The Bathing Women
The Bathing Women
Tie Ning
Longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize and a modern Chinese classic with over one million copies sold.Sisters Tiao and Fan grew up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution where they witnessed ritual humiliation and suffering. They also witnessed the death of their baby sister in a tragic accident. It was an accident they could have prevented; an accident that will stay with them forever.In the China of the 1990s the sisters lead seemingly successful lives. Tiao is a successful children’s publisher but incapable of finding love. Fan has moved to America, desperate to shun her Chinese heritage. Then there is their childhood friend Fei: beautiful, hedonistic and outwardly ambitious.As the women grapple with love, rivalry and past secrets will they find the freedom and redemption they crave?Spellbinding, unforgettable, and an important chronicle of modern China, The Bathing Women is a powerful and beautiful portrait of the strength of female friendship in the face of adversity.
The BATHING WOMEN
TIE NING
Translated by Hongling Zhang and Jason Sommer
About the Book (#ulink_243f7a16-36b9-5220-8db7-b304767a64ff)
Three women
Thirty life-changing years
The dawn of a new China
Displaced from Beijing as a result of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, sisters Tiao and Fan live in the small town of Fuan. Their childhood consists of daily denouncements, cooking from Soviet Woman magazine and searching for the elusive red lipstick worn by women from the capital.
Their lives are irrevocably changed when they witness the death of their baby sister, Quan. It a death that they could have prevented; a death with the power to destroy their family.
In the China of the 1990s, the sisters lead seemingly successful lives. Tiao is a children’s publisher but struggles to find love. Fan has moved to America, desperate to shun her Chinese heritage. Then there is their childhood friend Fei: beautiful, flirtatious and outwardly ambitious.
As the women grapple with love, rivalry and past secrets will they find the freedom and redemption they crave?
Praise for The Bathing Women (#ulink_306a64d0-c20c-5c8f-9114-cadb64efb205)
‘As this spirited quartet chase their dreams against a backdrop of shifting cultural values, the novel – a million-copy seller in China – blends romance and feminism to paint an intimate portrait of these women’s ambitions, appetites and rivalries’ Daily Mail
‘The Bathing Women possesses a gentle humanity that makes a refreshing change from the raucousness of recent work by Tie's male peers … an acute, sympathetic observer of Chinese society’ Guardian
‘Intelligent and evocative writing … about the shaping effect of deprivation and how people may still draw reservoirs of love and kindness from these voids’ South China Morning Post
‘[A] fascinating story of sisters growing up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution’ Good Housekeeping
‘If I were to pick the ten best literary works in the world of the past ten years, I would definitely rank The Bathing Women among them’ Kenzaburō Ōe, Nobel Laureate
‘Tie Ning’s unique novel about three Chinese women and their struggles In today’s fast-changing China is as gorgeous as the Cezanne painting the novel takes its title from’ Xinran, author of The Good Women of China
‘A probing and gracefully written portrait of an extended Chinese family, related by blood and mystery, in which the author explores areas of human behavior traditionally considered off-limits: the intimate and sexual lives of ordinary Chinese women’ Hannah Pakula, author ofThe Last Empress
Table of Contents
Cover (#ubfbf756c-7141-5ce1-aee4-523fc14ef1c2)
Title Page (#u99a2a1f7-1077-5c79-ba81-ff2c0bd8494f)
About the Book (#ucdebd576-947e-5964-b5b5-90f625643a96)
Praise for The Bathing Women (#ua6c34b2c-aea0-53d3-9bb0-c9feedc4bc01)
Preface (#uf00ed434-9d04-5701-8a49-7a634e80a381)
Chapter 1: Premarital Examination (#u345b58f9-7afa-5add-8682-608f4ea580d8)
Chapter 2: Pillow Time (#u2409d2aa-bb18-5722-b655-a51470e46cde)
Chapter 3: Where the Mermaid’s Fishing Net Comes From (#u3ee84124-3111-5d69-adbf-098de5bb721f)
Chapter 4: Cat in the Mirror (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5: The Ring is Caught in the Tree (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6: Fan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7: Peeking Through the Keyhole (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8: Disgusted (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9: Crowned with Persian Chrysanthemums (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10: The Garden in the Depths of the Heart (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Preface (#ulink_fbbf09ce-a244-57e2-8663-07c835381614)
Tiao’s apartment had a three-seater sofa and two single armchairs. Their covers were satin brocade, a sort of fuzzy blue-grey, like the eyes of some European women, soft and clear. The chairs were arranged in the shape of a flattened U, with the sofa at the base and the armchairs facing each other on two sides.
Tiao’s memory of sofas went back to when she was about three. It was in the early sixties; her home had a pair of old dark red corduroy sofas. The springs were a bit broken, and stuck out of their coir and hemp wrappings, pressing firmly up through a layer of corduroy that was not very thick. The whole sofa had a lumpy look and it creaked when people sat down. Every time Tiao hauled herself onto it, she could feel little fists punching up from underneath her. The broken springs would grind into her delicate knees and sensitive back. But she still liked to climb up on the sofa because compared to the hard-backed little chair that belonged to her, it allowed her to move around freely, leaning this way and that—and being able to move freely this way and that makes for comfort; ever since she was small, Tiao pursued comfort. Later, and for a long time, an object like a sofa was labelled as associated with a certain class. And that class obviously wanted to exert a bad influence on the spirit and body of the people, like a plague or marijuana. Most Chinese people’s behinds had never come into contact with sofas; even soft-cushioned chairs were rare in most homes. By then—probably in the early seventies—Tiao eventually found a pair of down pillows in a home that only had a few hard chairs. The down pillows were from her parents’ beds. When they weren’t home, she dragged the pillows off, reserved one for herself, and gave one to her younger sister Fan. They put the pillows on two hard chairs and settled into them, wriggling on the puffy pillows, pretending they were on sofas. They enjoyed the sheer luxury of reclining on these “sofas,” cracking sunflower seeds or eating a handful of hawthorn berries. Often, when this was going on, Quan would wave her arms anxiously and stumble over in a rush from the other end of the room going, “Ah-ah-ah-ah.”
Quan, the younger sister of Tiao and Fan, would have been two years old then. She would stumble all the way over to her two sisters, obviously wanting to join their “sofa time,” but they planned to ignore her completely. They also looked down on her flaw—Quan couldn’t talk even though she was two; she would probably be a mute. But the mute Quan was a little beauty, the kind everyone loved on sight, and she enjoyed communicating with people very much, allowing adults or almost-adults to take turns holding her. She would toss her natural brown curls, purse her fresh little red lips, and make all kinds of signs—no one knew where she picked up these gestures. When she wanted to flirt, she pressed her tender fingers to her lips and blew you a kiss; when she wanted to show her anger, she waved around her bamboo-shoot little finger in front of your eyes; when she wanted you to leave, she pointed at the sky and then put her hands over her ears as if saying: Oh, it’s getting dark and I have to go to sleep.
Now Quan stood before Tiao and Fan and kept blowing them kisses, which apparently were meant as a plea to let her join them in “sofa time.” She got no response, so she switched her sign, angrily thrusting out her arm and sticking up her little finger to tell them: You two are bad, really bad. You’re just as small as this little finger and I despise you. Still, no one spoke to her, so she started to stamp her feet and beat her chest. This description isn’t the usual dramatic exaggeration—she literally stood there beating her chest and stamping her feet. She clenched her hands and beat the butter-coloured, flower-bordered bib embroidered with two white pigeons, her little fists pounding like raindrops. Meanwhile, she stamped on the concrete floor noisily with her little dumpling feet, in her red leather shoes. Then, with tears and runny nose, she let herself go entirely. She lay on the floor, pumping her strong and fleshy legs vigorously in the air, as if pedaling an invisible flying wheel.
You think throwing a tantrum is going to soften our hearts? You want to blow us kisses—go ahead and blow! You want to hold up your finger at us—go on and hold it up! You want to beat your chest and stamp your feet—do it! You want to lie on the floor and pedal—go pedal! Go ahead and pedal, you!
Through half-closed eyes, Tiao looked at Quan, who was rolling around on the floor. Satisfaction at the venting of her hatred radiated from her heart all over her body. It was a sort of ice-cold excitement, a turbulent calm. Afterwards, she simply closed her eyes, pretending to catnap. Sitting in the chair next to her, Fan imitated her sister’s catnap. Her obedience to her sister was inbred. Besides, she didn’t like Quan, either, whose birth directly shook Fan’s privileged status; she was next in line for Fan’s privileges. Fan was unhappy simply because she was like all world leaders, always watchful for their successors and disgusted by them.
When they awoke from their catnap, Quan was no longer in sight. She disappeared. She died.
The foregoing memory might be true; it could also be one of Tiao’s revisions. If everyone has memories that are more or less personally revised, then the unreliability of the human race wasn’t Tiao’s responsibility alone. The exact date of Quan’s death was six days after that tantrum, but Tiao was always tempted to place her death on the same day that she beat her chest and stamped her feet, as if by doing so she and Fan could be exonerated. It was on that day that Quan had left the world, right at the moment we blinked, as we dozed off into a dream. We didn’t touch her; we didn’t leave the room—the pillows under us could prove it. What happened afterwards? Nothing. No design; no plot; no action. Ah, how weak and helpless I am! What a poisonous snake I am! Tiao chose to believe only what she wanted to believe; what she wasn’t willing to believe, she pretended didn’t exist. But what happened six days later did exist, wrapped up and buried in Tiao’s heart, never to be let go.
Now neither of them sits on the sofa. When Tiao and Fan chat, they always sit separately on those two blue-grey armchairs, face-to-face. More than twenty years have passed and Quan still exists. She sits on that sofa at the centre of that U as if it were custom-made for her. She still has the height of a two-year-old, about sixty centimetres, but the ratio of her head to her body is not a baby’s, which is one to four—that is, the length of the body should equal four heads. The ratio of her head to her body is completely adult, one to seven. This makes her look less like a two-year-old girl and more like a tiny woman. She wears a cream-coloured satin negligee, and sits with one thigh crossed over the other. From time to time she touches her smooth, supple face with one of her fingers. When she stretches out her hand, the bamboo-shoot tip of her little finger curves naturally, like the hand gesture of an opera singer, which makes her look a bit coy. She looks like such a social butterfly! Tiao thinks, not knowing why she would choose such an outdated phrase to describe Quan. But she doesn’t want to use those new, intolerably vulgar words such as “little honey.” Although “social butterfly” also implies ambiguity, seduction, frivolousness, and impurity, the mystery and romance that it conveyed in the past can’t be replaced by any other words. She was low and cynical, but not a simple dependent, stiffly submitting to authority. No one could ever know the deep loneliness behind her pride, radiance, and passion.
Life like falling petals and flowing water: the social butterfly Yin Xiaoquan.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_e74b2e7e-8249-5c0f-9a5a-4895f91ceca6)
Premarital Examination (#ulink_e74b2e7e-8249-5c0f-9a5a-4895f91ceca6)
1
The provincial sunshine was actually not much different from the sunshine in the capital. In the early spring the sunshine in both the province and the capital was precious. At this point in the season, the heating in the office buildings, apartments, and private homes was already off. During the day, the temperature inside was much colder than the temperature outside. Tiao’s bones and muscles often felt sore at this time of year. When she walked on the street, her thigh muscle would suddenly ache. The little toe on her left foot (or her right foot), inside those delicate little knuckles, delivered zigzagging pinpricks of pain. The pain was uncomfortable, but it was the kind of discomfort that makes you feel good, a kind of minor pain, coy, a half-drunk moan bathed in sunlight. Overhead, the roadside poplars had turned green. Still new, the green coiled around the waists of the light-coloured buildings like mist. The city revealed its softness then, and also its unease.
Sitting in the provincial taxi, Tiao rolled down the window and stuck out her head, as if to test the temperature outside, or to invite all the sun in the sky to shine on that short-cropped head of hers. The way she stuck out her head looked a bit wild, or would even seem crude if she overdid it. But Tiao never overdid it; from a young age she was naturally good at striking poses. So the way she stuck out her head then combined a little wildness with a little elegance. The lowered window pressed at her chin, like a gleaming blade just about to slice her neck, giving her a feeling of having her head under the axe. The bloody yet satisfying scene, a bit stirring and a bit masochistic, was an indelible memory of the story of Liu Hulan, which she heard as a child. Whenever she thought about how the Nationalist bandits decapitated the fifteen-year-old Liu Hulan, she couldn’t stop gulping—with an indescribable fear and an unnameable pleasure. At that moment she would always ask herself: Why is the most frightening thing also the most alluring? She couldn’t tell whether it was the desire to become a hero that made her imagine lying under an axe, or was it that the more she feared lying under the axe, the more she wanted to lie under it?
She couldn’t decide.
The taxi sped along the sun-drenched avenue. The sunshine in the provinces was actually not much different from the sunshine in the capital, Tiao thought.
Yet at this moment, in the midst of the provincial capital, Fuan, a city just two hundred kilometres from Beijing, the dust and fibre in the sunshine, people’s expressions and the shape of things as the sun struck them, all of it seemed a bit different from the capital for some reason. When the taxi came to a red light, Tiao started to look at the people stopped by the light. A girl wearing black platform shoes and tight-fitting black clothes had a shapely figure and pretty face, with the ends of her hair dyed blond. This reminded her of girls she’d seen in Tel Aviv, New York, and Seoul who liked to wear black. Whatever was trendy around the world was trendy here, too. Sitting splayed over her white mountain bike, the provincial girl in black anxiously raised her wrist to look at her watch as she spat. She looked at the watch and spat; she spat and then looked at her watch. Tiao supposed she must have something urgent to do and that time was important to her. But why did she spit, since she had a watch? Because she had a watch, there was no need for her to spit. Because she spat, there was no need for her to wear a watch. Because she learned the art of managing her time, she should have learned the art of controlling her spit. Because she had a watch, she shouldn’t have spit. Because she spat, she shouldn’t have a watch. Because she had a watch, she really shouldn’t have spit. Because she had spit, she really shouldn’t have a watch. Because watch … because spit … because spit … because watch … because … because … The red light had long since turned green and the girl in black had shot herself forward like an arrow, and Tiao was still going around and around with watch and spit. This obsession of hers with “if not this, it must be that” made people feel that she was going to run screaming through the street, but this sort of obsession didn’t appear to be true indignation. If she’d forced herself to quietly recite the sentence “Because there is a watch there shouldn’t be spit” fifteen more times, she would have definitely got confused and lost track of what it meant. Then her obsession was indeed not real indignation; it was sarcastic babble she hadn’t much stake in. The era was one during which watches and spit coexisted, particularly in the provinces.
Tiao brought her head in from the car window. The radio was playing an old song: “Atop the golden mountain in Beijing, / rays of light shine in all directions. Chairman Mao is exactly like that golden sun, / so warm, so kind, he lights up the hearts of us serfs, / as we march on the socialist path to happiness— / Hey, ba zha hei!” It was a game show from the local music station. The host asked the audience to guess the song title and the original singer. The winner would get a case of Jiabao SOD skin-care products. Audience members phoned in constantly, guessing titles and singers over and over again in Fuan-accented Mandarin, but none of them guessed right. After all, the song and the old singer who sang the song were unfamiliar to the audience of the day, so unfamiliar that even the host felt embarrassed. Tiao knew the title of the old song and the singer who sang it, which drew her into the game show, even though she had no plans to call the hotline. She just sang the song over and over again in her head—only the refrain, “Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! …” Twenty years ago, when she and her classmates sang that song together, they loved to sing the last line, “Ba zha hei!” It was a Tibetan folk song, sung by the liberated serfs in gratitude to Chairman Mao. “Ba zha hei!” obviously isn’t Chinese. It must be because it was not Chinese that Tiao used to repeat it with such enthusiasm, with some of that feeling of liberation, like chanting, like clever wordplay. The thought of clever wordplay made her force herself to stop repeating “Ba zha hei.” She returned to the present, to the taxi in the provincial capital of Fuan. The game show on the music station was over; the seat in the quiet taxi was covered by a patterned cotton cushion, not too clean, which resembled those shoe inserts handmade and embroidered by country girls from the north. Tiao always felt as if she were sitting on the padding over a Kang bed-stove whenever she sat in a taxi like this. Even though she had been living here for twenty years, she still compared everything to the capital. Whether psychologically or geographically, Beijing was always close to her. This would seem to have a lot to do with the fact that she was born in Beijing, and was a Beijinger. But most of the time she didn’t feel she was a Beijinger, nor did she feel she was a provincial person, a Fuaner. She felt she didn’t belong anywhere, and she often thought this with some spite, some perverse pleasure. It was almost as if she made herself rootless on purpose, as if only in rootlessness could she be free and remain apart from the city around her, allowing her to face all cities and life itself with detachment and calm. And when she thought of the word “calm,” it finally occurred to her that the person sitting in the taxi shouldn’t be so calm; she was probably going to get married.
She had never been married before—the sentence sounded a little odd, as if others who were preparing to get married had all been married many times. But she had never been married before—she still preferred to think this way. She thought about herself this way without any commendatory or derogatory connotations, though sometimes with a touch of pride, and sometimes a touch of sadness. She knew she didn’t look like someone who was approaching forty. Often her eyes would moisten suddenly and a hazy look would float over them; her body had the kind of vigour, agility, and alertness that only an unmarried, childless mature woman would have. The drawers in her office were always stuffed with snacks: preserved plums, dried eel, fruit chocolate, etc. She was the vice president of a children’s publishing house, but none of her colleagues addressed her as President Yin. Instead, they called her by her name: Yin Xiaotiao. She looked smug a lot of the time, and she knew the person most annoyed by her smugness was her younger sister Fan. Particularly after Fan left for America, things became much clearer. For a long time, she was afraid to tell Fan about her love affairs, but the more she was afraid, the more she felt driven to tell Fan about every one of them. It was almost as though she could prove she wasn’t afraid of Fan by putting up with Fan’s criticism of what she did in her affairs. Even right now she was thinking this, with a somewhat sneaky bravado. It was as if she’d already picked up the phone, and could already imagine the troubled, inquiring expression that Fan had on the other end of the overseas line at getting the news, along with the string of her words, delivered with a nasal tinge. They, Tiao and Fan, had suffered together; they’d felt together as one. What made Fan so contemptuous of Tiao’s life? It was surely contempt—for her clothes, her hairstyle, and the men in her life. Nothing escaped Fan’s ridicule and condemnation—even the showerhead in Tiao’s bathroom. The first year Fan came back to visit, she stayed with Tiao. She complained that the water pressure in the showerhead was too weak to get her hair clean—that precious hair of hers. She complained with a straight face, showing no sign of joking at all. Tiao managed to conceal her unhappiness behind a phony smile, but she would always remember it.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell her.
The taxi brought Tiao to the Happy Millions Supermarket. She bought food enough for a week and then took the taxi home.
The heat in her apartment wasn’t on, so the rooms felt shadowy and cold. It was different from a winter chill, none of that dense stiffness filling the space; it was uncertain, bearing faint traces of loneliness. On such an evening of such a season, Tiao liked to turn on all the lights, first the hallway, then the kitchen, the study, the living room, the bedroom, and the bathroom, all the lights, ceiling light, wall light, desk light, floor light, mirror light, and bedside light … her hands took turns clicking the switches; only the owner of the place could be so practiced and precise. Tiao was the master of the house, and she greeted her apartment by turning the lights on. She lit her home with all these lights, but it seemed as if the lights lit themselves to welcome Tiao back. So lights illuminated every piece of furniture, and every bit of dim haziness in the shadows contributed to her sense of security and substance. She walked through every room this way until she finally came to a small corner: to that blue-grey satin brocade armchair, which seemed to be her favourite corner when she was not sleeping. Every time she came home, returning from work or a business trip, she would sit in this small armchair, staring blankly for a while, drinking a cup of hot water, and refreshing herself until both her body and mind felt rested and relaxed. She never sat on the sofa. Even when Chen Zai held her in his arms and asked to move onto the more comfortable sofa, she remained uncooperative. Then, in a desperate moment, finally feeling she couldn’t refuse anymore, she simply said, “Let’s go to bed.”
For Chen Zai, that was an unforgettable sentence because they had never gone to bed before, even though they had known each other for decades. Later, when they sometimes teased back and forth about who seduced whom first, Chen Zai would quote this sentence of Tiao’s, “Let’s go to bed.” It was so straightforward and innocent and it caught him so off guard that he almost missed the erotic implications. It made Chen Zai think again and again that this lithe woman he held in his arms was his true love, and always had been. It was also because of this sentence that they didn’t do anything that first night.
Chen Zai was not home tonight. He had gone to the south on a business trip. Tiao ate dinner, sat back in the armchair, and read a manuscript for a while. Then she took a shower and got into bed. She preferred to slip into her quilt nest early; she preferred to wait for Chen Zai’s phone call in there. She especially liked the words “slip into her quilt nest,” a little unsophisticated—poor and unworldly-sounding. She just liked the words “slip,” “quilt,” “nest.” She never got used to hotels and the way foreigners slept—the blanket tucked in at the foot of the bed, stretched tight over the mattress. Once you stuck your legs and feet into the blanket, you felt disconnected, with nothing to touch. She also didn’t like quilts made of down, or artificial cotton. The way they floated lightly over your body made you more restless. She always used quilts made of real cotton; she liked everything about a quilt nest folded with a cotton quilt, the tender, swaddled feeling of the light weight distributed over her whole body, the different temperatures that hid in the little creases of the quilt nest. When she couldn’t sleep because of the heat, she would use her feet to look for the cool spots in the soft creases under the quilt. When she needed to curl up, the quilt nest would come along with her, clinging to her body. So unlike those bedclothes pinned down by the mattress, where you wouldn’t dream of moving, but would have to yield to the tyranny, forced into an approved sleeping posture—by what right? Tiao thought. Every time she went on a business trip or travelled abroad, she would intentionally mess up those blankets. Cotton quilts always made Tiao sleep well. But unpleasant thoughts pressed in on her after she woke up in the middle of the night. When she turned on the table lamp, tottered to the bathroom to pee, and returned, when she lay back in her bed and turned off the light, at that moment she would feel the intense loneliness and boredom. She began to think about things in a confused way, and the things that people tend to think, awakening after midnight, are often unpleasant. How she hated waking up in the middle of the night! Only after she truly had Chen Zai did she lose the fear. Then she was no longer by herself.
She curled up in her quilt nest and waited for Chen Zai’s phone call. He kissed her through the phone and they talked for a long time. When Tiao hung up, she found herself still not wanting to sleep. This evening, a night when Chen Zai was far away from Fuan, she had an overwhelming desire to read the love letters locked in her bookcase. They were not from Chen Zai, and she no longer loved the man who had written her the love letters. Her desire now was not to reminisce, or to take stock. Maybe she just cherished the handwriting on the paper. Nowadays, few people would put pen to paper, especially not to write love letters.
2
There were sixty-eight letters altogether, and Tiao numbered every one of them in chronological order. She opened number one, a white paper whose edges had yellowed: “Comrade Yin Xiaotiao, the unexpected meeting with you in Beijing left a deep impression on me. I have a feeling that we will definitely see each other again. I’m writing to you on an aeroplane. I will arrive in Shanghai today and will leave for San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll seriously consider your suggestion about writing a childhood memoir—only because it was a request of yours.” The letter was signed by Fang Jing, the date was March 1982.
It was more like a note than a letter. The words, scrawled on an oversized piece of paper, seemed big and sparse. The words looked like they were staring stupidly at the reader. Strictly speaking, it was not a love letter, but the thrill that it brought to Tiao’s soul was much stronger than what those real love letters of his gave her later.
The letter’s author, Fang Jing, had been very hot in the movie business at the time. He’d written, directed, and acted in a movie called A Beautiful Life. After an endless run in theatres around the country, the movie also won a few major awards. It was a movie about middle-aged intellectuals who’d suffered horrendously during the Cultural Revolution but still managed to survive, optimism intact. Fang Jing played an intellectual imprisoned in a labour camp on the border. He was a violinist whose imprisonment gave him no chance to play the violin. There was an episode in the movie that showed how, after the hero endures heavy labour with an empty stomach, when he straightens up in the wheat field, catching sight of the beautiful sunset in the distance, he can’t help stretching out his arms. His right arm becomes the violin neck and he presses on it with his left hand, fingers moving around as on the strings of a violin. There was a close-up of this in the movie, the scrawny scarred arm and that strangely transformed hand. The arm as the violin and the hand playing on it broke people’s hearts. Tiao would cry every time she watched this part. She was convinced that Fang Jing wasn’t performing but reliving his own experience. The scene might seem sentimental now, but back then, at a time when people’s hearts had been repressed for so long, it could easily bring an audience to tears.
Tiao never thought she would come to know Fang Jing personally. She had recently graduated from university and, through connections, got a job as an editor in the Fuan Children’s Publishing House. Like all young people who admired celebrities, she and her classmates and colleagues enthusiastically discussed the movie A Beautiful Life, and Fang Jing himself. They read all the profiles of Fang Jing in the newspapers and magazines and traded information with each other: his background, his life experience, his family and hobbies, his current project, what movie he entered in a film festival and what new award he won there, even his height and weight; Tiao knew all the details. It was by chance that Tiao and he got to know each other. She went to Beijing to solicit manuscripts for books and ran into a college roommate. The father of this roommate worked in a filmmakers’ association, so she was very much in the know. The roommate told Tiao that the filmmakers’ association was holding a conference on Fang Jing’s work and that she could get Tiao in.
On the day of the conference, her roommate slipped Tiao into the meeting room. Tiao has forgotten now what was said in the conference; she remembers only that Fang Jing looked younger than he did in the movie and that he spoke Mandarin with a southern accent. He had a resonant voice, and when he laughed, he frequently leaned back, which made him look easygoing. She also remembered he held a wooden tobacco pipe and would wave the pipe in the air when he got excited. People thought that was natural and charming. He was surrounded by good-looking men and women. When the conference ended, the attendees swarmed forward, held out their notebooks, and asked him for autographs. Her roommate grabbed Tiao’s hand, wanting to rush forward with the crowd. Tiao rose from the chair but backed away. Her roommate had no choice but to let go of her and push forward on her own. In fact, the notebook in Tiao’s hand had been turned to a new page, a blank page ready for Fang Jing to sign his name. But she still backed away clutching the notebook, maybe because she was a bit timid, maybe because an incongruous pride inhibited her. Even though she was so insignificant compared to him, she was still unwilling to play the airhead autograph hound. She backed away, all the while regretting the lost chance. Right then, Fang Jing stretched out an apelike arm from the midst of the swirl of people and pointed at Tiao, who stood apart, saying, “Hey, you!” as he parted the crowd and walked toward Tiao.
He came up to her and grabbed her notebook without asking, and signed his famous name in it.
“Happy now?” He looked directly into Tiao’s eyes with a faintly condescending attitude.
“I guess I would say that I’m very grateful instead, Mr. Fang Jing!” Tiao felt surprised and excited. Emboldened, she started to forget herself. “But how do you know what I want is your autograph?” She tried to look directly into his eyes, too.
“Then what do you want?” He didn’t understand.
“I want … it’s like this, I want to solicit a manuscript for a book project—” she said, on the spur of the moment, confronting Fang with childlike seriousness, distinguishing herself from the autograph hunters.
“I think we should trade places,” Fang Jing said, fumbling in his pocket and taking out a wrinkled envelope. “Think it’s okay to ask you to sign your name for me?” He handed the envelope to Tiao. Tiao was embarrassed, but she still signed her name, and, at Fang Jing’s request, left her publishing house’s address and number. Then she took the opportunity to talk further about the idea for which she was soliciting manuscripts, even though she had come up with it on the spot only a few minutes before. She said she had submitted a proposal and the Publishing House had approved it. She intended to do a series of books featuring the childhoods of celebrities, including scientists, artists, writers, scholars, directors, and professors, aimed at elementary and middle school students. Mr. Fang Jing’s work and harsh life experiences had already attracted so much attention, if he could write a memoir about himself for children, it would definitely become popular with them, and would benefit society as well. Tiao talked quickly while feeling ashamed of her reckless fabrications. The more ashamed she was, the more in earnest she pretended to be. It was as though the more she talked, the more real it seemed. Yes, it felt quite real. How she hoped Fang Jing would turn her down while she rattled on. Then she would feel relieved, and then everything would be as if nothing had happened. It was actually true that nothing had happened. What could happen between a big celebrity and a common editor from the provinces? But Fang Jing didn’t interrupt her or turn her down; those TV journalists interrupted them, swarming over him to take him to his interview.
Not long after the conference, Tiao received the first letter from Fang Jing, written on the aeroplane. She read the letter numerous times, studying, analyzing, and chipping away at the words and lines to reveal what they meant or did not mean. Why did he have to write a letter to me on an aeroplane? Why must he reveal his location in Shanghai or San Francisco so carelessly to a stranger? In Tiao’s mind, everything about a celebrity should be mysterious, including his whereabouts. Why would he only consider the idea seriously because it was a request of Tiao’s? Did that make sense? She turned those thoughts over and over in her mind, unable to think clearly, but unable to resist puzzling over them, either, letting a secret sweetness spread in her heart. At least her little vanity got an unexpected boost and her job would probably get off to a wonderful start as well. She’d have to take that offhand, improvised plan seriously. She would make a feasible, deliberate, and persuasive presentation to her editor-in-chief, trying to get the plan approved by the Publishing House just because a celebrity like Fang Jing had promised to consider writing for her. Everything sounded real.
A few days later, Tiao received Fang Jing’s second letter from San Francisco.
This was number two in Tiao’s file:
Tiao:
You don’t mind me leaving out the word “comrade,” do you? I feel very strange. Why do I keep on writing to you—a girl who wouldn’t condescend to ask for an autograph from me? When a large group of beautiful girls leaped at me, you backed away. Please forgive me for such a silly, conceited sentence. But they have been leaping at me constantly, which I’ve enjoyed for the last two years, half reluctantly, and yet with a feeling that it was my due. Then you appear, so indifferent and so puzzling. Right now, on the West Coast of the United States, thousands of miles away, your face on that day appears before me constantly, your eyes like an abyss that no one would dare to look into, your lips mysteriously sealed. I don’t think you came to me on your own; you were sent by a divine power. When I left for America, I brought a map of China along as if compelled by a supernatural force. It was a little pretentious, as though I were showing off how much I love my country and what a fanatical patriot I am. Not until later did I realize I brought it because I wanted to carry with me on a map of China—Fuan—your city, where you live, small as a grain of rice on the map, which I constantly touch with my fingertips—that grain of rice just like … just like … I think, although we have only met once, we actually don’t live far apart, only two hundred kilometres. Maybe sometime I will go to the city where you live to visit you. Does that sound ridiculous? If it’s not convenient, you don’t have to see me. I would be happy just to stand under your window. Also, after serious consideration, I believe the topic of your proposal is very important. I’ve made up my mind to write the book for you; I can write during breaks between scenes on set.
I went to the famous Golden Gate Bridge this afternoon. When I stood beside the great bridge to look at San Francisco in the sunset, the dream city created with its man-made island, I got a clear idea about this city for the first time. If I had misgivings or prejudices about cities before, San Francisco changed my perception. It made me realize the heights human wisdom and power can reach and what a magnificent scene the human and the city create together out of their striving. I don’t know your life experience, and have no idea how much people your age know about Western cuisine. Here at Fisherman’s Wharf, they sell a very interesting dish: a big, round, crusty loaf of bread with a lid (the lid is also bread). When you open it, there is steaming-hot, thick, buttery soup inside. The bread is actually a big bowl. You have to hold the bread bowl carefully while eating. You have a bite of bread and a mouthful of soup. After you finish the soup, you eat the bowl, which goes down to your stomach. When I stood in the ocean breeze eating my fill of the bread bowl, I recalled the years I spent in the labour camp. I was thinking even if I exhausted all the creativity in me, I couldn’t have invented such a simple and unusual food. Oddly, I also thought about you. For some reason I believe you would love to eat this.
Of course, most of the time I was thinking about our country; we’re too poor. Our people have to get rich as soon as possible. Only then can we genuinely and frankly get along with any of the cities in the world, and genuinely rid ourselves of the sense of inferiority hidden in the depths of our hearts, the sense of inferiority that usually reveals itself strongly in the form of pride. It also exists in me … I think I’ve taken too much of your time. I’ll save many things for when we meet; I’ll tell you more later, little by little. I’ve been feeling that we will have a lot of time together, you and I.
It’s very late at night now. Outside my window, the waves of the Pacific Ocean sound like they’re right in your ears. I hope you receive and read this letter. I’ll be returning to China within the week. If it’s possible, can you please reply? You can send the letter to the movie studio. Of course, this might well be too much to hope for on my part.
Wishing you happiness,
Fang Jing
_____, _______, 1982
3
When she was a senior at a university in Beijing, her roommate in the upper bunk, the one who took her to the conference on Fang Jing’s work later, often returned to the dorm late at night. Everyone knew she was madly in love. Miss Upper Bunk was a plain girl, but love gave her eyes an unusual brightness and made her whole face radiant. One night, when she returned to the dorm on tiptoe in the dark, she didn’t climb into her upper bunk as usual. That night, Tiao in the lower bunk was also awake. From her bed, Tiao quietly watched her roommate walk into the dorm room. She saw Miss Upper Bunk take out a small round mirror from a drawer, raise the mirror towards the window, and study her own face by moonlight. The moonlight was too dim to allow her a good view of her own face, so she tiptoed to the door and gently pushed it open. A beam of yellow light from the hallway shone on her roommate’s body. She stood in the doorway and angled her head and the mirror toward the light. Tiao looked at her face; it was a beautiful face with a hint of drunken flush. She must have been content with herself at that moment. This girls’ dorm, deep in sleep then, had become rich and peaceful. Tiao was touched by the sight, and not just because of her roommate, but why else, then?
Another late night, her roommate tossed and turned in her bed after coming back. She leaned her head down to Tiao’s lower bunk and quietly woke her up. Then she climbed down and lay side by side with Tiao, and began to speak in urgent tones. She said, “Tiao, let me tell you—I have to tell you—I’m finally no longer a virgin. A man loves me, and how wonderful a thing it is you couldn’t possibly understand.” She wanted Tiao to guess who the man was, and Tiao guessed a few boys from their class. Miss Upper Bunk said condescendingly, “Them? You can’t mean them!” She said she never would have anything to do with the men on campus. She said they didn’t have brains and she admired men with avant-garde ideas and a unique insight on society, those forward-thinkers who could enlighten people. She had fallen in love with a forward-thinker and that forward thinker liberated her mind and body, turning her from a virgin into a … a woman. “A woman, do you understand or not, Tiao? You have a right to enjoy this, too, and you’ve had this right for a long time, without realizing.” Her upper-bunk roommate described the experience of being with that forward-thinker. She said, “Do you know who he is? You’ll be shocked if I tell you his name.” She paused as if to let the suspense build for Tiao. Tiao was really excited by her words and couldn’t help asking, “Who is he, who is he?” Her upper-bunk roommate took a deep breath and then breathed out a few words gently as if she were afraid of frightening someone away. “The author of Zero Degree File.” The name was indeed breathed out, barely formed on the lips. To this day Tiao still clearly remembers the nervous hot breath of her roommate when she said the words: “Zero Degree File.”
Zero Degree File was a work of fiction, representative of the “Scar Literature” school, particularly popular among young people, with whom the author of course had made his reputation. At the time, people followed a novel and author with great sincerity and enthusiasm. The enthusiasm might be naïve and shallow, but it had an innocence and purity that would never come again. Tiao would certainly have envied Miss Upper Bunk had she stopped right there, but she couldn’t. She felt compelled to share her intimate happiness with others. She said, “You have to know he’s not an ordinary person but a writer, a writer overflowing with talent. Tiao, you know, only now do I truly understand what ‘overflowing’ means.” She said, “This writer, overflowing with talent, is so good to me. One night I couldn’t fall asleep and I suddenly had a craving for dried hawthorn berries, so I shook him awake and asked him to go out and buy some for me. He actually got up and biked through the entire city looking for dried hawthorn berries. A writer, overflowing with talent, went to buy me dried hawthorn berries in the middle of the night! Did you hear that, Tiao? Did you hear that? Are you still a virgin? Tiao, are you still a virgin? If you are, then you are really being cheated. Don’t you realize how late it’s getting? You’re really good for nothing until you …”
Tiao didn’t know why her upper-bunk roommate had to associate dried hawthorn fruit with virginity, as if she didn’t deserve to eat dried hawthorn fruit if she were still a virgin. The statement “I’m finally no longer a virgin” jarred Tiao, and made her confused and agitated. In any case, that “finally” shouldn’t be the highest expectation that her roommate should have for her own youth. Maybe she exaggerated. When one era urgently wanted to replace another, everything got exaggerated, everything, from novels to virginity. But the frenzied enthusiasm of her roommate still affected Tiao. When her roommate chattered, she felt like an ignorant moron of a country girl, completely uncultivated, an idiot who’d fallen behind the times and whose youth was flowing away downstream with the current. It was indeed an era of thought liberation, liberation-liberation, and liberation again. The trend swept over Tiao and she felt like she were being dragged along, accused, and ridiculed by her upper-bunk roommate. Her body seemed to be filled with a new and ambiguous desire. She must do something, but even the “must do” was a kind of blind exaggeration. What should she do? She wasn’t dating; there was no man on campus worthy of her attention. Then she should look beyond the campus. One day her roommate said she was going to introduce her to someone. She said, though the guy was neither a writer nor a poet, he was pretty close to poets, an editor for a poetry magazine. She said he was fun to talk to. She said at a literary gathering he read a poem called “My Ass”: “O my ass and this ass of mine, why would I sit down beside the bourgeoisie when I sit down? Stool of the working class, I beg you, I beg you to receive my ignorant ass—even if you are a neglected stool …” Tiao didn’t think it was a poem. Maybe the author was imitating those who did crazy self-denunciations in the denouncement meetings. The “poem” just reminded Tiao of her own butt, making her think about the secret, happy times when she pretended the down pillows were a sofa. She had never realized that one could talk about asses so openly in poetry; after all, very few could have the imposing manner of Chairman Mao, who wrote about asses in his poems. But she went on a date with this editor, deliberately looking for some excitement. After all, she was only a student and the man was the editor of a poetry magazine. An editor was no more than a step below a writer; barely lower than a writer.
