The Lost Garden

by Ang Li

  In the end Father never did change the name. In New York, where spring was so late in coming, she read the letter from her father and breathed a sigh of relief for him, though she couldn’t stop herself from tearing up. Then a sudden, unusual idea dawned on her for the first time in her life.

  Years ago, when Father was thinking about changing the name of the garden, in additional to personal reasons, could it also have been intended to commemorate Zhu Feng, the ancestor who made a fortune as a pirate, and whose name refers to a phoenix?

  She would ask her father when she returned to Taiwan, Yinghong said to herself with a tearful smile.

  But she never got the chance. Father didn’t live to see the bitter berry bloom again the following year. The doctor said he died of liver disease caused by prolonged worry and unhappiness.

  After Lin Xigeng left, Yinghong suffered pain the likes of which she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  The idea that abstract, mental anguish that was impossible to measure could actually be transformed into real physical torment was new to her. For nearly a week, sound sleep eluded her, replaced by chaotic dreams bordering on the nightmarish. Feeling dimly awake, she was in fact in the grip of even more terrifying sleepy memories that had to be relived.

  She was floating in a vast body of water, an endless aquamarine world. Water everywhere, and no sky. Suddenly the color around her darkened; instinct told her that sharks were nearing, but she could not see them. No waves, no tides, only a dense body of water that formed a solid mass and began to tilt and roil. After a series of violent tremors, she sensed that the invisible sharks had swum off, and she was finally freed from the water.

  At first everything felt the same, as she was relieved to find her body uninjured; but when she pushed down to sit up, she discovered that her hands were powerless, and that thin blood was oozing out through bite marks. Her arms, which were lying flat, were sliced open down the middle, revealing zigzagging bite marks, clearly visible long lines of wounds caused by sharks’ sharp teeth.

  A further discovery showed that the sharks’ teeth had bitten through her body, cutting it into horizontal halves separated by neat, visible rows of teeth marks.

  Blood seeped out slowly, and the pain was not unbearable. But the injury was so utterly eerie, beyond understanding and imagination, that it caused a terrible fright.

  That was followed by an even more terrifying scene: the blue sky, which had originally merged with the body of water, had at some point undergone sudden changes. It too was sliced down the middle, separated by two colors; one a ghastly blue and the other a bloody red.

  A divided sky. Her childhood’s worst fear came to mind. Father had vanished, and she woke up in the dead of the night; the bed in Lotus Garden retained no body warmth; she groped in the dark but there was no one, and she struggled to wake up. A long time later Father returned, only to lie in Flowing Pillow Pavilion for several years, virtually out of sight. After she was startled awake, her first thoughts were of Lin Xigeng, of his departure and the heartrending ache it produced.

  After many sleepless nights she sank into a state of blurry wakefulness, in which she had but one wish: to hear from him. In the office and at home she waited day and night, turning down all invitations and seldom going out. Sometimes she’d wake up at night and grab the phone to see if it was working.

  She held her breath and forced herself to be calm when answering the phone. At first, she feigned lethargy and indifference in how she said “hello.” After a week of that, she began picking up the phone with a measured low voice so as to sound affectionate and seductive. She wanted him to hear her enchanting voice as soon as the call went through.

  Two weeks went by, and then three. He didn’t call. She abandoned the low, seductive voice, for the urgency in her heart made her tense. Now her “hello” sounded short and terse, with a hint of withering anxiety. She would immediately turn cold and unresponsive the moment she knew it wasn’t him, afraid that the caller would keep the line tied up too long.

  Naturally, she’d thought of calling him, but feelings of hurt and defeat were so powerful they overtook all her thought processes and left a permanent ache in her heart. In her confused state, she simply could not muster the physical and mental energy to do anything.

  It would take a month and seventeen days, during which time she had seen him on several occasions, before the sense of permanent separation and suffocating pain subsided somewhat, and only then did she realize that he would eventually come back to her. He was not without feelings for her; moreover, given his conceited nature, he would come back to observe the outcome, particularly after what he’d done when they broke up.

  Besides, if he really did not want to get back together, it would be pointless for her to look him up, since all she would get in return would be humiliation and more hurt.

  He had been the one to break up, so he would always have the upper hand if she were to seek him out first. He could always say:

  “We agreed to break up. You’re the one who changed your mind first.”

  He could even be downright cruel:

  “I didn’t come to you; you presented yourself to me.”

  Yinghong knew she would never let herself sink so low, no matter how much she loved him.

  Finally, four weeks later, she was awakened by the phone late one night. It was a quarter past two in the morning, and she knew it was him.

  He was in the habit of calling late at night. In the past, he’d sometimes call just to say a few words to her. He’d even defend his inconsiderate action by saying it was for her own good, since she must be longing to hear his voice, just as he wanted to hear hers.

  After a prolonged wait, she felt nothing special now that he had actually phoned her. It was her uncle’s voice on the phone; she could tell he was drunk when he told her that someone had asked him to make the call.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  She could hear her uncle call out urgently:

  Lin—Xi—geng.

