by Shan Sa
I will go down on my knees before my parents, I will beat my head on the ground to beg their clemency. I must go live at the ends of the earth and have my child there while I wait for Min and Jing to be freed.
That happy day will come: two men making their way towards a little cottage lost in the open countryside. The door opens . . .
62
On July 7, our regiment, posted to Feng
Tai, loses a soldier after a night exercise. The Chinese army refuses us permission to search the town of Wang Ping. The two forces have their first exchange of fire.
On July 8, a second confrontation flares up around the bridge of the Valley of Reeds.
On July 9, the senior officers give the order to the various regiments garrisoned on the plain around Peking to prepare for combat. In Tokyo, the government, responding to international pressure, opts for a low profile: “We should not aggravate the situation. The problem should be solved on the ground.”
The senior officers propose a ceasefire on four conditions: that the Chinese withdraw their garrison from the bridge in the Valley of Reeds; that they guarantee the safety of our men; that they hand over the terrorists; and that they apologize.
The Chinese reject the offer in its entirety.
On July 10, Chiang Kai-shek’s battalions move towards Peking. The first reinforcements of our Manchurian regiments cross the Great Wall.
On July 11, the Tokyo government finally acknowledges the urgency of the situation. It decides to send our battalions from Korea as reinforcements.
The earth underfoot hums in unison with the skies as the first bomber squadrons head for the Chinese interior. Our hearts swell to see our flag painted on the fuselage: a crimson sun against immaculate white snow.
The men begin to shout, “To Peking! To Peking!”
63
The Japanese propaganda machine has been set in motion. The incident in the Valley of Reeds is already in the newspapers: stories pillory the Chinese generals who publicly support the terrorist movement, violating the peace agreement. Blamed for this latest crisis they are called upon to offer their apologies to the Emperor of Japan.
Mother, accustomed since her childhood to endless military conflicts, places her faith in prevailing apathy and in American diplomacy to calm the warmongers. Father sighs: once again the Japanese will improve their financial standing. The public is happy and confident: the Manchurian Emperor is keeping his country out of the conflict. For these cowards, the Sino-Japanese war will only ever be a fire burning on the farther bank—a sideshow.
White has become black, patriots are imprisoned alongside rapists and assassins, the foreign army marches through our streets and we thank them for keeping the peace. Could it be this disorder in the outside world that has turned my own life upside down?
My sister blossoms more each day, and there is no longer any hint of sadness in her face. Her dresses have been refitted to hug her slender body. Mother has heard the good news and hectors Wang Ma to make up the baby’s layette.
I am dazed at my sister’s beauty—each of her smiles weighs on my heart. Her son will be the joy of the whole household, even if mine will be cursed.
In six nights Wang Ma has made a quilt for my future nephew. On a background of deep-red silk she has embroidered with tiny stitches lotuses, cherry and peach trees and peonies blooming in a celestial garden with swathes of silvery mist. I smile as I look at this beautiful creation—my son will be wrapped in an old cloth, but he will be the most beautiful baby in the world.
64
Coming towards me is a woman in a huge hat and a dress that shimmers with every nonchalant sway of her hips. I scarcely have time to wonder who she is before she sits down opposite me, quite out of breath.
The sun filters through the weave of the hat, laying a mysterious veil over her face. A fine vein crawls over her left temple and disappears into her hairline. There are tiny, tear-shaped moles dotting her dark skin.
A sharp slapping sound—the girl has just played her turn. Her hand stays on the board for a moment and I see that her nails are clean and painted orange.
I always listen to the sound the stones make, it betrays what the opponent is thinking. Early on in our game the Chinese girl would hold the stones between her first and second fingers and smack them gleefully onto the board; then, as the impact became quieter, her darker moods revealed themselves to me. Today it is a short, crystal-clear sound— she has rediscovered her confidence and vitality!
And she has undertaken a very original counterattack.
While she pauses to take a walk through the nearby woods, I think about the game in a very particular way: we have exchanged more than a hundred moves, but I forbid myself any calculations and I look at the board as a painter would an unfinished canvas. My stones are patches of ink with which I draw places and gaps. In the game of go, only aesthetic perfection leads to victory.
The Chinese girl returns and when she sits down, the shadow of her hat caresses my chest. The ribbon around it flutters to the same accelerated rhythm as my heart. I cannot begin to imagine why she has dressed herself today as an adult. I do not know her name, how old she is, what her life might be. She is a mountain that protrudes from a cloudy sky, only to melt all the more surely into the fog.
A drone grows louder and interrupts my daydream. Our planes are overhead, bombs fixed below their steel wings. I watch my opponent out of the corner of my eye: she does not look up.
It is easier for my fellow officers to fly over China than for me to read the thoughts of the girl who plays go.
65
Someone comes into my room and shakes me violently. Is it Moon Pearl trying to wake me for the Sunday market? I turn my back on her, but she sits down on my bed, tugs my shoulder and starts to moan.
