The Far Side of the Night

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “Thank you. Do you have any dirty laundry?” What a stupid question, she thought. Everything he was wearing was dirty, covered in stains, and full of holes.

  He shook his head.

  She went to her room and picked up two of David’s sweatshirts and vests.

  “Come, give me your T-shirt,” she said to Da Lin. He hesitated for only a moment, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and gave it to her. The sight of his bare torso shocked her. Every single rib was visible; the skin stretched over his collar bones and his shoulders.

  Christine put his T-shirt in the basin. The water turned black in a matter of seconds. David laughed. Da Lin looked uncomfortable, so she quickly added her son’s clothes to the basin.

  “You can help me,” she said to the boys. “I’ll wash the clothes. Da Lin can wring them out, and David can drape them over the bench. OK?”

  Both of them nodded.

  They started washing together, and because they were having fun, David fetched more of his clothes. When everything had been washed, Da Lin brought one T-shirt after another and one pair of trousers after another. Christine had to change the water twice. By the end, the bench, the fountain, and the drying rack they had cobbled together were all draped full with laundry.

  _________

  Christine and David were sitting on the step in front of the house. Paul joined them. Da Lin disappeared into the shed and returned with two bricks and a plank. He made a little seesaw and gestured to David to play with him. But their weights were too unequal and the plank did not move. Da Lin moved towards the center a little, then a little more, and the plank finally sank on one side. The sudden movement startled David. He got off the seesaw and ran back to his parents.

  Da Lin took the bricks and the plank back to the shed and walked out of the courtyard without waving goodbye.

  “Where’s he going?” David wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” Christine said.

  “I want to go out too.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not possible.”

  “Why not?” David repeated his question.

  “I said so already. Because it’s not possible.”

  “But why not?” David insisted.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Unlike Paul, Christine found these constant confrontations with her son difficult. Paul liked these conversations. He was convinced that it was never too early to teach a child how to have a discussion. She thought that a four-year-old didn’t need to have everything explained to him. He should obey without talking back constantly. And that was that.

  “Wh –”

  “Because I say so,” she interrupted him. “And that’s enough.”

  David climbed off her lap in a rage, sat down on the step and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not enough at all.”

  Paul was about to join in when Da Lin walked through the gate. He was pushing a small bicycle. It was a narrow bicycle frame made out of old pipes, with a saddle and wooden wheels, and a rusty chain, all held together with wires.

  David looked at it with intense curiosity.

  “Thank you very much,” Christine said. “That’s very kind of you, but David can’t ride a bicycle.”

  Da Lin nodded encouragingly anyway.

  “David doesn’t know how to ride a bike,” she repeated. “He has to learn first.”

  “I can teach him,” Da Lin said.

  Christine was happy to hear his voice. “That’s really kind of you, but –”

  “Yes, please,” David said. “Please, please, please.”

  She thought for a moment and finally nodded. “Try it, but be careful.”

  Da Lin held the bicycle firmly with one hand and helped David onto the saddle with the other. He told him how to steer, how to push the pedals, and how to brake. Then he stood behind the bicycle, gripped the luggage rack, and pushed.

  The bicycle was very wobbly. David cycled in a crazy zigzag across the courtyard, but after a few meters the look of fear in his face gave way to one of pride. They cycled round and round the fountain. David grew more and more confident with each round and he was laughing as she had not heard him laugh for a long time.

  XV

  Luo crouched next to the laundry drying on the bench and sharpened a saw. It was tedious work. The whetstone was worn out and the saw-blade was old and rusty. He slid the metal over the whetstone several times and tested the sharpness of the edge. It remained as blunt as before. Perhaps it was because his heart wasn’t in it. Instead of concentrating on his task, Luo was watching his grandson. Da Lin was talking to strangers. He had had a second helping at lunch! He was playing with a child. Like a child. Luo wondered how the woman had managed to get through the wall. Was the presence of a woman enough? Maybe he underestimated how much Da Lin missed his mother. But what was he to do? He could not force Yin Yin to visit them at least once a year. He could only try to lessen the pain that life had doled out to his grandchild. Their guests had no idea what a miracle they were working. He hoped they would stay a little longer.

  _________

  “You dirty little scumbag.”

  Deng, the neighbor, was standing at the gate with his fists on his hips. Deng of all people, Luo thought. They had never been able to stand each other. Deng had been the Party Secretary of the village until a few months previously, and had often harassed him. Luo had often had to practice self-criticism because of him.

  He was a tall man with thick white hair and a deep, impressive voice. Since Zhong Hua’s death, neither he nor any of their other neighbors had entered their courtyard. The neighbors also avoided Luo and Da Lin in the village, as though the old man and his grandson had an infectious disease.

  What did he want from them now?

  Da Lin stopped immediately and let go of the bicycle, frozen in shock. David continued cycling for a little bit, lost his balance, fell over, and started crying. Paul jumped up, gathered his son in his arms and comforted him.

