by An Yu
Jia Jia looked up searchingly at Ren Qi.
‘Sounds frightening,’ Ren Qi commented.
‘At first, it’s frightening. Then you forget fear, and instead, you feel cold. Like ice that will never melt. I’m not talking about the bodily cold, but the sense that you will remain the same for ever, that nothing will change again. Do you know how that feels?’
Ren Qi pulled repeatedly on his earlobe.
‘I thought my wife would always be with me,’ he said. ‘Like a character I’ve fallen in love with from my novel. I thought we’d always be the same us, in the same little apartment, eating the same porridge for breakfast, battling the same shower water that was either too hot or too cold. But now she’s vanished, like pollen in the air. And nothing is the same any more. So to answer your question, no, I don’t believe I know how it feels.’
Jia Jia nodded lightly. The sky was growing paler, though the sun was still nowhere to be seen.
‘But to hell with all that. My plan is to find her. What’s your plan, Wu Jia Jia?’ Ren Qi asked.
‘I’m going to leave,’ Jia Jia said, surprised at how quickly she came to that decision. ‘I don’t think I will find any more answers here.’
Jia Jia gazed out at the gradually awakening world, pausing briefly at her awareness that nothing had stopped for Grandpa’s disappearance. Wolves were going on their hunts, ants were building their nests, birds were fetching food for their hatchlings. And T.S.’s mother was already standing on the roof above the donkey shed, tossing hay at the animal.
Jia Jia traced her story in her head. Chen Hang’s death had brought her here. She had met Grandpa, who knew about the world of water and made fish-man sculptures, but Grandpa had disappeared during the night. T.S.’s mother had given her this photo, and the couple in it must have had something to do with Grandpa and the world of water. The fish-man takes tulips, but no tulips have blossomed.
She needed some sleep. Ren Qi seemed to sense this and, like an animal that had accidentally stepped into another’s territory, he retreated to his side of the room and took out his notebook. He did not write anything, only opened it to a blank page and began stroking his chin. Jia Jia curled under the covers and turned away.
She imagined tulips. An entire field of them. She imagined that it was night, and the moon was radiating a pale, creamy light. The thousands of buds bloomed into white flowers, and one by one, the gradual opening up of each flower lulled Jia Jia a little deeper into sleep.
When Jia Jia packed up her things the following afternoon, Grandpa was still missing. Daylight had not brought him back. There seemed to have been an unspoken consensus in the village that if Grandpa had not returned by the next day, then his departure would somehow become permanent.
And now it was Jia Jia’s turn to leave. T.S.’s family stood in front of their home and, waving their hands, told Jia Jia to visit again. She waved back and responded that she would. Disappearance, she thought, was really nothing more than departure without saying goodbye.
Ren Qi insisted on walking her to the car. Panting, he limped across the fields and up the hill.
‘Where will you stay?’ Jia Jia asked.
‘I asked T.S. whether I could pay and stay in his house. But he knows my wife, so he brought me to her family. They told me that I can stay there for now,’ Ren Qi said. ‘I hadn’t even met her parents before, until this morning.’
‘Do they know where your wife is?’
‘Her family had no idea. She hasn’t contacted them, they told me. But don’t you worry, I’ll find the fish-man and my wife. Then I’ll message you.’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you not going to pass by the river again?’ Ren Qi asked.
Jia Jia shook her head. It was not about the log any more, that was only one of the many things that had directed her here. She would come back one day, she decided, to paint all of this. Perhaps she would ride an army-green motorbike as well, with her canvases strapped to the back. For a moment, she felt the mountains growing taller around her.
T.S. met her at the entrance of the village with his car boot already open. Before Jia Jia got in the car, Ren Qi gave her a pat on the shoulder. It was a warm, loving touch that rested there for a second longer than she had expected, as if something was flowing from him into her through his fingertips.
‘Have a good flight back,’ he said.
‘Until next time,’ Jia Jia said. The words came out of her with a certain stickiness, like honey being pulled out of a jar. She jerked open the car door.
