The Embroidered Shoes

by Can Xue

  “I have to say something,” the owner of the house announces. At that moment I smell the fragrance of a cigarette. “It’s about him. He wears a black garment and a black hat. Even his leg wrappings are black. He appeared on the street of the town as if he were an ancient bandit. Some people passed right in front of him without even noticing him. Others spied on him secretly from those shuttered windows. Both sides of the street were completely lined with barbershops. Inside sat many customers waiting to have their hair cut. Some of them appeared to be in high spirits. Nobody knew where all the barbers had gone. The customers did not notice the black-clothed person. Those who spied on him behind the windows were all pedestrians who had noticed him and had sneaked into the barbershops quickly, hiding themselves behind the curtains. The sun was burning, and he was soaked with sweat. Stretching his arms, he appeared to be driving something away. Those who were hidden observed, with pale faces, the performance of that black-jacketed man. Without anybody pushing him, he fell down. A large number of people swarmed out and circled him.

  “‘Send him home!’ ordered one of those who had been hidden.

  “‘Right! Send him home!’ all those that surrounded him agreed.

  “Just don’t think about things like the dawn. Then you can harmonize yourself with the house. The sky will never lighten. Once you keep this rule in mind, you will feel comfortable. It’s because he was too listless that the original owner jumped into the sea from the cliff behind the house and became a fisherman. Every day I listen here, and I can always hear him struggling in the stormy sea. You and I do not belong to the sea below, we two. You knew the answer long ago. The original owner’s skill as a sailor was not very good. He was good at building a house. Therefore, his boat running into the rocks is unavoidable.”

  Quietly he returns to his own room.

  As soon as I heard the owner telling me that below the cliff is the sea, I started to feel an irrational attraction to that imaginary world below. I don’t know how long I’ve been staying in this house. I can’t keep track because I don’t have my watch with me and it’s always so dark. Also, my lighter has long since run out of fluid. Whenever I feel bored, I chat with the owner about the sea. And every time, he hands me a cup of lukewarm water and smokes his cigarette. He always starts the conversation with this sentence: “The little boat of the original owner has arrived…” Every time, I object: “But the original owner is dead, isn’t he? He ran his boat onto the rocks.” At that moment he smiles, and the red glow of his cigarette flashes. Paying no attention to my objection, he continues this talk: “Upon its departure I went to see the boat off. On the boat there was only one fisherman. I heard that he died of old age later on. Then the owner himself became the fisherman. He never fished. Instead he only picked up seaweed and such things to fill his stomach. Afterward his face gradually turned blue.”

  With some understanding, I say, “We two are living above. We never turn on the light. So it’s almost as if we don’t exist, isn’t that so? Even if the original owner passed by below, he would never notice the house above him. It’s very possible that he once mistook this lump of black shadow as a tree. Calmly he must have glanced at it and immediately turned his glance away.”

  After a while, without knowing it, I join the discussion. We talk so eagerly that we feel uncomfortable when we lapse into silence. But once we say something, we immediately feel that we are too talkative. Time passes like this. Of course, there is no clock, and the dawn never comes. The owner of the house says that before long I will be acclimated to the fact that there is no seasonal change. He also says we cannot use the content of our talk as the basis to sort out the years, months, or days because we forget completely about our talks the next day. Besides, the little boat itself is fictitious and it’s meaningless except for filling our need to divert ourselves from boredom.

  When we feel tired from talking, we doze off separately. Upon waking, I remember fragments of what happened in the past. I remember that I found that trail from the very beginning, the single little trail toward the grassland. Although I have walked on that trail hundreds of times, I still have to look for it every time, though I never put much effort into looking for it. But what happened next is vague. It seemed that a flamingo was chasing me desperately. I was not afraid of it, yet he could never catch up to me. He ran always in the same position, as if held in place by a magnetic stone. I’m wondering if the small trail that I have used hundreds of times is really the only way to reach here. Since in my original memory this house is located at the end of a stretch of grassland with its back toward the mountain, there should be several ways, from several different directions, to reach here. For example, one could come down from the mountain, or from the south or west of the grassland. Who’s to say that there’s no path in those places? Once in the dim light I really saw a human figure in the west and I believe I was not mistaken. Would the flamingo come again?

  But now the owner of the house firmly eliminates all the possibilities. He insists that there is a deep abyss behind the house, and that there has never been grassland in front of the house—just the rolling sand and stones. But how did I come here? According to him, this was only a chance incident. The so-called grassland and the banana groves are nothing but illusions that I made for myself. At the beginning there was a trail behind the house, the trail where he saw me off. But after several big explosions the trail has been blocked by mud and sand. The original owner of the house had calculated the odds before he chose this location to build his house. It is usual for people to pass by this location accidentally. In the past, many people have passed by the house by chance as I did. He received them politely and saw them off at the corner. Nobody noticed anything abnormal. But my forcing my way in this time was something unexpected. That was why he was a little bit upset at the beginning, though now he feels okay.

