by Can Xue
Your dad says we’re willing to dig trenches all our lives. The volunteers all around us give us confidence. Straightening up in the trench, we can see the red flag through the fog and hear the birds singing sadly in the forest. At this, your dad says, “This is truly a bloodless war.” All of us volunteers are silent, because through silence we can broaden our horizons greatly.
Liujin, have you fertilized the grapes? In the suburbs of Fan City in the south, people sell yellow bananas. You have no idea what the scene is like in the flower market in Huadu in the winter. We’ve changed a lot, but compared with our turtle, we’re still far behind . . .
Mother’s letter broke off abruptly, as though she were too grief-stricken to continue.
While Liujin was reading the letter, Amy quietly entered the house and sat down next to the door.
“I just came back from the market, too. You didn’t see me, did you? The way you looked then—you had just come back from picking up goods—worried me. Now you look much better. Oh, that calico cloth is really beautiful. I can’t imagine how it’s made. People tend to daydream on snowy days, don’t they?”
Liujin smiled at her in embarrassment and told her about the snow leopard.
“It’s probably dying,” Amy said, widening her beautiful black eyes.
They stood at the window and looked at the snow. Liujin looked and looked, and felt that the snowflakes were changing into individual vortexes, much like the pattern on the calico cloth. Amy tugged at Liujin’s sleeve and said, “Listen. People are talking everywhere. Liujin, it’s really lively here.”
They smiled at each other, feeling fortunate.
“What about your young friend?” Amy asked.
“He’s still in that place close to the sun, but I think he’ll come back here from time to time. Amy, has your brother ever come back? What does he do on snowy days?”
“My brother is loitering in the city now. In the morning, I saw him plop down on the snow in the plaza and imprint his body in the snow. Deep down, he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking.”
They reached the courtyard, and all of a sudden Amy pulled Liujin down. They fell to the ground together. Their cheeks sticking to the snow, they listened quietly without moving. They didn’t hear anything, yet they seemed to hear everything. Amy felt that life in Pebble Town was seething: this was what she liked best. Liujin glanced sideways at Amy’s red skirt and immediately thought of the red flag Mother had mentioned in her letter. Lying on the snowy ground, Liujin finally sensed the charisma of the red flag.
Only after a long, long time, when they were about to freeze to death, did they get up. A little black dot jumped in the snow and then jumped up to the steps: it was a tiny wagtail. Perhaps because it was starving, the bird had shrunk. Liujin ran into the house and got some bird food, which she then scattered on the ground. The wagtail began pecking at the food. Although the bird was very small, its feathers were still shiny and bright. It didn’t look at all malnourished. Liujin conjectured that perhaps it lived in the crawl space under the floor.
Amy looked excited. She kept saying, “It is I. I’m this bird.”
After eating, the bird flew away: it disappeared into the air with snowflakes swirling all around.
They changed out of their wet clothing and went to the kitchen to cook. Liujin took stock of Amy, who was wearing clothing she had lent her—and suddenly she saw another self turn toward herself. She paled in fright.
“Relax. I’m playing a prank. I’m imitating your expression.”
The voice seemed to be coming from far away. Liujin’s mind was in chaos.
It wasn’t until Amy brought the food to the table that Liujin could see the real Amy. She said in embarrassment, “What’s wrong with me? I’m confused. I saw that it was you, but it was also I.”
Watching Amy gnawing mutton kebabs like a little animal, Liujin was stunned again.
“Pebble Town and the mountain used to be connected by an invisible path,” Amy said breezily. “Across the street, I used to watch the little animals coming out of your courtyard, and I knew instinctively that you were the kind of person I would like. I would have come here much sooner, but I was afraid I couldn’t stand the grim atmosphere in your courtyard.”
That night, Amy said she’d like to stay overnight in Liujin’s parents’ room, and Liujin made up the bed for her. Both of her parents had slept in this room. Later, Dad moved to the study because of his awful insomnia. Amy lay down, turned off the light, and admonished Liujin not to stay up too late.