They met on a cold evening in front of the art museum and shook hands with a little stiffness. After the greeting, they began to stroll back and forth. With the thick down jackets and tightly fitting jeans both wore, from a distance they must have looked like a pair of meandering ostriches. Tiao had never gone on a date alone with a man, particularly a man so “close to poets.” As they started to walk around uncomfortably, Tiao was struck with the meaninglessness of it all: What was she doing here? Where did she want to go? Didn’t her roommate tell her that the editor was a married man when she set them up? She meant this to indicate that Tiao could relax; they could date or not, no pressure—can’t a man and woman meet alone, whether they’re on a date or not? In eras like the sixties or seventies it might have seemed absurd, but things were different now. From her roommate’s perspective, only when a single female student dated a married male editor could an era be proved open and a person be proved free. And at this moment, her theory was being put into practice with Tiao’s help. Unfortunately, neither Tiao’s body nor her mind felt free; she was very nervous. When she felt nervous she just babbled. She talked about the boys and girls in her class, the food in their cafeteria, and how their professor of modern literature walked into the classroom with a misbuttoned shirt … she went on and on, quickly and at random, so her conversation wasn’t at all intellectual, clever, fun, or witty. Her mind went completely blank, and her blank mind soberly reminded her again and again how ridiculous her meeting with this “ostrich” beside her was. By spouting endless nonsense, she was simply punishing herself for going on this most absurd date. She rambled on and on, full of anxiety because she had no experience in ending a meeting that should have ended before it began. She even stupidly believed that if she kept on talking without a pause, she could hasten the end of the date. Finally the editor interrupted her, and not until then did she discover how nasal his voice was. She didn’t like men with nasal voices. People who spoke that way sounded pretentious, as if they were practicing pronunciation while speaking. The editor said, “Do you plan to go back to your hometown? Your hometown is Fuan, right? Even though it’s an ancient city, it’s still provincial. I suggest you try and arrange to stay in Beijing for your graduation assignment. It’s the only cultural centre. Of this I’m very sure.”
Tiao was a little bit offended by the editor’s words. What right did he have to keep saying “your town”? Her upper-bunk roommate said he’d just been transferred to Beijing from Huangtu Plateau a few years ago, and now he talked so patronizingly to Tiao as if he were some kind of master of Beijing. Where was he when she was sipping raspberry soda in the alleys of Beijing?
Images from the past were still vivid for her: all those things that happened long ago, how she suffered when she first entered the city of Fuan as a young Beijinger. She’d felt wronged as well as proud. She’d tried hard to blend into the city, and maybe she had. The way she did blend in gave her energy, and allowed her, along with several close friends, to keep her Beijing accent bravely in that ancient, xenophobic city. Beijing! Beijing had never known there were several young women like this who had tried in vain to bring their culture to a strange city. Even though Beijing had never needed and would never need their sacrifice, Tiao and her friends insisted on such devotion. But the man in front of her, this man, what had he done for Beijing? He already considered himself a Beijinger. Besides, his mention of her graduation assignment annoyed her. How could she discuss personal business like her graduation assignment with a stranger? In short, nothing felt right. She resented the attitude of her roommate and her own silliness—she very much wanted to use this word to describe herself. She felt a bit sad, for the way she had thrust herself forward without any idea of the direction she should take; she also felt a bit awakened: she suddenly realized that her youth wasn’t flowing away in the current, that what she herself treasured was still precious, and she felt lucky to be able to hold on to it. She was as good as her roommate in many ways, and if she couldn’t keep up with her in this way, she was content to “fall behind.”
As she waited for the last bus to come, her thinking became clearer and clearer. There were many people on the bus. She flashed a farewell smile at the editor, ran to catch it, and then tried with all her might to force her way onto the already packed bus. The editor had followed her, apparently not wanting to leave until he made sure she’d got on. She turned around and yelled at him, “Hey, can you give me a push?” He gave her a push, and she was crammed on board. The door shut behind her with a swoosh.
Standing in the last bus, she suddenly smiled to herself. She realized “Give me a push” was actually what she had most wanted to say tonight. She also realized the editor was a nice, honest man. But just as she wasn’t attracted to him, he also wasn’t at all attracted to her.
4
It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to write back to Fang Jing; she put off writing because she didn’t know what to say. Maybe everything had happened too quickly. In any case, she couldn’t treat Fang Jing’s letter from San Francisco as a casual note. She carefully read the letter over and over, and time and again it brought her to tears. She’d never read such a good letter, and she had no reason to doubt the author’s sincerity.
So she started to write back. “Mr. Fang Jing, how are you?” she wrote. Then she would tear the letter up and start over. He was so important and she was so insignificant. She lacked confidence and was afraid of making a fool of herself—but how could she write a letter of the same quality as a celebrity like Fang Jing? It was impossible; she had neither the writing talent nor the emotional maturity his letter displayed. Just based on the letter alone, Tiao felt that she had already fallen in love with him. And she had to fall in love with him because she believed he had fallen in love with her—and it was her good fortune to be loved by him, she thought selflessly. At her age and with her lack of experience, she couldn’t immediately tell the difference between admiration and love, or know how quickly a feeling driven by vanity might get the better of her. Maybe at those times she thought about her senior-year roommate. Compared to Fang Jing, who was that writer of her roommate’s, with his “overflowing talent”? How could her love affair match Tiao’s secret life now? College life, the flare of red-hot emotion that came and went quickly.
Once again she started to write a reply to him, but finally could only come up with those few words, “Dear Mr. Fang Jing, how are you?”
She went out and found a second-run cinema to watch a movie of his, to meet him on the screen. She listened to his voice, studied his features, and savoured his expressions. She tried very hard to memorize his looks, but when she returned home and lay in her bed, she found she had completely forgotten. It frightened and worried her, and seemed like a bad sign. The next day she took the opportunity to watch the movie again. She stared at him on the screen, as if she had found a long-lost family member. She still couldn’t compose the letter. Then she received his phone call at her office.
He phoned at a time that everyone was in the office. The chief editor said to her, “Tiao, your uncle’s calling.” As soon as she walked to the phone and picked up the receiver, she recognized his southern-accented Mandarin. He said the following paragraph in one breath, with some formality and a tone that left her no room for contradiction: “Is this Comrade Yin Xiaotiao? This is Fang Jing. I know there are a lot of people in your office. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t call me Mr. Fang Jing. Just listen to me. I’ve returned to Beijing and haven’t received a letter or phone call from you. It’s very likely that you’re laughing at me for being foolish. But please let me finish. Don’t hang up on me and don’t be afraid of me. I don’t want to be unreasonable. I just want to see you. Listen to me—I’m at a conference at the Beijing Hotel. Can you arrange to come to Beijing to solicit manuscripts? I know editors come to Beijing all the time. You come and we’ll meet. I’ll give you my phone number for the conference. You don’t have to respond to me right away, though of course I want to have your immediate response, your positive response, very much. No, no, you should think it over first. I have a few more things I want to ramble on about, I know I don’t seem very composed, but I have somehow lost control of myself, which is very unusual for me. I would rather trust my instincts, though. Please don’t be in a hurry to refuse me. Don’t be in a hurry to refuse me. Now I’m going to give you the number. Can you write it down? Can you remember it …?”
She was very bad at memorizing numbers, but she learned Fang Jing’s number by heart even though he said it only once. She went to Beijing three days later, and saw him in his room at the Beijing Hotel. When she was alone with him, she felt he seemed even taller than when she had first met him. Like so many tall people, he stooped a little. But this didn’t change his bearing, that arrogant and nonchalant attitude he was famous for. Tiao thought she must have appeared affected when she walked into his room, because Fang Jing seemed to catch an uneasiness from her. He gave her a broad smile, but the easy, witty manner of the conference was gone. He poured her a cup of tea but somehow managed to spill the hot tea, scalding Tiao’s hand as well as his own. The telephone rang endlessly—that was the way the celebrities were, always pursued by phone calls. He kept picking up the phone, lying to the callers without missing a beat: “No, I can’t do it today. Now? Impossible. I have to go see the rough cut in a minute. How about tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll treat you at Da Sanyuan …”
Sitting on the sofa listening quietly to Fang Jing’s lies, Tiao sensed an unspoken understanding grow between them, and in herself a strange new feeling, dreamlike. She was grateful for all those smooth lies, thankful that he was turning those others down for her, with lies made for her, all of them, for the sake of their reunion. She started to relax; the phone calls were precisely what she needed to give herself the time to regroup.
Fang Jing finally finished the calls and came over to Tiao. He crouched down right in front of her, face-to-face. It was a sudden movement, but the gesture was quite natural and simple, like a peasant tending crops in the field, or an adult who needs to crouch down to talk to a child, or a person who crouches down to observe a small insect like an ant or beetle. With his age and status, the crouching gave him an air of childish naughtiness. He said to Tiao, who was sitting on the sofa, “How about we go out? Those phone calls are pretty annoying.”
They left the room and went to the hotel bar. They chose a quiet corner and sipped coffee. He was holding his pipe. After a short silence, he began to speak, saying, “What do you think of me?”
She said, “I respect you very much. Like so many people, I admire your movie A Beautiful Life. Like me, a great many people hold your talent in high regard. In our editors’ office, you’re often the topic of discussion. We—”
He interrupted her and said, “Are you going to talk to me in this sort of tone all night? Are you? Tell me.”
She shook her head and then nodded. She’d wanted to restrain her excitement in this way. She already found herself liking to be with him very much.
Then he said, out of the blue, “You stood apart from the crowd at the conference, naïve but also seeming to have a mind of your own. I saw at a glance that you were the person that God sent to keep an eye on me. I can’t lie to you; I want to tell you everything. I … I … I …” He puffed on his pipe. “Do you know that what I wrote to you was what was on my mind? I had never written to a woman, never. But I couldn’t help it after I saw you. I am well aware of my talent and gifts, and I am also well aware that they’re far from being fully developed. I will be much more famous than I am now. The day will come. Just wait and see. I also want to talk about my attitude towards women; I simply don’t reject any women who approach me. Most women want me for my fame, maybe my money, too. Of course, some don’t want anything from me, just want to devote themselves to me. They are especially pathetic, because in many respects … I am actually very dirty—I hope I am not frightening you with my words.”
His words did frighten her quite a bit. All exposed things are frightening, and why would he treat her to such an exposed view of himself? She felt sorry for him because of that “dirtiness.” She’d thought what she was going to hear would be much more romantic than this. Just what kind of man was he exactly? What did he want from her? Tiao was puzzled but knew well she didn’t have the ability to take the initiative in their conversation. She was passive; she had been passive from the very start, and she could have no idea that the passivity would later produce something evil in her.
“Therefore …” He took another puff of his pipe and said, “Therefore, I don’t deserve you. It looks like I’m pursuing you now, but how could I possess you? You’re a woman who can’t be possessed—by anyone. But I’ll be with you sooner or later.”
She finally spoke. She asked, “What leads you to such a conclusion?” His directness made her heart race.
But he ignored her question completely; he just continued, “You and I will be together sooner or later. But I want to tell you that even though someday I will be madly in love with you, I will still have many other women. And I will certainly not hide that from you. I’ll tell you everything: who they are, how it happened … I’ll let you judge me, punish me, because you’re the woman I love the most. Only you deserve me to be so frank, so truthful, and so weak. You’re my goddess, and I need a goddess. Just remember what I say. Maybe you’re too young now, but you’ll understand me, you definitely will. Ordinary people might think I’m talking like a hooligan. Well, maybe I am and maybe I’m not.”
Hearing such words from Fang Jing, Tiao didn’t want to label them the language of a hooligan. But what was it exactly? Should a married man with a successful career say those things to an innocent girl? But Tiao was lost then in the labyrinth created by his nonsense, as if under a spell. She strained to understand his philosophy and rise to the state of consciousness he had attained. A strange charisma came from the arrogance he projected and his domineering manner. The hints of coldness that occasionally strayed from his passionate eyes also drew her deeply in. She couldn’t help beginning to question herself just to keep up with his thinking: What kind of person was she? What kind of person might she become? What was her attraction to this celebrity anyway …?
Strangely, he did not move closer to Tiao as he talked. He leaned back instead, putting more distance between them the more he spoke. His hunger for her was not going to end in a simple, impulsive touch and physical closeness. The way he kept proper physical distance didn’t seem to be the behaviour of an experienced man who was so used to being spoiled by women.
It was not until very, very late that Tiao left the Beijing Hotel. Fang Jing insisted on walking her back to her small hotel.
The evening breeze of late spring on broad Changan Avenue made Tiao feel much more relaxed. At that moment she realized how exhausting it was to be with him. It would always be exhausting, but she would be willing to be with him for many years to come.
He walked at her left side for a while and then at her right side. He said, “Tiao, I want to tell you one more thing.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’re a good girl,” he said.
“But you don’t really know me.”
“True, I don’t know you, but I’m confident there is nobody else who understands you better than I do.”
“Why?”
“You know, after all, this is a matter that has been decided by mysterious powers, but you and I have a lot of things in common. For instance, we’re both sensitive, and below our surface indifference, we both have molten passion …”
“How do you know I have molten passion? And what do you mean by describing me as indifferent? Do you feel that I didn’t show you enough respect?”
“See, you’re starting an argument with me,” he said with some excitement. “Your arrogance is also coming out—no, not arrogance, it’s pride. I don’t have that sort of pride; the pride is yours alone.”
“Why is it mine alone?” She softened her tone. “If you didn’t have pride at your core, how could you be so outspoken—those words you said a little while ago at the hotel?”
He suddenly smiled with some concern. “Do you really think that’s pride? What I actually have at my core is more like insolence. Insolence, you understand?”
She couldn’t agree with him, or she couldn’t allow him to describe himself this way. Only many years later when she reflected on this did she understand that his self-analysis was really quite accurate, but she resisted him fiercely at the time. She started to tell him about all of the feelings she had for him—as she read his two letters, while she watched his movie again for fear of forgetting what he looked like. She spoke with a great deal of effort, sometimes worried she might not be expressing herself well enough with her words. When she mentioned his heavily-scarred arm in the movie, she couldn’t help starting to cry. So she paused until she could hold her tears back. He didn’t want her to continue but she insisted on speaking, not to move him but to move herself. She had a vague sense that the man before her, who had suffered more than enough, deserved everything he wanted. If he were sent to a labour camp again, she would be his companion in suffering all her life, like the wives of those Decembrists in Russia, who were willing to go into exile in Siberia with their husbands. Ah, to prove her faithfulness, bravery, nobility, and detachment, she simply couldn’t help wanting to relive the era that had tormented Fang Jing. Let an era like that be the measure of her heart—but who the hell was she? Fang Jing had a wife and a daughter.
They arrived at her small hotel while she was talking. She immediately stopped speaking and held out her hand to him. He looked into her eyes while holding her hand and said, “Let me say it one more time: you’re a good girl.”
They said goodbye and he turned around. She walked through the hotel gate but immediately came back and ran into the street. She called out to stop him.
He knew what she wanted to do, he told her later.
Now he remained where he was and waited for her to come to him. She ran over, stopped in front of him, and said, “I want to kiss you.”
He opened his arms to hold her loosely, so loosely that their bodies didn’t come close. She went on tiptoes, raising her face to kiss him, then immediately let him go and ran into the hotel.
Fang Jing could never forget Tiao’s first kiss, because it was so light and subtle, like a dragonfly skimming the water. It could not actually be considered a kiss, at most it was just half a kiss, like a flying feather gently brushing his lips, an imagined snowflake melting away without a trace on a burning-hot stove. But she was so devoted and shy. It was impulsiveness caused by too much devotion, and too much shyness that caused … what did it cause? She nearly missed his lips.
Maybe it was not only that. When Tiao ran so decisively toward Fang Jing, her heart had already started to hesitate. All by herself, she felt she had to run to this man. She responded to her own prompting in one moment, by letting her lips slip away from the unknown in the next. It was hesitation caused by fear, and caution caused by discretion.
It was the solemn and hasty half kiss, so pure and complicated, that prevented Fang Jing from returning her kiss. He didn’t dare. And when he loosely encircled her slim and supple waist with his arms, he knew his heart had been captured by this distant and intimate person.
5
The letters he wrote to her were usually very long, and his handwriting was very small. He used a special type of fountain pen to write, which produced extremely thin strokes, “as thin as a strand of hair,” as the saying goes. This sharp pen allowed him to write smaller and more densely packed characters, like an army of ants wriggling across the paper. He wrote the tiny words greedily, wrestling them onto the white paper. He used those tiny words to invade and torture the white sheets, leaving no breaks for paragraphs, and paying no attention to format and space. He was not writing words; he was eating paper and gnawing on paper with words. It looked as though he were driven to use those tiny black words to occupy every inch of the paper, to fill all the empty places on every sheet of white paper with those tiny black words, transforming pieces of thin paper by force into chunks of heavy dark clouds. He couldn’t help shouting at the sky: Give me a huge piece of white paper and let me finish writing the words of my entire life.
No one else wrote to her like that before or afterwards. Ten years later, when she read those letters with critical detachment, the patience he took in writing pages of tiny words, the vast amount of time he spent on writing such letters, the hunger and thirst with which he fought for every inch of paper with his words and sentences, could still move her somehow. What she valued was this meticulous patience, this primitive, sincere, awkward, and real dependence and love between paper and words, whether it was written to her or some other woman.
He wrote in his letter:
Tiao, I worry about your eyes because you have to read such small writing from me. But still I write smaller and smaller, and the paper gets thinner and thinner because I have more and more to say to you. If I wrote in big characters and used thick paper, it might not be safe to send it to your publishing house. People might think it is a manuscript from an author and open it for you.
He also talked about his absurd experiences, in some of the letters.
Tiao:
You’re not going to be happy to read this letter, but I must write it because you’re watching me anyway even if I don’t write it. You have been watching me all the time. A few days ago, I was on location at Fang Mountain—you know what I’m talking about, the place where I shot Hibernation. I was making love to actress so and so (she is even younger than you are, and not very well known) but I felt terrible. Maybe because everything was too rushed, and she was too purposeful and too blunt. She had been chatting me up for the last few days, not that she wanted to angle for the part of the heroine in this film—the heroine had been cast long ago. She was manoeuvring for the next role. She was hoping I’d give her a juicier part in my next film. Clearly, she has some experience with men. She is straightforward, not allowing a man to retreat, but my male vanity made me hope she at least had some feeling for me. Unfortunately she had none. She doesn’t even bother to flirt with me. To girls of her age, I might just be a boring, dirty old man, even though I’m not fifty years old yet. But she wanted to make love to me badly. I admit her body attracted me, but I kept my attitude toward her light, only kidding with her. Later I was turned on by my contempt for her but I didn’t understand why I was thinking about you at the time. It was because of you that I so yearned to get a kiss from her. Nothing else but her kiss, wholehearted, passionate, a kiss that risks a life, like the kind I want from you, although I have never got it. The only thing you granted me on that evening I can’t forget, after which I couldn’t sleep, was utmost power, the power of “not daring.”
There was nothing that I didn’t dare to do to so and so. I stopped her when she rushed to take off her clothes. I told her to kiss me and she did as I said. She pressed against my body and wrapped her arms around my neck, kissing me for a long time, often asking, “Is that enough, is that enough?” She kissed me deeply and thoroughly, her tongue going almost everywhere she could reach in my mouth, and yet she seemed distracted. I closed my eyes and imagined it was you, your lips and your passionate kisses. But it didn’t work. The more she kissed me, the more I felt it was not you. And she apparently grew impatient—it was precisely because she became impatient that I insisted on having her continue to kiss me. I held her around the waist with my hands, not allowing her to move. We two looked like we were struggling with one another. Later, everything finally went in a different direction because she snuck her hand from my neck and started to touch and fondle me. She was nervous and I could understand her nervousness. She didn’t know why I wanted her only for kissing; she must have thought it wasn’t sufficient, that the kissing alone was not going to satisfy my desire and therefore her desire was even less likely to be satisfied.
She fondled me anxiously as if to say, even though my kisses didn’t seem to satisfy you, there is something more that I’m willing to give you … we started to make love, but you were everywhere before my eyes—I’m so obscene, but I beg you not to throw away the letter. In the end I felt horrible. On the one hand I imagined it was you who lay under me, my beloved, but when I did, the guilt I felt was so strong that it kept me from achieving the pleasure I could have had. The guilt was so strong that I couldn’t tell who exactly lay under my body then or exactly what I was doing after all. Eventually I had to use my hand to … I could only get release with my own hand.
I’m willing to let you curse me ten thousand times. Only when you curse me does my empty soul find a peaceful place to go. Where can my soul rest safely? Maybe I demand too much. Why, when I kept getting those prizes I dreamed of—success, fame, national and international awards, family, children, admiration, beautiful women, money, etc.—and the rest … —did my anxiety only deepen?
I had a woman before I was married. She was a one-legged woman, fifteen years older than I was. She was a sadist. I took up with her because even though I was the lowest of the low I still needed women. Or you could say she took up with me. But I never guessed that she didn’t want me for the needs that a man could satisfy. She had only one leg but her physical strength was matchless. I certainly couldn’t match her, with that body of mine weakened by years of hard labour and starvation. She often tied me up late at night and pricked my arms and thighs with an awl, not deep, just enough to make me bleed. What shocked me even more was the time she lifted up the blanket when I was dead asleep, and began frantically plucking my pubic hair … she was crazy. She must have been crazy. But I didn’t go crazy and I think it must have had something to do with the mountains I saw every time I went out. When I stepped out of the low, small mud hut and saw the silent mountains, unchanged for more than ten thousand years, when I saw the chickens running helter-skelter in the yard and dung steaming on the dirt road, the desire to live surged in me. I developed a talent: even when she tortured me until my body was bloodstained and black and blue all over, as soon as she stopped, I could fall back asleep immediately, and without having a nightmare. But today, I have to ask myself again and again: What do you want in the end, what do you want after all?
I don’t want to pollute your eyes with the above words, but I can only ease my heart by writing to you. I have such desire to be with you, so much so that this desire has turned into fear. And moreover, I have the uncouth and unreasonable fear that you are with other men. From my own experience of men and women, I know extremely well the power you have. When we were drinking coffee at the Beijing Hotel, you probably didn’t notice two men sitting at the next table who stared at you the whole time. There was an old Englishman sitting across from our table—I’m certain he was English—that old man also stared at you constantly. You didn’t notice any of this; you were too nervous at the time. But I noticed; it didn’t take much to figure out; glimpses from the corners of my eyes were enough. I’m very sure of my judgment. You’re the kind of woman who can capture a man’s attention; there is something in you that attracts people. You have the power to make people look at you, even though you are not polished at it yet. I think you should be more aware of this: you need to learn to protect yourself. Has anyone said this to you before? I believe I’m the only one who has. You should always button up your clothing; don’t let men take advantage of you with their eyes. Don’t. Not that the men who admire you would actually do something to harm you. No, I have to admit those who stare at you have taste. They are not hooligans or perverts. And I’m more nervous precisely because of that. I don’t want them to take you away from me, though I still don’t know how you truly feel about me. I’ve said before it was very likely that I would go to your city—Fuan, that tiny grain of rice that I caressed with my fingers when I was in the States. I will figure out a way to disguise myself in the street. Someday I will do that.
Now let me talk about the book you asked me to write. I tried to write the beginning and finished fifteen hundred words. It was very difficult because I couldn’t find a direct, uncluttered tone. If the readers are kids, the writer should first get himself an open heart. My heart is open—at least to you, but not very clean. I feel very guilty and challenged by it. I plan to focus on writing the book after I finish shooting Hibernation. I’m curious to find out my potential as an author. Will you think I’m too wordy? But wordiness is a sign of aging. Do you know what else I’m thinking about? How I look forward to you getting old quickly. Only when you get so old that you can’t get any older, and I also get so old that I can’t get any older, can we be together. By that time we’ll both be so old that people won’t be able to tell what sex we are: you might be an old man and I might be an old woman. We’d lose all our teeth, but our lips would still be all right so we could still talk. The human body is so strange, the hardest things, like teeth, disappear first, but the softest things, like tongues and lips, will come along with us to the last moment of our lives …
6
One day in the autumn of 1966, Tiao, as a new student in the first grade of Lamp Alley Primary School in Beijing, participated in a noisy and confusing denouncement meeting on the school’s sports field. It was an assembly that the entire faculty and student body attended, where many desks were brought together and stacked to make a tall stage. In front of the stage, students from all grades sat on their own little chairs that they brought out of the classrooms.
It was new to Tiao, who had just become an elementary school student a few days earlier. Back then she didn’t have a clear idea about what having such a meeting meant. She thought sitting this way on the field was like having class in the open air, and felt freer than having an ordinary class. During class, teachers required children to sit straight with hands behind their backs; only correct posture would help their bodies grow healthily. But today, on the sports field, their class teacher didn’t ask them to put their hands behind them; they could keep their hands wherever they wanted. Maybe, with the atmosphere so serious and subdued, the teachers couldn’t bother about the students’ sitting positions. Tiao remembered the senior students leading them in the continuous shouting of slogans. No one told them to clench their fists and raise their arms when they shouted, but somehow they all figured it out by themselves. They raised their little arms over and over again and vehemently shouted those slogans, even though they had no idea what the slogans meant. As some of the slogans slowly began to make sense to her, she started to understand what they were and at whom they were directed. For instance, there was the slogan “Down with female hooligan Tang Jingjing!” As Tiao shouted, she knew Tang Jingjing was a female teacher who taught senior students maths in their school. She also heard boys from other classes behind her talking: “So, Teacher Tang is a female hooligan.”
Teacher Tang was escorted to the stage by several senior girls. She had a big white sign around her neck, hanging down over her chest, with words in ink: “I am a female hooligan!” The first grade sat in the first row, so Tiao saw the words on the sign very clearly. She recognized three characters, “I am woman,” and figured out the last word must be “hooligan,” based on the slogan they’d shouted a moment before. The sentence terrified her because, in her mind, “hooligan” didn’t just mean bad people, but the worst of the worst, worse than landlords and capitalists. She was wondering how an adult could so easily admit “I am a female hooligan” in the first person. That use of the first person to declare “I am ***” made Tiao extremely uncomfortable, although she couldn’t explain why.
Sitting in the front row, Tiao also had a clear view of Tang Jingjing. Tang Jingjing was about thirty years old, fair-skinned, and thin; so thin and white that with the pointiness of both her nose and close-cropped head, she resembled a toothpick. Toothpick would be how Tiao described her afterwards. She indeed looked like a toothpick, not a willow wand. She appeared thin and weak, but she was very tough and strong. She stuck herself into the stage like a toothpick and refused to bend or lower her head no matter how the senior girls pushed her around. Tiao at the time wouldn’t have been able to come up with the description “toothpick”; she simply had a natural sympathy for Teacher Tang, because—it was funny that Tiao didn’t know where she got the idea that the word “hooligan” only referred to men—how could a woman be a hooligan? She sympathized with Teacher Tang also because Teacher Tang was pretty. Pretty, that was the reason.
Since Teacher Tang refused to lower her head and bend her back, both on stage and off, people appeared excited and a little out of control. The senior girl students apparently didn’t know what to do, and other teachers just shouted the slogans. None of them personally seemed willing to grab their colleague’s neck and force her to lower her head. Just as the scene looked like it was about to run out of gas, a middle-aged woman in a moon-white shirt rushed onto the stage (only later did Tiao learn she was the director of the Lamp Alley Street Committee) and pointed at Teacher Tang. “Did you feel wronged because we said you were a hooligan? Then let me ask you: Are you married or not? According to the information we’ve collected, you’ve never married. Why do you have a child, then, even though you were never married? You have to confess truthfully the identity of the person with whom you had the child!” The chanting arose again: “Tang Jingjing must confess the truth! If she doesn’t confess, we revolutionary students will not stop!” Then a group of even older students jumped up onto the stage; they had come from a nearby middle school, all wearing red armbands, to assist their little brothers’ and sisters’ revolutionary action.
These middle schoolers were good at fighting. One of them went behind Teacher Tang and swung a leg at the back of her knee and she immediately knelt down with a thud. The audience cheered; the die-hard Teacher Tang was finally subdued by the revolutionary students. The denouncement meeting continued. Several young teachers went onto the stage to speak one by one. With great emotion they accused Teacher Tang of hiding serious corruption in her life in order to deceive her colleagues, school, and students into trusting her. Just imagine, everyone, what a terrible thing it is! A woman with such a degenerate morality and corrupt lifestyle could get into our school and become a teacher … The slogans arose again: “Tang Jingjing must leave Lamp Alley Primary School! We successors of the revolution demand she leave Lamp Alley Primary School!” The middle-aged woman in the moon-white shirt continued to expose Tang Jingjing’s crimes: According to her neighbours, Tang Jingjing pretended to live simply and plainly, but at home she always lived a bourgeois lifestyle—she had a cat, and treated her cat better than people. One day she even dared to kiss her cat right in the courtyard—in the name of heaven, kissing a cat!
The audience first broke into laughter at this and then switched to even angrier shouting. “Down with female hooligan Tang Jingjing!”
How insufficient it seemed just to allow Tang Jingjing to kneel there listening to people shouting while more and more of her disgusting actions were revealed. The intractable hostility on her pale, skinny face made people on the stage burn with anger. A boy student with a red armband suddenly stuck out his rubber army overshoe into Tang Jingjing’s face and said, “If you can kiss a bourgeois cat, can’t you kiss a working-class shoe?” He kept his foot in Tang Jingjing’s face as he spoke. A girl ran over and pressed Tang Jingjing’s head down to force her to kiss the boy’s shoe. More dust-covered shoes were extended forcing her to kiss them.
The field seethed and the stage gave way to chaos. The students in front of the stage could no longer sit still, some knocking over their chairs, some standing on them, and others pushing their way to the front in order to see more clearly. Dust flew around and choked Tiao until she coughed. She also stood up and wanted to see more clearly. But unlike some of the boys in her class, she didn’t step on her chair; she instinctively thought it was improper, something that a student shouldn’t do. But she felt so small in the midst of the crowd and could see nothing on the stage, which made her anxious. Just then a stink wafted over. Someone brought up a cup of shit, and then a voice rang out, “Tang Jingjing isn’t worthy of kissing our shoes; her mouth simply deserves to eat shit!”
“Right, right,” others chimed in. “Let her confess to the revolutionary teachers and students. If she doesn’t confess we’ll make her eat.”
Make her eat shit.
This suddenly calmed the boiling crowd, and the smell also made people hold their breath and concentrate. The shit was carried to the stage openly in a teacup, which played on the ugliest nerve hidden in the depths of the human mind. Its terrorizing power came onto the stage. The ones who had crowded to the front backed away, and the ones who stood on the chairs sat down. It was just like at a concert, when there’s some opening act during which the audience can raise as much clamour as they want, and only during the star’s big number will they sit straight and properly appreciate the performance. Making Tang Jingjing eat shit might well be the big number of the day’s denouncement meeting.
The teacup was placed in front of Tang Jingjing, only a metre away from her. She kept that ghostly pale face of hers still. Everyone is waiting for you to confess, why don’t you just open your mouth? … Tiao’s heart contracted as if clutched by a hand, and she could hardly breathe. She hoped Teacher Tang would open her mouth immediately so that she wouldn’t have to eat shit. But many people might not have thought like Tiao, and they might not have been so eager to hear Tang Jingjing’s confession anymore. When a person is given a choice between confessing and eating shit, what others are eager to see may not be her confessing.
She didn’t open her mouth, nor did she eat the shit. So a boy student ran to the middle-aged woman in the moon-white shirt and whispered something in her ear. He then returned to Tang Jingjing and spoke to the entire audience. “If Tang Jingjing refuses to confess or eat shit, we have another method. We revolutionary masses will not be frightened by her hooligan’s arrogance. We will bring her daughter to the stage and let you look at her. Let everyone take a look at her daughter. Her daughter will be the evidence that stands as proof of her hooligan activities.”
Tang Jingjing finally lost her poise. Tiao saw her quickly move two steps in a kneeling position towards the teacup. Those urgent and determined “kneeling steps,” which came like a thunderclap exploding before anyone could cover their ears, left a lifelong impression on Tiao. She moved with her “kneeling steps” to the teacup and stared at the cup for a while. Then, under the gaze of everyone, she grabbed the teacup with two hands and drank it down in one swallow …
The first thing Tiao did after returning home was brush her teeth and rinse her mouth; she couldn’t resist the urge to eat all the toothpaste in the Little White Rabbit tube that only she and Fan used. Brushing her teeth made her vomit and after vomiting she continued to brush her teeth. Once she had finished brushing she continued to reach into her throat with the toothbrush. Then she began to vomit again. She vomited some food until at last only sticky sour fluid came out. She finished vomiting and brushing and then cupped her nose and mouth with her two hands—she cupped them very tightly, careful not to leave any space—and then she exhaled in big breaths—as she learned to do in kindergarten. She could smell her breath this way. Finally she could relax and she should relax; there wasn’t any taste in her mouth. She looked at herself in the mirror numerous times; she saw that her lips were white, like they’d been dyed white with the toothpaste, but they were even whiter than the toothpaste. She rubbed her lips hard with a towel until they became hot and red and almost bled, until they throbbed with pain. She locked herself in the bathroom tormenting herself for a long time.
Then she came out of the bathroom with red eyes and a heavy head. Fan came over, and she embraced Fan and kissed her. Fan kissed back and they kissed each other loudly. She then went to kiss her father, her mother, that pair of old corduroy sofas at her home, her little chair, and the ice-cold radio/tape recorder made in the Soviet Union. Believing that she must be sick, her father and mother told her to go to bed. There she saw her folded handkerchief. She opened the handkerchief, at the centre of which was a white, yellow-eyed cat. She stared at the white cat and swept the handkerchief to the corner of the bed, but later she reached out to get it back. She opened the handkerchief and stared at the white cat. She put her mouth on the cat’s mouth and cried.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_7702296e-989e-50be-8cf4-da57389db79d)
Pillow Time (#ulink_7702296e-989e-50be-8cf4-da57389db79d)
1
Like everyone else arriving at the Reed River Farm, Wu and Yixun were placed on male and female teams. Located in the alkali salt flats southwest of Fuan, the farm was where the provincial Architectural Design Academy congregated its own intellectuals for isolated labour reform.
The couple’s transfer from Beijing to the provincial capital Fuan in the late sixties already had an undertone of punishment: as an engineer in the Beijing Architectural Design Academy, Yixun had aired his dissatisfaction with Beijing’s urban planning. He was young and aggressive back then, often speaking bluntly. A piece of history most people might not be aware of: when the country was just established, Chairman Mao invited Mr. Liang Sicheng to the Tiananmen Tower to discuss the future urban planning of the new Beijing. Not knowing much about cities, Chairman Mao might well have been in the grip of his own excitement at having won the revolution, or he might actually have had an in-depth understanding of the urgency of rapid industrialization, if the country was to be strong and prosperous.
In either case, he stood on the Tiananmen Tower and looked down, sweeping that great-man’s arm of his towards the grey misty distance and saying to Liang Sicheng, “In the future, chimneys should be visible from here in every direction.” The great leader’s declaration must have terrified Liang Sichang, the great architect so devoted to preserving old Beijing. And Yixun, an undistinguished young architect, immediately expressed his own doubts on hearing this piece of privileged information. He thought it was absurd and inconceivable to make chimneys appear everywhere in the view from the Tiananmen Tower. How could Beijing, a city famous for culture, which had survived so many dynasties, be turned into a huge factory? A few years later, when Yixun’s sympathetic comments to Liang Sicheng were reported, both he and his wife, Wu, an English translator in the reference room, were transferred to Fuan.
