by Zhang Yueran
Finally, on a clear, hot night, Zhong Qian woke to find the back gate clacking in the wind. He followed the moonlight and found Chun Chi by the lake, peeling off her many layers of clothing. Zhong Qian had never seen her remove her thick swaddling. Even when it was filthy and flea-ridden, she refused to wash it or herself.
Now her clothes were on the ground, she slowly bent to the water, leaning against the phoenix-wood railing. Zhong Qian saw her silhouette against the full moon — and the proud bump of her belly.
The pregnant woman scooped water over her body with both hands. She carefully scrubbed her neck, her breasts, her arms, her legs, down to her toes, and then finally splashed her belly. The water may have been too cold, or her belly too sensitive, but as the drops landed on that lonely stretch of skin, she let out a little mew.
Distracted, she didn’t notice her clothes sliding into the water. Zhong Qian, holding his breath, wanted to reach out and rescue them — but the thought of startling her was too much for him to bear. He dithered. It wasn’t just the clothes, he wanted to talk to her. Before he could decide, she’d finished washing and stood again, her hand against the tree, trembling from having squatted so long. Her legs must be numb, barely able to support her. She waited till they were steady, then bent to pick up each half-soaked garment and wrap it back around her body. Even blind and in an unfamiliar place, her slow movements had a graceful order to them. A long, sturdy strip of linen went around her belly, binding it close, round after round, her hands gripping and winding as if drawing well-water. He could hear strained noises coming from her throat.
How much strength she was using, how much pain she must feel. It wasn’t just the baby she needed to conceal, but its father, and all the events of the past, all of that now disappearing under layer after layer of fabric. Only when the baby was back in its suffocating cocoon did she feel safe. This torment was the best protection for the baby.
When Chun Chi had done all this, she floated back into the house, closing the door silently behind her. Zhong Qian stayed in the garden for a long while, thinking: what if Tsong Tsong found out about the child? He knew her well enough to answer the question himself: she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She wouldn’t be able to stay with her.
11
Zhong Qian felt close to Chun Chi now, as if the secret had brought them together. He didn’t need to do anything, a secret like this would be exposed sooner or later.
He quickly realised that Chun Chi planned to escape. In the evenings, she asked Zhong Qian to bring her for a walk, always the same route, from the boat-house to the docks. She was silent all the way there and back, carefully memorising the path. She salted away a few things from the house — without seeing them, she had no idea what they were worth, and so the valuable and valueless alike disappeared into her wooden chest. She would sink to the level of theft because she was a mother, carefully accumulating treasures for her child.
Each time Zhong Qian saw her do this, a wave of sadness passed through him. Should he let her go? He knew now that he and Tsong Tsong couldn’t go back to the way they were before. Chun Chi wasn’t just a pebble in the river, causing a couple of ripples but not obstructing its flow. She was so sharp and heavy, no one could easily forget her. He wanted her to stay, even though he was largely irrelevant in their ménage à trois. But he sensed that this would change soon. In order to detain Chun Chi, he chose to tell Tsong Tsong the secret.
He tried to justify it: this would stop Chun Chi punishing herself. But his uneasy heart couldn’t deny that revealing this secret would bring him only joy.
Tsong Tsong told herself that the changes in Chun Chi were caused by her suffering. After Zhong Qian spoke to her, she noticed that Chun Chi always walked with a hand pressed against her abdomen, that her appetite shrunk by the day, that she was always exhausted. She noticed Chun Chi’s alertness, the care with which she moved, and realised Zhong Qian must be telling the truth.
The days slipped by, apparently calm, until Chun Chi felt too tired to continue the deception. It was time for her to go.
Late that night, carrying her wooden chest, she trod the now familiar path through the flower garden. Her footsteps were certain — not a thread of hesitation, never looking back. She felt for the garden gate, her hands brushing over lanterns, trellises, great shady banana leaves. The gate was next. She took one more step, but her hands found not wood but warm, soft flesh. Her heart froze, her hand shrunk back.
