The Wounded Muse

by Robert F Delaney

  “Why would a scientist write a screenplay?”

  “She has a very interesting idea. She’s a professor at Tsinghua University. She studies a type of particle that moves faster than light. You know, it’s difficult to imagine anything moving faster than light, right? A lot of scientists believe this kind of particle exists although no one has been able to decect one.”

  Dawei looks confused.

  “Because these particles move faster than light,” Zhijong continues, “they can also move through time. You see, time and space start to blend when you reach a certain speed. Scientists of today are still trying to understand how this works. Anyway, this writer’s story is about two scientists living in the future, many years from now. They’re part of a privileged group working on technologies that will allow the people to travel through time by transmitting their consciousness on streams of these special, hyper-fast particles.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “All of this stuff is theoretical, meaning that some people think it might be the case but can’t be sure. That’s what science fiction is all about. You’ve seen movies about people travelling to other planets, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we haven’t been able to send a human to the surface of another planet yet but we know it’s theoretically possible. This story is the same thing. We’ve never been able to send messages through time, but this author believes such a thing is possible.”

  “So what happens in the story?”

  “They live in a world where technology has eliminated all forms of art. Poetry, fiction, dance, music. These things don’t exist in their world and when they manage to beam their awareness to earlier ages, they fall in love with the beauty that humankind has created.”

  Dawei thinks for a moment and then looks at Zhihong.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “These two fall in love because they both have this experience that others don’t understand.”

  The comment strikes Zhihong for its perceptiveness, and then saddens him. It shows the depth of Dawei’s intellect, a strength he was never given the chance to develop like a sapling deprived of sunlight and water. Dawei shouldn’t be scrubbing pots but what can he do? For the moment, Zhihong can only tell a story that may help Dawei forget about the hot kitchen.

  “Anyway, these characters eventually come to learn that the authorities plan to use the technology they’re working on to alter past events in a way that would eliminate their enemies. They begin to understand this plot just as they’re figuring out how to live the lives of artists by beaming their consciousness into a couple that lived in Shanghai in the 1930s. The couple loves each other and respects each other for the sacrifices they’ve made for their art. The man is a painter blending traditional Chinese landscape styles with a new style of abstract painting that was becoming popular in Europe at the time. The woman is a dancer developing new forms of movement, perhaps the first attempt to bring a new creative expression to the very rigid forms of Chinese dance.”

  “What do the scientists do?”

  Dawei’s curiosity lifts Zhihong’s spirits, a new vitality that changes the whole meaning of the screenplay, as if the entertainment it provides to this audience of one makes Zhihong’s efforts worthwhile.

  “Well, they need to make a choice. Continue spending much of their time living as artists in the twentieth century or foil the evil plot.”

  “And?”

  “They start to send warnings in the form of dreams to the people the authorities are trying to eliminate by tampering with the past. They send the same message, delivered to everyone in the future who would be affected, warning them of what’s happening and how they can avoid their revised fate.”

  “Does it work?”

  “The scientists know it will work but they also figure out that the most effective way to foil the evil plot will eliminate one of them. One of them won’t be born.”

  Zhihong’s revelation lands like a chord changing the direction of a scene. Dawei scratches his chin as he thinks through the implications.

  “So what happens in the end?”

  Zhihong smiles as he takes a drag.

  “Don’t you want to read the ending yourself?”

  “Um…”

  The wonder in Dawei’s gaze turns to something less discernible. Zhihong sees that he’s pulled Dawei out of the story and realizes that reading is a challenge for him. He wants to pull the comment back and stamp it out. This gift he’s giving Dawei is meant to uplift and, until a moment ago, it was doing more than that. He had brought the story to life, giving it the respect it deserves. And more importantly, he had created a small world where they were closer than they had ever been.

  “So here’s what happens,” Zhihong continues, opening his hands to play up the drama, to sweep away Dawei’s frustration and draw him back into the story. “Sensing that they have no options in the face of a harsh sentence that will separate them forever, the lovers figure out a way to transmit their consciousness, essentially their souls, into the dreams of other people at different times.”

  “Really? And they can live together like that?”

  “Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real that you were emotional when you woke up?”

  “Yes,” Dawei says enthusiastically. “Sometimes the d…d… dreams are so bad that I’m actually happy to wake up. And sometimes dreams are so good all I want to do is dive back into them. Sometimes w…waking up is the worst thing.”

  “Those dreams felt exactly like real life, right?”

  Dawei nods his head.

  “Well, these two characters have lives together that are just as real.”

  Dawei gazes out over the water as though he’s looking for signs of ethereal transmissions between beings living in other eras.

  “I would love to see this film,” he says.

  It’s always the closest relations – best friends, brothers and sisters, lovers – who say these things. Pragmatists should treat such praise as though it has no more value than the air that produces the sound. The truly ambitious should only tune into the criticism. But Zhihong can’t help feeling certain that Dawei’s comment is, if anything, an understatement and would have given him an extra burst of motivation to bring the project to life. If only it wasn’t too late.

  Dawei would love to see this film. Indeed. Zhihong would like for him to see it on a big screen, in a modern, air-conditioned cinema. Instead, he’ll need to see the story in his head, based on Zhihong’s words and gestures.

