Braised Pork

by An Yu

  ‘Poor man,’ Jia Jia said, appearing genuinely regretful.

  ‘He also had the newspaper in his hands,’ Leo’s father said.

  ‘But I thought he was blind?’ Leo said.

  ‘I still don’t know whether he was blind or not. I never managed to ask him,’ his father said.

  ‘We think that he was so used to reading the papers every day that even when he became blind he couldn’t stop,’ Leo’s mother said as she plodded into the living room.

  ‘Ma.’ Leo stood up and guided his mother to the sofa. ‘Come, take your apron off and rest for a bit with us.’

  ‘Oh! Jia Jia, you brought presents?’ asked his mum. ‘We really don’t need anything.’

  Jia Jia offered her the sweater and the scarf. Leo’s mother immediately took them out of the bag and held them up against the sun.

  ‘This must be expensive! It’s so soft! We really don’t need anything. Next time, don’t bother buying us presents, just bring our son back more often!’ His mother laughed and examined the scarf again.

  ‘I saw the blind man a few times again in the park,’ his father continued, reaching out and gently brushing his wife out of his way so that he could look at Leo. ‘He would always be with another person, always someone different. Then he stopped turning up. We thought that the man must have got ill, or even died. Later we heard that his children sold his place and checked him into a retirement home.’

  ‘Heartless!’ Leo’s mother added. ‘To lose your home when you’re old …’

  As if she could not bear the sadness of the conversation, she left to return to the kitchen, apron still tied to her waist.

  Dinner was simple. They were the kind of family who would not cook anything special for the festival. Still, it was a big meal, with two meat and two vegetable dishes, along with a soup. Usually, Leo’s parents would only have one dish for dinner, and never more than two, for fear of wasting food. His father did not like to eat leftovers, so if they did not finish this meal, his mother would be eating the rest of it for the next three days, steaming and re-steaming the food until either she had eaten everything or it had disintegrated into a pile of inedible mush.

  ‘Are you living with your family?’ Leo’s mother asked Jia Jia at the dinner table.

  ‘I live in an apartment by myself. Near his bar.’ She turned her head briefly and smiled at Leo.

  ‘Rent must be high over in that area,’ his father noted.

  ‘Thankfully, I own the apartment,’ Jia Jia said.

  Leo’s parents were surprised. They both, as if rehearsed, put down their bowls and looked at Jia Jia, waiting for her to elaborate.

  ‘It is my husband’s apartment. He’s gone now,’ Jia Jia said, mirroring his parents’ actions and setting her own bowl on the table.

  ‘Oh,’ Leo’s mother said abruptly.

  ‘I see,’ said his father, hastening with the game expression Leo had seen so many times. ‘We don’t mind at all. Not only you young people, but my wife and I are also part of the modern generation.’

  Leo’s mother reverted her gaze to her chopsticks and resumed eating in silence. Jia Jia’s phone rang. She rushed to the living room and muted it. When she returned, Leo continued the conversation.

  ‘We met at my bar,’ said Leo.

  ‘Have you met her ex-husband too, then?’ his father asked.

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Jia Jia responded.

  Again, almost in sync, both Leo’s parents leaned back in their chairs. The table fell silent for a moment, and his father’s eyebrows contracted, as if he was trying to crack a difficult problem.

  ‘Must have been a decent man to find a good girl like yourself,’ he finally said, giving a forced smile. Leo’s mother nodded.

  Leo took a deep breath. He was relieved that his parents were processing the news of Jia Jia’s previous marriage, and surprisingly well. It was not them, he told himself, but the generation before theirs that stuck to their feudal ways of thinking. He was astounded by how swiftly his parents seemed to have adapted, how their principles were edging away from the conservative, the outdated. He felt proud of his scholarly parents for their tolerance.

  After dinner, Leo told Jia Jia that he wanted to stay to wait for the New Year countdown.

  ‘Have you been to Europe? Or America?’ Leo’s father asked Jia Jia as he stored his new carton of cigarettes in the drawer beneath the television.

