I remember the water.
Cold. Always cold. The hot water heater was broken. No one fixed it. Lin said it cost too much. So my hands went into the water every morning at six. By seven, I couldn't feel them. By nine, they were red. By noon, they cracked.
The cracks were small at first. Lines on my knuckles. Then they got deeper. Wider. Sometimes blood came out. Pink in the dishwater. I rinsed fast before anyone saw.
I remember the first time Master Zhang noticed. He was at the stove. He didn't look at me. But he said, "Your hands."
I put them behind my back. "Fine," I said.
He didn't say anything else.
The next morning, there was a pair of rubber gloves on my drying rack. One of them had a hole. But better than nothing. I put them on. The water didn't touch my skin. But I could still feel the cold. Through the rubber. Through my bones.
I remember the rhythm.
Dishes came in stacks. Plates first. Then bowls. Then glasses. Then pots. The pots were the worst. Grease stuck to them. Needed hot water. There was no hot water. So I scraped. With a metal spatula. The sound was terrible. Metal on metal. Like screaming.
I learned to do it fast. The faster I worked, the less time my hands were in the water. But if I worked too fast, I broke things. A plate here. A bowl there. Lin counted. He didn't say anything. But he counted.
Xiao Liu told me: "He takes it out of your pay."
After that, I worked slower. But not too slow.
I remember the other dishwasher.
He was from Henan. Thirty-something. Quiet. He never spoke. I didn't know his name. No one told me. He worked next to me for three months. Three months, and I never heard his voice.
He was missing a finger. Left hand. The ring finger. Just a stub. He never explained. I never asked. Some things you don't ask.
He worked fast. Faster than me. His hands didn't crack. His hands were like leather. Old leather. He never wore gloves. He said something once. I think he said "cold." Or maybe he said "water." I couldn't tell. His accent was thick. He never repeated it.
One day he was gone. His bed in the basement was empty. Xiao Liu said he went to Germany. Saved enough. Bought a ticket. Left.
I never saw him again.
I remember learning to work without looking.
The dishes came. I washed. I dried. I stacked. My hands knew what to do. My eyes could be somewhere else. Sometimes I watched Master Zhang cook. Sometimes I watched Xiao Liu clean tables. Sometimes I watched the door, waiting for Anna to come with her bread rolls.
She came every morning at nine. The bell on the door rang. I looked up. She was there. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She smiled at me. I smiled back.
She put the bread roll on the counter. I took it when no one was looking. Ate it fast. Still warm. Sugar on top. Jam inside.
That was the best part of the morning.
I remember the first time Lin caught me.
He was standing at the kitchen door. I had the bread roll in my hand. Half eaten. I froze.
He looked at me. Looked at the bread roll. Didn't say anything.
I put it down. Went back to the sink.
He left.
The next morning, Anna came. She put the bread roll on the counter. I didn't take it.
She looked at me. I shook my head.
She didn't understand. But she left.
That night, I was in the basement. Xiao Liu was asleep. The light was dim. I heard footsteps. Lin came down the stairs. He stood at the bottom. Looked at me.
"You can eat the bread," he said.
I didn't know what to say.
"Don't let me see it," he said. Then he went back up.
After that, I ate the bread in the basement. Before work. Fast. Standing by my bed. The sugar melted on my tongue. The jam was sweet. I thought about Anna. About her hands. About the way she smiled when she gave me the roll. Like it was nothing. Like feeding me was the most natural thing in the world.
I remember the water at night.
After work, I went to the basement. My hands throbbed. The cracks were deep now. Some of them didn't close. They stayed open. Like mouths. I put them in cold water. The same cold water I washed dishes in. But now, it felt different. Clean. Quiet.
I sat on my bed. The light was dim. Xiao Liu was asleep. His breath was slow. Even.
I thought about the Henan man. The one who went to Germany. I wondered if his hands were still like leather. If he found work. If he was washing dishes somewhere else. In a different city. With different water.
