by Jeremy Tiang
The afternoon was a disaster. Sophia veered between brittle cheerfulness and snapping at him for making fun of a woman’s hair. She probably doesn’t speak English, he protested, but she was already marching stiffly ahead. He was in hospital slippers, which forced him to shuffle like an old man. Next time, he resolved, he would make an effort and put on lace-up shoes. Only Sophia never offered to take him out again.
The walls feel impenetrable, claustrophobic. He has never felt so constrained as now. Both alone and with Sophia, he has always been able to simply board a plane to take him where he needed to be. The first sealed door wasn’t actually the illness, it was being told by the hospital in Singapore that he was considered a poor candidate for a transplant; it was learning from a harassed-sounding woman in a Newcastle call-centre that, having lived outside the UK for so long, he is no longer eligible for NHS treatment. The cost of a private operation made his eyes widen. Why hadn’t they saved more? Or bothered taking out insurance?
He remembers his watch and rummages in the drawer for it. It is designed for diving and lights up at the touch of a button. A little after four o’clock. He must surely have slept a little, even if he wasn’t aware of it. He can’t have been up all these hours, chasing thoughts around his head. Even now the lines in his head will not stay orderly, they bend and twist around each other. This is wrong. He isn’t supposed to be agitated. Even though he hasn’t smoked since university, he desperately wants a cigarette now.
It is so still now, the quietest hour of the night. He thinks he can hear his own heart beating. Normal, no stutter, no slowing down, just a regular thud. What will they do with it? A bin full of medical waste somewhere, and—his imagination fails him. Presumably the risk of contamination rules out landfill, so the incinerator? All those scraps of bodies, fat melting, small hairs catching fire, igniting skin, and in the middle of that his heart, deep red, trailing white slime.
He feels a knot inside him dissolve, as if it is made of sugar, and he is calm. A deep stillness, the city letting out its breath, a pause before it draws the next. What else can he do? For the first time in weeks, there is no pain between his shoulder blades. This may be the resignation of a condemned man approaching the scaffold, but there is strength in it too. You can do nothing further to me, he thinks. After the trapdoor opens, gravity takes over.
A bubble of noise just outside his door: creaking, rattling wheels and rough voices. He is routinely woken just before dawn by the cleaners, who will not enter his room till much later but announce their presence, distributing cleaning supplies at regular intervals along the corridor like dogs peeing to mark their territory. They chatter constantly, louder than the nurses, louder than can possibly be necessary with no competing sounds. Sophia may be hesitant when she speaks Mandarin, but at least her tone is pleasantly modulated, obviously educated.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again the corridor is silent and sunlight has appeared on the wall. Actual sunlight, the yellow of a broken egg, finger-streaked through the Venetian blinds, not the pearly grey light he wakes up to most mornings. Something unhooks inside him—excitement from a past life, rustling grass that seems to say: spring is on its way. He has lived in Singapore too long, absorbed too much of its constant tropical sun. Now he remembers the pleasure of seasons, the sudden lightness of an afternoon without a coat.
Nicholas feels his anger slip away. It isn’t fair that his parents are dead, that he is alone in this box of a room with its patchy walls, his own body betraying him. But he lets this drift away, and soon it is beyond his field of vision. Sophia’s indifference, her maddening aunt, the head-drilling voices of the cleaning staff—one after another they float into darkness. He has always been the kind of man who builds up quiet rage over weeks before releasing it in tight, barely courteous words. Not now. He inches a toe forward until it just touches the pool of sun, convinced he feels a gradual warmth blossom over his body.
By the time the nurse comes in—without knocking, as usual—he is able to watch her completely placidly, not tensing as footsteps approach the door. She seems unnerved by his attempt at a smile. There are a few things she must do—take his temperature, check his chart—and she goes through them studiously, as if he is a puzzle that requires great attention to solve.