When Liujin returned to her own room, the parrot kept grumbling. Liujin couldn’t understand what it was saying. This was the first snowfall of the year: Liujin stood at the window, and by the light of the street lamp shining on the courtyard gate, she saw the snow falling. The snowflakes gave off a faint blue light. She felt that in this instant, everything all around contained a certain clue. Then she recalled that Amy was sleeping in the next room, and happiness once again washed over her like a tidal wave. The snow fell directly on her heart, covering up all the shadowy spots. She became lighthearted and content.
Just as she was feeling a little drowsy and was about to go to bed, Amy came in. She was trembling all over. She gripped Liujin’s arm in order to steady herself. She told Liujin that her dead mother was talking in the other room.
“She won’t leave. Oh, Liujin! Do you think Uncle Qiming has died?!”
“Of course not, Amy! He’s so strong and he loves you so much!”
“When I was little, he walked off with me one time. We stayed in the forest, and then it began to rain. We ran back and forth in the forest. I’ve always remembered this: it was genuine happiness.”
Liujin heard Amy crying. Why was she so despairing? Liujin asked Amy where she had last seen Uncle Qiming. Amy said it was at the market entrance. He was running—moving clumsily. He waved at her and disappeared into the crowd.
The two women sat on Liujin’s bed, and Amy haltingly related the story of her time with Uncle Qiming. As she listened to Amy’s story, some of Liujin’s memories were resurrected. She felt more and more that she was the one in Amy’s story. She loved Uncle Qiming, too, didn’t she? When they first met, she’d felt she already knew him. How could she have forgotten him so completely over the years? Maybe in the time that she had forgotten him, Amy had all along been helping her remember him? Hadn’t she seen herself clearly in Amy’s face?
At dawn, beads of water fell on their faces.
“Amy, Amy, did you dream of the Peculiar Hostel?” Liujin shouted excitedly.
“This door is broken. He’s stuck, unable to go in or out.”
Amy’s voice was thin and weak, as though floating in from far away. Liujin saw that she wasn’t awake yet.
The snow had stopped, and it was deathly still all around. Happiness once again surged up in Liujin’s heart. Oh, how I wish Amy were as happy as I am, she thought. She bent and looked at the snowflakes under the steps. Once more, she saw the vortexes that had made her dizzy. So many of them, and so deep! It seemed they would inhale her! She turned her gaze to the sky. It was gray, and it too had many vortexes. Liujin felt sure that something was growing in her heart—it was the thing that she found most exciting. She called out softly, “Ying, Ying—Ying—Ying . . .”
She closed her eyes and visualized the scenery in Muye County. The sound of African drums arose, far away at first and then just outside the courtyard. Liujin turned and smiled at Amy.
“I saw him. We ran into each other but didn’t talk. From now on, we can meet only in that place. I finally understand.”
While Amy was talking, her expression softened a lot, and Liujin was happy for her.
“Look—what’s that?” Amy said, pointing at the snow.
Liujin noticed that the vortexes she’d seen before were moving—and a tiny black dot had spun out of one vortex. Oh, it was a wagtail! With a flapping sound, it shook off the suction and flew out. It flew around the courtyard once and landed on that
old nest in the elm tree. All kinds of birds had lived in that nest.
“This is a guest from Muye County,” Amy said again.
“I think so, too. I was calling to someone just now. Did this happen to call the birds out?”
“Liujin, did you call the one you love so much?”
“No, no. Oh, maybe so. He is so beautiful, as beautiful as the dark night, as beautiful as animals, and like a cloud. When he’s keeping vigil on the rock, drums rumble in the distant west. Can you picture that?”
