by Tam King-fai
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NZWUUaPZWI5aNIPMZX]TTMLI_IaPMY]QTIWVKMIVLI[SML¹?PI
IZMaW]MIQVO)P9QVO'º
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Ua ^WQKM ZMUJTQVO ¹1¼U VW MIQVO IVaPQVO¸=VKTM 5W][M Q[ MIQVO
PM[_MMJMIVKISMKZ]UJ[º
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KWUMNZWU'ºUaNIPMZI[SML0MX]TTMLJIKSPMY]QTIVL_QPPMWQT
lamp in his hand, inspected the bed. With my hands, I quickly covered
the spot where the largest collection of crumbs was so that he would not
take them from me, but my father took my hand and shone the lamp
WVWPMKZ]UJ[¹?PMZMLQLITTPQ[LQZKWUMNZWU'ºPMI[SML¹0W_
KIV aW] [TMMX QV []KP IV ]VQLa JML'º )[ PM [XWSM PM ZMIKPML W] W
ÆQKSPMKZ]UJ[IVLWPMZPQVO[WNN PMJML
My grandmother had taken off her day clothes, and she climbed
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[PM OZ]UJTML W Ua NIPMZ ¹;_MM JMIV KISM[ NZWU ;PIVJMQ Y]QM
famous. Now, take the lamp out of here—I’m going to sleep. Blow out
the lamp and try to save some oil. Look at you, so reckless! If you set
the net ablaze, it would be no laughing matter! That’s the thing a family
PI[W_IKPW]XIZQK]TIZTaNWZ¸ÅZMº
The more she grumbled, the more my father frowned.
The next night, my father set up a small bed for me, and wouldn’t
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Su Qing
267
let me sleep with my grandmother anymore. This made her very angry,
and she wouldn’t speak to my father for ten full days.
My father has been dead for a long time, and I have not seen my
grandmother for six or seven years, but I haven’t forgotten her for a
single moment. I wonder if her three remaining front teeth are gone by
now? She should have kept the sweet cakes for herself. Why did she go
to all the trouble of asking someone to bring them to Shanghai from
such a distance?
I could not bear to eat them—in truth, I was actually afraid to.
When I thought about how I would gather up crumbs from the pillow
and the quilt when I was a child, it turned my stomach and I didn’t
have the courage to open the wrapping. Was I repelled by how dirty
PMa_MZM'1N UaOZIVLUWPMZ[PW]TLÅVLW]_PI_I[OWQVOWVQVUa
head, she would probably be all puffed up in anger, and wouldn’t speak
to me for ten days or more, or even the rest of her life. I couldn’t just let
them sit there and not eat them. But how could I bear to eat them?
1 _I^MZML NWZ UWZM PIV I _MMS IVL ÅVITTa IM ITT PM [_MM JMIV
cakes. Although they were damp, they were the real thing—the true
Shanbei kind—and very sweet. I tasted the sweetness in my mouth, and
in my heart. I wish you good health, my dear grandmother!
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268
A Garden of One’s Own
My Hand (1944)
After dinner, I took out a clean glass and made myself some strong
green tea. As I sipped it, I mulled over the writing I still had to do.
Suddenly, I caught sight of my hand holding the glass. My white tapered
ÅVOMZ[[MIOIQV[\PMOZMMVMITWWSMLTQSMÅ^M[UITT[TMVLMZXQMKM[WN
ivory.
—Is this my hand?
—Yes, my hand.
I slowly set down the glass and put my hand on my knee, studying
QKIZMN]TTa"TWVOÅVOMZ[IPQVXITU[SQV[WXITMQ[MMUMLWTIKSIVa
sign of life. It was almost a bit frightening to look at it.
This is my left hand, I thought, perhaps my right hand is better.
I put my right hand on my knee, comparing the two—this way and
that—but they looked more or less the same, and I could not see any
difference between them. The only thing was that on the tip of my right
QVLM` ÅVOMZ PMZM _I[ IV QVS [IQV TMN PMZM QVIL^MZMVTa _PMV 1 _I[
writing. All it would take was some scrubbing with soap, and my hand
would be clean.
These pale, skinny hands—I did not want to look at them again. I
picked up the glass silently, lightly sipping the tea. I thought to myself,
they should take a rest. Otherwise, with hands as bloodless as these,
PW_KW]TL1M^MZPWXMWKWUM]X_QP_ZQQVOMVLW_ML_QPÆM[PIVL
blood?
I have heard it reported that many great writers in the West never
have to pick up a pen with their hands when they work. All they need
do is recline comfortably on a sofa, cigar between their lips, smoking
as they dictate. A stenographer sitting by their side then types out or
takes down what they say. What a comfortable way to write! My status,
however, is nowhere near theirs, and these kinds of descriptions seem
like fairy tales to me. After indulging in such fantasies for a while, I still
had to trouble my own hands to do the work. To earn my keep, I had
no choice but to put down the tea, reach for the draft paper, and start
writing.