This transfer didn’t set off panic in their hearts. The Cultural Revolution had already started by then, and one city was much like another. Most people at the Beijing Architectural Design Academy were headed for a farm located somewhere in the south for concentrated labour and thought reform. The revolution was not going to give up on any of its revolutionary targets easily.
They brought their two daughters—Tiao and Fan—to the provincial capital, Fuan, only to have to leave it behind as soon as they got used to it. They hastily settled their daughters and gave Tiao their residential card, rice ration book, clothes coupons, bankbook, and a small sum of money. After emphasizing to Tiao over and over again what a great responsibility she would have as head of the household, they took their bags and left for Reed River Farm with most of their colleagues. It had been suggested that the period of labour might have no definite end, it wouldn’t be a week or a month; it could be several years, perhaps, so they prepared themselves for a long stay. They were put under the leadership and management of the working class, and the first thing they were asked to do was to separate—husbands and wives must separate in order to help them temper their revolutionary willpower and strengthen their dedication to the labour. They lived in big collective dormitories—men in a male dorm and women in a female dorm—and inside, lines of plank beds stretched out toward the vanishing point. They were assigned to work in the brick factory. Every day, Yixun hauled the bricks in a big cart, originally pulled by a horse, and Wu wore coarse cloth gloves to load the bricks into the cart.
Those intellectuals who laboured at the Reed River Farm—the male and female teams—didn’t object to the Cultural Revolution. They had plenty of time when they were not labouring to study or to criticize each other, to attend denunciation meetings or to do self-criticism. They diligently tried to use these methods to remove the nonproletarian marks imprinted on their bodies, rolling in the mud and stepping into cow dung, fervently hoping to be reborn. But at the same time they were weak and easily distracted by fantasy. For instance, their hearts and minds didn’t always remain at peace. At the end of a day’s work, when they returned to their separate dormitories, stinking of sweat, their faces all dusty, husbands always longed for their wives, just as wives always longed for their husbands.
If you were to look at Reed River Farm from the point of view of someone who appreciates landscape, ignoring the atmosphere and mood of the time, you would find it a boundless and magnificent place. The farm was surrounded by thousands of acres of reeds, like the passionate, tender petals clustering around a sunflower. Especially in autumn, the golden reeds, taller than a person, with the white, fluffy flower on their heads, would suddenly grow and swell, releasing a spirit overpoweringly fierce and deeply peaceful, as if they wanted to take over the world and withdraw from it at the same time. Because the reeds blocked the view and smothered all sound, only the wild dark brown ducks could play freely and nest in the thicket of reeds, laying eggs that no one could collect. Walking in, you would be awed and dumbstruck by the stillness of the ten thousand acres of densely packed reeds; you would also be cleansed by the noble, pure spirit of the ten thousand acres of reeds and feel renewed. At nightfall, clusters of reeds would seem more crowded in the autumn wind, like groups of women in white kerchiefs and skirts holding their breath and walking one after the other in mincing steps. Unfortunately, the farm separated the people from the reeds behind an enclosing wall. At the time neither Wu nor Yixun were in the mood to appreciate the grandeur of the reeds outside the wall. Compared to the charming sweep and vast stillness, the farm seemed very plain and drab, with identical low red-brick buildings everywhere. There was only one attractive place, a small house on top of a hill. Yet how could it actually be a hill? Here, it was an endless plain. The hill was a small slope at the end of a vegetable field slightly higher than the farmland; ordinarily it wouldn’t pass as a hill. But on the plain, even the most modest elevation could be considered a hill. The flatness of the plain made any rise stand out as individual and unique. No matter how small, as long as people were willing to, they could call it a hill. The small house on the hill.
On Sundays, only on Sundays, it was open to the couples who lived in the collective dormitories. It was locked and left unused on other days. Wu and Yixun hadn’t counted how many couples there were among the male and female teams—probably at least eighty. Anyone in a couple would need to use the small house on the hill sooner or later. There was only one house and one day of the week, so people had to wait in line. This type of line was different from the kind they waited in to buy rice and vegetables. Although they were husbands and wives openly, they couldn’t openly wait in line one after another to use the small house. The implication of the word “use” was so direct and obvious that people felt excited and embarrassed on hearing it. Therefore their waiting in line had about it a bit of the intellectuals’ reserve, a modesty, the result of their upbringing, and maybe the careful calculations of the powerless. Early Sunday morning, you wouldn’t see a distinct group milling in front of the house, but you could see men and women in couples scattered randomly around, near and far. They were either under a tree, on a vegetable patch, or sitting on bricks, apparently engaged in tête-à-tête. They looked calm and relaxed, but their eyes were fixed intensely on the tightly closed door of that small house. Every time the door opened and a couple walked out after finishing their business, the next couple to enter would be the one closest to the door, and the next couple after them would take a definite step closer. This “step” was very discreet, maintaining a distance of at least fifteen metres. Who would be heartless enough to wait right outside the door? Couples who came late would judge with care which spot to take. Latecomers never rushed past those who were already there to get to the door. The couples were all very precise about the order. It almost looked like they were scouts—in groups of two—slowly outflanking the small house; the scene also resembled a round of confused chess, unintelligible to laymen, with those anxious couples as the pieces on the board. The chess game only appeared disorderly; it was the unexpected that led to trouble, which happened once in Wu and Yixun’s memory.
The door high above had finally opened and a couple emerged. Wu and Yixun, as the closest couple, knew that it was their turn and immediately, in unspoken understanding, walked toward the small house. But right then another couple also approached from the opposite direction. The two couples had arrived almost at the same time and their distance from the small house was also about the same. If you used a diagram to illustrate the situation, the relationship of the two couples to the small house could be presented as an equilateral triangle. While they simultaneously headed toward the small house, they simultaneously realized the awkwardness of the situation. When they realized that awkwardness, they may all have hesitated briefly—a pause as tiny as a blade of grass, a product of their polite upbringing. But the reality was so powerful that their footsteps immediately left the tiny mental hesitation behind. Wu felt her legs hurry more urgently than the moment before because the couple coming from the opposite direction seemed to be moving with increased speed and agility: they seemed to be striding in bigger and bigger steps. So she began to extend her stride, too … and the twenty-something metres where the two couples raced with quiet ferocity seemed endless. They kept adjusting their stride and glancing over at each other, calculating how they could arrive a step ahead. Their eagerness made them ignore the way they appeared as they walked; certainly ugly, since they were race-walking without even following a race walker’s form. The only thing they didn’t do was run, but they didn’t run because after all they still couldn’t accept the fact that they would have to run in order to do their conjugal business. Actual running would have damaged the collegiality between the couples, although in their hearts they were running wildly.
Wu swung her waist and hips to stride forward, intent on occupying the small house first. She was a bit embarrassed about her big steps because they were the sign of her desire. Her desire was originally intended solely for her husband, Yixun, but now she had to announce to reeds, trees, bricks, and tiles, and all these irrelevant things, in broad daylight and with her inelegant way of walking, that she wanted to make love to her husband. She took big steps, unsure of whether she was being shameless or simply had no choice. When they finally reached the small house first, and pushed the door open, she felt very sorry for the couple who would be shut outside.
The race left her and Yixun short of breath and distracted. They neither kissed nor talked, but tried to finish as soon as possible. Because they’d got in first, they felt they shouldn’t take too much time in the small house. They didn’t even look at each other, as if they were afraid to face the crudeness of their current situation, or were embarrassed about winning the race of a few moments before. Most couples behaved similarly in the small house; they knew how to discipline themselves. No one dawdled endlessly behind the door. Even so, not every couple got a chance. The ones who didn’t would have to wait quietly for next Sunday.
Two kilometres’ walk from the farm, Reed River Town had roasted chickens for sale. On Sundays, only on Sundays, could the people on the male and female teams go to the town to satisfy their craving. Women always have more cravings for food than men. After Wu and Yixun occupied the small house, Wu would immediately think about the roasted chicken in Reed River Town. Unfortunately, she could not have both at the same time; she couldn’t have the small house and taste the chicken simultaneously. People also needed to set off early on Sunday to buy roast chickens, which were prized then. Since the farm had so many people like Wu, the limited supply of chickens in the town would be sold out in no time.
There was one couple who did try to have both on the same day. As soon as the gate opened, early on Sunday morning, they left the farm and went deep into the vast, dense reed thickets. They gave up on the wait for the hill house and planned to do their business there in the reeds and hurry to the town to buy a roast chicken as soon as they’d finished. But they got caught in the act by the farmworkers and were made to do numerous self-criticisms at various meetings as typical examples of weak revolutionary willpower and low-life behaviour.
When Wu reminisced about the past many years later, she would try to avoid the part about the Reed River Farm. She couldn’t bring herself to imagine it was because she couldn’t have both at the same time that she became really sick: half a year later, she had attacks of severe dizziness on the farm. She fainted twice beside the stacks of bricks. She was finally allowed to rest in the dorm for a few days, but had to attend the study group every evening—studying was more relaxing than labouring.
She participated in the study group, but unfortunately she fainted again in the meeting room, twice. She was sent to the farm clinic, but the doctor there was unable to diagnose the cause of this strange dizziness. Her blood pressure and pulse were normal, but she would sweat profusely and her whole body would feel like a puddle of mud after she regained consciousness. She always looked discouraged when she opened her eyes, as if she regretted coming back to life again. Only when she saw Yixun’s weary and anxious face did she try to make herself more awake. She loved her husband, but when she caught sight of her cracked hands, smelled the moldy damp of the straw bed, took in the little wooden box used as a makeshift desk, the porcelain cup whose handle was broken by a scurrying rat—that cup with a broken handle made everything seem so shabby … she looked at all this and thought boldly that instead of the endless shabbiness, she might be more than willing to submerge herself in dizziness. It was surely a kind of submergence. She would hide herself in dizziness and never reveal the truth to anyone until the day she died, not even to her husband.
2
How nice it was to lie, with her head and neck buried in a big fluffy feather pillow, her dishevelled short hair down over her forehead! No one on the Reed River Farm could reach her. She slipped her hands under the quilt, too; she didn’t want to stuff her hands into the rough cloth gloves anymore or stand in front of the stacks of bricks, inhaling the never-ending red powder.
Wu woke to find herself in her own home, lying on her own big bed, and resting her head on her own pillow—this pillow, this pillow of hers. She couldn’t help swivelling her head a few times, languidly and with some coy playfulness. She rubbed the snow-white pillow with the back of her head, playing with the real pillow that she had missed so much. She remembered her laziness as a small child. Every morning, when it was time to get up, Nanny Tian had to stand by that little steel-springed bed of hers and try again and again to wake her. She was like that in those days, rubbing the back of her head against the pillow until her hair was a mess. Meanwhile, she’d kick her legs and feet under the quilt and turn her head to the side, pretending to sleep on. Nanny Tian didn’t give up, but kept calling her from beside her bed.
Wu then would pry open her eyes and ask Nanny Tian to make faces for her, to do cats and dogs and copy the way the mynah bird spoke. Nanny Tian first undid her apron, folded it into a triangle, and tied it onto her head to play the wolf grandmother in “Little Red Riding Hood”; then she tensed her voice to imitate the cat; leaving the best for last, she imitated the mynah: “Nanny Tian, get the meal ready; Nanny Tian, get the meal ready.” Nanny Tian smacked her thick lips and held her neck stiffly to mimic the bird, which made Wu laugh heartily. Nanny Tian did such a good impression of the mynah, which was kept in the kitchen as company for her. Wu loved to get into the kitchen whenever she had the chance. Her favourite thing was listening to that mynah talk, but she knew, whether it was the mynah imitating Nanny Tian or Nanny Tian imitating the mynah, both would deliver a great performance. Even when she went away to the university, she couldn’t help wanting to bring Nanny Tian along, though not for waking her up in the morning, of course. But it seemed to have become a habit to listen to Nanny Tian nag at her every morning, a part of Wu’s peaceful, languid sleep.
Wu rubbed the snow-white pillow with the back of her head; she could finally snuggle into her pillow again. The farm approved her return to Fuan for a week to treat her mysterious dizziness. She was overjoyed, and Yixun was also happy for her, making a special trip to town to buy a pair of roast chickens for her to bring back to the children. Although Tiao always said, “We’re doing fine,” in her letters, Yixun still felt it wasn’t a good idea to leave two children alone at home. It was simply not a good idea. “It would be great if you could stay home longer,” he told Wu. He didn’t expect his words to become the main excuse for Wu to stay on in Fuan. “Isn’t this what you were wishing for, too? Didn’t you want me to stay at home?” Later, she would say this to him in a loud voice, but with some guilty feelings.
A week was so precious to Wu that she first buried herself in the pillow and slept for three days. It was the sleep of oblivion, a three-days-without-leaving-the-bed sleep, a making-up-for-half-a-year’s-lost-sleep-in-one sleep. She opened her eyes only when she was thirsty or hungry, having Tiao bring water and food to her bed. After she finished eating and drinking she dropped her head and fell back asleep, snoring gently. It was Tiao who discovered that her mother snored. She believed her mother must have picked up the habit at the Reed River Farm.
At last she opened her eyes. After getting up and doing some stretches to loosen her muscles, she felt wide awake. Her limbs felt strong, and her insides felt clean and clear, ready to be filled with food. Where was her dizziness? Just as she started to feel lucky that she was no longer dizzy, a fit of panic gripped her: When will the dizziness come back? If she was no longer dizzy, how could she get a diagnosis from the hospital? And she must get that diagnosis. The whole purpose for the week of sick leave was for her to go to the hospital and get a diagnosis. When she returned to the farm, she would have to submit a diagnosis from the hospital.
She sat on the side of her bed trying very hard to locate the dizziness in her. Fan, nesting by her legs, grabbed her pants with one hand and asked: Mum, are you still dizzy? Then Wu really did feel a little dizzy—if even Fan knew about her dizziness, how could she not be dizzy? She tried to make herself dizzy and took a bus to People’s Hospital.
The hallway of the clinic at People’s Hospital was noisy chaos. A draft of chokingly sweet fish smell, mixed with the unhealthy breath of the waiting patients, made Wu almost leave a few times. Finally the registrar nurse called out her number. Just as she sat down in front of the doctor, an old fellow from the countryside squeezed in, saying, “Doctor, you can’t fool us country folk. I walked over a hundred li to come to your hospital, and you give me a ten-cent prescription? Can ten cents treat an illness? You people tell me, isn’t this a con?” He yammered on, pestering the doctor for a more expensive medicine, demanding and pleading until the doctor had no choice but to rewrite his prescription.
“Next, please. Name?” the doctor said without raising his head. Wu gave her name and the doctor lifted his head, taking a look at Wu and then listening to her complaint. She didn’t know why, but she felt a little nervous, and gave the account of her symptoms in a dry and hesitant way. She seemed to have some difficulty meeting the doctor’s direct gaze, although she knew it was just his professional manner. He was a man of about her age, with a clean, long, thin face under a clean white cap. His eyes were small and very dark, and when he stared at her with his small, dark eyes, they seemed to be bouncing over her face like lead shot. Like most doctors, he made no small talk. He listened to Wu’s heartbeat, ordered several laboratory tests for her, routine tests like blood sugar and fat levels, ECG, etc., and he also asked her to get an X-ray of her neck at the radiology department.
Some test results came back the same day and some wouldn’t be ready until the next. So, the following day, Wu returned to People’s Hospital. She registered at internal medicine first, collected all the test results, and then waited quietly to see Dr. Tang—she had learned from the forms that the doctor’s family name was Tang.
When she sat across from him again, she immediately sensed on her face the bouncing of his lead-shot eyes. She handed her test reports to him; he buried himself in them for a while, then looked up and said, “You can set your mind at ease. You’re very healthy. There is nothing wrong with you. I thought you might have cervical vertebra disease or a heart problem, but I can assure you now that there is nothing wrong with you.”
What was he talking about? she thought. Was he saying that she wasn’t sick at all? If she wasn’t sick, why would she come to the hospital? If she wasn’t sick, how was it possible for her to leave the Reed River Farm? That’s right, leave the Reed River Farm. Just then Wu at last completely understood her heart’s desire: to leave the Reed River Farm. She really didn’t want to go back to that place, so she had to be sick, and it was impossible that she was not sick.
“It’s impossible,” she said, and stood up, forgetting herself a little.
Gesturing for her to sit down, he asked, somewhat puzzled, “Why don’t you want yourself to be healthy?”
“Because I’m not healthy. I’m sick.” She sat down, but insisted on her opinion.
“The problem is that you’re not sick.” He took another look through the stack of test results, along with the ECG report and neck X-rays. “Your symptoms might be mental in origin, caused by excessive nervousness.”
“I’m not nervous and I was never nervous.” Wu contradicted Dr. Tang again.
“But your current state is a manifestation of nervousness,” Dr. Tang said.
She then told Dr. Tang again that it was not nervousness but some disease. “It is really a disease.” She realized she had already begun to act a little irrationally. Her confrontation with the doctor not only didn’t convince the doctor, it didn’t convince her, either.
Dr. Tang gave a helpless smile. “Certainly, mental nervousness can be an illness, a condition. But as a doctor of internal medicine, I have no authority to give a diagnosis in this matter. I can only … I can only …”
His conclusion brought her up from the chair again. She began to ramble and repeat herself like a gabby old woman. “I’m not only sick, I also have two children. They’re so small. My husband and I both work on the farm and can’t take care of them at all. You know the Reed River Farm, quite far away from Fuan. Ordinarily we can’t come back. My two daughters, they … they … because …” At this point she suddenly leaned her face in to Dr. Tang’s and lowered her voice, desperately whispering, “You can’t … you can’t …” The next thing she felt was the spinning of the sky and earth. Her dizziness came to her rescue just in time and she lost consciousness.
She was hospitalized in the internal medicine ward and Dr. Tang was the physician in charge.
The first thing that came to her mind after she woke was actually Dr. Tang’s small, dark eyes. She also remembered her whispered pleading before she fainted—it was a sort of pleading, and how could she have spoken in that whispering voice to a strange man? She could explain it as her fear of being overheard by others in the clinic, but then, wasn’t she afraid this strange man would throw a woman who tried to fake an illness out of the hospital, or report her to her work unit? Then, during the Cultural Revolution, doctors also basically took on the responsibility of monitoring patients’ thoughts and consciousness. She was afraid, but maybe she was willing to risk her life to win over with whispers this man who controlled her fate. Her dizziness had rescued her in the end. Coming from a woman who might faint at any time, no matter how pitiful and helpless compared to an earthshaking howl, those eerie, frail whispers still hinted at things, either serious or playful, and offered vague temptations. Maybe she hadn’t at all meant to stir up hints of temptation around her, but it was the hints of temptation that stirred her.
As she lay on the white bed of the internal medicine ward, her body never felt healthier. She told Tiao and Fan later that she was so healthy because of the superb nutrition she received as a child: fish oil, calcium, vitamins … the fish oil was imported from Germany and her grandmother forced her to pinch her nose and take it. Tiao looked at her face carefully and asked, Why are you still dizzy, then?
Lying on the white bed of the internal medicine ward, she also had a feeling that she had been adopted—Dr. Tang adopted her, keeping her far away from the Reed River Farm, far away from the brick factory, and far from the revolution. Revolution, that was her required course of study at the farm every day. Chairman Mao’s quotations about revolution were to be memorized every day; they were also made into songs, which Wu had already learned by heart and could sing from start to finish: “A revolution is not inviting friends to dine, not writing, not painting, or needlepoint; never so refined, so calm and polite, so mild and moderate, well-mannered and generous. A revolution is an uprising, violence with which one class overthrows another.”
Revolution is violence. Violence. Wu temporarily left the violence far behind. She longed to see the concentrated, calm dark eyes of Dr. Tang; she longed to have him extend the cold little stethoscope to her chest …
One night when he was on duty, she felt the dizziness again and rang the bell. So he came to her room, where Wu was the only resident for the time being, though there were four beds. She never asked Dr. Tang later whether he made the arrangements deliberately or it just happened that there were no other patients. It was late at night then. He turned on the light and leaned over to ask her what was wrong and where she felt the discomfort. She saw that pair of small dark eyes again. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, saying it was her heart that pained her. He took out his stethoscope—she could sense that he had taken it out. He extended it toward her and when that ice-cold thing touched her flesh and pressed down over her heart, she reached up her hand and pressed down on his hand—the hand that held the stethoscope—and then she turned off the light.
In the dark they remained locked like this for a long time, as if their breathing had also stopped. That hand of his, pressed down by hers, remained motionless, although he suspected motionlessness was not what she had in mind for him. She didn’t move, either, only the heart beneath their overlapped hands raced wildly. They remained motionless, as if each was feeling out the other: Is he going to call a nurse? Is she suddenly going to scream? They grappled and stalled, as if each were waiting for the other to make the first move, whether it was to attack or to surrender.
Her palm began to sweat, and the sweat of her palm wet the back of his hand. Her body started to heave in the dark because a hot current was surging and circulating in her lower belly, burning down right between her legs. She began to repeat to him the whispers of the other day in the clinic. Her voice grew quieter and more indistinct, accompanied by wild panting. The panting clearly had some elements of performance about it and was also mixed with some reluctant sighing. She repeated her whispers: “You can’t … you can’t … you can’t …” He didn’t know if she was saying that he couldn’t withdraw his hand or that he couldn’t go further. But just then he pulled his stethoscope free, tossed it aside, and put his hands on her breasts, calmly and with resolve.
When he pressed his long, lean body on her ample body, she suddenly felt an unprecedented sense of liberation. Yes, liberation, and she didn’t feel guilty at all. Only then was she convinced that she would truly be adopted by Dr. Tang. The floodgate to her pure desire was thrown open. She clutched his waist with her hands, and she coiled her legs high, hooking her feet tightly around his hips. She didn’t stop and didn’t allow him to stop. Still in motion, she took a pillow and put it under her hips. She wanted him to go deeper and deeper. Until maybe it wasn’t about going deeper anymore; it was about going through her entire body, to pierce her body entirely.
3
The night arrived like this: right in the middle of her boredom and brazen anticipation. She inhaled the smell of the laundry room from the pillow, along with the special smell of disinfectant from the hospital ward … laundry room and disinfectant. A healthy woman is put into an isolated room and the mixture of these two smells produces a crazy arousal in parts of her body.
At this time, in this moment, Wu was suppressing her excitement, waiting in the dark. The night before, as he was leaving her room, Dr. Tang told her that maybe she should have rheumatic heart disease. He would provide her certification of the diagnosis and a note for sick leave, a note that would allow her to rest for a month, which was the longest time that a physician in charge at People’s Hospital could prescribe. She didn’t want to concentrate on the thought that this was what she was waiting for, this note that would allow her to stay at Fuan and at home; that would make her seem degraded. The implication of exchange was all too obvious. She preferred to think she was waiting for the fulfillment of her sexual desire. She had experienced a feeling with him that she had never felt before. It seemed to be a kind of pleasure brought on by a nervousness and secrecy, and also a kind of submission to fate as thorough as if she were falling into an abyss.
He arrived, and when he put the note into her hand, she turned off the light again. This time she had the urge to caress him; it might be the female’s most primitive physical expression of gratitude. She stroked his hair and his face, which she was not really familiar with; she lay down on him and looked for his lips. She hadn’t touched his lips and he hadn’t touched hers, either. She discovered he didn’t like her to get near his face. When her hair brushed the corner of his mouth, he reached out his hands to hold her head, as if to avoid her. He held her head and pushed it all the way down, down. Her head, mouth, and face slipped further and further down, over his chest and stomach, then to that thicket of thorns, dense and a little scratchy. She didn’t remember when he left the room. When she calmed down and was about to wipe her body, she noticed that she was still clutching the sick leave note.
She left the hospital and returned home. She announced to the sisters that she could stay at home for a month, a month. After she said that, she lay back on her bed. She remembered she had rheumatic heart disease, so she needed to lie in bed. She leaned back against that big wide feather pillow and wrote separate letters to Yixun and to the farm leader, enclosing the certificate of diagnosis and the sick leave note. She asked Tiao to go out to post the letters for her. Tiao held the letters and asked her, “Mum, what do you want to eat?”
What do I want to eat? Wu listened to Tiao’s question and looked at her eleven-year-old daughter. The question obviously showed her daughter’s concern for her, and it was unusual for a girl at such a young age to know how to take care of people, but the closeness between mother and daughter also seemed to be missing. Tiao never played cute with her, nor did she ever throw tantrums. And Wu never knew what was in Tiao’s small head. Fan, who had just turned six, seemed to be under her older sister’s influence. She stood next to Tiao and asked Wu in an adult way, “Mum, what do you want to eat?” As if she could cook anything her mum wanted to eat. Looking at her daughters, for a moment Wu felt like she had become a guest in the house, and the two sisters were the hosts. But she still gave serious thought to what she wanted to eat. She said, “Mum wants to eat fish.”
Tiao posted the letter at the post office, then went to the grocery store and bought a big live carp. The grocer tied the fish’s mouth shut with a string of iris grass and handed it over to Tiao. She always remembered the price of that carp: ninety-five cents. She would forget many things over the years but not the ninety-five-cent carp. Her mood at the time was also memorable: she walked home carrying the swinging fish, straining a little bit, but feeling happy, confident, and proud. She liked having Wu back to prop up the family; she also wanted Wu to see that Tiao was not an ordinary girl in her parents’ absence. She wasn’t only capable of buying things, but she also knew how to cook them. She returned home, put the fish in the sink, removed the scales, cut open the belly, rinsed the cavity, drained it, picked up the cleaver and made diagonal cuts on the fish’s body, then patted a thin layer of cornstarch onto the fish and fried it … In the end she produced a braised carp and took it to Wu. Her little face was red from the heat of the greasy smoke, and the sweat made her fringe stick to her forehead; the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up, revealing her tiny arms.
Fan ran around and cheered; she was proud of her older sister. She also took the opportunity to show off her own cooking tips, saying, “Mum, do you know what to do if you accidentally break the fish’s gallbladder when you’re cleaning it? You pour some white wine right away into the fish belly …”
Tiao’s braised carp took Wu by surprise. She felt a lump in her throat, yes, a lump, and then she began to cry. It was the first time she had cried since getting home; the tears came from the kind of guilt that can’t be eased with an apology. She realized then that she hadn’t asked about the two children’s lives since she came home, how school was, what they ate every day, and whether they were being bullied or not. She really wanted to hold them to her breast and hug them tightly, but she didn’t seem able to. Not every mother is capable of loving her child, although every child in the world longs to be loved. Not every mother can give off the maternal glow, although every child in the world longs to be bathed in it. Tiao always guarded herself against possible closeness with Wu, including the occasions when her mother cried. When tears threatened to bring them closer to one another, Tiao got embarrassed. This would be their regret, as mother and daughter, all their lives: they almost never could laugh or cry at the same time; either the mother was half a beat slower, or the other way around. That was why Wu’s tears now couldn’t move and comfort Tiao; Tiao just tried her hardest simply to understand her mother, and felt proud of herself for the effort.
They began to eat the fish. Wu said, “I’m going to knit a jumper for each of you.” She said it eagerly, as if knitting jumpers were another form of embrace. She couldn’t hug them, so she was going to knit for them. Tiao said, “Knit one for Fan first. Rose is the prettiest colour, isn’t it, Fan?”
Fan said, “Rose is the prettiest colour and it’s the only colour I want.” This loyalty of hers to Tiao, this enthusiastic response, made Tiao feel like it had been a dream whenever she recalled it later. Next, as if to go along with the pleasant atmosphere, Wu talked about her plan to invite a guest over for dinner. She said that during her stay in hospital, she had been really fortunate to have Dr. Tang. So, to express her gratitude, she wanted to invite him over for dinner. She said, “You’re both young and don’t know how hard it is to see a doctor.” If there hadn’t been this Dr. Tang, her life might have been in danger, not to mention the sick leave. She deliberately said the words “sick leave” softly, under her breath, but Tiao still heard her. If there hadn’t been this sick leave, she wouldn’t be able to stay at home for a month. Tiao said she didn’t understand. “Didn’t you get the sick leave because you were sick? Why was it because of the doctor that you got the sick leave?”
Wu said, “Not every patient could get permission to rest. To put it simply, Dr. Tang is important and someone we should thank.”
So they thanked him. It was a Sunday and Wu broke her routine and got up early. She asked Tiao to help her in the kitchen and was busy for almost an entire morning. She hadn’t cooked for a long time and was out of practice, and her sense about salt, sugar, soy sauce, and MSG was off. She was intimidated by the kitchen, the way she was by the Reed River Farm. But as she bustled around, the one tiny advantage of the Reed River Farm occurred to her: they didn’t need to cook there; they ate in the canteen. She made several odd-looking dishes, asking Tiao over and over again where the seasonings were. Spicy soy sauce and fennel—she had completely forgotten where they were. Finally, she planned to make a dessert: grilled miniature snowballs. She mentioned it to Tiao and Tiao said, “That’s my dad’s dish. No one knows how to make it when he’s not home.”
“Why can’t we make it? Aren’t fresh milk, eggs, and sugar all we need?”
“We also need vanilla and citric acid. Without citric acid, milk will stay liquid. It won’t become miniature snowballs.”
Wu looked at Tiao with surprise and asked, “How do you know?”
“I’ve seen Dad make it.”
Wu said, “Find citric acid for me and I’ll make grilled miniature snowballs.”
“We don’t have citric acid.”
Wu believed Tiao, but she had a vague feeling that Tiao wanted to keep the recipe for miniature snowballs to herself.
Later, candied apple was substituted for grilled snowballs. Tiao despised this dish from the bottom of her heart. She had never liked any kind of “candied” dish, thinking it was neither hygienic nor civilized for people to pull out the apples with their chopsticks, trailing syrupy tangled candied strings, and then everyone dipping them into the same bowl of cold water, meanwhile faking the same amazed and satisfied expressions as they ate. Besides, what was so amazing and satisfying about eating sugarcoated apple? Furthermore, when Wu made candied apple, she always overdid the sugar, so there weren’t any sugar strings to be pulled no matter how hard you tried. There were just gooey pieces and chunks that would stick to your teeth and palate. Tiao would keep licking the roof of her mouth with her tongue and sometimes had to put her fingers into her mouth to pry the stuff free. However, it passed as a dessert. With the way Wu cooked, who could blame Tiao for telling her that they didn’t have citric acid?
When the dinner was ready, Wu began changing her clothes, going back and forth between the few outfits she had, whose styles were almost all the same, but in different colours like grey, green, blue, etc. But Wu looked good, her face glowing with excitement. She kept looking at herself in the mirror and also lowered her head and asked Tiao to smell her hair. “Do you think my hair smells of grease? Smell it again. Maybe I should wash my hair.”
Tiao sniffed at Wu’s hair and smelled a little grease smoke, but wasn’t in a hurry to say anything. She asked Wu suddenly, “Is Dr. Tang a man or a woman?” Wu was startled for a moment and then straightened her back, her hair falling over half of her face. She said, “It’s … it’s uncle. You should call him uncle. What’s the matter?” “Nothing,” Tiao said. For some reason she didn’t want to tell Wu that her hair smelled of grease smoke; she didn’t want Wu to wash her hair one more time for this thank-you dinner. She felt Wu had spent too much time preparing for the dinner and was taking it too seriously. She had never seen her mother so serious about anything, including Tiao’s and Fan’s business. Wu ignored Tiao’s reservations and washed her hair once more, as if she’d known that Tiao hadn’t told the truth. Her dark, shiny hair matched her fresh, lustrous face—with the two soft, delicate, faultless eyebrows—it all looked very beautiful to Tiao, but she never said so to Wu.
Dr. Tang arrived, a very reserved man speaking perfect Beijing dialect. He didn’t have his white cap on, so it was the first time that Wu had seen his hair, brownish hair that made his small dark eyes look even darker. They exchanged some courtesies and sat down to dinner. Wu told Tiao and Fan to call him uncle, but Tiao insisted on calling him Dr. Tang and Fan followed her sister’s lead. Fan had a white plastic set of doctor toys, which included a syringe, a stethoscope, and a “kidney tray” for surgery. She showed these toys to Dr. Tang and said with regret that she didn’t have a thermometer, for which she often had to substitute a popsicle stick. If she found someone with a fever, she would give that person a shot. “If you have a fever, you need a shot, right, Dr. Tang?” She repeated the words “have a fever” in a high-pitched voice; for her all illness could be summed up in the words “have a fever.”
Have a fever.
Dr. Tang and Wu talked for a long time after dinner. He handed Wu a hardback copy of The Family Medical Encyclopedia and told her that there was a chapter dedicated to rheumatic heart disease. When Wu took the book from him, she noticed a loose thread on one of the sleeves of his jumper. She thought, why would she be so quick to tell Tiao and Fan that she was going to knit jumpers for them?
She bought a pure light grey woollen yarn and started to knit a jumper, leaning back against her pillow. She usually knitted during the daytime, after Tiao went to school, and also in the evening, after Tiao and Fan fell asleep. That made her look a little underhanded and evasive because she didn’t want her daughters to see her knit this jumper. But in a simple home like theirs, where could she hide it? Tiao eventually found the light grey half-finished item.
She was a little surprised and asked Wu, “This isn’t Fan’s jumper, is it? Didn’t you say that you were going to knit one for Fan?”
Wu grabbed the jumper back. “I did say that I was going to knit one for Fan, but I can knit one for myself first.”
“This is not a woman’s jumper. It’s not for you.” She stood beside Wu’s bed and seemed indignant.
The next day, when Wu unfolded the jumper to continue her work, she found that the sleeve she had almost finished the day before had disappeared.
4
The sleeve had to have been taken apart by Tiao. The knitting needles had vanished, and each row of stitches was undone—Wu had put her heart and soul into those stitches. She was furious, but couldn’t really allow herself to lose her temper. She clutched the unravelled jumper, kept her anger in check, and went to talk things over with Tiao. She thought it might take some effort to get Tiao to confess, and hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Tiao admitted it as soon as Wu asked, as if she were waiting for Wu to question her.
“Was it you who took the jumper apart?”
“It was me.”
“What did I do wrong, to have you unravel my jumper?”
“You said you were going to knit a jumper for Fan but you didn’t keep your promise.”
“Yes, I did say that. It was … I couldn’t find the rose yarn in the shop. I saw this kind, which was nice but more suitable for an adult—”
“What adult? Which adult?” Tiao interrupted Wu.
“Which adult?” Wu repeated Tiao’s question. “Me, for instance. Like me.” She lowered her voice.
“But this is not for you. This is a man’s jumper.” Tiao’s voice remained firm.
“How do you know this is for a man? You don’t even know how to knit.” Wu’s anger flared again.
“Of course I know. I’ve seen you knit before. I’ve seen you knit for Dad. Are you knitting it for Dad?” Tiao looked directly into Wu’s eyes.
“Yes … uh, no.” Wu seemed to be forced into a corner by Tiao. She knew if she continued saying that the jumper was for Yixun, she would look even more stupid than she already did. Maybe Tiao would immediately write to her dad and tell him that Mum was knitting for him. So she admitted that the jumper was for Dr. Tang. It was Dr. Tang who had asked her to knit a jumper for him. Dr. Tang was not married yet and he needed someone to take care of him. So she agreed to knit this for him. She was even going to try to find him a girlfriend … She didn’t know why she was babbling all of this to Tiao.
“Then why did you say you were knitting this for yourself?” Tiao still didn’t let it go.
Wu’s guilt turned into anger. She said, “What do you want? What do you really want from me? Why do you upset me so much? Don’t you know that I’m ill?”
“If you’re ill, then why do you spend so much time knitting?” Tiao didn’t back down.
“I spend so much time knitting because … because I hope to spend more time at home with you. Does my doing this bother you? Look at the other children in the Architectural Design Academy. Don’t they all have to stay home by themselves, pathetically wasting their lives? Not all parents are as lucky as we are: to be able to have one of us at home to take an interest in our children.”
Tiao didn’t say anything more. She was thinking Wu might be right, but mostly her mind was filled with doubt. Wu spoke about “taking an interest” but Tiao didn’t see any of it from her. She was not concerned about the sisters; didn’t notice Fan had lost her front tooth, and didn’t ask once what they had eaten every day in the last half a year. The way Tiao was mistreated for not knowing how to speak the Fuan dialect—Wu had never asked about any of this. So Tiao was more skeptical than trusting. And she didn’t believe that Wu believed her own words, either. Her years of suspicion crystallized into doubt at that moment. This was sad for both mother and daughter, and something that neither seemed to be able to do anything about, which made it feel more cruel to have to accept.
Wu didn’t feel she had won just because Tiao didn’t reply, but she preferred not to think about it any further. She was the kind of person who didn’t like to think deeply, a lifelong escapist. Her mind was not large enough to accommodate either caring for others or self-analysis. She clutched the jumper and returned to bed and to her big crumpled pillow to resume knitting. By the lamplight, she used the bamboo knitting needles to pick up the loose stitches one by one and finished the sleeve and the entire jumper in a single night.