Irritated, I sit up abruptly, but when I open my eyes it is not my sister I see but Huong, in tears.
“Get up. The Resistance fighters are going to be executed this morning.”
My words catch in my throat. “Who . . . who told you?”
“The matron in my dormitory. Apparently the procession is going to go past the North Gate. Get dressed! I think it might be too late.”
I put on the first dress I find, but my fingers are shaking too much to button it up. I run out of the room still coiling my hair up into a chignon.
“Where are you going?” asks my father.
I find the strength to lie. “I’ve got a game of go, I’m late!”
At the far end of the garden I bump into my sister coming in through the gate.
“Where are you going?” she asks, catching hold of my arm.
“Let me go. I’m not going to the market.”
She gives Huong a fierce stare and takes me to one side.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” she says and it makes me shiver—does she know something about Min and Jing? “I haven’t slept all night . . .”
“Tell me what it is, please. I’m in a hurry!”
“I spoke to Doctor Zhang yesterday, I’m not pregnant. It’s a false pregnancy,” she says, her eyes streaming with tears.
“You must go see someone else,” I say to shake her off. “Doctors can make mistakes.”
She looks up, her face a twist of anguish, and says, “I got my period this morning.”
Moon Pearl throws herself into my arms and I drag her over to the house, where Wang Ma and the cook hurry to help me. I take advantage of the commotion to slip away.
There are hundreds thronging round the foot of the ramparts at the North Gate. The Japanese soldiers drive them back with the butts of their rifles. My blood freezes as I realize something terrible is going to happen before my very eyes.
An old man is jabbering away somewhere behind me: “In the old days the condemned would be blind drunk and they would sing at the top of their lungs before they died. The executioner’s saber would come down in a flash, and the body would often stay standing while the head rolled on the floor. The blood spurting from the nec
k sometimes shot two meters into the air!”
The men listening click their tongues; these people are here because for them executions are a supreme form of entertainment. Furious, I step on the filthy old pig’s foot and he gives a little cry of pain.
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” cries a child.
Standing on tiptoe, I can see a black ox pulling a cart bearing a cage with three men in it. Their mouths are full of blood and they are screaming out unintelligibly.
“They’ve cut out their tongues,” someone in the crowd whispers.
Now that they have been almost tortured to death, all the condemned look the same: just bloodied flesh still barely breathing.
The cart and others like it crawl through the North Gate. Huong tells me she can’t watch anymore and will wait for me in town. But I am carried along by some indomitable inner force and I want to watch them to the very end. I have to know whether Min and Jing are going to die.
The procession comes to a halt by a deserted stretch of wasteland. The soldiers open the cages and drive the prisoners on with their bayonets. One of them is nearly dead, and two soldiers drag him along like an empty flour sack.
There are cries in the crowd. With the help of two sturdy servants, a finely dressed woman pushes past the people in her way, and reaches the military cordon.
“Min, my son!”
Far over there, a man turns round, falls to his knees and kowtows three times in our direction. My heart stops. The soldiers throw themselves at him and beat him.
The condemned men kneel in a long line. One of the soldiers brandishes the flag as all the others raise their rifles.
Min’s mother faints.
Min doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t look at anyone. For him there is nothing except for the rustling of the grass, the quiet song of the insects and the breeze on the back of his neck.
Is he thinking about me—his child inside me?
The soldiers load their rifles.
Min turns his head and stares hungrily at the person to his left. I eventually realize that it is Tang! They smile at each other. Min leans painfully towards her and manages to put his lips to the young girl’s mouth.
The shots crackle loudly.
My ears buzz and I can smell rust mingled with sweat. Is that the smell of death? I sway as my stomach contracts and I bend forward to vomit.
66
Orchid, my Manchurian prostitute, is slumped in her chair, sulking.
“You’ve changed,” she says.
I lie down on her bed, but instead of undressing me, as she usually does, she waves her handkerchief.
“You used to come to see me every two or three days, but you haven’t been here for almost two weeks. Have you met someone new?”
“I haven’t seen anyone except you since I’ve been garrisoned here,” I try to reason, though there are hardly any grounds for her to be jealous.
In fact her charms have had no effect on me for a while. I find her skin coarse, her flesh flaccid and our couplings more and more boring.
“I don’t believe you,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “I love you and you love someone else.”
“You’re being stupid. I could leave tomorrow and never set foot in this town again. I’ll be killed one day. Why do you love me? You shouldn’t get attached to someone who’s just passing through. Love someone who can marry you. Forget about me.”
She cries all the more bitterly and I find her tears arousing. I push her onto the bed and take off her dress.
As she lies beneath me, Orchid’s face begins to flush and she shudders and gasps between her sobs. I ejaculate, but the climax no longer has the intensity it once did.
Orchid lies next to me smoking and waving a fan with her free hand. I too light a cigarette.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks me gloomily.
