by Hao Jingfang
“From that time on, she took extra care of me. Sometimes she would hug me tightly as though I were her child, and she bought me lots of delicious treats. She even took me on sightseeing outings. I didn’t know why she was suddenly so attentive to me, but I was very moved. To think that my identity was so warmly welcomed made me feel pride in my Martian heritage.
“But then one day she said something that revealed her true reasons.
“She was looking at me and muttered to herself, ‘What a wonderful child. How could she be born on Mars?’
“Surprised, I asked, ‘Why do you say that?’
“She looked at me, her gaze full of pity. ‘Your government forces you to get jobs as child workers from the age of ten.’
“My blood turned cold at that moment as I understood the motivation behind her caring acts. She was looking at me like an orphan or a beggar, pitying my terrible fate, and unconsciously feeling herself my superior. I didn’t know what to say. After thirteen years of growing up on Mars, I had always believed that my planet’s civilization was more perfect, more advanced, more beautiful than that of Earth. But in her eyes I was someone to be coddled, to be pitied. I didn’t understand where the error was.
“Later, I moved out of that apartment. My landlady’s kindness was intolerable. I understood that she meant no harm, and I tried to be grateful. But I simply couldn’t live with her pity.”
Luoying looked down at her hands. When she was younger, she had feared being hated or disliked, but later she found that she was far more sensitive to pity, to condescension.
Reini listened intently to Luoying’s account without interrupting. When she was finished, he asked, “I imagine she was talking about the internships as part of your electives, right?”
Luoying nodded. “Yes, it wasn’t until my third year on Earth that I finally realized that must have been the case. I thought about finding her to explain the truth, but by then I was living on the other side of the globe, and I never got to see her again.”
“She had probably forgotten all about it.”
“Yes. Something like that probably mattered a lot more to me than her.” After a moment she continued. “Actually, I’m not even sure I can explain it clearly. I know why she said what she did, but I can’t judge her. I don’t like what she said, but from her point of view it makes sense.
“Oh, there was another time, when the Creativity Fair came up.”
The Creativity Fair. Luoying repeated the phrase to herself.
The Creativity Fair was the most important competition for Martian youths. Held once every three years, all those between the ages of fourteen and twenty were allowed to participate. There was no limitation on form or theme, and only creativity was judged. Every team turned in one project, and the projects were judged on novelty of conception and ingenuity of execution. Great ideas from the fair could even be selected by the state as key projects to be developed for the future.
Children on Mars loved the Creativity Fair. When Luoying and her friends were young girls, they couldn’t wait for the fairs. Besides fairy-tale fantasies of princesses and princes, their greatest dream was to set foot on the stage at the Creativity Fair as competitors or as one of the laurel-presenting goddesses, the older girls who dressed up as classical Greek goddesses and solemnly pronounced who had won the golden apple. Luoying and her friends sat in front of live-broadcast screens or on the fences around the pasture, chins in hands, and imagined their own futures. They yearned for the day when they would be the focus of everyone’s attention. Because their desires were so direct and united, that time felt as simple and joyful as a watercolor painting.
That was the first balloon she carried with her to Earth, and also the first to be burst.
“When I left Mars for Earth, I was still so taken with the honor of the competition that I carried a notepad with me everywhere, sketching ideas and taking notes, thinking that I would gather all kinds of material that would inspire me for the fair after I got back. The hope was like a balloon trailing behind my luggage. During my first year on Earth, I was so serious about realizing my dream. I learned to use the web and found all kinds of interesting new products. I didn’t understand how they worked, but I took detailed notes about them. I even sneaked into college classes to listen to lectures I only half understood, hoping to better prepare myself for the competition.
“One time I got into a conversation with a student who was just a few years older. She smoked, and talked about everything with a careless, world-weary air. I asked her about a concept from chemistry, and instead of explaining it to me, she demanded to know why I wanted to study the subject. I told her.
“She grew interested and asked me why we cared so much about the Creativity Fair and how much was the prize money. I told her that the winner didn’t win any money. Then she asked me how much the champions could sell the winning projects for. I told her that winning projects weren’t sold and there were no career promotions either. However, the winners got a chance to show their creations to more people, and if the projects were incorporated into the construction of the city, it would be an unparalleled honor.
“She laughed. ‘So you’re telling me the competition is just a chance for you to give away your ideas for free?’
“I was too startled to answer.
“The young woman leaned against the back of her chair and laughed some more as she regarded me. ‘You Martians are so … interesting. Your government exploits your minds with no compensation, and you don’t even seem to be aware that it’s happening. Don’t you want to protect your rights?’
“I was stunned, uncertain what she was talking about. At first I was merely confused, but then I became a little afraid. I felt air leaking from that beautiful balloon, and I was so sad. But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything.”
Luoying looked at Reini. “Doctor, why do things always turn out to be different from our first understanding of them?”
