by Maja Lunde
Just this, if he understood this, I’d let up, then he could play. Baby steps, every day.
“I want it!”
He reached out his chubby hand as far as he could.
“Little one, it has to stay over there,” my voice rose. “We’re going to count now, right?”
Kuan let out an audible sigh, stood up and came in to join us. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “It’s eight o’clock.”
I twisted out of his grasp. “It won’t hurt him to stay up another fifteen minutes,” I said and looked up at him.
“Tao . . .”
“He can manage fifteen minutes.” I continued staring at him.
He looked perplexed. “But why?”
I looked away, couldn’t bring myself to explain, to tell him about the children. I knew what he’d say anyway. They haven’t become younger. They’re just as little as they’ve always been. They were eight years old last year, too. That’s how it is. That’s how it has been for many years. And if he continued, words would be spoken that were so big that they didn’t belong to him: We must be happy that we live here. It could have been worse. We could have lived in Beijing. Or Europe. We must make the best of it. Live in the here and now. Make the best of every second. Phrases, unlike those he otherwise used, like something he had read, but spoken with conviction. He really believed these words.
Kuan stroked Wei-Wen’s bristly hair. “I’d like to play with him,” he said softly and gently.
Wei-Wen squirmed in his seat, a high chair he was really too big for, but where he sat securely buckled in and couldn’t run away from my home school. He reached for the plate. “I want it, it’s mine!”
Kuan didn’t look at me, just said in the same controlled tone of voice: “You can’t have it, but you know what, a toothbrush can also be an airplane.” Then he lifted up Wei-Wen and walked towards the bathroom.
“Kuan . . . But . . .”
He heaved Wei-Wen easily from one arm to the other as he walked towards the bathroom, pretending not to have heard me, continuing to chat with Wei-Wen. He carried his son as if he weighed nothing. Personally, I felt that the child’s body was already growing heavy.
I remained seated. Wanted to say something, to protest, but the words didn’t come. He was right. Wei-Wen was exhausted. It was late. He should be put to bed before he became overtired and refused to sleep. Then we were in for it, I knew that. Then he could keep it up until long after our own bedtime. First foolishness, the door to the bedroom being opened and shut, then he would come into our room again and again, peals of laughter, come and get me. This would be followed by frustration and anger, howling, wild protests. That’s how he was. That’s how three-year-olds are.
Although . . . I couldn’t remember that I’d behaved like that. I learned to read when I was three. I picked up the characters on my own, surprising the teacher when I skillfully read fairy tales for myself, but never for the other children. I stayed away from them. My parents were amazed spectators on the sidelines, letting me read fairy tales, simple stories for children, but never daring to challenge me with other texts. But at school they noticed. The teachers gave me the opportunity to read books when the others were outside, presented me with what they had of teaching programs, texts and choppy films. Much of it stemmed from the time before The Collapse, from the time before the democracies fell, before the world war that followed, when food became a commodity bestowed upon only a select few. At that time, the production of information was so enormous that nobody had full oversight any longer. Trails of words stretched as far as the Milky Way. Expanses the size of the sun’s surface, made up of pictures, maps, illustrations. Time attached to film, time equivalent to millions of human lives. And technology had made everything available. Availability was the mantra of that period. Human beings were at all times logged on to all of this information with increasingly more advanced communication tools.
But The Collapse also affected the digital networks. In the course of three years they had completely disintegrated. All human beings had left were the books, choppy-quality DVDs, worn-out videotapes, scratched compact discs containing outdated software and the ancient, deteriorating landline network.
I devoured the dog-eared old books and choppy films. Read and remembered everything, as if the books and films made a precise imprint in my memory.
I was ashamed of my knowledge because it made me different. Several of the teachers tried to speak with my parents about how I was a gifted child, had abilities, but during these conversations they smiled shyly, would rather hear about normal things, like whether I had any friends, was good at running, climbing, arts and crafts. All of the areas in which I was not successful. But my shame was gradually consumed by my hunger for learning. I studied the language in depth, learned that every single thing and feeling did not have a single word or description, but many. And I learned about our history. About the mass death of pollinating insects, about the rising of the ocean, the temperature increase, about nuclear power accidents and about the former superpowers, the US and Europe, who had lost everything in the course of a few years, who had not managed to adapt and were now living in the most abject poverty, with a population reduced to a fraction and food production consisting only of wheat and corn. While here, in China, we had coped. The Committee, the Party’s highest council, our country’s efficient government, had led us through The Collapse with a hard hand and a series of decisions that the people often didn’t understand, but had no opportunity to question. All of this I learned. And I just wanted to keep going. To have more and more. I wanted to fill up on knowledge, but without reflecting upon what I learned. It wasn’t until I came upon a tattered printout of The History of Bees that I stopped. The translation from English was clumsy and artless, but the book nonetheless intrigued me. It was published in 2037, a few years before The Collapse became a fact and pollinating insects were no longer to be found on earth. I brought it to show my teacher, shared with her the pictures of beehives and detailed drawings of bees. It was the bees I was most interested in. The queen bee and her children, the latter no more than tiny larvae in the cells of the hive, and all of the golden honey with which they surrounded themselves.
The teacher had never seen the book before, but was, like myself, fascinated. She stopped at passages of rich text to read out loud to me. She read about knowledge. About acting against one’s instincts, because one knows better, about how in order to live in nature, with nature, we must detach ourselves from the nature in ourselves. And about the value of education. Because this was what education was actually about, defying the nature in oneself.
