The Far Side of the Night

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  Luo put the envelope away, disappointed. How stupid, he thought. How unoriginal. Everything was about money these days. As though there was no other currency left in the world. As though every human impulse, every helpful deed and every betrayal, indeed, every action, had its price tag and could be bought.

  He was helping these strangers because Xu had asked him to. That was enough. He would hide anyone who was on the run from Chen, the authorities, or the government. They were not safe with him for very long in any case. Since Zhong Hua’s death the police had been watching him. They dropped by regularly or summoned him to the station to ask him what he and Da Lin planned to do. He asked them every time exactly what they expected from him and his grandson.

  Did they think that he would go to the press, who would never be able to write about them anyway? That he would go on hunger strike until his son’s murderers were arrested? That he would stand in front of the police station or the headquarters of Golden Real Estate, pour petrol over himself, and set himself alight, like a woman from a nearby village had done a few weeks ago? It would be pointless because it wouldn’t change anything.

  Once, a few weeks after his son had been murdered, he had travelled alone to the district capital. He had wrapped around himself a white sheet on which he had written details of what had happened, of who was responsible for the murder of his son. All the names. He had limped up and down in front of the Party headquarters. A few passers-by had stopped and read the writing on the sheet but most people had walked past paying no heed or had crossed to the other side of the street, hurrying on fearfully. After fifteen minutes they had arrested him, brought him back to the village and threated to take Da Lin away to a children’s home if he did it again.

  He could never let them put Da Lin in a home. As long as the boy needed his care, Luo could do nothing.

  But the regular interrogations did not bother Luo. Quite the opposite. He enjoyed the time that he spent with the police. That showed him how frightened the officials were, that they feared even a silent twelve-year-old who was in the process of starving himself to death, and a limping old farmer whose days were numbered because his leg was rotting. That they did not feel safe in their high-security mansions.

  The thought pleased him.

  IV

  Paul started awake. He had woken often in the night, drenched in sweat, not knowing where he was at first. This time, he still felt disoriented. Why was he sleeping in such a narrow bed? Why was it so quiet? He listened and heard David breathing next to him. He stretched out to reach for his son in the darkness and felt his hair and Christine’s arm.

  Awareness returned to him and with it came the fear.

  Were they safe with the old farmer? What would the police do with them if they found them? Paul could no longer stand the darkness so he got up.

  Christine groaned slightly in her sleep. He felt like curling up close to her but did not want to wake her. He felt his way to the chair, got his things, and searched for the door.

  Dawn was breaking outside the house. It was still cool.

  Luo was up already, standing next to the well, doing his exercises. He bent his knee, stretched his upper body, raised his arms in the air and lifted one foot after the other, rotating each one. Paul could see the pain in the old man’s face when he made certain movements. When he was finished, he limped over to the bench, where a thermos flask and a cup of green tea was waiting, and sat down.

  Paul was not sure if he should join him.

  “Get a cup from the kitchen. There is tea here,” Luo muttered without looking at him.

  Paul fetched a cup and Luo poured tea for him, saying nothing. He was breathing heavily. The exercises had clearly been more of a strain than they had appeared. They looked across the courtyard in silence. The rising sun cast long shadows over it and bathed the shed in a warm red light.

  “I want to thank you again for helping us. It’s very generous of you.”

  The old man nodded.

  “We won’t stay long.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Paul tried to remain silent too but could not manage it. He felt more and more awkward. “What do you know about us?” he asked, merely to say something.

  Luo sipped his tea. “No more than I need to: that you need help.”

  “That’s enough for you?”

  “Yes.” He lit a cigarette and passed the packet to Paul.

  “Thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  He put the packet back in his jacket without saying anything. He was clearly not interested in conversation.

  Paul looked around the courtyard. He saw a homemade table-tennis table and a kind of billiard table, small and octagonal, that he had not noticed yesterday. There were a few balls and a cue on it.

  “Do you play billiards?”

  “Da Lin.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” Luo drew at his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “You’re not really safe with us,” he said unprompted.

  Paul started. “Why not?”

  “The police come by now and then.”

  “The police?” Paul echoed, not sure whether he had understood the old man’s thick accent correctly. “What do they want from you?”

  The old man replied only after a long pause. “I ask myself that too.”

  “What do you mean by now and then?”

  “Once a week or sometimes only every fortnight. They seldom stay long.”

  Paul shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “Maybe we should move on,” he said, more to himself than anything.

  “Where to? What is your next destination?”

  “I don’t know that yet,” he replied quietly.

  Luo thought for a moment. “If the police see you here, I’ll say that you are related to my late wife. That will make them suspicious of course. You are a Westerner. But it will take them at least one or two days to come again and ask more questions.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t tell my wife about this. She’s worried enough as it is.”

  Luo nodded.

  The day had barely begun but Paul already felt as tired as he had been the night before. Even in his exhausted state, he felt gratitude towards this stranger, but did not know how to express it.

