Waste Tide

by Chen Qiufan

  Scott nodded. He found the entire situation amusing. A thief raising a hue and cry to catch a thief. You’re clearly an accomplished actor. He wasn’t so worried about data theft, but he was curious how this farce would conclude. The doctor who had been summoned checked his bio signs; his pacemaker was working properly again, and other than a feeling of exhaustion, he didn’t suffer other forms of discomfort.

  “Cardiac dysrhythmia?” the doctor, a young woman, asked as she drew his blood.

  “A chronic problem. Paroxysmal tachycardia. From time to time, my heart rate goes out of whack.”

  “I heard that before they invented virus batteries, you had to change the batteries every couple of years in the pacemakers. There was a British man with an electronic heart who had to recharge his batteries every four hours, and he depended on the cigarette lighter in his car for his life.”

  Scott laughed politely. A sting on the arm told him that she had pulled out the needle. Doctors always told jokes with a purpose, even if what she said was true.

  For a long time after he had been implanted with his pacemaker, Scott suffered from a nameless terror centered on the virus-enhanced batteries. Scientists explained that the active peptides found in viruses enhanced the nanostructures of batteries, increasing their endurance and the stability of the power supply, but the idea that live viruses were sealed in his chest cavity could not put him completely at ease.

  “You’ll be fine. Just be sure to get plenty of rest.” The doctor inserted the blood sample into the portable analyzer and observed the shifting figures. “Your heart—is it congenital?”

  “An accident.” Scott smiled and intended to say no more. But the sealed-off memories escaped from their cages and cruelly tore open his wound. He convulsed, as though his flawed, pulsing heart had come into contact with a cold, steel needle.

  That old photograph was still lying in his wallet: a stream in the middle of a tropical jungle, two beautiful little girls laughing, the dappled sunlight on their skin tracing out rococo lines like the veins of some plant.

  Ten years ago, Tracy was three, and Nancy was seven.

  * * *

  They had been on a trip to Papua New Guinea. A research institute owned by the Rimbunan Hijau Group had hired Scott to research the impact of illegal logging on the environment and native tribes with the goal of forcing the local government to crack down on illegal logging so that the Rimbunan Hijau Group could be given a monopoly on the lum ber supplies of Papua New Guinea. The so-called sustainable development was, in Scott’s eyes, just another name for legalized looting.

  At least the job paid well and the scenery was fantastic, and Scott quickly reached the desired conclusion. As the project was winding down, Scott sent for his wife and daughters so that the whole family could enjoy a tropical vacation.

  After they left Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea’s capital, Scott found it much more difficult to locate an unspoiled patch of paradise than he had anticipated. The roar of chainsaws filled the jungles, chasing birds and beasts deeper into the interior. The pipes laid down by Oil Search Ltd. were like a web of exposed capillaries, crossing forests, rivers, and villages to suck the black essence of the ancient past out of the rich soil to slake the unquenchable thirst of the developed world. Even the natives were no longer honest and simple. After the destruction of the rain forests they depended on for their livelihood, they had no choice but to sell their labor and join the logging company, wielding electric chainsaws to cut down the mother trees that had once borne the names of their ancestors.

  Their furtive glances concealed hatred and loathing, but they did not pass up any opportunity to surround the white tourists and push any local crafts that could be converted into cash.

  In the end, Scott found a place called Kemaru, which in the local language meant “bow and arrow.” There was a waterfall as well as a crescent-shaped pool formed by the impact of the water. The mangroves on shore extended their dense aerial roots down to the water, and a broad river met the sea not too far from here, where they could see the beach, the gentle waves of the Bismarck Sea, and the archipelago beyond. Kemaru was perhaps named after the bow-shaped pool.

  He repeated no to the local guide’s sales pitch until, pushed beyond the limits of his patience, he snapped and told him to get out of his sight. The little, dark-skinned man gave him one look and then vanished.

  Surrounded by sunlight, birdsong, the clear, cool water, and exotic tropical plants, Scott and Susan acted like typical American tourists. They lay down on the giant rocks next to the pool to enjoy the caress of the sun against their backs, listening to their daughters splashing in the water, giggling like angels. This really is paradise, Scott thought.

