by Zhang Yueran
The one thing she couldn’t get used to was the way they were with men, flirting and laughing, cheap and undignified, not even distinguishing between one man and another. Her singular devotion meant she felt only antipathy to these people who treated emotion so casually, who didn’t know what they were looking for in a partner. She was convinced that if Tsong Tsong hadn’t spent so much time with the song-prostitutes, she would never have run off and seduced Camel.
Zhong Qian was on the boat too, having followed Chun Chi on board. Now he watched over her silently. The song-girls were delighted to see him, an old friend, and insisted on drinking with him every night. And so past midnight, they sat beneath two or three lanterns, raising cup after cup of home-brewed wine.
Holding a full cup, Zhong Qian saw the moon and stars reflected in the liquid. To his intoxicated eye, they looked like mandala petals. But this wasn’t possible. There was now no one on the ship who could brew mandala wine. He should have known, that first time — such exquisite wine from such a beauty, she could be no earthly thing, and surely would vanish from the world before long.
The instant before he passed out drunkenly on the deck, Zhong Qian decided that life still held some happiness. Meanwhile, the women tearfully bickered; they really had nothing to complain about, not even missing their families, but felt the need to manufacture grievances. Zhong Qian felt for them — like him, they were leading irregular, peripatetic lives, except their resting place was the ship, and his was Chun Chi. In moments of despair, he thought of staying on board the ship, not following Chun Chi to China. But how would the baby and blind woman survive with no one to help them?
When the boat docked, Zhong Qian said good-bye to the song-girls, and silently followed Chun Chi into a land where they knew no one and had no family.
They found an abandoned hut halfway up a hill. The harsh climate of northern China was not as friendly as the tropics. Icy winds frequently blew open the feeble wooden door, until Zhong Qian took to sleeping with his back against it, which also served to block out draughts.
He found work as an odd-job man in a local inn. He had to leave the hut before dawn, returning late at night. During the day, Chun Chi hid indoors, reading the shells she’d brought with her. Sometimes she wandered the town alone at dusk. The bustle alarmed her, but she still found this community enticing, intimate, full of a childlike warmth. She would never belong to this place, but didn’t want to leave.
The days calmed down and, taking on a rhythm, began to pass with greater speed. Without realising it, the three of them had become a family.
9
Chun Chi left Xiao Xing alone in the hut during her evening excursion into town. Her heart twinged as she walked away, hearing the north wind banging the front door open behind her. She knew she was letting the child down once again, yet felt she had no choice in the matter.
Walking through the streets, she wondered what would happen if they moved into town. She might not need other people, but Xiao Xing eventually would. Her desires were contradictory: on one hand, she hoped Xiao Xing would be a healthy, normal child; on the other, she wanted him to stay by her side forever.
As she returned, it began to snow heavily. This was her first snow — as far as she could remember — and seemed strange yet familiar. The road quickly became blocked, slowing her down. She heard wolf howls from nearby — straining to hear, they seemed to be coming from the direction of the hut. Her heart lurched as she guessed what must have happened. Nestled amongst the nightmare fragments of shell memories were many stories of wolves taking children. Had they got Xiao Xing already?
The door was open. She entered and felt frantically for Xiao Xing on the dry straw of the bed. Nothing. He wasn’t there. Her heart cooled, and she slumped onto the bed, the wild fruit she had picked on the way suddenly weighing nothing. Her heart emptied — nothing mattered any more, not even her precious memories.
She didn’t know how long it was before she heard footsteps. She waited for the sound of the door, then said, softly, “Zhong Qian, Xiao Xing’s gone.”
Zhong Qian had been coughing as he brushed the snow off his body, but as soon as he heard her words, the coughs were strangled. “Where did he go?”
“The straw on his bed was torn apart — I think a wolf came.” She had no energy to say more. Not wanting to cry in front of Zhong Qian, she turned away from him.
“Wolf?” His voice was unsteady. He walked to the bed and stared at the disordered straw. “I’ll find him.” He picked up an axe and strode out, holding a torch.