Perhaps it is the sleepless night, but the next hour passes in a fog. He is wheeled down a corridor, his chest shaved, or perhaps the other way round. So many lights. They flare above his head, making squiggles across his retina. Each time he opens his eyes, his surroundings have shifted. Everyone is speaking, sometimes all at once, but probably not to him. Sophia flickers past him, though later he can’t remember if his eyes were open or shut when he saw her. They inject various liquids into him. He feels oddly little pain, and then none at all.
■ ■ ■
Soon you will be going home, says the aunt. Sophia jumps, having been staring out of the car window. The aunt repeats herself.
Maybe, says Sophia. Probably. It depends what the doctor says.
I’ve enjoyed having you here. The aunt is unusually abstracted today, not shouting at any other drivers even though they have been stuck in traffic for forty minutes now, and motorcycles keep veering perilously close, threatening to snap off her wing mirror.
We’ll visit again. There is more that Sophia wants to add to this—how grateful she is, how sorry that she doesn’t know her aunt better—but the right words fail to come together in her mind. There must be polite formulae for these situations. I should have watched more TV, she thinks. How many soap opera scenes there must be of awkward car journeys, family members reaching tentatively towards each other—and the stock phrases they use, the last refuge of the lazy screenwriter. If only she knew some of them.
Instead she says, Gu Ma— and then stops. She should not, but the question comes unbidden. Are you sure everything’s going to be okay?
The older woman shows no exasperation at being asked again, for the third time since breakfast. Of course, right as rain, she repeats, the intonation and phrasing of her response consistent as a fairy tale. Why are you so worried?
You hear so many things—
Don’t listen to things.
I read on the Internet about someone dying. He had cancer and they gave him a new liver, but he died two days later. It turned out the liver was HIV positive.
The aunt laughs. Maybe that might happen at a private clinic. Anything could happen there. At this hospital they choose good organs. When I was still on the work unit, we had to match the tissue samples very carefully, to make sure everything was compatible before the executions went ahead. The patients who came through us all made full recoveries.
Sophia isn’t sure she has understood correctly. Executions?
The condemned prisoners were tested several times, everyone on death row, until we found something suitable. So much work. We had to inject them with an anti-coagulant before they were shot.
I didn’t—I thought it was car accidents, or brain death—in most countries, it’s—
Is it? Well, not in China. Who wants to meet their ancestors with half their insides missing?
With a swoosh of relief, the traffic starts to move again. The aunt nudges the car forward, jaggedly overtaking. Sophia wonders if she already knew this. Half-remembered magazine articles about forged signatures on consent forms, men and women appearing in court with their jaws wired shut to prevent them from speaking out. Why did she think this had nothing to do with her?
The aunt seems to guess at what is bothering her. You shouldn’t feel guilty. These are all people who’ve done bad things. This way at least they can pay something back to society.
But how— and again, her limited vocabulary trips her up. How can someone in that position really consent? Did our heart, the one now in my husband’s chest— But there are no words in any language to ask such a question. She tries not to think about what a short wait they had for a match.
Don’t think about it, say
s the aunt. I knew a lot of comrades who were sent to work in the abattoirs during re-education. They stopped eating meat after that. It’s best not to think about it.
They are moving at speed now, the traffic suddenly smooth again. Buildings streak past, concrete slabs studded with neon signs. Between bright pink beauty parlour hoardings and homely restaurant names, familiar images appear: Starbucks, The Gap, Taco Bell, English names replaced by Chinese characters but still instantly recognisable. I could go into a shopping centre and pretend I’m home, she thinks.
For the first time since coming here, she allows herself to imagine their Tanjong Pagar flat, to put herself in it, safely back with Nicholas. Perhaps in just a few days—stepping out of the lift, with their luggage. Opening the familiar door. Her mother’s domestic helper comes round twice a week to clean, so there’d be no dust, just the faint lemon scent of floor polish. They’d walk slowly through the rooms as if to reclaim possession. Turn on the air-conditioning. And then?
She has not experienced this since school: an event so ominous it becomes impossible to see beyond, the emptiness of afterwards, the quiet desolation of the day after your last exam. Relief, of course, but also a dull ache, an absence like a missing tooth.