Reini, who sat next to Luoying with his arms on his knees, looked away as his eyes focused on some invisible spot, as though seeking a good answer for her. Eventually he said, “I think sometimes it happens like this: A person from one civilization looks at their surroundings as distinct objects and events and considers them separately. But when a person from another civilization looks in as an outsider, they prefer to view everything through the lens of political power and try to explain everything based on that perspective.”
“Is that the way we should understand them?”
Reini paused. Then he said, “I can only say that normally people inside a civilization would not view their surroundings that way.”
Luoying glanced at the setting sun, which seemed to be carrying a distant melancholy on the horizon. She turned and locked eyes with Dr. Reini. His eyes were in shadow, while the frames of his glasses shone bright in the light.
“Doctor, do you know how to get into the Registry of Files?”
“Why do you want to get inside?”
“I want to look up some information from the past … about my family, about Grandfather, and his father.”
“Can’t you find out from your family?”
“I can’t. My parents died when I was too little to understand, and my brother won’t talk to me about these things.” After a moment of hesitation she added, “I dare not ask my grandfather at all.”
Luoying had so many questions for her grandfather, but she could not ask most of them. Many Terrans had told her that Hans Sloan had become the consul because his father was also a dictator. From ancient times to now, passing the throne from parent to child was a feature shared by all dictators. They told her all this with such conviction. But she dared not ask, and didn’t want to ask. Her grandfather’s blood flowed in her veins as well, and she couldn’t confront him.
Looking at Reini, she bit her lip expectantly.
“Procedurally, there are two ways,” said Reini calmly. “First, if you have an authorization from the History Atelier, you can explain y
our research needs and apply for a permit with the Registry. Second, certain qualified individuals can give you a power of attorney, allowing you to access the Registry on a temporary or long-term basis on their behalf.”
“Who are these qualified individuals?”
“A small group that includes the consul, the archon of each of the nine systems, and the three justices of the Security System.”
Luoying’s heart sank. These were all individuals she didn’t want to talk to and who wouldn’t likely give her access anyway. “I suppose I won’t be able to go, then,” she muttered.
After a moment of silence, Reini said, “I’m qualified as well.”
“You?”
Reini nodded. “Your grandfather gave me permanent access.”
“But why?”
“He knew that I was working on a history and needed to consult the documents and records of the Registry.”
“Why would a doctor be writing a history?”
“A hobby, I suppose.”
“Are you good friends with my grandfather?”
“No. But there was a time when I agreed to help him, and this was his way of thanking me.”
“What did you help him with?”
“A matter of engineering.”
Luoying was curious, but Reini didn’t want to elaborate, and she didn’t want to pry. She hadn’t expected her doctor to have such connections with her family. He seemed to hint at an even more complicated past than she was aware of.
“Then … can you give me a power of attorney?” She gazed at him. “Onetime access is enough.”
“In principle, yes.” Reini looked at her and hesitated. “But have you thought through why you want to find out about the past?”
“I’ve given it some thought.”
“Why?”
“I think … it’s because I’m still trying to find myself.” Remembering all her ruminations the last few days, she tried to be frank. “Rudy once told me that it wasn’t necessary to be fixated on the past, but I just can’t let it go. I want to know what events caused me to be me. And if my fate was determined by my surroundings, then I want to know what caused this world to be the way it is. Without understanding the past, I can’t choose the future.”
“I understand.” Reini nodded. “I can accept that reason.”
Luoying let out a held breath. “Does that mean you agree?”
“Yes.”
Luoying smiled gratefully at Reini, who responded with a kind look. She didn’t keep on pestering him, and he didn’t say more. A tranquil silence enveloped them. Reini moved Luoying’s wheelchair by another few centimeters so that she could enjoy the sunlight a bit longer. Surrounded by the stars, the sun vanished millimeter by millimeter. Without clouds, there was a simple magnificence to the sight. Mars was like a lonely lover turning away, lingering but resolute, parting from the warmth, leaving light behind. Against the empty, desolate plain, Luoying seemed to discern figures of the past reenacting their deeds as if in a holographic film.
After the last sliver of the sun vanished, Luoying asked, “Doctor, I’ve always wanted to ask: Is it really possible to write history? I’ve grown to think that everyone can write a different history that sounds like the truth.”
“You’re right,” said Reini. “But that is also what makes history important.”
“Will we also one day be part of the history books?”
“Absolutely. Everyone ends up as part of the history books.”
Reini pushed Luoying to the edge of the skydeck. Night had fallen, and under the starlight they had an unimpeded view of the vast land stretching thousands of kilometers in every direction. The mountains and valleys of Mars were grander than those on Earth and more angular, steeper, taller. Like their city and sky, the land was simple and direct, guileless.
* * *
Reini’s history was an experiment.
