Frontier

by Can Xue

  Before she left, the manager sought her out for a talk.

  “Little Leaf, what do you think of your dad?”

  “He’s the clown in our family, but he’s also very determined. When I was a child, he kept up the act in front of us, but he felt pain on the inside.”

  “Was he the reason that you left home and settled down on the riverside?”

  “I guess.”

  She thought she would stay at home no more than a day and then return.

  When she was still about a mile from the apartment, she ran into her dad. He was idling away his time sitting under the policeman’s umbrella on the highway. His gaze was uncertain, and his forehead more wrinkled. For a moment, Little Leaf couldn’t make up her mind whether to call out to him.

  “Oh, here’s my Little Leaf,” old Sherman said as he looked up and saw his daughter.

  “Dad—oh, Dad!”

  “I’m fine. Let’s go home.”

  Little Leaf sensed that her dad was ashamed of something: he acted as if he felt inferior. No matter what she asked about the family, he simply looked embarrassed. As they walked together, he seemed to avoid being too close to her and purposely lagged behind. She had to twist around to talk with him; this made her uncomfortable.

  When they were almost home, they passed by many people running along the road. One man dropped his briefcase, and Sherman picked it up and handed it to him. Little Leaf asked her dad why these people were running. He said they felt on edge. He went on to say that nowadays, people were becoming more and more nervous. As he said this, he stopped walking and crouched amid the wildflowers at the roadside. Immersed in memories, he scrutinized a small red flower. Little Leaf crouched, too, and all at once she remembered a scene from the past. She had just learned to walk, and Dad had set her down amid weeds and wildflowers. The weeds were as tall as she was: she had to trample them in order to walk, and she couldn’t see the path ahead of her. She had cried.

  “I’m feeling nervous, too,” she said.

  “Good. My Little Leaf has grown up.”

  As father and daughter crouched amid the flowers, their hearts were very close.

  “Your mama is doing volunteer work in the garden.”

  “The garden in midair?”

  “Hey, good for you, you guessed right the first time. Look, here’s the thorn rose.”

  Little Leaf remembered there were roses on the riverside, too—bigger ones, and prettier.

  When they pushed open the door at home, Little Leaf was shocked. On the table was a frame with a picture of an old man. The frame was edged in black silk. Sherman told Little Leaf that this was Grandfather: he had died the day before yesterday.

  “I have a grandfather?” Little Leaf said.

  “Of course you do. Otherwise, where would I have come from?”

  Little Leaf was convinced, mostly because she was fascinated by the way he spoke. She walked to the window and gazed out at the contours of the snow mountain. She began imagining what her grandfather’s family was like. She had known she had a grandfather and grandmother, but they had never appeared even once in her life, and so she had never taken their existence seriously. In the midst of her parents’ arguments, she had often thought she had no relatives. Truly, her dad had walked out of the orphanage on the snow mountain and come to this small city, where he had built this dilapidated home for himself. Grandfather’s home must have been a wooden house in the forest—the sort of house without electric lights and without running water. Had her grandfather been a ranger or a lumberman? A bird flew into Little Leaf’s face and then fell to the floor. Ah, it was a green long-life bird; it seemed to be injured!

  The two of them squatted down and looked at the bird. The bird looked at them, too: it wasn’t at all afraid.

  “Where is it hurt?” Little Leaf asked.

  “In its heart.”

  Sherman found a large cardboard box and put the bird in it. He pushed the box to a dark spot under the bed and said, “What it needs now is time.”

  Little Leaf contemplated her dad. He had changed greatly. He had shaved his head and was wearing a gown that was neither gray nor blue. He wasn’t at all like an office worker. And his gaze was bright and wild, as though he were burning inside. Little Leaf was a little afraid of the changes she saw in him. To distract herself, she went into the kitchen and cooked. She took out vegetables and scooped out rice. Next, she was going to clean the sink. What she saw in the sink stunned her—a large crab was lying there. It moved a little, then lay still.

  Sherman came over, patted her on the back, and said, “It needs time now, too. You don’t have to cook. We’ll go over to Uncle Feiyuan’s for dinner.”

