by Can Xue
When she left, she was wearing a coat over a padded jacket, as well as a pair of fur-lined boots. Qiming glanced at her and said, “Look at you. You’re dressed as if you’re ready to die on the battlefield.”
It was actually a passenger carriage. They sat down in it. It wasn’t very comfortable: the seats were hard, and wind blew in from all sides. Liujin was glad she was wearing warm clothes, and noticed that Uncle Qiming was wearing only a thin overcoat. He wasn’t even wearing a hat. As soon as the cart started, wind blew in their faces. It was painful, and tears spilled from Liujin’s eyes. She told herself it would be okay after her face became numb. After a while, her face finally numbed and she didn’t feel the pain. She leaned against Uncle’s broad shoulder, and he hugged her lightly. Liujin couldn’t talk because of the numbness. She heard Qiming say happily, “Even death can be so pleasant!”
The carriage went fast, and they were jostled back and forth as the road became rugged. Liujin wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t. They could do nothing but endure and struggle in the dark.
They seemed to have traveled a long time, and yet it wasn’t light yet. It was actually even darker.
Suddenly, the carriage stopped, and the driver stood in the snow and began to curse. They couldn’t tell if he was cursing the weather or cursing the two of them. Liujin thought his words were very obscure. Cursing and cursing, the driver left them and the carriage behind and walked off alone. It was then that Qiming said, “We’ve arrived.”
As they emerged from the carriage, Liujin saw the two black horses standing, unmoving, in the snow. They were much like sculptures. She sighed inwardly, “So calm.” The sky was a murky gray. The mountain ahead seemed to want to hide itself. They could see only a dull shadow. Liujin asked Qiming how long it would take them to reach the snow mountain. He replied, “It depends on the road under your feet.”
Liujin opened her eyes wide to see what kind of road it was. In fact, there was no road. They were standing among sparsely scattered bushes. Qiming said, the snow mountain has a bad temper and tends to stay away from people. For example, they were now circling around the foothills, and yet it wouldn’t even show itself.
“Then, where are we going?” Liujin asked.
“We’re going to see a dying old man.”
They entered a frame house. By then, it was dawn. Wind pierced the frame house from all directions. The old man was lying in bed in a corner. At intervals, he moaned loudly, “I can’t take this anymore.”
At first, Liujin couldn’t see clearly and felt terrified. Later, she mustered her courage to approach the old man and saw that he looked spirited. This was a handsome old man. His eyes were clear, and he looked healthy. He certainly didn’t seem to be on the verge of death. Did he really feel ill? Maybe he looked healthy because he was confident he could conquer his physical illness.
All of a sudden, Liujin noticed that Uncle Qiming had disappeared. Besides her, the only one left in the house was the dying old man. Motioning with his index finger, he indicated that he wanted her to move closer to him. Liujin took hold of his right hand. Though it was stiff and cold, it was still strong. How could he be dying? Could this be a prank? But Uncle Qiming definitely wasn’t the sort of person to play a prank like this.
“Is it snowing outside, Miss?” As he spoke, he began breathing more rapidly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it really snowing?”
“Yes, really. It’s white all over.”
“I’m dying. The holes in my body can never be patched up. It hurts a lot!”
He began moaning again. Liujin went outside and looked up. She was stunned—the mountain was right in front of her, and animal footprints were everywhere on the snow-covered mountain path. Memories of past events surged up in Liujin’s mind. She felt an urge to walk into the mountain. But she couldn’t leave the dying old man alone. Just then, she heard a conversation.
“Some people die, and some people are born. On this mountain . . .”
“We aren’t afraid of anything.”
The speakers were Uncle Qiming and Amy’s brother. They were walking over from the mountain path. Amy’s brother nodded, unsmiling, to Liujin, and went to the kitchen. Liujin realized then that this was Amy’s home. Uncle Qiming stooped down and whispered a few words to the bedridden old man. The sick person actually began to smile, and the atmosphere in the room lightened instantly. Liujin spotted a door in the wall and guessed it was probably Amy’s room. She walked over and pushed the door open, but it was dark inside.
“Go inside,” Uncle Qiming said.
Liujin tripped over something and dropped down into a small bed. She heard an infant crying.
“That’s Amy. When Amy was little, she cried a lot. She wasn’t one bit like a mountain child,” Qiming said.
“People said that I was like this, too, when I was little. This room is full of memories. Was it Amy’s idea to bring me to her home? Her dad is dying, yet she didn’t want to come back!”
“That’s it. She wanted me to bring you here. What do you think about that?
“She has stopped crying. She’s here in this room, isn’t she? Ha. One is in the city, one is here!”
Liujin touched the infant’s tiny hand. The hand gripped her index finger, making her intensely sentimental. Choking with sobs, she called, “Amy—”
Just then in the outer room, Amy’s dad moaned loudly again, “I’m really in pain!”