Someone’s hand shot out and pressed hard against her belly. Tsong Tsong’s soft voice slapped her in the face: “And where could your mama be taking you, little one?”
12
Now the need for pretence was past, Chun Chi felt something slacken within her. She slowly stripped away the layers of cloth. When her belly was exposed, she thought she felt the little fellow inside let out a sigh of relief. Her exhaustion slipped away and she was suddenly alive again.
Tsong Tsong’s sharp eyes rested on Chun Chi’s belly. Ugly stretch marks squirmed on its surface, like worms, like the dirty finger marks of men, their diseased swollen lips, their poison-mushroom genitals. Her hatred bubbled over and she pushed Chun Chi to the ground, knocking over a pail. She and that evil belly steeped in the spilled water, but no amount of water could wash away their contamination.
Chun Chi lay on the ground, her face crushing a few fallen mandala blossoms. That cursed flower suited her mood, they should all die with her. But Chun Chi’s will to live was now stronger than ever. Without being aware of it, her hands slipped down protectively. She felt the strong breaths of her child, and gained a moment of peace.
Chun Chi’s composure left Tsong Tsong helpless. In front of her was a complete mother, dishevelled, caring nothing for herself. What could account for such pride? There must be a tremendous love behind that swollen belly. She was full of love and expectation, and even a few grains of smugness, which she couldn’t prevent from showing in her face. She had never really come back to Tsong Tsong — but, needing help, followed her mother-instinct and lied as she needed to.
Jealousy burned in Tsong Tsong. She seemed to see strange men circling Chun Chi like birds of prey, their pitch-black shadows falling on her body like a net. Chun Chi herself reposed peacefully in the stifling confines of the net, willing to put herself through whatever suffering was necessary.
Tsong Tsong longed to know what kind of man could inspire such pride, such steadfastness. Their mysterious love story was a thorn piercing deep into her flesh, the pain torturing her until she had no choice but to remove it.
Tsong Tsong had spent many hours alone in the boat-house brewing mandala wine. The bottles stood in rows, their colour deepening with age. Now she retrieved two of the oldest, a deep treacly brown, the flower petals in them swollen like little chrysalises. Mandala flowers allowed to steep this long produced more than an intoxicant, they were a gateway to fairyland. Drinking this wine gave a floating sensation, as if suddenly weightless. She poured two full glasses which she and Chun Chi drained at the same moment, then the same again, and then another two. Dizziness overcame both women. Then Tsong Tsong said, suddenly, “I’ve poisoned the wine. Do you believe me?”
Even in her drunken state, Chun Chi’s first reaction was to place a hand on her belly.
“Don’t worry, I just want to help you get rid of the child.” Tsong Tsong’s harsh laughter made her seem, just at that moment, like any of the shipboard song-girls.
Chun Chi staggered to her feet and tried to walk away, but her body seemed too light, as if her legs didn’t reach the ground. A few paces was all she managed before collapsing. She struggled, but Tsong Tsong held her down. “Tell me how that baby got inside you, and I’ll give you the antidote.”
Under the influence of mandala juice, even such an absurd threat seemed credible. Chun Chi began telling the story of her escape from the refugee shelter. So many things had been churning inside her, ready to explode. She needed an outlet for them, a witness to her great love. Tsong Tsong was perfe
ct for this role, for no one cared more about this love affair than she.
Tsong Tsong watched Chun Chi intently as she narrated, feeling her drift away, her voice seeming to come from a different world. When she described her seven days with Camel, Tsong Tsong remembered the man’s puffy, hideous face. She saw the intimacies they shared, as he enjoyed her fullness, explored her warmth, breathed in her moisture. Their entangled bodies thrashed like dying carp on the shore; sweat flowed off them like a river, and Tsong Tsong’s tears flowed too at the thought.
In reality, the story was very short, spanning no more than a few days. The rest of the time, she’d been like Tsong Tsong, searching endlessly. But why did the torturous hunt sound like such bliss when Chun Chi talked about it?
Looking for the past in seashells, hauling up memories from the pitiless ocean — should Tsong Tsong admire Chun Chi’s steadfastness, or mock her insane devotion?