Ren Qi adjusted the crutch under his armpit and said, ‘Do you think your husband is there too? In the world of water? After all, he was the one who showed you the fish-man in the first place.’
Jia Jia paused. A group of children ran past on their way home from school. The image of Chen Hang kneeling in the bath with his forehead stuck to the bottom plunged itself into Jia Jia’s mind. She shook her head decisively.
‘He’s dead,’ she said, and climbed into the Jeep.
‘That’s right,’ Ren Qi said in a tone that people used when they did not understand something but were fearful to ask again. He closed the door for her and took a step back from the car. A reserved smile hovered under his nose.
T.S. started the engine and manoeuvred a bit on the narrow road to turn the car around. Before they drove out, Jia Jia managed to catch a glimpse of the field where Grandpa had planted tulips less than twenty-four hours ago. T.S.’s mother was right, not a single leaf had grown there, even though Grandpa had been planting for years. As they turned the corner, the farmhouses disappeared one by one until Jia Jia could not see the village any more. And so began an eight-hour drive through winding mountain roads; a meditative drive. A left turn followed by a right turn, repeatedly, until they lost track of how many turns they had already made and how many they had coming up. After a while, it felt as though they were always driving on the same strip, and what was moving was the road below, not the car.
Jia Jia was on her way home, and her mind began wandering back to Beijing, to Leo. She took out her phone, but he had not messaged her since their last meeting. She could picture him at the bar, hair gelled back, wearing his bow tie, squeezing lemons. When was the last time an image had brought her so much comfort? It made her miss him terribly.
How long had she actually been gone? Counting the time she had needed to finish up Ms Wan’s painting and arrange her travel documents, she realised she had not seen Leo for more than a month. She had told him that she did not want him to wait for her, and it had been the right thing to say. But now, she wanted to tell him about everything: the log, the stories she had heard, the tulip bulbs, the writer she had met, the photo.
The road was still weaving a net around the mountains. What if T.S. fell asleep? The car would tumble down the cliff and both of them would die. There was a good chance that nobody would find them in these lost mountains; their bodies would merge with the soil. If Leo was in fact waiting for her to return, she would disappoint him.
A sudden urgency for Beijing scratched at her heart. She had to be in the same city as Leo again, to know that if she walked in a certain direction, he would be there. These thoughts were like warm stones piling up inside her, and she closed her eyes and tried to still her mind.
16
Jia Jia pressed on the doorbell of her father’s apartment. She took a deep breath.
When her plane landed, she had thought about going to Leo’s bar, but instead had taken a taxi to her father’s straight from the airport. She had not been there for more than two years. She wanted to speak with him, calmly, about his marriage, and tell him that she would give him back his money. She did not want to owe him. Since her father was now married to Xiao Fang, she imagined that his apartment would be carefully decorated with vases of flowers, colourful blankets, framed photographs and who knew, perhaps even a plump, spotted cat.
The door was the colour of black tea. It opened slowly, revealing her father in his blue pyja
mas, holding a copy of People’s Daily in his hand.
‘Jia Jia!’ At the sight of his daughter, he flung open the door. ‘I didn’t know you were back,’ he said cheerfully, lifting his grey brows. Even Jia Jia was taken aback at how genuinely pleased he seemed. She forced a smile and pulled her suitcase inside.
‘I thought I’d call in,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the money. Xiao Fang told me that it was from you. I haven’t used it. I’d like to transfer it back.’
‘Keep it. I know you need it,’ said her father.
He bent over and fumbled through the shoe cabinet for a pair of slippers.
‘I can just wear my socks,’ Jia Jia said and sat on a chair to untie her shoelaces. ‘I’ve found a tenant for the apartment. I’m OK for now.’
‘You’ll catch a cold. Xiao Fang taught me to always be careful not to let my feet get cold. Here you go.’