I do not answer. The white cigarette smoke, dispersed by the fan, rises slowly towards the ceiling in a series of scrolled waves.
“Is she Chinese or Japanese?” she insists.
I jump to my feet.
67
As I wander the streets, my whole body is stiff with horror.
“Go home,” says Huong.
“Leave me alone.”
“Please, go home.”
“I hate my home.”
“Well, cry then. Let it all out, please,” she begs me.
“I don’t have any tears.”
She buys some stuffed rolls from a peddler and says, “Well, eat then!”
“They smell horrible.”
“What makes you say that? They smell good.”
“They’re rotten. Can’t you smell the vegetables are bitter? It’s like blood. Oh, please throw them away or . . .” My stomach lurches and I am sick. Terrified, Huong throws the rolls to some cats stalking nearby.
I curl up on myself and hear Huong saying, “Jing is alive.” But this good news is not enough for me.
“I’m carrying a dead man’s baby. I’ll have to kill myself.”
“You’ve gone mad!” she says, shaking me by my shoulders. “You’re mad! Tell me you’re delirious!”
I don’t answer.
“Well then, hang yourself,” she says, hiding her face in her hands, “no one can save you.” Then after a long silence she adds, “Have you seen a doctor? It could be nothing.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I say.
“I’ll find you a doctor.”
“What’s the point? Min’s betrayed me. I have to die.”
68
The Chinese girl arrived before me and she has put the stones out on the board. Her eyes are swollen and they have dark shadows under them; she has not combed her hair but rolled it haphazardly into a simple chignon. She has slippers on her feet. She looks ill, like a patient just escaped from a hospital.
As I play she stares at the branches of a willow tree; the look in her eye is disturbing. Then she takes her handkerchief out and puts it over her mouth and nose as if she is feeling sick.
Being so obsessive about cleanliness I am tortured to think that I smell and that this is what is bothering her. I breathe in deeply: all I can smell is the rotting grass, a sign that rain is on the way.
Can she smell Orchid’s perfume on me? The prostitute uses so much, perhaps trying to leave her mark on me.
The sky has darkened and a clammy wind whisks up the leaves. The players pack their stones noisily, but the Chinese girl is lost in thought and does not move. When I point out that we are the only players left on the square, she says nothing but makes a note of our new positions on her sheet of paper, and leaves without saying good-bye.
Her strange behavior arouses my suspicion and so I get up, hail a rickshaw and, hiding under its awning, tell the boy to follow her. She walks down the dusky market streets: traders taking down their stands, women bringing in their washing and pedestrians jostling past each other. Swallows under the canopies give out their little cries of distress. The sky is black, and fat raindrops begin to fall to the ground. Soon torrents of water are beating down on us, accompanied by thunderclaps.
The Chinese girl stops on the edge of a wood. I get out of the rickshaw and hide behind a tree as she dives into the green mist, her slender silhouette occasionally lit by the flashes of lightning. There is a silvery ribbon snaking through the branches, a river, swollen with rainwater, flowing east in a series of tiny whirlpools and brief sparkling reflections. On the horizon it becomes a wide expanse of black, which forges into the cleft of the sky.
The Chinese girl slips through the trees to the seething waters, and I launch myself after her. Then she stops suddenly and I must grind to a halt and throw myself on the ground.
The young girl’s stillness challenges the seething, effervescent river. In quick succession nearly a dozen thunderclaps rumble overhead. The trees bend in the fierce wind; a branch snaps and tears the trunk as it falls.
Scenes of the earthquake come back to me.
69
&n
bsp; The smell of blood has insinuated itself into my body. It burrows under my tongue and streams out of my nose as I exhale. It follows me to bed.
I wash in a basin of water, soaping my face, my neck and my hands, all impregnated with the fetid smell of death. Outside it is raining. Why do the gods shed so many tears on our world? Are they weeping for me? Why don’t these torrents from the skies wash away our suffering and our impurity?
I drop down onto my bed. The halting breath of the wind is like the whisper of ghosts as they rise up and recede. Could it be Min with Tang roaring with laughter?
Were they shut in the same cell? Did they hold hands as they watched their lives flowing like a river into the abyss? Had they kissed before I met Min? Had they made love? When she was free she probably wouldn’t have given herself to him, but on their last night did they not couple, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead, wound to wound as the guard looked on?
She took him into her belly and into her soul. He penetrated her on his knees, in penitence, he held her to him with all his might . . . his seed flowed, their blood mingled. She gave herself to him and he gave her deliverance.
I jump to my feet.
Min betrayed me, I must kill myself.
70
The Chinese girl turns around.
She walks like a ghost away from the river and out of the woods. All the deserted streets look the same under the driving rain; still the girl walks on—sometimes steady and upright, sometimes small and hunched—drawing me towards another world.
Suddenly she disappears and I rush backwards and forwards looking for her . . . in vain.