  Feiyuan’s shop was deserted. Feiyuan was playing chess alone.

  “Sherman, Sherman, they’ve all gone. I’m discouraged. I want my eldest son to take over this shop. As for me, I’ll go away and see the world.”

  They ate a simple meal of salad noodles, beer, and peanuts. Feiyuan asked Little Leaf if she had seen an old woman wearing a large navigation watch. Little Leaf said she had.

  “She cheated us.”

  Feiyuan was ashen-faced, and his hand trembled constantly as he held his chopsticks. He put down his chopsticks, stood up, and started pacing back and forth between the tables. Little Leaf guessed that something was wrong, and she kept staring at him. Sherman seemed apathetic, perhaps because he was so accustomed to Feiyuan’s situation. He looked out the window. Little Leaf followed her dad’s line of sight and saw two people standing outside and spying on the shop. She was amazed. Her dad was talking softly. His voice didn’t sound real: “This is a convalescence center, or you could call it a transfer center. Uncle Feiyuan can’t accept this fact.”

  Little Leaf thought Uncle Feiyuan must have been depressed because he couldn’t keep certain things. When she had come to this shop in the past, it was always crowded with customers and Uncle Feiyuan was always in a good mood. But now everything had changed.

  A great noise came from the kitchen: Feiyuan said it was rats. He went on to say that he deliberately ignored the rats. “It would be even more deserted here without them.” Feiyuan asked Little Leaf if she had seen tramp steamers sail in the river.

  “No. That isn’t very likely. It’s such a small river.”

  Feiyuan said it was possible: people just didn’t pay attention. Little Leaf looked over his shoulder and saw two people outside leaning against the window—standing on tiptoe and peering in. When Sherman saw them, he smiled a little and then burst out laughing. He said, “I said before that this is a convalescence center. Feiyuan, let me take over this shop.”

  “Okay,” Feiyuan answered mechanically.

  After dinner, Sherman and Little Leaf took their leave. Looking frantic and embarrassed, Feiyuan kept saying, “You aren’t going so soon are you, Little Leaf? I didn’t even give you a good meal. I’m sorry. I’m so down and out. All my life . . .” He slapped his forehead.

  Little Leaf noticed that the two people outside had left. Nobody was on the street, and it was exceptionally quiet. Little Leaf didn’t remember its ever having been like this in the past. In those days, hundreds of people had come here every day for the mutton kebabs. As he left, Sherman said, “The convalescence center is a black hole.” A blast of wind blew his gown up and he took two steps back. Little Leaf stood there and thought. She decided she would leave her dad right away. Sherman brushed the dust off his gown. He looked down at the ground and said to her, “It’s okay: either you stay with us or by yourself over there. It makes no difference. I’ll tell your mother you came to visit.”

  Marco reached the border. He had been here once before and still vaguely remembered it. There were no patrols along the border, but there was a very recessed village with about a dozen tumbledown adobe houses. A ditch glistened with sewage in front of their doors. A few children played in the water with bamboo poles. The other side of the border was a large desert. Marco had to go around the desert. It was nearly dark
, so he would have to spend the night in the village. When the children saw him, they called out, “Marco! Marco!” Marco was surprised because he hadn’t been here for two years and yet they remembered him! He surveyed the houses for a moment, chose a sort of presentable one, and knocked on the door. Though he knocked for a long time, no one answered. Then a child passing by told him, “There’s no one in this house.” The child pushed the door open. Marco went in and looked at the three rooms. The furniture was simple and crude, as it was in most farmhouses. Each room had a large earthen stove for warmth in the winter. Next to the stove was a small, narrow wooden bed—barely large enough for one person. There wasn’t much light.

  Marco was exhausted. He set down his bag, and without taking off his clothes, he lay on the bed and fell asleep. He didn’t know how long he had slept when he heard someone enter. The person struck three matches before managing to light the lamp and place it on the table, but he sat in a dark corner. Marco couldn’t see his face. Marco heard him say, “Someone can’t go home.”

  Marco sat up and said, “I’m sorry. I came in. I needed a place to stay. I’m on my way to Holland.”

