The Promise Bird

by Zhang Yueran

  14

  She turned up again, sitting in the back row as always, smiling, ripe as a peach. The Preacher hated that smile now. It was cheap, belonging only to the surface. His heart actually ached as he watched her singing hymns with such gusto, greedily cramming communion wafers into her mouth.

  Someone should reach out a hand of loving kindness and patience to pull her from the mud she had sunk into. Accordingly, he walked up to her. “Have you a little time after the service? I would like to speak with you, if I may.”

  She nodded, her pale blue eyes drilling through him like bullets. He was her captive again, his position weaker than before. He should have recognised her deadliness much sooner.

  They sat below a giant tree fern, strips of shade from its fronds swaying in the hot wind, a voiceless harp. Her dizzying scent again, which he could now identify as mandala. The song-girls were known for their mesmerising perfumes; it was how they intoxicated men, turned them into willing slaves.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Tsong Tsong.” She popped a betel nut into her mouth.

  “I don’t know any Chinese, but that sounds beautiful.”

  “It’s the sound of flowing water. Gentler than the sea.” Her lips were bright red.

  “That’s right, like flowing water.” He tried it out, “Tsong Tsong.” A pause. “You don’t look like the natives here. Where do you—?”

  “My mother was Chinese, my father was Dutch.”

  “Really? I’m Dutch too.” At last, something in common to close the distance between them.

  “Oh?” She continued chewing vigorously, not even looking up at him.

  “Are your parents in Holland?”

  “They’re dead. It’s a pity, you’d have liked my father.”

  “Yes?”

  “He was a preacher too.”

  “So that’s it,” he sighed. His heart filled with the kind of joy that cannot be put into words. He knew why he’d felt close to this child from the moment he first saw her, as if she’d walked into the church to visit him. Through her late father, God had led her to this place, handed her to him, a lost lamb. The image filled him with tender emotion.

  “What are you doing now?”.

  “I sing on the ships,” she said, the betel nut flashing between her teeth.

  His heart plunged to hear the answer he’d least hoped for. The one comfort was that she hadn’t lied.

  “You’re so young,” he couldn’t help saying, regretfully.

  “At sea, I’m not young at all. Little Jade and Qiao are younger than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Madame says she’s had girls as young as nine.” Her spoken English was sprinkled with native phrases and intonations.

  “You must have suffered a lot.”

  “No, Madame likes me best. She trained me herself.”

  “What did she teach you?”

  “Lots. Singing, dancing, drinking, cards, chess —”

  Fighting to stay calm, trying to sound loving, “You can’t go on like this. What kind of existence is this? You don’t intend to spend your whole life on the ships, do you?”

  His concern seemed sudden, intrusive. She smiled and spat out the betel nut. “I don’t see what’s wrong with life on the boat. We meet all kinds of interesting men, they treat us like their precious darlings and give us things you’ve never seen before. Every day is a holiday, visiting somewhere new. It’s so much fun.”

  “But you don’t have a direction of your own. Every person has his own destiny, his own hopes, something to make his life’s work. Tell me, young lady, what do you hope for most, in your heart?”

  “I hope that the Chinese minister with the long beard will come and see me soon. He never forgets to bring me pomegranates, big red ones, ripe and split open and spilling out seeds. He only brings them for me, not the other girls. At night he slips into my room and stuffs my bosom with them.”

  The Preacher was silent. This girl was chaff, a thing of the wilderness, habituated to filth. Her aspirations were pathetic: sensuous pleasures, a bit of fun, and nothing more. His heart ached for her. Her rapt expression angered him.

  “That’s enough. Look how far you’ve fallen. Are a few pomegranates enough to make you happy? You’re wasting your life, trampling it —”

  “Is only your kind of life meaningful? I don’t know what I’d have to do not to ‘trample’ or ‘waste’ my life. But I know I don’t want to be like you. Giving my whole life to some God I haven’t seen or touched. At least I’m spending my life on men I can see and touch.” Her red lips curled triumphantly. She looked directly in his eyes, a challenge.

