by Tie Ning
Who was her father? Actually, Dr. Tang’s sister had never told him the whole story, either; he didn’t even know the man’s name, only that he was an outstanding person who worked for the military at a secret scientific institute. Their own grandfather had held the position of minister for education during the Japanese occupation. To fall in love with a woman of such a family would be a mistake, not to mention the fact that the man was already married. He probably considered divorcing his wife and marrying Jingjing, but when he learned of Jingjing’s background, he realized that couldn’t happen. Just then Tang Jingjing found herself pregnant and, not wanting to sabotage his great future, she left him and gave birth to Fei on her own. Her reticence and pride prevented her from complaining to anyone, including her younger brother. She swore she would never see the man again, and she kept her vow. Her hope was that Fei’s father might try to find out about her and her daughter, even without their knowledge, which would at least prove that he thought about them. All her life she anticipated this search, even if it were to happen only once, but she and Fei had never been looked for. She didn’t expect to die, but she died. Other than asking Dr. Tang to help her raise Fei, she didn’t leave a will. She had nothing to say to this world. Now Dr. Tang also stood at the edge of death; he also had no time to say anything to his niece. Perhaps that was a regret in his life; perhaps it was another kind of perfection. All perfection is relative. Did Fei have to know who her father was? Her father had never been around when she needed a father most. Ah, perfection. Sometimes not knowing is even more of a perfection.
It would be hard to imagine what else Dr. Tang had thought about on the chimney. Perhaps he thought about the two-year-old girl named Quan, his own child, and about how he was about to follow in her footsteps. Perhaps he thought about the word “han,” his favourite word for man. When he ran down the coal pile and climbed up the chimney, maybe he had the word “han” on his mind. No matter how mediocre and tedious his life was, he still respected his naked body. He drove himself down a blind alley because he didn’t want to surrender his naked body to several clothed men.
In that clamorous and quiet dusk in the spring of 1976, many people in People’s Hospital witnessed Dr. Tang’s naked body fly down from the tall chimney. He stopped breathing the moment his body touched the ground.
So many years later, all the way to Beijing, Fei thought about Dr. Tang’s death, his quite undeserving flight down. His body hadn’t hit anyone there, nor had he merely hit the ground—it struck Fei, body and soul, because she was his only family member and only a real family member would have the feeling of being struck, even if Fei had never really liked her uncle. She felt a strong and suffocating sadness. Fei couldn’t figure out why, in an era so far removed from the days of eating raw meat and drinking blood, such a man wasn’t allowed to wear his own clothes in public.
If something similar had happened to Fang Jing, then it definitely wouldn’t have been a reality. It would have been fiction—a movie, a TV drama, or a tall tale—capital for attracting women, with the clear premise that Fang Jing would never jump from the chimney in reality. A thousand times over, he would be just about to jump, or would feel that he “wanted to jump.” But Dr. Tang was simply an ordinary doctor, with a reckless lifestyle. The suffering of an ordinary person can’t be taken seriously; it had no influence or public appeal, thus it was not worth mentioning. Suffering is only true when it happens to other kinds of people; it almost has to play the clown among the celebrities. Suffering leaps at us in a variety of somersaults, wearing a clown hat and painting his nose white. You have to prepare to cheer while shedding tears. Obsessed with her uncle’s death, Fei couldn’t help thinking how different Dr. Tang’s and Fang Jing’s fates turned out, though they were both intellectuals living during the same period. She couldn’t have guaranteed that Dr. Tang’s situation would have improved or that he would have established a peaceful family if he’d lived, but she could guarantee that Dr. Tang wouldn’t have taken advantage of his suffering by selling it because he was at best an ordinary doctor.
The real reason for her disgust with Fang Jing was about to emerge, and her disgust was a much stronger and more solid feeling than her sympathy for Tiao or her desire to stand up for her.