  “I wanted you to have this because movies mean so much to you.”

  “Is the author still writing?” Dawei asks.

  Zhihong shakes his head quietly. “She died earlier this year. I feel like I let her down. I came close to getting one into production, but...” He pauses and looks away. “But, it’s not going to happen. It’s all about calculations...return on investment and capital commitment guarantees.”

  Dawei doesn’t know what capital commitments are but is sure that it somehow involves money. And that Zhihong has given up hope trying to get this movie made.

  He notices that a low ebb tide has exposed a small beach on one side of the rocks. Nimble crabs dart back and forth across the sand, nabbing bits of seaweed and other aquatic detritus that leave an odour of maritime decay in the heavy air.

  “I can’t accept this,” Dawei says, returning the script to its folder and then handing it back.

  Zhihong refuses to take it. “I’m telling you, the only value this has is sentimental. You would be the kind of person she’d write about. I’m sure she would want you to have it. You have the iron will of a hero and you don’t give up, Dawei.”

  The word hero resonates with Dawei. It gives him hope that the scenes he conjures up in his head aren’t fantasies.

  Dawei grabs Zhihong’s cigarette and throws it into the water. There’s no longer any point in restraining himself. He lunges at Zhihong, grabs the back of his head and kisses him. Zhihong pulls back, his focus
darting between both of Dawei’s eyes as the meaning of this moment and all the time they’ve spent together so far sinks in. Zhihong grabs Dawei’s hand and stands up, pulling Dawei with him. The two of them move urgently towards the end of the embankment, each step releasing in Dawei a higher level of exhilaration, until they pass the last streetlight. They clamour down the sea wall and find their way onto a boulder where they kiss so violently, in a frantic embrace, that Dawei tastes blood.

  Dawei is lying on top of Zhihong, both of them sweaty and lifeless except for the slow expansion and contraction of their torsos. All of the evening’s exertion, physical and mental, make it impossible for Dawei to want to say or do anything other than hold Zhihong and listen to the water lapping up against the sea wall.

  Macau is still and silent; the only sound is the distant clattering of construction sites across the causeway in Zhuhai, too far away to disturb them. Dawei must concentrate on every detail of this moment to keep away the thought that he’ll be back in the restaurant kitchen in a few hours and Zhihong will be on a ferry back to Hong Kong to catch a flight to his home, and his wife, in Beijing.

  THURSDAY, March 28, 2007

  The incoming call is from Washington, DC. It can only be Kendra. Jake excuses himself from a meeting, explaining that the call is from a source.

  “Hi, what have you heard?”

  “It’s not good.”

  The response triggers an anger that Jake quells by reminding himself that she’s only the messenger, that she’s on his side. No one would have a better read on the situation than Kendra and he clings to this thought in order to stay calm.

  “I was at least hoping for a good-news-bad-news scenario.”

  “The problem is that he’s been detained by officers on the municipal level, not the national level,” Kendra says.

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because they answer to people on the national government level and they never want to look like fools. If they’ve gone through the trouble of investigating and detaining, they’ll be inclined to follow through regardless of what the evidence says.”

  So now someone’s life hangs in the balance because of paranoia and incompetence.

  “What do you recommend we do now?”

  “We need to make noise about this. I can start that here in DC.”

  “Ok, tell me more.”

  FRIDAY, March 29, 2008

  Diane arrives at Jake’s apartment at 9:45 p.m. She’s about an hour and a half late because, as she’s explained in a series of text messages, the flight from Shanghai was delayed. Her knock at the door, soft and small, seems to lighten the load he’s been carrying. Jake jumps up, tucks in his shirt and heads to the door.

  Diane is smiling as the door opens. There’s no sign of frustration over the flight delay or the traffic in Shanghai and Beijing, not to mention the disappearance of her only sibling. She has Qiang’s large eyes, as well as his rounded nose and small mouth. The resemblance fills Jake with hope and makes him want to hug her.

  She has someone with her. A fair-skinned white guy with flushed cheeks and dirty blonde hair that’s thinning on top. He looks just like Prince William.

  “Jake?” Diane asks, unsure.

  “Diane, thank you so much for making it here,” Jake says in Mandarin.

  A hug might be appropriate but Jake isn’t sure how acquainted she is with Western customs. They shake hands.

  “Jake, no, I must thank you,” Diane answers in English with barely a hint of a Chinese accent. “This is Benjamin. He’s a friend of Qiang’s who’s just flown in from San Francisco.”

  “Ben,” he says, offering his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jake.”

  Diane is petite, about two inches shorter than Jake, even in mid-high heels. Her hair falls just above her shoulders, parted on the side and swept away from her face in a feathered cut. Subtle, professional and feminine. Thin maroon piping along the edges of her black jacket and pencil skirt is even and precise.

  Having lived in Shanghai for years, working in finance, Diane wouldn’t likely outfit herself with the usual mismatched combinations that skew either too gaudy or utilitarian. But still, Jake didn’t expect her to look Parisian. He also didn’t expect her to show up with someone else.