  “If your father were still alive, he’d be very disappointed to see you like this.”

  “The whole world disappoints me,” she said, suddenly fragile and defeated. She stood up slowly and walked away without looking back.

  15

  After Tsong Tsong left, it started to rain. The Preacher stayed where he was under the tree fern. The rain soaked through his bad mood, muddying his heart. Hadn’t he planned to ask her to stay with him, to let him take care of her?

  The betel nut she’d spat out lay on the ground like a deep red cocoon, shunted about by the rain. He nudged it with his foot.

  Tsong Tsong disappeared for a long time after that. The tsunami receded into the past, and the pain melted slowly, as did the numbers of people attending the church. He’d once preached forgetfulness at them, and now it looked like he had succeeded. They’d recovered by forgetting everything, including the church.

  The Preacher’s voice from the pulpit grew slower, even distracted. No one noticed. The congregation now consisted mainly of doddery old women who felt comforted by stagnant rituals.

  The last row of pews lay bathed in glorious, abundant sunlight. The Preacher stood before his congregants, his eyes drawn to that bright corner. So easy to imagine. The girl was light as a feather, a speck of dust, an insult. She could slip in noiselessly, sit in the golden sunlight, maybe fall asleep. The Preacher thought this as his lips spoke the words of his sermon. Perhaps the girl was sleeping there. The morning sun was clear, the church almost empty. He fancied he could hear her snoring.

  He faced a cold, lifeless church, a desolate old age.

  Follow the spiral staircase all the way down. This buried kingdom isn’t hell. Keep going, until the sound of wind fills your ears and dust blinds your eyes and vines still your feet. Only then will the memory-keepers appear.

  Hong Shang was born too beautiful, so the men from Holland left her alive, having killed her parents, brother and sister, and burnt down their house.

  She stood by the river watching her whole family die. The Dutch men tied their hair together: father, mother, older sister, baby brother. Rope tangling their heads, her sister’s red hair ribbon just like hers. Many others tied up like this, in groups. The Dutch fired them like cannonballs into the water. Her family’s heads bobbed for a second before sinking. Even after they vanished, she could hear her brother’s screams. She stared at the river, hoping the red hair ribbon would reappear. Nothing. Weeping, she flung her own ribbon into the water.

  A Dutch soldier pushed her into the long grass and violated her. He carried her deep into the jungle and tied her to a giant fern tree. Every day, he came to her with a little food, and then wriggled about on top of her.

  He killed her when he had to go back to Holland. He raped her one last time in a grove of trees by the docks. Now that the massacre was over, he didn’t want to use his sword, and so he strangled her, then strung her from a tree. Her lower body dripped with blood, which attracted several leopards. They circled below the tree, lapping at the blood, staring hungrily at the dangling shape above them.

  16

  A year passed by before he saw her again.

  The dry season arrived on Lian Yan Island in April, a sleepy time. The Preacher was no longer especially well-groomed at Sunday service. In fact, he began to deliberately neglect himself — straggly stubble, w
rinkled shirts, smeared glasses — and it was in this state that Tsong Tsong encountered him.

  Before he had time to feel ashamed of his appearance, the Preacher realised Tsong Tsong was in a bad way. She was in her old place in the last row, knees hugged to her chest, curled up on the pew. She was manifestly not asleep, but in the grip of some powerful emotion that wouldn’t allow her to rest. Yet her eyes were shut, her body motionless inside its voluminous black dress. Her bare feet were caked in dirt.

  After the final prayer, he walked stealthily up to her. She remained motionless. Up close, he could see tearstains on her face and, as he’d feared, a cross-hatch of cuts and scars on the chestnut skin of her legs. There was something atavistic, sinister about her now, and he suspected she was aware of this, even exploited it. Yes, he could tell — this girl was a born masochist, obsessed with torturing herself.

