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

by Chen Zhongshi

  Yes, he needed to hurry. There were lots of things to do: fry an egg for the kid, heat the milk, try to catch the late-night bus to town and buy a pair of leather boots for the fast-growing little feet.

  The river road saw the young man push the kid in the pram, back and forth, year in and year out; to the young man, the years seemed to speed by like shooting stars. Those bittersweet years . . . But no regrets.

  She approached from the other side of the road.

  The girl had a slender figure that, combined with the high heels and full skirt, gave her a gracefulness, the look of a professional dancer out enjoying a rare moment of leisure. Her large, expressive eyes showed a depth of sensitivity.

  A close look at her would reveal the girl searching for something or somebody. Her search was focused on the riverbank in the gathering nightfall. Whenever her steps halted and she moved stealthily into the shadows created by the streetlight, that was the moment the little pram had become visible amid the crowd of pedestrians. She would fix her gaze on the young man pushing the pram and watch him playing peekaboo with the kid.

  If she found the man wearing the same clothes for days on end, the kid was never seen in the same shirt for two days running. Her eyes would fix on the man’s hair, maybe lingering a bit too long on that thick, black hair, and then move to the oblong face. Oh, the face seemed a shade paler. But the eyes, though weary, were as fascinating as ever.

  It was only by coincidence that she knew of the existence of the father and son. She’d been on an outing with a girlfriend; as they stood chatting by a lamppost, her friend had lowered her voice and said, “Look, here they come.”

  “Who?”

  “Look—the young man with the pram.”

  It sounded like a fairy tale. She stared at the young man and the child, devouring them with her large, clear eyes. Then she and her friend moved stealthily forward, following the course of the pram.

  She craned her neck and stole a glance at the kid. He looked healthy, a chubby little boy in a tight-fitting yellow shirt—a child who might have just jumped out of a picture, with both his plump hands in his mouth and a ring of translucent red beads dangling from his neck. She was surprised by a sudden warm feeling and an image of the kid rushing toward her open arms. Her cheeks turned red-hot at the strange feeling.

  Her next encounter with the young man occurred a few days later, after the memory of the strange sensation had faded into the background. It was again a coincidence, this time occurring as she walked home from the art school. It was near nightfall, and the crowd was dispersing from the evening market. There he was again with the pram. This time the kid was fast asleep. Everything seemed the same, except she thought the man’s feet seemed to fall more wearily on the ground.

  As a film student, she decided this was an opportunity to try the technique of transference, imagining herself transferred into the young man’s body, trying to feel what he felt: tired, exhausted, ready to cave in at any moment, loneliness gathering around him, no human support from anywhere, and no dear beloved—otherwise his girlfriend would be there with him!

  She remembered what her friend had told her. However, she had her own view of him, quite different from what the other girls were saying. They all wondered if he’d now come to regret his decision to keep the kid. After all, it was no mystery that a kid costs energy as well as money.

  The river flowed on majestically, following its own course, carrying with it scores of riverboats illuminating the glossy surface of the dark water.

  Indifferent to the busy traffic, she followed the young man from behind. She forgot all about the rest of the world—and the fact that she had been heading home—until she heard a low sigh escaping from deep within the young man. That caused her heart to miss a beat. Here was a young man, a good man, compassionate and kindhearted, who gave the kid everything—warmth, happiness, and love—leaving nothing to himself except a deep sigh.

  Compassion, an invisible asset, invaluable riches—the essence of life, the spring of creation.

  She watched father and son turn down the road, and then she turned toward her home with a knitted brow.

  The moment she got home she went straight to bed, burying herself in it. So lost was she in her thoughts that it was only after several calls from her mother that she became aware that she was being summoned. Reluctantly she told her mother the story of the man and the boy.

  Her kindhearted mother was moved and said, “This is a very good young man. Very good indeed. Unfortunately, he is so different from us. Otherwise we might be able to offer help.”

  Amid her mother’s prattle, the girl’s thoughts went their own way. A story idea had occurred to her and was developing into a dramatic play. With a director’s eye, the girl started imagining sets and scenes. If the real characters could be cast in the play, that would make it even better. But did the young man have any talent for acting?

  Days went by while her mind dwelled on the same theme. But today something was going to happen.

  In the morning, she buys a boy’s baseball cap, one with green sunglasses. In the afternoon, hidden in a corner away from everybody else, she writes a short letter. She is positive the letter will set the wheels in motion.

  Wearing a facade of disinterest, she shadows the father and son from about a dozen meters behind, until the pram comes to a standstill at the railings on the riverbank. The young man starts to point out to the boy various objects on the river. The boy, his face between two poles and his hands on the railing to hold himself upright, turns his head this way and that at his father’s prompting. The young man then draws out of his satchel something that he proceeds to put into his ears. He steps forward and leans against the railing, his face taking on an absorbed expression.

  He appears to be listening to music or a perhaps a lecture. This is her opportunity. Picking up courage, she approaches. On passing, she drops the baseball cap and the letter into the pram. She takes a few hurried steps farther and finds a spot at the railing, taking a position a short distance from the young man with a couple of young lovers in between them. She waits, biting her lip as her heart thumps away.