Then she bought some yarn to knit a jumper for Yixun. She changed the colour to a cream. She knitted day and night, her hands flying and her eyes getting bloodshot, as if she wanted to work off her guilt with the unusual knitting as well as ease her nerves. She knitted with great skill and she herself was surprised by the speed: she took only seven days to knit jumpers for two men. Seven days; she had never come close to that mark, not before or afterwards. Whether it was to punish herself for her fall or to ease the way for her to fall further, she didn’t know. She had a feeling that her relationship with Dr. Tang had not yet run its course.
Neither had had their fill of each other. Almost every Sunday, Dr. Tang came to Wu’s house for dinner. When Wu’s month of sick leave was up, he renewed it for another month. If he continued to renew her sick leave without anyone noticing, wouldn’t she be able to stay at home for a long time? This was something she hardly dared to imagine but wished for with all of her heart. When the Cultural Revolution turned violent, she became what was known as a wanderer, and she really wanted to be one. “Wanderers” was the label given to the faction of people who avoided political campaigns and labour reform and refused to take a stand on matters of principle. This group—muddleheaded, backward—couldn’t be brought onto the stage to play their parts in history. If a doctor were found to provide a false certification for a patient, the consequences could be very severe. They wouldn’t merely say he was violating professional ethics, which wouldn’t be a serious enough charge. They would accuse him of undermining the great revolution, that is, being antirevolutionary. And Dr. Tang might very likely get arrested as an antirevolutionary. Dr. Tang was in fact risking his life, for Wu.
Now Dr. Tang wore the jumper Wu knitted for him openly—it fit really well. Wu liked to look at his mouth chewing in the daylight. The way he ate was very elegant; his mouth made small but accurate movements, adeptly dealing with difficult foods like fish heads or spare ribs. It almost looked like he used his mouth as a knife to perform a quiet operation on food. That mouth of his seemed to be of particular use for eating food and keeping silent—when he wasn’t eating, he was very quiet. His words were rare, which seemed to make his mouth even more precious. Wu would try to kiss him when no one was around, but he would pull away. So she let him be. She didn’t have to kiss him. In some respects, she was easily satisfied. She would confine herself to observing that mouth. From her limited experience of men, she believed he was shy. He was an unmarried man.
She kept telling the sisters that she was going to get a girlfriend for Dr. Tang, but that it was really difficult. Dr. Tang came from a politically-tainted family, and was also raising his niece on his own. The niece, whom Wu had met, was an orphan, the child of his older sister. She kept talking about finding a girlfriend but never took action. Tiao had never seen her bring anyone home who looked like a girlfriend type. During this period, Yixun came home for the change of season and stayed for three days—he had only three days’ vacation. He invited Dr. Tang home to drink beer with him. Back then Fuan didn’t have bottled beer, so beer was sold only in restaurants. The restaurant employees would use a rice bowl as a measure, ladle out the beer from a ceramic barrel, and then pour it into the customer’s own container. The beer didn’t have any head and tasted sour and bitter.
The two men drank beer and ate a roast chicken together, one that Yixun had brought back from Reed River Town. Yixun enquired about Wu’s illness, and when he asked about it, Wu remembered she was sick. She had to be sick, with rheumatic heart disease. Yixun asked about all the details thoughtfully, full of concern for Wu and gratitude to Dr. Tang. Dr. Tang said this type of heart disease was the most common in China, making up 40 to 50 percent of the various heart conditions. Most patients were young or middle-aged, ranging from twenty to forty years old, and the majority were women. It was a form of heart disease that was mainly valvular, caused by acute rheumatic fever, usually attacking the bicuspid and aortic valves, causing stenosis or valve insufficiency and blood circulation stasis that would eventually lead to overall heart insufficiency.
Yixun said, “So, do you think Wu’s dizziness has something to do with rheumatic heart disease?”
Dr. Tang said it was possible because a minority of patients might have shortness of breath or faint when the symptoms got worse. As Dr. Tang was talking, he and Wu exchanged a glance, a quick one, barely noticeable. In the face of Yixun’s careful concern, both seemed a little bit ashamed. They hadn’t expected that Yixun would invite Dr. Tang for a beer and have such a friendly conversation with him. It was, of course, the normal attitude of a normal person: Yixun felt indebted to the doctor for his kindness—Wu described in her letter to him how Dr. Tang came to her rescue when she passed out in the clinic and how he managed to get her into the internal medicine ward. When Dr. Tang told Yixun that there usually wasn’t great danger as long as the patient took care to rest and avoided intense physical activity, Yixun felt reassured.
Three days later when Yixun was returning to the farm, Wu packed the cream-coloured jumper she had knitted into his luggage.
Their house went quiet for a few days. Wu lay quietly on the bed, often without moving, as if she were really afraid of intense activity. Tiao felt everything was fine, as if Dr. Tang had never appeared in their house—which was when she realized that she had never liked Dr. Tang, even if he had saved Wu’s life a hundred times over. But the calm lasted only a few days, after which Wu started to get active. Apparently it had become inconvenient for her to invite Dr. Tang home anymore, or she felt embarrassed to invite him over so quickly—so soon after Yixun had been there. She didn’t want the children to notice the obvious contrast; she already felt Tiao’s awkwardness was harder and harder to handle, so she decided to go out.
She must be going either to the hospital or Dr. Tang’s place, Tiao thought. Wu often went out after dark and didn’t come back until very late. Before she left, she always spent a long time in front of the mirror, combing her hair, gazing at her reflection, changing clothes and practicing pleasant expressions, checking both her front view and side view. How wilted and spiritless she appeared when she was tossing around on her pillow, her hair dishevelled and her eyes dull, with drool at the corner of her mouth, thin and silvery, like a snail track. Had Dr. Tang seen her this way? If Dr. Tang saw this side of her, would he still want her to visit him?
But when Wu stood before the mirror and prepared to leave, she seemed to have turned into a completely different person, enthusiastic and energetic, her entire body lit up like a candle. Sometimes she even brought one or two dishes along, food for Dr. Tang. For this reason she had to enter the kitchen, the place she had always hated. Clumsily, she’d make fried eggplant and beef-carrot stew. She would put up with Tiao’s comments, believing Tiao was just being intentionally hurtful. Tiao made a point of saying that Wu’s cooking was bland, that the beef-carrot stew wouldn’t be tasty if she didn’t use curry powder. Wu then humbly asked where the curry powder was, but Tiao declared happily she didn’t have any and they just couldn’t find curry powder in Fuan, that the curry powder they used to have came with them from Beijing. Wu never noticed that Tiao had been removing the seasonings little by little. She hid them so Wu wouldn’t find them and use them, because they had all become too closely associated with Dr. Tang.
When Wu was not home, Tiao flipped through the pages of The Family Medical Encyclopedia that Dr. Tang had given Wu. She turned to the section on rheumatic heart disease, but unfortunately there were too many words she didn’t understand. She looked at pictures of ugly human bodies, one of which was a woman with a curled, upside-down baby in her belly. Tiao wrote a line in pencil in the margin next to the baby, “This is Dr. Tang.” Why would she pick a baby and make it into Dr. Tang? Was it because only a baby like that was less powerful than she was? She then could freely express her contempt for the adult Dr. Tang through this fetus.
Wu still went to see Dr. Tang, carrying her lunch box, offering Dr. Tang the food she cooked, and herself. One evening she left, and didn’t come home the whole night. It was on that night that Fan had a high fever. Having a fever, having a fever. Precisely the words Fan always used when she was playing the doctor-patient game. Her entire body was burning hot, her face all red, and her nostrils flaring. She said she was very thirsty and wanted Tiao to cuddle her. Tiao held her in her arms and let Fan’s fever scald her. She gave Fan water and orange juice, but neither could lower her temperature. Where was Wu? Both of them needed her. When Fan’s fever made her cry, Tiao cried with her. She patted Fan’s back with her small hand and said, “Let me tell you a story. Don’t you love to listen to stories?” But Fan was not interested in stories. She must have felt terrible. She kept coughing and threw up several times. Her coughing and vomiting made her sound both old and young, like an old man trapped in a child’s body. Tiao’s heart was broken into a thousand pieces; Fan’s suffering gripped her with pain. She hated Wu, thinking how she would shout at her when she came home. She held Fan in her arms all night long. Young and small as she was, she took on the responsibility of caring for Fan, who was smaller and weaker than she. She didn’t close her eyes the whole night, washing her face when she felt sleepy. She was determined to wait for Wu to come home with open eyes, letting Wu see for herself that Tiao had been waiting for her all night. At daybreak Wu opened the door and tiptoed in.
A big pillow flew at Wu as a welcome—Tiao had grabbed it from the bed and thrown it at Wu’s face. She didn’t know where she got the nerve for this rude behaviour, which should never be used to deal with adults and parents. But once the pillow was thrown there was no way to take it back. She stared boldly at her mother.
Wu’s mind went blank. Only when Tiao shouted at her that Fan was dying did she come to her senses and rush to Fan. Fan was half conscious with the fever, a pink rash covering her forehead and behind her ears. She probably had the measles.
Fan’s illness worried and frightened Wu. But she had no time for regret right then. She just picked up Fan and hurried out.
“Where are you going?”
“The hospital.”
Tiao asked which hospital, and Wu said People’s Hospital.
“You can’t go to People’s Hospital!” Tiao stamped her feet like a little lunatic.
5
Adults are still adults. Even if you throw pillows at their faces, these somewhat confused people remain in charge. Wu ignored Tiao’s stamping. She put Fan on the crossbar of her bicycle and pedaled directly to People’s Hospital. Tiao followed the bike, running all the way. In the emergency room, while the doctor on duty took Fan’s temperature, Wu went to the internal medicine ward and got Dr. Tang. It was not that she didn’t trust the doctor on duty; she just trusted Dr. Tang more. In this unfamiliar city, when she had trouble, a doctor with whom she had an intimate relationship would naturally become her protector, even though he was not on duty in the emergency room and didn’t know pediatrics. Tiao couldn’t stop Dr. Tang from appearing. She watched Wu and Dr. Tang bustle around Fan and had a feeling she had been deceived. Yes, she had been fooled by this pair of hypocrites, this man and woman. She felt angry and sad. She didn’t know the word “hypocrite” then. She wouldn’t find this word for them until she was an adult looking back. But right then she thought about her dad. She felt very sorry for Yixun. She decided to write him a letter. She wanted him to come and save her, and Fan as well.
Fan had measles.
At home, later that day, Tiao began to write to Yixun behind Wu’s back, using stationery with light green lines. In the upper right corner of the paper was a row of light green printing, the size of sesame seeds: Beijing Bus Company. They’d brought the paper along with them from Beijing when they moved. Tiao had bought it at a stationery store when she was still at Denger Alley Elementary School. At the time she never considered why the paper would have Beijing Bus Company on it. These light green words gave her a feeling that whenever she wrote, a bus would come to pick up the letter and take it far away, to the place where it belonged. Years later, when she worked in the Publishing House and saw all kinds of letters and manuscripts, she recalled her childhood, and the Beijing Bus Company paper she had used to write letters. She understood then it must be the letterhead from the printing house of Beijing Bus Company, but was still puzzled. Why would a bus company own a printing house? And why would its paper flood every major stationery store in Beijing?
On Beijing Bus Company paper Tiao wrote to Yixun.
Dear Dad:
How are you? I missed you very much today because Fan had measles. She had a fever, coughed very hard, and even threw up. I think she also missed you very much, but you were not there. Next, I’m going to tell you something about Mum; I must expose her. Ever since she came home, she hasn’t taken care of us at all. She either lies in bed sleeping or goes to the hospital to see a doctor. I told her about my school, how I was going to graduate from elementary school soon but haven’t joined the Junior Red Guards yet. Besides me, there are only four other of my classmates who are not in the Junior Red Guards. Two of them have landlord grandfathers and one has a father who wrote to the Nationalist Party in Taiwan. There is one other classmate whose mum used to be the vice president of a university here and had been denounced. I think I’m different from them. I believe you two are good people, but why can’t I join the Junior Red Guards? Is it just because I came from Beijing and have a different accent? I asked Mum and she said if I couldn’t join the Junior Red Guards then just don’t join. She also won’t allow me to learn the Fuan dialect, saying it’s an ugly accent. You see how backwards she is! Dad, you probably don’t know that we don’t have classes anymore. Our teachers take us to dig air-raid shelters every day, telling us that this is to protect us from the invasion of the Soviet revisionists. Since I’m not a Junior Red Guard, I work especially hard, much harder than those Junior Red Guards. How I wish the teacher noticed my performance! Once, I was so tired that I fell asleep at the air-raid shelter. I used the wet, sticky dirt as a pillow, and my head got full of dirt. The teacher didn’t find me until almost dark. She didn’t praise me; maybe she thought she should praise those Junior Red Guards first and I was a lower creature than they were. I was disappointed and wanted to tell Mum all about this, but every time I tried to talk to her, she always said, I know, I know. Mum is busy and doesn’t have time to listen to this … “Mum is busy” is what she says most often. What is Mum? Mum is “I know, I know, and Mum is busy.” Mum is busy. How busy she is! She is busy knitting a jumper for Dr. Tang. She originally said she was going to knit one for each of us, but she ended up knitting it for Dr. Tang. Dear Dad, I want to tell you that I’m disgusted by this Dr. Tang. I hate that he came to our house and I know Mum sometimes went to his place as well. Fan is a big fool. Every time Dr. Tang came, she would talk about the doctor-patient game with him. She also showed him her toys. Mum would ask me to cook with her for Dr. Tang. Dr. Tang is not a part of our family, but she gave him all her time, which I really don’t understand. Just a few days ago, on the night when Fan had measles, Mum didn’t come home all night. Where could I find her on such a dark night? Why didn’t she pay attention to us? Dear Dad, I am almost crying as I’m writing this. I remember when we lived in Beijing, you and Mum took us to the Forbidden City and the Beihai Park. You told us the Forbidden City was where the emperor lived. After a while, Fan saw a worker decorating the window in the palace hall, she ran back and told everyone mysteriously, I saw the emperor. The emperor was decorating the window. We also went to the Beihai Park to row the boats, eating barley buns and leaving the park after dark. It was you who carried me on your back the whole time. Mum held Fan. We fell asleep and I heard you tell Mum: Just look at how soundly they’re sleeping. Actually I was not fast asleep. I could have walked on my own but I pretended to be sleeping so you would carry me a little longer. Now I beg you to come home as soon as you read this letter. If this can be tolerated, what else cannot be?
I wish you health,
Your daughter, Tiao
It was a long letter sprinkled with political phrases popular back then, such as “If this can be tolerated, what else cannot be?” and “expose,” etc., a letter filled with accusation and tears. Continually looking up words in an elementary school dictionary, Tiao spent three days finishing the letter. At sad moments, tears soaked the paper, smudging some of the words and stippling the pages. Tiao wanted to copy the letter out again, but she was eager to send it. Besides, even though the letter was a bit messy, it did reveal her real feelings, after all. She wanted Yixun to see her true feelings and anxiety.
She found an envelope and carefully wrote down the names and addresses for both the sender and receiver. She then hid the letter in her backpack and threw it into the first postbox she saw on her way to school. It was a round, cast-iron pillar box that stood outside the gate of the Architectural Design Academy, only a hundred metres from Tiao’s home, Building Number 6 in the residential complex. She stood on tiptoe to throw the letter into the mailbox, and her heart felt relieved as soon as she heard the gentle pa sound as the letter dropped to the bottom of the box, as if the postbox liberated her right at that moment, setting her long-unhappy heart free.
When she came home in the afternoon, Wu had already cooked the dinner. It won’t taste good, Tiao thought, but she ate her fill. She believed Yixun was coming home soon and things would change. Nothing would be a problem. Her change of mood started after dinner. At the time, Fan was lying under the covers of Wu’s big bed with her eyes quietly closed, her fever down and her measles almost gone. Wu was leaning on the side of the bed knitting. This jumper was for Fan. She had followed Tiao’s suggestion and bought the rose-coloured yarn. Keeping vigil over Fan for several days in a row had made her thinner than before; her eyes were red and her hair slightly messy. She knitted with her head lowered for a while, then took a bottle of eyedrops from the nightstand and put a few drops into her eyes. The eyedrops must have burned, and she leaned against the pillow with her eyes closed, bearing it quietly for a while. Some liquid ran out of the corners of her eyes, which Tiao thought was a mixture of tears and eyedrops. She felt that the way Wu leaned on the pillow with her messy hair and teary eyes looked a little awkward and pitiful. How she clutched her knitting needles also touched Tiao with a kind of sadness that she couldn’t explain. The room was quiet and peaceful, as if no stranger had ever entered and nothing had ever happened. In those few seconds, just in a few seconds, everything changed.
Why did she have to write to Yixun? Was everything she put in the letter true? What would happen to her family when her dad came home? Why would she expose Wu? Wasn’t that a word that should be used only for enemies? All of a sudden Tiao felt pressure in her head as if a disaster were approaching—it must feel that way when a disaster approached. With the pressure building in her head, when Wu was not paying attention, she opened the door and sneaked out.
She passed several residential buildings in the Architectural Design Academy, going by the office building near the gate, the one pasted with all kinds of slogans and posters. In the daytime, the wind blew through layer upon layer of posters and tore them to shreds, making the building look like a giant wailing madman. Night silenced the madman and its body only made small monotonous rustlings, a bit lonely but not frightening. As soon as she crossed the pitch-black courtyard and walked out the gate, she saw the postbox, faithfully and steadfastly standing in the shadow of the trees on the pavement. She rushed straight at the letterbox with hands outstretched. She anxiously groped for the mail slot: a narrow slot, which immediately made her realize the pointlessness of her fumbling, since she had no way to slide her hand into it. By the dim streetlight, she could read the two rows of small words below the slot: “collection time, 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.”
Tiao clearly understood those two lines of words, but once again she reached her hands into the slot. She explored the narrow slot with her fingers one after another, hoping that a miracle would happen, that her small fingers could fish out a letter that was already gone. She had sneaked out of the house believing she could get the letter back as long as she found the postbox. Now she realized that this belief of hers was just a pathetic, self-deceiving fantasy. Up and down, she studied the ice-cold cast-iron postbox, taller and bigger than she was. She encircled it with her arms, holding its waist in hopes of pulling it up by the root, or pushing it over and smashing it. She wrestled with it, pleaded with it, and sulked at it; all the while she believed for no reason that as long as she kept working on it she could get that terrible letter back. She didn’t know how long she tortured herself, not stopping until she was utterly exhausted. She then threw herself onto the postbox and beat it wearily with her small fists. This seemingly faithful postbox had refused to serve her. She leaned against the postbox and started to cry, sobbing and beating it, not knowing where to find the letter that had gone. After a while she heard someone speak behind her: “Hey, child, what’s the matter?”
She was frightened and immediately stopped crying, staring alertly at the one who had asked her the question. Although much taller than she was, he was not an adult, but three or four years older than she was, or four or five at the most. He was one of those high school students who, of course, were adults in Tiao’s eyes because they normally treated elementary school students with arrogance, and liked to appear older than they actually were. That was why this boy addressed her as a child.
But there was nothing arrogant about him. His voice was soft and there was real concern in it. He stooped towards Tiao, who was still leaning on the postbox, looked at her, and gently asked again, “Child, what’s the matter?”
Tiao shook her head, saying nothing. Somehow the word “child” calmed her and brought back her tears; a vague feeling of having been wronged filled her heart, as if this “Child, what’s the matter?” were something she had looked forward to hearing for a long time. She was entitled to be addressed that way and asked that question about many, many things. Now a stranger had done it, which made her want to trust him even though she shook her head and didn’t say anything. She said nothing and just wanted to hurry home because she remembered the adults’ warning: Don’t talk to strangers.
He followed her to the gate of the Design Academy and asked, “Do you live in the Design Academy? Then we are in the same complex. I live here, too. I can take you home.” He wanted to walk beside her, but she picked up her pace to get rid of him, as if he were a stalker. Finally, she ran into the building and up the stairs. She heard him calling outside, “I want to tell you my name is Chen Zai and I live in Building Number Two.”
6
Why do I always run into you when I’m at my lowest? Why do I run into you when I don’t want to run into anyone? When I am basking in glory, all decked out, and pleased with myself, you’re never there. That night, when I stood on the pavement hopelessly beating the postbox, I was oblivious to the possibility that someone could see me and I might get arrested. Something like that happened in Fuan later; two bored young men lit a firework, threw it into a postbox, and burned all the letters. They were sent to prison. I heard about it a year later. Luckily, throwing fireworks into a postbox never would have occurred to me; luckily, that incident happened after I tortured the postbox, otherwise I probably would have done the same thing out of frustration. I know it’s a crime, and I must have looked like a criminal at the time; at least I showed criminal passion. It was you who observed the darker side of me, and how long had you been watching? Did you start to spy on me as soon as I walked to the postbox, or did you approach as soon as you saw me? If it’s the former, that would make me very unhappy, because if you’d been watching that long you would have figured out that I wanted to steal letters. That’s the kind of thing others shouldn’t know, that battle I had with myself. Maybe you just accidentally saw me, and that “Child, what’s the matter?” really came out of concern, like that of a close family member. Maybe I should have just howled in front of you and begged you to smash the postbox along with me. But you’re not family. Besides, what’s the use of pounding a postbox? I didn’t realize until later when I was calm that my letter was long gone from the postbox. Ai! You said you lived in the same complex as I did, Building Number 2, three buildings away from us, which made me feel both trusting and uneasy. Trusting because living in the same complex felt like being “comrades in the same trench”—the catchphrase at the time—uneasy because you might see me again, point me out to your classmates or neighbours, and gossip about me, telling them about the show I’d put on that night. Who knows? One day, an afternoon in summer, I was playing rubber-band jump rope in front of the building with the rope of rubber bands strung between two trees and slipped higher and higher; I always liked the game, from primary school right through to middle school—I had just started sixth grade. I’d been easily able to jump to the “middle reach” long before; I hoped I could kick my leg up to the “big reach,” the highest height in the game. How high was the rubber-band rope then? It would have been the distance from my feet to the tips of my middle fingers when I stretched my arms upward over my head. My feet couldn’t reach that high at the time, which I simply couldn’t accept. One classmate of mine who was shorter than I was could jump to the “big reach.” That could only mean that I was awkward, my legs were not sufficiently flexible, and maybe my waist was not supple enough. So, my rubber-band jumping on this summer afternoon was not just self-amusement but a strict training regimen. I hoped to jump to the “big reach” so that I could get back at those who humiliated me by making me the rubber-band-rope holder. I tied the two ends of the rope to a pair of poplar trees and raised the height gradually, one try after another. I jumped very smoothly and finally raised the rope to the “big reach.” I gathered all my strength and kicked my right leg up toward the band, but unfortunately, I did it too violently, lost my balance, and fell to the ground. Maybe because the afternoon was so quiet, I heard the thump of my own fall.
Half of my face scraped on the ground and I skinned a knee. My vanity must have been considerable, because even when the pain made me grimace I remembered to look around, to check if anyone had witnessed my embarrassment. At first glance I caught sight of you, recognizing you as the person who said, “Child, what’s the matter?” to me that night. You happened to be passing by on your bike and saw this tumble of mine. It made me very angry, at you and at myself as well. I was still angry as I hurried to get up from the ground, hiding the sharp pain and pretending to walk home calmly as if no one were around. I hummed a song as I entered the building. I had to show you that even though I fell down it hadn’t hurt at all, that I didn’t mind falling, that everyone fell while learning to do the “big reach” … I was so nervous that I forgot to untie the rubber-band rope from the trees. When I remembered it late in the afternoon and ran back to the poplars, someone had stolen it. The ten-foot-long rubber-band rope, which I’d put together by saving the rubber bands one by one!
Many years later, when I was an adult, during the winter Fang Jing left me, I wrote a letter to force him to come see me at Fuan. He agreed to come, but said he was very busy and could only talk to me at the train station. He bought a return ticket to Beijing as soon as he got off the train. We sat in the noisy, smoky waiting room—sometimes the noisiest public location can be the best place to have a private conversation. I asked why he had promised to get a divorce but kept putting it off. Why would he stay married while he forbade me to have a boyfriend? I said a lot and he said very little; he spoke one sentence after I said ten. He said, finally, “Falling in love with me was a mistake, and you should calm down and think about starting a new life on your own.” Full of himself and absentminded, he stood up and got ready to leave while he was still talking. I seized his sleeve then, the sleeve of his ostrich-grey Brazilian leather jacket. This was what I’d most feared hearing; I would rather have had him say, “You can’t have a boyfriend. I won’t allow it.” That would have at least shown that he cared about me. I held on to his sleeve, bowed my head, and started to cry, quietly but in surging waves. I didn’t know when he disappeared from view, but I still held on to a bag of Fuan’s local delicacy: honey twisted dough sticks. How would Fang Jing in his Brazilian leather jacket appreciate this sort of local delicacy? But I sincerely wanted to please him with the dough sticks, even when I faced his impatience. I curled up on the wooden bench in the waiting room, not wanting to go home, my hand still clutching the bag of dough sticks and my heart as confused as a tangled bunch of twine. I must have been stupid to the extreme, because even after Fang Jing escaped my pestering (if that was what it was) and had boarded the train to return to Beijing, I still hated him and missed him—to hate is to miss. I stayed there and didn’t want to leave because Fang Jing had just sat there, his breath and the warmth of his body lingering. Chen Zai, you arrived again, always showing up at moments like these. But I wasn’t afraid of you anymore, nor did I pretend to be someone I wasn’t, as I had the year I fell at rubber-band rope. We were all grown up and you were like an older brother of mine, not too close but not too distant, either. We lived in the same complex; we would smile and talk a bit when we saw each other. I sensed that you meant me no harm and had never intended to ridicule me. You walked over and sat next to me. You must have been going to Beijing also—I knew you were a graduate student of architecture. You said, “That man who was just talking to you looks very familiar. Isn’t he the big celebrity Fang Jing?” I burst into tears then, burying my face in my hands without caring. Time slowly made me understand, that day in the waiting room, it was exactly because I was with you that I could be so free. Only you, no one else, could allow me to cry in public without restraint. You accidentally witness everything about me, my slyness, my falling, the love carved in my heart, and its loss. You’ve seen all of it. I held on to you as if I had grabbed a lifesaver, spontaneously telling you everything about Fang Jing and me, regardless of whether you wanted to hear or not. We sat in the waiting room for an entire day. You bought bread and water when we were hungry; neither of us touched the bag of dough sticks. You didn’t return home with me until very late. You lied that you were going back to Beijing next morning; you told me only after we walked into the building that you had to take the train back to school that night. Only then did I realize you’d stayed just for me. I didn’t know why I would load all my trouble and sadness on you, about whom I didn’t know much. Time made me understand it was unfair to you, but it seemed fated.
Why do you always run into me when you’re at your lowest? Why do you run into me when you don’t want to run into anyone? On that windy night, I saw a delicate little girl holding the postbox, sighing, and hitting it, although you didn’t know you were sighing. I hadn’t yet seen your face then, but from your body, from that small dark figure of yours, strangely I felt a deep pain like I’d never felt before. Later you turned your face toward me. It was too dark to make out your expression, but my own pain increased because you seemed so much in pain, although I couldn’t see it in your face. Real pain is expressionless; real pain might well be a little girl holding a postbox under the dim streetlight. I couldn’t help being moved by you, moved in a way that will stay with me all my life, I thought. Yet what felt like a vow might have been a young man’s impulse, a momentary instinctive sympathy for the weak. Back then I wasn’t considered an adult yet, although I was five years older than you were. But I was wrong; my long love started when you were twelve, right from the night when you stood in front of the postbox. How happy I was when I found out you and I lived in the same complex. You wouldn’t know for many years how I’d find excuses to pass your building, Number 6. That summer afternoon, the afternoon you fell when you were jumping, I didn’t pass by your building by accident; I’d circled the building many times on my bike. I didn’t intend to see you fall; I just wanted to see your little face in the daylight. But you fell just as I came around. You raised your head, looking at me with a frown, half of your face smeared with sweat-soaked dirt. I wanted to say I loved your small soiled face. I loved the vain little trick that you played, pretending to be so casual even though you were limping. I loved your back as you hurried, where a little braid came loose. I even remember the song you hummed then: Villages and kampongs, beat the drum and strike the gong, Ah Wa people, sing a new song … with your knee bleeding, you sang “Villages and Kampongs” and went home, not leaving me the slightest chance of saying hello. It’s my own business that I love you. When I was looking at your back, fluttering and dusty, I had a vague feeling that you would make me feel rich and full; you would always be the immovable centre of my heart. But why does it matter? For many years I deliberately avoided telling you how I felt. I was especially surprised when you told me your story in the waiting room so suddenly. Your total trust of me was so unexpected and cruel; it mercilessly pushed me further away. I couldn’t express my love for you when you’d just lost your love; I would look like some rat trying to take advantage. You always controlled the distance between you and me; we could be only so close and no closer. I don’t know how long I have to keep all this bottled up, but I don’t want to stay far from you; I like to see you often, and to do my best to help you when you need it.
A week after the postbox incident, when Tiao went to check for post and newspapers, she unexpectedly found the letter she had sent out, the one to Yixun at the Reed River Farm. She’d been so eager that she’d forgotten to put on a stamp, and the letter was returned for “unpaid postage.”
When Tiao, who had been on edge for a week, expecting Yixun to come home any minute and turn the house upside down, who often broke into a cold sweat at a knock on the door, finally got the letter, she almost laughed out loud. Ah, post office, how grateful I am to you! Ah, postbox, how grateful I am to you! she shouted in her heart while she clutched the letter that had strayed for days, as if she were afraid it would fly away. The dark clouds cleared and the sunshine returned. This “lost-and-found letter” gave her a lifelong fondness for the post office and postboxes, which always seemed to have some mystical connection of good luck for her.
She slipped the letter into her pocket and then opened the door. After handing the newspaper to Wu, she rushed into the bathroom and locked herself in. She sat on the toilet and tore the letter to shreds, until it was turned into snowflake-like bits. She dumped them into the toilet and flushed it again and again. Fortunately, Wu was not paying attention to Tiao’s behaviour.
Tiao emerged from the bathroom completely at ease. She wanted to forgive her mother. She even thought if Dr. Tang came again, she would try her best not to object.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_e4b06b9d-590a-5b7c-bd72-1cc8eae7d61b)
Where the Mermaid’s Fishing Net Comes From (#ulink_e4b06b9d-590a-5b7c-bd72-1cc8eae7d61b)
1
Dr. Tang came again, and this time he brought his niece Fei.
Tiao was immediately drawn to Fei, who was fifteen that year, but to Tiao she already appeared to have the body of a grown woman. Her dark eyebrows, red lips, and deep chestnut curls on her forehead lit up Tiao’s eyes. It was a time when makeup wasn’t allowed, so how were Fei’s lips so brightly coloured and gorgeous? It was also a time when perms were banned, so how did Fei get her curled fringe? How did she dare? The vivid lips and curled fringe made Fei look like a visitor from another planet; those slightly skewed eyes of hers gave her a touch of boldness and decadence. Tiao learned the word “decadence” from political posters. It was a bad word, but for some reason this bad word made her heart race. Even though she didn’t completely understand the meaning of decadence, she was already sure it applied to Fei precisely. Perhaps by associating this word with Fei she unconsciously expressed her own attraction to evil: the female spy, the social butterfly … in the movies she used to watch, those women, constantly surrounded by men, always wore expensive and beautiful clothes, drank good wine, and looked mysterious. That would be decadence, but why were decadent people so pretty? Fei was decadent, and that vague decadence in her excited Tiao. She had never met a female before Fei who thrilled her so much. She felt that somehow she’d already started to worship Fei, this beautiful, decadent girl. Because of this, her loathing for Dr. Tang lessened somewhat.
Dr. Tang brought two movie tickets, distributed by the hospital, for an Algerian film, Victory over Death. “Let Tiao and Fei go, otherwise who knows how long they’ll have to wait for the school to buy them group tickets,” Wu said very agreeably, seemingly eager to please, which annoyed Tiao a little. Although she liked going to the movies, especially with someone like Fei, she didn’t like Wu’s tone. The more ingratiating Wu sounded, the more she heard a dismissal—she was sending Tiao and Fei off so she could be with Dr. Tang. So Tiao said she didn’t want to go; she had to do her homework. She just wanted to make a little trouble for Wu.
Then Fei stretched out her hand to her uncle, not her entire hand, but two of the fingers: index and middle. She wiggled her fingers at her uncle and said, “Tickets. Tickets. Give me the tickets.” Tiao wasn’t surprised by her Beijing dialect; she believed a person with Fei’s looks had to speak Beijing dialect. It would have been strange if she hadn’t. The way she wiggled her fingers seemed indecent, and the tone in which she spoke to the adults made her sound impudent. Tiao had never come across anyone who behaved in this manner and spoke in that tone. She was probably stunned, so when Fei almost grabbed the tickets from her uncle’s hand and gestured with her head, Tiao stood up and left with Fei as if she had received an irresistible command.
The movie was showing at Da Guangming Theatre, three bus stops from Tiao’s home. They didn’t take the bus—they walked. For a shortcut, they wound through some alleys single-file. Fei walked very fast, pretending not to notice Tiao’s quivering eagerness to follow her. She didn’t talk to Tiao and didn’t bother to walk beside her. She wore a plissé shirt, white background printed with bean-sized strawberries, and a pair of blue khaki uniform pants that perfectly hugged her swaying bottom. On her feet, she had on a pair of black T-strap leather shoes, which weren’t for adults, but were hard for a middle school student to get. The shoes didn’t just represent wealth, but also a style and taste beyond those of an ordinary Fuan family. Shoe factories in Fuan didn’t make leather shoes of this kind; one could immediately tell they came from a big city, even though they were just made of fine pigskin. Fei swung her bottom, raised her chin slightly, and stuck out her already-developed chest, walking in front of Tiao all the time. She rolled her plissé sleeves above her elbows, revealing the layer of soft, fine yellow down on her forearms, dazzling in the sunshine. She was so striking that there were always passersby who stopped to look at her: men, women, adults and children … Two young men in worker’s clothes came toward them on their bikes. They swung around after passing and caught up with Fei from behind, purposely sandwiching her from both sides. Swaying and squirming on their bikes, they brushed their sleeves on her bare arms and then darted off. She didn’t call them “Obnoxious!” or “Pervert!”—just walked more proudly, as if no one else existed. She didn’t pay attention to them at all; they were not worthy of her spit or her curses.
At last they entered the narrow, quiet alley that led to Da Guangming Theatre. Noticing there was no one around, Fei suddenly stopped, as if waiting for Tiao to catch up. Excitedly, Tiao caught up with her, feeling it was a gesture from Fei showing that she regarded Tiao as her equal and would finally walk with her side by side. Tiao rushed to her, only to be forced by Fei into a corner. Backed against the wall, face-to-face with Fei, Tiao thought she was going to tell her some secret, which sometimes happened when two girls walked together. But before she could react, Fei slapped her hard across the face. The crisp, loud slap, echoing in the alley, made Tiao see black in front of her eyes, followed by thousands of golden sparkles dancing around her head. It didn’t hurt; she had no memory of pain. Maybe what Fei said blocked the pain that Tiao might have felt, or transferred the feeling to somewhere else in her. After she slapped Tiao, Fei got very close to her face and said something terrible with that pretty mouth of hers. She said, “Your mum is a bad woman, a whore!”
Tiao opened her eyes; the alley was still the same alley, and Fei stood before her, with her hands on her hips and sweat on her face, as if awaiting Tiao’s counterattack. “Your mum is a whore.” Tiao couldn’t believe she had really heard it, that the vulgar, explosive words had really come out of Fei’s mouth. She never wanted to hear those words again in her whole life, but she felt compelled to repeat them over and over in her mind. Her heart raced, every hair on her body seemed to stand up, and hot blood rushed to her face, the swollen face that Fei had slapped. Tiao was angry, but a terrible shame kept her from raising her head. For a moment, she was about to agree with Fei. She suspected that her mother’s being a whore involved Dr. Tang, and the things she had written about in the letter to her dad. She now believed the only people who knew about Wu and Dr. Tang were her and Fei, but her instinct was to protect Wu. For a stranger to insult her mother this way was intolerable. She intended to retaliate but didn’t know how; she felt guilty because what Fei had said was true, and she couldn’t quite find the words for a reply. Tears started suddenly and she tried to turn around to walk back. The good things about home came to her mind and she wanted to go there. “Don’t you dare leave!” Fei said behind her, and she stopped, compelled by Fei’s voice. She really didn’t know why she would listen to Fei.
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Tie Ning
Longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize and a modern Chinese classic with over one million copies sold.Sisters Tiao and Fan grew up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution where they witnessed ritual humiliation and suffering. They also witnessed the death of their baby sister in a tragic accident. It was an accident they could have prevented; an accident that will stay with them forever.In the China of the 1990s the sisters lead seemingly successful lives. Tiao is a successful children’s publisher but incapable of finding love. Fan has moved to America, desperate to shun her Chinese heritage. Then there is their childhood friend Fei: beautiful, hedonistic and outwardly ambitious.As the women grapple with love, rivalry and past secrets will they find the freedom and redemption they crave?Spellbinding, unforgettable, and an important chronicle of modern China, The Bathing Women is a powerful and beautiful portrait of the strength of female friendship in the face of adversity.