Tsong Tsong didn’t interrupt Chun Chi once. She wondered only how Chun Chi could sit there so calmly, as composed as the Virgin Mother, as if everything had unfolded as part of a great plan, as if she were not to blame at all.
At the end, Chun Chi said, “And that’s all,” shaking Tsong Tsong’s heart. This was a phrase she’d used all the time, when telling a story or at the end of an argument. Her voice level, even a bit helpless. Tsong Tsong adored her when she spoke these words, opening her hands to offer everything up, a picture of docility.
And that’s all. With these words she placed herself at Tsong Tsong’s mercy.
An urgent squall came as darkness fell. Chun Chi smiled, remembering that it always rained at dusk on Lian Yan Island in March and April. She felt a warm attachment for this place, or perhaps for this woman. Tsong Tsong saw Chun Chi shiver with cold, a sudden smile appearing on her red-marked face. Impossible to know her mind, this tortured woman who could find a speck of happiness in the wreckage of life.
Chun Chi grew limp from the strong wine. After finishing her story, she slumped over the table, unable to raise her head.
The silence at this moment was like a giant boulder between them. Tsong Tsong felt its weight slowly crushing her, squeezing her into madness. She was unable to look at Chun Chi; even the sight of her made her think of that man, that dirty man pressing himself against her. The man was a boulder too, a meteorite, falling out of the sky and shattering Chun Chi, ripping her apart to feed on the succulence within. And Chun Chi’s dry eye sockets had wept blood-tears of gratitude. She was beyond salvation.
13
For the last time, Tsong Tsong bathed Chun Chi. When they lived in the shelter, they’d have to venture deep into the jungle to find a dirty stream. While wiping each other’s bodies, they fantasised about a wooden tub overflowing with hot water, flower petals floating in it, a closed door for privacy, the luxurious scrubbing of every inch of skin.
Now they had that — mandala petals steeped in scalding water — but her body was too soiled, it would never be clean again.
Tsong Tsong gently called, “Come this way, Chun Chi.” And Chun Chi stumbled towards the voice, even those few steps seeming to take a huge amount of energy. In an unfamiliar place, she always seemed especially helpless, an infant learning to walk. There was a strange beauty to all this — as if they’d returned to the beginning, when she recognised no one but Tsong Tsong. When she had no one else to guide her, no one to trust. No one but Tsong Tsong.
“If you don’t like going on the ships, you can stay here. I earn a lot of money from my singing, you’ll be able to live very well.” Tsong Tsong combed Chun Chi’s hair as she spoke, her words a soothing stream, like a lullaby. Chun Chi nodded, resting her head against Tsong Tsong’s body, closing her eyes contentedly. Still embracing her, Tsong Tsong helped her up the wooden step and into the tub.
“Is the temperature all right?”
“It’s good.” Chun Chi lowered herself into the water, feeling it stroke her belly.
Tsong Tsong scooped water over her shoulders. The red-flecked skin was still sensitive and Chun Chi shuddered. Tsong Tsong grabbed the ointment and began applying it. “If only you’d used this earlier, you’d be fine by now.”
Chun Chi nodded obediently.
“For as long as I’ve known you, you’re always getting hurt, and I’m always having to heal you. Is this our destiny?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was always so good to you, and still you left me.” Tsong Tsong’s voice suddenly became a sob.
“You can’t accept that I have his child inside me.”
“Is it so important? More important than what we’ve have?”
Chun Chi said nothing.
Tsong Tsong finished applying the ointment and began pouring water over Chun Chi’s breasts, where her body had changed the most — they’d swelled in every direction, and the nipples were darker, no longer so sensitive. Even when the water touched them, they continued to droop softly. Tsong Tsong found them ugly. She hated them. They made Chun Chi look like a sluggish middle-aged woman.
Finally, Tsong Tsong could stand it no more and blurted, “I spoke to a local woman, very experienced, she knows how to get rid of the child, even at this stage —”
Chun Chi felt a chill. All she wanted was to have her bath, but as always, Tsong Tsong had to shatter the peace. “If my baby dies, I will die with him.”