The aunt is speaking again, something about messages to pass on to her mother, her cousins. This is a family visit, and now that the main complication is over, there are protocols to negotiate, souvenirs to be bought. Sophia nods at the right moments. She will do this, but already she knows this is all, these messages from the aunt are the last real contact they will have. The Chinese do not send cards at Christmas, so there is not even that. Will she call the aunt, if she and Nicholas find themselves back in Beijing at some point? Well, perhaps. It would depend on their schedule. So awkward for Nicholas, who doesn’t speak a word of Mandarin.
They parallel park on a side street. A warden comes over and mechanically recites: Ten yuan for the first hour, five for each subsequent half-hour. The aunt cuts him off. I’ll give you twenty, just let me park here as long as I want. They haggle and settle on twenty-five, and he’ll keep an eye on the car for her.
It is not far to the hospital, but the walk there is littered with the usual hazards. Uneven pavements that end abruptly, drivers who treat traffic lights as no more than suggestions. At one point they have to step out onto the road because the entire pavement is taken up by a donkey cart, from which an old couple are selling watermelons. Sophia follows closely behind the aunt, trusting in her to navigate the hostile terrain.
The safety wall before the hospital entrance is covered in earnest graffiti, marker pen rather than spray paint: some slogans that mean nothing to Sophia, and a great many phone numbers. She’d vaguely assumed these were prostitutes advertising. Now, she realises most of them are preceded by the same single character: “shen”. Kidney.
Something gives way around the level of Sophia’s own kidneys, some kind of air lock that suddenly empties her body of air, the rush of it leaving her barely able to stand. For a moment she cannot draw breath, and she must put a hand on the sliding doors to steady herself. Not now. Deal with this later. Her chin snaps up, and she makes the effort to pull herself upright.
She becomes aware the aunt has said something. Pardon?
I’ll let you see him alone, says the aunt. Don’t worry about me. I’ll go and have a chat with Old Cheng. I’ll come find you later.
Gu Ma—thank you. This seems inadequate, but the older woman nods firmly, reassuringly, and trots off into the depths of the hospital. Sophia watches her go, her legs so sturdy. Looking at her aunt’s broad back, her mind fills with unexpected tenderness.
All the way up the stairs, Sophia studies the faces of everyone she passes, trying to work out who is grieving, who is hopeful, what each person must be longing for. There is something like a song growing inside her, a lightness that breaks gradually, step after step. By the time she reaches Nicholas’s floor, she is humming. There is queasiness beneath this, the rumble of upset waiting to make itself known, but she is able to push it far down and skate over its surface. The nurses smile politely as they pass her in the corridor, and she decides they are not so bad after all, these girls.
When she opens the door, Nicholas is in bed, the television on, a scene so familiar that for a second she feels the jolting fear that nothing has changed. But no, she’s been watching him all week through the glass window, blurry from anaesthetic, bandages around him. Now he is finally out of Intensive Care. Now she can approach.
He looks up when she comes in. They warned me that the anti-rejection drugs might make me go a bit funny. In case I say anything strange. It’s temporary.
She cannot speak. Already he is becoming like his old self, confident, still, his dark blue eyes no longer vulnerable. There will be months of therapy and years of pills ahead, she knows, and nothing can be certain. Yet the air of fearfulness that cloaked them for months is dispelled. Light through grey clouds. She cannot possibly say anything to break the joy of this moment. What would be the point? What can they do now, either of them?
Gu Ma’s here, she says. She’ll come and say hello in a bit. Maybe—when you feel up to it—we should take her out for dinner before we go home.
Of course. His voice is smooth with politeness. She’s done so much for us.
I’ll ask her to pick a restaurant. She must know somewhere nice. So easy to slip into familiarity, discussing dinner venues.
A strange new animal has taken up residence inside Sophia, and she will have to learn to reach an accommodation with it. It only rears its head if looked at directly, but otherwise remains dormant, only noticeable from its cold weight against her gut. The whole of this grey city seems bound up in that weight. She suddenly wants, more than anything, to feel Nicholas’s warmth along the length of her body.
