Jingbei University, Sociology and Anthropology Teaching Building.
The large tiered classroom was packed with students. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows, spilling across the lectern.
The man standing at the lectern cut a tall, upright figure. His suit was impeccably neat, his legs straight and lean. One hand was tucked into the pocket of his slacks, his eyelids heavy with lazy indifference as he lectured from the slides projected on the screen.
His teaching style was the casual, take-it-or-leave-it sort. Students sprawled across their desks, dozing off, and he turned a blind eye as long as they didn’t snore loud enough to disrupt the class.
Pei Zhi had little interest in teaching. He only offered courses at the university to fulfill his obligations.
Jingbei University was one of the top institutions in the country. It offered researchers like him plenty of conveniences, but only on the condition that they shared their knowledge—and the fruits of their research—with the students.
The school provided Pei Zhi with the time and funding to leave campus for fieldwork among indigenous societies. They issued introduction letters that let him move freely across the world.
To accommodate his research schedule, Pei Zhi’s Introduction to Anthropology class ran only once every three semesters—the bare minimum the department would accept.
Though Pei Zhi put little effort into his lectures and the failure rate was high, his classes were always oversubscribed. Students had to fight tooth and nail to get in, even those from other departments.
He spoke in a measured, unhurried tone, his diction precise and his logic airtight. Though Introduction to Anthropology was a basic course, he updated his slides each time with insights from his latest research.
Through his casual recounting of expeditions deep into jungles or across ice fields, he subtly ignited a fascination for anthropology in his students.
Five minutes before the end of class, Pei Zhi glanced at his watch with his peripheral vision. He rested his palm on the lectern and asked, “Does anyone have any questions?”
A brief silence followed during the Q&A segment. Then a young man in the back row of the tiered classroom raised his hand.
Pei Zhi lifted his gaze and nodded for him to go ahead.
“Nice to meet you, Professor Pei. I found what you said about Native American ethnic migrations really interesting. I have another question—I’ve heard that Native Americans practiced cannibalism. Is that true?”
“And when we’re out in the field and see our subjects doing something clearly immoral or barbaric, do we just stand there and watch? Doesn’t that mean we’re losing our own humanity in the process?”
The young man’s question was long-winded and circuitous, laced with clear skepticism and criticism of anthropological methods.
Pei Zhi tapped his index finger idly on the desk, a sign his patience was wearing thin.
“For your first question, yes, some Native American groups did practice cannibalism. But as for the reasons, I suggest you head out to the field yourself before jumping to conclusions.”
“As for the second, plenty of people label anything they don’t understand as ‘barbaric’ just to prop up their own sense of moral superiority.”
Pei Zhi stared straight at the student, his dark eyes sharp. “I hope that every student in my class leaves their self-righteous assumptions and biases from mainstream society at the door before stepping into this lecture hall.”
His tone was even, neither heated nor stern. Yet the young man shrank back, guiltily lowering his head in embarrassment.
The end-of-class bell rang right on cue.
Someone started clapping—no one knew who—and the applause spread. Pei Zhi said nothing more. He strode straight out of the classroom.
Up front, two girls whispered to each other.
“Professor Pei is so handsome.”
“His words were so clever. I almost got pulled into that guy’s line of thinking.”
“You know, I really want to go to the Amazon with Professor Pei. Will his field investigation class be offered next year for juniors?”
“Forget it. It’s grueling. Remember that big fire last year? Professor Pei almost didn’t make it back.”
“Sigh. Why did he risk his life to help save those archaeological sites in the rainforest? Even if they were rescued, they’re not even ours.”
“What do you know? Anthropology studies all of civilization. That’s the big picture.”
In the School of Sociology’s administrative building, Pei Zhi returned to his office. He sank into the guest sofa, closed his eyes, and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose.
Long stretches of isolation made it hard for him to readjust to crowds every time he came back.
The office door stood ajar.
Two student assistants working in the admin building approached, their chatter drifting in.
“Wanna catch a movie this afternoon?”
“Sure. There’s this one that’s super popular right now. Keeps popping up in my feeds.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Boundary.”
“Oh, that one. Perfect—our department handed out tickets. I’ll grab an extra one from a classmate.”
Their voices grew closer as they chatted.
“No way, they gave out movie tickets? Nice.”
“Yeah, the film was shot in a Guangxi indigenous village, and the director went on a location scout with Dean Li. To thank him for the help, she sent a bunch of tickets to the department.”
The girl waved a stack of tickets in her hand. “See? I’m delivering them to the faculty.”
“Pretty generous. Who’s the director?”
“Song Yu.”
“…”
Pei Zhi’s brow furrowed deeper. He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the white ceiling overhead, which resembled a sky heavy with gloomy rain.
As they neared the faculty offices, their voices dropped to whispers.
Knock knock.
A girl poked her head cautiously through the door. “Teacher Pei, I brought movie tickets.”
Pei Zhi walked over. His gaze fell on the ticket she offered.
The blue ticket face bore the film’s title—
The Boundary.
He pressed his lips together but didn’t take it.
“Give it to a classmate and go watch it yourselves.”
She blinked in surprise. “Oh, have you already seen it?”
Pei Zhi’s eyes shifted away from the ticket. “Not interested,” he said flatly.
“Got it, thanks Teacher Pei!” The girl thanked him sweetly and left, handing her free ticket to the guy beside her.
