by Ho Sok Fong
Lake Like a Mirror
Lake Like a Mirror
Ho Sok Fong
Translated from Chinese by Natascha Bruce
Copyright © 2014 by Ho Sok Fong
English translation © 2020 by Natascha Bruce
Originally published in Chinese as 湖面如鏡 (hú miàn rú jìng) in 2014
by 寶瓶文化 (Aquarius Publishing Co. Ltd), Taiwan.
First published in Great Britain by Granta Books, 2019.
The moral right of the author and translator have been asserted.
Two Lines Press
582 Market Street, Suite 700, San Francisco, CA 94104
www.twolinespress.com
ISBN 978-1-931883-98-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ho Sok Fong, author. | Bruce, Natascha, translator.
Title: Lake Like a Mirror / Ho Sok Fong; translated from the Chinese by
Natascha Bruce.
Description: San Francisco: Two Lines Press, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034371 (print) | LCCN 2019034372 (ebook) | ISBN
9781931883986 (paperback) | ISBN 9781931883993 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Ho Sok Fong--Translations into English.
Classification: LCC PL2937.5.O64 A2 2020 (print) | LCC PL2937.5.O64
(ebook) | DDC 895.13/6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034371
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034372
Cover design by Gabriele Wilson
Cover photo © Cig Harvey
Design by Sloane | Samuel
Printed in the United States of America
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This book is supported in part by an award from the National
Endowment for the Arts.
Contents
The Wall
Radio Drama
Lake Like a Mirror
The Chest
Summer Tornado
Aminah
Wind through the Pineapple Leaves, through the Frangipani
October
March in a Small Town
The Wall
WHEN THE DEVELOPERS said they were building a wall to keep out the sound, everybody thought it was a good idea. For the past few years, the expressway had been expanding, coming closer and closer to our houses. It used to be a full sixty meters away, but now had come so close we were practically run over every time we opened our back doors.
One morning, a seven-year-old girl really was run over outside her back door. Late that night, the developers started building a wall along the side of the road.
“They’re laying bricks straight onto the ground,” said the aunty next door. From her upstairs window, she watched the workmen spread a layer of cement, then position a line of bricks, then smear on more cement.
“It’s got no foundations,” she said to her husband, when she came back downstairs. He was watching a football game on television, and when they scored he clapped and cheered with the South American sportscaster, so didn’t hear her.
His wife wasn’t surprised. She went back to watching the workmen build the wall. She thought they looked thin, as though they were too feeble for a job like that. But their wall looked very thick, thick enough to hide one of them in it. It grew higher and higher, until it blocked her view. When it was over one story high, she went to bed.
The next morning, all the tenants in our row woke to find the wall was finished. It cut off the sunlight, making our back gardens and kitchens dark. But everybody agreed that sunlight wasn’t much of a price to pay, considering the seven-year-old girl who’d been killed by a car. The only thing was, the wall blocked our back doors too, and now they opened only a little wider than the width of a foot. Wide enough for a cat, or a small dog, but too much of a squeeze for a human.
The next-door aunty wasn’t happy. Wasn’t this the same as having no back door at all? No back door meant no way out. Her husband agreed. “It’s like having a mouth but no asshole,” is what he said.
But, gradually, they got used to it. There’s nothing a person can’t get used to. It wasn’t too much of a hardship, anyway, not compared to what that girl’s mother was going through. Two days after the incident, the aunty and her husband saw a tiny coffin being carried out through the other family’s gate. A few days later, the mother lit a fire in a big metal trashcan by her front door and burned her daughter’s clothes and schoolbag. The thick white smoke reeked of melting plastic and choked up the whole street.
The aunty couldn’t remember if her husband had ever left the house. He sat glued to the football on the television. The light was gone from their windows, but they carried on as best they could.
The aunty had no kids to take care of and spent most of her time in the kitchen. If she closed the kitchen door, she couldn’t even hear the television. Before the wall, the kitchen had been filled with the roar of cars hurtling along the expressway. After the wall, the noise was muffled, like a person humming deep within their chest. After a few days, she was used to it, and didn’t mind much one way or the other.
She did do things a little differently after the wall. It blocked the sunlight, making her eyes too tired to read the newspaper. Instead, she turned her attention to her tiny garden, about the size of a toilet stall, just next to the kitchen. In the first week she planted cacti, and later added dumb canes, bush lilies, hydrangeas, and gerbera daisies, filling the little space to bursting. You’d have been impressed, if you’d seen it—big fat leaves springing from such a tiny patch of soil, spreading out so that there was almost nowhere left to stand. And it seemed to be because of the wall: the gloom meant the soil stayed moist and the plants flourished. In addition to the plants in her garden, the aunty kept a bowl of goldfish in the kitchen.
