A Single Swallow

by Zhang Ling

  But this lightness didn’t last long. In the dead of the night, the mosquito that had remained silent for a short while was dispatched again. It bit my conscience—or the thing that was once my conscience and was now just a scrap of lean meat—and kept me from sleeping. There were hundreds of ways I could have ended my relationship with Ah Yan. I could’ve gone to speak to her in person. I could’ve written her a gentle letter to explain clearly. I could’ve entrusted a respected elderly person to pass a message to her. Why should I deliberately choose this method, publicly humiliating this woman who had once been so kind to me? Anger. It was anger.

  I was so shocked by this answer that I shot up from the bed. I couldn’t lie down again for a long while after that. I’d known Ah Yan since the day she was born. I had seen her mother change her first diaper, and I was the one who taught her her first words. My feelings for her had always just flowed forward, like a river, the scenery changing along the way. Familiarity, pity, affection, concern, sympathy, disgust, surprise, appreciation, jealousy . . . I turned over these complex emotions, but I didn’t find a thread of love. Not until I found anger. If I didn’t love her, how could I feel such extreme anger? It was only then that I realized that it would be impossible for me to expel this woman from my heart, no matter what sort of statement I issued in any newspaper.

  I was plunged into illness for most of that winter, inexplicably running a high fever, which rose and fell for months. Sometimes, my mind was so consumed by its fire, I didn’t even know where I was. I was almost grateful for this well-timed illness. My body was conspiring, creating an excuse for me not to go home for the New Year. I couldn’t face the woman who carried that clipping in her pocket. My mood during that period was as rotten as a moldy shirt. I needed an excuse for everything—for not getting out of bed, for not going to work, for not going out, for not seeing anyone, for remaining silent, for speaking, for tolerance, or for losing my patience. Heaven still looked after me, providing me the excuse I required when I was most desperate. In the spring, my fever finally subsided. I sat up in bed and found that the oleander tree outside my window was full of pink buds. I sighed, feeling fortunate that I hadn’t missed spring. When I took a few shaky steps and knocked on the captain’s door, he was shocked.

  “My gosh! I couldn’t tell when you were lying down, but you’re so thin, your pants are barely staying on.”

  My mood finally settled, and I even allowed the captain to accompany me to the most famous tailor in the city to have a long navy-blue cloth tunic made. I planned to wear it to see the matchmaker and meet my prospective wife. I didn’t want to meet the woman who could become my wife in my uniform. As long as I was still alive, I had to actually live, so I planned to shred the past like old rags and get a fresh start. But I never managed to actually make that new start.

  In late April, when I had just gotten the tunic, which showed off my skeletal figure, before I even met the woman I was to be introduced to, a big change came to the police officer training school. In the small hours of the night, we were awakened by a sharp whistle calling us to the activity field for an emergency assembly. Under the hurriedly lit gas lamps, I saw that the grounds were full of people. The headmaster’s glasses were crooked, and his unkempt hair had peeked out from under his hat, half covering his eyes. It seemed that, like us, he had been surprised. He briefly conveyed the orders from his higher-ups. We had to pack all our things and in half an hour be ready to go on a special mission. I noticed that he emphasized the word “all.” Before, when we’d been sent on special assignments, our superiors would tell us to pack light. Regarding our destination, he only said, “I’ll notify you later.”

  We got our things together and set out, only recognizing our destination when we approached. It was a ship terminal. We joined a long line of people waiting to board the ship. There were all kinds of troops, some wearing military uniforms, some in civilian clothes, and some of the higher-ranking officers had their families with them. Without exception, the families were all carrying luggage of various sizes, and every now and then, someone who looked like a servant was carrying a cage of chickens, weaving in and out to make a path through the crowd for his master. It was a little funny.

  “Where do you think we’re going?” I whispered to the captain, who was beside me.

  “Didn’t you look at the paper under our door this morning? Nanjing has fallen. We’re probably retreating.”

  His words suddenly caught in his throat. In that instant our eyes met, and we both thought of that little island across the strait, Taiwan. The mimeographed newsletters had been reporting since last year that warships were carrying people and gold there in a continuous stream.

  “The police training school is no good for fighting a war. We can only maintain order and prepare for the arrival of large groups of people,” the captain whispered.

  In a flash the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. We’d figured out the truth. By then, we were being pushed up the ramp by the crowd surging behind us.

  “I can’t just go like this. I’ve got to at least tell my family,” the captain said.

  He’d married two years earlier, and his wife now lived in his hometown with their eight-month-old baby. That was the last thing the captain ever said to me.

