Her father’s death, for example. In the old notebook, her account of it had taken up thirteen pages. There were thirty-six lines on a page, making thirty-five spaces to write in. Her father had loathed the horizontal writing style of the People’s Daily and so, following his lead, she wrote vertically. Even without lines going the other way to form squares for each character, her writing generally came out to an even twenty-five characters per line. That made 875 characters per page, which at thirteen pages amounted to 11,375 characters in all. This was how much she had written about her father’s death. Her memory of the substance of what had occurred was intact, and yet the number of characters she’d been able to write so far in Aki’s hotel room was only 2,275 – barely one-fifth of her previous total.
She remembered how on his deathbed her father had run trembling fingers over her face, how he had recited some French phrase over and over like a Buddhist incantation till his dying breath. He was from Hefei, Anhui Province, and graduated from the Department of Foreign Languages at Tsinghua University in 1940, studying abroad in 1942–45 at Oxford and the Sorbonne. From 1953 on, he conducted research at the Institute of Literature of Peking University under the scholar and writer Qian Zhongshu. After the Cultural Revolution got underway, in 1966 the Red Guards stormed their house, which stood on a traditional lane facing a courtyard. Her parents were strung up over the goldfish pond with dunce caps on their heads and their hands tied behind them, and eventually dunked in the pond. Li Xing, then six years old, had trembled in her nainai’s arms.
About her mother, she was able to write an even paltrier number of lines. She remembered the date of her death: 21st October 1975. But was it a sunny day or overcast? Or had there been scattered showers in the morning that cleared up suddenly in the afternoon? This sort of weather was common in autumn on the plateau. But no, even this she couldn’t remember.
Her memory was a house that appeared solid enough on the outside, but whose beams, pillars, and walls were so worm-eaten that it was on the verge of collapse.
Concerning Liu Hong, letters from him and copies of her letters to him would easily have filled an entire notebook. The rate of reconstruction was thus lower still. Today she had written this:
A group of intellectuals from Beijing sat at the restaurant table next to ours. Their conversation was so interesting, I couldn’t help listening. To my amazement, they turned out to be famous – all pro-democratization, pro-reform leaders. From the names they called each other, I figured out who they were: Su Xiaokang, Yan Jiaqi, the writer Zheng Yi, and Liu Hong. They were all in high spirits, and absolutely dazzling. But they were thrown by the house specialty, steamed bread in mutton soup. Pretty soon one of them – a rather good-looking boy (Liu Hong, that’s you) – got up and came over to where some of us were sitting, and asked how to eat it. I showed him the proper way, by tearing the bread in strips from the right as you go.
And then he had the nerve to stand there and ask me for my address. I didn’t give it to him.
It had taken her half the day just to write this much. Something peculiar was happening. Of the passage she remembered, all she’d been able to transcribe was this little bit; and as she worked it out, her ballpoint pen travelling slowly over the page, Liu Hong’s image had grown fainter, then started peeling and falling away.
Some things came back to her readily enough, and she was able to get them down quite easily. Things that were of no consequence, mostly. Like the time when his classmate and friend from Peking University, Cai Fang, came to see the troupe on a mission from the Central Committee. But to her surprise, she found next to nothing to say about Liu Hong himself. He was fading.
She looked up with a start, shocked at how quickly darkness had come. Outside, large drops of rain were falling. Had Aki taken an umbrella? “He’s coming back,” she said to herself softly. But she had run out of things to write. Why had she ever dreamt this up – retrieving her diary and letters like this, turning her own head into a kind of cricket box? What in God’s name for? So she could know who she was, stand tall?
Just then the doorbell rang with their prearranged signal: three short rings in a row, a pause, then two longer ones. She quickly scribbled, “He’s come back to me.” Then she ran to the door.
“God, you’re soaked to the skin!”
“Yes, now I’m the way you were yesterday.”