  She didn’t realize until then that the hand holding the phone was shaking.

  Her uncle sent his car to pick her up. The driver had been working for the family for over twenty years, and knew the proper behavior of not ringing the doorbell or sounding his horn late at night. Instead, he waited at the door. When she came out and saw that he had just about fallen asleep at the wheel, it dawned on her that she had made him wait a long time. She had been dressing in front of her mirror, trying on nearly all the clothes in her closet. In the end, she came out in a rather plain dress, under a light silk jacket, as it was late and drizzly.

  Her uncle had called from a restaurant specializing in late-night snacks, in the basement of a building across from a police station. There was no sign at the entrance, but it looked like a restaurant nonetheless. She was well aware of the ins and outs of places like this; an illegal business staying open (facing a police station) until three or four in the morning for diners and girls leaving drinking establishments (who else would be snacking at such an hour?) had to have connections.

  Bouncers were guarding the entrance. When she approached, they looked her over to make sure she wasn’t a troublemaker before opening the door. She walked in and was immediately hit by an arctic blast of cold air mixed with the smell of cigarettes. Walking down a staircase carpeted in red, she heard her uncle call to her before she found her bearings in the dark.

  It was a small room—no more than a hundred square feet—with a round table encircled by a large group of men and women. Since she was standing, the angle and her intuition quickly led her gaze over to Lin Xigeng, who was sitting between two girls. He knew she was there, but didn’t look up, although he wore an awkward, even bashful smile.

  He was clearly feeling uneasy, but that went undetected by the girls at his side, who continued toasting him and carrying food to his mouth. Though she was aware of the girls’ profession, Yinghong still felt hurt, because it should have been her, not them, who was sitting next to h
im.

  The girls were dressed in casual clothes, the sort they normally wore to go out with clients after drinking. That was an unwritten rule. Be they barmaids who wore qipao with long slits up the side, or waitresses from hostess bars who dressed in evening gowns, they always changed out of their work clothes before going out with clients. Replacing their “uniforms” with casual clothes sent a message that whatever occurred afterward was a private matter between the girl and the client, the significance of which was obviously important to both.

  Any one of the dozen or so girls in a banquet room, where two dozen or so girls came and went all night, would consider herself lucky to be there, though of course the client had yet to decide whether to take her out for a “short chat” or to “spend the night.” The two girls by Lin’s side were apparently working hard to make something happen in the hope that they would earn the extra money.

  At first she thought that Lin’s embarrassment stemmed from the two girls’ intimate gestures in front of her, but almost immediately she realized that was not the case. He was simply unsure how to greet her, so he continued to smile awkwardly, pretending to listen to a man who appeared to be in his mid fifties. The man looked flushed, after a long night of drinking and fooling around. It was late and he was tired, which was why a patina of steel gray lay across his red face; the corners of his eyes drooped. Even so, a gloomy sense of resolve shone in his eyes. He must have been quite tall, since even seated he towered over the other men. He filled his chair with his large body, a perfect illustration of the Taiwanese phrase, “fully in and fully out.”

  Sitting among men in suit and tie, he had a rustic air, particularly because of the contrast of the white folded sleeves against his dark-red, black-accented Taiwanese-style shirt, common attire among members of the underworld.

  The demeanor of the tall, beefy middle-aged man caught Yinghong’s attention, even as her heart was racing upon seeing Lin after so long. Years of attending social occasions like this had fostered in her an intuitive ability to judge people, and that ability told her that the man’s eloquence, sounding as if he were talking to himself, was an effort to help Lin out. He obviously felt Lin’s discomfort.

  “Chairman Lin is very discerning,” the man said. But he wasn’t talking to Lin Xigeng; rather, he looked at the people around the table. His eyes skipped the girls but gave her a quick glance before looking away, as a way to show her that he knew she was different from the other girls.

  “He was the real estate magnate who came up with the idea of preselling units.”

  Yinghong noticed that her uncle looked up at the man with great interest.

  “Back at Taipei Construction, Chairman Lin here, with Zhenhui and Qidong, the three of them, proposed the idea of presale and created a real estate boom. Real estate is an engine of industry; without it, Taiwan would not have such a thriving economy.”

  “What presale was proposed by Chairman Lin?”

  The question came from the girl to Lin’s right; she waited openmouthed for the answer. Now that midnight had passed and her lipstick had gone, what had been a coquettish, seductive mouth gave her a somewhat dimwitted look.

  Noticing the familiar way the man spoke to and about Lin Xigeng, Yinghong leaned toward her uncle and signaled with her eyes. Understanding what she was asking about, her uncle answered with a smile, “Masao.”

  “You have sharp eyes,” her uncle whispered. “He’s Lin’s right-hand man.”

  “The presale system was something completely new,” Masao continued his explanation with a proud look. “In the past when you wanted to buy a house, you had to wait until the construction was completed before you made the purchase. The construction companies had to first buy a plot of land and the building materials, which in turn meant they needed a tremendous sum of cash before they could do anything. Now with the presale system, the houses are available for purchase even before the construction begins, and that is like taking the money from the home buyers to build their houses.”

