This Love Could Not Be Delivered

by Lu Min

  That day she was probably in the latter mode. The words just spoken-the stone first cast-were just a prelude that turned on a faucet of babbles on Lu Zhongsheng about hanging bedding out in the sun.

  Hanging out bedding-yes…in those disparate clumps of cotton I can see a concatenation of crevasses from left to right. Really-have a look! Pressing from the exterior inward, out comes a pit-a pit of air…and there's a smell hiding inside, and after you beat it again and again, the odor of several-days' sleep is released…You have to put the top side out first, then at noon turn it over-otherwise it won't be done fully or evenly…If it's not done completely, you'll surely find that part of the blanket is cool when you go to sleep on it that night…Oh yes. When putting bedding out in the sun, you have to do the sheets at the same time-and the pillows, too. It's best to take the comforters out of their covers before putting them out…when it's done, put the covers back on the comforters-now that's clean…Those poor neighbors on the first floor, not getting any sunlight year-round. You'd think it'd be a pretty hard to get by when you can't put the bedding out in the sun…

  Lu Zhongsheng stood at the balcony door unable to swallow his wife's words, as if they were sour grapes bulbously hanging there, making him feel successive waves of that pre-cry sourness in his eyes. There weren't only grapes, but also a mountain which stood between him and his son's room.

  Unwilling to let him in-this was her suppressed admonition. Lu Zhongsheng turned to his wife, looking for her eyes when she'd coincidentally given it a rest. This time she took a breath and looked back at her husband.

  [2]

  The way her eyes looked at me! Danqing, you're lucky you'll never have to see what your dearest mother has become! Those empty, dried up, burned out eyes look like brimstone scorched by Heaven's fire. There's a heart stomped to pieces, a soul torn to shreds…but in spite of it I coldly turned away, turned the doorknob and entered your room.

  Oh your lingering smells come instantly to my nose. The smell of your gym suit, tea cup, and notebook-there's not a single one missing; there're all there. No wonder your mom wouldn't let me in. Perhaps she wanted them to stay a while longer-a few days longer…In the last few days, aside from hanging your bedding out in the sun, she's even secretly come in to clean, straining to keep your room's original order. Even the bookmarks, water level in the teacup and placing of the shoes are still exactly as they were, as if everything in your room were a divinely-determined sculpture…

  But once I got in, I raided the place. In my searching these past few days, I've succeeded in making a huge mess that looks like it was left by thieves. I admit I rudely went through your things on purpose, tossing left and right and even destroying one of your plaster sculptures. I only wanted to destroy your mother's strictness and perfection-it was truly bone-chilling, wasn't it? I'd really like to scream and yell at her-or even slap her in the face. This is your son Danqing's room, and he's dead! Dead! Stop hanging out the bedding, dusting, and organizing! No one is ever coming back here to live!

  But you're the one who deserves a good smack. I've discovered those "treasures" you so carefully stowed. You really put your heart in it-they weren't under your bed or in an unlocked drawer, but stuck in "Monet's Collected Paintings" or your old oils box. You didn't make it easy for me to find with my hope and despair. I didn't know which would be better-finding some "proof" or nothing at all…

  Well look here. What after all were you studying? I'd really like to pound the table and ask you a question-What kind of friends did you make in college? Where did you get these deplorable picture books? When did you start studying nudes? There's also a small pile of paragraphs cut from various books and magazines, in which there are actually descriptions of couples kissing, hugging, and trembling together. And look. Here's a dirty deck of poker cards, just horrifying…would you like trying to explain how you got this way? While others were in the throes of idealistic struggle, realizing truths and acquiring culture in this wonderful era of ours, absent of political movements and forced farming 13…you spent all this time and energy on these trifles? It's my fault for neglecting you too much. It could also be I was misled by that image you put on or blindfolded by typical parental thinking. But behold-beauty, so great and frail, so ornate and fragile…could it be that the completely useless talent to draw put you on the road to ruin? Perhaps it did. It's a shame I can't grill you with questions, yell at you or argue up a good storm with you now. How good it would be if we could have an unseemly street fight! That way my strapping son would be standing right there before me.