  ‘I used to visit Europe quite often with my husband,’ Jia Jia said. ‘Mostly France and Italy. But I’ve only been to America once. I prefer Europe – the museums and art galleries are always inspiring.’

  ‘Are people afraid there?’ asked his father. ‘I mean, of terrorism, like all these attacks I’m hearing of. I get the feeling that Europeans just go on with their lives.’

  ‘I’m not sure, I don’t think—’

  Leo’s father yelled to his wife: ‘Stop doing stuff, come and join the children for a bit! Bring the snacks Old Li gave us!’ He spun back to face Leo and Jia Jia. ‘My friend brought some snacks back from England. I remember when we first went to London, a long time ago, we were such idiots back then. We were poor, those days we had it much worse, so you’re lucky. When we saw tinned pet food, we thought those were cans of dog- and cat-meat. It was the cheapest food so that’s what we ate! Oh, it was disgusting. And who would’ve thought that British people sold pet food in supermarkets!’ His father laughed, briefly choking on his own saliva.

  Leo’s mother, having wrapped all the food with plastic and left it out to cool, finally reappeared in the living room and joined the conversation.

  ‘Come, I was telling them about our trip to London years ago,’ Leo’s father told his wife, still coughing.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, we didn’t have the same privileges you have nowadays.’

  ‘My mother used to tell me similar stories as well,’ Jia Jia said with a smile on her face.

  Jia Jia had never mentioned her parents to Leo. He studied her as she started talking about her mother travelling to Xi’an, to Guizhou, to Chengdu in the eighties. She wore a sombre expression, eyes a little watery like white jade. From the way she told the stories it seemed as though the memories of her mother were fractional and incomplete, but she recounted her experiences without a single mention of her father. Sometimes she paused, looking about the room, as if questioning the accuracy of her recollections.

  As Jia Jia spoke, a feeling began to descend on Leo with the relentlessness of June rains. He was now the outsider at this gathering, unable to interrupt the conversation. Why was she sharing so much with his parents? Why was she going on and on, story after story, like an enthusiastic busker narrating tales to children? Jia Jia kept telling the stories, way out of her usual character, in dramatic waves of joy and grief.

  And then she was telling them that her husband died three months ago. Leo watched as his parents lost their smiles, and exchanged an unsubtle look of shock. The topic had come up when his mother asked Jia Jia who she had travelled with on her last trip to France, whether it had been her mother or her husband.

  ‘My husband,’ Jia Jia responded. ‘That was our last trip together. We were supposed to go to Sanya last year, but he died.’

  ‘What happened?’ his mother asked, gasping.

  Jia Jia shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Leo observed his parents cautiously, trying to decipher their reactions to another piece of unexpected news. But the pair sat in silence frowning down at the pile of British snacks.

  Jia Jia’s phone rang again.

  ‘It’s my aunt,’ she told Leo. ‘Probably calling to send her holiday greetings.’

  As Jia Jia stood, Leo’s parents looked up from the sofa and forced an awkward smile. His mother kept fidgeting with her sleeves. Jia Jia excused herself and stepped outside the apartment.

  ‘Son,’ his father said when the door had clicked shut. He rubbed his knees, straightened his posture, and took a deep breath. ‘A widow is bad luck.’

  �
�Your father is right,’ his mother said.

  ‘That’s outdated thinking,’ Leo said.

  ‘I’ve seen some women from my home town who married two or three men who all died within a few years. Some women just bring bad luck to men,’ his father said.

  ‘Ba, you’re a scientist.’

  ‘She’s a great girl, but this …’ his mother muttered, tapping her hands on her knees. ‘What a New Year …’

  ‘You’re our only son,’ his father said. ‘Have you ever noticed that some people just have negativity around them? All their friends and circles have misfortunes. Ever noticed that?’

