Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China

by Chen Zhongshi

  At times like this, I always think of my friends back home in China. Where are they? What are they doing? I think of my desktop computer, which I’d work at almost every day; sometimes strange words would appear after certain random keystrokes, perhaps the result of some naughty virus.

  Back in China, I had my work; no matter what else I did, I was a writer. But here in Japan, unable to work, I’m nothing but a housewife. How can this be? Even in the apartment next door, the two old sisters are busy—busier than I am, anyway. I hear their clicking clogs—going out, coming back, going out again. Apparently they have a lot to do. I know that Yamamoto is a member of the paiju club, and she teaches a kimono class. And Shibata is a member of the senior citizens’ glee club, a council member, and on the staff of the Housewives Salon. The two sisters are enjoying an enriching life, and their daily appointments are well arranged, scheduled, and managed; they have many interests, and they enjoy their activities. How I wish I could join in their circle and team up with them. It is hard, having nothing to do.

  One day I’m out on my terrace, hanging some clothes to dry, when I hear Shibata singing and Yamamoto playing the piano. Shibata’s voice is clear and loud, while Yamamoto strikes the piano keys with force.

  No matter wherever you may be wandering about,

  There is always gathering and leaving, happiness and sorrow.

  It is really a small, small world.

  The small world is like a round, round circle,

  So let us stretch out our hands and love each other.

  The spacious sky and the far-reaching ocean

  Will be resting in our heart.

  Our hearts will be hosting the small world;

  There is everything and a loving story.

  They’re singing a well-known children’s song, popular in Hiroshima, called “Small, Small World.” Almost everyone here seems to know it. In downtown Hiroshima, at the gate of the big SOGO department store, there is a tall clock like Big Ben. At the top of every hour, the clock clicks and rings, and toy figures come out and sing this song in chorus. A crowd often gathers to watch the mechanical performance. I don’t know when it became the song of the local people, the song of Hiroshima, but whenever someone in the city feels like singing, this song is sure to be heard. Listening to “Small, Small World” as sung by the sisters, I feel like one of the enthusiastic crowd come to see the performance of the toys. I feel young and innocent, rejuvenated. I feel the tranquility of “seeing the mountain as a mountain.”

  Shibata sings the song repeatedly while Yamamoto accompanies her on the piano. They show no sign of tiring. I wouldn’t say Shibata is a good singer; sometimes she goes off-key, and she can’t quite reach the highest notes, even when she tries an awkward falsetto to get there. Also, the piano is very old and out of tune. However, I admire the attitude and spirit of the sisters; they have the courage and ambition to do what they enjoy, with no thought to how others might judge them. If it were me, I would have given up in fear that I wasn’t good enough. But Shibata is Shibata: she likes to sing, and the more she does it, the more she feels like herself. She’s not doing it for anyone else’s sake.

  At noon, after lunch, I go down to the mailbox to pick up my mail, unconsciously singing “Small, Small World” under my breath. Just then I see the sisters going out, well dressed as usual. Shibata hears me murmuring the song; she bows to me and apologizes for her loud singing earlier, which must have intruded on my quiet morning at home. I tell her no, it’s OK, because I like that song. Shibata tells me that their chorus will be performing “Small, Small World,” and she’ll be singing in the alto section. She has to practice, as she doesn’t want to make any mistakes. Without thinking about it, I ask Shibata if I could join the chorus and sing “Small, Small World” with them too. Shibata laughs. No, she tells me, because it’s a senior citizens’ chorus; the minimum age is fifty-five.

  But Shibata says that if I’m looking for something to do, she could bring me to their kimono class, where I could learn how to wear the kimono. I tell her I’ll have to check with my husband first—but I know he’ll never agree to let me go to that, and I know there’s no need to discuss it with him. Besides, the kimono class costs money—and I don’t even have a kimono. Anyway, I tell myself, what use do I have for kimono lessons? I’m not Japanese.