4
Beijing was where Fei was born. She hadn’t been back there since Dr. Tang had taken her away from Denger Alley Elementary School. Beijing stirred all sorts of mixed feelings in her. She could smell shit in every alley, the shit long ago kept in a teacup. But she didn’t hate Beijing. She might be a little crude, but was never muddleheaded at important moments. She understood she couldn’t accuse Beijing of eating shit just because Beijing forced her mother to. Maybe she could say Beijing itself had eaten shit before. It was the era that made a city eat shit. The era had turned many cities into shit-eaters.
She didn’t hate Beijing. Beijing always made her feel stable and expansive. Beijing was different from Fuan, where she was too involved and too occupied; there was no room left in her heart to cultivate Fuan. She left Beijing at a fairly innocent age, so she was able to retain a misty impression of the city, a view that wasn’t too specific, yet not too vague. Her father must live there. She felt strange that she didn’t much miss her mother and uncle, with whom she’d lived. Her longing for her mysterious father remained endless, an unchanged background colour. It became persistent and strong when she was in Beijing. Fei was thankful to Tang Jingjing for never having criticized Fei’s father, but she also never told her who he was and whether he died or was still alive. So Fei chose to believe her father was alive and lived right in Beijing. Sometimes she would bring to mind various images of men and pretend one of them was her father; sometimes she felt her father was Beijing. The city of Beijing was her father, a little aloof and elegant, a little kind and peaceful. She was willing to believe her father hadn’t abandoned her mother and her, but rather that he hadn’t known her mother was pregnant. She absolved her father even when her heart felt most desolate, which brought some warmth into the barrenness. There probably wasn’t going to be any love in her life; only a very small amount was left. She would like to preserve it for the man who gave her life.
She called Fang Jing from a public telephone booth, and he happened to pick up. She identified herself, and Fang Jing went silent for a moment. Then he adjusted himself and talked in a resonant voice. “Oh, it’s you, Comrade Old Tang. Long time, no see. Did you come to Beijing for a conference? Screen script?”
“I must see you today. I came to Beijing just to see you, on behalf of Tiao,” Fei said.
“I should go to your hotel to call on you, but unfortunately there happen to be a few foreigners at the international club—”
Fei interrupted him. “In that case, I can go to your house and wait for you there. I have your address.”
Fang Jing immediately changed his tone. “That’s okay, too. I can come and see you this afternoon. At which hotel are you staying?”
“I’m not staying at any hotel. I’ll be taking the night train back to Fuan.”
Maybe Fei’s words about leaving Beijing the same night reassured Fang Jing. Why would he feel threatened by a woman who was not going to settle in Beijing? All of a sudden he became animated and said, “Comrade Old Tang, do you mean the National Political Consultative Conference’s Hall? Good, good. Let’s meet there. I’ll treat you to dinner at Da Sanyuan.”
After putting down the phone, Fei realized that Fang Jing wanted her to meet him at the National Political Consultative Conference’s Hall. Those words he meant for his family to hear made her sympathize with him, and also look down on him.
They met in front of the National Political Consultative Conference’s Hall as agreed. To prevent being recognized, he wore sunglasses, but Fei still singled him out at a glance. She had to admit he was a charming and attractive man, in another class entirely from the men she had known. She had met many men, but never felt nervous and inferior as she did this time. Then Tiao’s little emaciat
ed face came to mind, and she stopped her assessment of Fang Jing.
Fang Jing took off his sunglasses and shook hands with Fei with his usual courtesy to women. He smiled and said, “Miss Tang, I apologize for calling you ‘Comrade Old Tang’ over the phone. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. Tiao often spoke about you, and another girl, Youyou, the Beijing girls. No matter where they go, Beijing girls are always Beijing girls, like you. I’ve never even seen a picture of you, but I still picked you out right away.”
Fang Jing’s friendly—but rambling—chitchat distracted her from her plan to condemn him as soon as she saw him, but she wanted to get the conversation on the right track. She said without looking at him directly, “It’s probably inconvenient for you to stand on the street talking.”