Chun Chi sat by the door, waiting. From time to time she put out a hand to see if snow was still falling. She was exhausted from the torture of anxiety, but didn’t dare to sleep. She knew that as soon as she shut her eyes, she would see Tsong Tsong, who waited for her in dreams and wouldn’t let her off.
She remembered Tsong Tsong’s last words to her, clutching her wrist — If you want to keep it, you’ll have to take good care of it — and laughed bitterly.
It was noon the next day when Zhong Qian returned. From some distance away, Chun Chi heard Xiao Xing cry and ran to welcome them. Zhong Qian handed her the baby, who cradled himself against her arm and fell asleep within minutes. The little sucking noises he made in his sleep, thought Chun Chi, were surely the most beautiful sounds known to man. A little later he wet himself but didn’t wake. The damp blankets clung to his skin, preventing him from turning. Her hands were soaked with his urine. His hot breath rose along her arms. In this manner, they would pass the winter.
10
Chun Chi hadn’t noticed Zhong Qian limp past her into the house. After a long while, she came inside with Xiao Xing and called his name. Hearing only the sound of ripping cloth in reply, she called, “What are you doing?”
“The wolves bit me on the leg,” he said calmly, but a tremor in his voice indicating he was in a lot of pain.
She put Xiao Xing on the bed and went to investigate. She reached out for his leg but then hesitated, afraid of hurting him more. “Is it bad?”
Zhong Qian said nothing, just gritted his teeth as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around his thigh.
They grew close that night. As they ate, Zhong Qian described his fight with the wolves, a thrilling account. Chun Chi listened intently as she fed Xiao Xing his rice porridge, even responding at the right moments — “After you killed the alpha, then what?” or “That was a good idea, setting fire to their den.”
Encouraged, Zhong Qian continued chattering away. He spoke more that night than he had all the rest of the year. His leg no longer hurt.
Later, Chun Chi dreamt again of Camel abandoning her. She sank in the ocean, watching his boat disappear into the distance. Waking with a start, she clutched Xiao Xing to her. From the door she heard the sound of a body twisting, and little moans of pain. Zhong Qian coughed a few times and slowly sat up — then the rustle of his bandages. These small sounds seemed especially tender in the midnight dark. Her heart warmed as she thought of his wounded leg, his stoicism in the face of pain.
She said his name into the darkness and he grunted, startled.
“Come and sleep here, it’s cold over there.” Her own words surprised her, but what else could she do? The air between them solidified, and everything became very formal. She sat up in bed to wait for him.
He sat motionless for a while, collecting himself. He had thought that no amount of effort could draw such an invitation from her. His leg exploded in pain as he stood, tumbling him to the ground. Scared to make her wait any longer, he crawled to the bed. She heard the rustle of straw as he approached, and reached out both arms to help him up. His breath was heavy as he sat beside her.
“Is it still bleeding?” She put her hand on his leg, and cried out — it was wet through. She’d had no idea there was so much blood.
“This leg may be dead.” His voice was hoarse.
Her hands slowly felt the edges of his wound. As she moved closer to him, his breathing quickened. He was being pushed towards a steep
cliff. If only he could have moved away. Her breath like a poisoned flower grove, intoxicating.
Chun Chi allowed her body to tilt forward until she was pressed against him. Her arm went around his waist to steady his shivering. The door blew open and the north wind rummaged through the straw. Their hair and clothes swirled around them. He said, shakily, “I’ll close the door.”
She wouldn’t let him go. This was inexplicable to her. Perhaps she was tired, perhaps it was the dream of Camel that made her determined to draw this memory to a close. Xiao Xing’s disappearance had shattered the remains of her pretence of strength. Now this man had rescued her child, and she could only hold him. It was time.
He heard her remove her clothes, and shut his eyes in torment, slowly shaking his head. Her body smelled like the earliest blossoms in March, as if she had awakened the spring. Everything on earth was renewed, everything but him. Her hand moved across his chest. A spring breeze, calling the trees from their hibernation. He was so ashamed of his own petrified forest that would never bloom again. He could not respond to this call of spring.