He placed a pair of red slippers in front of Jia Jia. As he turned and walked to the living room, she observed his back. If she had had a checklist for the symptoms of ageing, he would have had marks in every box. He was thinner, despite having grown a small, sagging belly. Though he had always been a man who kept his back straight, he was now hunching over a little, and as a result, his neck extended forward. The skin on his hands was folded and sprinkled with dark spots.
Xiao Fang was not at home, but her presence was everywhere. On the sandalwood bookshelves behind the sofa, there were several volumes on traditional medicine. Jia Jia’s father only read history and philosophy. The remote controls for the television, DVD player and music player were arranged neatly in a row on top of the tea table, like soldiers sleeping in a camp. In the corner of the room, there was a green yoga mat, rolled up tidily and leaning against the wall. The room smelt like essential oils. Lemon perhaps, or lime.
Funny, Jia Jia thought, that a woman could take over a man’s living space so effortlessly.
‘Do you want to go out for dinner?’ her father asked, but he immediately seemed to change his mind and said, ‘Actually, why don’t we stay at home? Xiao Fang is away for the weekend. I’ll cook something.’
‘I can cook,’ Jia Jia offered. She did not know that her father could cook. She could not remember ever eating anything that he had made.
‘I haven’t moved all day,’ he said, pushing her shoulder to sit her down on the sofa. He handed her one of the remote controls; the one in the middle. ‘Watch some TV or have a snooze. There’s tea under the table.’
She looked at the clock. It was ten past five in the afternoon.
‘I’ll go and buy some groceries,’ he decided hurriedly and went into the bedroom to change. ‘If you want, you can start making the rice,’ he shouted from inside.
He soon emerged in a plain T-shirt and black trousers. After he took his car keys and closed the door behind him, Jia Jia found the bag of rice in the kitchen cupboard, measured out enough for the two of them, washed it three times, and started the cooker. The phone rang in the living room and she rushed over reflexively. She watched it ring, unable to decide whether she should pick up. What if it was Xiao Fang? She did not want to speak to her. She told herself that if the person was still calling after five more rings, she would consider it an emergency and answer.
The phone went silent after three rings. Jia Jia watched it for a few more seconds, in case the person was going to call again, but there was only silence. Relieved, she sat on the sofa and took out the photo she had brought back from Tibet. Even from the back, she could tell that the man was young. And the woman, she seemed as light as a leaf. Jia Jia could hardly imagine that another living being was growing inside her.
Jia Jia decided that she would take a shower. It was delightful, she discovered, as she stepped under the hot water in the guest bathroom, to be able to clean herself thoroughly. She had not had a proper shower in days. Ever since she had arrived in T.S.’s village, cleaning herself had meant wiping her body with a towel. She shampooed her hair twice, lathered her skin repeatedly with soap, and stood under the showerhead for a long time.
When she had finished, she found that her father had returned and was busy chopping carrots. Jia Jia leaned against the sofa and let the air conditioner blow gently on her for a while. She started to feel cold, and turned to the bookshelves for something to busy herself with. Nietzsche, Rousseau, Diderot, Sun Tzu and others lined the shelves along with dozens of books on the Liao dynasty, an era that had particularly interested her father ever since he was a child. He could never explain why he had such a fondness for this dynasty; everyone else found it rather bizarre. The Tang dynasty, the Warring States, or the Qing dynasty – these had many more gripping stories.
Jia Jia was not interested in anything she could see. She was not about to pick up The Social Contract and begin reading. She migrated towards the other end of the shelf and spotted, in front of another collection of burgundy history books, a palm-sized stone figure. It was the fish-man, standing among the other little ornaments on the shelf like a curious souvenir. She froze for a moment. Why would her father have this? Why had she not seen it before? Had she in fact seen it before? Jia Jia fell into a moment of stunned wordlessness and her body suddenly felt weak. She tried to steady herself. She turned the fish-man around to find the back bare, without a number. This figure, unlike the ones she had seen in the village, was expertly crafted.