  Then after our steam is all blown off I'd caress your head and mutter an apology, tears flowing down my face…Oh my child. Now that it's over there's no use pretending. If you were still alive, I'd explode and come clubbing down with my wrath. It's a simple reaction-a kind of classical conditioning that any model parent would do. Any of the first signs of sexual interest must be met with ruthless criticism and scorn, as if the world were pure like a freshly shelled egg, without a single pubic hair. But now you're dead. Can't I be just a little bit honest here? Child, I won't blame you or smack your face, nor will I keep pretending to be so noble and righteous. How could I've been ignorant about all that, about puberty, the thorn piercing the skin like a sudden sting, the maddening desire, the inexplicable disturbance-its power is strong enough to capsize the world…Every nation, every era, and every person on the globe will have its own version of puberty-but I'm just wondering: how can everyone have this common starting point, yet only you ended up taking that fatal path?…Could anyone tell me?

  [3]

  Finally one day when Lu Zhongsheng was standing in front of his son's bedroom, Lan Ying swung into action. What the hell are you looking for? She'd snuck up from behind, her wax-beige complexion condemning in silence. She was standing right between Lu Zhongsheng and the door handle of the west-facing balcony, and her tone of voice, long bottled-up, was like a third-rate actor's over-prepped script. Apparently she was hurt-not just because Lu Zhongsheng destroyed the room she'd so meticulously cleaned up, but also because her apparent sense that her husband was hiding something right under her nose-which moreover had something to do with their son.

  Lu Zhongsheng secretly pained: God, he would've really liked to tell her a little something about their son-a mouthful of confusion, his occasional discoveries, and even some vague deductions. But what, after all, could he say? Those picture books and clippings weren't a proper subject of discussion with Lan Ying, but their son's little secret…

  Lan Ying stood there, not moving, and her breath smelled like a plate of food going bad. She was thinking to herself, Hold back a minute; let him pass. She babbled on, turning her head away from her husband, not looking at him, as if she were only asking for a clothes hanger. Her tone of voice was exaggeratedly pathetic, just as a dark cloud over imminent death.

  Lu Zhongsheng was feeling extremely guilty, and he stood there blankly like a pillar of salt. This poor wife of his…a mother who lost her son. He reversed the forward motion of his feet as if stopping for a train flying by-could it be a mistake to cling to things dead and gone, especially in the face of a mother who's trying her best to forget?

  Maybe Lan Ying had the right idea. The way she purposefully avoided Danqing was a wise and smartly-defensive choice. They should have lived like two Alzheimer’s patients, seeing straight through their losses and rolling with whatever punches life threw at them. Just as their dinner illuminated under bright, white light, their faces looked boorish and lifeless-dinner was the end and realistic portrayal of one day. Breakfast's rush, lunch's fellowship (in the teacher's cafeteria) …they were nothing but vacuous busywork and fake prosperity. Only at dinner could the musical key in which this family which lost their son be distinguished; it was at dinner when you could see them blandly and depressingly dragging through their perfunctory chewing and conversation making.

  But it didn't stop at dinner-there was more. The couple was like ocean-soaked soil, seemingly una
ble to smile again-walking in the park, watching a TV series, telling jokes, dressing up, having guests over, going to a workplace party, going out to eat…no, it was all too criminal, and none of it was satisfying. On the mere thought of March twenty-seventh, a just-emerging smile would disappear like a bird, shot down, wings folded, and slammed to the ground, their pale frightened faces waving vacuously like bare branches…the invitations of well-intentioned colleagues or friends always induced awkwardness and apologies, as if taking them out to a social activity would be inconsiderate behavior. It was appropriate just to stay at home, think in silence, and be frigidly alone.