Amy’s room smelled of animal fur, a smell that made Liujin think of Roy. It was such a similar smell: Were Amy and Roy brother and sister? The infant’s tiny hand glimmered in the dark, just the way Roy’s hand used to do. Liujin sensed that Uncle Qiming had seen everything. He was standing next to the door watching her. It was strange: it was windy in the entire front room, but Amy’s room was warm. Liujin was perspiring. She removed her coat and stood in the center of the room. She thought, Something must be about to happen. She waited.
Before long, she heard Amy’s brother singing in the kitchen. Liujin couldn’t tell what he was singing: she thought it was like a cavalryman planning to jump from a cliff. Liujin emerged from Amy’s small room and saw Uncle Qiming looking out the window. Amy’s dad was delirious.
The song became more and more upbeat. Liujin and Uncle Qiming saw two snow leopards, one male and one female, squatting in the snow of the foothills.
“Is that brother’s leopard?” Liujin asked softly.
“Yes,” Qiming answered. “Look, more are coming.”
Sure enough, Liujin saw two more descending. The two new arrivals stood opposite the others, and the two pairs of leopards looked at each other. In the kitchen, Amy’s brother finished singing. Liujin sensed that he had jumped down and was falling from midair.
“Brother will never move to the city, will he?”
“Of course not. You can see how fortunate this old father is.”
“I see. That sort of garden is everywhere. Snowy weather is wonderful.”
Liujin and Qiming left in the carriage. From far away, they could still hear Amy’s brother singing. He had started another round. Liujin felt deeply moved. As she listened attentively, some knots vanished from the bottom of her heart. The June sunshine leapt in her heart, and she said sincerely, “Thank you, Uncle Qiming.”
“Liujin, I’ve fixed your toy duck. Do you want to take it to the stream?”
“Oh, Uncle Qiming!”
She bent over the old man’s shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably. The wind pouring into the carriage had become a warm spring breeze. The lively silhouette of the snow leopard flashed through the bosk.
They parted at the entrance to Liujin’s courtyard. Qiming didn’t get out of the carriage, and his voice sounded feeble, “I’ll give all those chicks and ducklings back to you . . .”
The carriage quickly vanished into the snowy landscape.
It stopped snowing. She heard the persistent calls of little creatures in the courtyard—the voices sounded like cicadas, or birds. They
came from the mouth of the well. Liujin walked over to the cement mound, but she couldn’t locate the source of the sounds. From the entrance to the courtyard, the mailman called to her, saying, “You have a letter from Muye County!”
Liujin took the letter and stood there, dazed. It was strange: this thin envelope made of gossamer tissue was so large. She had never seen one like this. Looking at it closely, she could see a vague design of a wolf. Oh—there really was a Muye County. Why had it never shown up on a map? “Ma, No. 4 Zhongshui Street, Muye County.” Someone surnamed Ma had sent her this letter. The handwriting was nothing unusual.
She tore the envelope open carefully and withdrew the letter. Both sides were stamped with a pretty, pale green leaf design. It looked familiar. Why was there no writing?
“When you aren’t thinking of him, he shows up!” the parrot said.
Had Roy sent the letter? The wagtail stood in the wind tunnel and suddenly called out like a cicada. Amazing—a bird could call for so long in one breath! It was only one-fourth the size of ordinary wagtails. Its feathers were black and shiny. It was so tiny and its voice wasn’t at all like a bird’s. Maybe it was “the thing” that had invaded the world of the living. At last, it tired of calling and retreated into the wind tunnel.
When Liujin walked into the kitchen, she saw dinner on the table. It had to be Amy—how nice and warm she was to her. Liujin was so touched that she nearly wept. Recently, she’d often been emotional like this.
When it grew dark, she placed that letter on the windowsill and saw a glimmer of the pale green color. She said to herself, “That’s Roy’s handwriting. So many people care about me.”
She sat in front of the window and once more heard snowflakes falling lightly to the ground. Silhouettes of her parents pressing ahead came to her mind. When she considered that, even in their old age, they could still join the seething collective cause, her heart was filled with admiration for them.
She sat there until deep into the night. She simply gave up thinking and enjoyed the touch of the cool evening air. Bit by bit, her mind became luminous.
The boss reclined in a cane chair with his legs crossed. He still couldn’t move his legs, but he didn’t seem to be in pain.
“I had no sooner placed the spiral-patterned cloth on the counter than it sold out,” Liujin told him.
“Ah, Liujin,” the boss sighed, “how many years have you worked for me? In this market, only us, you and me. This is . . . is . . .” He was unable to go on.
Generally, the boss was composed. Liujin was surprised that he could be so emotional.
“That’s right, boss. When we stand on this spot, we can hear voices from all directions. We . . . oh, boss, I chose to take this job just because I wanted to hear the voices that come from crowds.”
“Liujin, you’re very smart.”
