought to bring me a modicum of comfort.
    News of the sale must have spread quickly, because it was only two days afterward that Mr. Orlich came to our door, his face flushed and blurry through the peephole like a poorly taken photograph, and I knew that if I opened the door I would only be inviting more of the bad fortune of which I already had an abundance. He rang the bell over and over, and then he resorted to banging with his fist. I had every intention of waiting him out. He could stand there and throw a tantrum if he wanted, I decided, and then I went upstairs, where the sound of his undoubtedly drunken anger continued to rage.
    “What in God’s name is that?” I heard Matka call from her room. “Who’s there?”
    “No one,” I said.
    “Well, tell no one to go away.”
    “He’ll go away when he’s tired.”
    I had underestimated Mr. Orlich’s capability for persistence. He continued his campaign to have the door opened while I debated calling the police, and then I remembered that he was still Marianne’s father. To sully his name would do no good. For Marianne to know that I’d been the one to sully it was no better.
    Finally I opened the door, and there he was, barking, “Why have a goddamn doorbell if you’re not going to answer it?” I couldn’t see Marianne’s face in his at all. He was, in fact, the exact opposite of her: the picture of a face so accustomed to scowling that it had hardened into cruelty.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “I heard you sold your family’s company,” he said. “I heard you sold it for a substantial sum.”
    “I did sell it.”
    “And you want to marry my daughter. My Marianne.”
    This was not how I had imagined asking for Marianne’s hand in marriage. I stuttered yes.
    “What are your plans for this money you have now?”
    I said nothing, noticing that he hadn’t asked to come in. I was grateful for this because I had no intention of letting him in, even if he was Marianne’s father. He smelled like liquor—I was becoming accustomed to the smell, thanks to my mother, and it made me anxious—and he seemed to be rapidly approaching some point.
    “So what are you going to do with yourself? All day long, day after day.”
    It was, in fact, a good question. My plans were to live off the money and try not to lose my mind, but Heaven help me if I allowed honesty to dictate the conversation.
    “You’ve been after Marianne for some time now. She has known no other beau, as I’m sure you are aware. She is a pious, hardworking young lady. She is going to provide a home and children for you. That is your expectation, I guess?” He was gasping now, spluttering with rage and unwept tears and the desire to tear me limb from limb. “And what will you do then? In this home my girl provides for you? Have you considered it? Are you going to sit there in your fancy house, counting your money, and thinking of ways to embarrass her with your insanity? Because that’s all I can imagine you doing with no company, no job, no responsibilities.”
    I opened my mouth and closed it. He was right. I was worth less than nothing, and would be worth less than nothing to his daughter. But I loved her, and I selfishly wanted to be with her no matter what this furious, drunken man was saying to me, even if it was the truth.
    “So, then, David