Her slim figure was wrapped in the same orange dress as this morning. The sight warmed him. Her notebook with the blue cover lay open on the sofa, the ballpoint pen lying crosswise on the curling pages, barely able to hold them down. With his good eyesight, Aki could read what was written there: “He’s come back to me.” So Liu Hong came back, he said to himself. When and where might that have been?
“You’ll catch cold.”
She flew off and returned with an armful of towels. Next she poked at the bundle she’d taken from him and exclaimed, “Oh good, mangoes!”
“The other package is a special mushroom soup from Ronghuaji. Ms Yu told me it’s good for colds.”
“Great. Let’s have it right away. For your sake, since you got wet in the rain.”
She poured the soup from the container into teacups and they drank it cold. The pale mushrooms waved about in the liquid as if bending in the wind. The broth was clear and sweet, with a hint of sage. She put the two mangoes on a saucer. They were almost the same colour as her dress, and when she picked one up and started paring it neatly, he lost sight of it for a second against the material.
“How’s your writing going?”
“It’s not. I’ve forgotten things. See, the pages are still blank…”
Could she really forget? He doubted it. Who had leaked the news of her presence here – she herself, or public security? It could have been either one. This was probably her only way of meeting Liu Hong, and public security would do anything to arrest him.
Aki felt as if he were locked alone with her in a tower visible to all Shanghai.
Wang le, she’d said – pretending to have forgotten. She’d never had the slightest intention of reduplicating her lost papers, but was only playing for time while she waited for her friend to contact her. If she was going to take advantage of him, Aki, then he could return the favour. He could forget about maintaining a respectable distance and topple her onto the sofa. That’s what sofas were for, wasn’t it? Now’s your chance, close the gap, he told himself. Just go over to her by the window. Two people gazing out together – that should be enough to set the mood.
Yet he stayed standing on the other side of the desk, frozen in place.
Li Xing lingered by the twilit window. It seemed too far for conversation, but he couldn’t help saying, “Forgotten? But surely not all – you haven’t forgotten it all, have you?”
Li Xing shook her head. Her figure blended into the view of the Bund framed by the long, vertical window.
“I can see you did write something. If you don’t mind… I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’d really love to read even a little of it.”
“You’ve every right to ask.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Something happened, didn’t it?” She looked thoughtful, eyes cast down.
Aki walked a little way towards her, and stopped when he had measured off three meters. Still a respectable distance.
“The film’s been cancelled, hasn’t it?”
Caught off guard, he could only nod helplessly.
“I knew it. When I was picked up at the airport, that’s what they said. That Moving Shadows would be scrapped. And also…”
“What?”
“The Shanghai Evening News. It was in your coat pocket.”
Li Xing moved slowly away from the window, along the wall. He turned, following less her face than her gaze. Her shadow on the wall had a forlorn look, the shoulders slumped. Then abruptly she vanished into the bedroom.
Before long the door opened. No doors stay shut, he thought. Li Xing stood there again with her suitcase in
her hand.
“I’m sorry. And thank you very much.” She bowed her head. It was a nice, polite Japanese bow. She walked toward the door.
With a catch in his voice, he said, “What about your promise?”
“What promise?”
“You forgot already? You promised to read me something from your notebook.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes, you did. Please, open your bag and read something to me. One section from the salvaged diary of Li Xing.”
She turned wide eyes on him. The suitcase fell with a thump at her feet. She bent over, undid the clasps, and pulled out a rolled-up notebook. On the spot, she read aloud:
A letter from Liu Hong finally came. Hadn’t heard from him for a whole week, so I was getting nervous. At the Tang Dynasty Theatre Restaurant, our team was asked to perform at a banquet for the provincial Party Secretary. We did “Pamir Rejoicing” from the Uyghur ballet. I missed several steps even though I was the lead dancer, and I faltered during the allegro and the fouetté – there was nothing good about my performance at all. Liu Hong’s letter was –
Here she broke off and stole a look at him. He was listening, arms folded. He looked up and signalled with his eyes for her to continue. Out of nowhere, she felt a flash of pure affection for him.