There were many approaches to historiography. Chronicles by year, biographies of great figures, and narratives of events. But what Reini was working on wasn’t any of those. He didn’t know what to call his creation; perhaps “a history of words” would do. The protagonists of his history weren’t years, figures, or events but abstract words and phrases. He didn’t care about “objectivity” through the use of voluminous numerical data, nor did he think individuals provided the answers to questions he cared about. He was hoping to use logic to connect people and events into a true drama. The actors played their roles inadvertently but unexpectedly obtained a plot.
What he was working on now was the history of freedom. He had written the histories of creation and communication, but now he wanted to focus on freedom.
He had complicated feelings about his own country. The events from a decade ago left indelible marks in his heart. But he understood that the founders of his country had not intended to create an automated machine. They put their lives on the line, gave up the supplies from Earth, severed all ties to that planet, sought independence and the commons of spiritual and intellectual wealth because of a single enticement: freedom. Without the support of this belief, it was impossible that so few could have overcome so many. The republic of today was riddled with faults, but the original hope had been pure.
Reini spent much of his time reading and writing. His duties at the hospital were limited, as he was a neurology researcher, not a full-time clinician. He was responsible for studying the neural system and biomechanics and developing new instruments. But he didn’t belong to a fixed laboratory and didn’t have his own research group or public funding for projects. His own living stipend was too small to allow him to pursue grand projects. His isolation and limited resources had both pluses and minuses. On the one hand, his career had no advancement opportunities, but on the other hand, he had plenty of free time outside of his official duties. So he spent a great part of each day taking walks, reading, and crafting his histories.
It took about a minute on the tube train to get from his apartment to the hospital, but he preferred to walk the three kilometers every day, taking breaks along the way at parks, where he observed trees from long benches. The parks were full of lush vegetation, and he preferred to admire the marvels of nature by himself. It wasn’t so much that he kept others at a distance deliberately, but there were few whose company he enjoyed. He didn’t think much about it only because he didn’t want to face the inevitable bitterness that would result.
Writing gave him great pleasure and allowed him to pass the otherwise bitter moments of his life with ease. Over time, he had come to rely on writing. Only when he was immersed in the vast, complicated maze of historical documents could he face the lonely days with dedication and self-assurance. He was a man who had been punished, and he could not ask for more in his life.
Reini liked to play games with words. He picked words out of life and planted them on paper, building up the drama of personalities around them. Words and their shifting uses brought about changes in life. It was a habit of thinking developed from childhood. When he was a boy, he had a set of toy blocks based on words, which influenced him greatly. During his lonely childhood, the blocks brought him endless imagined possibilities and the comforts of companionship.
Reini’s father was a veteran of the war, and Reini was his only child, born in the seventh year after the conclusion of the war. Reini’s mother left them when he was four. He couldn’t recall her face, not even in dreams. His father was a generous, forgiving man, and he didn’t complain. Under the eaves of their dwelling, he told the three-year-old Reini that the distance between events wasn’t like the distance between people. On that map of events, all points were equidistant. His father arranged metal dishes like a battlefield map and sang to himself in the dusk. After that, his father rarely supervised his instruction. The parting of his parents merged into all the partings during that time and, in the lingering gaze that came after sorrow, transformed into an abstract musical score with the stars as notes. Young Reini was pretty much brought up by himself.
The biggest influence in Reini’s childhood was that set of toy blocks. He spent hours by himself with the blocks on the smooth kitchen floor, building castles, spaceships, whatever he fancied. The blocks were in different shapes and sizes, and could be put together in infinite ways. Each block had a word on it, meant to promote early literacy. Between the ages of two and eleven, they were Reini’s constant companions. He was amazed by the way the words supported each other. Courage was a thin, long plank, elegant in appearance. He could put it together with purity and build a small tower. But when he wanted to build a bigger tower, he realized that he had to let courage lie flat lest it get in the way of other blocks, other words. He examined the shapes of the words, trying different combinations and usages. For a child, the process was marvelous and deeply absorbing. He put as much effort into the blocks as he put into schooling and his family.
The blocks turned into an independent game of abstractions. Even as a grown man, he still saw them in his mind. When he listened to a lecture, for instance, he saw a city onstage, out of which extended a pole of agreement, from which hung multiple mockeries, whose purpose was to disguise the tattered panic within the city and the disorderly heaps of random knowledge.
As he grew older, the games in his mind turned into deeper ruminations. He thought about how to record and narrate the experiences of his country, of how it came to be. He thought about oral histories, about using charts and figures for analysis and comparison, about noting down all the details year by year. But in the end he chose words. In his view, only by focusing on words could one see clearly the struggles and choices of every individual.
Whether history could be written was a question on which Reini reserved judgment. He knew that histories depended on whose gaze was privileged. The gaze determined the voice; the eyes governed the lips.
In books, history always exhibited the characteristics of water. For some who believed in linear progression, history was a surging river advancing relentlessly, as though the endpoint and humanity’s future had been ordained by divine will. In their view, Mars represented a type of pure socialism unprecedented in human history, the inevitable revolutionary result of a certain level of scientific and technological development, the first realization of utopianism, the bright, fresh tip of time’s arrow.