  He tore his eyes away from her alarming legs and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes peeled open. “You must be tired. I didn’t hear you singing.”

  “That’s right. So tired,” she replied feebly.

  “Stay here. Rest. Let me take care of you.” His offer, stored up for so long, was saturated with his deepest feelings.

  “I’ve been trying to do what you said, live a decent life on shore. I’ve been through so much and travelled so far, to do something I had to do. But everything is connected, even if you can’t see the connections. I couldn’t keep the strands separate, everything got tangled up. You have no idea what I’ve done. I’m in so much trouble now. I’m being punished. No one can rescue me.” Talking to herself, sunk in misery.

  The Preacher, saddened, could guess what happened: in this last year, she must have encountered a love that entered the marrow, and hurt the other person beyond recovery; but with love running so deep, she couldn’t have escaped unscathed. He studied her. Who could have shaken her heart like this? He would have been jealous, but her pathetic appearance elicited enough pity to swamp all other emotion. He said, as gently as he could, “Don’t worry. No matter what you’ve done, as long as you truly repent, the Lord will forgive you.”

  “That’s not possible. You don’t understand. What I’ve done is unforgivable.”

  He held her as she wept and tried to comfort her, “Trust me. Nothing is unforgivable in God’s eyes. You can be at peace here. We’ll bring you into the light, safe and warm again. Your unhappiness will fall away, the past won’t trouble you any more.”

  “I’ll never forget them. They were so beautiful,” she murmured.

  He let out a sigh. She was mired in emotion, wilfully suffering torment, refusing the relief of forgetfulness.

  The girl swung to face him, her bright eyes accusing. “You want me to confess my sin so God will forgive me and I’ll be saved. Is that it? And then I should give my life to Jesus, and He’ll bring peace to my heart.”

  “Of course. The Lord will forgive you. You can return to His side at any time, as long as you’re willing to accept him.” She nodded. Encouraged, he went on, “I’m happy to bring you to His side.”

  Her smile seemed to cost her a great deal of effort.

  “Come with me. I’ll bring you to see our Miss Jian. She’ll find you somewhere to stay. Our life here is simple, but I think you’ll get used to it soon enough.” He knew that she was only here because she had temporarily lost her way. He had to keep her here, not let her vanish again.

  “Thank you,” said the girl.

  17

  The Preacher could scarcely believe that the girl was living so close to him. Each morning, he could see her in the garden, eyes unfocussed, still in her baggy nightgown, expressionless as a sleep-walker. She was always barefoot, ignoring the brand-new shoes he got her, preferring to punish herself by walking across the filthiest puddles, the sharpest stones.

  The community ate together most evenings. She spoke about her life at sea — and although not particularly honourable, it was not as depraved as he had feared. Her innocence and frankness were disarming. Watching from the side, he could see that Miss Jian and the two other middle-aged church ladies were enchanted. The girl had a magnetic power, able to control their every reaction.

  But the girl was not happy. She had been through so many trials that now, at rest, she had no vitality left. She enjoyed singing and dutifully joined the choir, but showed no interest in other aspects of the church, preferring to stay in her room reading her Bible, or staring blankly into space. He gave her many instructional books, hoping she would draw strength from them.

  The Preacher believed that over time he would reach her, and lead her from the shadow. Whenever he had to go far away, he was sure to bring something back for her — silk from Siam, rattanwork from Java, beautiful shoes and dresses. She seemed embarrassed to receive so many gifts, smiling each time, “I’m not used to being treated so well.” She accepted the clothes, but never wore them. He only ever saw her in the overlarge black dress, washed so many times it had become shapeless as a sack.

  It was her silence that troubled him the most. She seemed distracted, waiting for someone to take her away. He visualised her stepping into that person’s boat, becoming as unruly as before, her body perfumed like ripened fruit. She would never show him that side of herself; such joy had nothing to do with him. His rage grew in the infinite space of speculation. Now he was sure she was waiting for someone. This was just a halfway house to her. She would recover her health, and when her lover appeared, leave without a backwards glance. In these imaginings, he felt madness beckon.

