by Can Xue
Unless he was greatly disturbed—for example, the time that Mei was injured—Jin did not wake up at night. According to him, he slept lightly: whenever something happened, he was aware of it.
“People like me are bound to die early, because we never have any real peace.”
He made a long face when he spoke of his situation, but Mei knew he was inwardly satisfied. Wasn’t light sleep much the same as wakefulness? If a person was always waking up, wasn’t this the same as living two lifetimes? Jin’s lifetime had been a really good bargain! What’s more, he was so healthy that he never fell ill: How could he die prematurely? He also said that he had never dreamed, because he was essentially always conscious and so there was no way to dream. As Mei listened, she thought: When she sat in the kitchen and dozed, she had one dream after another. The two of them were really not much alike.
Jin supported Mei in covering the furniture and other articles, because he also hated the glare from these things at night. “Even though I do sleep, now and then I open my eyes and see that eerie scene.”
The city had more and more cars, and people’s night life lasted longer and longer, and so cars had recently been passing Mei’s home all night long. After the furniture and other articles were covered, Mei felt that her home was “as solid as a huge rock.” The lamplight that swept past from the cars looked fleeting and insubstantial, and could no longer scare her. Jin was happy, too. He kept saying, “This is great, just great.” He added that although he didn’t wake up at night, he was quite aware of the cars’ rudeness.
“People call this herb ‘snakehead king.’ It can cure snakebites. In the past, it grew all over outside our old home. There were also numerous snakes there. This is the law of combating poison with poison.”
Jin placed the book on his chest, closed his eyes, and lay there. Mei saw only that his mouth was moving. Amused by this, she couldn’t help but interrupt:
“The herb’s scientific name is ‘yizhi huanghua!’”
“Oh, you know this, too. When did you read my book?!”
“At night. My eyesight keeps improving. I can read by the faint light that comes through the windows from the street lamps.”
A slight smile floated up on Jin’s face. Mei wondered how far down the China rose had grown. Maybe Jin should have studied botany when he was young, but instead he had been a salesman. But if Jin had really become a botanist, could he have lived the kind of life he had now? Would the room be filled with plant specimens hanging everywhere? In recent years, he had read this same book about wild plants every day; he had never collected specimens. Not long before, Jin, who seldom went out, had rushed to the city center and brought back these China rose seeds. He had vaguely mentioned a relative’s name, so it seemed that this person had sent them to him.
Mei read Jin’s book in order to search for clues to Jin’s thinking. She admired him greatly. He was so calm! Even though a rat had sneaked into their home, he wasn’t fazed. By contrast, Mei had gone through a period of despair after breaking her collarbone. Along with an aunt who came to help out, Jin silently took responsibility for some of the housework. He seldom consoled her. Perhaps this was because of Jin’s composure. Mei recovered through struggling by herself. As soon as she regained her strength, Jin lay down on his chaise lounge again. He said with a smile that he was “about the same as a paralyzed person.” Mei thought his smile was one of contentment.
The accumulation of water in front of the door was something that happened all of a sudden. It had rained for two days and two nights, and mud had clogged the sewer. By midnight, the front of the apartment had turned into a pool. Just then, Jin had jumped out of bed and rushed barefoot into the rain. The battery-powered light on the windowsill was shining on the plastic awning over the flowers. Wielding a hoe, he worked hard in the rain. After about two hours, he had dug a trench to divert the accumulated water. It had never occurred to Mei that Jin could still be so energetic. It was as though he were fighting for his life.
When he returned, he was too tired to talk. He slowly removed his wet raincoat and slowly lay back down. Mei rubbed his hair with a dry towel.
“The flowers are safe now. They’d all be dead if I hadn’t saved them. We can’t imagine what the growing environment underground is like. We can only infer what it is. I learned about this once . . .”
With that, he went to sleep. As he snored, his lips moved slightly. Mei wondered what he was saying. Was he talking with the underground plants?
In the morning, the sun came out. Standing at the plastic-film awning, Ayi was looking around suspiciously.
“Mei, nothing is growing in here. Could we dismantle the awning? They’re interfering with the drain, and they don’t look good, either.”
“Ayi, how can you say this? I planted them myself. I told you they’re the China rose, a special variety that grows underground. During the night, Jin brought them back from the brink of death.”
“Huh. You’re really stubborn and deluded. Some people are still really pleased to live this way.”
Ayi’s husband called out to her from their home. When she went home, she turned around again and looked at the flowerbed a few times. Mei thought her expression was filled with curiosity; that’s to say that Ayi certainly wasn’t convinced of what she had said. Then, she heard Ayi and her husband arguing in loud voices. What they were arguing about, however, she couldn’t hear.
When Mei entered the apartment, she saw that Jin was still sleeping. He was so calm. Suddenly, Mei wondered: What if all the flower seeds they had planted were beautiful little pebbles? She thought back for a while: it seemed this was really possible. When she had held them in her hand, they had felt cold and had also made a ding ding sound! Was it because of this quality that they could grow downward and blossom? Ayi had evidently misunderstood. If you believed in something like this, it was true; if you didn’t believe in it, it wasn’t. Ayi evidently didn’t believe in it.