1_ZWMIVL_ZWM]VQTUaPIVLPILOWVMV]UJIVLUaÅVOMZQX[
had stiffened. I took a look at them, and forgot all the phrasings about
happiness that I had prepared in my mind. All that was left was limitless
sorrow that no words or sentences could express. Dazed, I stared at the
blank piece of paper.
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Su Qing
269
After a while, I suddenly got an idea. I put my left hand on the
paper and, holding a pencil in my right, I traced around it. Soon
afterward, the outline of a slender hand was clearly visible on the paper.
—Is this my hand?
—Yes, my hand.
My hands were surely not like this in the past. I once had ten
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their color, red and lustrous.
When I was a child, my hands kneaded mud balls, caught
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were busy taking notes in class, playing tennis, and they could even
play melodious tunes on the piano.... Later, he came along, and put a
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PQ[PIVLº
With my hands, I did many things for him....
With my hands, I did many things for my children....
Together, grease and dirt made their way into the creases in my
palms. Washing and scrubbing could not remove them. In the end, my
hands became dirty and rough.
But I was not ashamed of my hands, because as long as they
worked, they could bring joy and happiness to others.
In winter, the back of my hand cracked like the pattern on the shell
of a turtle. But I endured the pain, and sewed satin-covered cotton-
padded robes for my children. My rough hand touched the patterned
satin, and made a scratchy sound, which my children found curious.
I laughed. But when I looked at him, I saw he was not
laughing.
)NMZ I _PQTM PM NZW_VML IVL [IQL QV I LQ[O][ML WVM ¹4WWS I aW]Z
PIVL[1[V¼UaXZMKQW][LQIUWVLZQVO_I[MLWVaW]'º
I was speechless. The next day, I gave the precious diamond ring
back to him.
*] VMQPMZ PM TI_ VWZ Ua ÅVIVKQIT [Q]IQWV ITTW_ML UM W SMMX
my children. I have nothing. I can only rely on my cracked hands to
make a living, all alone.
—Is this my hand?
—Yes, my hand.
My hand will no longer change my children’s diapers, or wipe their
noses. All day long, my left hand can only hold the tea cup, while my
right hand writes, writes, writes....
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270
A Garden of One’s Own
The strong tea tasted bitter. I sipped my tea as I silently thought
about what I was writing. But what word or line could convey what I
meant to express? Moreover, even if I managed to express it, who could
I hope would understand?
After a while, I got an idea: I will send my children the piece of
paper with my handprint on it, so that they will know that my hand...
has grown thin.
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qr
Zhang Ailing
Just as Lu Xun is the icon of twentieth-century China in crisis, Zhang
Ailing (1920–1995) is the icon of Shanghai under siege in the late
1930s and early 1940s. She captures the reader’s imagination with
her distinctive writing style and legendary personal life, which she
consciously depicted with a fair amount of embellishment in her works.
Born to a privileged family, Zhang nevertheless had a torturous
childhood after her parents divorced. She was educated in Shanghai
and Hong Kong, both of which appear prominently in her writing.
She established her fame as a writer during World War II in Shanghai,
but her career stalled after the war, partly due to her short but widely
publicized marriage to Hu Lancheng, a collaborator under the Japanese
puppet regime in Shanghai. She later moved to Hong Kong and then
emigrated to the United States, where she became increasingly reclusive
until her death in 1995.
Despite their autobiographical nature, Zhang’s writings can be read as
serious explorations of such issues as urban life, gender relations, and the
moral implications of everyday life, especially as they relate to wartime
Shanghai. She seldom spoke out directly against patriarchal oppression,
but her own writing quietly asserted the right of a woman to speak on
any issue, making her perhaps more radical a feminist that any woman
writer of her age.
4Q\TM*ZWPMZºKIX]ZM[I[KMVMWN PMZ]VPIXXaKPQTLPWWL_PQTM¹4W^Mº
conveys the fortuitousness of human encounters, where isolated and
[MMUQVOTaQV[QOVQÅKIVM^MV[UIa]ZVW]\WXW[[M[[LMMXUMIVQVO
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272
A Garden of One’s Own
Love (1944)
This is a true story.
There once lived a beautiful girl from a well-to-do family in a
village. Many people came with matchmaking proposals but nothing
KIUMWN PMU;PM_I[VWUWZMPIVÅNMMVWZ[Q`MMVPIaMIZ
One spring evening, she was standing by the back door, her hand
resting on a peach tree next to her. She remembered that she had on a
moon-white blouse. There was a young man who lived across the road.
They had seen each other before, but had never greeted each other. He
KIUMW^MZIVL[WXXMLIIXTIKMVW\WWNIZNZWUPMZ0M[IQL[WNTa¹7P
aW]¼ZMPMZMWW'º;PMLQLVW[IaIVaPQVOQVXIZQK]TIZ6MQPMZLQLPM
They stood there for a while, and then went about their own business.