  Shibata nods and starts to go, but then turns back and tells me quietly, “Your red sweater doesn’t go with the blue trousers you’re wearing. There is a Japanese proverb: match red cloth with blue, even the dog will dislike you.” I don’t know what to say. At home I dress sloppily, for comfort, without giving much thought to my clothing. I’ve never been good at putting together stylish outfits or finding items that flatter my appearance. What’s the point in paying attention to that now, when I hardly ever leave my house? Why would I spend time carefully doing my makeup in the morning, only to stay by myself all day and then wash it off again at night? Just for practice?

  But then a voice in my head says, maybe just for fun, or to make yourself happy, or because you never know what will happen.

  I don’t know where that voice came from. But I’m starting to realize that I need to do something for myself.

  2

  The sisters next door are capable and indomitable. They don’t fear anything—except the rain.

  I’ve known people who were afraid of thunder, storms, strong winds, but until I met the sisters I had never known anyone who was truly afraid of rain. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a light drizzle or a heavy downpour; both Sister Yamamoto and Sister Shibata will be breathless, anxious, holed up in their apartment and refusing to go anywhere, even out onto their terrace. No chorus practice, no kimono class, no outside activities whatsoever. No appointment is important enough to induce them to go out in the rain. They’re always telling me that, as a woman, I must be fully made-up every day, even alone at home, that it’s always worthwhile to make my face beautiful. But when it rains, the sisters’ faces grow dark, looking tarnished and old; they transform into tired obasans.

  When the cherry blossoms start fading away, it will be the rainy season in Hiroshima. Then rain will fall constantly, steadily, endlessly. Our whole area, including Juniper Hill and the Seto Inland Sea Beach at the foot of the hill, will be drenched in rain. During the rainy season, it’s as if the whole city is underwater. It’s wet everywhere—wherever you go, whatever you touch, anything you intend to hold in your hand, it will be wet. If you don’t diligently clean the surfaces in and around your home, mold will grow on everything; even the quilt that you sleep under at night will smell like mildew. You can keep your dehumidifier on all day, roaring nonstop, but it’s of little use. Your skin will feel clammy and unpleasant. Even when there’s a rare and brief respite you dare not open your window, or a humid wind will come blowing into your room. During the rainy season you daily feel ill at ease, upset, smothered, bad tempered for no apparent reason. The rainy season is a season of discomfort.

  During this period, the sisters next door are depressed and listless. They don’t come out to go shopping; they don’t even take out their trash. For a whole week, I neither see nor hear any evidence of them at all. No one sings or plays “Small, Small World.”

  Peering from the terrace between our two apartments, I can see Kamo, their lovely dog. He’s lying in his kennel, his head low and his tail even lower. There’s rainwater in his bowl; his food dish is empty. His shiny gray fur has become flaxen and looks disheveled. He is quietly, halfheartedly growling. His ears are pointed back, and his eyes look watery. His small world must be sad and dreary right now.

  Kamo notices me looking in his direction from my terrace and slowly, lazily wags his tail once or twice, an automatic hello. Then he puts his head back down on his paws and closes his eyes. He knows that no food is served when it rains. No going out and walking in the yard, no prancing in the open field. No apple juice. He has to endure these miseries—whether it rains for a week or even a month.

  I feel sor
ry for Kamo. Kamo the dog, that is. He’s powerless, at the mercy of the humans around him. He needs help and care. I tear off a piece of the pancake that I’m eating and toss it to him; it falls close to his kennel. He opens one eye and sees it land, but doesn’t move. I throw another piece his way; this time he slowly stands up, turns around, and lies down again, now with his rear and tail to me. I go back to my kitchen, looking around. In the refrigerator I find the piece of Canton sausage that I brought back with me from China; I’ve been saving it for quite some time. I throw the sausage to Kamo, and it lands on his back and then rolls to the ground near the fence. This is not working as expected; Kamo is neither excited nor interested. I keep trying, over and over, until most of the food and snacks from my kitchen are strewn across the sisters’ lawn. Like his masters, Kamo the dog is not coming out. All my food is arrayed on the grass like sacrificial offerings to the rain god.