  I insist on looking at the pigeons at the back of the house. I say that we should feed the little creatures. With a sneer, he agrees reluctantly. But he says we’ll have to go through the tunnel in the kitchen to get to the cliff at the back of the house. In such a place it is enough for a person to stretch out her head and have a glance. He can’t imagine why I have the idea that there would be pigeons in such a place. Besides, how could I ever get to the kitchen? I might entertain such fantasies, but once I tried to actually move, I would fall to the ground.

  Although I am living in a room apart from the owner’s, his existence is a comfort for me. My skeptical mind has gradually calmed down. Every time I awake I hear the owner’s greeting: “So, you’re up.” In the darkness I put on my clothes and then sit in the living room with the owner every day without exception. When we have nothing to talk about, we sit in silence. I don’t feel particularly listless, just a little bit bored.

  AN EPISODE WITH NO FOUNDATION

  There’s one kind of guard that can hardly be called a guard. Those who belong to this category do nothing but sit at the foot of the bare mountains, month after month, year after year, until they forget their own existence. In the silence, the sound of a branch can be heard, broken by the wind, knocking against the trunk, one blow after another. I call such people guards. Why? Maybe I’m using the term as an excuse to fill the utter emptiness in my own heart, or maybe I consider it a real explanation.”

  “No, there’s nothing that can be named that needs to be guarded. As soon as I open my mouth, I feel superficial and frivolous. Nevertheless, there’s always a mountain behind you, and there’s the resonance of a branch striking. Sitting there, you listen attentively, all alone. This is contradictory to common sense. In the morning, when the sun rises, the world becomes noisy. Yet you sleep in the sunshine, completely oblivious to the surroundings. This is another contradiction of common sense.

  “There are always two or three people listening at the feet of different mountains. Nobody is aware of their existence. Even they themselves can’t figure out the puzzle: How did this person arrive at the mountain? How did his person si
t down under a tree and never move again? Did anybody look for this person when he or she disappeared from the crowd? Could it be that one of the relatives stamped his foot and discovered certain traces of the person? Does such a disappearance last forever? Is there a possibility of the person’s return?

  “I think you are guarding because you have been sitting in the same place without any movement and because you have always heard the sound. Few people have mentioned the significance of such work, but rather have relegated it to the category of insignificant work. Ordinary people would consider it unnecessary. As I happen to know, there’s another person doing the same thing in a place quite a distance from here. He is completely ignorant of your situation, and he has also disappeared from the crowd unintentionally. At one moment, he was bending over to take off his shoes in order to dump out the sand and dirt. All of a sudden, people realized he had disappeared. His family members called his name loudly.

  “You should think this way: There exist in this world two people who are listening to the sound of a branch striking the trunk in two different places. These two are very much alike. You may think that I am telling a lie, but your doubt is unimportant. The important thing is that it is a fact—you are listening all the time.”

  “I’ve forgotten the details of how I disappeared, and of other things as well. For instance, am I still a youngster or a dying old man? As a result of sitting here for so long, I can’t make such judgments anymore. I only remember vaguely that there was a time when the wind was fairly strong, and that is when the branch was broken. Now the wind has died down, though there is hardly a chance for complete quiet.

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve been assuming there is someone else doing the same thing somewhere else. Without such an assumption, I would keep silent with the mountain and stop listening to any sound. There is such a possibility. Can an assumption last forever? Would I still be able to hear the monotonous sound of the striking once this assumption disappears?”

  “Of course you may call your present condition an illusion. As a matter of fact, the other person has been on guard at his location the whole time. I can see him whenever I want to. He never talks, never makes any sound. Yet he is there. You two who have disappeared will never meet each other. You carry on a silent dialogue through me, you realize each other’s existence through me. Now you should feel satisfied.

  “Let me tell you your age—you are neither young nor old. This question doesn’t require consideration, because the physical changes in your body have long been at a standstill.

  “Just think, he did nothing but bend over to take off his shoes—such a trivial event. Nobody had anticipated his disappearance. Such things are always somewhat mysterious. If I tell them that he is sitting at a place not very far from where they are, and that a careful search might result in some discovery, they would give me a cold stare and keep silent with their heads bowed low. Among them there was one young fellow who told me once that he really shouldn’t have left. They had many foresters, and there was no need for him to take the job. Besides, guarding a forest was a job suitable only for the elderly, and he was still a youngster.”