  “Holland? Hey, that’s great! People here all want to go to Holland, but they can’t leave.”

  Arching his back, he walked around in the dark corner, as if looking for something. Marco wondered what he was looking for. He didn’t expect the man to enter the closet, burrow down in it, and close the door.

  Marco picked up the kerosene lamp and went into the kitchen. He saw some potatoes in the pot; probably that man had cooked them. As he ate potatoes, he reflected on his situation. He looked out the little window and saw several people walking with pine torches.

  All of a sudden, in the quiet of the night, Marco heard the roar of ocean waves, but the ocean was nowhere near. The desert was in this vicinity—he remembered that clearly. When he went outside, the roar of the waves was even more audible. How strange! He walked over toward the three people with torches. Seeing him, they stopped in their tracks.

  “Do you want to go out to sea? Then go around from the right side,” one of them said.

  “Can the ocean possibly be here? I never knew that. Yes, I do want to go out to sea.”

  He went back to the house and picked up his bag, and the three others also came with him. They called the landlord “Old Shao.” They said he was an old fox.

  “Last time when there was a tsunami, he also locked himself up in the closet and stuck his head out of a hole in the back of it. He floated to the shore. His closet is specially designed.”

  Marco asked, “Does old Shao sleep like this every day?”

  “Yes. He never wavers. He often says he doesn’t want to die for nothing.”

  When they left the house, they heard an upheaval coming from the house behind them. Marco heard them say that old Shao was struggling with snakes. Generally, he put two snakes in the closet with him—“in order to hang on to a kind of passion.” The older person said, “You must know that the ocean is temperamental.” Marco thought to himself, Are they sending me off to sea? They walked to the right for a while, and the sound of the ocean waves subsided. The silence of the three people frightened Marco. Their pine torches had gone out, and Marco felt that he was walking toward hell. A deep hole—or maybe a precipice—seemed to open up in front of him. He couldn’t let his life end like this. He had to say something.

  “I want to go to Holland. My adoptive mother still lives there. A candy workshop stands on that street. The master’s skill is like a magic show.”

  After he had spoken, the three others stopped. Marco had a feeling that doomsday was approaching—were they about to kill him? After quite a while, the older one finally said, “Oh, son, you’re at the border now.”

  The three of them jumped down, one after the other, and screamed desperately. Marco’s legs went limp, and he sat down. He thought, How wise old Shao is! Just then, the roar of the waves became more audible again—attacking the stone wall beneath the deep hole or the precipice. All at once, he understood: the spot where he was standing was the safest place. He struggled hard to remember the scene when he had first come here, but that memory had become merely a blank space. Someone was wandering back and forth carrying a lamp; then he slowly came over to Marco. When he reached Marco, he hung the lamp on a small tree and sat down. Marco thought the man wanted to talk with him, but he didn’t say a word.

  Tired of sitting, Marco stood up and stretched. The other person stood up and stretched, too.

  “Excuse me, is the ocean just ahead?” Marco asked him, pointing to the dark deep hole.

  “How could it be the ocean? It’s no more than a small stream. Come with me, let me take you across the bridge.”

  He picked up the lamp, grabbed Marco’s arm, and pushed him toward the deep hole. Marco didn’t struggle. He stepped down into the void with the other man.

  His foot touched wood. Sure enough, the lamp shone on a narrow bridge. Marco walked in front, the other man behind. The man finally introduced himself as old Shao. Marco had been in his home just now.

  “Whoever has been to my home is like family to me.”

  When they walked on the bridge, Marco could no longer hear the roar of the waves. The bridge went on forever; they walked quite a while without reaching the other side. Marco thought, Why would there be such a long bridge over a tiny river? Old Shao wanted him to stop. Marco asked why, and he said just to enjoy the fresh breeze. And so they sat on the bridge. Marco looked down and still could see no river water. Nor did he hear a current. What kind of river was this? Old Shao exhorted him not to look around and said, “We’re in Holland now. What more do you want? Don’t be greedy.” And so Marco shrank back, calmed down, and thought about Holland.

