Whatever story people imagined, the answer remained out of reach. The townspeople wished they could wake up Zhao Yiru and ask him to reveal the true story. It was such a pity that he could no longer explain what had happened. Praise or censure, blame or commendation, now people would have to reach their own conclusions.
Alas, it turned out that Zhao Yiru had been an obstinate and eccentric old man. He spent his whole lifetime in front of the blackboard, solving complex and difficult mathematical equations, explaining so many X and Y values. And yet, at the end, he left the world a great, unsolved variable!
Translated by Zhang Yujin
Ye Guangqin
Ye Guangqin, born in Beijing, Manchu, studied under the Xi’an Literary Federation and became a full-time author in 1995. She worked as vice-chair of the Federation and acted as deputy secretary of the Zhouzhi County Committee, focusing on the environment and animal protection. She lived for a long time in the Old Town village, Houzhenzi, in the hinterland of the Qinling Mountains.
Ye Guangqin’s major works include the novels Inharmonious Siblings, My Pathetic Eldest Sister, Beijing Herbs, Family Photo, Inside the Gate of Heavenly Purity, Picking Mulberry Seeds, Qingmuchuan Town, and Snakehead Highness, as well as the nonfiction works Luofu River without Diaries and Jade Carving. Many of her works have been adapted for film, including Green for Go, Red for Stop; Beijing Herbs; and The Marriage Certificate. Her novella Down the Drain won the Lu Xun Literature Prize, and Luofu River without Diaries won the National Minority Literature Prize.
8
YE GUANGQIN
Rain: The Story of Hiroshima
1
In the apartment next door live two middle-aged sisters. The oldest sister’s last name is Yamamoto; the other’s is Shibata. Yamamoto is their original family name. The younger sister was married once; she kept her husband’s name after they divorced. The elder sister has never married. So their mailbox at the front door is labeled Etako Yamamoto and Yoko Shibata. The characters for “Etako” () and “Yoko” () are not commonly used in Japanese. Once I asked them about their names; they told me they were named by their father, who was a Japanese-language teacher in middle school before World War II.
Sister Yamamoto, born in the year of the tiger (1938), is sixty-seven years of age now; sister Shibata, born in the year of the horse (1942), is sixty-three. Despite their age difference, they look alike. Each has single eyelids and a big, round, baby face. Their skin is smooth and delicate. When they were young, they must have looked like the women of beauty in traditional Japanese portraits.
But when they encounter other people, they don’t act alike. Sister Shibata will stand to the side, bowing down slowly, murmuring simple pleasantries for quite some time, making you feel that you have to respond in kind and greet her with endless respect. Sister Yamamoto, on the other hand, is cool and reasonable. She bows down a little when she greets others, but with less courtesy. She speaks faster, louder, more clearly, and is never wordy or long-winded. Although she looks cool and mild tempered, she is warmhearted inside.
Every morning, when Sister Yamamoto cleans her doorsteps, she cleans mine as well. Or if I am not at home when the weather changes and it begins to rain, she brings in my clothes that are hanging in the courtyard to dry. This may be common in my home country of China, but it’s rather rare in a modern Japanese city. Around here, if it begins to rain during the day and your clothes are hanging outside to dry, nobody will take them in for you. In fact, neighbors living in the same apartment building often don’t know each other at all. As an old Chinese saying goes, you know the voices of the dogs and chickens next door, but you do not know the voices of the people there. So I feel lucky and honored to have neighbors as kind as these two sisters.
Yamamoto, the elder sister, likes to wear old-fashioned dresses. She favors dark-brown skirts, with coffee-colored shoes and an amber necklace. Her clothes appear somber and plain at first glance, but a closer look reveals the high quality and attention that go into her carefully selected outfits. The younger sister, Shibata, tends more toward colorful clothes, especially bright reds and greens. Sometimes she even wears sportswear, although she is over sixty years old.
Sister Yamamoto’s hair, almost all white, is well combed and styled. She wears a curling ponytail at the back of her head. Sister Shibata’s hair is white with a little gray, permed short with a streak of light purple at the front. She looks somewhat amusing.