The blind woman’s soft fingertips brushed over the man’s shoulders and chest, stroking as gently as if he were one of her beloved seashells. She had almost forgotten the smell of a man, and now here she was, learning all over again. Camel didn’t appear before her eyes, as she’d expected. She had finally broken free of him.
She removed his robe and all her own clothes, then moulded herself to his body, trying to hide her nervousness. Her hands roamed over the unfamiliar map of his body, exploring every corner. Then the man folded over and began crying painfully, with such sorrow that she could only stop and ask, “What is it?”
He would not answer, but wept like a mistreated child. She did not dare ask again. Xiao Xing was woken by the noise and began crying too. She held the baby and stroked his back to soothe him. In the midst of Zhong Qian’s sobs, she heard the choked words: “I’m a eunuch.”
And with that, he stood and walked outside, dragging his wounded leg.
Chun Chi held Xiao Xing as if hoping to draw some warmth from his little body. Now Camel appeared, looking at her with amused disdain, toying with her like a recaptured prisoner. It had been a while since they’d come face to face, even in dreams. His sunken eyes, his dark lips. Still so cold, still so dear to her. Tears came to her eyes as she promised him she would never try to escape again. He was her destiny.
11
After that terrible day, Chun Chi and Zhong Qian drew apart from each other. She resolved to join the song-girls, in order to pay for a better life for Xiao Xing, and at the same time bring her closer to the water and its bounty of shells. And this might lead her to Camel — even now, he might be in a ship somewhere at sea. She settled Xiao Xing in the town with a nanny. Never again would he have to suffer.
Unable to face Chun Chi, Zhong Qian found somewhere to live in town not too far from her. He was crippled now, but fortunately his fingers were nimble enough for him to turn jeweller. He made silver rings or carved jade ornaments for the ladies of the town. In this way he met a young widow who liked his handiwork and, thinking him an honest man, came to live with him, bringing her year-old daughter.
Zhong Qian neither welcomed not rejected them. The widow and her daughter were like new items of furniture, and with their arrival, his house seemed more like a home. For several years, he was able to live as a normal man. No one in the town knew his secret. He seldom saw Chun Chi during this time — only visiting occasionally to give her some money, admire Xiao Xing, and take away more shells to be polished.
Several years later, the widow fell ill, suffered for some time, and died. On the day of her funeral, Zhong Qian felt a great lightness settle on him. He’d missed Chun Chi terribly. He felt like a man who’d taken a detour, and was now finally returning to the old, familiar road, so treacherous, so joyful.
He began seeing Chun Chi once a month with his step-daughter, who waited for him at the gate. When he noticed she liked Xiao Xing, he didn’t say anything. They had such a long road ahead of them. Who knew if she would be as faithful as him, to follow Xiao Xing to the end?
This was Zhong Qian’s life. When he lay dying, he looked back at it with immense satisfaction. Apart from tiny, short-lived betrayals along the way, he had been a loyal man.
Civet
1
Hua Hua found me two years after I’d left home. By then, I had bought a small coffee plantation, two thousand four hundred feet above sea level. How strange to think this small, brown fruit could sell for so much money. The seeds and soil were brought over from Java. All I had to do was watch my coffee plants grow and, after some crude processing, sell the beans to the Dutch merchants. I handed my profits over to the song-girls, who brought the money back to China, to Chun Chi. I could have done something else, of course, but life on the plantation was peaceful, and I hardly ever needed to talk to anyone else. Apart from the days set aside for weeding or harvesting, when I had to put out a call for casual labour, the rest of the time was my own.
I built my own house out of bamboo and local wood. It was sturdy and, after I’d stuffed the cracks with bamboo leaves, reasonably lightproof. The only problem was the noise on rainy days, when the racket from the roof drove me to distraction. Wildcats and snakes were common in the area, but they feared human contact so I only ever saw them at dusk, scurrying out of sight.