  Daddy! We want to go over there, Nancy said.

  Don’t go too far, and take care of Tracy. Scott had scouted the site ahead of time. The water wasn’t very deep, and there were no dangerous creatures.

  I can take care of myself, Tracy said.

  Of course, sweetheart. But don’t stay away too long. We’re going to the beach in a bit. You’ll really like it. Scott didn’t even bother lifting his head.

  Ten minutes passed. Susan began to worry. “Tracy? Nancy?”

  There was no answer.

  “Nancy! Tracy!” Scott took off his sunglasses, jumped into the pool, and began to swim to one edge of the crescent. The surface of the water was empty. He turned around and swam to the other side, still nothing. His growing anxiety was matched by Susan’s increasingly frantic cries.

  He dove into the water and widened his eyes, looking for any signs of trouble. Finally, he saw something blue caught in the mangroves’ dense roots like a flickering, phosphorescent light: Tracy’s bathing suit. He took a deep breath and splashed through the water madly. It appeared that the mangrove roots had caught Tracy’s feet, and, as she panicked and struggled, had become even more entangled. Luckily, she was so light and small that Scott easily disentangled her and lifted her out of the water.

  Tracy’s face was bloodless, and her body was completely limp. He handed her to Susan.

  “Perform CPR on her,” Scott yelled. “Just like the video. Get the water out of her lungs.” Without hesitation, Scott dove into the water again.

  Nancy must be around. He widened his eyes and kicked hard through the water. On the other side of the clump of tentacle-like roots that had caught Tracy, he found Nancy’s doll-like face. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth was wide open—clearly her lungs were already filled with water. Scott forced himself to keep the terror at bay and focused on extracting the stiff body out from the roots. It appeared that she had been caught because she was trying to save her little sister.

  Take care of Tracy. Was it because of that admonition that Nancy had not dared to call for help but tried to save Tracy herself? Scott’s heart pounded against the walls of his chest, and all the air in his lungs was used up. But the knotty roots refused to give up. His strength alone wasn’t enough, and he felt he was about to explode.

  Scott erupted out of the water and gulped for air. The little, dark guide stood on shore.

  Goddamn it! Get in here and help me!

  The guide shook his head impassively, as though he couldn’t understand Scott. A hundred thousand kina, he said.

  I’ll give you what you want. Help me!

  The guide shook his head again. I want it now.

  You fucking sonofabitch. Desperately, Scott took off his Rolex diving watch and tossed it at the guide. The watch is worth a lot more than a hundred thousand kina, he lied.

  The guide examined the watch, and then dove into the water.

  But it was too late.

  Scott beat the guide until his face was a bloody pulp. Nancy’s body lay still to the side, as pale and beautiful as Millais’s Ophelia. He could not believe the little girl, so full of life a few minutes earlier, was truly dead. Susan hugged the terrified Tracy and could not stop crying. The native rescue workers who had shown up too late prayed for the repose of t
he departed soul, and following local custom, put their foreheads against the murderous tree and continued to mutter. The natives were animists, but Scott could not imagine what they had to say to that tree. He felt his heart convulse in pain, as though a part of his life was being carved out of his chest.

  The exertions and his rapid gulps of air had led to paroxysmal tachycardia, according to the diagnosis of his doctor. He also advised that Scott be implanted with a pacemaker. But Scott understood that not only had the rhythm of his heart changed, his whole life had been transformed.

  Ten years later, Tracy was thirteen, and Nancy was still seven.

  * * *

  Mimi picked up her pace, not even daring to look behind her.

  Back in the Luo clan’s territory, she rushed to the familiar old shack, but the moment she crossed into the yard, a few natives emerged from the door, holding the photograph in their hands.

  Damn! Mimi instinctively veered off and hid behind a pile of trash. She stuck her head out and stole a peek: they were not the goons from the Luo clan. They were all strangers, and dressed differently from those gang members, but there was no doubt that they were all looking for her.