The snow began falling again. Liujin and Amy broached the subject of the Design Institute. They knew for sure that they were both children of the Design Institute, even though one lived in the Institute and one lived outside it. What kind of organization was this huge Design Institute that took up more than half the space in Pebble Town? Liujin thought back, trying to catch the faint shadow of the old director. Her narrative was choppy. She felt she couldn’t express herself to Amy as much as she wanted. Yet she had to continue. If she didn’t speak, the Design Institute would be even less focused, even more transient. Amy listened sympathetically, quietly adding a word or two every now and then. Of course she understood. Finally, they fell silent. They heard snowflakes falling lightly to the ground. Amy said a little hesitantly, “Early in the morning, I can see the activities of the Design Institute in the sheep’s eyes. And my mother’s eyes, too, when she was near death.”
Liujin’s train of thought widened instantly. She said, “Your parents and my parents, you and I . . . The torch has been passed to us! That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes! Yes! And also the wagtails!” the parrot said.
Wagtails lit on the windowsill—three of them altogether, all the small variety. They were a little wet. Liujin thought, They probably struggled out from those vortexes. They’re Ying’s soul. All at once, her feelings for Ying intensified greatly.
“We love only the people of the Design Institute. I’ve known this since I was little,” Amy said.
“But I figured this out only recently. I’m not as pure as you. Something’s always covering my eyes, or you could say that in the past I looked without seeing. I’m ashamed of myself.”
Amy had been gone a long time, and yet Liujin was still thinking of Ying. She even felt that she lived in this elderly man’s body. Now she sort of understood why her parents had wanted to leave back then. The boxes in her memory that were always kept separate were now fusing. Obstacles were vanishing. Before her appeared the barren hill under the golden-yellow full moon, but it was no longer a barren hill. It was now overgrown with a garden of tulips.
Carrying an umbrella, Liujin trod through the snow to the outside and headed for Song Feiyuan’s grilled mutton shop.
From a distance, she saw that the shop had been enlarged and its business was thriving. She went in. It was steamy inside, and people’s faces were all blurry. She sat at a corner table. Song Feiyuan’s son came over immediately, as though he had noticed her the moment she entered.
“Liujin, you hardly ever go out in the snow, right?” he said.
“Unh. It’s great to be here—even better on snowy days. Why is it so steamy in here? I can’t get a good look at anyone.”
“I boiled water in three large pots to produce steam. The customers all appreciate it,” he said. Lowering his voice, he added, “Because no one here wants others to get a good look at each other’s faces.”
Liujin complimented him on this and said he was managing a very good business—better than his father had.
“Oh, I just did a few things to help those of you who feel uneasy. No way can I be compared with Father! I can tell you—my father is my spiritual mentor. Even though he has left home now, we have a closer relationship than ever before. You ordered noodles. Nothing else?”
Liujin ate slowly. The faces floating in the steam seemed novel and elegant to her, and she couldn’t help saying something that startled her: “It’s like Africa here.”
“This is Africa,” someone answered.
It was Sherman who had spoken. He was sitting at the table to her right. He didn’t intend to join her. Speaking from there, he looked relaxed.
“I come here every day, Liujin. Junior Song is quite creative, isn’t he?”
“Will Feiyuan ever come back?” she asked.
“No. He wants to live a more adventuresome life. Liujin, how about coming here more often? That way, I can see you often. This is a great place. No one should feel bashful here. Will you do it?”
“Okay.”
Some dogs moved back and forth under the tables. Liujin had seen them before. The expressions in their eyes were heartbreakingly mournful, the same as the expressions in the eyes of Amy’s sheep. Now they were hidden in the steam, like animals troubled by worries. They were crying softly. Liujin thought, They must miss their homes.
When Liujin left the shop and went to buy flour, she noticed two large dogs following her. After she bought the flour and headed home, they still followed her. When she got home, they stayed at the courtyard gate and didn’t enter. At first, Liujin took no notice of this and busied herself with housework. While she was resting in the kitchen, she recalled her mother and father’s conversation from years ago.
“Why is the flower garden in the dog’s eyes?” Mother had asked.
“Dogs are the recorders of history,” Dad had replied.