I thought about Old Li. He was asleep too. His cigarettes were on the bed next to him. The pack was almost empty. He would buy another one tomorrow. He always did.
I remember the sound of water.
Not the water in the sink. The water in the pipes. When the restaurant was quiet, you could hear it. Running through the walls. Like a river. Like the Jialing River. The river in Chongqing. Where I stood before I left. Where I thought about jumping.
The water in the pipes sounded like that river. The same sound. Far away. Low. Like a cow.
I listened to it every night. Before I fell asleep.
I remember the first time I understood something about the water.
It was late. The restaurant was closed. Everyone was gone. Lin was in the front, counting money. Master Zhang had left. Xiao Liu was in the basement, asleep. I was alone in the kitchen.
I turned on the faucet. The water came out. Cold. The same cold. I put my hands under it. They didn't hurt anymore. They were numb. They had been numb for weeks.
I watched the water go down the drain. It was clear. Clean. Not like the dishwater. Not pink with blood. Just water. Running. Going somewhere.
I thought about where it went. Into the pipes. Under the street. Into the river. The Vistula. The river that runs through Warsaw. I had seen it once. Wide. Gray. Slow.
I thought about the Jialing. Brown. Fast. Churning. My father used to take me there. When I was small. He would buy fried dough sticks from a vendor. Hot. Salty. He would break them in half. Give me the bigger piece.
I turned off the faucet. The sound stopped.
The kitchen was quiet. The pipes were quiet.
I went down to the basement. Xiao Liu was asleep. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed next to him. Almost empty.
I lay down on my bed. The mattress creaked. The same sound it made the first night. When Old Li showed me where to sleep.
I closed my eyes.
The water in the pipes was quiet now. But I could still hear it. In my head. Running. Like the Jialing. Like the Vistula. Running somewhere.
I remember the morning I woke up and my hands didn't hurt.
I looked at them. The cracks were still there. But they were closed. Healed. Scars now. Thin white lines on my knuckles.
I made a fist. Opened it. Made a fist. Opened it.
They worked.
I went upstairs. The kitchen was already loud. Master Zhang was at the stove. Xiao Liu was wiping tables. Lin was in the front.
I went to the sink. The water was cold. I put my hands in.
The cold was still there. But it didn't hurt.
I picked up a plate. Washed it. Dried it. Stacked it.
I did it again. And again. And again.
The rhythm came back. The sound of water. The scrape of the spatula. The clink of plates.
I remember the day the Henan man left.
I didn't see him go. I came to work. His station was empty. His apron was gone. His gloves were gone. The sink was clean.
I asked Xiao Liu. "Where is he?"
"Germany," Xiao Liu said. "He saved enough. Bought a ticket. Left this morning."
I looked at the empty sink. The clean sink. No dishes. No water. No sound.
"Did he say anything?" I asked.
Xiao Liu shook his head.
I stood there for a moment. Then I put on my apron. My gloves. I turned on the water.
The dishes came. I washed. I dried. I stacked.
The water was cold. My hands were numb. But they didn't crack anymore. The scars were there. Thin white lines on my knuckles.
I thought about the Henan man. About his missing finger. About his leather hands. I wondered if he was washing dishes in Germany. If the water was cold there too.
I remember what Old Li said to me once.
We were in the basement. Late. He was smoking. I was lying on my bed, looking at the ceiling.
"You're different," he said.
I turned my head. Looked at him. He was squinting. The smoke was rising to the light.
"Different how?" I asked.
He didn't answer for a long time. He took a drag from his cigarette. Let it out. Watched the smoke.
"You have something," he said. "I don't know what. But something."
He put out his cigarette. Lying down on his bed.
"Don't waste it," he said.
He closed his eyes.
I looked at the ceiling. The light was dim. The water in the pipes was running. Far away. Low. Like the Jialing. Like the Vistula.
I didn't know what he meant. Not then.