She began reading again:
Hearing about the death of former General Secretary Hu Yaobang, students have started gathering in Tiananmen Square. It was the same when Prime Minister Zhou Enlai died. Oh, and Cai Fang came by before noon. He was showing someone around – a Japanese VIP named Saionji. Apparently, he was on close terms with Zhou Enlai. We did some songs and dances from the Loess Plateau at the theatre restaurant and afterwards, Cai came backstage, alone, and made himself a pest. Telling stupid jokes and puns. He calls me the “dancing girl from the plains.” His eyes looking out from behind those frameless glasses are very Uyghur-ish, a beautiful brown. He said, “Xingxing, tell Liu Hong to look out for himself, will you?” It really was a dreary day.
“Xingxing, please sit down,” Aki said. She sat down on the sofa. “Good, that’s the way. Everything’s going to be okay.” He couldn’t conceal the note of false heartiness in his voice. Li Xing shook her head. She closed the notebook, rolled it up, and held it tight.
“Well, I kept my promise. Thanks. You’ve been very kind.”
“Kind? Oh yes, I’m famous for my kindness. The fairy godmother!” He deliberately tried to keep his tone light, but it came off as sarcastic.
“Let’s go eat,” he said. “I’m hungry. The place on the eighteenth floor serves Chaozhou food. Let’s have pigeon. It’ll lift your spirits to go up there. Afterwards, we can climb up to the terrace at the top and get a bird’s-eye view of Shanghai. See here – ” He gestured at a framed photograph hanging on the wall. “Zhou Enlai went there, too.” He proceeded to read the caption aloud:
The late Prime Minister Zhou Enlai often brought foreign heads of state and leaders to the terrace of Broadway Mansions to give them a bird’s-eye view of the city. This photograph was taken on the afternoon of October 20, 1971, when he escorted the Ethiopian emperor, Haile Selassie, to the nineteenth-floor terrace.
He paused, then turned and said, “From that height, you might be able to see Liu Hong on his way here.”
She gave him an odd, flushed look. “How mean you are. No, thank you. I had that mango, so I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything to eat and I don’t want a bird’s-eye view of Shanghai.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. Aki saw them and assumed they were from angry disappointment. He apologized sincerely. After that, the two of them dined on pigeon. When they’d finished, without climbing up to the terrace, they went back down to the fifteenth floor. Aki unlocked the door with his key and let Li Xing in, then followed her in and locked the door. She disappeared into the bedroom without turning around, but left the door open. All was quiet. Aki hesitated for one millisecond, and went in.
13
The slope Aki was standing on lurched again.
The next morning, he stayed in the sitting room while Li Xing sat in the wicker chair; they didn’t see each other once. Every so often he would stand with his forehead pressed to the wall, absolutely still. He was careful to leave her alone, and when he needed to use the toilet he went all the way down to the first floor. Around eleven o’clock, a man and a woman came to clean the rooms, but he sent them away, saying he had a cold. He coughed violently to prove it.
Aki felt restless. Just when he’d finally gotten a taste of her, he seemed likely to lose her. Liu must be well on his way. Through the Shanghai Evening News, he knew by now where she was. Aki could scarcely take his eyes off the cheap beige telephone sitting on the desk. He listened for footsteps in the corridor.
How would Liu make contact? Aki opened the window. The many sounds of Shanghai rushed in aggressively, instantly occupying every corner of the room. Eventually, he was able to sift out individual noises from the din. More annoying than the hubbub of cars, boats, bicycles, and factories were the cries of human beings: each one carried some meaning. Mixed in with them might be Liu Hong’s voice.
Given the chance, Aki would have gone down and walked around with a finger on his lips, begging everybody in the city, one by one, to please shut up and leave him and Li Xing alone.
The Peugeot was parked in its usual spot. Li Xing was by the window. Her every movement made the wicker chair creak, the sound faint but audible to Aki in the next room. Silent pleasure welled up inside him. At the same time, he was struck by a stupid thought: There’s only one thing truly criminal a woman can do – to be with one man while thinking of another.