I enjoy watching the sisters when they go out in their traditional Japanese attire. If the elder sister wears a kimono the color of lotus root, embroidered with small cherry flowers, the younger sister will dress in a light-blue kimono with a grassy design. When the elder sister wears primrose yellow, the younger sister chooses light pink. As a pair they’re always elegantly dressed, beautiful, and fresh looking, clicking through the neighborhood in their Japanese clogs. They greet everyone politely as they go on their way, smiles on their faces. They seem so stately and attractive, like immortal figures drifting down from the sky or old angels from heaven.
A thought always occurs to me when I see them passing by: I should invite the two sisters to China and introduce them to a fashion-design school; there they could share with the students their expertise in makeup, clothing, and color coordination. They are clearly experts.
Of course, to dress and coif yourself so well, you need money. I can only assume that the family is well off; their traditional garb and the jewels and pearls they wear must be extremely valuable.
The two sisters are entitled considerable annuities and free state-supplied medical care because they are survivors of the atomic bombs. They seem to be so strong and healthy, without any apparent physical maladies, year-round. Unlike me—on any given day you might find me with a cold or some stomach problem, and I do have to go to the hospital to see my doctor now and then.
When the sisters run into me around our apartments, sometimes they say, “Ye-san, you need some exercise and discipline. You look great, but you are putting on some weight these days.”
Their normal exercise routine is to walk their dog in the park. They have a big, gray Akita Inu dog. Tall, with two white dots at its eyebrows, it closely resembles a wolf. The sisters called it Kamo. Kamo is a common Japanese man’s name, so I assume that Kamo is a male dog.
Dogs are not allowed in this apartment community, but the managers don’t do anything about Kamo because the sisters claim that he’s already an “old man” and an old man has a right to live a simple and peaceful life. The apartment managers did come once to try to take the dog away. Kamo started to bark at the managers, fiercely baring his great teeth, his fur standing on end. Next door I could hear the loud, low growls from deep in the animal’s throat. It sounded like he would have thrown himself upon the managers had he not been tied up with his leash. Since then, Kamo and the managers have been implacable enemies. No one else in the complex is afraid of Kamo except the managers.
One time, a manager pulled me aside to speak about the dog. “If Kamo, the alpha dog of Juniper Hill, causes any problem for you,” he said, “or even just a slight inconvenience, you are entitled to my immediate response and the full support of the community office, and the sisters will be sued in court.”
Our community is situated atop the beautiful Juniper Hill, with an excellent view of the western end of Hiroshima Beach. Not many Hiroshima residents are natives; most of the people in this city have migrated from elsewhere. Of course, almost all the native inhabitants of downtown Hiroshima were killed in the atomic bombings sixty years ago; very few survived the attack.
The Juniper Hill community comprises several blocks, including the beautiful white building where the sisters and I live. It was built in the late 1990s. Before that, this area was only a long, natural slope covered with juniper trees.
Most of the residents here live on the first floor. Each terrace apartment has a patio and then a small lawn outlined with an iron fence. Of course, only those of us on the first floor ha
ve the benefit of these lawns; those on the second and third floors are not so lucky.
The sisters have a nice doghouse for Kamo in the southeast corner of the lawn; he stays there quietly during the day. In the evening he moves to the patio, gazing steadily through the glass door, waiting for the sisters to take him for a walk. The sisters like to walk Kamo in the open area. This has become a routine sight in the neighborhood: the wolflike dog, his gray fur shining in the sunset, his collar attached to two leashes, one held by each sister. The dog looks big, strong, and powerful, while the sisters look slim, dainty, and well mannered. The dog and his two masters form a triangle, walking quietly and peacefully along the dam on the Ōta River plain. Neighbors and visitors often stare as they pass by.
Each sister holds a plastic bag in her hand. Yamamoto’s bag contains a small shovel for collecting Kamo’s waste. Shibata’s bag holds a small dish, which they fill with food or water when the dog needs a rest along the way.