  Mimi was trying to decide between waiting and hiding until these men left or leaving immediately, but someone slapped her on the back, and she jumped up like a startled cat.

  “Mimi, you’re back! I’ve been worried about you.” It was Lanlan, who worked with her in the same shed. Ever since Mimi had left for the Chen clan’s territory, more than a week ago, they hadn’t seen each other. It was good to see her familiar grin.

  The strangers turned at her voice. Desperately, Mimi pushed Lanlan away and began to run, just like in her nightmare. The graveled road surface, shack, and piles of trash shook violently in her field of vision before receding behind her. She could hear the shouts behind her get closer, and mixed with the rushing air, they seemed like the hissing of the tongues of poisonous snakes. Gravel got into her shoes and sliced open the bottoms of her feet, but she extended her strides and put every ounce of her strength into running, hoping to use the pain to dig into her hidden reserves for survival.

  The voices of the men were now next to her ears.

  Just as Mimi was about to give up, she saw a water-hauling electric rickshaw. Uncle He, who was from near her home village, was the driver, and he had always been friendly to her. She did not hesitate but acceler ated and leapt onto the back of the rickshaw. The cart shook and the colliding water drums made muffled sounds. Startled, Uncle He turned around and saw that it was Mimi. But before he could even speak, she bellowed at him:

  “Get going! Go!”

  The electric motor roared to life and the rickshaw rumbled along the dirt road toward Silicon Isle Town. Mimi brushed aside her sweat-stained bangs and fought to catch her breath, but noticed in the rearview mirror a few figures pursuing close behind.

  The dozens of drums of water on the rickshaw cart slowed down their progress, and those men were in excellent shape. Like a pack of wolves hounding wounded prey, they stayed right on their heels through the clouds of dust, just waiting for their target to make some mistake.

  Mimi bit her bottom lip and tumbled one of the drums over on its side and kicked it off the cart. The drum bounced a few times against the surface of the road and rolled toward the men like a bowling ball. The two men in the front agilely dodged out of the way, but the third man, his view blocked by his companions, couldn’t get out of the way in time. The drum smashed into him, and with a shriek, he fell down and did not get up.

  “My water! Oh, my water!” Uncle He cried.

  “I’ll pay you back!” Mimi almost screamed at him.

  More drums of water were pushed off the cart and rolled one after the other at the chasers. Awkwardly, they tried to get out of the way and had no choice but to slow down; the distance between them and the rickshaw increased. Since only a few drums were left in the cart, the rickshaw sped up, and Mimi felt as if the vehicle were floating, and the ride grew far bumpier.

  “Hold on!” Uncle He warned.

  In front of them was a stone bridge over a large ditch, a choke point on the way into the town. It was too late to slow down, and Uncle He twisted the handlebars with all his strength. The rickshaw screeched and made the almost-ninety-degree turn sharply, heading for the bridge. This would have been a fairly easy maneuver if the rickshaw were fully laden, but now that Mimi had gotten rid of most of the heavy drums, the light rickshaw lost its balance, and the outer wheel rose into the air as the rickshaw slid across the bridge at an angle like a glider, scattering the street peddlers who had set up booths on the bridge.

  Uncle He did his best to avoid hitting the crowd, but the vehicle’s weight and speed proved too much for him in the end. Mimi felt a violent jolt and found herself flying through the air. The rickshaw smashed into one of the bridge piers with a loud crack, and Uncle He was tossed against the head of the bridge, where he lay limp like a dish of meat displayed for sale.

  Mimi slammed against the road. Pain racked her body and her mouth was filled with a salty, iron taste. Dazed, she seemed to hear the footsteps and the shouts of the men chasing after her come closer. Desperately, she tried to crawl forward, seeking any sliver of hope. She grabbed on to a foot that stopped in front of her whose taut calf muscles were as hard as stones.

  “Help me…”

  Kaizong’s face flashed through Mimi’s confused mind; she wished that he would appear now, like he had the day of the festival, in the alley. She lifted her face: the man’s face was blurry against the strong backlight, but the shifting outline of his face showed that he was laughing. She heard a crisp crack like two pieces of jade being knocked together, and saw a red flame rise from the man’s shoulder.