Liujin stood up at once and ran to the courtyard. The two large dogs had apparently been standing there for a while: they were covered with snow. When they saw Liujin approach, they wailed in unison and ran off. Liujin felt she had been remiss again; this had happened numerous times in the past. She sat down and did her best to comb through her memories of the flower garden. For many years, she had heard this person or that person mention in dark tones the tropical garden that was, in reality, non-existent. No one had ever explained this clearly to her. If the mutton shop hadn’t been steamy, would she have been able to see the garden in the dogs’ eyes? What Junior and Sherman were meticulously covering up were the exact things that she kept neglecting. She thought again of when she was buying flour: a middle-aged woman in line behind her had said to someone: “The old gardener must have a hard time on snowy days like this . . .” She had heard this remark, but hadn’t dwelled on it. Liujin was always like this. At this point, she felt that she was sort of approaching the stuff of legends. Perhaps the dogs had barked because a certain old person’s life was ending. Liujin’s good mood began to be transformed: snowflakes couldn’t hide those frightening ditches and ravines.
When Liujin walked into the bedroom, she discovered something even stranger: the parrot repeatedly and rather crazily kept saying something Ying had said: “You mustn’t think they’re watching you. No, no, that isn’t it. You mustn’t think they’re . . .”
Liujin took the cage down and hung it at the front door.
She walked into the study and opened the cupboard. She bent down and took out the framed photo of her father. Then she saw the remains of five little geckoes stuck to the glass. Her father’s face on the lower part of the glass was contorted in pain. Liujin wondered why Dad had had such a large photograph taken just before he left, and why he had framed it. Looking more closely, she felt that this person wasn’t Dad, but a relative who resembled him.
Using a screwdriver and a small spatula, she tried to remove the geckoes’ remains as whole pieces from the glass. She worked on this for a long time without succeeding. She crushed two of them and found their shapes had sunk into the glass. She realized that the little things were actually joined to the surface. Liujin despaired. She couldn’t get a good look at Dad’s photo, but she didn’t want to throw out the glass along with the geckoes. Annoyed with herself, Liujin wiped the glass clean and wrapped up the frame. She put it away. She began to imagine the way the five little geckoes must have looked as they were dying on this frame. Would Dad’s appearance have changed then? In the past, when Dad sat alone in the kitchen, he must have communicated frequen
tly with those old geckoes. What was going on just now? As if possessed, she had actually destroyed the remains of two geckoes! Even now, she was still thrilled to see the geckoes stuck to Dad’s picture frame.
Meng Yu’s wife came over in the snowstorm. She stood on the steps and shook off the snow.
“Have you seen our ewe? It disappeared yesterday. A lot of things have been stolen in the last few days.”
Mrs. Meng was dressed all in black, like a spirit. She didn’t intend to come in.
“I haven’t seen it. This didn’t happen much in the past, did it?”
“No, never. The end of the world is coming. I’m worried about Amy.”
When she turned to leave, she looked solemnly into Liujin’s eyes, making Liujin nervous. She had no sooner left the courtyard than Amy’s sad, shrill singing came from the little house across the street. The sound almost broke Liujin’s heart. She kept trembling even long after Amy finished her song.
As she cooked, Liujin thought of things that were even less focused. This helped her calm down. Just now, from Amy’s singing, she once more experienced Amy’s inner frenzy. No wonder Mrs. Meng was worried about her! Amy must be disheartened. How could she catch up with Uncle Qiming—this spirit of the past era?
Liujin had a dream in which someone kept calling her. She answered again and again until she ran out of patience, but the person wouldn’t stop and even scolded her, saying she was pretending to be deaf. Enraged, Liujin woke up. She looked at the clock: it was only one in the morning. She turned on the light and went to the living room to drink some water. There, she saw Uncle Qiming. He seemed to be looking at the snowflakes in the sky.
“The cart is waiting at the courtyard gate. Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“You’ve forgotten again. We’re going to the snow mountain, of course.”
“Then I need to change clothes.”