  The man took a sip of his drink. “So what’s the advantage of the system?” he asked.

  “Yes, what is it?” the girl wanted to know.

  “First of all, it reduces the buyer’s financial burden. In the past you needed to save up all the money before you could buy a house. Now it takes about a year and a half to finish a new development and your payment is pegged to the construction schedule. The monthly payment is five or ten thousand, which is affordable for just about everyone. And the construction company doesn’t need to put all its money into one site; instead, it can begin work on several sites at the same time. All this improves people’s buying power and stimulates the economy.”

  Obviously wanting to ingratiate herself with Lin, the girl who asked the question was the only one who showed any interest in what the tall man was saying. It was very late, and all the other languid people around the table were too exhausted to pay attention, creating a lull in the conversation. Finally her uncle asked hoarsely:

  “How come everyone credits Zhang Qidong for inventing the system?”

  “That’s because Chairman Lin did not want to take the credit,” Masao said spiritedly. “After the partners at Taipei Construction split up, Zhang Qidong was left without money, and the presale system was his only capital. When Taiwan left the United Nations and all those who could manage moved away, Chairman Lin had the foresight to buy up land, which served as the foundation of his future success.”

  It was a night like so many others, and a long one at that. Everything proceeded as dictated by convention: a banquet, then visits to drinking establishments, followed by taking the girls out for “business.” Since no one wanted to do that on an empty stomach, the custom of midnight snacking was formed. After the snacks, the men could go their separate ways, with their own girls.

  Now that the eating was finished, everyone was waiting for the moment to do “business.” Hence the lackluster conversation eventually lapsed into silence, which raised an alarm in Yinghong. She did not want everyone to leave too early, hoping they would stay a bit longer so she would have enough time to get reacquainted with Lin. But someone must have said “Let’s go,” because everyone at the table began to gather their things, while covering their mouths to stifle a yawn or stretch lazily.

  She had to stand up with everyone else. Her uncle was saying something to Lin, who then walked up and said without looking at her:

  “I invited you, so I should take you home.”

  In the drizzly late night, his Rolls Royce was an unwieldy mass of cold whiteness. As usual, he opened the door and slid in, followed by Yinghong, who struggled to close the heavy door, prompting him to lean over and shut it for her. But he immediately sat back and moved away from her.

  She never realized that the back seat of a Rolls Royce could be so spacious. Even with her long skirt spread across the seat, there was still plenty of space between them.

  This marked the first time she’d been unhappy with a spacious car. If they had been an ordinary couple, they’d have taken a local taxi, which would have forced him to sit close enough to touch the hem of her skirt, no matter how much he wanted to keep space between them.

  He talked casually about how good business was, as if that was all he wanted to say to her. Gazing out at the passing scenery, he occasionally glanced at her, but quickly looked away. She responded in a calm voice that revealed nothing. The car soon arrived at her house; she didn’t tell the driver to stop, wishing she lived farther away, like Tianmu or, better yet, Tamsui.

  He was the one who noticed that the car had passed her place, and told the driver to turn around. Upset that he would not take the opportunity to stay awhile, she bid him a cold farewell and got out.

  To his credit, he got out and waited until she had opened the gate and crossed the yard to reach the door. He was closing the gate for her when, separated by the overgrown wildness of the yard, he blurted out:

  “There have been lots of ghosts recently, wandering, lonely ghos
ts.”

  Frightened by the sudden announcement, she instinctively moved closer to him, but the yard was so big, with dark-green, gloomy weeds, almost like an abyss on a dark, rainy night. A breeze brushed the tips of the grass, emitting a rustling noise that sounded like a strange object drifting by. She had goose bumps and felt a tingling on her spine.

  “Isn’t this the lunar seventh month?” he said.

  She was well aware how he often had such flights of fancy; he was a fount of new ideas, a new zoning system for land use, or new sales techniques. At that moment he was standing in the gateway and must have been reminded that she was afraid of ghosts, which led to him to recall that it was the seventh lunar month, the ghost month.

  When he finally said good night and left, I turned to shut the door behind me. I couldn’t help wondering if he had been trying to frighten me so I would move closer to him. With the pride of a typical Taiwanese man, he would never try to make up with me after initiating the breakup.

  As a woman, I could have taken advantage of that opportunity to lean on him; by showing how timid and frightened I was, I could erase the distance that had kept us apart all night. I wasn’t totally inexperienced in regard to men and women, and I knew that with this contact, something that could not be accomplished by words might be started anew.

  Besides, I wasn’t entirely unafraid. His mention of ghosts had frightened me, and I’d felt like rushing into his arms. For all intents and purposes, that would have looked perfectly legitimate, and I wouldn’t have appeared to be using feminine frailty as an excuse.

  But I didn’t do that.

  My upbringing had taught me that girls should not display their emotions; I was told to pretend to be unfazed by events. So even at a moment like that, I deftly suppressed all my urges and desire, which gave rise to self-loathing.