The BATHING WOMEN
TIE NING
Translated by Hongling Zhang and Jason Sommer
About the Book (#ulink_243f7a16-36b9-5220-8db7-b304767a64ff)
Three women
Thirty life-changing years
The dawn of a new China
Displaced from Beijing as a result of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, sisters Tiao and Fan live in the small town of Fuan. Their childhood consists of daily denouncements, cooking from Soviet Woman magazine and searching for the elusive red lipstick worn by women from the capital.
Their lives are irrevocably changed when they witness the death of their baby sister, Quan. It a death that they could have prevented; a death with the power to destroy their family.
In the China of the 1990s, the sisters lead seemingly successful lives. Tiao is a children’s publisher but struggles to find love. Fan has moved to America, desperate to shun her Chinese heritage. Then there is their childhood friend Fei: beautiful, flirtatious and outwardly ambitious.
As the women grapple with love, rivalry and past secrets will they find the freedom and redemption they crave?
Praise for The Bathing Women (#ulink_306a64d0-c20c-5c8f-9114-cadb64efb205)
‘As this spirited quartet chase their dreams against a backdrop of shifting cultural values, the novel – a million-copy seller in China – blends romance and feminism to paint an intimate portrait of these women’s ambitions, appetites and rivalries’ Daily Mail
‘The Bathing Women possesses a gentle humanity that makes a refreshing change from the raucousness of recent work by Tie's male peers … an acute, sympathetic observer of Chinese society’ Guardian
‘Intelligent and evocative writing … about the shaping effect of deprivation and how people may still draw reservoirs of love and kindness from these voids’ South China Morning Post
‘[A] fascinating story of sisters growing up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution’ Good Housekeeping
‘If I were to pick the ten best literary works in the world of the past ten years, I would definitely rank The Bathing Women among them’ Kenzaburō Ōe, Nobel Laureate
‘Tie Ning’s unique novel about three Chinese women and their struggles In today’s fast-changing China is as gorgeous as the Cezanne painting the novel takes its title from’ Xinran, author of The Good Women of China
‘A probing and gracefully written portrait of an extended Chinese family, related by blood and mystery, in which the author explores areas of human behavior traditionally considered off-limits: the intimate and sexual lives of ordinary Chinese women’ Hannah Pakula, author ofThe Last Empress
Table of Contents
Cover (#ubfbf756c-7141-5ce1-aee4-523fc14ef1c2)
Title Page (#u99a2a1f7-1077-5c79-ba81-ff2c0bd8494f)
About the Book (#ucdebd576-947e-5964-b5b5-90f625643a96)
Praise for The Bathing Women (#ua6c34b2c-aea0-53d3-9bb0-c9feedc4bc01)
Preface (#uf00ed434-9d04-5701-8a49-7a634e80a381)
Chapter 1: Premarital Examination (#u345b58f9-7afa-5add-8682-608f4ea580d8)
Chapter 2: Pillow Time (#u2409d2aa-bb18-5722-b655-a51470e46cde)
Chapter 3: Where the Mermaid’s Fishing Net Comes From (#u3ee84124-3111-5d69-adbf-098de5bb721f)
Chapter 4: Cat in the Mirror (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5: The Ring is Caught in the Tree (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6: Fan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7: Peeking Through the Keyhole (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8: Disgusted (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9: Crowned with Persian Chrysanthemums (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10: The Garden in the Depths of the Heart (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Preface (#ulink_fbbf09ce-a244-57e2-8663-07c835381614)
Tiao’s apartment had a three-seater sofa and two single armchairs. Their covers were satin brocade, a sort of fuzzy blue-grey, like the eyes of some European women, soft and clear. The chairs were arranged in the shape of a flattened U, with the sofa at the base and the armchairs facing each other on two sides.
Tiao’s memory of sofas went back to when she was about three. It was in the early sixties; her home had a pair of old dark red corduroy sofas. The springs were a bit broken, and stuck out of their coir and hemp wrappings, pressing firmly up through a layer of corduroy that was not very thick. The whole sofa had a lumpy look and it creaked when people sat down. Every time Tiao hauled herself onto it, she could feel little fists punching up from underneath her. The broken springs would grind into her delicate knees and sensitive back. But she still liked to climb up on the sofa because compared to the hard-backed little chair that belonged to her, it allowed her to move around freely, leaning this way and that—and being able to move freely this way and that makes for comfort; ever since she was small, Tiao pursued comfort. Later, and for a long time, an object like a sofa was labelled as associated with a certain class. And that class obviously wanted to exert a bad influence on the spirit and body of the people, like a plague or marijuana. Most Chinese people’s behinds had never come into contact with sofas; even soft-cushioned chairs were rare in most homes. By then—probably in the early seventies—Tiao eventually found a pair of down pillows in a home that only had a few hard chairs. The down pillows were from her parents’ beds. When they weren’t home, she dragged the pillows off, reserved one for herself, and gave one to her younger sister Fan. They put the pillows on two hard chairs and settled into them, wriggling on the puffy pillows, pretending they were on sofas. They enjoyed the sheer luxury of reclining on these “sofas,” cracking sunflower seeds or eating a handful of hawthorn berries. Often, when this was going on, Quan would wave her arms anxiously and stumble over in a rush from the other end of the room going, “Ah-ah-ah-ah.”
Quan, the younger sister of Tiao and Fan, would have been two years old then. She would stumble all the way over to her two sisters, obviously wanting to join their “sofa time,” but they planned to ignore her completely. They also looked down on her flaw—Quan couldn’t talk even though she was two; she would probably be a mute. But the mute Quan was a little beauty, the kind everyone loved on sight, and she enjoyed communicating with people very much, allowing adults or almost-adults to take turns holding her. She would toss her natural brown curls, purse her fresh little red lips, and make all kinds of signs—no one knew where she picked up these gestures. When she wanted to flirt, she pressed her tender fingers to her lips and blew you a kiss; when she wanted to show her anger, she waved around her bamboo-shoot little finger in front of your eyes; when she wanted you to leave, she pointed at the sky and then put her hands over her ears as if saying: Oh, it’s getting dark and I have to go to sleep.
Now Quan stood before Tiao and Fan and kept blowing them kisses, which apparently were meant as a plea to let her join them in “sofa time.” She got no response, so she switched her sign, angrily thrusting out her arm and sticking up her little finger to tell them: You two are bad, really bad. You’re just as small as this little finger and I despise you. Still, no one spoke to her, so she started to stamp her feet and beat her chest. This description isn’t the usual dramatic exaggeration—she literally stood there beating her chest and stamping her feet. She clenched her hands and beat the butter-coloured, flower-bordered bib embroidered with two white pigeons, her little fists pounding like raindrops. Meanwhile, she stamped on the concrete floor noisily with her little dumpling feet, in her red leather shoes. Then, with tears and runny nose, she let herself go entirely. She lay on the floor, pumping her strong and fleshy legs vigorously in the air, as if pedaling an invisible flying wheel.
You think throwing a tantrum is going to soften our hearts? You want to blow us kisses—go ahead and blow! You want to hold up your finger at us—go on and hold it up! You want to beat your chest and stamp your feet—do it! You want to lie on the floor and pedal—go pedal! Go ahead and pedal, you!
Through half-closed eyes, Tiao looked at Quan, who was rolling around on the floor. Satisfaction at the venting of her hatred radiated from her heart all over her body. It was a sort of ice-cold excitement, a turbulent calm. Afterwards, she simply closed her eyes, pretending to catnap. Sitting in the chair next to her, Fan imitated her sister’s catnap. Her obedience to her sister was inbred. Besides, she didn’t like Quan, either, whose birth directly shook Fan’s privileged status; she was next in line for Fan’s privileges. Fan was unhappy simply because she was like all world leaders, always watchful for their successors and disgusted by them.
When they awoke from their catnap, Quan was no longer in sight. She disappeared. She died.
The foregoing memory might be true; it could also be one of Tiao’s revisions. If everyone has memories that are more or less personally revised, then the unreliability of the human race wasn’t Tiao’s responsibility alone. The exact date of Quan’s death was six days after that tantrum, but Tiao was always tempted to place her death on the same day that she beat her chest and stamped her feet, as if by doing so she and Fan could be exonerated. It was on that day that Quan had left the world, right at the moment we blinked, as we dozed off into a dream. We didn’t touch her; we didn’t leave the room—the pillows under us could prove it. What happened afterwards? Nothing. No design; no plot; no action. Ah, how weak and helpless I am! What a poisonous snake I am! Tiao chose to believe only what she wanted to believe; what she wasn’t willing to believe, she pretended didn’t exist. But what happened six days later did exist, wrapped up and buried in Tiao’s heart, never to be let go.
Now neither of them sits on the sofa. When Tiao and Fan chat, they always sit separately on those two blue-grey armchairs, face-to-face. More than twenty years have passed and Quan still exists. She sits on that sofa at the centre of that U as if it were custom-made for her. She still has the height of a two-year-old, about sixty centimetres, but the ratio of her head to her body is not a baby’s, which is one to four—that is, the length of the body should equal four heads. The ratio of her head to her body is completely adult, one to seven. This makes her look less like a two-year-old girl and more like a tiny woman. She wears a cream-coloured satin negligee, and sits with one thigh crossed over the other. From time to time she touches her smooth, supple face with one of her fingers. When she stretches out her hand, the bamboo-shoot tip of her little finger curves naturally, like the hand gesture of an opera singer, which makes her look a bit coy. She looks like such a social butterfly! Tiao thinks, not knowing why she would choose such an outdated phrase to describe Quan. But she doesn’t want to use those new, intolerably vulgar words such as “little honey.” Although “social butterfly” also implies ambiguity, seduction, frivolousness, and impurity, the mystery and romance that it conveyed in the past can’t be replaced by any other words. She was low and cynical, but not a simple dependent, stiffly submitting to authority. No one could ever know the deep loneliness behind her pride, radiance, and passion.
Life like falling petals and flowing water: the social butterfly Yin Xiaoquan.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_e74b2e7e-8249-5c0f-9a5a-4895f91ceca6)
Premarital Examination (#ulink_e74b2e7e-8249-5c0f-9a5a-4895f91ceca6)
1
The provincial sunshine was actually not much different from the sunshine in the capital. In the early spring the sunshine in both the province and the capital was precious. At this point in the season, the heating in the office buildings, apartments, and private homes was already off. During the day, the temperature inside was much colder than the temperature outside. Tiao’s bones and muscles often felt sore at this time of year. When she walked on the street, her thigh muscle would suddenly ache. The little toe on her left foot (or her right foot), inside those delicate little knuckles, delivered zigzagging pinpricks of pain. The pain was uncomfortable, but it was the kind of discomfort that makes you feel good, a kind of minor pain, coy, a half-drunk moan bathed in sunlight. Overhead, the roadside poplars had turned green. Still new, the green coiled around the waists of the light-coloured buildings like mist. The city revealed its softness then, and also its unease.
Sitting in the provincial taxi, Tiao rolled down the window and stuck out her head, as if to test the temperature outside, or to invite all the sun in the sky to shine on that short-cropped head of hers. The way she stuck out her head looked a bit wild, or would even seem crude if she overdid it. But Tiao never overdid it; from a young age she was naturally good at striking poses. So the way she stuck out her head then combined a little wildness with a little elegance. The lowered window pressed at her chin, like a gleaming blade just about to slice her neck, giving her a feeling of having her head under the axe. The bloody yet satisfying scene, a bit stirring and a bit masochistic, was an indelible memory of the story of Liu Hulan, which she heard as a child. Whenever she thought about how the Nationalist bandits decapitated the fifteen-year-old Liu Hulan, she couldn’t stop gulping—with an indescribable fear and an unnameable pleasure. At that moment she would always ask herself: Why is the most frightening thing also the most alluring? She couldn’t tell whether it was the desire to become a hero that made her imagine lying under an axe, or was it that the more she feared lying under the axe, the more she wanted to lie under it?
She couldn’t decide.
The taxi sped along the sun-drenched avenue. The sunshine in the provinces was actually not much different from the sunshine in the capital, Tiao thought.
Yet at this moment, in the midst of the provincial capital, Fuan, a city just two hundred kilometres from Beijing, the dust and fibre in the sunshine, people’s expressions and the shape of things as the sun struck them, all of it seemed a bit different from the capital for some reason. When the taxi came to a red light, Tiao started to look at the people stopped by the light. A girl wearing black platform shoes and tight-fitting black clothes had a shapely figure and pretty face, with the ends of her hair dyed blond. This reminded her of girls she’d seen in Tel Aviv, New York, and Seoul who liked to wear black. Whatever was trendy around the world was trendy here, too. Sitting splayed over her white mountain bike, the provincial girl in black anxiously raised her wrist to look at her watch as she spat. She looked at the watch and spat; she spat and then looked at her watch. Tiao supposed she must have something urgent to do and that time was important to her. But why did she spit, since she had a watch? Because she had a watch, there was no need for her to spit. Because she spat, there was no need for her to wear a watch. Because she learned the art of managing her time, she should have learned the art of controlling her spit. Because she had a watch, she shouldn’t have spit. Because she spat, she shouldn’t have a watch. Because she had a watch, she really shouldn’t have spit. Because she had spit, she really shouldn’t have a watch. Because watch … because spit … because spit … because watch … because … because … The red light had long since turned green and the girl in black had shot herself forward like an arrow, and Tiao was still going around and around with watch and spit. This obsession of hers with “if not this, it must be that” made people feel that she was going to run screaming through the street, but this sort of obsession didn’t appear to be true indignation. If she’d forced herself to quietly recite the sentence “Because there is a watch there shouldn’t be spit” fifteen more times, she would have definitely got confused and lost track of what it meant. Then her obsession was indeed not real indignation; it was sarcastic babble she hadn’t much stake in. The era was one during which watches and spit coexisted, particularly in the provinces.
Tiao brought her head in from the car window. The radio was playing an old song: “Atop the golden mountain in Beijing, / rays of light shine in all directions. Chairman Mao is exactly like that golden sun, / so warm, so kind, he lights up the hearts of us serfs, / as we march on the socialist path to happiness— / Hey, ba zha hei!” It was a game show from the local music station. The host asked the audience to guess the song title and the original singer. The winner would get a case of Jiabao SOD skin-care products. Audience members phoned in constantly, guessing titles and singers over and over again in Fuan-accented Mandarin, but none of them guessed right. After all, the song and the old singer who sang the song were unfamiliar to the audience of the day, so unfamiliar that even the host felt embarrassed. Tiao knew the title of the old song and the singer who sang it, which drew her into the game show, even though she had no plans to call the hotline. She just sang the song over and over again in her head—only the refrain, “Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! Ba zha hei! …” Twenty years ago, when she and her classmates sang that song together, they loved to sing the last line, “Ba zha hei!” It was a Tibetan folk song, sung by the liberated serfs in gratitude to Chairman Mao. “Ba zha hei!” obviously isn’t Chinese. It must be because it was not Chinese that Tiao used to repeat it with such enthusiasm, with some of that feeling of liberation, like chanting, like clever wordplay. The thought of clever wordplay made her force herself to stop repeating “Ba zha hei.” She returned to the present, to the taxi in the provincial capital of Fuan. The game show on the music station was over; the seat in the quiet taxi was covered by a patterned cotton cushion, not too clean, which resembled those shoe inserts handmade and embroidered by country girls from the north. Tiao always felt as if she were sitting on the padding over a Kang bed-stove whenever she sat in a taxi like this. Even though she had been living here for twenty years, she still compared everything to the capital. Whether psychologically or geographically, Beijing was always close to her. This would seem to have a lot to do with the fact that she was born in Beijing, and was a Beijinger. But most of the time she didn’t feel she was a Beijinger, nor did she feel she was a provincial person, a Fuaner. She felt she didn’t belong anywhere, and she often thought this with some spite, some perverse pleasure. It was almost as if she made herself rootless on purpose, as if only in rootlessness could she be free and remain apart from the city around her, allowing her to face all cities and life itself with detachment and calm. And when she thought of the word “calm,” it finally occurred to her that the person sitting in the taxi shouldn’t be so calm; she was probably going to get married.
She had never been married before—the sentence sounded a little odd, as if others who were preparing to get married had all been married many times. But she had never been married before—she still preferred to think this way. She thought about herself this way without any commendatory or derogatory connotations, though sometimes with a touch of pride, and sometimes a touch of sadness. She knew she didn’t look like someone who was approaching forty. Often her eyes would moisten suddenly and a hazy look would float over them; her body had the kind of vigour, agility, and alertness that only an unmarried, childless mature woman would have. The drawers in her office were always stuffed with snacks: preserved plums, dried eel, fruit chocolate, etc. She was the vice president of a children’s publishing house, but none of her colleagues addressed her as President Yin. Instead, they called her by her name: Yin Xiaotiao. She looked smug a lot of the time, and she knew the person most annoyed by her smugness was her younger sister Fan. Particularly after Fan left for America, things became much clearer. For a long time, she was afraid to tell Fan about her love affairs, but the more she was afraid, the more she felt driven to tell Fan about every one of them. It was almost as though she could prove she wasn’t afraid of Fan by putting up with Fan’s criticism of what she did in her affairs. Even right now she was thinking this, with a somewhat sneaky bravado. It was as if she’d already picked up the phone, and could already imagine the troubled, inquiring expression that Fan had on the other end of the overseas line at getting the news, along with the string of her words, delivered with a nasal tinge. They, Tiao and Fan, had suffered together; they’d felt together as one. What made Fan so contemptuous of Tiao’s life? It was surely contempt—for her clothes, her hairstyle, and the men in her life. Nothing escaped Fan’s ridicule and condemnation—even the showerhead in Tiao’s bathroom. The first year Fan came back to visit, she stayed with Tiao. She complained that the water pressure in the showerhead was too weak to get her hair clean—that precious hair of hers. She complained with a straight face, showing no sign of joking at all. Tiao managed to conceal her unhappiness behind a phony smile, but she would always remember it.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell her.
The taxi brought Tiao to the Happy Millions Supermarket. She bought food enough for a week and then took the taxi home.
The heat in her apartment wasn’t on, so the rooms felt shadowy and cold. It was different from a winter chill, none of that dense stiffness filling the space; it was uncertain, bearing faint traces of loneliness. On such an evening of such a season, Tiao liked to turn on all the lights, first the hallway, then the kitchen, the study, the living room, the bedroom, and the bathroom, all the lights, ceiling light, wall light, desk light, floor light, mirror light, and bedside light … her hands took turns clicking the switches; only the owner of the place could be so practiced and precise. Tiao was the master of the house, and she greeted her apartment by turning the lights on. She lit her home with all these lights, but it seemed as if the lights lit themselves to welcome Tiao back. So lights illuminated every piece of furniture, and every bit of dim haziness in the shadows contributed to her sense of security and substance. She walked through every room this way until she finally came to a small corner: to that blue-grey satin brocade armchair, which seemed to be her favourite corner when she was not sleeping. Every time she came home, returning from work or a business trip, she would sit in this small armchair, staring blankly for a while, drinking a cup of hot water, and refreshing herself until both her body and mind felt rested and relaxed. She never sat on the sofa. Even when Chen Zai held her in his arms and asked to move onto the more comfortable sofa, she remained uncooperative. Then, in a desperate moment, finally feeling she couldn’t refuse anymore, she simply said, “Let’s go to bed.”
For Chen Zai, that was an unforgettable sentence because they had never gone to bed before, even though they had known each other for decades. Later, when they sometimes teased back and forth about who seduced whom first, Chen Zai would quote this sentence of Tiao’s, “Let’s go to bed.” It was so straightforward and innocent and it caught him so off guard that he almost missed the erotic implications. It made Chen Zai think again and again that this lithe woman he held in his arms was his true love, and always had been. It was also because of this sentence that they didn’t do anything that first night.
Chen Zai was not home tonight. He had gone to the south on a business trip. Tiao ate dinner, sat back in the armchair, and read a manuscript for a while. Then she took a shower and got into bed. She preferred to slip into her quilt nest early; she preferred to wait for Chen Zai’s phone call in there. She especially liked the words “slip into her quilt nest,” a little unsophisticated—poor and unworldly-sounding. She just liked the words “slip,” “quilt,” “nest.” She never got used to hotels and the way foreigners slept—the blanket tucked in at the foot of the bed, stretched tight over the mattress. Once you stuck your legs and feet into the blanket, you felt disconnected, with nothing to touch. She also didn’t like quilts made of down, or artificial cotton. The way they floated lightly over your body made you more restless. She always used quilts made of real cotton; she liked everything about a quilt nest folded with a cotton quilt, the tender, swaddled feeling of the light weight distributed over her whole body, the different temperatures that hid in the little creases of the quilt nest. When she couldn’t sleep because of the heat, she would use her feet to look for the cool spots in the soft creases under the quilt. When she needed to curl up, the quilt nest would come along with her, clinging to her body. So unlike those bedclothes pinned down by the mattress, where you wouldn’t dream of moving, but would have to yield to the tyranny, forced into an approved sleeping posture—by what right? Tiao thought. Every time she went on a business trip or travelled abroad, she would intentionally mess up those blankets. Cotton quilts always made Tiao sleep well. But unpleasant thoughts pressed in on her after she woke up in the middle of the night. When she turned on the table lamp, tottered to the bathroom to pee, and returned, when she lay back in her bed and turned off the light, at that moment she would feel the intense loneliness and boredom. She began to think about things in a confused way, and the things that people tend to think, awakening after midnight, are often unpleasant. How she hated waking up in the middle of the night! Only after she truly had Chen Zai did she lose the fear. Then she was no longer by herself.
She curled up in her quilt nest and waited for Chen Zai’s phone call. He kissed her through the phone and they talked for a long time. When Tiao hung up, she found herself still not wanting to sleep. This evening, a night when Chen Zai was far away from Fuan, she had an overwhelming desire to read the love letters locked in her bookcase. They were not from Chen Zai, and she no longer loved the man who had written her the love letters. Her desire now was not to reminisce, or to take stock. Maybe she just cherished the handwriting on the paper. Nowadays, few people would put pen to paper, especially not to write love letters.
2
There were sixty-eight letters altogether, and Tiao numbered every one of them in chronological order. She opened number one, a white paper whose edges had yellowed: “Comrade Yin Xiaotiao, the unexpected meeting with you in Beijing left a deep impression on me. I have a feeling that we will definitely see each other again. I’m writing to you on an aeroplane. I will arrive in Shanghai today and will leave for San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll seriously consider your suggestion about writing a childhood memoir—only because it was a request of yours.” The letter was signed by Fang Jing, the date was March 1982.
It was more like a note than a letter. The words, scrawled on an oversized piece of paper, seemed big and sparse. The words looked like they were staring stupidly at the reader. Strictly speaking, it was not a love letter, but the thrill that it brought to Tiao’s soul was much stronger than what those real love letters of his gave her later.
The letter’s author, Fang Jing, had been very hot in the movie business at the time. He’d written, directed, and acted in a movie called A Beautiful Life. After an endless run in theatres around the country, the movie also won a few major awards. It was a movie about middle-aged intellectuals who’d suffered horrendously during the Cultural Revolution but still managed to survive, optimism intact. Fang Jing played an intellectual imprisoned in a labour camp on the border. He was a violinist whose imprisonment gave him no chance to play the violin. There was an episode in the movie that showed how, after the hero endures heavy labour with an empty stomach, when he straightens up in the wheat field, catching sight of the beautiful sunset in the distance, he can’t help stretching out his arms. His right arm becomes the violin neck and he presses on it with his left hand, fingers moving around as on the strings of a violin. There was a close-up of this in the movie, the scrawny scarred arm and that strangely transformed hand. The arm as the violin and the hand playing on it broke people’s hearts. Tiao would cry every time she watched this part. She was convinced that Fang Jing wasn’t performing but reliving his own experience. The scene might seem sentimental now, but back then, at a time when people’s hearts had been repressed for so long, it could easily bring an audience to tears.
Tiao never thought she would come to know Fang Jing personally. She had recently graduated from university and, through connections, got a job as an editor in the Fuan Children’s Publishing House. Like all young people who admired celebrities, she and her classmates and colleagues enthusiastically discussed the movie A Beautiful Life, and Fang Jing himself. They read all the profiles of Fang Jing in the newspapers and magazines and traded information with each other: his background, his life experience, his family and hobbies, his current project, what movie he entered in a film festival and what new award he won there, even his height and weight; Tiao knew all the details. It was by chance that Tiao and he got to know each other. She went to Beijing to solicit manuscripts for books and ran into a college roommate. The father of this roommate worked in a filmmakers’ association, so she was very much in the know. The roommate told Tiao that the filmmakers’ association was holding a conference on Fang Jing’s work and that she could get Tiao in.
On the day of the conference, her roommate slipped Tiao into the meeting room. Tiao has forgotten now what was said in the conference; she remembers only that Fang Jing looked younger than he did in the movie and that he spoke Mandarin with a southern accent. He had a resonant voice, and when he laughed, he frequently leaned back, which made him look easygoing. She also remembered he held a wooden tobacco pipe and would wave the pipe in the air when he got excited. People thought that was natural and charming. He was surrounded by good-looking men and women. When the conference ended, the attendees swarmed forward, held out their notebooks, and asked him for autographs. Her roommate grabbed Tiao’s hand, wanting to rush forward with the crowd. Tiao rose from the chair but backed away. Her roommate had no choice but to let go of her and push forward on her own. In fact, the notebook in Tiao’s hand had been turned to a new page, a blank page ready for Fang Jing to sign his name. But she still backed away clutching the notebook, maybe because she was a bit timid, maybe because an incongruous pride inhibited her. Even though she was so insignificant compared to him, she was still unwilling to play the airhead autograph hound. She backed away, all the while regretting the lost chance. Right then, Fang Jing stretched out an apelike arm from the midst of the swirl of people and pointed at Tiao, who stood apart, saying, “Hey, you!” as he parted the crowd and walked toward Tiao.
He came up to her and grabbed her notebook without asking, and signed his famous name in it.
“Happy now?” He looked directly into Tiao’s eyes with a faintly condescending attitude.
“I guess I would say that I’m very grateful instead, Mr. Fang Jing!” Tiao felt surprised and excited. Emboldened, she started to forget herself. “But how do you know what I want is your autograph?” She tried to look directly into his eyes, too.
“Then what do you want?” He didn’t understand.
“I want … it’s like this, I want to solicit a manuscript for a book project—” she said, on the spur of the moment, confronting Fang with childlike seriousness, distinguishing herself from the autograph hunters.
“I think we should trade places,” Fang Jing said, fumbling in his pocket and taking out a wrinkled envelope. “Think it’s okay to ask you to sign your name for me?” He handed the envelope to Tiao. Tiao was embarrassed, but she still signed her name, and, at Fang Jing’s request, left her publishing house’s address and number. Then she took the opportunity to talk further about the idea for which she was soliciting manuscripts, even though she had come up with it on the spot only a few minutes before. She said she had submitted a proposal and the Publishing House had approved it. She intended to do a series of books featuring the childhoods of celebrities, including scientists, artists, writers, scholars, directors, and professors, aimed at elementary and middle school students. Mr. Fang Jing’s work and harsh life experiences had already attracted so much attention, if he could write a memoir about himself for children, it would definitely become popular with them, and would benefit society as well. Tiao talked quickly while feeling ashamed of her reckless fabrications. The more ashamed she was, the more in earnest she pretended to be. It was as though the more she talked, the more real it seemed. Yes, it felt quite real. How she hoped Fang Jing would turn her down while she rattled on. Then she would feel relieved, and then everything would be as if nothing had happened. It was actually true that nothing had happened. What could happen between a big celebrity and a common editor from the provinces? But Fang Jing didn’t interrupt her or turn her down; those TV journalists interrupted them, swarming over him to take him to his interview.
Not long after the conference, Tiao received the first letter from Fang Jing, written on the aeroplane. She read the letter numerous times, studying, analyzing, and chipping away at the words and lines to reveal what they meant or did not mean. Why did he have to write a letter to me on an aeroplane? Why must he reveal his location in Shanghai or San Francisco so carelessly to a stranger? In Tiao’s mind, everything about a celebrity should be mysterious, including his whereabouts. Why would he only consider the idea seriously because it was a request of Tiao’s? Did that make sense? She turned those thoughts over and over in her mind, unable to think clearly, but unable to resist puzzling over them, either, letting a secret sweetness spread in her heart. At least her little vanity got an unexpected boost and her job would probably get off to a wonderful start as well. She’d have to take that offhand, improvised plan seriously. She would make a feasible, deliberate, and persuasive presentation to her editor-in-chief, trying to get the plan approved by the Publishing House just because a celebrity like Fang Jing had promised to consider writing for her. Everything sounded real.
A few days later, Tiao received Fang Jing’s second letter from San Francisco.
This was number two in Tiao’s file:
Tiao:
You don’t mind me leaving out the word “comrade,” do you? I feel very strange. Why do I keep on writing to you—a girl who wouldn’t condescend to ask for an autograph from me? When a large group of beautiful girls leaped at me, you backed away. Please forgive me for such a silly, conceited sentence. But they have been leaping at me constantly, which I’ve enjoyed for the last two years, half reluctantly, and yet with a feeling that it was my due. Then you appear, so indifferent and so puzzling. Right now, on the West Coast of the United States, thousands of miles away, your face on that day appears before me constantly, your eyes like an abyss that no one would dare to look into, your lips mysteriously sealed. I don’t think you came to me on your own; you were sent by a divine power. When I left for America, I brought a map of China along as if compelled by a supernatural force. It was a little pretentious, as though I were showing off how much I love my country and what a fanatical patriot I am. Not until later did I realize I brought it because I wanted to carry with me on a map of China—Fuan—your city, where you live, small as a grain of rice on the map, which I constantly touch with my fingertips—that grain of rice just like … just like … I think, although we have only met once, we actually don’t live far apart, only two hundred kilometres. Maybe sometime I will go to the city where you live to visit you. Does that sound ridiculous? If it’s not convenient, you don’t have to see me. I would be happy just to stand under your window. Also, after serious consideration, I believe the topic of your proposal is very important. I’ve made up my mind to write the book for you; I can write during breaks between scenes on set.
I went to the famous Golden Gate Bridge this afternoon. When I stood beside the great bridge to look at San Francisco in the sunset, the dream city created with its man-made island, I got a clear idea about this city for the first time. If I had misgivings or prejudices about cities before, San Francisco changed my perception. It made me realize the heights human wisdom and power can reach and what a magnificent scene the human and the city create together out of their striving. I don’t know your life experience, and have no idea how much people your age know about Western cuisine. Here at Fisherman’s Wharf, they sell a very interesting dish: a big, round, crusty loaf of bread with a lid (the lid is also bread). When you open it, there is steaming-hot, thick, buttery soup inside. The bread is actually a big bowl. You have to hold the bread bowl carefully while eating. You have a bite of bread and a mouthful of soup. After you finish the soup, you eat the bowl, which goes down to your stomach. When I stood in the ocean breeze eating my fill of the bread bowl, I recalled the years I spent in the labour camp. I was thinking even if I exhausted all the creativity in me, I couldn’t have invented such a simple and unusual food. Oddly, I also thought about you. For some reason I believe you would love to eat this.
Of course, most of the time I was thinking about our country; we’re too poor. Our people have to get rich as soon as possible. Only then can we genuinely and frankly get along with any of the cities in the world, and genuinely rid ourselves of the sense of inferiority hidden in the depths of our hearts, the sense of inferiority that usually reveals itself strongly in the form of pride. It also exists in me … I think I’ve taken too much of your time. I’ll save many things for when we meet; I’ll tell you more later, little by little. I’ve been feeling that we will have a lot of time together, you and I.
It’s very late at night now. Outside my window, the waves of the Pacific Ocean sound like they’re right in your ears. I hope you receive and read this letter. I’ll be returning to China within the week. If it’s possible, can you please reply? You can send the letter to the movie studio. Of course, this might well be too much to hope for on my part.
Wishing you happiness,
Fang Jing
_____, _______, 1982
3
When she was a senior at a university in Beijing, her roommate in the upper bunk, the one who took her to the conference on Fang Jing’s work later, often returned to the dorm late at night. Everyone knew she was madly in love. Miss Upper Bunk was a plain girl, but love gave her eyes an unusual brightness and made her whole face radiant. One night, when she returned to the dorm on tiptoe in the dark, she didn’t climb into her upper bunk as usual. That night, Tiao in the lower bunk was also awake. From her bed, Tiao quietly watched her roommate walk into the dorm room. She saw Miss Upper Bunk take out a small round mirror from a drawer, raise the mirror towards the window, and study her own face by moonlight. The moonlight was too dim to allow her a good view of her own face, so she tiptoed to the door and gently pushed it open. A beam of yellow light from the hallway shone on her roommate’s body. She stood in the doorway and angled her head and the mirror toward the light. Tiao looked at her face; it was a beautiful face with a hint of drunken flush. She must have been content with herself at that moment. This girls’ dorm, deep in sleep then, had become rich and peaceful. Tiao was touched by the sight, and not just because of her roommate, but why else, then?
Another late night, her roommate tossed and turned in her bed after coming back. She leaned her head down to Tiao’s lower bunk and quietly woke her up. Then she climbed down and lay side by side with Tiao, and began to speak in urgent tones. She said, “Tiao, let me tell you—I have to tell you—I’m finally no longer a virgin. A man loves me, and how wonderful a thing it is you couldn’t possibly understand.” She wanted Tiao to guess who the man was, and Tiao guessed a few boys from their class. Miss Upper Bunk said condescendingly, “Them? You can’t mean them!” She said she never would have anything to do with the men on campus. She said they didn’t have brains and she admired men with avant-garde ideas and a unique insight on society, those forward-thinkers who could enlighten people. She had fallen in love with a forward-thinker and that forward thinker liberated her mind and body, turning her from a virgin into a … a woman. “A woman, do you understand or not, Tiao? You have a right to enjoy this, too, and you’ve had this right for a long time, without realizing.” Her upper-bunk roommate described the experience of being with that forward-thinker. She said, “Do you know who he is? You’ll be shocked if I tell you his name.” She paused as if to let the suspense build for Tiao. Tiao was really excited by her words and couldn’t help asking, “Who is he, who is he?” Her upper-bunk roommate took a deep breath and then breathed out a few words gently as if she were afraid of frightening someone away. “The author of Zero Degree File.” The name was indeed breathed out, barely formed on the lips. To this day Tiao still clearly remembers the nervous hot breath of her roommate when she said the words: “Zero Degree File.”
Zero Degree File was a work of fiction, representative of the “Scar Literature” school, particularly popular among young people, with whom the author of course had made his reputation. At the time, people followed a novel and author with great sincerity and enthusiasm. The enthusiasm might be naïve and shallow, but it had an innocence and purity that would never come again. Tiao would certainly have envied Miss Upper Bunk had she stopped right there, but she couldn’t. She felt compelled to share her intimate happiness with others. She said, “You have to know he’s not an ordinary person but a writer, a writer overflowing with talent. Tiao, you know, only now do I truly understand what ‘overflowing’ means.” She said, “This writer, overflowing with talent, is so good to me. One night I couldn’t fall asleep and I suddenly had a craving for dried hawthorn berries, so I shook him awake and asked him to go out and buy some for me. He actually got up and biked through the entire city looking for dried hawthorn berries. A writer, overflowing with talent, went to buy me dried hawthorn berries in the middle of the night! Did you hear that, Tiao? Did you hear that? Are you still a virgin? Tiao, are you still a virgin? If you are, then you are really being cheated. Don’t you realize how late it’s getting? You’re really good for nothing until you …”
Tiao didn’t know why her upper-bunk roommate had to associate dried hawthorn fruit with virginity, as if she didn’t deserve to eat dried hawthorn fruit if she were still a virgin. The statement “I’m finally no longer a virgin” jarred Tiao, and made her confused and agitated. In any case, that “finally” shouldn’t be the highest expectation that her roommate should have for her own youth. Maybe she exaggerated. When one era urgently wanted to replace another, everything got exaggerated, everything, from novels to virginity. But the frenzied enthusiasm of her roommate still affected Tiao. When her roommate chattered, she felt like an ignorant moron of a country girl, completely uncultivated, an idiot who’d fallen behind the times and whose youth was flowing away downstream with the current. It was indeed an era of thought liberation, liberation-liberation, and liberation again. The trend swept over Tiao and she felt like she were being dragged along, accused, and ridiculed by her upper-bunk roommate. Her body seemed to be filled with a new and ambiguous desire. She must do something, but even the “must do” was a kind of blind exaggeration. What should she do? She wasn’t dating; there was no man on campus worthy of her attention. Then she should look beyond the campus. One day her roommate said she was going to introduce her to someone. She said, though the guy was neither a writer nor a poet, he was pretty close to poets, an editor for a poetry magazine. She said he was fun to talk to. She said at a literary gathering he read a poem called “My Ass”: “O my ass and this ass of mine, why would I sit down beside the bourgeoisie when I sit down? Stool of the working class, I beg you, I beg you to receive my ignorant ass—even if you are a neglected stool …” Tiao didn’t think it was a poem. Maybe the author was imitating those who did crazy self-denunciations in the denouncement meetings. The “poem” just reminded Tiao of her own butt, making her think about the secret, happy times when she pretended the down pillows were a sofa. She had never realized that one could talk about asses so openly in poetry; after all, very few could have the imposing manner of Chairman Mao, who wrote about asses in his poems. But she went on a date with this editor, deliberately looking for some excitement. After all, she was only a student and the man was the editor of a poetry magazine. An editor was no more than a step below a writer; barely lower than a writer.