  There was a loud splash, followed by gunshots. Turning, I saw an empty spot where the captain had been. He’d jumped off the ramp, and the lookouts were shooting. The sky was not yet bright, and the water looked like a thick pool of ink. The captain’s head was like a basketball tossed into the water, bobbing along on the surface. I couldn’t see his face, but the water around him was darker than anywhere else. A riot broke out on the pier. The chickens began to leap wildly in their cages, cackling loudly and sending feathers flying out between the gaps like large pieces of dust. An officer fired his gun into the sky. The gunshot brought me fully awake, heightening my awareness of the present situation. I thought of the words I’d heard frequently during the training at Yuehu. Be calm. Remember to use your eyes. I calmed my mind and allowed my senses to open, my ears filtering all the noise around me and clearing a path for my mind. As soon as my mind was quiet, it opened a thousand pairs of eyes, which in turn scanned every object in the opaque morning light and quickly found their target. There was a thick cable on the left side of the ship, dangling all the way down to the water: the anchor line. That side of the ship was backlit, so I couldn’t be sure, but below I thought I could see a shadowy patch swaying gently in the wind. If I was right, it was the reed that was most common on banks throughout Jiangnan. They were hollow and could be used to breathe through, making it possible for someone to stay underwater for a long time. My brother and I had often played just such a trick in the river below the forty-one steps when we were children. Sometimes we stayed under the whole morning, and when we got home, our mother gave us a good spanking, saying she thought we’d drowned. All I need to do now is find a reference point on the ship for where the cable is and remember what it looks like, I told myself. My eyes climbed up the length of the cable to a row of railings, one of which was covered with white cloth. Those were my coordinates. If I could climb down along that railing, I would find the cable.

  “Captain, why couldn’t you be less impetuous?” I sighed.

  I slowly climbed up the ramp with the flood of people, praying over and over that it would not grow light too fast.

  “Who are you?”

  Panting as I climbed the last of the forty-one steps, I heard the voice as soon as my foot reached level ground. The serious illness I had recently endured had drained my vitality. Along the way, even a leaf brushing against my skin could make me shiver. Perhaps the voice was very soft, but it was magnified by my fear. It sounded thunderous in my ears. I closed my eyes, expecting a gun or dagger to poke at my waist. But nothing happened for a long time. I’m not on the road anymore. I’m home. I’m safe, I told myself.

  I opened my eyes and saw a child standing in front of me. I couldn’t be sur
e of his age. He looked like he could be a big two-year-old or a small four-year-old, though there was still a milky sound to his voice. His head was shaved, and the back of his head was like a yellowy round stone that had been polished smooth by the weather one season after another. Most of the boys in the village had shaved heads, but they usually left a tuft of bangs at the top. This boy was completely bald.

  “Who are you?” I asked the boy, trying to smile.

  From the moment I’d escaped the ship, the dangers I had encountered on my entire journey had made smiling an alien thing. I had to relearn to operate the muscles that held the secret to smiling. This boy with the shaved head could be my first practice subject. I’d been away from Sishiyi Bu for over five years, only occasionally coming back to see my mother for a night or two, then leaving again, barely seeing my neighbors at all. I didn’t know much about additions to the village in recent years.

  “I’m Ah May,” the child said, looking up at me, a finger stuck in her mouth.

  My God. It was a girl.

  Oh God, what sort of eyes were these? The whites were so white, they were almost light blue, and the dark iris had a faint blue tint too, as clear as a sea untouched by sun, moon, or wind. Anything that dropped into such eyes would immediately turn to water, even if it were rock or steel. I couldn’t help but pick her up.

  “Little girl, why don’t you have braids?” I asked.

  Ah May wasn’t afraid of me. She quite naturally put her face against my shoulder and pulled the wet finger from her mouth, painting a little flower pattern on my clothes with it. It seemed as if she’d known me all her life.

  “Mommy says long hair attracts lice,” she said.

  “Who is your mommy?” I asked.

  Ah May thought very seriously for a while, as if it were a difficult question. There were fine ripples in the sea of her eyes. It was a smile. My heart fluttered. I felt I’d seen these eyes somewhere before.

  “Mommy is my mommy,” she said.

  At that moment, I heard the slap of footsteps. A woman flew over like a whirlwind. Seeing the child in my arms, she stopped, clutched her heart, and gasped fiercely.

  “You bad child, I took my eyes off you for one moment, and you ran to the ends of the world,” she scolded.

  “You bad child” was a phrase we often used to scold children in the village. In fact, it wasn’t entirely scolding but also carried affection. It was like how northerners called their kids “you little urchin” or the Shanghainese called theirs “you little ghost.” Ah May climbed down from my embrace and clasped her mother’s leg. The woman wore the clothing typical of Sishiyi Bu, but her body was unlike those of the women in the village. The village women were flat and thin, but this woman was strong and robust, her chest full and her clothes accentuating her figure. Though her body was unfamiliar, her features and voice seemed familiar. I stared at her for a while before it dawned on me who she was.

  “Ah Yan,” I said.

  It was obvious she did not recognize me. When I had come ashore, my body was soaked. The police uniform was too noticeable, so I bought a set of old clothes and a straw hat from the fishermen at the jetty with the few copper coins I had in my pocket. The clothing and hat were not a style worn in this village.

  Taking off my hat, I said, “I’m Zhaohu.”

  She was stunned. She looked me up and down, then lowered her voice and said, “You . . . you escaped?”

  I was about to ask her how she knew, but she cut me off. She grabbed my straw hat and put it back on my head.

  “Come with me. Keep your head down. Don’t greet anyone you see,” she said.