  I start hoping that Kamo-san, that meek man, will come soon and bring some liveliness to this stagnant scene. He can help stir the still waters here.

  But Kamo—the man—doesn’t come.

  In the late afternoon my husband gets home from work. I tell him about my day. He looks at the yard next door and sees all the chunks of food that I threw, now soaked and swollen and rotting, transformed by the rain. He asks me to quit putting my oar in their boat. He says this is Japan, not China. Here, he says, there is always some hidden request when people communicate with each other. My husband tells me that the principle for living a peaceful life here in Japan and in other Western countries is: do not cause trouble for others. Or: mind your own business. The Chinese proverb when you have trouble, you will have kind support from all directions may be right in China, but it doesn’t apply at all here in Japan. If I’m always voluntarily stretching out my hands to help others, he says, getting into other people’s business, they’ll lose respect for me. I’ll be considered uneducated and inferior.

  That night, I cannot fall asleep. I lie in bed mulling it over. Who is right? Is it better to stay away from those who may need help, in order to avoid causing trouble for them? Or, on the other hand, am I right to stretch out my hand to offer my assistance to others in a time of need? Are my actions good or bad? I don’t know. Is there a way that both concepts could be integrated into one? That is, can you volunteer to help others without causing them trouble?

  In the morning, my husband finds me pensive and quiet, not chatting with him as usual. He thinks that I’m unhappy, worried. So he offers me 20,000 yen in pocket money and urges me to go to Tokuyama City, west of Hiroshima, for a walk or a tour. He encourages me to go have some fun—take some pictures if I like. He reminds me that my good friend Deng Youmei used to work in Tokuyama when she was younger; I could go take some pictures for her sake.

  So the next day, I go to Tokuyama as suggested. It is still raining. I agreed to go for fun and a change of pace, not to take pictures. God knows where in Tokuyama Deng Youmei used to work.

  Tokuyama is just as wet as Hiroshima. I walk around, stopping to buy a beautiful dog collar from a shop near the train station. I feel pity for Kamo. He is innocent and vulnerable, left uncared for in the rain for days. Sure, he can be a handful, but he still deserves to be cared for. He deserves to be cared for by me.

  Back at home, I don’t want my husband to see or know about the dog collar. I carefully wrap it in paper and hide it in the bottom of a drawer. When the weather is fine again, I’ll visit the sisters and give them the collar in front of Kamo. I want to let Kamo know that I have a gift for him. He is also my friend. Next time it rains, I’ll send him food again; maybe this time he’ll accept my offering.

  At the beginning of each season, the apartment management office distributes paper bags for each household’s trash. The management office posts a notice on the bulletin board, asking each family to go and get theirs at an appointed time. The bags will not be available after the scheduled distribution. There’s a common house for community public gatherings, unlocked and open for scheduled activities and locked at all other times. The managers work only part-time; I assume they have other jobs as well. So at the designated time, I go to the common house to fetch the two bundles of bags for my family. The manager checks his list and crosses off my husband’s name. Then he says, “Good, you’re in 104—can you get the bags to 103 as well? You know, the home of the alpha dog? These bags will be mildewed if they’re left in storage too long.”

  Four bundles of paper bags are not hard to carry. Why not? I’m about to nod and say yes, when I remember my husband’s warnings: Do not cause trouble. Mind your own business. I feel confused, and I hesitate. The manager notices my delay but looks down and makes a mark on his list, murmuring, “OK, 103. It’s raining, so the two obasans won’t come out anyway.” He puts four bundles of paper bags in my hands.

  It’s too late to argue or negotiate. They are in my hands, and I have to do this favor for the sisters.