They met on a cold evening in front of the art museum and shook hands with a little stiffness. After the greeting, they began to stroll back and forth. With the thick down jackets and tightly fitting jeans both wore, from a distance they must have looked like a pair of meandering ostriches. Tiao had never gone on a date alone with a man, particularly a man so “close to poets.” As they started to walk around uncomfortably, Tiao was struck with the meaninglessness of it all: What was she doing here? Where did she want to go? Didn’t her roommate tell her that the editor was a married man when she set them up? She meant this to indicate that Tiao could relax; they could date or not, no pressure—can’t a man and woman meet alone, whether they’re on a date or not? In eras like the sixties or seventies it might have seemed absurd, but things were different now. From her roommate’s perspective, only when a single female student dated a married male editor could an era be proved open and a person be proved free. And at this moment, her theory was being put into practice with Tiao’s help. Unfortunately, neither Tiao’s body nor her mind felt free; she was very nervous. When she felt nervous she just babbled. She talked about the boys and girls in her class, the food in their cafeteria, and how their professor of modern literature walked into the classroom with a misbuttoned shirt … she went on and on, quickly and at random, so her conversation wasn’t at all intellectual, clever, fun, or witty. Her mind went completely blank, and her blank mind soberly reminded her again and again how ridiculous her meeting with this “ostrich” beside her was. By spouting endless nonsense, she was simply punishing herself for going on this most absurd date. She rambled on and on, full of anxiety because she had no experience in ending a meeting that should have ended before it began. She even stupidly believed that if she kept on talking without a pause, she could hasten the end of the date. Finally the editor interrupted her, and not until then did she discover how nasal his voice was. She didn’t like men with nasal voices. People who spoke that way sounded pretentious, as if they were practicing pronunciation while speaking. The editor said, “Do you plan to go back to your hometown? Your hometown is Fuan, right? Even though it’s an ancient city, it’s still provincial. I suggest you try and arrange to stay in Beijing for your graduation assignment. It’s the only cultural centre. Of this I’m very sure.”
Tiao was a little bit offended by the editor’s words. What right did he have to keep saying “your town”? Her upper-bunk roommate said he’d just been transferred to Beijing from Huangtu Plateau a few years ago, and now he talked so patronizingly to Tiao as if he were some kind of master of Beijing. Where was he when she was sipping raspberry soda in the alleys of Beijing?
Images from the past were still vivid for her: all those things that happened long ago, how she suffered when she first entered the city of Fuan as a young Beijinger. She’d felt wronged as well as proud. She’d tried hard to blend into the city, and maybe she had. The way she did blend in gave her energy, and allowed her, along with several close friends, to keep her Beijing accent bravely in that ancient, xenophobic city. Beijing! Beijing had never known there were several young women like this who had tried in vain to bring their culture to a strange city. Even though Beijing had never needed and would never need their sacrifice, Tiao and her friends insisted on such devotion. But the man in front of her, this man, what had he done for Beijing? He already considered himself a Beijinger. Besides, his mention of her graduation assignment annoyed her. How could she discuss personal business like her graduation assignment with a stranger? In short, nothing felt right. She resented the attitude of her roommate and her own silliness—she very much wanted to use this word to describe herself. She felt a bit sad, for the way she had thrust herself forward without any idea of the direction she should take; she also felt a bit awakened: she suddenly realized that her youth wasn’t flowing away in the current, that what she herself treasured was still precious, and she felt lucky to be able to hold on to it. She was as good as her roommate in many ways, and if she couldn’t keep up with her in this way, she was content to “fall behind.”
As she waited for the last bus to come, her thinking became clearer and clearer. There were many people on the bus. She flashed a farewell smile at the editor, ran to catch it, and then tried with all her might to force her way onto the already packed bus. The editor had followed her, apparently not wanting to leave until he made sure she’d got on. She turned around and yelled at him, “Hey, can you give me a push?” He gave her a push, and she was crammed on board. The door shut behind her with a swoosh.
Standing in the last bus, she suddenly smiled to herself. She realized “Give me a push” was actually what she had most wanted to say tonight. She also realized the editor was a nice, honest man. But just as she wasn’t attracted to him, he also wasn’t at all attracted to her.
4
It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to write back to Fang Jing; she put off writing because she didn’t know what to say. Maybe everything had happened too quickly. In any case, she couldn’t treat Fang Jing’s letter from San Francisco as a casual note. She carefully read the letter over and over, and time and again it brought her to tears. She’d never read such a good letter, and she had no reason to doubt the author’s sincerity.
So she started to write back. “Mr. Fang Jing, how are you?” she wrote. Then she would tear the letter up and start over. He was so important and she was so insignificant. She lacked confidence and was afraid of making a fool of herself—but how could she write a letter of the same quality as a celebrity like Fang Jing? It was impossible; she had neither the writing talent nor the emotional maturity his letter displayed. Just based on the letter alone, Tiao felt that she had already fallen in love with him. And she had to fall in love with him because she believed he had fallen in love with her—and it was her good fortune to be loved by him, she thought selflessly. At her age and with her lack of experience, she couldn’t immediately tell the difference between admiration and love, or know how quickly a feeling driven by vanity might get the better of her. Maybe at those times she thought about her senior-year roommate. Compared to Fang Jing, who was that writer of her roommate’s, with his “overflowing talent”? How could her love affair match Tiao’s secret life now? College life, the flare of red-hot emotion that came and went quickly.
Once again she started to write a reply to him, but finally could only come up with those few words, “Dear Mr. Fang Jing, how are you?”
She went out and found a second-run cinema to watch a movie of his, to meet him on the screen. She listened to his voice, studied his features, and savoured his expressions. She tried very hard to memorize his looks, but when she returned home and lay in her bed, she found she had completely forgotten. It frightened and worried her, and seemed like a bad sign. The next day she took the opportunity to watch the movie again. She stared at him on the screen, as if she had found a long-lost family member. She still couldn’t compose the letter. Then she received his phone call at her office.
He phoned at a time that everyone was in the office. The chief editor said to her, “Tiao, your uncle’s calling.” As soon as she walked to the phone and picked up the receiver, she recognized his southern-accented Mandarin. He said the following paragraph in one breath, with some formality and a tone that left her no room for contradiction: “Is this Comrade Yin Xiaotiao? This is Fang Jing. I know there are a lot of people in your office. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t call me Mr. Fang Jing. Just listen to me. I’ve returned to Beijing and haven’t received a letter or phone call from you. It’s very likely that you’re laughing at me for being foolish. But please let me finish. Don’t hang up on me and don’t be afraid of me. I don’t want to be unreasonable. I just want to see you. Listen to me—I’m at a conference at the Beijing Hotel. Can you arrange to come to Beijing to solicit manuscripts? I know editors come to Beijing all the time. You come and we’ll meet. I’ll give you my phone number for the conference. You don’t have to respond to me right away, though of course I want to have your immediate response, your positive response, very much. No, no, you should think it over first. I have a few more things I want to ramble on about, I know I don’t seem very composed, but I have somehow lost control of myself, which is very unusual for me. I would rather trust my instincts, though. Please don’t be in a hurry to refuse me. Don’t be in a hurry to refuse me. Now I’m going to give you the number. Can you write it down? Can you remember it …?”
She was very bad at memorizing numbers, but she learned Fang Jing’s number by heart even though he said it only once. She went to Beijing three days later, and saw him in his room at the Beijing Hotel. When she was alone with him, she felt he seemed even taller than when she had first met him. Like so many tall people, he stooped a little. But this didn’t change his bearing, that arrogant and nonchalant attitude he was famous for. Tiao thought she must have appeared affected when she walked into his room, because Fang Jing seemed to catch an uneasiness from her. He gave her a broad smile, but the easy, witty manner of the conference was gone. He poured her a cup of tea but somehow managed to spill the hot tea, scalding Tiao’s hand as well as his own. The telephone rang endlessly—that was the way the celebrities were, always pursued by phone calls. He kept picking up the phone, lying to the callers without missing a beat: “No, I can’t do it today. Now? Impossible. I have to go see the rough cut in a minute. How about tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll treat you at Da Sanyuan …”
Sitting on the sofa listening quietly to Fang Jing’s lies, Tiao sensed an unspoken understanding grow between them, and in herself a strange new feeling, dreamlike. She was grateful for all those smooth lies, thankful that he was turning those others down for her, with lies made for her, all of them, for the sake of their reunion. She started to relax; the phone calls were precisely what she needed to give herself the time to regroup.
Fang Jing finally finished the calls and came over to Tiao. He crouched down right in front of her, face-to-face. It was a sudden movement, but the gesture was quite natural and simple, like a peasant tending crops in the field, or an adult who needs to crouch down to talk to a child, or a person who crouches down to observe a small insect like an ant or beetle. With his age and status, the crouching gave him an air of childish naughtiness. He said to Tiao, who was sitting on the sofa, “How about we go out? Those phone calls are pretty annoying.”
They left the room and went to the hotel bar. They chose a quiet corner and sipped coffee. He was holding his pipe. After a short silence, he began to speak, saying, “What do you think of me?”
She said, “I respect you very much. Like so many people, I admire your movie A Beautiful Life. Like me, a great many people hold your talent in high regard. In our editors’ office, you’re often the topic of discussion. We—”
He interrupted her and said, “Are you going to talk to me in this sort of tone all night? Are you? Tell me.”
She shook her head and then nodded. She’d wanted to restrain her excitement in this way. She already found herself liking to be with him very much.
Then he said, out of the blue, “You stood apart from the crowd at the conference, naïve but also seeming to have a mind of your own. I saw at a glance that you were the person that God sent to keep an eye on me. I can’t lie to you; I want to tell you everything. I … I … I …” He puffed on his pipe. “Do you know that what I wrote to you was what was on my mind? I had never written to a woman, never. But I couldn’t help it after I saw you. I am well aware of my talent and gifts, and I am also well aware that they’re far from being fully developed. I will be much more famous than I am now. The day will come. Just wait and see. I also want to talk about my attitude towards women; I simply don’t reject any women who approach me. Most women want me for my fame, maybe my money, too. Of course, some don’t want anything from me, just want to devote themselves to me. They are especially pathetic, because in many respects … I am actually very dirty—I hope I am not frightening you with my words.”
His words did frighten her quite a bit. All exposed things are frightening, and why would he treat her to such an exposed view of himself? She felt sorry for him because of that “dirtiness.” She’d thought what she was going to hear would be much more romantic than this. Just what kind of man was he exactly? What did he want from her? Tiao was puzzled but knew well she didn’t have the ability to take the initiative in their conversation. She was passive; she had been passive from the very start, and she could have no idea that the passivity would later produce something evil in her.
“Therefore …” He took another puff of his pipe and said, “Therefore, I don’t deserve you. It looks like I’m pursuing you now, but how could I possess you? You’re a woman who can’t be possessed—by anyone. But I’ll be with you sooner or later.”
She finally spoke. She asked, “What leads you to such a conclusion?” His directness made her heart race.
But he ignored her question completely; he just continued, “You and I will be together sooner or later. But I want to tell you that even though someday I will be madly in love with you, I will still have many other women. And I will certainly not hide that from you. I’ll tell you everything: who they are, how it happened … I’ll let you judge me, punish me, because you’re the woman I love the most. Only you deserve me to be so frank, so truthful, and so weak. You’re my goddess, and I need a goddess. Just remember what I say. Maybe you’re too young now, but you’ll understand me, you definitely will. Ordinary people might think I’m talking like a hooligan. Well, maybe I am and maybe I’m not.”
Hearing such words from Fang Jing, Tiao didn’t want to label them the language of a hooligan. But what was it exactly? Should a married man with a successful career say those things to an innocent girl? But Tiao was lost then in the labyrinth created by his nonsense, as if under a spell. She strained to understand his philosophy and rise to the state of consciousness he had attained. A strange charisma came from the arrogance he projected and his domineering manner. The hints of coldness that occasionally strayed from his passionate eyes also drew her deeply in. She couldn’t help beginning to question herself just to keep up with his thinking: What kind of person was she? What kind of person might she become? What was her attraction to this celebrity anyway …?
Strangely, he did not move closer to Tiao as he talked. He leaned back instead, putting more distance between them the more he spoke. His hunger for her was not going to end in a simple, impulsive touch and physical closeness. The way he kept proper physical distance didn’t seem to be the behaviour of an experienced man who was so used to being spoiled by women.
It was not until very, very late that Tiao left the Beijing Hotel. Fang Jing insisted on walking her back to her small hotel.
The evening breeze of late spring on broad Changan Avenue made Tiao feel much more relaxed. At that moment she realized how exhausting it was to be with him. It would always be exhausting, but she would be willing to be with him for many years to come.
He walked at her left side for a while and then at her right side. He said, “Tiao, I want to tell you one more thing.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’re a good girl,” he said.
“But you don’t really know me.”
“True, I don’t know you, but I’m confident there is nobody else who understands you better than I do.”
“Why?”
“You know, after all, this is a matter that has been decided by mysterious powers, but you and I have a lot of things in common. For instance, we’re both sensitive, and below our surface indifference, we both have molten passion …”
“How do you know I have molten passion? And what do you mean by describing me as indifferent? Do you feel that I didn’t show you enough respect?”
“See, you’re starting an argument with me,” he said with some excitement. “Your arrogance is also coming out—no, not arrogance, it’s pride. I don’t have that sort of pride; the pride is yours alone.”
“Why is it mine alone?” She softened her tone. “If you didn’t have pride at your core, how could you be so outspoken—those words you said a little while ago at the hotel?”
He suddenly smiled with some concern. “Do you really think that’s pride? What I actually have at my core is more like insolence. Insolence, you understand?”
She couldn’t agree with him, or she couldn’t allow him to describe himself this way. Only many years later when she reflected on this did she understand that his self-analysis was really quite accurate, but she resisted him fiercely at the time. She started to tell him about all of the feelings she had for him—as she read his two letters, while she watched his movie again for fear of forgetting what he looked like. She spoke with a great deal of effort, sometimes worried she might not be expressing herself well enough with her words. When she mentioned his heavily-scarred arm in the movie, she couldn’t help starting to cry. So she paused until she could hold her tears back. He didn’t want her to continue but she insisted on speaking, not to move him but to move herself. She had a vague sense that the man before her, who had suffered more than enough, deserved everything he wanted. If he were sent to a labour camp again, she would be his companion in suffering all her life, like the wives of those Decembrists in Russia, who were willing to go into exile in Siberia with their husbands. Ah, to prove her faithfulness, bravery, nobility, and detachment, she simply couldn’t help wanting to relive the era that had tormented Fang Jing. Let an era like that be the measure of her heart—but who the hell was she? Fang Jing had a wife and a daughter.
They arrived at her small hotel while she was talking. She immediately stopped speaking and held out her hand to him. He looked into her eyes while holding her hand and said, “Let me say it one more time: you’re a good girl.”
They said goodbye and he turned around. She walked through the hotel gate but immediately came back and ran into the street. She called out to stop him.
He knew what she wanted to do, he told her later.
Now he remained where he was and waited for her to come to him. She ran over, stopped in front of him, and said, “I want to kiss you.”
He opened his arms to hold her loosely, so loosely that their bodies didn’t come close. She went on tiptoes, raising her face to kiss him, then immediately let him go and ran into the hotel.
Fang Jing could never forget Tiao’s first kiss, because it was so light and subtle, like a dragonfly skimming the water. It could not actually be considered a kiss, at most it was just half a kiss, like a flying feather gently brushing his lips, an imagined snowflake melting away without a trace on a burning-hot stove. But she was so devoted and shy. It was impulsiveness caused by too much devotion, and too much shyness that caused … what did it cause? She nearly missed his lips.
Maybe it was not only that. When Tiao ran so decisively toward Fang Jing, her heart had already started to hesitate. All by herself, she felt she had to run to this man. She responded to her own prompting in one moment, by letting her lips slip away from the unknown in the next. It was hesitation caused by fear, and caution caused by discretion.
It was the solemn and hasty half kiss, so pure and complicated, that prevented Fang Jing from returning her kiss. He didn’t dare. And when he loosely encircled her slim and supple waist with his arms, he knew his heart had been captured by this distant and intimate person.
5
The letters he wrote to her were usually very long, and his handwriting was very small. He used a special type of fountain pen to write, which produced extremely thin strokes, “as thin as a strand of hair,” as the saying goes. This sharp pen allowed him to write smaller and more densely packed characters, like an army of ants wriggling across the paper. He wrote the tiny words greedily, wrestling them onto the white paper. He used those tiny words to invade and torture the white sheets, leaving no breaks for paragraphs, and paying no attention to format and space. He was not writing words; he was eating paper and gnawing on paper with words. It looked as though he were driven to use those tiny black words to occupy every inch of the paper, to fill all the empty places on every sheet of white paper with those tiny black words, transforming pieces of thin paper by force into chunks of heavy dark clouds. He couldn’t help shouting at the sky: Give me a huge piece of white paper and let me finish writing the words of my entire life.
No one else wrote to her like that before or afterwards. Ten years later, when she read those letters with critical detachment, the patience he took in writing pages of tiny words, the vast amount of time he spent on writing such letters, the hunger and thirst with which he fought for every inch of paper with his words and sentences, could still move her somehow. What she valued was this meticulous patience, this primitive, sincere, awkward, and real dependence and love between paper and words, whether it was written to her or some other woman.
He wrote in his letter:
Tiao, I worry about your eyes because you have to read such small writing from me. But still I write smaller and smaller, and the paper gets thinner and thinner because I have more and more to say to you. If I wrote in big characters and used thick paper, it might not be safe to send it to your publishing house. People might think it is a manuscript from an author and open it for you.
He also talked about his absurd experiences, in some of the letters.
Tiao:
You’re not going to be happy to read this letter, but I must write it because you’re watching me anyway even if I don’t write it. You have been watching me all the time. A few days ago, I was on location at Fang Mountain—you know what I’m talking about, the place where I shot Hibernation. I was making love to actress so and so (she is even younger than you are, and not very well known) but I felt terrible. Maybe because everything was too rushed, and she was too purposeful and too blunt. She had been chatting me up for the last few days, not that she wanted to angle for the part of the heroine in this film—the heroine had been cast long ago. She was manoeuvring for the next role. She was hoping I’d give her a juicier part in my next film. Clearly, she has some experience with men. She is straightforward, not allowing a man to retreat, but my male vanity made me hope she at least had some feeling for me. Unfortunately she had none. She doesn’t even bother to flirt with me. To girls of her age, I might just be a boring, dirty old man, even though I’m not fifty years old yet. But she wanted to make love to me badly. I admit her body attracted me, but I kept my attitude toward her light, only kidding with her. Later I was turned on by my contempt for her but I didn’t understand why I was thinking about you at the time. It was because of you that I so yearned to get a kiss from her. Nothing else but her kiss, wholehearted, passionate, a kiss that risks a life, like the kind I want from you, although I have never got it. The only thing you granted me on that evening I can’t forget, after which I couldn’t sleep, was utmost power, the power of “not daring.”
There was nothing that I didn’t dare to do to so and so. I stopped her when she rushed to take off her clothes. I told her to kiss me and she did as I said. She pressed against my body and wrapped her arms around my neck, kissing me for a long time, often asking, “Is that enough, is that enough?” She kissed me deeply and thoroughly, her tongue going almost everywhere she could reach in my mouth, and yet she seemed distracted. I closed my eyes and imagined it was you, your lips and your passionate kisses. But it didn’t work. The more she kissed me, the more I felt it was not you. And she apparently grew impatient—it was precisely because she became impatient that I insisted on having her continue to kiss me. I held her around the waist with my hands, not allowing her to move. We two looked like we were struggling with one another. Later, everything finally went in a different direction because she snuck her hand from my neck and started to touch and fondle me. She was nervous and I could understand her nervousness. She didn’t know why I wanted her only for kissing; she must have thought it wasn’t sufficient, that the kissing alone was not going to satisfy my desire and therefore her desire was even less likely to be satisfied.
She fondled me anxiously as if to say, even though my kisses didn’t seem to satisfy you, there is something more that I’m willing to give you … we started to make love, but you were everywhere before my eyes—I’m so obscene, but I beg you not to throw away the letter. In the end I felt horrible. On the one hand I imagined it was you who lay under me, my beloved, but when I did, the guilt I felt was so strong that it kept me from achieving the pleasure I could have had. The guilt was so strong that I couldn’t tell who exactly lay under my body then or exactly what I was doing after all. Eventually I had to use my hand to … I could only get release with my own hand.
I’m willing to let you curse me ten thousand times. Only when you curse me does my empty soul find a peaceful place to go. Where can my soul rest safely? Maybe I demand too much. Why, when I kept getting those prizes I dreamed of—success, fame, national and international awards, family, children, admiration, beautiful women, money, etc.—and the rest … —did my anxiety only deepen?
I had a woman before I was married. She was a one-legged woman, fifteen years older than I was. She was a sadist. I took up with her because even though I was the lowest of the low I still needed women. Or you could say she took up with me. But I never guessed that she didn’t want me for the needs that a man could satisfy. She had only one leg but her physical strength was matchless. I certainly couldn’t match her, with that body of mine weakened by years of hard labour and starvation. She often tied me up late at night and pricked my arms and thighs with an awl, not deep, just enough to make me bleed. What shocked me even more was the time she lifted up the blanket when I was dead asleep, and began frantically plucking my pubic hair … she was crazy. She must have been crazy. But I didn’t go crazy and I think it must have had something to do with the mountains I saw every time I went out. When I stepped out of the low, small mud hut and saw the silent mountains, unchanged for more than ten thousand years, when I saw the chickens running helter-skelter in the yard and dung steaming on the dirt road, the desire to live surged in me. I developed a talent: even when she tortured me until my body was bloodstained and black and blue all over, as soon as she stopped, I could fall back asleep immediately, and without having a nightmare. But today, I have to ask myself again and again: What do you want in the end, what do you want after all?
I don’t want to pollute your eyes with the above words, but I can only ease my heart by writing to you. I have such desire to be with you, so much so that this desire has turned into fear. And moreover, I have the uncouth and unreasonable fear that you are with other men. From my own experience of men and women, I know extremely well the power you have. When we were drinking coffee at the Beijing Hotel, you probably didn’t notice two men sitting at the next table who stared at you the whole time. There was an old Englishman sitting across from our table—I’m certain he was English—that old man also stared at you constantly. You didn’t notice any of this; you were too nervous at the time. But I noticed; it didn’t take much to figure out; glimpses from the corners of my eyes were enough. I’m very sure of my judgment. You’re the kind of woman who can capture a man’s attention; there is something in you that attracts people. You have the power to make people look at you, even though you are not polished at it yet. I think you should be more aware of this: you need to learn to protect yourself. Has anyone said this to you before? I believe I’m the only one who has. You should always button up your clothing; don’t let men take advantage of you with their eyes. Don’t. Not that the men who admire you would actually do something to harm you. No, I have to admit those who stare at you have taste. They are not hooligans or perverts. And I’m more nervous precisely because of that. I don’t want them to take you away from me, though I still don’t know how you truly feel about me. I’ve said before it was very likely that I would go to your city—Fuan, that tiny grain of rice that I caressed with my fingers when I was in the States. I will figure out a way to disguise myself in the street. Someday I will do that.
Now let me talk about the book you asked me to write. I tried to write the beginning and finished fifteen hundred words. It was very difficult because I couldn’t find a direct, uncluttered tone. If the readers are kids, the writer should first get himself an open heart. My heart is open—at least to you, but not very clean. I feel very guilty and challenged by it. I plan to focus on writing the book after I finish shooting Hibernation. I’m curious to find out my potential as an author. Will you think I’m too wordy? But wordiness is a sign of aging. Do you know what else I’m thinking about? How I look forward to you getting old quickly. Only when you get so old that you can’t get any older, and I also get so old that I can’t get any older, can we be together. By that time we’ll both be so old that people won’t be able to tell what sex we are: you might be an old man and I might be an old woman. We’d lose all our teeth, but our lips would still be all right so we could still talk. The human body is so strange, the hardest things, like teeth, disappear first, but the softest things, like tongues and lips, will come along with us to the last moment of our lives …
6
One day in the autumn of 1966, Tiao, as a new student in the first grade of Lamp Alley Primary School in Beijing, participated in a noisy and confusing denouncement meeting on the school’s sports field. It was an assembly that the entire faculty and student body attended, where many desks were brought together and stacked to make a tall stage. In front of the stage, students from all grades sat on their own little chairs that they brought out of the classrooms.
It was new to Tiao, who had just become an elementary school student a few days earlier. Back then she didn’t have a clear idea about what having such a meeting meant. She thought sitting this way on the field was like having class in the open air, and felt freer than having an ordinary class. During class, teachers required children to sit straight with hands behind their backs; only correct posture would help their bodies grow healthily. But today, on the sports field, their class teacher didn’t ask them to put their hands behind them; they could keep their hands wherever they wanted. Maybe, with the atmosphere so serious and subdued, the teachers couldn’t bother about the students’ sitting positions. Tiao remembered the senior students leading them in the continuous shouting of slogans. No one told them to clench their fists and raise their arms when they shouted, but somehow they all figured it out by themselves. They raised their little arms over and over again and vehemently shouted those slogans, even though they had no idea what the slogans meant. As some of the slogans slowly began to make sense to her, she started to understand what they were and at whom they were directed. For instance, there was the slogan “Down with female hooligan Tang Jingjing!” As Tiao shouted, she knew Tang Jingjing was a female teacher who taught senior students maths in their school. She also heard boys from other classes behind her talking: “So, Teacher Tang is a female hooligan.”
Teacher Tang was escorted to the stage by several senior girls. She had a big white sign around her neck, hanging down over her chest, with words in ink: “I am a female hooligan!” The first grade sat in the first row, so Tiao saw the words on the sign very clearly. She recognized three characters, “I am woman,” and figured out the last word must be “hooligan,” based on the slogan they’d shouted a moment before. The sentence terrified her because, in her mind, “hooligan” didn’t just mean bad people, but the worst of the worst, worse than landlords and capitalists. She was wondering how an adult could so easily admit “I am a female hooligan” in the first person. That use of the first person to declare “I am ***” made Tiao extremely uncomfortable, although she couldn’t explain why.
Sitting in the front row, Tiao also had a clear view of Tang Jingjing. Tang Jingjing was about thirty years old, fair-skinned, and thin; so thin and white that with the pointiness of both her nose and close-cropped head, she resembled a toothpick. Toothpick would be how Tiao described her afterwards. She indeed looked like a toothpick, not a willow wand. She appeared thin and weak, but she was very tough and strong. She stuck herself into the stage like a toothpick and refused to bend or lower her head no matter how the senior girls pushed her around. Tiao at the time wouldn’t have been able to come up with the description “toothpick”; she simply had a natural sympathy for Teacher Tang, because—it was funny that Tiao didn’t know where she got the idea that the word “hooligan” only referred to men—how could a woman be a hooligan? She sympathized with Teacher Tang also because Teacher Tang was pretty. Pretty, that was the reason.
Since Teacher Tang refused to lower her head and bend her back, both on stage and off, people appeared excited and a little out of control. The senior girl students apparently didn’t know what to do, and other teachers just shouted the slogans. None of them personally seemed willing to grab their colleague’s neck and force her to lower her head. Just as the scene looked like it was about to run out of gas, a middle-aged woman in a moon-white shirt rushed onto the stage (only later did Tiao learn she was the director of the Lamp Alley Street Committee) and pointed at Teacher Tang. “Did you feel wronged because we said you were a hooligan? Then let me ask you: Are you married or not? According to the information we’ve collected, you’ve never married. Why do you have a child, then, even though you were never married? You have to confess truthfully the identity of the person with whom you had the child!” The chanting arose again: “Tang Jingjing must confess the truth! If she doesn’t confess, we revolutionary students will not stop!” Then a group of even older students jumped up onto the stage; they had come from a nearby middle school, all wearing red armbands, to assist their little brothers’ and sisters’ revolutionary action.
These middle schoolers were good at fighting. One of them went behind Teacher Tang and swung a leg at the back of her knee and she immediately knelt down with a thud. The audience cheered; the die-hard Teacher Tang was finally subdued by the revolutionary students. The denouncement meeting continued. Several young teachers went onto the stage to speak one by one. With great emotion they accused Teacher Tang of hiding serious corruption in her life in order to deceive her colleagues, school, and students into trusting her. Just imagine, everyone, what a terrible thing it is! A woman with such a degenerate morality and corrupt lifestyle could get into our school and become a teacher … The slogans arose again: “Tang Jingjing must leave Lamp Alley Primary School! We successors of the revolution demand she leave Lamp Alley Primary School!” The middle-aged woman in the moon-white shirt continued to expose Tang Jingjing’s crimes: According to her neighbours, Tang Jingjing pretended to live simply and plainly, but at home she always lived a bourgeois lifestyle—she had a cat, and treated her cat better than people. One day she even dared to kiss her cat right in the courtyard—in the name of heaven, kissing a cat!
The audience first broke into laughter at this and then switched to even angrier shouting. “Down with female hooligan Tang Jingjing!”
How insufficient it seemed just to allow Tang Jingjing to kneel there listening to people shouting while more and more of her disgusting actions were revealed. The intractable hostility on her pale, skinny face made people on the stage burn with anger. A boy student with a red armband suddenly stuck out his rubber army overshoe into Tang Jingjing’s face and said, “If you can kiss a bourgeois cat, can’t you kiss a working-class shoe?” He kept his foot in Tang Jingjing’s face as he spoke. A girl ran over and pressed Tang Jingjing’s head down to force her to kiss the boy’s shoe. More dust-covered shoes were extended forcing her to kiss them.
The field seethed and the stage gave way to chaos. The students in front of the stage could no longer sit still, some knocking over their chairs, some standing on them, and others pushing their way to the front in order to see more clearly. Dust flew around and choked Tiao until she coughed. She also stood up and wanted to see more clearly. But unlike some of the boys in her class, she didn’t step on her chair; she instinctively thought it was improper, something that a student shouldn’t do. But she felt so small in the midst of the crowd and could see nothing on the stage, which made her anxious. Just then a stink wafted over. Someone brought up a cup of shit, and then a voice rang out, “Tang Jingjing isn’t worthy of kissing our shoes; her mouth simply deserves to eat shit!”
“Right, right,” others chimed in. “Let her confess to the revolutionary teachers and students. If she doesn’t confess we’ll make her eat.”
Make her eat shit.
This suddenly calmed the boiling crowd, and the smell also made people hold their breath and concentrate. The shit was carried to the stage openly in a teacup, which played on the ugliest nerve hidden in the depths of the human mind. Its terrorizing power came onto the stage. The ones who had crowded to the front backed away, and the ones who stood on the chairs sat down. It was just like at a concert, when there’s some opening act during which the audience can raise as much clamour as they want, and only during the star’s big number will they sit straight and properly appreciate the performance. Making Tang Jingjing eat shit might well be the big number of the day’s denouncement meeting.
The teacup was placed in front of Tang Jingjing, only a metre away from her. She kept that ghostly pale face of hers still. Everyone is waiting for you to confess, why don’t you just open your mouth? … Tiao’s heart contracted as if clutched by a hand, and she could hardly breathe. She hoped Teacher Tang would open her mouth immediately so that she wouldn’t have to eat shit. But many people might not have thought like Tiao, and they might not have been so eager to hear Tang Jingjing’s confession anymore. When a person is given a choice between confessing and eating shit, what others are eager to see may not be her confessing.
She didn’t open her mouth, nor did she eat the shit. So a boy student ran to the middle-aged woman in the moon-white shirt and whispered something in her ear. He then returned to Tang Jingjing and spoke to the entire audience. “If Tang Jingjing refuses to confess or eat shit, we have another method. We revolutionary masses will not be frightened by her hooligan’s arrogance. We will bring her daughter to the stage and let you look at her. Let everyone take a look at her daughter. Her daughter will be the evidence that stands as proof of her hooligan activities.”
Tang Jingjing finally lost her poise. Tiao saw her quickly move two steps in a kneeling position towards the teacup. Those urgent and determined “kneeling steps,” which came like a thunderclap exploding before anyone could cover their ears, left a lifelong impression on Tiao. She moved with her “kneeling steps” to the teacup and stared at the cup for a while. Then, under the gaze of everyone, she grabbed the teacup with two hands and drank it down in one swallow …
The first thing Tiao did after returning home was brush her teeth and rinse her mouth; she couldn’t resist the urge to eat all the toothpaste in the Little White Rabbit tube that only she and Fan used. Brushing her teeth made her vomit and after vomiting she continued to brush her teeth. Once she had finished brushing she continued to reach into her throat with the toothbrush. Then she began to vomit again. She vomited some food until at last only sticky sour fluid came out. She finished vomiting and brushing and then cupped her nose and mouth with her two hands—she cupped them very tightly, careful not to leave any space—and then she exhaled in big breaths—as she learned to do in kindergarten. She could smell her breath this way. Finally she could relax and she should relax; there wasn’t any taste in her mouth. She looked at herself in the mirror numerous times; she saw that her lips were white, like they’d been dyed white with the toothpaste, but they were even whiter than the toothpaste. She rubbed her lips hard with a towel until they became hot and red and almost bled, until they throbbed with pain. She locked herself in the bathroom tormenting herself for a long time.
Then she came out of the bathroom with red eyes and a heavy head. Fan came over, and she embraced Fan and kissed her. Fan kissed back and they kissed each other loudly. She then went to kiss her father, her mother, that pair of old corduroy sofas at her home, her little chair, and the ice-cold radio/tape recorder made in the Soviet Union. Believing that she must be sick, her father and mother told her to go to bed. There she saw her folded handkerchief. She opened the handkerchief, at the centre of which was a white, yellow-eyed cat. She stared at the white cat and swept the handkerchief to the corner of the bed, but later she reached out to get it back. She opened the handkerchief and stared at the white cat. She put her mouth on the cat’s mouth and cried.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_7702296e-989e-50be-8cf4-da57389db79d)
Pillow Time (#ulink_7702296e-989e-50be-8cf4-da57389db79d)
1
Like everyone else arriving at the Reed River Farm, Wu and Yixun were placed on male and female teams. Located in the alkali salt flats southwest of Fuan, the farm was where the provincial Architectural Design Academy congregated its own intellectuals for isolated labour reform.
The couple’s transfer from Beijing to the provincial capital Fuan in the late sixties already had an undertone of punishment: as an engineer in the Beijing Architectural Design Academy, Yixun had aired his dissatisfaction with Beijing’s urban planning. He was young and aggressive back then, often speaking bluntly. A piece of history most people might not be aware of: when the country was just established, Chairman Mao invited Mr. Liang Sicheng to the Tiananmen Tower to discuss the future urban planning of the new Beijing. Not knowing much about cities, Chairman Mao might well have been in the grip of his own excitement at having won the revolution, or he might actually have had an in-depth understanding of the urgency of rapid industrialization, if the country was to be strong and prosperous.
In either case, he stood on the Tiananmen Tower and looked down, sweeping that great-man’s arm of his towards the grey misty distance and saying to Liang Sicheng, “In the future, chimneys should be visible from here in every direction.” The great leader’s declaration must have terrified Liang Sichang, the great architect so devoted to preserving old Beijing. And Yixun, an undistinguished young architect, immediately expressed his own doubts on hearing this piece of privileged information. He thought it was absurd and inconceivable to make chimneys appear everywhere in the view from the Tiananmen Tower. How could Beijing, a city famous for culture, which had survived so many dynasties, be turned into a huge factory? A few years later, when Yixun’s sympathetic comments to Liang Sicheng were reported, both he and his wife, Wu, an English translator in the reference room, were transferred to Fuan.
This transfer didn’t set off panic in their hearts. The Cultural Revolution had already started by then, and one city was much like another. Most people at the Beijing Architectural Design Academy were headed for a farm located somewhere in the south for concentrated labour and thought reform. The revolution was not going to give up on any of its revolutionary targets easily.