Tsong Tsong’s stone-hard face reddened. So that’s how things were. She knew Chun Chi was capable of carrying out her threat. Her heart turned cold and grey. She turned away from Chun Chi and walked out into the garden.
14
Tsong Tsong’s sudden departure was unexpected. The night before, she’d chopped down all the mandala trees with an axe. The place looked like a rolling sea of fire, all the fallen flaming blossoms. Zhong Qian stood behind her, but she never noticed.
In the morning, Zhong Qian found her bed empty, not even warm. She must have left in the small hours of the morning. She didn’t seem to have brought anything with her. Everything was in its place, but the boat-house was cold and empty.
Zhong Qian grieved, most of all because she hadn’t left him a note. He no longer had a place in her thoughts. Still, he was determined to find her. He crossed the entire island and talked to the song-girls, but there was no news. If Tsong Tsong wanted to hide, there would be no finding her. Zhong Qian’s despair at that moment must have resembled Tsong Tsong’s during her earlier search. When Zhong Qian had used up his energy, he remembered Chun Chi and returned to the house.
Chun Chi had been sitting on the bed for a long time, guarding her slowly-growing body. She waited and waited, but Tsong Tsong didn’t appear. So she’d been unable to forgive Chun Chi — this was expected, but she still felt a great loss now at this sudden departure.
Chun Chi groped her way along the walls and into the garden. She heard Zhong Qian’s voice, “Are you going to look for her?” As if he could have stopped her.
“No, I’m going to find more shells. Will you come with me?”
Her voice was so strong, so sincere, that he could find no way of refusing her. But he was too tired to even stand a moment longer, and slumped onto the doorstep. She stood there barefoot. Tsong Tsong had got her some shoes, but she refused to wear them, as if flaunting her red feet to gain pity. He suddenly wanted to hold her and weep, but controlled himself. They barely knew each other. He only felt close to her because of a mysterious sense of kinship. He realised that he liked her too.
At this moment of utter exhaustion, without the energy to move or even think, he slumped by the door watching her silently, and she was still too, like a painting, perfect.
Chun Chi’s beauty was not as startling as Tsong Tsong’s. She had the thin phoenix eyes of a Chinese girl, a pointed chin, thick hair — just like a pretty village girl, nothing special at first glance. But beneath those delicate features was a tremendous strength, and the marks that suffering had left on her made her worthy of respect as well as pity.
He realised who she reminded hi
m of — the goddess of mercy he used to worship in the village temple. In his childhood, apart from his grandmother, that statue was his only source of mother-love. As a youth he’d actually prostrated himself before the goddess, praying for the immortal figure to use her finger dipped in holy water to show him the right way. When he left the village for the city, although his life became more colourful, he missed the statue — until now, when he saw the same power in Chun Chi.
She was maternal by nature, she shone with it, like a rescue light. He sat looking at her, not moving till the sky filled with stars, his heart heavy with hope.
Finally he stood and carefully patted the dirt off his body. “Get rid of all that cloth around your belly. You don’t need to hide from me. Stay here. I’ll take care of you.”
Chun Chi stepped back, wary of the man. He saw how scared she was and smiled bitterly — but he was also satisfied. No woman had ever been afraid of him before.
15
Zhong Qian’s life suddenly became busy. Searching for Tsong Tsong, taking care of Chun Chi. The days passed with increasing speed. He rose before dawn to prepare Chun Chi’s food, and then set out to sea, hauling up nets of shells, asking everyone he encountered for news of Tsong Tsong. He returned after sunset, bearing shells and maybe a few sea bream. The ground would have dried by then, after the usual twilight rain, but the air remained damp, the last rays of sunlight gone and the moon showing half its face. The equator moon is fuller, more beautiful than when seen from other lands.
Zhong Qian’s heart felt light and he hummed as he walked, a little tune he’d learnt from the song-girls. He’d expected these old songs to sadden him by reminding him of Tsong Tsong, but they didn’t seem to take away from his present high spirits. How quickly he had walked past his sadness.