Young people were chatty. They started up again.
The guy stared at the ticket. “Why call the movie The Boundary? So pretentious.”
“No idea.” The girl shook her head. “But Song Yu’s films all have this unique style. You’ll see once you watch it. Her use of camera language is killer.”
Hearing that long-vanished name—utterly irrelevant to him—mentioned repeatedly set Pei Zhi on edge for no reason. He rose and shut the office door, blocking out the chatter outside.
Pei Zhi sat at his desk facing the computer. He hadn’t typed a single word on the Arctic expedition plan due at year’s end.
There was another knock at the door. Li Zhen let himself in.
“Professor Pei, I heard you roasted a student in class again?” Li Zhen was the department’s vice dean and always in the loop.
Pei Zhi realized he’d been lost in thought. He drew a long breath and absentmindedly murmured agreement. His long fingers settled on the keyboard as he focused on work.
“Sigh, students these days all have opinions, but they can’t handle criticism. If one holds a grudge, they’ll tank your end-of-term ratings and file a complaint. More headaches for you.”
Teaching had gotten tough. At the end of each semester, the university required satisfaction surveys from students. Scores affected promotions, and complaints meant writing explanatory reports.
Pei Zhi looked up at him. “Thanks for the trouble.”
Li Zhen: “…”
Pei Zhi spent eight months of the year in the field. Li Zhen ended up writing all those complaint reports for him.
Li Zhen shook his head helplessly. Sigh, what kind of dean was he, always stuck cleaning up messes?
He muttered under his breath, “Don’t just say thanks. Maybe roast the students a little less.”
The office fell briefly silent, filled only with the clack of keys.
After a moment, Pei Zhi frowned. “Anything else?” His intent to end the conversation was clear.
Li Zhen shrugged. “Wanna catch that movie this afternoon? Nothing else going on.”
The department tickets were for a theater in the nearby commercial center.
“No.” Pei Zhi’s refusal was blunt.
Li Zhen poured himself a cup of water and held it. “Think about how long it’s been since you joined any group activity with more than two people?”
He stepped to the desk, earnest. “I feel like your readjustment period is dragging on longer this time.”
“…”
Pei Zhi’s typing paused.
Anthropologists always needed time to readjust upon returning to their home society—from the psychological imbalance of extreme solitude back to communal life.
From what Li Zhen had observed, Pei Zhi’s state this time around was even more withdrawn than before.
“What movie?” Pei Zhi asked.
He was sharp. Once reminded, he recognized the issue and moved to address it.
“What else? The Boundary. Haven’t you gotten a ticket yet?”
Li Zhen grinned. “I’m buddies with the director.”
“You remember that Guangxi project last year? The one you were supposed to lead. Director Song tagged along to shoot. I even thought about introducing you two.”
“She’s super into Native American culture. Took a Native American puppet with her on the shoot, even.”
Li Zhen had been eyeing that wooden doll for ages. “That wooden doll—I heard on the grapevine that her boyfriend shelled out a fortune to get it for her.”
“Guess how much?”
Pei Zhi said nothing, but the rhythm of his keystrokes quickened, betraying the typist’s mounting irritation.
Oblivious, Li Zhen answered his own question. “A full ten million!”
He clicked his tongue in amazement. “I just can’t wrap my head around the world of the rich. Something that pricey—if it were me, I’d stash it in a safe. But Song Yu carries it around everywhere, never letting it out of her sight.”
“Pa—”
Pei Zhi snapped his laptop shut.
Li Zhen jumped in his seat, finally noticing Pei Zhi’s face across the desk, as black as the bottom of a pot.
He racked his brain over what he’d just said and ventured cautiously, “Did something happen on that trip to Brazil?”
The more Li Zhen studied him, the more Pei Zhi seemed like a man fresh off a breakup. Why else would he bristle every time Li Zhen mentioned someone else’s love life?
“…”
Pei Zhi shot him a cold glance. “Nothing.”
Li Zhen wasn’t buying it.
He poured himself another cup of water, took a slow sip, and drawled, “Society itself has limited breadth. The roles to be played are doled out to different members. The people we encounter aren’t truly self-contained individuals; they’re just functions.”
“We choose them not for their inherent importance, but because they’re right there within reach, fulfilling our functional needs.”
Pei Zhi recognized the idea—it came from the renowned anthropologist Levi-Strauss and could extend into social role theory.
His fingertips drummed impatiently on the desk.
“Get to the point.”
Li Zhen cleared his throat and cut to the chase in plainer terms.
“Heartbroken? Move on. The next one’s bound to be better.”
Two minutes later, the office door slammed shut behind him. Li Zhen had been firmly shown the door.
Rubbing his nose, Li Zhen remembered the important thing he’d forgotten to mention.
He knocked. “Oh, right—the Arctic Scientific Expedition Team added a last-minute member. CCTV’s planning a documentary on the Arctic, and the director’s tagging along with our project group for filming.”
“Look after them when the time comes.”
“Got it,” came the man’s indifferent reply through the door.
Inside the office, Pei Zhi slumped back in his chair, head tilted upward, lips pressed into a thin line. His dark eyes stared blankly ahead, brooding over who knew what.
A long moment passed.
He lifted his arm to shield his eyes and let out a long, soft sigh.