Her husband hardly ever came into the kitchen, so he didn’t know she also kept a fluffy tabby cat. He’d had a lung infection a while before, and had been wary of dog and cat hair ever since. The cat had sneaked in the day after the wall went up. The aunty had been trying to push open the back door, and it had squeezed through that sliver of a gap. She guessed the cat belonged to one of the houses farther down the row, and that, because her slightly opened door had barred its way, it had decided that it might as well come in. It leaped boldly onto a chair, then strolled right into her little garden, where it relieved itself. After that, she couldn’t bring herself to put it back outside again. She hugged it close, feeling its weight against her, like the weight of the loneliness in the pit of her stomach.
Because of the goldfish, she had to keep the cat shut away in the garden. She couldn’t let it inside, but neither could she let it leave. It often fell asleep out there. When it woke up it would prowl around in circles, and when it was hungry it would rub against the door, meowing. She was careful never to feed it too much: if it was hungry, it needed her. She felt there was an invisible rope between them, and when the cat was hungry, the rope pulled taut. At first, she’d thought about finding a real rope to tie the cat up with, but then she’d decided that as long as she shut the door tightly things would be fine as they were.
One morning, while she was out shopping, her husband went into the kitchen. He opened all three doors—to the back alley, to the little garden, and to the rest of the house—and then went back to the living room, where he sat contentedly reading the paper. When his wife came home, she found the goldfish bowl smashed to pieces and water all over the floor. Her husband was just sitting there, without a care in the world.
“What happened to the fishbowl?”
Her husband glanced up, but said nothing.
“And the cat?”
He shrugged. She glared at his expression, hating the way he acted as th
ough this had nothing to do with him. A chill swept through her chest; bit by bit, she felt her heart turn to ice. And so, when she spoke again, she was even frostier than him: “Cat got your tongue?”
“What are you talking about? Have a cat if you like! Don’t ask me!”
He went back to reading his paper, flicking from international news to the sports pages.
“Brazil won!” he exclaimed, delighted. But his cheery tones weren’t for his wife’s benefit. It was as if there were a crowd in front of him, eagerly awaiting his reaction.
She went back into the kitchen, where she slowly washed radishes and chopped greens. Methodically, she threw pork bones and medicinal herbs into a pot, to brew into a soup. Once she’d finished, she sat down at the table. It didn’t feel necessary to do anything else but think. In the afternoon, she put a saucer of fish and rice in the back alley and left the door open. She waited for a whole day, but the cat did not come back. She strained her ears, but couldn’t hear even the faintest meow.
A few days later, she thought she heard the cat crying, the way it did when it hadn’t had enough to eat. She sat in the kitchen but couldn’t figure out where the sound was coming from. For a while, she suspected it might be right there in the little garden, because the cries seemed to be coming from the cluster of dumb canes and bush lilies. She stayed in the kitchen for a long time, with the doors and the back window open, but saw no sign of the cat.
She closed the doors.
After a while, her husband came into the kitchen. He had the feeling it’d been quite some time since he’d seen her. He stared at her blankly and, after a long pause, said, “You got thin.”
She didn’t react. He walked over to the back door. He’d been planning on opening the door to let the breeze in, but the moment he tried his face puckered in disgust. “It stinks! What is it, a dead rat?”
He slammed the door shut.
After her husband left, she studied herself carefully and discovered it was true: she was thin. She walked to the back door and found she was almost thin enough to squeeze through the gap. This was not bad at all, she thought—a few more days and she’d be able to fit right through.
And a few days later, that’s exactly what she did. She walked along the back alley, which was not much wider than the gap in the door, and felt happy and carefree. She pressed an ear to the wall, and could feel it shake as endless numbers of cars rushed past, rumbling like waves against a shore. She could hear their engines, their wheels grinding against the pavement; they seemed to thrum within the wall itself like the surge of blood inside a body. She pressed her emaciated palm against the wall and felt the vibrations coming through, beating against the veins on the back of her hand. She pressed her other palm to the wall and felt the fingers of both hands trembling like withered dumb cane leaves. She inched her whole body up to the wall, pressing her bony legs against it, and shook like a feathery bamboo.
She continued her walk. The sky above her was a murky gray and the alley was a hideous mess. She hadn’t expected that it would accumulate so much litter in so little time. She saw styrofoam takeout boxes, chicken bones, fish bones, eggshells, cooked rice, bread, sticky clumps of discarded meals, nails, clothes, school bags, pencil cases, leather handbags, bricks, shovels, cassette tapes, CDs, soup spoons, flowerpots, glass bottles, pillows, shoes, tires, magazines, newspapers, flies. She couldn’t bear the thought of the cat picking through all this trash. She began to feel like she was in a graveyard with no one in charge and rotting corpses strewn all over the place, and realized that this must be the source of that stink her husband had complained about.
As she stepped over the pieces of litter, she noticed the lightness of her body; not even the styrofoam boxes were crushed beneath her feet. She stooped to peer inside the tires, thinking they’d be a likely place for a cat to hide. Feeling frail, she moved very slowly, worried her bones had become too fragile and might snap. Those bones still needed to hold her up. Her whole frame felt on the verge of collapse.