  Time crawls. Girls and boys stroll in pairs, forming an uncomfortable background. The sunset sparkles on the river in endless variation, but it fails to divert her attention from the young man for even a single moment.

  He turns slightly, sending a tremor to her already-heightened senses. But it turns out to be only a readjustment of the earpieces and then a resumption of his total absorption. A long sigh escapes from her. She shuts her eyes, trying to relax.

  In this brief pause, a change has taken place. She becomes aware that he has drawn himself up from the railing, removing the earpieces, dropping them back into the satchel, turning to the pram, preparing to go . . .

  She stares harder, eyes wide. His own stare is fixed inside the pram in surprise. Seconds pass before he picks up the baseball cap with the letter nestled inside it. Before the young man hesitantly opens the envelope, he casts a sweeping look around him. Now he is absorbed in the letter, reading under the lamppost.

  When he finishes reading, he closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them wide, now scanning the riverbank expectantly under the night sky.

  Will he find her? Quickly she swings out the fan in her hand and starts fanning herself. Though on the surface she looks calm, inside she’s in ecstasy. There is no doubt he can act: she has seen now surprise, doubt, excitement, delight, all finely portrayed and clearly defined. He did not overdo it by walking around too excitedly. Instead, he picked up the boy and put his cheek against the boy’s own cheek. If he had let his tears run down onto the boy’s face, it would have produced an even better effect.

  She’s so excited that it almost hurts to watch. She turns away in a hurry.

  The next evening, she arrives early at the same spot on the riverbank. Over the last twenty-four hours, she has thought of little else than the new development in the theme. She doesn’t know what to expe
ct from the young man, nor what to hope for from his next scene.

  All she had wanted was to gather impressions from real life for film directing; she was convinced that scripted acting had had its day and run its course. The future of filmmaking was in real-life acting, acting in situ, for effect. In her experiment she provided neither a script, a briefing of the scenes, nor her intent. She let him try to perform by instinct and act on the spur of the moment.

  It’s been absolutely wonderful, she tells herself. But if she has raised unrealistic hopes in him and he starts to expect more of her, what will she do?

  She’s pondering the question as she walks, when a sudden childish cry of “Daddy!” from the curbside snaps her from her reverie. There they are—the boy in a white baseball cap with a pair of sunglasses, not quite appropriate for an evening outing. She lets her eyes follow the pretty hat; admittedly, this is a kind of expression of love. She then lets her eyes go to the young man, who seems to have had a perm, which leaves a strand of wavy hair over his brow. His eyes are shining. The red lips, half-open, seem to carry a permanent smile on a face dominated by a straight nose. He wears light-brown trousers and leather loafers. He looks relaxed and is humming a nursery rhyme to the kid:

  There is a star in the sky

  Turning the direction of the human eye.

  The lonely star across the Milky Way

  Is in search of friends far away.

  His baritone voice reaches into the depths of her heart. It is like the light rain in the spring that falls on the young shoots in a bamboo forest, creating a hypnotizing staccato. The pleasing rhythm puts the thought of film directing out of her mind.

  Stars . . . the star searching for its own kind. What a beautiful metaphor. Yes, if he can choose to take care of the child because he is kind and compassionate, why can’t some girl come up and offer to be the kid’s mother?

  She’s struck dumb by the idea. She could bring him up to his role. But she cannot persuade herself that this is acting anymore. She has indeed brought him hope.

  She shakes her head, still unconvinced. Then the giggles of a group of teenagers break through her thoughts, like thunder. It strikes her that she is the object of their ridicule, that they’re laughing at her: ha, that girl is the mother of the boy!

  She shakes her head again, listening harder to what the teens are saying. It turns out they’re discussing a rare frame in the Japanese film A Testimonial of Humanity.

  Why am I bothered by such rubbish? She takes several quick steps and closes the distance between her and the leisurely moving pram.

  There is a star in the sky

  Turning the direction of the human eye.

  The sweet, childish voice carries on, repeating the same lines, drawing indulgent laughter from passersby. The father laughs, too, a natural eruption of joy from within his heart. If she were to walk alongside him, what would the others say? Would an innocent young child change people’s perception of her? What is this feeling for the young man who took on the role of fatherhood? Is it only admiration for his courage and goodness?

  Her mind goes back to her professional aspirations. Yes, let’s be professional. She must try to put the story on the screen. Well, she could try real-life acting too. She is certain she’d be a success.

  The pram has stopped by the stone pillar of a signal lamp. This is where the young man and the boy usually pause, perhaps because it’s relatively quiet here. Maybe he needs the quiet for his own thoughts—or, more probably, for his lessons. But this time, leaning on the railing, he turns his back to the river and faces the road. He begins to check out each passerby, one by one, carefully. Her heart skips a beat: he must be expecting her!