They brought their two daughters—Tiao and Fan—to the provincial capital, Fuan, only to have to leave it behind as soon as they got used to it. They hastily settled their daughters and gave Tiao their residential card, rice ration book, clothes coupons, bankbook, and a small sum of money. After emphasizing to Tiao over and over again what a great responsibility she would have as head of the household, they took their bags and left for Reed River Farm with most of their colleagues. It had been suggested that the period of labour might have no definite end, it wouldn’t be a week or a month; it could be several years, perhaps, so they prepared themselves for a long stay. They were put under the leadership and management of the working class, and the first thing they were asked to do was to separate—husbands and wives must separate in order to help them temper their revolutionary willpower and strengthen their dedication to the labour. They lived in big collective dormitories—men in a male dorm and women in a female dorm—and inside, lines of plank beds stretched out toward the vanishing point. They were assigned to work in the brick factory. Every day, Yixun hauled the bricks in a big cart, originally pulled by a horse, and Wu wore coarse cloth gloves to load the bricks into the cart.
Those intellectuals who laboured at the Reed River Farm—the male and female teams—didn’t object to the Cultural Revolution. They had plenty of time when they were not labouring to study or to criticize each other, to attend denunciation meetings or to do self-criticism. They diligently tried to use these methods to remove the nonproletarian marks imprinted on their bodies, rolling in the mud and stepping into cow dung, fervently hoping to be reborn. But at the same time they were weak and easily distracted by fantasy. For instance, their hearts and minds didn’t always remain at peace. At the end of a day’s work, when they returned to their separate dormitories, stinking of sweat, their faces all dusty, husbands always longed for their wives, just as wives always longed for their husbands.
If you were to look at Reed River Farm from the point of view of someone who appreciates landscape, ignoring the atmosphere and mood of the time, you would find it a boundless and magnificent place. The farm was surrounded by thousands of acres of reeds, like the passionate, tender petals clustering around a sunflower. Especially in autumn, the golden reeds, taller than a person, with the white, fluffy flower on their heads, would suddenly grow and swell, releasing a spirit overpoweringly fierce and deeply peaceful, as if they wanted to take over the world and withdraw from it at the same time. Because the reeds blocked the view and smothered all sound, only the wild dark brown ducks could play freely and nest in the thicket of reeds, laying eggs that no one could collect. Walking in, you would be awed and dumbstruck by the stillness of the ten thousand acres of densely packed reeds; you would also be cleansed by the noble, pure spirit of the ten thousand acres of reeds and feel renewed. At nightfall, clusters of reeds would seem more crowded in the autumn wind, like groups of women in white kerchiefs and skirts holding their breath and walking one after the other in mincing steps. Unfortunately, the farm separated the people from the reeds behind an enclosing wall. At the time neither Wu nor Yixun were in the mood to appreciate the grandeur of the reeds outside the wall. Compared to the charming sweep and vast stillness, the farm seemed very plain and drab, with identical low red-brick buildings everywhere. There was only one attractive place, a small house on top of a hill. Yet how could it actually be a hill? Here, it was an endless plain. The hill was a small slope at the end of a vegetable field slightly higher than the farmland; ordinarily it wouldn’t pass as a hill. But on the plain, even the most modest elevation could be considered a hill. The flatness of the plain made any rise stand out as individual and unique. No matter how small, as long as people were willing to, they could call it a hill. The small house on the hill.
On Sundays, only on Sundays, it was open to the couples who lived in the collective dormitories. It was locked and left unused on other days. Wu and Yixun hadn’t counted how many couples there were among the male and female teams—probably at least eighty. Anyone in a couple would need to use the small house on the hill sooner or later. There was only one house and one day of the week, so people had to wait in line. This type of line was different from the kind they waited in to buy rice and vegetables. Although they were husbands and wives openly, they couldn’t openly wait in line one after another to use the small house. The implication of the word “use” was so direct and obvious that people felt excited and embarrassed on hearing it. Therefore their waiting in line had about it a bit of the intellectuals’ reserve, a modesty, the result of their upbringing, and maybe the careful calculations of the powerless. Early Sunday morning, you wouldn’t see a distinct group milling in front of the house, but you could see men and women in couples scattered randomly around, near and far. They were either under a tree, on a vegetable patch, or sitting on bricks, apparently engaged in tête-à-tête. They looked calm and relaxed, but their eyes were fixed intensely on the tightly closed door of that small house. Every time the door opened and a couple walked out after finishing their business, the next couple to enter would be the one closest to the door, and the next couple after them would take a definite step closer. This “step” was very discreet, maintaining a distance of at least fifteen metres. Who would be heartless enough to wait right outside the door? Couples who came late would judge with care which spot to take. Latecomers never rushed past those who were already there to get to the door. The couples were all very precise about the order. It almost looked like they were scouts—in groups of two—slowly outflanking the small house; the scene also resembled a round of confused chess, unintelligible to laymen, with those anxious couples as the pieces on the board. The chess game only appeared disorderly; it was the unexpected that led to trouble, which happened once in Wu and Yixun’s memory.
The door high above had finally opened and a couple emerged. Wu and Yixun, as the closest couple, knew that it was their turn and immediately, in unspoken understanding, walked toward the small house. But right then another couple also approached from the opposite direction. The two couples had arrived almost at the same time and their distance from the small house was also about the same. If you used a diagram to illustrate the situation, the relationship of the two couples to the small house could be presented as an equilateral triangle. While they simultaneously headed toward the small house, they simultaneously realized the awkwardness of the situation. When they realized that awkwardness, they may all have hesitated briefly—a pause as tiny as a blade of grass, a product of their polite upbringing. But the reality was so powerful that their footsteps immediately left the tiny mental hesitation behind. Wu felt her legs hurry more urgently than the moment before because the couple coming from the opposite direction seemed to be moving with increased speed and agility: they seemed to be striding in bigger and bigger steps. So she began to extend her stride, too … and the twenty-something metres where the two couples raced with quiet ferocity seemed endless. They kept adjusting their stride and glancing over at each other, calculating how they could arrive a step ahead. Their eagerness made them ignore the way they appeared as they walked; certainly ugly, since they were race-walking without even following a race walker’s form. The only thing they didn’t do was run, but they didn’t run because after all they still couldn’t accept the fact that they would have to run in order to do their conjugal business. Actual running would have damaged the collegiality between the couples, although in their hearts they were running wildly.
Wu swung her waist and hips to stride forward, intent on occupying the small house first. She was a bit embarrassed about her big steps because they were the sign of her desire. Her desire was originally intended solely for her husband, Yixun, but now she had to announce to reeds, trees, bricks, and tiles, and all these irrelevant things, in broad daylight and with her inelegant way of walking, that she wanted to make love to her husband. She took big steps, unsure of whether she was being shameless or simply had no choice. When they finally reached the small house first, and pushed the door open, she felt very sorry for the couple who would be shut outside.
The race left her and Yixun short of breath and distracted. They neither kissed nor talked, but tried to finish as soon as possible. Because they’d got in first, they felt they shouldn’t take too much time in the small house. They didn’t even look at each other, as if they were afraid to face the crudeness of their current situation, or were embarrassed about winning the race of a few moments before. Most couples behaved similarly in the small house; they knew how to discipline themselves. No one dawdled endlessly behind the door. Even so, not every couple got a chance. The ones who didn’t would have to wait quietly for next Sunday.
Two kilometres’ walk from the farm, Reed River Town had roasted chickens for sale. On Sundays, only on Sundays, could the people on the male and female teams go to the town to satisfy their craving. Women always have more cravings for food than men. After Wu and Yixun occupied the small house, Wu would immediately think about the roasted chicken in Reed River Town. Unfortunately, she could not have both at the same time; she couldn’t have the small house and taste the chicken simultaneously. People also needed to set off early on Sunday to buy roast chickens, which were prized then. Since the farm had so many people like Wu, the limited supply of chickens in the town would be sold out in no time.
There was one couple who did try to have both on the same day. As soon as the gate opened, early on Sunday morning, they left the farm and went deep into the vast, dense reed thickets. They gave up on the wait for the hill house and planned to do their business there in the reeds and hurry to the town to buy a roast chicken as soon as they’d finished. But they got caught in the act by the farmworkers and were made to do numerous self-criticisms at various meetings as typical examples of weak revolutionary willpower and low-life behaviour.
When Wu reminisced about the past many years later, she would try to avoid the part about the Reed River Farm. She couldn’t bring herself to imagine it was because she couldn’t have both at the same time that she became really sick: half a year later, she had attacks of severe dizziness on the farm. She fainted twice beside the stacks of bricks. She was finally allowed to rest in the dorm for a few days, but had to attend the study group every evening—studying was more relaxing than labouring.
She participated in the study group, but unfortunately she fainted again in the meeting room, twice. She was sent to the farm clinic, but the doctor there was unable to diagnose the cause of this strange dizziness. Her blood pressure and pulse were normal, but she would sweat profusely and her whole body would feel like a puddle of mud after she regained consciousness. She always looked discouraged when she opened her eyes, as if she regretted coming back to life again. Only when she saw Yixun’s weary and anxious face did she try to make herself more awake. She loved her husband, but when she caught sight of her cracked hands, smelled the moldy damp of the straw bed, took in the little wooden box used as a makeshift desk, the porcelain cup whose handle was broken by a scurrying rat—that cup with a broken handle made everything seem so shabby … she looked at all this and thought boldly that instead of the endless shabbiness, she might be more than willing to submerge herself in dizziness. It was surely a kind of submergence. She would hide herself in dizziness and never reveal the truth to anyone until the day she died, not even to her husband.
2
How nice it was to lie, with her head and neck buried in a big fluffy feather pillow, her dishevelled short hair down over her forehead! No one on the Reed River Farm could reach her. She slipped her hands under the quilt, too; she didn’t want to stuff her hands into the rough cloth gloves anymore or stand in front of the stacks of bricks, inhaling the never-ending red powder.
Wu woke to find herself in her own home, lying on her own big bed, and resting her head on her own pillow—this pillow, this pillow of hers. She couldn’t help swivelling her head a few times, languidly and with some coy playfulness. She rubbed the snow-white pillow with the back of her head, playing with the real pillow that she had missed so much. She remembered her laziness as a small child. Every morning, when it was time to get up, Nanny Tian had to stand by that little steel-springed bed of hers and try again and again to wake her. She was like that in those days, rubbing the back of her head against the pillow until her hair was a mess. Meanwhile, she’d kick her legs and feet under the quilt and turn her head to the side, pretending to sleep on. Nanny Tian didn’t give up, but kept calling her from beside her bed.
Wu then would pry open her eyes and ask Nanny Tian to make faces for her, to do cats and dogs and copy the way the mynah bird spoke. Nanny Tian first undid her apron, folded it into a triangle, and tied it onto her head to play the wolf grandmother in “Little Red Riding Hood”; then she tensed her voice to imitate the cat; leaving the best for last, she imitated the mynah: “Nanny Tian, get the meal ready; Nanny Tian, get the meal ready.” Nanny Tian smacked her thick lips and held her neck stiffly to mimic the bird, which made Wu laugh heartily. Nanny Tian did such a good impression of the mynah, which was kept in the kitchen as company for her. Wu loved to get into the kitchen whenever she had the chance. Her favourite thing was listening to that mynah talk, but she knew, whether it was the mynah imitating Nanny Tian or Nanny Tian imitating the mynah, both would deliver a great performance. Even when she went away to the university, she couldn’t help wanting to bring Nanny Tian along, though not for waking her up in the morning, of course. But it seemed to have become a habit to listen to Nanny Tian nag at her every morning, a part of Wu’s peaceful, languid sleep.
Wu rubbed the snow-white pillow with the back of her head; she could finally snuggle into her pillow again. The farm approved her return to Fuan for a week to treat her mysterious dizziness. She was overjoyed, and Yixun was also happy for her, making a special trip to town to buy a pair of roast chickens for her to bring back to the children. Although Tiao always said, “We’re doing fine,” in her letters, Yixun still felt it wasn’t a good idea to leave two children alone at home. It was simply not a good idea. “It would be great if you could stay home longer,” he told Wu. He didn’t expect his words to become the main excuse for Wu to stay on in Fuan. “Isn’t this what you were wishing for, too? Didn’t you want me to stay at home?” Later, she would say this to him in a loud voice, but with some guilty feelings.
A week was so precious to Wu that she first buried herself in the pillow and slept for three days. It was the sleep of oblivion, a three-days-without-leaving-the-bed sleep, a making-up-for-half-a-year’s-lost-sleep-in-one sleep. She opened her eyes only when she was thirsty or hungry, having Tiao bring water and food to her bed. After she finished eating and drinking she dropped her head and fell back asleep, snoring gently. It was Tiao who discovered that her mother snored. She believed her mother must have picked up the habit at the Reed River Farm.
At last she opened her eyes. After getting up and doing some stretches to loosen her muscles, she felt wide awake. Her limbs felt strong, and her insides felt clean and clear, ready to be filled with food. Where was her dizziness? Just as she started to feel lucky that she was no longer dizzy, a fit of panic gripped her: When will the dizziness come back? If she was no longer dizzy, how could she get a diagnosis from the hospital? And she must get that diagnosis. The whole purpose for the week of sick leave was for her to go to the hospital and get a diagnosis. When she returned to the farm, she would have to submit a diagnosis from the hospital.
She sat on the side of her bed trying very hard to locate the dizziness in her. Fan, nesting by her legs, grabbed her pants with one hand and asked: Mum, are you still dizzy? Then Wu really did feel a little dizzy—if even Fan knew about her dizziness, how could she not be dizzy? She tried to make herself dizzy and took a bus to People’s Hospital.
The hallway of the clinic at People’s Hospital was noisy chaos. A draft of chokingly sweet fish smell, mixed with the unhealthy breath of the waiting patients, made Wu almost leave a few times. Finally the registrar nurse called out her number. Just as she sat down in front of the doctor, an old fellow from the countryside squeezed in, saying, “Doctor, you can’t fool us country folk. I walked over a hundred li to come to your hospital, and you give me a ten-cent prescription? Can ten cents treat an illness? You people tell me, isn’t this a con?” He yammered on, pestering the doctor for a more expensive medicine, demanding and pleading until the doctor had no choice but to rewrite his prescription.
“Next, please. Name?” the doctor said without raising his head. Wu gave her name and the doctor lifted his head, taking a look at Wu and then listening to her complaint. She didn’t know why, but she felt a little nervous, and gave the account of her symptoms in a dry and hesitant way. She seemed to have some difficulty meeting the doctor’s direct gaze, although she knew it was just his professional manner. He was a man of about her age, with a clean, long, thin face under a clean white cap. His eyes were small and very dark, and when he stared at her with his small, dark eyes, they seemed to be bouncing over her face like lead shot. Like most doctors, he made no small talk. He listened to Wu’s heartbeat, ordered several laboratory tests for her, routine tests like blood sugar and fat levels, ECG, etc., and he also asked her to get an X-ray of her neck at the radiology department.
Some test results came back the same day and some wouldn’t be ready until the next. So, the following day, Wu returned to People’s Hospital. She registered at internal medicine first, collected all the test results, and then waited quietly to see Dr. Tang—she had learned from the forms that the doctor’s family name was Tang.
When she sat across from him again, she immediately sensed on her face the bouncing of his lead-shot eyes. She handed her test reports to him; he buried himself in them for a while, then looked up and said, “You can set your mind at ease. You’re very healthy. There is nothing wrong with you. I thought you might have cervical vertebra disease or a heart problem, but I can assure you now that there is nothing wrong with you.”
What was he talking about? she thought. Was he saying that she wasn’t sick at all? If she wasn’t sick, why would she come to the hospital? If she wasn’t sick, how was it possible for her to leave the Reed River Farm? That’s right, leave the Reed River Farm. Just then Wu at last completely understood her heart’s desire: to leave the Reed River Farm. She really didn’t want to go back to that place, so she had to be sick, and it was impossible that she was not sick.
“It’s impossible,” she said, and stood up, forgetting herself a little.
Gesturing for her to sit down, he asked, somewhat puzzled, “Why don’t you want yourself to be healthy?”
“Because I’m not healthy. I’m sick.” She sat down, but insisted on her opinion.
“The problem is that you’re not sick.” He took another look through the stack of test results, along with the ECG report and neck X-rays. “Your symptoms might be mental in origin, caused by excessive nervousness.”
“I’m not nervous and I was never nervous.” Wu contradicted Dr. Tang again.
“But your current state is a manifestation of nervousness,” Dr. Tang said.
She then told Dr. Tang again that it was not nervousness but some disease. “It is really a disease.” She realized she had already begun to act a little irrationally. Her confrontation with the doctor not only didn’t convince the doctor, it didn’t convince her, either.
Dr. Tang gave a helpless smile. “Certainly, mental nervousness can be an illness, a condition. But as a doctor of internal medicine, I have no authority to give a diagnosis in this matter. I can only … I can only …”
His conclusion brought her up from the chair again. She began to ramble and repeat herself like a gabby old woman. “I’m not only sick, I also have two children. They’re so small. My husband and I both work on the farm and can’t take care of them at all. You know the Reed River Farm, quite far away from Fuan. Ordinarily we can’t come back. My two daughters, they … they … because …” At this point she suddenly leaned her face in to Dr. Tang’s and lowered her voice, desperately whispering, “You can’t … you can’t …” The next thing she felt was the spinning of the sky and earth. Her dizziness came to her rescue just in time and she lost consciousness.
She was hospitalized in the internal medicine ward and Dr. Tang was the physician in charge.
The first thing that came to her mind after she woke was actually Dr. Tang’s small, dark eyes. She also remembered her whispered pleading before she fainted—it was a sort of pleading, and how could she have spoken in that whispering voice to a strange man? She could explain it as her fear of being overheard by others in the clinic, but then, wasn’t she afraid this strange man would throw a woman who tried to fake an illness out of the hospital, or report her to her work unit? Then, during the Cultural Revolution, doctors also basically took on the responsibility of monitoring patients’ thoughts and consciousness. She was afraid, but maybe she was willing to risk her life to win over with whispers this man who controlled her fate. Her dizziness had rescued her in the end. Coming from a woman who might faint at any time, no matter how pitiful and helpless compared to an earthshaking howl, those eerie, frail whispers still hinted at things, either serious or playful, and offered vague temptations. Maybe she hadn’t at all meant to stir up hints of temptation around her, but it was the hints of temptation that stirred her.
As she lay on the white bed of the internal medicine ward, her body never felt healthier. She told Tiao and Fan later that she was so healthy because of the superb nutrition she received as a child: fish oil, calcium, vitamins … the fish oil was imported from Germany and her grandmother forced her to pinch her nose and take it. Tiao looked at her face carefully and asked, Why are you still dizzy, then?
Lying on the white bed of the internal medicine ward, she also had a feeling that she had been adopted—Dr. Tang adopted her, keeping her far away from the Reed River Farm, far away from the brick factory, and far from the revolution. Revolution, that was her required course of study at the farm every day. Chairman Mao’s quotations about revolution were to be memorized every day; they were also made into songs, which Wu had already learned by heart and could sing from start to finish: “A revolution is not inviting friends to dine, not writing, not painting, or needlepoint; never so refined, so calm and polite, so mild and moderate, well-mannered and generous. A revolution is an uprising, violence with which one class overthrows another.”
Revolution is violence. Violence. Wu temporarily left the violence far behind. She longed to see the concentrated, calm dark eyes of Dr. Tang; she longed to have him extend the cold little stethoscope to her chest …
One night when he was on duty, she felt the dizziness again and rang the bell. So he came to her room, where Wu was the only resident for the time being, though there were four beds. She never asked Dr. Tang later whether he made the arrangements deliberately or it just happened that there were no other patients. It was late at night then. He turned on the light and leaned over to ask her what was wrong and where she felt the discomfort. She saw that pair of small dark eyes again. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, saying it was her heart that pained her. He took out his stethoscope—she could sense that he had taken it out. He extended it toward her and when that ice-cold thing touched her flesh and pressed down over her heart, she reached up her hand and pressed down on his hand—the hand that held the stethoscope—and then she turned off the light.
In the dark they remained locked like this for a long time, as if their breathing had also stopped. That hand of his, pressed down by hers, remained motionless, although he suspected motionlessness was not what she had in mind for him. She didn’t move, either, only the heart beneath their overlapped hands raced wildly. They remained motionless, as if each was feeling out the other: Is he going to call a nurse? Is she suddenly going to scream? They grappled and stalled, as if each were waiting for the other to make the first move, whether it was to attack or to surrender.
Her palm began to sweat, and the sweat of her palm wet the back of his hand. Her body started to heave in the dark because a hot current was surging and circulating in her lower belly, burning down right between her legs. She began to repeat to him the whispers of the other day in the clinic. Her voice grew quieter and more indistinct, accompanied by wild panting. The panting clearly had some elements of performance about it and was also mixed with some reluctant sighing. She repeated her whispers: “You can’t … you can’t … you can’t …” He didn’t know if she was saying that he couldn’t withdraw his hand or that he couldn’t go further. But just then he pulled his stethoscope free, tossed it aside, and put his hands on her breasts, calmly and with resolve.
When he pressed his long, lean body on her ample body, she suddenly felt an unprecedented sense of liberation. Yes, liberation, and she didn’t feel guilty at all. Only then was she convinced that she would truly be adopted by Dr. Tang. The floodgate to her pure desire was thrown open. She clutched his waist with her hands, and she coiled her legs high, hooking her feet tightly around his hips. She didn’t stop and didn’t allow him to stop. Still in motion, she took a pillow and put it under her hips. She wanted him to go deeper and deeper. Until maybe it wasn’t about going deeper anymore; it was about going through her entire body, to pierce her body entirely.
3
The night arrived like this: right in the middle of her boredom and brazen anticipation. She inhaled the smell of the laundry room from the pillow, along with the special smell of disinfectant from the hospital ward … laundry room and disinfectant. A healthy woman is put into an isolated room and the mixture of these two smells produces a crazy arousal in parts of her body.
At this time, in this moment, Wu was suppressing her excitement, waiting in the dark. The night before, as he was leaving her room, Dr. Tang told her that maybe she should have rheumatic heart disease. He would provide her certification of the diagnosis and a note for sick leave, a note that would allow her to rest for a month, which was the longest time that a physician in charge at People’s Hospital could prescribe. She didn’t want to concentrate on the thought that this was what she was waiting for, this note that would allow her to stay at Fuan and at home; that would make her seem degraded. The implication of exchange was all too obvious. She preferred to think she was waiting for the fulfillment of her sexual desire. She had experienced a feeling with him that she had never felt before. It seemed to be a kind of pleasure brought on by a nervousness and secrecy, and also a kind of submission to fate as thorough as if she were falling into an abyss.
He arrived, and when he put the note into her hand, she turned off the light again. This time she had the urge to caress him; it might be the female’s most primitive physical expression of gratitude. She stroked his hair and his face, which she was not really familiar with; she lay down on him and looked for his lips. She hadn’t touched his lips and he hadn’t touched hers, either. She discovered he didn’t like her to get near his face. When her hair brushed the corner of his mouth, he reached out his hands to hold her head, as if to avoid her. He held her head and pushed it all the way down, down. Her head, mouth, and face slipped further and further down, over his chest and stomach, then to that thicket of thorns, dense and a little scratchy. She didn’t remember when he left the room. When she calmed down and was about to wipe her body, she noticed that she was still clutching the sick leave note.
She left the hospital and returned home. She announced to the sisters that she could stay at home for a month, a month. After she said that, she lay back on her bed. She remembered she had rheumatic heart disease, so she needed to lie in bed. She leaned back against that big wide feather pillow and wrote separate letters to Yixun and to the farm leader, enclosing the certificate of diagnosis and the sick leave note. She asked Tiao to go out to post the letters for her. Tiao held the letters and asked her, “Mum, what do you want to eat?”
What do I want to eat? Wu listened to Tiao’s question and looked at her eleven-year-old daughter. The question obviously showed her daughter’s concern for her, and it was unusual for a girl at such a young age to know how to take care of people, but the closeness between mother and daughter also seemed to be missing. Tiao never played cute with her, nor did she ever throw tantrums. And Wu never knew what was in Tiao’s small head. Fan, who had just turned six, seemed to be under her older sister’s influence. She stood next to Tiao and asked Wu in an adult way, “Mum, what do you want to eat?” As if she could cook anything her mum wanted to eat. Looking at her daughters, for a moment Wu felt like she had become a guest in the house, and the two sisters were the hosts. But she still gave serious thought to what she wanted to eat. She said, “Mum wants to eat fish.”
Tiao posted the letter at the post office, then went to the grocery store and bought a big live carp. The grocer tied the fish’s mouth shut with a string of iris grass and handed it over to Tiao. She always remembered the price of that carp: ninety-five cents. She would forget many things over the years but not the ninety-five-cent carp. Her mood at the time was also memorable: she walked home carrying the swinging fish, straining a little bit, but feeling happy, confident, and proud. She liked having Wu back to prop up the family; she also wanted Wu to see that Tiao was not an ordinary girl in her parents’ absence. She wasn’t only capable of buying things, but she also knew how to cook them. She returned home, put the fish in the sink, removed the scales, cut open the belly, rinsed the cavity, drained it, picked up the cleaver and made diagonal cuts on the fish’s body, then patted a thin layer of cornstarch onto the fish and fried it … In the end she produced a braised carp and took it to Wu. Her little face was red from the heat of the greasy smoke, and the sweat made her fringe stick to her forehead; the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up, revealing her tiny arms.
Fan ran around and cheered; she was proud of her older sister. She also took the opportunity to show off her own cooking tips, saying, “Mum, do you know what to do if you accidentally break the fish’s gallbladder when you’re cleaning it? You pour some white wine right away into the fish belly …”
Tiao’s braised carp took Wu by surprise. She felt a lump in her throat, yes, a lump, and then she began to cry. It was the first time she had cried since getting home; the tears came from the kind of guilt that can’t be eased with an apology. She realized then that she hadn’t asked about the two children’s lives since she came home, how school was, what they ate every day, and whether they were being bullied or not. She really wanted to hold them to her breast and hug them tightly, but she didn’t seem able to. Not every mother is capable of loving her child, although every child in the world longs to be loved. Not every mother can give off the maternal glow, although every child in the world longs to be bathed in it. Tiao always guarded herself against possible closeness with Wu, including the occasions when her mother cried. When tears threatened to bring them closer to one another, Tiao got embarrassed. This would be their regret, as mother and daughter, all their lives: they almost never could laugh or cry at the same time; either the mother was half a beat slower, or the other way around. That was why Wu’s tears now couldn’t move and comfort Tiao; Tiao just tried her hardest simply to understand her mother, and felt proud of herself for the effort.
They began to eat the fish. Wu said, “I’m going to knit a jumper for each of you.” She said it eagerly, as if knitting jumpers were another form of embrace. She couldn’t hug them, so she was going to knit for them. Tiao said, “Knit one for Fan first. Rose is the prettiest colour, isn’t it, Fan?”
Fan said, “Rose is the prettiest colour and it’s the only colour I want.” This loyalty of hers to Tiao, this enthusiastic response, made Tiao feel like it had been a dream whenever she recalled it later. Next, as if to go along with the pleasant atmosphere, Wu talked about her plan to invite a guest over for dinner. She said that during her stay in hospital, she had been really fortunate to have Dr. Tang. So, to express her gratitude, she wanted to invite him over for dinner. She said, “You’re both young and don’t know how hard it is to see a doctor.” If there hadn’t been this Dr. Tang, her life might have been in danger, not to mention the sick leave. She deliberately said the words “sick leave” softly, under her breath, but Tiao still heard her. If there hadn’t been this sick leave, she wouldn’t be able to stay at home for a month. Tiao said she didn’t understand. “Didn’t you get the sick leave because you were sick? Why was it because of the doctor that you got the sick leave?”
Wu said, “Not every patient could get permission to rest. To put it simply, Dr. Tang is important and someone we should thank.”
So they thanked him. It was a Sunday and Wu broke her routine and got up early. She asked Tiao to help her in the kitchen and was busy for almost an entire morning. She hadn’t cooked for a long time and was out of practice, and her sense about salt, sugar, soy sauce, and MSG was off. She was intimidated by the kitchen, the way she was by the Reed River Farm. But as she bustled around, the one tiny advantage of the Reed River Farm occurred to her: they didn’t need to cook there; they ate in the canteen. She made several odd-looking dishes, asking Tiao over and over again where the seasonings were. Spicy soy sauce and fennel—she had completely forgotten where they were. Finally, she planned to make a dessert: grilled miniature snowballs. She mentioned it to Tiao and Tiao said, “That’s my dad’s dish. No one knows how to make it when he’s not home.”
“Why can’t we make it? Aren’t fresh milk, eggs, and sugar all we need?”
“We also need vanilla and citric acid. Without citric acid, milk will stay liquid. It won’t become miniature snowballs.”
Wu looked at Tiao with surprise and asked, “How do you know?”
“I’ve seen Dad make it.”
Wu said, “Find citric acid for me and I’ll make grilled miniature snowballs.”
“We don’t have citric acid.”
Wu believed Tiao, but she had a vague feeling that Tiao wanted to keep the recipe for miniature snowballs to herself.
Later, candied apple was substituted for grilled snowballs. Tiao despised this dish from the bottom of her heart. She had never liked any kind of “candied” dish, thinking it was neither hygienic nor civilized for people to pull out the apples with their chopsticks, trailing syrupy tangled candied strings, and then everyone dipping them into the same bowl of cold water, meanwhile faking the same amazed and satisfied expressions as they ate. Besides, what was so amazing and satisfying about eating sugarcoated apple? Furthermore, when Wu made candied apple, she always overdid the sugar, so there weren’t any sugar strings to be pulled no matter how hard you tried. There were just gooey pieces and chunks that would stick to your teeth and palate. Tiao would keep licking the roof of her mouth with her tongue and sometimes had to put her fingers into her mouth to pry the stuff free. However, it passed as a dessert. With the way Wu cooked, who could blame Tiao for telling her that they didn’t have citric acid?
When the dinner was ready, Wu began changing her clothes, going back and forth between the few outfits she had, whose styles were almost all the same, but in different colours like grey, green, blue, etc. But Wu looked good, her face glowing with excitement. She kept looking at herself in the mirror and also lowered her head and asked Tiao to smell her hair. “Do you think my hair smells of grease? Smell it again. Maybe I should wash my hair.”
Tiao sniffed at Wu’s hair and smelled a little grease smoke, but wasn’t in a hurry to say anything. She asked Wu suddenly, “Is Dr. Tang a man or a woman?” Wu was startled for a moment and then straightened her back, her hair falling over half of her face. She said, “It’s … it’s uncle. You should call him uncle. What’s the matter?” “Nothing,” Tiao said. For some reason she didn’t want to tell Wu that her hair smelled of grease smoke; she didn’t want Wu to wash her hair one more time for this thank-you dinner. She felt Wu had spent too much time preparing for the dinner and was taking it too seriously. She had never seen her mother so serious about anything, including Tiao’s and Fan’s business. Wu ignored Tiao’s reservations and washed her hair once more, as if she’d known that Tiao hadn’t told the truth. Her dark, shiny hair matched her fresh, lustrous face—with the two soft, delicate, faultless eyebrows—it all looked very beautiful to Tiao, but she never said so to Wu.
Dr. Tang arrived, a very reserved man speaking perfect Beijing dialect. He didn’t have his white cap on, so it was the first time that Wu had seen his hair, brownish hair that made his small dark eyes look even darker. They exchanged some courtesies and sat down to dinner. Wu told Tiao and Fan to call him uncle, but Tiao insisted on calling him Dr. Tang and Fan followed her sister’s lead. Fan had a white plastic set of doctor toys, which included a syringe, a stethoscope, and a “kidney tray” for surgery. She showed these toys to Dr. Tang and said with regret that she didn’t have a thermometer, for which she often had to substitute a popsicle stick. If she found someone with a fever, she would give that person a shot. “If you have a fever, you need a shot, right, Dr. Tang?” She repeated the words “have a fever” in a high-pitched voice; for her all illness could be summed up in the words “have a fever.”
Have a fever.
Dr. Tang and Wu talked for a long time after dinner. He handed Wu a hardback copy of The Family Medical Encyclopedia and told her that there was a chapter dedicated to rheumatic heart disease. When Wu took the book from him, she noticed a loose thread on one of the sleeves of his jumper. She thought, why would she be so quick to tell Tiao and Fan that she was going to knit jumpers for them?
She bought a pure light grey woollen yarn and started to knit a jumper, leaning back against her pillow. She usually knitted during the daytime, after Tiao went to school, and also in the evening, after Tiao and Fan fell asleep. That made her look a little underhanded and evasive because she didn’t want her daughters to see her knit this jumper. But in a simple home like theirs, where could she hide it? Tiao eventually found the light grey half-finished item.
She was a little surprised and asked Wu, “This isn’t Fan’s jumper, is it? Didn’t you say that you were going to knit one for Fan?”
Wu grabbed the jumper back. “I did say that I was going to knit one for Fan, but I can knit one for myself first.”
“This is not a woman’s jumper. It’s not for you.” She stood beside Wu’s bed and seemed indignant.
The next day, when Wu unfolded the jumper to continue her work, she found that the sleeve she had almost finished the day before had disappeared.
4
The sleeve had to have been taken apart by Tiao. The knitting needles had vanished, and each row of stitches was undone—Wu had put her heart and soul into those stitches. She was furious, but couldn’t really allow herself to lose her temper. She clutched the unravelled jumper, kept her anger in check, and went to talk things over with Tiao. She thought it might take some effort to get Tiao to confess, and hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Tiao admitted it as soon as Wu asked, as if she were waiting for Wu to question her.
“Was it you who took the jumper apart?”
“It was me.”
“What did I do wrong, to have you unravel my jumper?”
“You said you were going to knit a jumper for Fan but you didn’t keep your promise.”
“Yes, I did say that. It was … I couldn’t find the rose yarn in the shop. I saw this kind, which was nice but more suitable for an adult—”
“What adult? Which adult?” Tiao interrupted Wu.
“Which adult?” Wu repeated Tiao’s question. “Me, for instance. Like me.” She lowered her voice.
“But this is not for you. This is a man’s jumper.” Tiao’s voice remained firm.
“How do you know this is for a man? You don’t even know how to knit.” Wu’s anger flared again.
“Of course I know. I’ve seen you knit before. I’ve seen you knit for Dad. Are you knitting it for Dad?” Tiao looked directly into Wu’s eyes.
“Yes … uh, no.” Wu seemed to be forced into a corner by Tiao. She knew if she continued saying that the jumper was for Yixun, she would look even more stupid than she already did. Maybe Tiao would immediately write to her dad and tell him that Mum was knitting for him. So she admitted that the jumper was for Dr. Tang. It was Dr. Tang who had asked her to knit a jumper for him. Dr. Tang was not married yet and he needed someone to take care of him. So she agreed to knit this for him. She was even going to try to find him a girlfriend … She didn’t know why she was babbling all of this to Tiao.
“Then why did you say you were knitting this for yourself?” Tiao still didn’t let it go.
Wu’s guilt turned into anger. She said, “What do you want? What do you really want from me? Why do you upset me so much? Don’t you know that I’m ill?”
“If you’re ill, then why do you spend so much time knitting?” Tiao didn’t back down.
“I spend so much time knitting because … because I hope to spend more time at home with you. Does my doing this bother you? Look at the other children in the Architectural Design Academy. Don’t they all have to stay home by themselves, pathetically wasting their lives? Not all parents are as lucky as we are: to be able to have one of us at home to take an interest in our children.”
Tiao didn’t say anything more. She was thinking Wu might be right, but mostly her mind was filled with doubt. Wu spoke about “taking an interest” but Tiao didn’t see any of it from her. She was not concerned about the sisters; didn’t notice Fan had lost her front tooth, and didn’t ask once what they had eaten every day in the last half a year. The way Tiao was mistreated for not knowing how to speak the Fuan dialect—Wu had never asked about any of this. So Tiao was more skeptical than trusting. And she didn’t believe that Wu believed her own words, either. Her years of suspicion crystallized into doubt at that moment. This was sad for both mother and daughter, and something that neither seemed to be able to do anything about, which made it feel more cruel to have to accept.
Wu didn’t feel she had won just because Tiao didn’t reply, but she preferred not to think about it any further. She was the kind of person who didn’t like to think deeply, a lifelong escapist. Her mind was not large enough to accommodate either caring for others or self-analysis. She clutched the jumper and returned to bed and to her big crumpled pillow to resume knitting. By the lamplight, she used the bamboo knitting needles to pick up the loose stitches one by one and finished the sleeve and the entire jumper in a single night.
Then she bought some yarn to knit a jumper for Yixun. She changed the colour to a cream. She knitted day and night, her hands flying and her eyes getting bloodshot, as if she wanted to work off her guilt with the unusual knitting as well as ease her nerves. She knitted with great skill and she herself was surprised by the speed: she took only seven days to knit jumpers for two men. Seven days; she had never come close to that mark, not before or afterwards. Whether it was to punish herself for her fall or to ease the way for her to fall further, she didn’t know. She had a feeling that her relationship with Dr. Tang had not yet run its course.