  Leo argued. His parents fought back. Leo became angrier, and found himself raising his voice for the first time in years. This might have been another reason why he had avoided coming home. He was wrong. What kind of unrealistic expectations had he brought with him here today? His parents were at an age where they had become stubborn, and no matter how forward-thinking they might have been ten, twenty years ago, now they were too proud and old-fashioned even to link their bank accounts to their phone apps for fear of their money being stolen. Too set in their own ways to turn on the air purifier that Leo had bought them, throwing their windows open every day to let in what they still believed to be ‘fresh air’.

  Jia Jia returned, and as she strode into the room, bringing a gust of cold with her, the family stopped quarrelling. Leo could tell that Jia Jia had something on her mind, just as she could most likely sense the tense atmosphere around the tea table.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Leo said, grabbing their coats.

  ‘But it’s only ten—’ his mother began.

  ‘Take some snacks with you,’ his father said.

  But Leo had stopped listening and stormed out, holding Jia Jia’s wrists and squeezing them too hard.

  In the car, Leo asked Jia Jia what her phone call had been about.

  ‘Things are a bit complicated,’ Jia Jia said.

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I’m just a bit worried,’ she said, refusing to look at him.

  ‘Yes, I can tell, but what happened?’

  ‘I’ll have to see my aunt soon. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ He gripped the wheel hard with both hands. ‘I’ve asked you three times already, just answer my question.’

  ‘Why are you angry?’ Jia Jia sat up from the seat and turned to face him. Her voice was loud. ‘Because I told your parents about Chen Hang? Should I be ashamed about my husband’s death? Should I feel sorry for ruining your family gathering? This is who I am, and to be with me, you’ll have to accept the fact that I’m a widow.’

  ‘We could’ve told them at another time.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘So you are ashamed—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you lie to me.’

  Jia Jia glared at him. He stared straight ahead. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the New Year’s fireworks flecked her face in different colours, making her look as if she had scales on her cheeks. Her hair was falling loose. She kept her eyes locked on him, and Leo sensed a resolve in her that he had not seen before. She had never looked at him like that; her glances had always been fleeting. At times, she would be playful, or sensual, and at other times, she would be distant and elusive. But here in the car, watching him, she had her mind set on something.

  It was the first time that she had told him what she wanted from him. Don’t lie to me.

  But he could not give her the truth that she demanded. He asked himself whether he was indeed embarrassed about bringing home a woman whom he knew, deep inside, his parents would not accept. While he drove past all the bright apartments and the dark offices, he thought about how much he wanted to crack open her defences as she sat there next to him, to learn about her insecurities. This woman whose past he barely knew anything about.

  ‘You’ve never told me those stories about your mother,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the point of talking about those who are not around any more?’

  ‘I just want to understand you better, Jia Jia, to know how you’re feeling. I don’t know who you are.’ His voice filled the car and rang in his own ears. ‘You won’t let me know who you are.’

  She turned and looked out the window at the fireworks, and for a moment those muted explosions were the only sounds.

  ‘How can you really know someone?’ she said finally. ‘Even if I take my heart out, dissect it into pieces, and explain each piece in intricate detail to you – in the end, I would still have to stuff the whole damn thing back into my own chest.’

  For the rest of the journey back, they remained silent. Once, near Dongzhimen, Leo had to brake suddenly as a child ran out across the street. He dropped Jia Jia off in front of her apartment. She smiled at him before getting out of his car. It was a regretful, tender and sad smile.

  She drew her coat tight, walked towards the building, and did not look back.

  7

  While Jia Jia was on the phone outside Leo’s parents’ apartment, her aunt had told her that Li Chang had been detained on charges of bribery. He had gifted a sum of cash along with a work of calligraphy to a government official and benefited from a business opportunity in exchange. The official had been put under investigation, and Li Chang, along with numerous other businessmen, had been arrested.

  In the subsequent weeks, her aunt lost her brightness and became afraid of almost everything. Many nights, she stayed at Jia Jia’s apartment. She met everyone she could find who had connections with the Disciplinary Committee, but most of them did not have any valuable information, and others only provided false comfort.