  Shall she approach him and confess to him that it was she, this stranger, who wrote the letter and bought the baseball cap? Or should she take his hand and tell him in earnest that she loves what he represents: love, compassion, and sensitivity? It is easy to love your own children, but not so easy to love a child not your own. You sure challenge the idea that parental love is instinctual and cannot be cultivated. Or will she tell him that she’s going to be a film director without an “iron bowl”—that is, without a job contract at a film studio? She is going to study human emotions in situ, in all their real-life manifestations. She wants to portray characters differently from the trite products of the film studios. Everything she has done so far was prompted by curiosity. She must apologize for her experiment with him . . . No, no, no, that is not what she meant. She wants to spend her life with him and together they will search for the meaning of life . . .

  Oh, there is no hurry. Better think it over again. Some friend once told her, “Love at first sight only shows immaturity.”

  “Daddy, I’m hungry.” The kid is clawing with his two pawlike hands, trying to climb out of the pram by grabbing the hem of his father’s coat. “What do you want to eat?”

  “What do you want to eat?” the man asks.

  “Ice cream!”

  The young man waves a finger back and forth at his son, as if to say no. But the kid shouts, “Bad Daddy! Daddy bad. Not buying me ice cream!”

  The young man takes the kid to the ice-cream stand. The kid holds tightly to his father’s lapel on their return.

  The young woman hears the tender voice again: “Daddy, where is Mommy? Why is Mommy not back? You told me she’d be home soon. I want Mommy . . .”

  The young man stares at the kid, looking into the tiny face. This is certainly an unanswerable question. The silence lasts a long time. At last, the young man looks away. He raises his head and, with clear eyes, scans the distant sky. Soon he lowers his head again.

  The young woman keeps a close watch on the developing scene, aware that if the young man’s melancholy continues, this will end up a tragedy. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have a love life of his own, why the kid should have no mother. To be a wife to the young man and a mother to the kid, for a play that has never been and never will be. Besides, she has already lit the fire of love in him. She has no right to let it die again. It’s unethical to play with somebody’s feelings like that. As for the future, her mother will help them. She is sure of that. Thus she continues with the development of the story . . .

  The female lead character is writing a long letter to the male lead, telling him all about herself, beginning with the confession that she is a girl a few years younger than he and, at the moment, a paying student in the city art school studying to be a film director. She loves him because in him she’s discovered the qualities for a new generation of human beings. The letter must also mention that in three days’ time, at seven thirty in the evening, he should bring the pram and kid to the signal post. He must let the kid know that he is going to see his mommy. At the post, there will be a girl with a toy gun . . .

  At the end of the letter, she includes a poem:

  There are two stars in the sky

  Traveling in the same orbit.

  Cold as the sky is,

  The stars are journeying to the light.

  The next three days seem like three years. His mind is alternately gladdened by the apparent coming happiness and troubled by the prospect of possible disappointment. Three days before, he was convinced that the blue light had been snuffed out. Then out of nowhere another light came up right in front of him. He could not believe it. To trust what looks promising at first sight takes purity of heart—or complete lack of experience. Like other normal beings who have not been treated kindly by the world, he could not believe what his heart wanted him to believe. Instead, he was prepared to accept all that the capricious world might deliver.

  In the fresh river breeze, under a star-studded sky, the young man sets out, pushing the pram toward the designated spot.

  He follows his usual route, expectant and apprehensive at the same time. But sure, he is prepared: behind the child’s seat, he has tucked a bunch of flowers bought for the occasion.

  The pram creaks and clatters all the way while the kid waves his
arms about, his eyes taking in the familiar scene joyfully. Mommy, for whom he has yearned for a long time, is finally back! He has dreamed of his mother, of crying and laughing in her arms, of kissing her lovingly. He can’t make up his mind: with his mother at his side, should he become distant from his father?

  Maternal love, sacred love.

  Now, as the pram approaches the bridge, the boy can’t contain his excitement. He starts shouting, “Daddy, fast, faster!” A little later he whispers to himself, “Mommy, I love you.”

  The kid’s happiness touches his father, who has finally let himself go. They are traveling uphill now as they get closer to the bridge. The man is pushing harder than ever when a tall girl with a bag approaches and says to him, “Can I help with the pram?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The man’s mind is all wrapped up with the girl he is going to meet, so he is totally unprepared for the girl by his side, pushing the pram together with him. He has never been so close to a girl before. But not knowing how to refuse the offered help, he has to carry on, though he’s fearful of the impression it will make on the girl he is meeting. Well, at the top of the incline there’ll be no more need for another pair of hands. Not anymore. Anyway, there are thousands of well-wishers every day.

  Thankfully, once atop the incline, the girl lets go. However, instead of taking off, she moves to the side and starts chatting with the man.

  “Nice view here.”

  “Nature’s gift.”

  “Not entirely true. Human effort helped to create the view.”

  He doesn’t know how to reply. Now the man takes the time to have a close look at the girl. Pretty, nicely dressed, certainly fashion conscious—but most unlikely to be his date. The stranger who professes to love him would have to be a plain, homely girl. Not that he cares about that. All that matters is that she has a good heart. At this, his heart and mind start to move toward the signal post.

  “It sure is a joy to take the child out on such a lovely evening.”