  18

  Events turned again, letting a ray of light into his darkness: in July, he received a letter from his son, who was travelling in Europe, but missed his father and wanted to come visit him on his tropical island.

  The Preacher put down the letter and wandered into the garden. The seeds so carelessly scattered on the lawn had already turned into sturdy flowering plants. Another cycle complete. How quickly time passed. He remembered old Teresa hobbling in — not long after the first time he met Tsong Tsong — and quietly sprinkling those flower seeds on an empty patch. They said she’d once been a raving beauty, but it was hard to imagine her glory days, given her ravaged appearance.

  “This is a land without order. Even the seasons are confused. There is no flowering season, or else the whole year is a flowering season. Life is a casual affair here. For a child to be born, or abandoned, or die — these are unremarkable events. Yet each blade of grass, every tree, possesses astonishing potential for growth, a remarkable life force.” So he once described this place in a letter to his son, this vegetal paradise.

  Now old Teresa’s plants were budding, putting forth intense purple flowers like long-stemmed cups. A quiet flower with a dull scent, not attention-seeking. A couple of days later, he walked past the grove again and was startled to see the little flowers had turned lilac. Some of them had yet to change colour completely, and the variegated blossoms looked much livelier, even resplendent.

  A few days after that, the lilac faded completely, leaving pure white petals. There were now three distinct bands of colour in the flower patch, from deep purple to white, like the fading of life itself. Watching them seethe in full bloom, he felt overcome with joy, and quickly sent for Teresa to ask what they were called. The old woman twinkled, as if she had known all along how they would delight him. “These flowers are known as ‘Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow.’They take me back to when I was a young girl — how time flies, in just the blink of an eye.”

  The Preacher gazed spellbound at the brightly-coloured blossoms, murmuring their name — Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. The passing of time. Yes, this was the cycle of existence, the order decreed by our Lord.

  19

  The next day, a thin slip of paper fluttered to the ground when Tsong Tsong opened her door. Picking it up, she recognised the Preacher’s writing: “Yesterday passed, just like every other day. No one knew it was my birthday. I am fifty-seven now. It makes me weary to r
emember I am thirty-six years older than you.”

  Tsong Tsong sat at the desk. She picked up her water glass and thought she could see the Preacher’s face through its narrow mouth, hapless and bitter. She had never before considered how old he might be.

  “By next month, I think you will be ready to receive baptism. I have been awaiting this day for some time now. How gratifying it is that I shall watch with my own eyes as you gain new life and take the hand of our Holy Mother. Such joy.

  “There is one other matter that I wish to raise. In a short time, perhaps as soon as next month, my son will visit me on Lian Yan Island. I have told you about him before; perhaps you recall? He is not a bad specimen, tall, handsome, strapping of physique, blessed with an optimistic nature, not full of worry like me. I hope you will consent to meet him when he comes, and if you do not detest him, perhaps the two of you could be together in the future. I mean, as man and wife. I believe you would be very happy.

  “As for your past life on the boat — I am happy to conceal this on your behalf. This would, of course, be unfair to him, but you had no choice in the matter, it was merely due to the exigencies of life. I trust he will come to see it in this way, if he were to discover the truth in the future. Please do not allow the unhappy circumstances of your past to cause you anxiety. He is certain to fall in love with your glacier-like beauty. I have spent many hours thinking of your wedding, the two of you so radiant, so young, standing before the Holy Mother. Speaking your vows, exchanging rings, kissing. I daresay that moment will be the very fulfilment of my life on earth.

  “I must warn you that he is an only child, and has been spoilt by myself and his late mother. Even now he has moments when he thinks only of himself. But if he were to know you, I’m sure he would take extremely good care of you. Just as I have come to know you, and can take care of you. if only the time I had left were not so little.”