Paul looked at the naked, blood-smeared infant with his heart racing. The pale skin, almost blue in some places. The wrinkled little hands. The wide mouth and the eyes screwed shut. A miracle weighing 7.3 pounds and measuring 19 inches in length, fragile and vulnerable. The midwife checked the baby’s temperature, wrapped him in a towel, and laid him in Paul’s arms. How light he was. And small. His head fit comfortably in his father’s hand.
“You can come with me to wash the baby for the first time, if you like,” the midwife said, leading him into another room. She filled a plastic basin with water, checking the temperature a few times until it was right. “Is this your first?”
Paul was unable to saying anything. He shook his head.
“Then I won’t have to show you anything.”
She helped him unwrap his screaming son from the towel and watched as Paul laid the baby’s stomach on his right hand and slowly dipped him in the water, feet first.
The midwife had done this for Justin, but Paul had watched every move carefully. The long-faded memory was suddenly alive again.
With his left hand, he trickled water over the baby, washing his back, his little arms and little legs.
A handful of life.
The warm water calmed the boy, and his angry cries of protest gradually stopped.
Paul laid him on a towel, dried his little body carefully and put a diaper on him. His son opened his eyes for the first time and looked at him. He had his mother’s dark hair and his deep blue eyes.
“Does he have a name already?” the midwife asked.
Paul nodded. “David.”
“No Chinese name?”
“Not yet. We want to ask an astrologer for advice.”
“He’ll be hungry soon. Come, let us take him to your wife.”
Paul covered the baby in a blue-and-white striped blanket and carried him down the corridor with light steps.
Christine was lying alone in a room with two beds. She looked pale, but her eyes brightened when she saw them approach.
“Your son needs you,” the midwife said, laying the baby on Christine’s chest. The baby began drinking from her breast in mere seconds.
Christine looked at her baby and her husband in turn, over and over again. “What are you thinking?”
“What strange questions you ask,” Paul said.
“I just want to know how you’re feeling,” she said, smiling weakly.
Paul got the reference. He smiled back. “You’re much more Western than I thought.” He felt indescribably tired, and felt pains in his whole body, especially at the back of his head. He pushed his fingers through his hair and found dried blood on his fingers. “Do you think I could lie down on the other bed for a bit?”
“Join us on this one,” she said.
He gave the narrow bed a dubious look. “Is there room?”
“For you, yes,” Christine said, moving a little to one side with great effort.
Paul squeezed into the narrow space next to her and put his arm under her head. He took a deep breath and buried his nose in her hair. Despite the hospital and the operation, she had not lost her wonderful smell.
His son sucked away noisily. “He’s really hungry.”
“Oh, aren’t we all?” whispered Paul. He remembered the beating of his son’s tiny heart and understood that he no longer had to search for the answer to Christine’s question: What do you believe in? The answer lay in his hands. He believed in the strength of this heart. Of every heart. In hope. In promises. In magic. He believed in the greatness, the tenderness, and the uniqueness of every being. In the love that everyone was capable of giving. It was quite simply and plainly a belief in life, with all its tragedy and beauty.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is a work of fiction. The events and characters are the products of my imagination. The ideas for the book came from the countless journeys that I have made to China since 1995. I was inspired to write this story by the many conversations that I had there and in Hong Kong, where I lived for a time, with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I feel deeply indebted to the people who helped me on my travels and in my research, for their trust in me, their openness, and their support. Special thanks go to Zhang Dan, who has made such an effort, with bottomless patience, to explain her country and her culture to me. I’m also indebted to Lamy Li, Clara and Derick Tam, Bessie Du, Wang Cai Hua, Emliy Lee, Zhang Yi, Dan Yi, Dan Yiu Kun Yat, Fang Xingdong, Qian En Wang, Maggie Chen, Richard Chen, Graham Earnshaw, Clemens Kunisch, Dr. Gerhard Hinterhäuser, Alwin Bergmann, Dr. Reinhard Kruse, Dr. Ekkehard Scholz and Dr. Joachim Sendker, who all helped me in one way or another with my research. I would also like to thank my parents for their help, and my sister Dorothea.
My son Jonathan helped me with his penetrating questions and with his ideas. And in the end, I have benefited from the trust, the discipline, and the experience of my wonderful editor Hanna Diederichs.
I owe my biggest thanks to my wife Anna. She was involved in every stage of this manuscript coming into being, and read every chapter with a critical eye. Her advice, her comments, questions, encouragement, and, above all, her love, have made this book possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan-Philipp Sendker, born in Hamburg in 1960, was the American correspondent for Stern from 1990 to 1995, and its Asian correspondent from 1995 to 1999. In 2000 he published Cracks in the Wall, a nonfiction book about China. The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, his first novel, is an international bestseller. He lives in Berlin with his family.
By the same author
The Art of Hearing Heartbeats
A Well-Tempered Heart
Whispering Shadows
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Christine Lo is an editor in book publishing in London. She has also worked as a translator in Frankfurt and translated books by Juli Zeh and Senait Mehari from German into English. Her most recent translation is Atlas of Remote Islands by Judith Schalansky.
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