  “I once admired the forester, one who has a substantial mind and a definite goal. But now I can see how laughable the idea is. There are also fishermen and hunters who are clearheaded, vigilant, and courageous. Do I envy them because I have nothing to guard or kill? I’m doing nothing but sitting at the foot of this bare mountain, addlepated and half asleep. Whenever the moon is covered by the clouds, I can’t even feel my own existence.”

  “You are only sitting here. There are two people doing the same thing.

  “And I am taking the responsibility of a messenger. Now let me confess to you that I was born a messenger. Just now I’ve told you about the event of his bending down to take off his shoes. You should have made all kinds of associations. I always convey such information to people like you, and sincerely enjoy doing it. Before my arrival, you had only an assumption about the existence of the other person. And you are often doubtful of such assumptions. Now I have proved your assumption. That is my specialty. I have a unique ability—I can see anything if I want. Such an ability is very beneficial in a messenger.”

  “If the person who has captured and killed the lion finally becomes the prey of the lion, at the instant of death, what kind of information would be transmitted from deep inside his pupils?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen eyes like that—they’re monochromatic, and they are completely different from the eyes of guards like you. When you are listening attentively to the sound of the branch striking, your eyes are simply blazing with colors. It’s a pity that you can’t see the color yourself, a real pity. We always have many things that we feel pity about. It doesn’t matter whether we can make sense of it or not. Just quit making sense. Making sense is too troublesome. You have certainly quit thinking of such troublesome things long ago.”

  “I must have been sitting here for a long time, yet I’ve never had one dream! I’ve forgotten how to dream. I tried and tried, but in vain—either I can’t go to sleep at all, or I sleep like a log without any dreams. Why are such things so easy to forget? I would go to sleep while thinking about that branch, hoping the branch would enter my dreamland. But once I fall into sleep, everything turns black. It seems that I am too single-minded—one dark tunnel to the bottom. Now I’m not able to see anything once I fall asleep.”

  “Such an ending is unchangeable. Both of you sleep amidst darkness. You look and look but can see nothing. It’s no use to struggle. Some people are so extremely upset that they end their lives early for it. But I can see you are nothing of that kind. You close your eyes in time and fall into sleep.

  “It happened that before you arrived here, all the dreams had been dreamed, and you had entered a dreamless territory. Fortunately I can tell you how magnificently colorful the light from your eyes is. It is through me, the messenger, that you have found out that fact. I’ll convey such information to you frequently. It’s my privilege as well as yours. Once you enter the dreamless territory, you have obtained this privilege permanently.

  “There are very few pure guards. Once they appear, messengers like me occur with them. Only once in a while does this world produce guards like you and messengers like me. We are rare, and nobody cares for us. Sometimes the world simply stops producing people like us. As a result, the world is flooded with foresters everywhere.”

  “I really need the comfort you bring me. The first time I received it, I was totally infatuated with it. But now I’ve gotten used to it, and am not that excited. When I feel idle, I recall the experience you described to me—because it is somewhat strange that eyes can beam out a variety of colors. This reminds me of the old puzzle: Would my eyes keep beaming out that strange light without the existence of you, the messenger? Is it because of the special structure of your eyes that you can receive the information from my eyes? This puzzle has always added a layer of shadow to the comfort I receive.

  “Another problem is that my eyes and ears are losing their functions gradually because I sleep during the day. Consequently many colors and shapes and many words are disappearing from my memory. At this moment I am searching carefully. In my mind there appear only two words, ‘mountain’ and ‘tree.’ Yet when I pronounce these two words, the corresponding images do not appear.

  “As I’m sitting here, I sometimes work out something completely unfamiliar in my mind. For instance, I imagined that a magnificent gathering was once held right here. Among the participants were numerous strangers. When the gathering ended, people gradually left, some running toward the street for the bus, some taking shortcuts home. The ground was littered with scraps of paper. As for me, it seems that I did attend the gathering, and I stayed on after the meeting. It was just before dawn and dew was about to fall. The last person left on a bicycle. He even rang his bike bell. With my back against a rock, I fell into a confused sleep. Until that point, I hadn’t had a thought about becoming a guard.
I only felt tired and needed to rest by the rock. I was confident that I would go home eventually. I even determined the direction I would be heading. But afterward I felt apathetic about returning home.

  “I also imagined that on the path to the country I met a man in a dark green robe. I brushed his shoulder as we passed each other. I couldn’t help turning to look back—only to find that he was walking hurriedly. Consequently, I hastened my pace in the opposite direction. That was how I arrived at the foot of this mountain. He could have been the person you mentioned, or he might not be that man at all. During the first few days after my arrival, I could vaguely recognize the path that had led me here, because I had made signs at every bend and fork. But now that path no longer exists.”