The house was conveniently close to the docks so I was able to go out to sea once a week to harvest seashells. Once they were polished, I sent them along to Chun Chi. I could read the shells too, by now, and knew none of them contained her memories — but she would be disappointed if I sent her nothing.
I stacked the polished shells in the hollow of a bamboo stem, filling the gaps with soft cloth. At times I wondered if I should embroider a few words onto the fabric — but that was silly, the sort of thing a teenage girl might do. I’d suffered too much for that, and the feelings surging within me too powerful to be contained in a few words.
The filled bamboo stems went into a canvas sack, secured with thick string. I carried them down to the docks, filled with self-reproach that none of these shells was the one Chun Chi had been searching for. And now I was searching too, never giving up. It was a pointless task, but I kept performing it, over and over again.
Every few days, I went to the market at the foot of the hill to buy food and listen to coffee trade gossip. The last stretch of road was flat, running beside a pond. In the afternoon, little turtles climbed ashore for fresh air. Flamingos rose above the weeds at the water’s edge, bending for a drink from time to time. A man lounged under the luxuriant rain trees, long fishing pole sticking out over the pond. Two girls of six or seven stood beside him, their bare bodies tanned so dark they looked bruised all over, like overripe fruit. Looking at the leisurely rhythm of the native people, I knew I would never belong to this land. Without realising it, I quickened my footsteps.
Coming towards me was a Chinese girl, walking slowly, staring at my face. I wondered how I must seem to her — a wide-brimmed straw hat, the roughly-woven clothes that everyone here wore, mosquito-bitten calves showing under rolled-up trouser legs. And over one arm, a basket full of ripe pumpkins and sweet potatoes. I looked like any other farmer, nothing at all special about me. Still she looked at me with such insistence, it made me uneasy.
As she drew closer, I noticed her eyes were exceptionally large, and somewhat familiar. It had been too long since I’d been close to a woman. Now those eyes drew a thin mist of desire from my parched body. We passed each other, and from behind I heard her say my name: “Xiao Xing.”
She said it with such softness, as if my name were a small bird escaping from between her lips. I hadn’t told anyone here my name. Their clumsy native tongues would be unable to pronounce those two sinuous syllables, Xiao Xing.
I stopped, but didn’t immediately turn around. My memories of Hua Hua revived in stages, like a water lily unfurling petal by petal. She embodied
an indescribable atmosphere that belonged strictly to my youth.
She ran up to me and flung her arms around my back, her hands reaching round to stroke my protruding ribs. “You’re so thin,” she lamented.
“Who’s taking care of Chun Chi?” An edge of temper in my voice.
“I hired someone to look after her. The money and shells you’ve sent back will keep her going for a long time. I made all the arrangements before I left.”
I thought of Chun Chi alone in the house, spending day after day on her shells, and felt a wash of pain. “All I asked was take good care of her. You can’t even do that?”
Still behind me, she began weeping quietly. Time seemed to go backward, to our last encounter. Her helpless embrace now became another farewell, not a reunion. I pulled her round in front of me and studied her carefully. Disappointingly, she was less pretty than she had been — fragile, neglected, hair straggling over her shoulders, nose sunburnt and peeling, leaving patches of red like decomposing fungus. I touched her darkened skin gingerly. It was rough and covered in blemishes. I knew she must have suffered a lot trying to find me, but still it discomfited me. Sighing, I allowed her to fall against my chest, where she continued crying, her body shaking.
I thought of our last night together, when I washed her feet in the sandalwood-scented room, her hot tears warming my legs. My body had its own memories, and when I hugged her, the blood surged within me, longing to possess her again. I put my straw hat on her head and, taking her hand, led her to my house. She walked contentedly, now and then turning to gaze lovingly at my face.
Even by the shortest way, it took more than an hour to walk back, hand-in-hand like innocent children. We passed cinchona and fern trees, violets and berries. Growing thirsty, she bent and picked a wild strawberry and asked if it was edible. When I nodded, she popped it eagerly into her mouth. The fruit was tiny and couldn’t have held much juice, but she seemed to enjoy it, grateful for the bounty of nature.