More than thirty years ago, when the newly married Mei and the newly married Ayi had moved to this building, it was desolate here. Mei frequently noticed her neighbor take a small stool outside and sit at the entrance to watch the setting sun. When, little by little, the last rays turned dark, the view of this woman’s back gave her a sense not only of loneliness but also of stubbornness. When they saw each other, they were courteous, as were the two husbands. Mei seldom saw Ayi’s husband. He was a steelworker, and he always stayed inside after work. A gloomy atmosphere hung over their home. Mei thought that Ayi and her husband were well suited; they never quarreled. Then what were they arguing about today? The flower seeds? Now the setting sun couldn’t be seen. Life went on indoors, but the view of her back in the past had lasted until today. In the past, when the setting sun could be seen, the future was still hidden entirely in confusion.
=
“My relative lives at No. 3 Youma Lane. It’s a distant relative, so we ordinarily don’t see one another. If you’re interested, you can go to see him. Because that place has undergone reconstruction, it’s a little hard to find.”
Jin was speaking of the relative who had given him the flower seeds.
“If I go to see him, I’ll have to find an excuse,” Mei said.
“You can ask him how to grow the brilliant purple China rose.”
Mei was excited. After eating lunch, she skipped her nap, tidied up a little, and went out.
In the clusters of new construction in the city center, Youma Lane had disappeared. Mei asked several persons before learning that the old building at No. 3 Youma Lane had been demolished, and all the former residents had been resettled in a row of simple single-story houses. An old tire repairman told her that Teacher Bing now lived in the westernmost building.
At first, Mei was startled by Teacher Bing’s appearance. He was like a wild man: a mass of gray whiskers covered his face, and gray hair fell below his shoulders. He was bleary-eyed.
“Ah, the brilliant purple China rose.” His voice buzzed out from his
whiskers. “This is a variety that used to exist, but now no one can grow it successfully. The rules for growing it are simple: it grows only when you forget it.”
“How does one forget it?”
“Each person has his own ways. For example, I scatter seeds everywhere at random—next to the ditch, in holes people dig for trees, in the holes of new house foundations, in the earth on old thatched roofs, and so forth. One day, I saw a bulge in the earthen wall of a thatched hut. After I moved the mud on it, my plant was revealed. After thinking about it, I finally remembered that I had sown seeds on top of the wall. Mei, it’s better if you don’t look into this too much.”
As he talked, Teacher Bing was frowning, as if displeased by her presence—and also as if he were disclosing his secret only because he had no alternative. But still, he told Mei that this bungalow where he lived was originally No. 3 Youma Lane.
“The ground beneath this land is overgrown with many varieties of flowers: it’s like floral fossils. People who live here are all old hands at this. I’ve heard that the foundations of the high new buildings are very deep. That doesn’t matter. Our plants have all vanished from the surface of the earth, as if they had never existed . . .”
After leaving the relative’s home, Mei walked two or three minutes in confusion and then lost her way. She wanted to ask directions, but there was no one to ask: she could see only the remains of demolished houses. In the blink of an eye, the city had disappeared.
“Teacher Bing!!” she shouted.
The caw of a crow answered her—there were still crows here, calling to mind the former city.
“Jin!!” she shouted.
Jin appeared on the distant horizon and, carrying a wooden bucket in one hand, he slowly approached her. Breathing heavily, he placed the wooden bucket on the ground. The water sloshed out.
“What kind of fish are these?” Mei asked.
“Deep-water fish. The pile-driver over there startled them, and they mistakenly scurried up. River water isn’t suitable for these creatures. I want to free them. Why don’t you go home first?”
Carrying the bucket, Jin walked far away. At first, Mei considered catching up with him and then gave up this idea, because she could see the city once again. Teacher Bing’s house was just ahead, wasn’t it? She entered that side street and reached the main street. She thought to herself: In the past, could Jin also have lived in Youma Lane? And Ayi, too?
=
At night, Mei saw dazzling light swaying again on the portiere. It was a strange sight. Later, light appeared on all of the furniture’s cloth covers: now and then, the interior of the apartment turned brilliant. The stream of cars on the road was unceasing. Mei thought all her efforts had been in vain. Sometimes, ill-mannered drivers would blow their horns. When the horns suddenly sounded, Mei sometimes would instantly lose consciousness.
Breaking with precedent, Jin didn’t sleep that night. He said, “Those deep-water fish get on everyone’s nerves.” Lying on the chair, he kept sighing and called the phenomena that had manifested themselves in the daytime “perverse.”
“Actually, I acted unnecessarily. They all died. See, an ordinary person like me can’t see their purpose. Their existence in and of itself scares people, doesn’t it? Listen!!”
Mei saw that the right side of Jin’s face was alight. The sound of the cars’ horns was tumultuous.
He stood up and walked around, greatly stimulated. Mei saw that the light was following him constantly. For a second, the light stopped at his eyes, and his eyes then turned green and strange-shaped. Mei shouted from fright and lost consciousness again.
After Mei came to, she heard dili, dili. It was Jin fiddling with the flower seeds. It was a little warm in the room because he had drawn the thick drapes. All the lights were out except for a small reading lamp on the desk. All of a sudden, Mei felt as if she were living in a cave. She groped her way toward the study.