  Holding my umbrella, I run quickly back to our apartment unit with the four bundles of bags, trying to keep them dry. I stop at my neighbors’ door and ring the bell. I’m hoping that the sisters will invite me in so I can see what they’ve been doing all this time while cooped up in their rooms.

  After several minutes, Sister Yamamoto sees me through the video monitor and answers in a weak voice. “Is that Ye-san?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “The manager asked me to bring you your trash bags.”

  “Sorry to cause you so much trouble,” Sister Yamamoto says. “Please leave them at the door. Thanks a lot.”

  Sister Yamamoto does not open the door. I leave the paper bags on the doorstep.

  Those two bundles of paper bags are there for a whole week. I go out in the morning, and the bags are there. I go out at noon to do some shopping, and the bags are still there, untouched. The sisters have not opened their door even once. How strange!

  I start to worry. Back home in China, from time to time we’d hear on the news about some old man in a foreign country who was found dead in his room after several months. The political public relations offices held them up as examples of the selfishness and lack of humanity in the capitalist countries. I don’t want to see that happen in my neighborhood. I tell my husband about my worry and concern. He glares at me and angrily says that I am seriously sick. He tells me I’m watching too much negative TV.

  But I care about others, I protest.

  He says to me, “Do not make trouble for yourself while you’re idle.”

  My husband has worked abroad for many years; he is cool-minded. He cares about his work and his home; he does not care about other people’s business. As he always says himself: it’s good to live in another culture and encounter other people, but don’t get too involved. It seems that when he was working back at home in China, his coworkers put too much pressure on him to combine his work and home lives.

  I say to him, “What is the meaning of life, then, if not to live together with your fellow man? You need to have relationships with other people. Care for others, and let others care for you. You can’t be alone in the world, with your single window to the outside, dealing only with your wife at home and your own shoes when you walk. You have to be part of the world, and the world is other people.”

  He replies, “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t want to play with words. You idle about at home all day; you want to argue and talk to other people just to make sure your lips still work.”

  Sometimes, two people get in the habit of arguing over something or even nothing as a way of amusing themselves.

  The next morning, my husband gets up early and heads out to work. But he suddenly comes back in, shouting. I’m still lying lazily in bed. “Get up,” he shouts from the doorway. “I see a gang in the morning sky!”

  I know what he means. “Gang” is a slang word for “rainbow.” Only those kids of the old Beijing residents, Beijing natives of our generation, call a rainbow “gang.” If you say “gang” in today’s Beijing, nine out of ten pe
ople won’t understand you. My husband still uses all those old words and sayings; he doesn’t change with the times. I don’t know how he teaches his modern students at the university; sometimes I wonder if he’s doing a good job.

  Still in my pajamas, I rush to the terrace. From there I see, rising above the ocean, a beautiful blue sky. After endless days of rain, it is bright and clear. In the east, the morning sun emerges above a white cloud, beams of light pouring into the awakening sea. In the west, on the horizon, a vivid rainbow bridges the northern and southern sky like a colorful gate, uniting the mountain on this side and the sea on the other. The rainbow drifts with the cloud, coming closer and closer. In almost no time, the rainbow bridge is just over my head and I am under the bridge—ha! I want to shout along with my husband, for the rainbow and for the clear day.

  Kamo, the dog next door, is bravely barking and barking at the rainbow. It’s a rare sight, and he is overexcited. I see that our neighbors’ lawn has been cleaned off; the bits of pancake and meat and other food are all gone. In Kamo’s food dish there is fresh dog food.

  The rainbow has faded, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. No more bridge; who knows where it goes. The big, bright sun pushes its way out of the clouds, bathing the field in splendid yellow. A light fog rises from the foot of the hill, spreading slowly and quietly along the hillside. Some kind of sesame-colored bird squeaks sharply, frightened, as if being pursued. A bushy-tailed squirrel slips down from the tree and escapes into the hedges. The cool wind blows in from the sea, bringing the salty smell of fish and brine, kissing my face and whispering in my ear like a lover. I stretch, feeling comfortable and cozy.