Fang Jing said, “You’re very considerate. But it’s too early to go to Da Sanyuan. How about we go to Jing Mountain Park? The park is very close to Da Sanyuan and we can go there for dinner after we talk.”
They found a place to sit down in Jing Mountain Park and started to talk. Fang Jing asked about Tiao, and Fei said, “Not good. Very bad.”
Fang Jing sighed and said, “She’s still so young.”
“According to you, you’re not responsible for anything. It’s all because she’s so young. Now, suppose you tell me something: Didn’t you know her age when you asked her to marry you? Why didn’t you complain she was too young then? You’re right. She is young compared to you, so young that she gave herself completely to you, leaving herself nothing. You’re older than she is, so much older, but you robbed her of everything and now you turn around and get sarcastic.”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I love her. I can tell you sincerely, I have never loved anybody the way I love Tiao, and I won’t in the future. You mark my words.”
“So you are still prepared to marry her, right?” Fei asked. “Then why did you try to go back on your word? Why did you stop writing to her?”
“I can’t,” Fang Jing said.
“Which can’t you do? Marry her or write back to her?”
“I did promise to marry her, but now … I’m afraid I can’t do it. When I can’t do it, not replying and not meeting are the only ways to cool down a relationship.”
“Why can’t you marry her? Have you thought about what it means to Tiao?”
Fang Jing grinned self-deprecatingly and said, “Getting divorced is like getting married—both require passion. I feel right now that I’ve completely lost the passion for a divorce. As for Tiao, I think she is a person with great inner force. I have a hunch that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. She appears to be pleading with me now, and you have also come to plead on her behalf—if I’m correct. However, as far as the relationship goes, she’ll be the winner in the long run. The one destined to be dumped is not her, but me, me! You’ll see. The sooner I marry her, the quicker I’ll get dumped. What I told you is all true. Believe me. Time will tell all.”
Fei carefully observed Fang Jing, trying to decide whether this piece of convoluted eloquence was his way of evading responsibility, or evidence of an inferiority complex hidden deep in his heart. Finally, she started to think he might be telling the truth. But why hadn’t he thought about these things earlier? Why didn’t he think about this before he had Tiao? she questioned. He said, “Reason prevents us from making mistakes, but it also causes us to lose possibilities for joy.”
“So what you’re trying to say is that your falling in love with Tiao is not reasonable? You really don’t have the right to say things like that. You don’t have the right to treat Tiao the way you treat other women.”
“I always treated Tiao differently from other women. I told you, Tiao is the only woman I’ve truly loved.”
This was what Fang Jing said, word for word. He seemed emotional when he said this. As much as Fei was willing to believe him, she also felt the sharp sting of jealousy. It was almost an instinctive reaction that any woman would have when hearing a man express strong feelings for another woman, even though the other woman was her best friend, even when the woman herself was meeting with this man on her best friend’s behalf. The jealousy normally wouldn’t lead to anything unpleasant; it would only produce a momentary uneasiness in a woman, as if, when a man expresses his love for another woman, he unwittingly belittles the woman he is with.
Fei would definitely pass along Fang Jing’s words to Tiao exactly as he said them, although she already felt reluctant to do so.
Reluctance. This sudden mood surprised Fei herself. Had any man loved Fei in this way? Compared to her, Tiao might be considered lucky, even though she sat in the office all day long, head lowered and dropping tears into a drawer.
“So, you don’t plan to marry Tiao?” she asked.
“I think that’s right.” Fang Jing then added, “Maybe when we age so much that we can’t get any older, we’ll finally be together—if she still wants me.”
“It sounds like a waste.”
“It is a waste,” Fang Jing agreed.
Fei took out a cigarette from her purse, and Fang Jing began to smoke his pipe as well. Smoking made them relax, particularly Fei. She simply didn’t understand herself. She had intended to persuade Fang Jing to go back to Tiao and fulfil his promise of marriage, and she indeed had been blaming him and questioning him. Why, then, did she feel relieved when Fang Jing told her that he wasn’t going to marry Tiao? Perhaps only she could know what she felt relieved about. And other than feeling relief for her friend, were there things in her own psychology that couldn’t be explained?