  “This filthy rat stole our bike,” Deng shouted, pointing at Da Lin.

  Da Lin lowered his head in acknowledgment of his guilt and stared at the ground.

  “Is that true?” Luo said in a stern voice.

  A tentative shake of the head in reply.

  “And now the brat is lying as well!” Deng took a couple of steps towards Da Lin and lifted his arm as though he was about to hit him, but changed his mind and looked suspiciously around the courtyard instead.

  “You have guests,” he said, surprised.

  “My wife’s relations,” Luo said.

  “A foreigner?” the neighbor asked in a mocking tone. He might as well have said: you don’t even believe what you’re saying yourself.

  “One of my wife’s sisters lives in Hong Kong. This is her daughter.”

  Christine nodded shyly.

  “That’s her son,” Luo said, pointing at David. “And this is her husband.”

  Paul also nodded in greeting.

  “I never knew that your wife had family in Hong Kong,” Deng said, smirking.

  Luo couldn’t think of anything to say in reply.

  “She never spoke about them.”

  Luo was still lost for words. The situation was growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.

  “Do you like it here in our nice village?” Deng asked, staring boldly at Christine.

  She looked over to Paul for help.

  “My wife doesn’t speak Mandarin very well,” he said.

  “But you certainly do,” Deng said, growing more suspicious. “Where are you from?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  Luo fidgeted. Why did Paul have to provoke the uninvited visitor? The quicker he left the better it would be for everyone.

  “I’ve just heard that,” Deng replied, his voice growing sharper. “I wanted to know which country you’re from.”

  “Does that matter?”

  This argument must not esca
late. Luo intervened. “They’re not staying long,” he said.

  “How long?” Deng wanted to know.

  “Just a few days. They’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Foreigners don’t often make their way to these parts,” Deng said pointedly, looking at Paul.

  “That’s a shame,” Paul said calmly. “It’s very nice here and the neighbors are so friendly.”

  That was the wrong tone to take. Irony did not go down well with Deng. Luo had often seen how, as Party Secretary, he had put down and humiliated supposed enemies of the Party in the most abhorrent way at public tribunals. Nearly every one of his victims had broken down in tears; one young woman had even killed herself by swallowing weed killer one night two years ago.

  “Da Lin, apologize and give him the bicycle back.”

  The boy stood in the middle of the courtyard as if paralyzed.

  “Da Lin!” Luo shouted. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  He still did not move.

  To appease Deng, Luo had to punish his grandson for his misdeed, preferably in front of the neighbor. He walked over to Da Lin, raised his arm and struck him soundly on the cheek. “Apologize! Now.” He slapped him again. Blood trickled from Da Lin’s nose. But he remained completely silent.

  Paul lifted the bicycle and held it out to Deng. “Thank you for letting my son use it. It was really very generous of you.”

  Deng’s lower lip trembled with rage; he was on the verge of losing control of himself. He tore the bicycle from Paul’s hands and left the courtyard without another word.

  Luo turned on Paul. “What kind of fool are you? Provoking my neighbor like that. Do you want to get us all into prison?”

  Paul was too startled to reply.

  “You idiot,” Luo hissed at his grandson. “Why did you steal Deng’s bicycle?”

  Da Lin lifted his head. Blood was still dripping from his nose. “I didn’t steal it. I just wanted to borrow it,” he whispered. “I would have taken it back later.”

  “Borrow it?” Luo exclaimed. “Then you ought to have asked first and not simply taken it.”

  Da Lin wanted to say something, but kept silent instead.

  Luo was beside himself with anger.

  “He was only trying to do something nice for us,” Christine said in a conciliatory tone.

  The woman had clearly understood nothing. “Then the idiot should have thought about it first. How long do you think it will take Deng to tell the police about what he’s found here? Will he do it today or only tomorrow morning? And how long after that until the police are standing here in this courtyard? What do you think? An hour? Two? How much longer are you safe here?”

  The woman said nothing so Luo answered his own question. “Not at all. You are no longer safe here. You must leave. Where are you meant to go next?”

  The woman and her husband looked at him helplessly as though he ought to know where they should go to next.

  “We don’t know,” Paul said in a low voice.

  “What do you mean? How long did you think you could stay with us? For weeks? Months? The letter said a few days.”

  “We’re . . . we’re . . . we’re waiting for a message to arrive any day.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “Telling us where to go to next. Who the next person to help us will be.”

  Luo turned away, hobbled a few steps across the courtyard and out of the gate. He needed a few minutes alone to calm himself down. His foot had grown more painful than in previous days; it was more swollen and was hot to the touch. He sat down on a sawn-off tree stump, lit a cigarette, looked at the dusty fields – much too dry for this time of year – before him and composed his thoughts.

  This family was in a more desperate situation than he had previously thought. He was no longer in a position to offer them security but he had no idea who else could help them. No one in the village. The police would be turning up here in the next few hours; of that he had no doubt. He could only hope that they would believe his story about relatives visiting from Hong Kong long enough until the next refuge was found.