“Have a seat,” Jin said, pointing to a chair beside him. “This is something I asked Teacher Bing for today.”
Ah, it wasn’t flower seeds. It was a beautiful gem.
“He no longer has anywhere to plant seeds. He gave it to me. I was really baffled.”
In the lamplight, Mei picked up a jade-green seed, and the light immediately penetrated it. She noticed a dark little spot floating inside it. She couldn’t keep from saying:
“These are all stones; they aren’t plants.”
“Hmm. Could be. Anything is possible, isn’t it?”
In the lamplight, Jin’s eyeballs became two blank dots. He turned around.
Mei took stock of his back, which reminded her of how he looked when he appeared on the horizon of the ruins today. She heard two people digging outside. It must be Ayi and her husband.
“I gave them seeds,” Jin said without moving.
Mei wanted to get up and go outside, but Jin checked her, saying:
“Don’t look. It’s something private—just between them.”
RAINSCAPE
=
I like to sit at the desk and tally the accounts. I look out the window: a gray structure built of granite is about one hundred meters away. Its windows—two rows of them—are all positioned in high places. Each window is narrow, and at night most of them are dark. A little faint light shines through from only two or three windows, giving people an unfathomable feeling. In front of the structure is a path, where people in twos or threes frequently pass by. Some are going to work, some are running errands, and some are children going to school. They all walk quite rapidly. In the sunlight, their shadows flash past the stone wall. I’ve never seen anyone emerge from the granite building, whose small black iron front door has been closed for years. But on the door is a large, new, gold-colored lock.
One day, when I was at the desk and facing the window in a daze, my husband said from behind me, “Listen. Someone in back is weeping.”
Terrified, I concentrated intently, but neither heard nor saw anything. Out in front, because there had just been a rainstorm and there was still the sound of light rain, no one was on the path. But the granite building was actually a little different.
“Someone’s coming over,” my husband said. “It’s the person who was weeping.”
I held my breath and waited. I waited a long time. There was no one. The rain fell heavily again, with a hualala sound. The shrubbery was bending in the wind. My face fell, and I said, “Why don’t I see anyone?”
“What a shame. I think it’s your brother. With a flash of bright light, he disappeared on the wall. I wish you had seen this.” My husband was still emotionally absorbed in what was happening.
“Did he completely vanish on the wall?”
“I certainly heard him weeping—over there, next to the persimmon tree.”
The week before, Brother had come to our home. He hadn’t been well-dressed and looked like a tramp. But he didn’t talk at all the way a tramp does. He’s always been shy, saying very little. Each time he comes to our home, he sits in a corner, for he doesn’t want to attract any attention. Because he doesn’t have a real job, my husband feels guilty and gives him a little money now and then. Brother takes the money and sneaks away. It’s always a long time before he shows up again.
When talking about him, my parents say, “We don’t know what to think of him. We never get a clear-cut impression of him.”
Could what happened be a figment of my husband’s imagination? I wanted to ask him, but he had already forgotten the incident. He had picked up the account books and was examining them carefully.
People were passing by in front of the granite wall—two young people, a man and a girl. The girl was lame. Holding aloft a large, sky-blue umbrella, the man was keeping the woman from being drenched by the rain. They were talking as they walked. A long time passed before I could hear their alternately loud and soft voices. Blending with the sound of the rain, their voices remained out there below the gray sky.
After a few days, Brother came o
ver and sat on the edge of the desk, dangling his skinny legs. When I mentioned the granite structure across the way, his face immediately clouded over.
“I always hear someone weeping there,” I said.
“Why don’t you walk over to the front of the wall and take a careful look?” Brother mumbled as he jumped down from the desk. With his back to the window, he blocked my line of sight. “Fantasy is still the way we do things best.”
Lowering his head, he walked out, seemingly quite irritated.
The granite façade glimmered in the murky twilight. Next to the wall, some people walking past were dimly visible. What on earth was going on over there? I hadn’t heard Brother weeping; I had just wanted to draw him out to talk about some things, and so I had lied to him. He must have grown angry because he saw through my ruse. Could my husband have told a lie? I made up my mind to go over to the wall the next day to take a close look.
=
It could be said that I had “turned a blind eye” to this building for years. The granite wall was very old with dark watermarks on it. This was a deserted building. I heard a key turn twice in the lock, and the door opened with a creak. I went inside without a second thought.
A person with his back to me was standing in the empty corridor. In the dim light, I couldn’t get a good look at his face. I thought he was crying.
“On the 18th of April, you saw the beginning and the end of the matter,” he said, his bare head gleaming and closing in on me. I still couldn’t see his face well. I waited for him to go on talking, but he didn’t: it was as if something had struck him. Bending over, he began to sob softly.
No one else was in the corridor, and the atmosphere was gloomy. He squatted against the wall and cried. As he sobbed, his aged back shuddered. Just then, from somewhere outside, I heard the sound of a car rolling by. At the end of the corridor, someone quite angrily bumped into the door with a peng.
“Probably you know my brother?” I bent down and shouted at the man.