  Someone walked up from the opposite side of the bridge, also carrying a lamp. Although Marco waited and waited, the person never drew near. He asked old Shao what was going on. “How could you have forgotten everything about Holland? This is the way things are here in Holland.” Marco asked, “If the man walked non-stop the whole night, would he finally get here?” Old Shao sneered and said, “He’ll be gone at daybreak. Only a lamp cover will be left on the bridge.”

  Old Shao called Marco “cousin,” and said, “Your adoptive mother is also my adoptive mother. I can understand your confusion.” Then he picked up the lamp again and asked Marco if the lamp brought back any memories. Marco said he remembered many things, but he couldn’t say what they were. Old Shao said, “Your karma hasn’t yet run its course.”

  Marco felt old Shao’s comment was odd, so he asked old Shao what he thought of him.

  “I came to monitor you. Here we are outside the national border.” He said, “I have a good impression of you. Once in Holland, everyone becomes a good person.”

  After a while, he suggested that Marco return home, because “You can’t stay long in a place like Holland.”

  And so they went back. When they reached the edge of the village, Marco saw many people carrying pine torches. Old Shao said they were all villagers. “People never sleep on the frontier,” he said.

  Moans came from all directions. Marco looked around: old Shao had disappeared. He walked toward a bright spot on the left: a man under a tree was holding his stomach, groaning loudly, and pulling his hair. Marco couldn’t bear watching and walked away. The man called out: “I’ve seen a lot of people like you. You simply walk away from things you detest. You shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

  Marco had to stop. The man moaned even louder, threw away his pine torch, and rolled around on the ground. In the underbrush not far away, Marco noticed another person tumbling, too. Surrounded by moans, Marco felt a headache coming on. It grew worse and worse, and so—holding his head—he started rolling around, too. Then he heard that person speaking above him.

  “That’s right. Nowadays, in our era, you have to pay attention to which way the wind blows.”

  The pain was driving Marco crazy. All of a sudden,
he jumped up, slapping his head as he ran toward old Shao’s home.

  Old Shao was standing in the house. With his astonishing strength, he grabbed Marco with one hand and stuffed him into the lower part of the closet. Then he locked the closet from the outside. Crammed in and crushed like this, Marco thought he would die. But suddenly, he stuck his head out. The back panel of the closet had a large hole. Marco started panting heavily, and his head didn’t ache nearly as much. He heard old Shao still in the house, and asked him loudly when the tsunami would arrive. Old Shao said this was the tsunami. It started underground, giving everyone a headache. He said Marco’s timing wasn’t very good, because this was tsunami season.

  Something bit Marco on the thigh. He realized right away that it was the snake. He lost consciousness from the slight pain of the injury, and saw Little Leaf—all smiles—walking toward him.

  Chapter 10

  THE DIRECTOR AND NANCY

  The director was close to death. Now, years after the traffic accident in the interior, its residual effects had finally shown up. As she lay in the hospital bed, the director was now experiencing what had earlier been suspected about her health. She strained to turn her dry eyes to the yellow leaves in front of the window. She was examining the conquests she had made over many years, as well as those things hidden in nooks and crannies that were waiting to be explored. She hoped that her death would simply be the fading away of her physical body while in reality she would still be the director of this massive—yet false—Design Institute. Would her subordinates be able to acclimate to this new situation? She had many subordinates, and she knew each one of them. They were all linked to her gigantic brain through their individual experiences.

  She certainly hadn’t started at the bottom in climbing to her position as director. Her experience was a little strange. She used to own a flower shop on a small street in a southern city. One day her father had come home from overseas, bringing a few guests with him. They had discussed some things for a long time in a back room. After the guests left, her dad told her that these friends were taking part in developing and constructing the northern frontier. They had set up a design institute in a new city there and wanted her to become its director. At first, she declined, but Father persuaded her by setting forth various reasons for accepting. As he said, it wouldn’t be hard work because specialists would handle everything. As long as she established a good relationship with her subordinates, the organization would run smoothly. “Dealing with people is what this job is all about. You have a gift for this. You’ll do well.” As Dad talked, he smiled dubiously. A black child was standing outside. From time to time, he looked into the shop. She asked her dad who the black child was; her dad said he was his adopted son.