How are you? she says, in a way that requires no answer. He smiles, and she abandons her chair to snuggle next to him. The bed is really too narrow to accommodate them both, but just for a moment she wants to remember the familiar way they fit together, her chin against his shoulder. This is better. She runs her fingertips over the valleys of his collarbone, convincing herself he is real. The thickest bandages have come off, and now there is only a swathe of gauze down the middle of his chest. She is careful not to go anywhere near it; the scar underneath is still very tender.
They stay like that, watching television. Nicholas must be feeling better, the remote control is in his hand and he is scrolling freely through the channels. She translates, but before she is halfway through a sentence he has flipped again. They see scraps of game shows, overcooked period dramas, and what appears to be a travelogue centred entirely on food.
He hovers for some time on an unusual chat show. It is outdoors, and the guest is on a hard chair, in handcuffs, his head shaven. What is this? says Nicholas.
It takes Sophia a few seconds to work it out. They’re interviewing death row prisoners before execution. Asking what they’ve done, why they did it.
Nicholas laughs, a warm sound she hasn’t heard for too long. Brilliant. I’m surprised Jeremy Kyle hasn’t thought of it.
The interviewer is a youngish woman, very fashionably made-up—feathery cropped hair and a loose silky top. Do you repent? she is saying. Are you even sorry?
The man looks down, unable to meet her eye. Of course I’m sorry.
What would you say to the parents, if they were here? All those families?
And now Sophia recognises him. He has been on the front page of every newspaper, along with his colleagues—the men and women in charge of the company that cut their milk powder with melamine. They are national villains, after killing so many babies. No wonder the interviewer looks at him with such contempt.
Poor bastard, says Nicholas. But why would anyone agree to this? I suppose he’ll be languishing in his cell now. At least he got his fifteen minutes. Sophia does not tell him that the programme is a repeat, that the man is already dead, executed by a bullet through the righ
t side of his chest. Always the right side, the aunt said, so as not to damage—
Those innocent children! hectors the interviewer. The only hopes of their families—no siblings, because of our unique national circumstances. Such cruelty. A single tear glistens in the corner of an eye. She dabs it away, examines her fingertip.
We didn’t mean to, says the man quietly. We just wanted to cut costs to avoid bankruptcy. No one was meant to—
His voice wisps away along with his face. Nicholas has pressed the button, and they are now on a cooking programme. Strange country, he says. Strange, strange country. I can’t wait to get home.
And they are silent again, watching the presenter demonstrate the preparation of Chongqing hotpot. Not that they will ever try this; within easy reach of the Tanjong Pagar flat, there are three restaurants that serve excellent Chongqing hotpot. Still, it is fun to watch. Sophia continues to rest her head against the side of Nicholas’s chest, carefully avoiding the scar, enjoying the rise and fall of his torso and its ferocious thumping, as if something inside is struggling to get out.
Toronto
FOR THE SECOND morning in a row, she wakes up convinced someone is in the room with her. Was it a voice that roused her? A man’s, gravelly and indistinct—she cannot remember the words. Yet the door is locked, and she is on the fourth floor, too high for intruders. She grips a corner of the flimsy curtain and rips it open like a Band-Aid. Nothing but the window sill, scummy with moss and cigarette butts, and beyond it the sun rising over the wide city.
She is motionless for a few minutes, waiting for her heart to settle. Just a fragment of dream slipping over the borders of sleep. It is boiling hot in this room, on the top floor of a hotel too cheap for air-conditioning, an oven of low ceiling and narrow walls. Her own country is hot, but not like this, not dry roasting heat without the relief of humidity, so you stifle instead of sweat.
Rationality returns, and she knows no one could possibly be hiding here. No point even looking under the bed. Her rucksack is still on the floor, clothes spilling from its throttled mouth, then the splayed-open book she was reading, a pizza box and three cans of Molson’s Dry. One still sloshes when as she tosses it in the bin, and she has to resist the urge to sip. The last slice of pizza will do for breakfast. As she gnaws at it, the sandy pepperoni strikes a flint of memory: yes, that was last night.