  There was yet another unspeakable pain-that frightening place, the bedroom. After the Danqing affair, Lu Zhongsheng and Lan Ying never enjoyed their family life…

  Sensuality had become the greatest taboo among them-no, more frightening than a taboo, it was hatred, a weapon of aggression. It was the same knife or sword that killed their son, killed their whole family, and killed every shred of their dignity. Aye, how fornication made it impossible for them to come together nude! How could they happily mate like animals, their throats filled with shameless moans?…It was truly impossible. There wasn't enough time to spurn or wail, so when would they make love? Not only was it love-making, but between them, husband and wife, their fundamental caress-giving and intimacy was gone. Being on the same bed, their bodies would sometimes touch, causing an instinctive and instant recoil. They were seemingly conditioned to think of the incident with their son with profound guilt and treat it with extreme repression. It was like they'd given a bad example with their own words and actions and were a shameless couple…Aye that evil sex. They'd rather completely forget it, stay thousands of miles away, and lose all their talents and common sense.

  Naturally conjugal relations and conjugal caress weren't everything to them-they were never so superficial to begin with. Whenever one of them was in need, the other would proffer help like a grass hut in stormy weather. But who knew? Their lives were onerous, completely bereft of tenderness or sweetness, like a rock dragging forward on rough sandstone, dragging till it draws blood. Without a doubt, aging would hasten their demise. But no matter. Without a son or a family to speak of, they never got the worst, but rather, only something worse…

  …Lu Zhongsheng often asked himself questions. They couldn't be the first couple in the world to lose a son in their middle age. Why did its memory always stick with them, and why was it so hard to escape? Could it be because they had never had a good cry? On that overcast day of humiliation and tragedy, he was cursed with arthritic soreness, continuously spreading and rooting itself in his being…

  A Model Stepfather

  [1]

  Oh dad, there's something funny I should tell you. You'll probably blame me for not having a conscience. In the last few days on death row, I didn't miss you and mom. Me, I was thinking about something so hard the nape of my neck got sore, like doing a nearly-impossible bonus question in physics class. I was wondering where in the world that incomplete sketch of Si Jia went.

  Yup. Right when Si Jia grabbed it from my hand, I remember she casually folded it up and stuffed it somewhere-but where in the world did she stuff it? Haha! On that rock hard prison cot in that vaguely sour or sweet-smelling, stuffy cell air, I suddenly remembered that clear and bright movement, projected slowly like a close-up shot-yes, the sketch was stuffed into Si Jia's pink, button-up sweater-in the refuge of her bra, the innermost layer. Just think of that folded up piece of paper-wouldn't that be the most tender and luxurious world?

  It was a marvelous feeling to have my whole being tucked up over Si Jia's solar plexus and to be with her the whole way-through extremely painstaking, routine official interrogation and inspection procedures, and all the way through her ineffectual explanation and resistance…I knew they were unwilling to listen to her side of the story. I could hear her saying over and over: It's nothing. Really it's nothing.

  It's nothing? I saw this young lady was scared into a stupor. The policewoman was observing her, and following the examination results. Indeed, the inquiry and inspection focused only on "downstairs". My poor lady, Si Jia so proud, even had to spread her legs, get pried open with forceps, get wiped up and down with cotton swabs, see two doctors debating in whispers…maybe precisely because of that sketch being with her, my Si Jia, she remained obstinate and serene from start to finish. This made the policewoman very angry, and when no one was there she yanked on Si Jia's arm: Don't argue anymore! Keep your head down! Why aren't you crying? Can't you cry?