  “Do you need help?” he asked without thinking.

  “Me?” Luo turned his head and looked at him. A brief, mocking smile flitted across his face.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I don’t know when the last time someone offered to help me was. Why should you want to help me?”

  “No idea,” Paul said awkwardly. “I thought perhaps we could help you a little while we’re with you.” He could hear how clumsy he sounded. “Does Da Lin learn English in school? We could . . .”

  Luo interrupted. “He doesn’t talk.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot that.”

  “Have you any painkillers with you?” the old man asked, abruptly.

  “A few aspirin, I think.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A painkiller.”

  “Can you give me some?” He pointed at his leg. The left foot was wrapped in a thick, dirty bandage.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I stepped into an animal trap in the woods. It won’t heal properly.”

  “Have you been to the hospital?”

  Luo shook his head. “Is this your first time in China?”

  “Have you been to the doctor?” Paul asked, undeterred.

  “There is no doctor here. And even if there were, I wouldn’t have the money to pay one. I treat myself. But the pain is too great. My ointments don’t work any longer.”

  With a swift movement, he put his cigarette out, shook the ash off and put the stub back in the packet. “You can mend the roof for me later if you want to make yourself useful. It’s been leaking in the kitchen, in Da Lin’s room and in my room for a long time. I can’t get up the ladder any longer. Da Lin can’t help with such things.”

  V

 
; “Where is Papa?”

  The same question every morning. Whether he woke next to only her because Paul was already up and about in the house or he called for them from his room and she was the one who came.

  Where is Papa?

  Not that it bothered her. Quite the opposite. She was glad that David was so close to his father and wanted to be near him.

  But it hurt her to see how Paul sometimes reacted to it. His hesitation. His indifference.

  In those moments she feared for her son. His father was a difficult person. Loving him did not come without risks. She had a choice. She could protect herself. She hoped. David could not.

  Loving always comes with a great risk, Paul had said to her once when she had spoken to him about it. Love can be unreciprocated. People can be disappointed. Betrayed. Abandoned.

  Yes, Paul, that’s right, she had said. But that doesn’t apply to children. Loving shouldn’t hold any risks for them. He had looked at her and not said anything. He had understood. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Where is Papa?” David repeated his question. His voice sounded fearful, not curious.

  “Outside. He’s up already.” Christine raised herself a little and realized how unwell she felt. She was hungry and her whole body ached, especially her head. A piercing pain that tugged at her from her neck to her forehead and her eyes. She leaned forward and reached out for her son. Something rustled somewhere in the room. Christine drew a sharp intake of breath.

  “What was that?” David wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. Most probably a mouse.”

  “Why is it so dark? I can’t see anything.”

  Paul had closed the door. Not the slightest ray of light entered the room. “Wait. Let me turn the light on.”

  She tried to get up but David held on tight to her. “Don’t go. I’m frightened.”

  “How am I supposed to turn the light on?”

  She took him into her arms and he clung to her body. She got up, lost her balance, and fell back onto the bed. She tried again, carefully, feeling her way through the darkness. A sharp pain shot through her foot. She had stepped on something sharp.

  “Mama?”

  “Everything’s fine, my darling.”

  It was so dark that for a moment she thought she might start panicking. Her feet got caught in a piece of clothing and she stretched her arm out in order not to walk into a wall. Where was the door?

  “Paul?” Why had he left them in this miserable hole? He should have waited until they were awake too or he should have woken them. How could he have been so inconsiderate?

  “Paul,” she shouted angrily. “Paul!”

  Suddenly the door opened. She nearly lost her balance again from the shock. She saw the silhouette of a child in the light pouring in.

  “Thank you,” she said, relieved.

  Da Lin switched on the light. He watched the two strangers in his room with an expression that Christine could not read.

  “Do you know where my husband is?”

  Instead of replying, he stepped into the room and starting gathering his things from the floor.

  _________

  The bright sunlight in the courtyard made her headache even worse. Paul and the old man were sitting in front of the house drinking tea.

  David slid from her arms and scrambled onto his father’s lap.

  Christine felt faint. She urgently needed something to eat and drink.

  “Are you hungry?” Luo asked when he saw her.

  She nodded. “And some tea or water would be very good.”

  A few minutes later they were seated at the table in silence eating dan dan noodles. She would have liked to have had some rice or soup but had not dared to ask. The noodles were even more spicy than they had been the previous evening, even though Christine had asked for them to be less spicy. David had been given a portion without sauce. He plunged his chopsticks into the noodles and moved them around, but did not eat.

  Da Lin devoured his noodles quickly and watched David all the time.

  Christine admonished her son to eat at least a couple of bites.

  “I’m not hungry,” he whispered back.

  “Now then,” she said sternly.

  “No.”

  “Just a little.”

  He shook his head and pressed his lips together.

  “Your child has a fever,” Luo said with his mouth full.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I can see it.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “I used to be.”