In her wicker chair, Li Xing was following a similar line of thought: I’m a horrible person, really. There’s only one thing worse than giving yourself to one man while thinking of another – and I’m doing it. I came here for Liu Hong’s sake and now it’s Aki I’ve turned to. Body and soul.
Li Xing was sure of her own inclinations, but she didn’t know how to handle them, nor did she yet have a clear notion of how Aki felt. Suddenly she had an idea. Yes, that would help her to decide.
Checking on her tiny wristwatch that it was now noon, she banged shut the notebook on her lap, stood up, and took out from her suitcase something carefully wrapped in newspaper. A reddish pottery teapot, small enough to hold in the palm of her hand, and still smaller matching teacups. She set them out on the nightstand, boiled some water in the electric kettle, and then called to Aki to come in.
Entering, he saw a teapot and three cups laid out in a particular pattern on the nightstand. The pot contained Yin Dan’s jasmine tea.
“Please sit down there.”
He did so, looking dubious about the whole procedure.
“This is called the Challenge.”
What in the world?
“I learnt it from my yeye, but my mother knew it too.”
Yeye meant paternal grandfather. The maternal grandfather was called laoye. Her laoye was Xu Liping, back in Kobe.
“Yeye was a member of the Nationalist Party, but before that he was involved in the Heaven and Earth Society. Have you ever heard of it?”
Aki shook his head.
“An old secret society. It even played a part in the Taiping Rebellion. When two members met for the first time, they used a password to see if they belonged or not. One would ask, ‘Art thou blind?’ The other would answer, ‘No, mine eyes are bigger than thine.’”
She swallowed. Eyes shining, she went on, “Okay, let’s begin. This is the induction ceremony. Suppose someday you and I meet somewhere far away, and have forgotten each other. This way we can remember it’s us again. Do you want to join the Heaven and Earth Society?”
Aki nodded.
“All right, then I’ll show you how.”
She reached out for the teapot. The three cups were lined up in a row, facing the spout. She poured tea into each one. Aki’s eyes took in every movement her hands made.
“O
ffering someone tea this way is an invitation for them to join the cause. To accept, you choose the cup in the middle and drink from it. Go ahead.”
Her eyes were right by him. Aki unhesitatingly picked up the middle cup and took a sip. Questions, though, occurred to him: Join the cause … on whose behalf? What for? Against whom?
As he was about to take another sip of the hot amber liquid, he saw a tiny white petal rise swiftly from the bottom of the cup, curling open as it did so. Yin Dan’s method involved transferring only the fragrance of the flowers to his tea leaves, without mixing in any petals. Was this a bad omen or a lucky one? He was on the point of mentioning it, when she spoke again.
“Have you got any idea what I was really doing all morning in the wicker chair?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said pointedly. “Writing in your notebook, waiting to hear from Liu Hong.”
Li Xing closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake. Then, mischief in her eyes, she said, “Guess again.”
Out in the corridor, several guests went by, talking loudly in English. Mixed in was the thump of heavy suitcases being dragged along. Keep it down, will you? Aki said under his breath. Then, to answer her, he shrugged. “Okay, what were you really doing?”
“Being in love. With you.”
Aki sucked in his lips. He took her in his arms, so clumsily that it might have been the first time. Uncertain how to hold her, he was ill at ease, shifting his weight from right to left and back again. They both still felt the events of the night before were scarcely real; everything now was awkward. There was something jittery about the way they kissed. Li Xing’s sweet, wild gaze wavered before him close up, swaying like a boat at its mooring.
When the phone rang, he felt her give a start. “It’s him!”
Aki reached slowly for the phone, his other arm still encircling her waist. The sensation of her touch lingered on the hand reaching out. He picked up the receiver, but for some reason his hand went numb and he dropped it in the cradle. Snatching it back up, he called, “Wei, wei wei,” but the line was dead.
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