She sensed Fang Jing observing her, her smoking, maybe, though it wasn’t at all unusual for a city girl to smoke in the mid-eighties. She said, “Are you watching me smoke? This is a very ordinary cigarette, our Fuan local brand called Bridge.”
“No, I’m observing your mouth—you have a mouth like Vivien Leigh’s. Have you noticed that?”
She curled her lips and said, “No, I haven’t. Do you have a habit of observing other people’s mouths?”
“Maybe I’ve been doing some research about mouths lately.”
“Is it a professional habit?” she asked. “A director has to consider the body and features when selecting an actress. The mouth is included, I suppose.”
“The research is not solely related to casting,” he said. “Of course, the mouth is extremely important to an actress’s face, sometimes more than her eyes. Why else, when we shout at someone, would we use the expression, ‘Look at your face and mouth’? Face and mouth—the two are closely related.”
Fei smiled at his repetition of “face and mouth.” She looked at Fang Jing through narrowed eyes and said, “Don’t you cultured folks often say that the eyes are the window to the heart?”
“If the eyes are the window to the heart, then the mouth is the path to the heart. Without the mouth’s talk, how can we reach each other’s hearts?”
Fei said, “Did you say that the mouth could help us reach each other’s hearts and that the mouth was the path to the heart? I think it’s the opposite; the mouth is the barrier to the heart. Otherwise why do people say, ‘Your mouth says yes and your heart means no’? To be honest with you, I myself often don’t say what I mean. The path from mouth to heart is often blocked. It’s nearer the truth to say that the mouth is the path to the stomach. Notice what most people around us are doing with their mouths?”
“What are they doing with their mouths?”
“They are using their mouths either to eat or to lie.”
“But the mouth has another important function,” Fang Jing said. “Mouths should express love. I read some research that might be anecdotal, but says that in China more than half of couples middle-aged and older don’t use their mouths when they make love. They never kiss; they unwrap their sexual organs but shut the mouths that would lead to their hearts. This is not Asian reserve but might well be caused by their disgust with each other. The continual deterioration of modern people’s mouths is caused by an excess of disgust and a
shortage of love. Our ancestors were more sincere and generous than people today when it comes to expressing love. Just take a look at those marvellous stone carvings from the Qin and Wei dynasties, and you’ll know what I mean.”
“You’re probably playing a harp for a cow,” Fei said.
“You’re no cow listening to a harp,” Fang Jing said. “You’re a woman with a beautiful mouth. Only the right corner of your mouth might give a nervous twitch once in a while. You must do that unconsciously, but you should try to correct it consciously. Please forgive my straightforward suggestion to a woman with such a beautiful mouth as yours.”
Fei licked her lips unconsciously. This was a mouth she herself truly loved, but she had never been aware of this flaw until Fang Jing pointed it out. She had to admire the accuracy of his observation, although his opinions about mouths could hardly be considered profound. She didn’t want to pursue the topic any further because she’d already started to feel a bit uncomfortable about her mouth. This mouth of hers, which had never kissed or been kissed, was at once full and empty, moist and dry, rich and desolate. It seemed as if it were her last piece of territory, her last piece of virgin land. Fang Jing made her self-conscious about it, and she almost told him this sad secret of hers. Not that his opinions about mouths moved her, but the sophisticated conversation of a mature man confused her. Never in her life had someone like Fang Jing made her the subject of so unique a form of flattery. She thought of what he said about her Vivien Leigh mouth. No matter how sure a woman is that a man has something up his sleeve, she’d have a hard time resisting such flattery. But Fei kept quiet to avoid having the mouth say yes when the heart means no, as the expression goes. No one—not even a celebrity—could broach this subject with her, no more than he could touch the mouth.