  He felt sorry for the family. He had started to like the three of them, especially the man. He did not talk much and, when he asked questions, he did not expect a long reply. Luo heard someone coming, and turned around. Paul was standing in front of him.

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” Paul said awkwardly. “May I sit with you for a moment?”

  The tree stump was big enough for two.

  “I behaved very stupidly earlier. I’m sorry about that.”

  Luo did not like apologies. They made him feel uncomfortable. Apologies did not diminish his anger in any way. But he had calmed down now, and all that was on his mind was how to bring these strangers to safety. But he could not think of anything.

  “You really have no idea where to go from here?”

  “No. I can try to ask my friend. He told me only to contact him in the most dire emergency.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  Paul got every second letter of his text message wrong. When he had finished, he showed the short message to Luo:

  we have to leave. where to? urgent!

  He pressed ‘send’ and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “I’d like to ask you something.”

  Luo could tell from his voice that he felt uncomfortable about the question.

  “You know who murdered your son, don’t you?”

  The right question. The wrong time.

  Everyone knew who had murdered Zhong Hua. Beaten him to death with wooden clubs and iron bars. Like a dog. Ten against one.

  And the whole village had watched.

  Like before.

  The soul of a people did not change so quickly.

  If it did at all.

  Beaten to death for a few square meters of land. As though there was not enough of it. But there was nothing more precious than a human life. Why was this most irreplaceable of all gifts worth so little? Why was it given no respect, trampled on and thrown away?

  Because we have enough of them, a cynical policeman had told him in reply to this question.

  But I only had one Zhong Hua, he had retorted.

  His son had not believed that they would go so far. That had been his mistake, and Luo himself had strengthened his son’s mistaken conviction.

  They had acquired the land and the small building on it legally. Zhong Hua, who had liked helping in the kitchen even as a child, wanted to open a noodle restaurant. He set to it with a single-minded passion, getting up before dawn and working into the night. Preparing hand-made noodles that attracted queues after a few weeks. Soon people were coming from the entire district for his soup and his dumplings.

  Zhong Hua, a shy man of few words, flourished among his woks, pots, and pans in a way his father would never have thought possible.

  He had brushed aside the first announcement that all the buildings in the street would have to make way for a new settlement. The amount offered by Golden Real Estate sounded more like a charity handout than serious compensation. Zhong Hua did not budge even when the first of his neighbors had sold their properties for a slightly improved offer.

  His restaurant was worth a great deal, and he had all the papers and stamps, all the documents and certifications. He was convinced the law was on his side.

  How foolish. How simple-minded.

  As though the law had ever been on any side other than that of those in power. As though that would ever change.

  Why did Zhong Hua have to die?

  Why does a person kill another?

  His visitor was waiting patiently for an answer. He would wait in vain.

  Just like me, Luo thought.

  Just like us all.

  XVI

  Christine crawled carefully out of the bed. On no account must she wake Paul or David. She opened the door carefully. Da Lin and his grandfather were also sound asleep. Only the dog lying in front of their bed lifted its
head once. She crept past them into the living room and into the kitchen. The stillness of the house at night made her nervous. But she had had an idea, and she had to know if it was possible to make it happen. It would reassure her.

  It did not take her long to find what she was looking for. Christine laid out half a dozen knives on the table before her. The handles were worn and most of the blades were blunt and rusty. But two of them were long and sharp. That was important.

  Did she have the courage? To end three lives? To stab into the darkness. Once. Twice. And many times more, if necessary.

  First the large and heavy body.

  Then the small, light one.

  Then her own.

  It would have to be quick. She must not think while doing it. She would have to be out of her mind. In a frenzy.

  Or cold as death. Not feel anything. Make the movements mechanically, as if she were a machine. She could not think of a better way to kill herself, her husband, and her son.

  She had immediately discarded the idea of using a pillow. Paul would wake up and defend himself. And even if she secretly slipped one of the sleeping pills that Zhang had given her in Shi into his tea, it would take too long. She did not have the strength to hold a pillow down on a face for several minutes. She imagined how David’s body would writhe beneath her as he was suffocating, and knew that it was impossible.

  Yesterday she had found a packet of weed killer in the shed. In Hong Kong she had read a newspaper article about the increasing number of farmers who were taking their own lives this way.

  It was meant to be highly effective, but a miserably painful death. Some of those who killed themselves this way suffered for hours before they finally died.

  Christine ran her fingertips over the tip of the knife. All it would take would be a little pressure and the metal would pierce the skin and bury itself deep in the body. If she got it right, once would be enough.

  She would not allow anyone to take their child away from them.

  XVII

  They were in luck. Even though Zhang did not reply to the text message and Luo could not think of anywhere safer for them to go, two days after the neighbor had come, the police had still not appeared. Luo now believed that Deng had not reported his meeting with them to the police at all.