She stopped sharing a bedroom with her husband and put a thin mattress on the kitchen floor. A thin bed for a thin person. Too thick and soft a mattress would have made it hard for her to sit up. But because she was so thin, she was more aware than ever of the feeling in each part of her body. A sensation of hot or cold in her chest spread rapidly to her back, then swiftly through her limbs to her fingers and toes. Nothing stayed in one place. She felt everything more thoroughly and intensely than before. She quite liked it.
The aunty kept looking for the cat, but found her memories evaporating, becoming increasingly less defined. Did the cat have three patches on its forehead, or four? Was the tip of its tail black, or brown? Sometimes she even wondered whether she’d really been out of the house the morning the cat went missing. And which had come first, the cat or the goldfish? The cat or the wall? Did the goldfish bowl have goldfish in it? How many? She couldn’t remember the details. But as the memories grew hazier, she found herself less and less sad—quite relaxed, to tell the truth. It felt nice.
One day, the aunty sneaked into our house like a cat. My mom had opened our back door. She was holding a bag of trash, ready to chuck it into the alley, as the aunty walked by. The door blocked her way, so she stepped inside. My little brother and I watched, wide-eyed, as she strolled casually into our kitchen. She was the thinnest person we’d ever seen, like one of the paper figures we used to shut inside our books and hide in our desk drawers at school, except she was as tall as we were, and she wasn’t pretty. The paper dolls were all little girls with blue eyes and blonde hair, but she was old and ugly, with a face full of wrinkles.
“Such sweet children, how nice!” she said to our mom, her eyes sliding over me and my brother. We were playing with our toy trains.
She said this, but she stood back from us and didn’t come closer, as though afraid we’d snap her in two. When she spoke, we could see the air passing magically over her throat, making her vocal chords quiver like violin strings. Concerned, our mom asked how she’d gotten so thin, and the aunty answered that she wasn’t sure herself. Maybe because she’d been chasing after a cat, she said. She remembered loving the cat, but sadly not what color it was.
They were still talking when our dad came home from working at the hospital. When he saw the state the aunty was in, his jaw dropped so far that it seemed he’d barely be able to close it again. He led her into his office, where he took her blood pressure and listened to her heartbeat. He said you could hear her heart just as clearly through her back as through her chest, and you could almost see it beating, even through her clothes. It was inconceivable. “The Creator works in mysterious ways,” he said.
The aunty came to our house a few more times after that, and told us something different each time. She said she’d been planting things. She talked about how enormous spiders lurked in their cobwebs between the plants. She said she’d just planted a carnivorous pitcher plant, and the soil back there was so moist that the plant had sprouted pitchers big enough to swallow a person.
When she came over, my brother and I held our noses because she stank like a dead rat. Our mom and dad put up with it, but after she left they always said they felt sick. Dad tried hard to convince her to come to the hospital for a check-up, but she claimed she couldn’t be bothered. “I’m OK,” she said. “I’ve lived enough.”
Dad frowned. Once, I heard him grumbling to our mom, saying that they’d have to set up a video camera in the aunty’s house because it was truly a mystery how she stayed alive at all.
We don’t know whether he followed through with this plan, because of what happened next. One evening, a truck smashed into the wall, sending it crashing down. We’d been asleep upstairs and felt our beds and the whole house shake. Our garden was buried under little mountains of bricks, and half the kitchen was gone. Dad was afraid the rest of the house would collapse too, and sent us to spend the night with our grandma. As we were leaving, we saw workmen arriving, dispatched by the developers.
>
We only stayed with our grandma for one night. When we came back the next afternoon, there was no sign of the wall, not even a fragment of brick. They’d cleared it all away overnight. Once again, we had an unobstructed view of the traffic racing down the expressway. A stray dog came running down what used to be the narrow alley alongside the wall. It was hard to imagine this empty space as the filthy alley the aunty was always talking about. We couldn’t see her pitcher plant. The aunty herself had disappeared.
When the aunty had been gone for several months, an old stray dog raked the soil with its front paws, howling in excitement, and pulled out a ball of fluff, crawling with maggots. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was. Then we saw the brown-and-black striped fur, and we shouted in alarm: “Cat! Aunty’s dead cat!”
An old man poked his head out of an upstairs window. He hurried down, exclaimed in surprise, and said, as if it had just occurred to him: “So that’s it! That’s where she had the pitcher plant.”
He bent over, leaning close to us with his liver-spotted face. There were cobwebs stuck to his collar. He said, “A pitcher plant can eat a person! It ate Aunty. You scared?”
We slipped back into the house. The aunty had been eaten by her own pitcher plant. We couldn’t form the words to tell anyone.
When she appeared in our dreams, she was as thin as a moth’s wing. She insisted that she wasn’t dead.
“Your husband says you are!” we said, and she snorted in contempt.
Her complexion merged slowly into the gray of the wall and it seemed that the gloom all around us was her camouflage.
Later, we dreamed about her being devoured by her pitcher plant.
After that, we never dreamed of her again.
Radio Drama
“They then call to each other like people lost in a wood.”
— Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human
“THE POLICE ARE OUTSIDE.”