That is it.
Later, the girl was abducted by a relative and sold elsewhere as
a concubine, after which she was sold three or four more times. She
still remembered in her old age the incident that had taken place so
long before, though she had lived through a life of numerous terrible
upheavals. She often talked about that spring evening... the peach tree
by the back door... the young man.
When, among the tens of thousands of people you might have met,
you meet the very person you were meant to meet, and when, among
the tens of thousands of years in the boundless wilderness of time, you
arrive at just the right spot at just the right moment, not a step too soon,
VWI[MXWWTIMPMZMQ[VWPQVOMT[MaW]KIV[IaJ]\WI[S[WNTa¹7P
aW]¼ZMPMZMWW'º
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Zhang Ailing
273
My Little Brother (1944)
My little brother was born a handsome boy, but I was not attractive at
all, not even a bit. Ever since we were little, our family had found this
regrettable. What a waste that his small mouth, big eyes, and long lashes
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JWZZW_aW]ZMaMTI[PM['1¼TTZM]ZVPMUWUWZZW_º*]PMIT_Ia[ÆITa
turned them down. One time, we were saying how beautiful the wife of
IKMZIQVXMZ[WV_I[IVLPMI[SML¹1[[PMI[JMI]QN]TI[1'º?MWNMV
made fun of him for being so vain.
He envied the pictures I drew, and when no one was around, he
would tear them up or put two bold black lines across them. I can
imagine the kind of psychological pressure he was under. I was a year
older than he; I could speak better; I was healthier. I could eat things
that he could not, and do things that he could not.
When we played together, I was always the one who came up
with the ideas. We were the two seasoned and valiant generals of the
Jin Family Village; my name was Yuehong, and his was Xinhong. My
weapon was a double-edged sword, and he wielded a pair of bronze
maces. We also had many imaginary companions. The setting of our
little drama was always evening, when we started to play. Nanny Jin
would be chopping up the vegetables in the shared kitchen, so we would
enjoy a feast before the battle. Then we would ride over the hill under
the moonlight to attack the barbarians. On the way, we might kill a tiger
or two and steal their eggs, which were like fur-balls as big as crotons.
When we opened them, they looked like poached chicken eggs, but the
yolks remained round. My little brother often refused to listen to my
orders, and we often ended up arguing. He was the kind of person who
¹KW]TLVWTMILJ]_W]TLVWJMTMLºJ]PM_I[QVLMML[]KPITW^MTa
boy. Sometimes, I would let him weave his own tale: A traveler was
being pursued by a tiger, running as fast as the wind, and right behind
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be rolling on the ground laughing. I would give him a peck on the
cheek, treating him like a little toy.
After we had a stepmother, I live
d at school most of the time and
seldom came home. I had no idea how my little brother spent his days.
One time I came home for vacation and was shocked to see him. He
had become tall and slender, and was wearing a blue cloth dustcoat that
was far from tidy. He was reading a pile of comic books he had rented
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274
A Garden of One’s Own
from somewhere. At the time, I was reading Mu Shiying’s The North
and South Poles and Ba Jin’s Destruction, and felt that his tastes needed some improvement. But he made only a brief appearance and was
gone. Everyone told me about his horrid behavior: truancy from school,
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more furious than anybody and agreed with what was said about him.
I got so excessive in berating him that, in the end, everybody turned
around to mollify me.
Later at dinner, my father slapped his face over some trivial matter.
I was shocked, and held up my bowl before my face, tears streaming
LW_V 5a [MXUWPMZ TI]OPML IVL [IQL ¹0Ma _PI IZM you crying about? No one is saying anything about you. Look, he’s all right, and
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latching the door behind me. Choking, I wept silently. I stood in front of
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LW_V Q TQSM I UWVIOM QV I UW^QM 1 KTMVKPML Ua MMP IVL [IQL ¹1¼TT
get back at you, some day! I willOMJIKSIaW]º
The glass window of the bathroom opened up to the sun terrace.
Boing, a rubber ball hit the glass and bounced off. My little brother
was kicking the ball on the terrace. He had forgotten about what had
happened, having grown used to incidents such as this. I did not cry
anymore, but felt a chilly sadness come over me.
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qr
Works Cited
Some entries below bear two dates. The one that appears immediately
after the name of the author indicates the date on which the item was
ÅZ[X]JTQ[PML
the date of the modern reprint which this study uses. References in the
1VZWL]KQWVIZMUILMWPMÅZ[LIM
*W 0IV ! ¹AW] bIZMV `QIWXQV LIW []ZMV `QIWXQVº .ZWU Xiaopin for the Genteel to That for the Vulgar). In Xiaopin wen yishu tan,