  Until she got permission to go home and be alone, I was certain that Si Jia would have pulled out that wrinkled-up note paper and meticulously opened it up-even ironing it out with a glass of boiled water before taking another look. But no matter how she'd try to find something more acceptable, it was what it was-a truly weak sketch with veritably zero likeness. I'd just imitated some paintings from memory, and as Lu Xun 14 created various characters for his novels, I took a stroke from the east and another from the west. The more effort I put into it, the less it looked like Si Jia-her curly hair, the shawl on her shoulders, the recumbent pose on a baroque love seat…heavens! I had no idea who I was drawing. What possible relation could that sketch have with Si Jia?

  What if she didn't like it? Surely she took me for an impostor acting the role of a young artist. She misjudged me in the heat of the moment, and it was too late for regrets. In her shock and ire, her previously pleasant mood was jarred in a "gong". I'm sure she sobbed angrily, and my clumsy drawing skills were probably the main reason why…Aye, I know that wasn't the whole reason-there were also the physical pain, psychological humiliation and anxiety, all of which were fermenting recklessly. My poor darling was shaking all over, biting her tongue and silently weeping. The unknown consequences were like an invisible mountain, onwardly menacing in pitch darkness…

  [2]

  Actually, Danqing didn't know Si Jia. He had no idea who she was. Save for some fragments left over from the night of the dance, under the combined effect of red wine and nicotine, the totality of his understanding was as fleeting as seeing the sky aflame with one's hand in boiling water. What did he find out about the real Si Jia in that moment?

  In reality-objectively speaking-they were complete strangers before that night, thereafter becoming nothing but the main characters of an incident: a big, gray wolf and a little white rabbit…a villain and a victim. A part of him gained entry, but how could he get to know her? Who was she? What was her life like? What were her nature and desires like? What made him think he could simply fall fatuously in love at first sight and then sacrifice his life? One would remark, alas, that you, Danqing, were surely playing a colossal joke. And the price of this joke was astronomical…

  Considering Si Jia's mother was the head of her house, it should come as a surprise how often she was absent from the picture. One could ascertain from the array of performance shots on the wall that she was a solo dance performer for the army. Her entire artistic career was with the government, encircling the vast rooster-shaped territory known as China as she performed for soldiers at various marine and dry-land border outposts. All year-round she was packing her bags, ever-prepared for a last-minute trip, which had toiletries, cosmetics and standard performance garb. The vagrant nature of her life was the reason why each of her schedule notes started with "before I go to X; after I get to X"…Every time she returned home she complained of being tired, but anyone could see that this hurried, vagabond life truly appealed to her. She presented herself as a stranger to Nanjing, taking great surprise at common street scenes or weather patterns when she offered up her opinions. However whenever mentioning those border zones, she'd speak with a familiar air, proving to know details from a certain street food stand all the way down to a faucet somewhere in a military camp. What she loved most passionately was the ephemeral glory of the stage, where she showed off her curves and flexibility to darkened, emaciated faces of young soldiers who struck up applause whi
le biting their lips rimmed with stubble. When the performance ended, soldiers whose eyes sparkled with adoration would secretly give her simple though rare gifts like shells from an ocean island, horns from Tibetan antelopes, or a wicker jewelry case.

  Just imagine how such a mother could be of no help to her daughter, save giving her a foxy body. When Si Jia's father couldn't stand it anymore, he left them when Si Jia was seven years' old.

  Si Jia's father figure was changed over to a stepfather, a man more than five years younger than her mother, the former being selected by the latter. Her stepfather didn't have a complicated romance history, even though he didn't have long-term ideals or a goal in life. He seemed a bit introverted, being easy on the eyes, and was a good cook and housekeeper. Such a plain and simple role-player was verily an unbeatable choice for a stepfather. Women in general have it easy in courting men, and it was only more so for Si Jia's mother, who was arguably in her prime, playing a starring role that no one could resist. With practically no effort, the young stepfather was caught in her web, only to be dropped to the wayside as she went performing from one end of the country to the other. Because of this, this mentally confused backup player's real role was something like a chaperon or a male housekeeper. But Si Jia was still like an orphan whose father had died and whose days were for the most part spent alone with her stepfather.