Kamo knows well with whom he is walking; he never runs but keeps a steady, princely pace, like a royal horse galloping in front of the palace, not walking but dancing to a rhythm. Throughout the walk, Kamo communicates his joy via his big tail, swishing and waggling it, pleasing the sisters.
The dog knows where to stop for a break and where to eat or drink—spots where the sisters can enjoy the beautiful views and the evening sunset, and where there are chairs and stone stools as well as vending machines. Kamo likes apple juice and knows which machine sells his favorite treat. There’s never any doubt about it: when Kamo stops and glares at the appropriate vending machine, Shibata will draw out a ten-yen coin and put it into the slot, wait for the ding sound, draw out another ten-yen coin and again put it in and wait for the ding. She could easily find a hundred-yen coin in her purse or pocket, but she prefers to draw out the ten-yen coins one by one, sharing with Kamo the anticipation of hearing the dings accumulate. When she has paid all the requisite coins, the can of juice drops from its slot with a loud bang. Kamo then pounces, opening the small door with his mouth and gripping the can, offering it to Shibata’s hand. Shibata pours the yellow juice into the small food dish, patting Kamo’s head and saying, “Go for it, boy. Just what you’ve been waiting for.”
Sometimes Shibata intentionally stops putting coins into the machine, waiting. Kamo is not stupid; he can count, and he barks once, loudly, to urge her to continue.
After the apple juice break, they continue on their way. Where to walk, where to rest, even which bushes Kamo may approach for shitting and urinating—these are all predictable features of their walk. Nothing changes.
I really admire their lifestyle and their attitude. I can’t think of a single detail of their life that seems to be unsatisfactory to them. At this age, many people grow complacent and then bored. But the sisters seem to enjoy every single day. Seeing them reminds me of the TV series The Happy Life of Bigmouth Zhang Damin. It was based on a book by Liu Heng; I read it years ago, back in China. What is a “happy life”? Surely it is this—the life these sisters enjoy. When I am old, I can only hope to have as happy and comfortable a life as they’re enjoying today. I’d count myself lucky even just to have as wonderful a dog as theirs.
The Yamamoto sisters have few relatives around. Sometimes a middle-aged man comes to visit them. He must be one of the next generation of the Yamamoto or Shibata family. In Japanese, he addresses both sisters as “Dear Mama,” in a warm and affectionate way. How can I guess their relationship, when he calls them both “Mama”? Meanwhile, the two sisters address the middle-aged man as “Kamo”—the same name as their dog! “Kamo, Kamo,” the sisters will say, and the man responds with a prompt and clear “Hai!” (“yes” in Japanese).
Whenever the man is visiting, Kamo the dog stays outside, lying docilely in a corner of the patio, quiet and unobtrusive.
Every time Kamo comes to visit the sisters, he always brings a large bundle of yellow daisies. Several times I’ve seen him just as he arrived at their door, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. Sometimes he lays the flowers on the ground while he waits for the door to open. Since it takes some time for the aging sisters to come to the door, he uses those moments to comb his hair, straighten his tie, and pick up the bundle of flowers again, arranging it carefully in his arms. When the sisters finally open the door, they’re greeted with the sight of a well-dressed, handsome, and vital young man.
Kamo’s visit doesn’t usually last long. He may leave after just a brief chat. Sometimes he’ll help the two sisters with some household chore—watering the flowers on the terrace, cleaning the yard, moving items in or out, adjusting the satellite receiver at the fence. The sisters seem to enjoy sitting on their sofa and issuing instructions: Left! Right! A little higher! He follows their orders willingly and happily.
Kamo’s skin is clean and white; you can even see his blue veins underneath. Sometimes I think that if Kamo were female, he’d be a pretty lady, maybe even a TV star. But it seems that Kamo is only an ordinary worker in a large company, the type who doesn’t stand out and will never rise to prominence. From his obedient, eager-to-please demeanor with the sisters, it’s easy to see what role he must play at work.