  She squatted and told Ah May to climb on. Carrying her daughter on her back, she started walking. She walked fast, the grass on the path bowing under her feet and her trousers billowing in the wind created by her quick pace. The impressions I had of her from Yuehu were immediately emphasized. I recalled the name Ian had given her: Wende. It was true. She was the wind.

  Fortunately, there was no one on the road, and we quickly made our way to Ah Yan’s home. It had also been my home, back when the Yao family stayed in the front rooms and my parents and I lived in the back. Of the ten people who had once lived in this courtyard compound, four moved somewhere else, three were dead, and the three who remained had long since transformed beyond recognition. I stared at the small groove that had formed in the threshold from the feet that had crossed it countless times. I felt a lifetime had passed. Ah Yan put Ah May down, then took in a wooden sign hanging on the door. She pushed Ah May and me into the house, then hurriedly closed and locked the door. Written neatly with a brush on a piece of paper affixed to the wooden sign she’d brought in were the words:

  YAO’S CLINIC, CHINESE AND WESTERN MEDICINE

  TREATMENT OF VARIOUS SYMPTOMS,

  COLD OR HEAT, BRUISES AND

  SCRAPES, CHILDREN’S MOUTH

  SORES, WOMEN’S REPRODUCTIVE

  AND POSTPARTUM CONDITIONS.

  FAIR PRICES.

  NO CHARGE FOR INEFFECTIVE TREATMENT.

  “The government army suffered a landslide defeat. They’re arresting deserters everywhere. If the village security group head doesn’t report you, he’ll be jailed. In Liupu Ridge, they found one the day before yesterday, and he wasn’t safe even hiding in the cistern. He was executed on the spot, right in front of his own house.”

  With her foot, Ah Yan pulled over a stool and gestured for me to sit. I wanted to tell her about the captain being killed at the wharf, but I held back. I didn’t want to frighten Ah May.

  “When it’s dark, I’ll go to my brother’s house,” I said.

  Ah Yan took a cloth handkerchief from inside her shirt and wiped the sweat from Ah May’s face.

  “Have you lost your mind? If someone were looking for you, where’s the first place they’d go?” she said.

  I was startled. I wasn’t used to the way Ah Yan spoke. It was the way I used to talk to her. The world had tilted slightly, and we had swapped roles. I was no longer Mr. Professor, and she was no longer my little acolyte.

  “I can’t implicate you either.” I reached out and lifted a small corner of the bamboo curtain on the window. The sun was already setting. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

  “It’s safer here than at your brother’s. No one will think you came here,” she said.

  “Why?” I said, a little surprised.

  She took Ah May and put her on a stool, then took off the girl’s shoes and shook the sand from them.

  “Who doesn’t know that you abandoned me? By right, there’s not enough time in the world for me to hate you.”

  She didn’t look at me as she spoke. She put Ah May’s shoes together, sole to sole, and slapped a few times. Dust flew in the air. Her tone was exceptionally calm, as if she were speaking of the dust or the shoes. At that moment, I wished there was a hole in the ground for me to crawl into. In the now silent room, I could hear the spiders spinning webs in the corner and the hungry growl of Ah May’s belly. I could also hear something steaming from my pores with a rancid smell. It was my humiliation. It seemed like there were splinters on the stool poking through my baggy fisherman’s trousers and piercing my flesh. They were too numerous and too thin. I couldn’t get them all out unless I peeled my skin off.

  “You can hide in the back rooms for a few days. Wait for this to pass, then you can come out,” she finally said.

  Leaving me, she went to the kitchen, lit a fire, measured the rice, and started to cook. Through the half-open door, I watched her work the bellows. The side of her face turned toward me was gray. I couldn’t tell if it was from the ash or the shadows. Ah May picked up the shoes and put them on the wrong feet. She kicked them off and glanced at me. I walked over and squatted, and before I could say anything, she put her foot on my knee.

  “Shoes,” she said. She kicked her feet mischievously, and the kick landed gently on my heart. At that moment, my heart melted like a bit of lard over a fire, turning into a pool of warm
liquid. Ah May and I were meant to be together. From our first glance, we were drawn together, without any preparation or training. Before she was born, heaven had already put me on her path, so that when she had learned to recognize people, she would see my face. I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. I stood behind Ah Yan, and the fire cast my shadow across her back. She felt my presence, but did not turn.

  I cleared my throat and said, “Ah Yan, I just want to tell you—”

  “I know what you want to say,” she interrupted. “I got the newspaper clipping.”

  Fortunately, she still didn’t turn around. I didn’t want her to see my expression.

  “I didn’t plan to jump from the ship at first. I thought of going, assessing the situation, then seeing if I could think of a way to come back,” I mumbled.

  It was only many years later that I came to realize how naive I’d been that day. Those who stayed on the boat were forced to say goodbye to their homes forever. A small few who lived long enough eventually got to return to their hometowns—after almost forty years.

  “I came back because I wanted to tell you something.” The words stuck in my throat, and I was suddenly unable to go on. I coughed several times.

  “The rumors about you that Snot heard, they didn’t come from me. Really, it wasn’t me.”

  The bellows suddenly stopped. Ah Yan stared at the wall, blackened from the smoke, as if she would bore a hole in it with her eyes.