  “You?” It had slipped out of her. It shouldn’t have sounded so derogatory.

  Luo had either not noticed her incredulous tone or was not interested in her doubts in his ability. She pressed her lips to David’s forehead. It was hot.

  “A barefoot doctor, if that means anything to you.” He slurped up the rest of his noodle sauce.

  He pulled his chair up to her, inspected David’s tongue, felt his pulse with some concentration and felt his throat and feet.

  “If you like I’ll make him some tea, then he’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “What does he have?”

  “A fever.”

  “You said that already. But why? He doesn’t have a cold.”

  Luo sighed. “Tea or no tea?” He clearly had no desire to elaborate on his diagnosis.

  Paul chimed in. “Tea would be very kind, thank you.”

  Luo got up and limped to the kitchen. Christine followed him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He put some water on to boil, cut a few slices of a moist brown root and fetched a handful of leaves, dried berries, and fungus from various cans, adding everything to the water.

  “You don’t believe in Chinese medicine.”

  “I do,” Christine said. “I have a Chinese doctor in Hong Kong.”

  “Why are you so suspicious, then?”

  “I’m not. Just curious.”

  Luo shook his head and rummaged around on the shelf for another can. “Shall I give you something for your headache?”

  “How do you know that I—”

  He pointed at a stool. “Sit down.”

  Christine sat down gingerly on a rickety three-legged stool. He stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and pressed down firmly with both thumbs.

  “Ouch!” she cried. “Not so hard.”

  Luo ignored her protest, took hold of her arms and pulled them back behind her head until there was a cracking sound. He massaged her neck and the back of her head. His skin was rough and his grip was firm, but it did not take long before she felt her shoulders slowly relaxing. She closed her eyes. A leaden heaviness overcame her and for a moment she feared she might fall off the stool from sheer exhaustion. Luo took a small tin out of a container and rubbed her neck and her shoulders with some pungent ointment that made her nose tingle.

  “Your skin will feel warm in a moment.”

  A few seconds later, she felt as if she had a bad sunburn.

  “That hurts.”

  “It will get better soon.”

  But it got worse instead. “When?”

  He did not reply but simply put the containers back on the shelf.

  Her shoulders were burning up. She was on the verge of grabbing one of the dirty teatowels and wiping the ointment off.

  Paul came to the rescue. He suddenly appeared behind her, took her head in his hands and massaged her temples. Gradually, the burning pain eased.

  _________

  The tea was dark brown, almost black, and it smelled of damp, rotting earth. David looked at it suspiciously, sipped it and turned away, repulsed. Christine tried a sip, and nearly spat it out immediately. It was much more bitter than the concoctions that the Chinese doctor in Hong Kong had brewed for her from time to time.

  “Do you have some sugar, perhaps?”

  Luo looked at her as though that was the first time he had heard the word.

  “Or a little honey?”

  No reply. In his
eyes she thought she could see what he thought of her: weak, spoiled, decadent Hong Kong Chinese.

  “No,” he finally said brusquely. “It’s not Coke. But it will help.”

  She offered the cup to David again but he put both hands over his mouth.

  “Come on. It doesn’t taste that bad.”

  A vigorous shake of the head was the reply.

  “Two mouthfuls. Then you’ll soon feel better. I promise.”

  David buried his head in her chest.

  “Paul,” she said, annoyed, “can you please –” She stood up and placed David on his father’s lap. Christine heard a giggle and she turned round. Da Lin was standing behind her. He had followed them into the courtyard, back into the house, into the kitchen and back into the dining room, and watched them the entire time. Now he seemed to be laughing at David.

  “What are you looking at?” she snapped at him.

  Startled, Da Lin took a step backwards. For a moment she had the feeling that he wanted to say something in response. Before she could apologize, he had turned away and run out of the house.

  VI

  Da Lin sat on the dusty ground with his legs outstretched and his back leaning against the well, waiting. It was all a matter of patience, Grandpa had told him. He had been right. Patience and concentration.

  The rat had disappeared into a hole in the wall of the shed. It would emerge at some point. He had been watching it for days, and he knew that, for some reason, it had a liking for the oval-shaped gap between the piles of wood. Before it went back there, it would stick its head out, sniff the air and look around – he didn’t know what or how well it could see – and when it felt that it was not in danger, it would dart across the courtyard in a couple of seconds. That was his chance.

  Everything would have to happen quickly when it appeared.

  Raise the catapult.

  Pull.

  Aim.

  Let go.

  One shot. That was all he had.

  He noticed the woman, her husband, and the child watching him. He considered abandoning the hunt for a moment; he did not want any onlookers. Then he decided to simply ignore them. The most important thing was not to be distracted by them. If his thoughts wandered off elsewhere, to Papa, for example, or to Mama, then the stone would miss its target or only hit the tail or the back and the rat would merely squeal in pain and keep running. He had experienced that often enough. There was only one spot to hit in order to kill. The head – and it was small.