  She understood that this time, luck wasn’t with her.

  5

  The weak sunlight traversed the long and dim corridor to strike the jars and bottles inside the cabinet, where it refracted into a turbid yellow-green sheen. Kaizong stared at the objects stored within—animal and plant specimens soaked in aged medicinal alcohol—with some trepidation: a variety of snakes, sloughed snakeskin, and ophidian reproductive organs; stag antlers; bones of the long-extinct South China tiger; black bear gallbladder; giant centipedes; insects he couldn’t name; and the stems and roots of plants. The chitin exoskeletons, softened by the alcohol, seemed to drift like miniature spaceships in some indistinct alien landscape.

  The natives of Silicon Isle, especially among the older generation, had unshakable faith in the power of the life essence of these animals and plants, mediated by alcohol, to extend longevity and to increase sexual prowess.

  Kaizong was terrified that he was going to come upon some glass bottle containing the drifting remains of some disfigured fetus. This was far from impossible: the placenta of the newborn was once sought after as a health supplement, and many nurses and doctors had once profited off of its trade. Kaizong’s mother had even partaken of the precious “purple river wheel” derived from her own afterbirth.

  This is not a bad idea for a WWF ad, Kaizong thought. You are what you eat.

  At the end of the corridor was a narrow door with a pale light seeping through the seams. Stepping through the door, Kaizong found himself in a wide-open space, a circular grain-sunning ground surrounded by rough but solidly built brick houses. A thin and small old man sat in a bamboo recliner and lightly rocked himself, with drying squid and nori seaweed lying about him on the ground. The thick, briny smell of the sea filled Kaizong’s nostrils.

  When Uncle Chen had informed him that the head of the Chen clan, the real chairman of the extended family enterprise, wanted to see him, Kaizong had tried to imagine the man. But his visual imagination had been so poisoned by Hollywood that all he could conjure up were classic portrayals from movies about the mob, like Marlon Brando from The Godfather or Robert De Niro in Once Upon a Time in America.

  He certainly did not picture this shriveled old man lounging around in his underwear
and tank top like some neighborhood grandfather.

  The ninety-two-year-old face was wrinkled like wax paper. His eyelids, half shut, trembled slightly, revealing the whites of his eyes. As though detecting a shift in the wind with his nose, he opened his eyes slowly, saw Kaizong standing in front of him, and smiled. The wrinkles on his face rearranged themselves into the corners of his eyes and the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth.

  “Great-Uncle, how are you?”

  “I’m well! You are that … that…”

  “Kaizong.”

  “That’s right! Kaizong. Excellent name. It’s an allusion from The Book of Filial Piety, right? It means getting right to the point.”

  The old man struggled to get up. Kaizong rushed to steady the rocking recliner for him. It was said that one of Great-Uncle Chen’s ancestors had obtained the rank of jinshi jidi bangyan—meaning not only had he passed the three-yearly examination at the Imperial court, a far rarer and more difficult achievement than passing the country, provincial, or national examinations, but he had been distinguished by being ranked second overall out of all the examinees. With such an illustrious and scholarly ancestor, it was no wonder that Great-Uncle Chen recognized the source for Kaizong’s name right away.

  “Why don’t you help me up onto the roof? ‘The setting sun is infinitely beautiful,’ as the poets say; we should treasure each chance we get.”

  Kaizong supported the head of the clan as they ascended the stone staircase, open on one side, until they emerged onto the parapetless roof deck, ring-shaped like an unadorned stone bracelet lying between the mountain and the sea. Drying laundry and blankets, seafood dehydrating in the wind, and monocrystalline solar panels were arranged neatly in patches, giving a layered, orderly texture to the whole scene. The sun dove at the surface of the sea, and the light turned from white to gold, and then dimmed until it became a red fire that set the cottony clouds on the horizon aflame. The sea breeze caressed their faces, bringing with it a moist, salty freshness. Kaizong felt reinvigorated and waited for the elder to speak.