‘Wash your hands! Almost finished here!’ her father yelled over the sounds of fresh vegetables being tossed into heated oil.
Startled by his voice, Jia Jia instinctively stuffed the fish-man into her pocket. Her father appeared from the kitchen with a dish in each hand.
‘Get the rice,’ he said. ‘And chopsticks.’
She did as she was told.
Jia Jia sat at the table and studied her father, thinking about the figure in her pocket. Her father’s hands, holding the chopsticks, were slightly unsteady – something that she had first noticed years ago when he took her out to lunch, but tonight, it made her heart clench and tremble.
On the table sat a plate of braised pork belly, a little dark in colour, with slightly too much oil floating on top. The other dish was stir-fried carrots and fungus, perfectly bright in colour, cooked more skilfully.
Her father, using his chopsticks like a spoon, scooped up a piece of pork and carefully hovered it over Jia Jia’s bowl, and then finally allowed it to drop inside. ‘Try this.’
Jia Jia held the bowl in her hand and gazed down at the lonely piece of pork.
‘Try it,’ repeated her father. ‘You like braised pork, don’t you?’
She picked it up and stuffed it into her mouth. Although she expected it to be rather salty from having been bathed in too much soy sauce, it actually tasted too sweet.
Her father smiled in a satisfied way and pointed his chopsticks at the window. ‘If I had gone five minutes later, the supermarket would’ve run out of pork belly. I remember you used to ask for braised pork every day when you were a girl. Pork belly tastes best when braised. Eat some more. I’m sure you got sick of the food in Tibet and started missing home-cooked food after a few days.’
The last time Jia Jia had sat at home and eaten dinner with her father was the day before he left. What did they eat? She tried to investigate the deep cave of her memory but could not recall a single dish on the table that day. She stuffed another piece of pork into her mouth, chewed a few times, and before she could swallow it she had put in another.
Then, utterly unprepared, she found herself crying hysterically. She was like a fallen child who had kept her tears contained until her parents took her into their embrace, releasing a sundering, burning wail. She nodded several times while she sobbed, signalling to her father that he was right – she did like braised pork belly. She hoped that he understood her nods, as she could no longer put any words together. Jia Jia had lost all control. There was not a single string that she could pull to stop herself from this crying that seemed as though it was never going to end.
Her f
ather did not move. Still holding the bowl of rice in his big hands, he listened to her.
Time either froze or passed quickly; Jia Jia thought that it could have been either. As the tears gushed out of her, she felt herself shrinking down like a bar of soap, losing her original form. She had become a shapeless and authentic version of herself. This change, she knew, was going to be irrevocable.
And then, all of a sudden, like a speeding car that had crashed into a large tree, it stopped. For a while, neither of them spoke. In that apartment, there was no tension any more, no surging of emotions; neither was there any sense of solace. What was there, under a warm light, was a meal shared between father and daughter.
When they had both finished their rice, Jia Jia looked her father straight in the eye.
‘Ba,’ she said with unwavering determination. ‘Tell me about the fish-man.’
He gazed back at her with an alarmed expression, which then morphed into a worried one that finally became composed, gentle and firm. He put down his chopsticks, reached for a box of tissues, handed this to Jia Jia, and crossed his arms on the table.
‘What would you like to know?’ he asked.
The last vestiges of nervousness had vanished from Jia Jia. Control came back to her and her mind was clear as glass. She was going to find out why her father had a fish-man figure; to proceed was as natural to her now as it was for coconuts to fall when fully ripe. She fetched the figure from her pocket and placed it in front of her father, along with the photo taken by Grandpa.
‘I found this on the shelf,’ Jia Jia said steadily. ‘I’ve seen fish-man sculptures like this at a village I visited in Tibet.’ She pointed to the photo. ‘This village.’
Her father sank back into his seat with his arms still crossed in front of his chest. For a time, nothing came out from his mouth and he just stared at the photo. Then he straightened his back, leaned forward and chose his words carefully.