The boss leaned over to look for something under his chair, but he couldn’t lean down far enough. Liujin asked what he was looking for. Glancing at her, he said meaningfully, “The turtle.” That little thing, he said, always appeared and disappeared mysteriously.
Liujin’s customers were a little strange. When they interacted with her, their eyes drooped and they didn’t look at her, as though embarrassed about something. Liujin wondered if there was something on her face, and walked to the back room to look in the mirror on the wall. She saw a gecko on her forehead—the translucent remains of a tiny gecko. She wiped at it with a handkerchief—wiped it several times without getting rid of it. She grew restless. Touching her forehead with her bare hand, she couldn’t feel anything at that spot, but looking again in the mirror, she saw the little gecko embedded right in the center of her forehead, as if it were an ornament. She recalled the geckoes on her dad’s picture frame, and her heart pounded.
“Ah, Liujin, there are some things you shouldn’t take too much to heart. Just let them go.”
When her boss said this, Liujin calmed down. She turned back to the counter.
“On snowy days, one’s field of vision widens,” she said to one old woman.
Taking her cloth, the woman nodded her head and replied, “I love buying cloth here. This kind of cloth is made in the snow mountain.”
Liujin noticed a crowd gathering in a corner of the market. At the same time, cicadas’ voices were rending the hall, as if it were a summer day rather than a snowy day.
A crowd of young women came to the front of her counter. They touched the cloth and spoke softly. Liujin’s eyes swept over them, and then she stopped in amazement: embedded on the four young women’s perfectly white cheeks were tiny coral snakes, as though the vipers were growing out of their flesh. In a quavering voice, she asked, “Are you buying cloth?”
“We’re looking for that local cloth printed with a bamboo-leaf design. The little snakes on our faces are called ‘green bamboo snakes,’” one of the young women said calmly.
Liujin was gazing at the backs of these pretty young women. She sighed to herself, “How dramatically this world is changing!”
All of a sudden, Ying appeared. He was so tall and his face so dark that you knew from far away that it was he. But he didn’t come over. He was craning his neck looking for something. Liujin thought, Could what he wants to find possibly be here in the market? Just then, her boss spoke loudly from behind her, and Liujin spun to face him.
“Has that masculine man arrived?” the boss asked.
“Do you mean Ying? He’s in the market.”
“Yesterday at dusk, I saw him from this window. He looks a lot like our ancestor. He was fetching water from that well.” Her boss recalled, “He’s really black.”
Liujin didn’t think her boss was recalling what happened yesterday, but rather was remembering long-ago events.
Her boss opened up the back door, and leaning against the bamboo chair, he watched the snow filling the sky. His face was alight with charm. She had never before realized how handsome he was.
After leaving work that day, Liujin didn’t go straight home because she ran into Mrs. Meng on the way. Mrs. Meng told her that Amy had been missing for two days. Now she, Meng Yu, Qiming, and Amy’s brother were all looking for her. Liujin was frightened when she heard this. The snow was heavy—more than a foot deep. Liujin remembered the white pagoda—the one she and Amy had once gone to.
When Liujin walked into the park which held the white pagoda, it was difficult to move through the deep snow. She stood at a loss in the vast white world. Just then, she saw human forms imprinted in a line on the snow—probably more than ten of them. Liujin felt as if her heart would jump out of her throat. She walked along the row of imprinted forms and thought, This must have been left by Amy. She flopped down here on the snow and tried to disappear from the face of the earth. She stood in the last human shape and saw no more signs of Amy ahead. So, then there must be a crevasse. But where was it? Liujin turned and walked back. She left the park and came to the main street. Mrs. Meng’s shouts reached her: “Amy—Amy . . .” Liujin touched her face and felt some ice crystals: they must have been her frozen tears.
Mother Earth was no less charming without Amy. Human shadows were still drifting and floating above it. Liujin strode decisively toward the opening.
Translators’ Acknowledgments
We are grateful to publisher Chad Post for his steadfast support of Can Xue’s works and of our translations; editor Kaija Straumanis for her thoughtfulness and collegiality in copy editing; art director Nathan Furl for his spectacular cover design; and intern Hannah Rankin for her attention to the page proofs. We also thank Porochista Khakpour for graciously taking time from her pressing schedule to write the perceptive introduction. Most of all, we thank Can Xue for once again entrusting her work to us.
Karen Gernant & Chen Zeping
August 2016
Can Xue is a pseudonym meaning “dirty snow, leftover snow.” She learned English on her own and has written books on Borges, Shakespeare, and Dante. Her publications in English include The Embroidered Sh
oes, Five Spice Street, Vertical Motion, and The Last Lover, which won the 2015 Best Translated Book Award for Fiction.
Karen Gernant, professor emerita of Chinese history at Southern Oregon University, and Chen Zeping, professor of Chinese linguistics at Fujian Teachers’ University, have collaborated on more than ten book translations and about sixty translations for literary magazines.
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