Neither had had their fill of each other. Almost every Sunday, Dr. Tang came to Wu’s house for dinner. When Wu’s month of sick leave was up, he renewed it for another month. If he continued to renew her sick leave without anyone noticing, wouldn’t she be able to stay at home for a long time? This was something she hardly dared to imagine but wished for with all of her heart. When the Cultural Revolution turned violent, she became what was known as a wanderer, and she really wanted to be one. “Wanderers” was the label given to the faction of people who avoided political campaigns and labour reform and refused to take a stand on matters of principle. This group—muddleheaded, backward—couldn’t be brought onto the stage to play their parts in history. If a doctor were found to provide a false certification for a patient, the consequences could be very severe. They wouldn’t merely say he was violating professional ethics, which wouldn’t be a serious enough charge. They would accuse him of undermining the great revolution, that is, being antirevolutionary. And Dr. Tang might very likely get arrested as an antirevolutionary. Dr. Tang was in fact risking his life, for Wu.
Now Dr. Tang wore the jumper Wu knitted for him openly—it fit really well. Wu liked to look at his mouth chewing in the daylight. The way he ate was very elegant; his mouth made small but accurate movements, adeptly dealing with difficult foods like fish heads or spare ribs. It almost looked like he used his mouth as a knife to perform a quiet operation on food. That mouth of his seemed to be of particular use for eating food and keeping silent—when he wasn’t eating, he was very quiet. His words were rare, which seemed to make his mouth even more precious. Wu would try to kiss him when no one was around, but he would pull away. So she let him be. She didn’t have to kiss him. In some respects, she was easily satisfied. She would confine herself to observing that mouth. From her limited experience of men, she believed he was shy. He was an unmarried man.
She kept telling the sisters that she was going to get a girlfriend for Dr. Tang, but that it was really difficult. Dr. Tang came from a politically-tainted family, and was also raising his niece on his own. The niece, whom Wu had met, was an orphan, the child of his older sister. She kept talking about finding a girlfriend but never took action. Tiao had never seen her bring anyone home who looked like a girlfriend type. During this period, Yixun came home for the change of season and stayed for three days—he had only three days’ vacation. He invited Dr. Tang home to drink beer with him. Back then Fuan didn’t have bottled beer, so beer was sold only in restaurants. The restaurant employees would use a rice bowl as a measure, ladle out the beer from a ceramic barrel, and then pour it into the customer’s own container. The beer didn’t have any head and tasted sour and bitter.
The two men drank beer and ate a roast chicken together, one that Yixun had brought back from Reed River Town. Yixun enquired about Wu’s illness, and when he asked about it, Wu remembered she was sick. She had to be sick, with rheumatic heart disease. Yixun asked about all the details thoughtfully, full of concern for Wu and gratitude to Dr. Tang. Dr. Tang said this type of heart disease was the most common in China, making up 40 to 50 percent of the various heart conditions. Most patients were young or middle-aged, ranging from twenty to forty years old, and the majority were women. It was a form of heart disease that was mainly valvular, caused by acute rheumatic fever, usually attacking the bicuspid and aortic valves, causing stenosis or valve insufficiency and blood circulation stasis that would eventually lead to overall heart insufficiency.
Yixun said, “So, do you think Wu’s dizziness has something to do with rheumatic heart disease?”
Dr. Tang said it was possible because a minority of patients might have shortness of breath or faint when the symptoms got worse. As Dr. Tang was talking, he and Wu exchanged a glance, a quick one, barely noticeable. In the face of Yixun’s careful concern, both seemed a little bit ashamed. They hadn’t expected that Yixun would invite Dr. Tang for a beer and have such a friendly conversation with him. It was, of course, the normal attitude of a normal person: Yixun felt indebted to the doctor for his kindness—Wu described in her letter to him how Dr. Tang came to her rescue when she passed out in the clinic and how he managed to get her into the internal medicine ward. When Dr. Tang told Yixun that there usually wasn’t great danger as long as the patient took care to rest and avoided intense physical activity, Yixun felt reassured.
Three days later when Yixun was returning to the farm, Wu packed the cream-coloured jumper she had knitted into his luggage.
Their house went quiet for a few days. Wu lay quietly on the bed, often without moving, as if she were really afraid of intense activity. Tiao felt everything was fine, as if Dr. Tang had never appeared in their house—which was when she realized that she had never liked Dr. Tang, even if he had saved Wu’s life a hundred times over. But the calm lasted only a few days, after which Wu started to get active. Apparently it had become inconvenient for her to invite Dr. Tang home anymore, or she felt embarrassed to invite him over so quickly—so soon after Yixun had been there. She didn’t want the children to notice the obvious contrast; she already felt Tiao’s awkwardness was harder and harder to handle, so she decided to go out.
She must be going either to the hospital or Dr. Tang’s place, Tiao thought. Wu often went out after dark and didn’t come back until very late. Before she left, she always spent a long time in front of the mirror, combing her hair, gazing at her reflection, changing clothes and practicing pleasant expressions, checking both her front view and side view. How wilted and spiritless she appeared when she was tossing around on her pillow, her hair dishevelled and her eyes dull, with drool at the corner of her mouth, thin and silvery, like a snail track. Had Dr. Tang seen her this way? If Dr. Tang saw this side of her, would he still want her to visit him?
But when Wu stood before the mirror and prepared to leave, she seemed to have turned into a completely different person, enthusiastic and energetic, her entire body lit up like a candle. Sometimes she even brought one or two dishes along, food for Dr. Tang. For this reason she had to enter the kitchen, the place she had always hated. Clumsily, she’d make fried eggplant and beef-carrot stew. She would put up with Tiao’s comments, believing Tiao was just being intentionally hurtful. Tiao made a point of saying that Wu’s cooking was bland, that the beef-carrot stew wouldn’t be tasty if she didn’t use curry powder. Wu then humbly asked where the curry powder was, but Tiao declared happily she didn’t have any and they just couldn’t find curry powder in Fuan, that the curry powder they used to have came with them from Beijing. Wu never noticed that Tiao had been removing the seasonings little by little. She hid them so Wu wouldn’t find them and use them, because they had all become too closely associated with Dr. Tang.
When Wu was not home, Tiao flipped through the pages of The Family Medical Encyclopedia that Dr. Tang had given Wu. She turned to the section on rheumatic heart disease, but unfortunately there were too many words she didn’t understand. She looked at pictures of ugly human bodies, one of which was a woman with a curled, upside-down baby in her belly. Tiao wrote a line in pencil in the margin next to the baby, “This is Dr. Tang.” Why would she pick a baby and make it into Dr. Tang? Was it because only a baby like that was less powerful than she was? She then could freely express her contempt for the adult Dr. Tang through this fetus.
Wu still went to see Dr. Tang, carrying her lunch box, offering Dr. Tang the food she cooked, and herself. One evening she left, and didn’t come home the whole night. It was on that night that Fan had a high fever. Having a fever, having a fever. Precisely the words Fan always used when she was playing the doctor-patient game. Her entire body was burning hot, her face all red, and her nostrils flaring. She said she was very thirsty and wanted Tiao to cuddle her. Tiao held her in her arms and let Fan’s fever scald her. She gave Fan water and orange juice, but neither could lower her temperature. Where was Wu? Both of them needed her. When Fan’s fever made her cry, Tiao cried with her. She patted Fan’s back with her small hand and said, “Let me tell you a story. Don’t you love to listen to stories?” But Fan was not interested in stories. She must have felt terrible. She kept coughing and threw up several times. Her coughing and vomiting made her sound both old and young, like an old man trapped in a child’s body. Tiao’s heart was broken into a thousand pieces; Fan’s suffering gripped her with pain. She hated Wu, thinking how she would shout at her when she came home. She held Fan in her arms all night long. Young and small as she was, she took on the responsibility of caring for Fan, who was smaller and weaker than she. She didn’t close her eyes the whole night, washing her face when she felt sleepy. She was determined to wait for Wu to come home with open eyes, letting Wu see for herself that Tiao had been waiting for her all night. At daybreak Wu opened the door and tiptoed in.
A big pillow flew at Wu as a welcome—Tiao had grabbed it from the bed and thrown it at Wu’s face. She didn’t know where she got the nerve for this rude behaviour, which should never be used to deal with adults and parents. But once the pillow was thrown there was no way to take it back. She stared boldly at her mother.
Wu’s mind went blank. Only when Tiao shouted at her that Fan was dying did she come to her senses and rush to Fan. Fan was half conscious with the fever, a pink rash covering her forehead and behind her ears. She probably had the measles.
Fan’s illness worried and frightened Wu. But she had no time for regret right then. She just picked up Fan and hurried out.
“Where are you going?”
“The hospital.”
Tiao asked which hospital, and Wu said People’s Hospital.
“You can’t go to People’s Hospital!” Tiao stamped her feet like a little lunatic.
5
Adults are still adults. Even if you throw pillows at their faces, these somewhat confused people remain in charge. Wu ignored Tiao’s stamping. She put Fan on the crossbar of her bicycle and pedaled directly to People’s Hospital. Tiao followed the bike, running all the way. In the emergency room, while the doctor on duty took Fan’s temperature, Wu went to the internal medicine ward and got Dr. Tang. It was not that she didn’t trust the doctor on duty; she just trusted Dr. Tang more. In this unfamiliar city, when she had trouble, a doctor with whom she had an intimate relationship would naturally become her protector, even though he was not on duty in the emergency room and didn’t know pediatrics. Tiao couldn’t stop Dr. Tang from appearing. She watched Wu and Dr. Tang bustle around Fan and had a feeling she had been deceived. Yes, she had been fooled by this pair of hypocrites, this man and woman. She felt angry and sad. She didn’t know the word “hypocrite” then. She wouldn’t find this word for them until she was an adult looking back. But right then she thought about her dad. She felt very sorry for Yixun. She decided to write him a letter. She wanted him to come and save her, and Fan as well.
Fan had measles.
At home, later that day, Tiao began to write to Yixun behind Wu’s back, using stationery with light green lines. In the upper right corner of the paper was a row of light green printing, the size of sesame seeds: Beijing Bus Company. They’d brought the paper along with them from Beijing when they moved. Tiao had bought it at a stationery store when she was still at Denger Alley Elementary School. At the time she never considered why the paper would have Beijing Bus Company on it. These light green words gave her a feeling that whenever she wrote, a bus would come to pick up the letter and take it far away, to the place where it belonged. Years later, when she worked in the Publishing House and saw all kinds of letters and manuscripts, she recalled her childhood, and the Beijing Bus Company paper she had used to write letters. She understood then it must be the letterhead from the printing house of Beijing Bus Company, but was still puzzled. Why would a bus company own a printing house? And why would its paper flood every major stationery store in Beijing?
On Beijing Bus Company paper Tiao wrote to Yixun.
Dear Dad:
How are you? I missed you very much today because Fan had measles. She had a fever, coughed very hard, and even threw up. I think she also missed you very much, but you were not there. Next, I’m going to tell you something about Mum; I must expose her. Ever since she came home, she hasn’t taken care of us at all. She either lies in bed sleeping or goes to the hospital to see a doctor. I told her about my school, how I was going to graduate from elementary school soon but haven’t joined the Junior Red Guards yet. Besides me, there are only four other of my classmates who are not in the Junior Red Guards. Two of them have landlord grandfathers and one has a father who wrote to the Nationalist Party in Taiwan. There is one other classmate whose mum used to be the vice president of a university here and had been denounced. I think I’m different from them. I believe you two are good people, but why can’t I join the Junior Red Guards? Is it just because I came from Beijing and have a different accent? I asked Mum and she said if I couldn’t join the Junior Red Guards then just don’t join. She also won’t allow me to learn the Fuan dialect, saying it’s an ugly accent. You see how backwards she is! Dad, you probably don’t know that we don’t have classes anymore. Our teachers take us to dig air-raid shelters every day, telling us that this is to protect us from the invasion of the Soviet revisionists. Since I’m not a Junior Red Guard, I work especially hard, much harder than those Junior Red Guards. How I wish the teacher noticed my performance! Once, I was so tired that I fell asleep at the air-raid shelter. I used the wet, sticky dirt as a pillow, and my head got full of dirt. The teacher didn’t find me until almost dark. She didn’t praise me; maybe she thought she should praise those Junior Red Guards first and I was a lower creature than they were. I was disappointed and wanted to tell Mum all about this, but every time I tried to talk to her, she always said, I know, I know. Mum is busy and doesn’t have time to listen to this … “Mum is busy” is what she says most often. What is Mum? Mum is “I know, I know, and Mum is busy.” Mum is busy. How busy she is! She is busy knitting a jumper for Dr. Tang. She originally said she was going to knit one for each of us, but she ended up knitting it for Dr. Tang. Dear Dad, I want to tell you that I’m disgusted by this Dr. Tang. I hate that he came to our house and I know Mum sometimes went to his place as well. Fan is a big fool. Every time Dr. Tang came, she would talk about the doctor-patient game with him. She also showed him her toys. Mum would ask me to cook with her for Dr. Tang. Dr. Tang is not a part of our family, but she gave him all her time, which I really don’t understand. Just a few days ago, on the night when Fan had measles, Mum didn’t come home all night. Where could I find her on such a dark night? Why didn’t she pay attention to us? Dear Dad, I am almost crying as I’m writing this. I remember when we lived in Beijing, you and Mum took us to the Forbidden City and the Beihai Park. You told us the Forbidden City was where the emperor lived. After a while, Fan saw a worker decorating the window in the palace hall, she ran back and told everyone mysteriously, I saw the emperor. The emperor was decorating the window. We also went to the Beihai Park to row the boats, eating barley buns and leaving the park after dark. It was you who carried me on your back the whole time. Mum held Fan. We fell asleep and I heard you tell Mum: Just look at how soundly they’re sleeping. Actually I was not fast asleep. I could have walked on my own but I pretended to be sleeping so you would carry me a little longer. Now I beg you to come home as soon as you read this letter. If this can be tolerated, what else cannot be?
I wish you health,
Your daughter, Tiao
It was a long letter sprinkled with political phrases popular back then, such as “If this can be tolerated, what else cannot be?” and “expose,” etc., a letter filled with accusation and tears. Continually looking up words in an elementary school dictionary, Tiao spent three days finishing the letter. At sad moments, tears soaked the paper, smudging some of the words and stippling the pages. Tiao wanted to copy the letter out again, but she was eager to send it. Besides, even though the letter was a bit messy, it did reveal her real feelings, after all. She wanted Yixun to see her true feelings and anxiety.
She found an envelope and carefully wrote down the names and addresses for both the sender and receiver. She then hid the letter in her backpack and threw it into the first postbox she saw on her way to school. It was a round, cast-iron pillar box that stood outside the gate of the Architectural Design Academy, only a hundred metres from Tiao’s home, Building Number 6 in the residential complex. She stood on tiptoe to throw the letter into the mailbox, and her heart felt relieved as soon as she heard the gentle pa sound as the letter dropped to the bottom of the box, as if the postbox liberated her right at that moment, setting her long-unhappy heart free.
When she came home in the afternoon, Wu had already cooked the dinner. It won’t taste good, Tiao thought, but she ate her fill. She believed Yixun was coming home soon and things would change. Nothing would be a problem. Her change of mood started after dinner. At the time, Fan was lying under the covers of Wu’s big bed with her eyes quietly closed, her fever down and her measles almost gone. Wu was leaning on the side of the bed knitting. This jumper was for Fan. She had followed Tiao’s suggestion and bought the rose-coloured yarn. Keeping vigil over Fan for several days in a row had made her thinner than before; her eyes were red and her hair slightly messy. She knitted with her head lowered for a while, then took a bottle of eyedrops from the nightstand and put a few drops into her eyes. The eyedrops must have burned, and she leaned against the pillow with her eyes closed, bearing it quietly for a while. Some liquid ran out of the corners of her eyes, which Tiao thought was a mixture of tears and eyedrops. She felt that the way Wu leaned on the pillow with her messy hair and teary eyes looked a little awkward and pitiful. How she clutched her knitting needles also touched Tiao with a kind of sadness that she couldn’t explain. The room was quiet and peaceful, as if no stranger had ever entered and nothing had ever happened. In those few seconds, just in a few seconds, everything changed.
Why did she have to write to Yixun? Was everything she put in the letter true? What would happen to her family when her dad came home? Why would she expose Wu? Wasn’t that a word that should be used only for enemies? All of a sudden Tiao felt pressure in her head as if a disaster were approaching—it must feel that way when a disaster approached. With the pressure building in her head, when Wu was not paying attention, she opened the door and sneaked out.
She passed several residential buildings in the Architectural Design Academy, going by the office building near the gate, the one pasted with all kinds of slogans and posters. In the daytime, the wind blew through layer upon layer of posters and tore them to shreds, making the building look like a giant wailing madman. Night silenced the madman and its body only made small monotonous rustlings, a bit lonely but not frightening. As soon as she crossed the pitch-black courtyard and walked out the gate, she saw the postbox, faithfully and steadfastly standing in the shadow of the trees on the pavement. She rushed straight at the letterbox with hands outstretched. She anxiously groped for the mail slot: a narrow slot, which immediately made her realize the pointlessness of her fumbling, since she had no way to slide her hand into it. By the dim streetlight, she could read the two rows of small words below the slot: “collection time, 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.”
Tiao clearly understood those two lines of words, but once again she reached her hands into the slot. She explored the narrow slot with her fingers one after another, hoping that a miracle would happen, that her small fingers could fish out a letter that was already gone. She had sneaked out of the house believing she could get the letter back as long as she found the postbox. Now she realized that this belief of hers was just a pathetic, self-deceiving fantasy. Up and down, she studied the ice-cold cast-iron postbox, taller and bigger than she was. She encircled it with her arms, holding its waist in hopes of pulling it up by the root, or pushing it over and smashing it. She wrestled with it, pleaded with it, and sulked at it; all the while she believed for no reason that as long as she kept working on it she could get that terrible letter back. She didn’t know how long she tortured herself, not stopping until she was utterly exhausted. She then threw herself onto the postbox and beat it wearily with her small fists. This seemingly faithful postbox had refused to serve her. She leaned against the postbox and started to cry, sobbing and beating it, not knowing where to find the letter that had gone. After a while she heard someone speak behind her: “Hey, child, what’s the matter?”
She was frightened and immediately stopped crying, staring alertly at the one who had asked her the question. Although much taller than she was, he was not an adult, but three or four years older than she was, or four or five at the most. He was one of those high school students who, of course, were adults in Tiao’s eyes because they normally treated elementary school students with arrogance, and liked to appear older than they actually were. That was why this boy addressed her as a child.
But there was nothing arrogant about him. His voice was soft and there was real concern in it. He stooped towards Tiao, who was still leaning on the postbox, looked at her, and gently asked again, “Child, what’s the matter?”
Tiao shook her head, saying nothing. Somehow the word “child” calmed her and brought back her tears; a vague feeling of having been wronged filled her heart, as if this “Child, what’s the matter?” were something she had looked forward to hearing for a long time. She was entitled to be addressed that way and asked that question about many, many things. Now a stranger had done it, which made her want to trust him even though she shook her head and didn’t say anything. She said nothing and just wanted to hurry home because she remembered the adults’ warning: Don’t talk to strangers.
He followed her to the gate of the Design Academy and asked, “Do you live in the Design Academy? Then we are in the same complex. I live here, too. I can take you home.” He wanted to walk beside her, but she picked up her pace to get rid of him, as if he were a stalker. Finally, she ran into the building and up the stairs. She heard him calling outside, “I want to tell you my name is Chen Zai and I live in Building Number Two.”
6
Why do I always run into you when I’m at my lowest? Why do I run into you when I don’t want to run into anyone? When I am basking in glory, all decked out, and pleased with myself, you’re never there. That night, when I stood on the pavement hopelessly beating the postbox, I was oblivious to the possibility that someone could see me and I might get arrested. Something like that happened in Fuan later; two bored young men lit a firework, threw it into a postbox, and burned all the letters. They were sent to prison. I heard about it a year later. Luckily, throwing fireworks into a postbox never would have occurred to me; luckily, that incident happened after I tortured the postbox, otherwise I probably would have done the same thing out of frustration. I know it’s a crime, and I must have looked like a criminal at the time; at least I showed criminal passion. It was you who observed the darker side of me, and how long had you been watching? Did you start to spy on me as soon as I walked to the postbox, or did you approach as soon as you saw me? If it’s the former, that would make me very unhappy, because if you’d been watching that long you would have figured out that I wanted to steal letters. That’s the kind of thing others shouldn’t know, that battle I had with myself. Maybe you just accidentally saw me, and that “Child, what’s the matter?” really came out of concern, like that of a close family member. Maybe I should have just howled in front of you and begged you to smash the postbox along with me. But you’re not family. Besides, what’s the use of pounding a postbox? I didn’t realize until later when I was calm that my letter was long gone from the postbox. Ai! You said you lived in the same complex as I did, Building Number 2, three buildings away from us, which made me feel both trusting and uneasy. Trusting because living in the same complex felt like being “comrades in the same trench”—the catchphrase at the time—uneasy because you might see me again, point me out to your classmates or neighbours, and gossip about me, telling them about the show I’d put on that night. Who knows? One day, an afternoon in summer, I was playing rubber-band jump rope in front of the building with the rope of rubber bands strung between two trees and slipped higher and higher; I always liked the game, from primary school right through to middle school—I had just started sixth grade. I’d been easily able to jump to the “middle reach” long before; I hoped I could kick my leg up to the “big reach,” the highest height in the game. How high was the rubber-band rope then? It would have been the distance from my feet to the tips of my middle fingers when I stretched my arms upward over my head. My feet couldn’t reach that high at the time, which I simply couldn’t accept. One classmate of mine who was shorter than I was could jump to the “big reach.” That could only mean that I was awkward, my legs were not sufficiently flexible, and maybe my waist was not supple enough. So, my rubber-band jumping on this summer afternoon was not just self-amusement but a strict training regimen. I hoped to jump to the “big reach” so that I could get back at those who humiliated me by making me the rubber-band-rope holder. I tied the two ends of the rope to a pair of poplar trees and raised the height gradually, one try after another. I jumped very smoothly and finally raised the rope to the “big reach.” I gathered all my strength and kicked my right leg up toward the band, but unfortunately, I did it too violently, lost my balance, and fell to the ground. Maybe because the afternoon was so quiet, I heard the thump of my own fall.
Half of my face scraped on the ground and I skinned a knee. My vanity must have been considerable, because even when the pain made me grimace I remembered to look around, to check if anyone had witnessed my embarrassment. At first glance I caught sight of you, recognizing you as the person who said, “Child, what’s the matter?” to me that night. You happened to be passing by on your bike and saw this tumble of mine. It made me very angry, at you and at myself as well. I was still angry as I hurried to get up from the ground, hiding the sharp pain and pretending to walk home calmly as if no one were around. I hummed a song as I entered the building. I had to show you that even though I fell down it hadn’t hurt at all, that I didn’t mind falling, that everyone fell while learning to do the “big reach” … I was so nervous that I forgot to untie the rubber-band rope from the trees. When I remembered it late in the afternoon and ran back to the poplars, someone had stolen it. The ten-foot-long rubber-band rope, which I’d put together by saving the rubber bands one by one!
Many years later, when I was an adult, during the winter Fang Jing left me, I wrote a letter to force him to come see me at Fuan. He agreed to come, but said he was very busy and could only talk to me at the train station. He bought a return ticket to Beijing as soon as he got off the train. We sat in the noisy, smoky waiting room—sometimes the noisiest public location can be the best place to have a private conversation. I asked why he had promised to get a divorce but kept putting it off. Why would he stay married while he forbade me to have a boyfriend? I said a lot and he said very little; he spoke one sentence after I said ten. He said, finally, “Falling in love with me was a mistake, and you should calm down and think about starting a new life on your own.” Full of himself and absentminded, he stood up and got ready to leave while he was still talking. I seized his sleeve then, the sleeve of his ostrich-grey Brazilian leather jacket. This was what I’d most feared hearing; I would rather have had him say, “You can’t have a boyfriend. I won’t allow it.” That would have at least shown that he cared about me. I held on to his sleeve, bowed my head, and started to cry, quietly but in surging waves. I didn’t know when he disappeared from view, but I still held on to a bag of Fuan’s local delicacy: honey twisted dough sticks. How would Fang Jing in his Brazilian leather jacket appreciate this sort of local delicacy? But I sincerely wanted to please him with the dough sticks, even when I faced his impatience. I curled up on the wooden bench in the waiting room, not wanting to go home, my hand still clutching the bag of dough sticks and my heart as confused as a tangled bunch of twine. I must have been stupid to the extreme, because even after Fang Jing escaped my pestering (if that was what it was) and had boarded the train to return to Beijing, I still hated him and missed him—to hate is to miss. I stayed there and didn’t want to leave because Fang Jing had just sat there, his breath and the warmth of his body lingering. Chen Zai, you arrived again, always showing up at moments like these. But I wasn’t afraid of you anymore, nor did I pretend to be someone I wasn’t, as I had the year I fell at rubber-band rope. We were all grown up and you were like an older brother of mine, not too close but not too distant, either. We lived in the same complex; we would smile and talk a bit when we saw each other. I sensed that you meant me no harm and had never intended to ridicule me. You walked over and sat next to me. You must have been going to Beijing also—I knew you were a graduate student of architecture. You said, “That man who was just talking to you looks very familiar. Isn’t he the big celebrity Fang Jing?” I burst into tears then, burying my face in my hands without caring. Time slowly made me understand, that day in the waiting room, it was exactly because I was with you that I could be so free. Only you, no one else, could allow me to cry in public without restraint. You accidentally witness everything about me, my slyness, my falling, the love carved in my heart, and its loss. You’ve seen all of it. I held on to you as if I had grabbed a lifesaver, spontaneously telling you everything about Fang Jing and me, regardless of whether you wanted to hear or not. We sat in the waiting room for an entire day. You bought bread and water when we were hungry; neither of us touched the bag of dough sticks. You didn’t return home with me until very late. You lied that you were going back to Beijing next morning; you told me only after we walked into the building that you had to take the train back to school that night. Only then did I realize you’d stayed just for me. I didn’t know why I would load all my trouble and sadness on you, about whom I didn’t know much. Time made me understand it was unfair to you, but it seemed fated.
Why do you always run into me when you’re at your lowest? Why do you run into me when you don’t want to run into anyone? On that windy night, I saw a delicate little girl holding the postbox, sighing, and hitting it, although you didn’t know you were sighing. I hadn’t yet seen your face then, but from your body, from that small dark figure of yours, strangely I felt a deep pain like I’d never felt before. Later you turned your face toward me. It was too dark to make out your expression, but my own pain increased because you seemed so much in pain, although I couldn’t see it in your face. Real pain is expressionless; real pain might well be a little girl holding a postbox under the dim streetlight. I couldn’t help being moved by you, moved in a way that will stay with me all my life, I thought. Yet what felt like a vow might have been a young man’s impulse, a momentary instinctive sympathy for the weak. Back then I wasn’t considered an adult yet, although I was five years older than you were. But I was wrong; my long love started when you were twelve, right from the night when you stood in front of the postbox. How happy I was when I found out you and I lived in the same complex. You wouldn’t know for many years how I’d find excuses to pass your building, Number 6. That summer afternoon, the afternoon you fell when you were jumping, I didn’t pass by your building by accident; I’d circled the building many times on my bike. I didn’t intend to see you fall; I just wanted to see your little face in the daylight. But you fell just as I came around. You raised your head, looking at me with a frown, half of your face smeared with sweat-soaked dirt. I wanted to say I loved your small soiled face. I loved the vain little trick that you played, pretending to be so casual even though you were limping. I loved your back as you hurried, where a little braid came loose. I even remember the song you hummed then: Villages and kampongs, beat the drum and strike the gong, Ah Wa people, sing a new song … with your knee bleeding, you sang “Villages and Kampongs” and went home, not leaving me the slightest chance of saying hello. It’s my own business that I love you. When I was looking at your back, fluttering and dusty, I had a vague feeling that you would make me feel rich and full; you would always be the immovable centre of my heart. But why does it matter? For many years I deliberately avoided telling you how I felt. I was especially surprised when you told me your story in the waiting room so suddenly. Your total trust of me was so unexpected and cruel; it mercilessly pushed me further away. I couldn’t express my love for you when you’d just lost your love; I would look like some rat trying to take advantage. You always controlled the distance between you and me; we could be only so close and no closer. I don’t know how long I have to keep all this bottled up, but I don’t want to stay far from you; I like to see you often, and to do my best to help you when you need it.
A week after the postbox incident, when Tiao went to check for post and newspapers, she unexpectedly found the letter she had sent out, the one to Yixun at the Reed River Farm. She’d been so eager that she’d forgotten to put on a stamp, and the letter was returned for “unpaid postage.”
When Tiao, who had been on edge for a week, expecting Yixun to come home any minute and turn the house upside down, who often broke into a cold sweat at a knock on the door, finally got the letter, she almost laughed out loud. Ah, post office, how grateful I am to you! Ah, postbox, how grateful I am to you! she shouted in her heart while she clutched the letter that had strayed for days, as if she were afraid it would fly away. The dark clouds cleared and the sunshine returned. This “lost-and-found letter” gave her a lifelong fondness for the post office and postboxes, which always seemed to have some mystical connection of good luck for her.
She slipped the letter into her pocket and then opened the door. After handing the newspaper to Wu, she rushed into the bathroom and locked herself in. She sat on the toilet and tore the letter to shreds, until it was turned into snowflake-like bits. She dumped them into the toilet and flushed it again and again. Fortunately, Wu was not paying attention to Tiao’s behaviour.
Tiao emerged from the bathroom completely at ease. She wanted to forgive her mother. She even thought if Dr. Tang came again, she would try her best not to object.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_e4b06b9d-590a-5b7c-bd72-1cc8eae7d61b)
Where the Mermaid’s Fishing Net Comes From (#ulink_e4b06b9d-590a-5b7c-bd72-1cc8eae7d61b)
1
Dr. Tang came again, and this time he brought his niece Fei.
Tiao was immediately drawn to Fei, who was fifteen that year, but to Tiao she already appeared to have the body of a grown woman. Her dark eyebrows, red lips, and deep chestnut curls on her forehead lit up Tiao’s eyes. It was a time when makeup wasn’t allowed, so how were Fei’s lips so brightly coloured and gorgeous? It was also a time when perms were banned, so how did Fei get her curled fringe? How did she dare? The vivid lips and curled fringe made Fei look like a visitor from another planet; those slightly skewed eyes of hers gave her a touch of boldness and decadence. Tiao learned the word “decadence” from political posters. It was a bad word, but for some reason this bad word made her heart race. Even though she didn’t completely understand the meaning of decadence, she was already sure it applied to Fei precisely. Perhaps by associating this word with Fei she unconsciously expressed her own attraction to evil: the female spy, the social butterfly … in the movies she used to watch, those women, constantly surrounded by men, always wore expensive and beautiful clothes, drank good wine, and looked mysterious. That would be decadence, but why were decadent people so pretty? Fei was decadent, and that vague decadence in her excited Tiao. She had never met a female before Fei who thrilled her so much. She felt that somehow she’d already started to worship Fei, this beautiful, decadent girl. Because of this, her loathing for Dr. Tang lessened somewhat.
Dr. Tang brought two movie tickets, distributed by the hospital, for an Algerian film, Victory over Death. “Let Tiao and Fei go, otherwise who knows how long they’ll have to wait for the school to buy them group tickets,” Wu said very agreeably, seemingly eager to please, which annoyed Tiao a little. Although she liked going to the movies, especially with someone like Fei, she didn’t like Wu’s tone. The more ingratiating Wu sounded, the more she heard a dismissal—she was sending Tiao and Fei off so she could be with Dr. Tang. So Tiao said she didn’t want to go; she had to do her homework. She just wanted to make a little trouble for Wu.
Then Fei stretched out her hand to her uncle, not her entire hand, but two of the fingers: index and middle. She wiggled her fingers at her uncle and said, “Tickets. Tickets. Give me the tickets.” Tiao wasn’t surprised by her Beijing dialect; she believed a person with Fei’s looks had to speak Beijing dialect. It would have been strange if she hadn’t. The way she wiggled her fingers seemed indecent, and the tone in which she spoke to the adults made her sound impudent. Tiao had never come across anyone who behaved in this manner and spoke in that tone. She was probably stunned, so when Fei almost grabbed the tickets from her uncle’s hand and gestured with her head, Tiao stood up and left with Fei as if she had received an irresistible command.
The movie was showing at Da Guangming Theatre, three bus stops from Tiao’s home. They didn’t take the bus—they walked. For a shortcut, they wound through some alleys single-file. Fei walked very fast, pretending not to notice Tiao’s quivering eagerness to follow her. She didn’t talk to Tiao and didn’t bother to walk beside her. She wore a plissé shirt, white background printed with bean-sized strawberries, and a pair of blue khaki uniform pants that perfectly hugged her swaying bottom. On her feet, she had on a pair of black T-strap leather shoes, which weren’t for adults, but were hard for a middle school student to get. The shoes didn’t just represent wealth, but also a style and taste beyond those of an ordinary Fuan family. Shoe factories in Fuan didn’t make leather shoes of this kind; one could immediately tell they came from a big city, even though they were just made of fine pigskin. Fei swung her bottom, raised her chin slightly, and stuck out her already-developed chest, walking in front of Tiao all the time. She rolled her plissé sleeves above her elbows, revealing the layer of soft, fine yellow down on her forearms, dazzling in the sunshine. She was so striking that there were always passersby who stopped to look at her: men, women, adults and children … Two young men in worker’s clothes came toward them on their bikes. They swung around after passing and caught up with Fei from behind, purposely sandwiching her from both sides. Swaying and squirming on their bikes, they brushed their sleeves on her bare arms and then darted off. She didn’t call them “Obnoxious!” or “Pervert!”—just walked more proudly, as if no one else existed. She didn’t pay attention to them at all; they were not worthy of her spit or her curses.
At last they entered the narrow, quiet alley that led to Da Guangming Theatre. Noticing there was no one around, Fei suddenly stopped, as if waiting for Tiao to catch up. Excitedly, Tiao caught up with her, feeling it was a gesture from Fei showing that she regarded Tiao as her equal and would finally walk with her side by side. Tiao rushed to her, only to be forced by Fei into a corner. Backed against the wall, face-to-face with Fei, Tiao thought she was going to tell her some secret, which sometimes happened when two girls walked together. But before she could react, Fei slapped her hard across the face. The crisp, loud slap, echoing in the alley, made Tiao see black in front of her eyes, followed by thousands of golden sparkles dancing around her head. It didn’t hurt; she had no memory of pain. Maybe what Fei said blocked the pain that Tiao might have felt, or transferred the feeling to somewhere else in her. After she slapped Tiao, Fei got very close to her face and said something terrible with that pretty mouth of hers. She said, “Your mum is a bad woman, a whore!”
Tiao opened her eyes; the alley was still the same alley, and Fei stood before her, with her hands on her hips and sweat on her face, as if awaiting Tiao’s counterattack. “Your mum is a whore.” Tiao couldn’t believe she had really heard it, that the vulgar, explosive words had really come out of Fei’s mouth. She never wanted to hear those words again in her whole life, but she felt compelled to repeat them over and over in her mind. Her heart raced, every hair on her body seemed to stand up, and hot blood rushed to her face, the swollen face that Fei had slapped. Tiao was angry, but a terrible shame kept her from raising her head. For a moment, she was about to agree with Fei. She suspected that her mother’s being a whore involved Dr. Tang, and the things she had written about in the letter to her dad. She now believed the only people who knew about Wu and Dr. Tang were her and Fei, but her instinct was to protect Wu. For a stranger to insult her mother this way was intolerable. She intended to retaliate but didn’t know how; she felt guilty because what Fei had said was true, and she couldn’t quite find the words for a reply. Tears started suddenly and she tried to turn around to walk back. The good things about home came to her mind and she wanted to go there. “Don’t you dare leave!” Fei said behind her, and she stopped, compelled by Fei’s voice. She really didn’t know why she would listen to Fei.
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Tie Ning
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize and a modern Chinese classic with over one million copies sold.Sisters Tiao and Fan grew up in the shadow of the Cultural Revolution where they witnessed ritual humiliation and suffering. They also witnessed the death of their baby sister in a tragic accident. It was an accident they could have prevented; an accident that will stay with them forever.In the China of the 1990s the sisters lead seemingly successful lives. Tiao is a successful children’s publisher but incapable of finding love. Fan has moved to America, desperate to shun her Chinese heritage. Then there is their childhood friend Fei: beautiful, hedonistic and outwardly ambitious.As the women grapple with love, rivalry and past secrets will they find the freedom and redemption they crave?Spellbinding, unforgettable, and an important chronicle of modern China, The Bathing Women is a powerful and beautiful portrait of the strength of female friendship in the face of adversity.