These pleasant visits seem to grow increasingly rare, though. Lately there are many more times when Kamo the dog is at home and Kamo the man is not around. These days, sometimes Kamo doesn’t appear for as long as one or two months; the sisters wait patiently, expectantly, for him to come. Normally they save all the difficult manual household tasks for him. But if enough time goes by without a visit, or a task requires immediate assistance, like bringing the flowerpots inside when it gets cold out, then the sisters are forced to turn to me for help. They’ll nervously and politely address me as “Ye-san” and timidly ask for help, trying hard to avoid causing me any inconvenience. As for me, I’m happy for them to prevail on me as directly and frankly as they do Kamo; after all, they’re as old as my eldest aunts.
I’ve had the chance to visit their apartment several times. Their rooms are tidy and spotlessly clean. It’s the traditional Japanese custom for all tools and utensils, every vestige of daily life, to be neatly hidden away during the day. Every pillow or quilt from the nighttime is stored up on the shelves in the morning, leaving the bare tatami in a now-empty room. To all appearances, these people never sleep. Likewise in the kitchen: there are no vessels, spoons, or pans piled up; no containers of oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar. It’s so clean that you might even wonder if these people ever eat at home—or eat at all.
All these customs the sisters adhere to completely, with one exception: flowers. All over the apartment there are flowers. In the sitting room, the bedrooms, on the dining table, atop the piano, and even around the toilet, you’ll find light-yellow daisies. Wherever you look, there are daisies. They even grow outside along the fence—a tiny variety, all in yellow. Linger a moment in any room and you will smell the daisy’s light, fresh scent. Perhaps it’s just me, but that smell always reminds me of funerals.
Still, the whole place feels cool and light. The spartan environment doesn’t exactly match the sisters’ elegant style in dress and appearance—but they must like it that way. In comparison, my own apartment is always in a state of chaos. The books I’m reading are scattered everywhere—next to the toilet, across the windowsill, all over the floor. Sofa cushions tossed on the tatami, dirty socks on top of the TV. My disorderly life, with not even a nod to aesthetics or propriety, is a far cry from the traditional Japanese tranquility of my neighbors.
Whenever I help the sisters with any small task, they offer me something in return as a gift. It may be some cookies or a clever toy, always well selected and dignified. Madame Yamamoto always offers me a kind suggestion or well-meaning bit of advice along with the gift. Perhaps she’ll tell me that I’d look better with a particular type of makeup powder, or that my hairstyle would be more elegant if I used a pearl hair clip. I always listen attentively and follow their advice, going out to buy the powder and starting t
o use the hair clip with the pearl decoration. They’re always surprised and delighted, enjoying my improvement and feeling satisfied that their suggestions were followed.
My husband often warns me to keep my distance from our Japanese neighbors, not to accept any gifts or advice from them. He tries to stop me from dropping by their apartment. He thinks I’m too susceptible to others and should develop my own ideas and my own judgment. He thinks it would be better for me to stay away. He’ll often quote some proverb or saying that he reads in the paper. Distance makes beauty, he’ll say.
I object to his suggestions and warnings; I see no harm in helping the sisters now and then. I do have my own ideas, and I am strong-minded. But I enjoy the sisters’ little gifts; I find myself eager for their advice and the precious, tiny objects. I can’t stop opening my hands for them. My husband is out working every day, leaving early in the morning and returning late at night, like the Japanese salarymen that he works with. I’m left alone all day in our spacious rooms. I only want some interesting and amusing way to pass the time; sitting around the house all day will make a person bored and depressed. It’s good for me, I think, to have something useful to do, to help the sisters.
My Japanese visa shows that I’m an “accompanying spouse”—that is to say, a housewife. My husband is the breadwinner. My visa status does not allow me to hold a paid job; I can only stay at home, idle all day, doing nothing, like a monkey in a cage. I move, desultory, from the terrace to the sitting room, from the kitchen to the bedroom. I might eat some slices of orange or apple; have a cup of tea, a few bites of cookie; do some reading for no purpose. I’m smart and capable; I can do lots of things well—and yet I’m not allowed to do anything. You feel empty and lonely when you have nothing to do; it’s a kind of sickness.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 18