  Eventually, Jia Jia’s aunt started distracting herself by taking classes in flower arrangement. She was very thin, and the skin on the back of her neck draped loosely over the pure gold chain that she always wore. She was tired all the time. Jia Jia urged her to see a doctor; she agreed, but would always find a different excuse to cancel the appointment. She either slept all day or did not sleep at all. She also started smoking, and her arguments with Jia Jia’s grandmother became more frequent.

  March turned to April and Jia Jia had still not seen Leo. She had not gone to his bar, and he had not contacted her either. Instead, Jia Jia focused her attention on completing her commission. (Be wary when interacting with Ms Wan and don’t speak too much about Li Chang, her aunt had told her.) Originally, she had only been asked to paint the middle section of the wall, leaving two wide strips of white on each side, but Ms Wan was so captivated by her work that she extended her commission to have the side sections filled as well. She agreed to pay Jia Jia an extra ten thousand yuan for it.

  ‘Take your time,’ Ms Wan told her. ‘Fine products come from slow work.’

  ‘You seem to be at home quite often these days – has business been quiet?’ Jia Jia asked as she started sketching on the white wall, extending the blue pond outwards.

  ‘I’m fed up. I decided to take a break.’

  Ms Wan took off her reading glasses and set her copy of Meditations down on the table. ‘The film industry is hopeless,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t seen a good movie for a long time,’ Jia Jia said.

  Ms Wan pointed the remote control at the television. ‘Look at these two guys in this new drama. They look the same! Same haircut, same face shape, same build. How is the audience supposed to know which one is which?’

  Jia Jia directed her attention to the screen. Another drama about the struggles between the Red Army and the Nationalist Party. The main character, a spy for the Red Army, was a tall man with dark eyebrows. Indeed, he looked very much like the captain in the Nationalist Army. She imagined the action scenes, one man fighting against his own shadow.

  ‘There is a lot of money,’ Ms Wan said regretfully. ‘And the government is supportive of cultural activities, which is great, they say. But I’m so tired of making bad films. Do you want to have a drink with me?’

  Ms Wan reached into a cupboard, picke
d out a half-finished bottle of port and filled two glasses. Jia Jia watched her carefully as she held the bottle, her wrists shaking as she poured, her big head crooking to one side.

  ‘The uneducated are becoming better and better off in this country,’ she said as she slowly returned to Jia Jia with a glass of wine. ‘Good movies don’t make big money any more.’

  She handed the drink to Jia Jia, tottered back to the sofa, put on her glasses and went on with her reading.

  *

  Jia Jia stayed late that day. Ms Wan put the children to bed, called the driver, and was whisked off to her husband’s jazz lounge close to midnight. Jia Jia continued painting in silence by the light of a single lamp.

  A little past two a.m., she felt tired and took a break. She had not touched the port, but now she picked up the glass and stood back from the wall. The immense project had become wondrous. The ancient Buddha Shakyamuni sat on a lotus flower in the middle, holding a beggar’s bowl in his left hand and calling the earth as witness with his right. The rest of the piece depicted the major events in the life of the Buddha. Jia Jia had painted it in sophisticated detail, mostly gold and orange tones, occasionally sprinkling splashes of emerald or cobalt for clothes or bodies of water.

  As Jia Jia gazed at the painting in the dim yellow light, the rings in the blue pond rippled and the water began seeping out, covering the entire wall. The demons, gods, and eventually the ancient Buddha himself, were submerged until all that appeared in front of Jia Jia was a single fish, silver like a coin.

  She had no doubt that it was the same creature she had seen before, but larger and tougher this time. It swam in circles, as if shaken by something. The body of water, as deep as ever, churned and threatened to sink everything in its path. Instinctively, Jia Jia took a step backwards, but stopped as the fish turned to face her, inviting her to step into the water.

  The air had turned cold.

  Jia Jia reached out cautiously and stroked the creature’s tail. Startled, it shook her hand off and continued swimming. The scales on its body were in large diamond shapes, glistening and pristine. She tried to find similarities between the fish in front of her and the fish-man Chen Hang had sketched, but there were none. The shapes were different.