  “Wow. The family resemblance is really apparent,” Jake says, switching to English. “Welcome to Beijing. I just wish this was under different circumstances.”

  “It’s great to meet you and to know that my brother has such a good friend here,” Diane says.

  “You two must be starved,” Jake says as he rolls Diane’s bag into the living room. “I had dumplings for dinner earlier and got extra for you, Diane. But there should be enough for both of you.”

  Diane puts a hand on Jake’s shoulder to stop him from going into the kitchen. “That’s so nice of you, Jake, but I ate a full dinner at the airport in Shanghai just before I got on the flight,” Diane says.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m serious, Jake. Really, I’ve had enough to eat. I’m not just being polite. I’m not just being Chinese polite if you know what I mean,” Diane says.

  “And you, Ben?”

  Ben flashes the palm of one hand. “I’ve had twenty-four hours of airline food going into me,” he says in a booming voice. “What I really need to do is empty myself, not to fill my stomach. Could I use your washroom?”

  The resonance and volume Ben uses to describe the state of his digestion takes Jake off guard. Personalities usually reveal themselves over time but Ben has just established himself, fully formed, as a man who doesn’t edit himself.

  “Well, that is a lot of information, Ben. The powder room is right next to you.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Ben says as he lets go of the handle of his luggage, drops his shoulder bag and ducks into the bathroom.

  “Um. Diane, come in and have a seat,” Jake says, trying to move them away from the powder room as quickly as possible. “At least have something to drink. We have coffee, tea, juice.... Also, I have a bottle of red open.”

  Diane sits at the dining room table, laptop open, looking at a spreadsheet. Jake sets out Dragon Well tea in a simple clay pot from Yixing, a gift from one of his teachers and one of the few items he has kept from his years as a student in Anhui Province. He puts a small cup that came with the set in front of Diane.

  “Charming,” Diane says as she looks up from the screen and examines the teapot. “Most tourists to Yixing go for the most elaborate teapots but you chose a very fine and classic one.”

  “Actually, I didn’t choose it,” Jake says. “The set was a gift from one of my teachers. Something they gave me as I was leaving. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept with me as I’ve moved around.”

  Made of dark purplish-brown clay, the tea set has a slightly coarse, unfinished texture meant to absorb the essential oils of fine tea. It reminds Jake of his first stint in China, when he went on his own to qualify later for a more prestigious language program. His primary instructor at the university in Anhui, a thirty-something woman he knew only as Teacher Zhou, seemed to understand how bewildered Jake was. She and her husband, an affable engineering professor, looked after Jake, inviting him for dinner every few weeks.

  Jake found some of their food unappetizing, particularly the preserved eggs which were the colour of gangrene and tasted rotten, but eventually adjusted to the dishes that more closely resembled standards served in the U.S.: fried rice, sesame chicken, barbecued spare ribs. The generous quantites of freshly chopped ginger and garlic Teacher Zhou used in her cooking made dishes like stir-fried vegetables and tofu – something Jake would never order in the U.S. – tasty.

  Teacher Zhou showed more concern for Jake than he was accustomed to. She made sure he had enough blankets in his dorm when he arrived and requested a new desk for him after seeing that the inside of one of the drawers had rotted. She brought him to the local clinic when he came down with a fever, and then ensured he got chicken soup with ginseng
and goji berries every day until he recovered. Jake’s mother usually didn’t acknowledge health issues unless blood had spilled.

  When the three-month program ended, Jake had nothing with him from the U.S. to leave with Teacher Zhou and her husband but a few cassette tapes he wasn’t sure they’d like. He eventually selected the most accessible ones: Technique by New Order, Like a Prayer by Madonna and Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. They tried to refuse the gifts, as is customary. When Jake followed through with the customary persistence, they seemed genuinely happy with the tapes.

  When Teacher Zhou and her husband saw him to the train station for his trip to Shanghai where he’d board his flight back to the U.S., they presented him with the tea set that Jake’s using now to bridge the cultural gap he supposed might separate him from Qiang’s sister.

  “Well then,” Diane says as Jake begins to pour the tea, “you deserve credit for your recognition of quality.”

  The precise enunciation and word choice make Diane sound English.

  “Na li,” Jake says. Nonsense.

  With the formal interplay of courtesy over, they turn their attention to the spreadsheet. The first tab is a list of police stations closest to Qiang’s apartment, those that Diane plans to visit tomorrow to start making inquiries. Her phone rings as she starts explaining her strategy.

  “Jake,” she says apologetically. “I know it’s rude but this is my husband calling to make sure I’ve arrived at your place safely. Do you mind if I take the call?”

  “Diane, please. It’s not rude.”

  Jake glances at the spreadsheets and schedules on Diane’s screen as she starts talking to her husband about what to do to get their daughter to sleep. The methodical instructions and the organization of Diane’s documents reminds Jake of Qiang’s habits, how he can’t work unless everything on his desk is aligned and orderly. After working with Qiang, the importance of order had influenced Jake. He would clean up his own desk in the newsroom throwing away stacks of press releases and conference agendas and resolve to keep order intact, only to let the clutter build up again and, then, he would clear the mess again a few weeks later, always resolving to never let the mess overtake him again.