I was eight years old and only understood a small portion. But I understood my teacher’s reverence, that the book had moved her. And I understood the part about education. Without knowledge we are nothing. Without knowledge we are animals.
After that I became more focused. I did not want to learn solely for the sake of learning, I wanted to learn to understand. I soon advanced far beyond the level of the others in my class and was the youngest in the school to become a Young Pioneer in the Party and was allowed to wear the Scarf. There was a banal kind of pride in this. Even my parents smiled when the red piece of cloth was tied around my neck. But first and foremost the knowledge made me richer. Richer than the other children. I was not beautiful, not athletic, not good with my hands or strong. I could not excel in any other fields. In the mirror an awkward girl stared back at me. The eyes were a little too small, the nose a little too big. That ordinary face revealed nothing about what she was carrying—something golden, something that made every single day worth living. And that could be a means of getting away. By the age of ten I had already outlined the possibilities. There were schools in other parts of the country, one day’s journey away, which would accept me when I turned fifteen, the age when I was actually supposed to start working out in the fields. The school supervisor helped me to find out how to apply. She thought I’d have a good chance of being accepted. But it would be ex
pensive. I spoke with my parents but got nowhere; they grew anxious, looked at me as if I were a strange creature they didn’t understand and didn’t even like. The school supervisor also tried talking to them, I never found out what she said, but the only effect it had was to make my parents even more resolved. They had no money, and they weren’t willing to save. I was the one who would have to give in, they felt, I was the one who would have to settle down, stop “dreaming foolish dreams.” But I was unable to. Because this was who I was. And always would be.
I started at the sound of Wei-Wen’s laughter. He laughed a loud, warbling laugh in the bathroom and the acoustics in there amplified the sound. “No, Daddy! No!”
He laughed as Kuan tickled him and gave his soft tummy a raspberry kiss.
I stood up. Put the plate in the sink. Walked towards the bathroom door and stood there listening. When I heard Wei-Wen’s laughter I felt the urge to record it, so I could play it back for him when he grew up and acquired a deep voice.
All the same it didn’t make me smile.
I put my hand on the latch, pushed the door open. Wei-Wen was lying on the floor while Kuan yanked and pulled at one of his trouser legs. He pretended that the trousers were fighting against him, did not want to come off.
“Can you hurry up a bit?” I said to Kuan.
“Hurry up? That’s impossible with these obstinate trousers!” Kuan said and Wei-Wen laughed.
“Now you’re just winding him up.”
“Listen here, trousers, now you have to stop fooling around!”
Wei-Wen laughed even more.
“He’s getting too wild,” I said. “It will be impossible to put him to bed.”
Kuan did not reply, looked away, but followed my instructions. I went out and closed the door behind me. In the kitchen I quickly did the dishes.
Then I took out my pen and paper. A brief fifteen minutes more, that much he could stand.
WILLIAM
She often sat there, beside my bed, with her head bowed over a book, turning the pages slowly, reading with concentration. My daughter Charlotte was fourteen years old and should have many other things to keep her busy besides seeking out my mute company. Still she came more and more frequently. I distinguished day from night through her presence, and her perpetual reading.
Thilda had not come by today. She came to see me more seldom now, didn’t even drag the family doctor here anymore. Perhaps the money had now really come to an end.
Thilda had never said a word about Rahm. I would have known, even if she were to speak about him while I lay in the deepest of slumbers. His name could awaken me from the beyond. She probably had never put it together, never understood that our conversation the last time we met, his laughter, had led me right here, to this room, to this bed.
He was the one who had asked me to come. I didn’t know why he wanted to meet me. I hadn’t been to see him for several years, and made only compulsory, polite conversation on the rare occasions that we happened to meet in the city—conversation that he always brought to an end.
The autumn was at its peak when I went to visit him. The leaves were an intense play of colors, clear yellow, warm brown, blood red, before the wind had succeeded in tearing them off, forcing them down to the ground and decay. Nature was brimming with fruit, trees laden with apples, juicy plums, dripping sugary pears, and the soil, not yet fully harvested but full of crunchy, crisp carrots, pumpkins, onions, fragrant herbs alongside the field, everything ripe for the picking, for eating. One could live just as carefree as in the Garden of Eden. My feet stepped lightly across the ground as I walked through a grove overgrown with dark green ivy, towards Rahm’s house. I was looking forward to meeting him again, to having time to converse with him properly, as we had done so long ago, before I became the father of so many children, before the seed shop took all of my time.
He met me at the door. He still wore his hair cut close, was still thin, wiry, strong. He flashed a smile, his smiles never lasted long, but warmed nonetheless, and then he let me into his study, which was full of plants and glass tanks. In several of them I caught a glimpse of amphibians, full-grown frogs and toads, bred from the tadpole stage I presumed. It was towards this field of the natural sciences that all his attention was directed. When I came to see him after completing my exams eighteen years ago, I hoped to study insects, particularly the eusocial species, the individual insects that functioned together virtually as one organism—a superorganism. That was where my passion lay, with the bumblebees, wasps, hornets, termites, bees. And ants. But he held that this would have to come later and soon I was also busily occupied with these inbetween creatures that his study was full of, creatures that were neither insects, nor fish, nor mammals. I was only his research assistant, so I could not object. It was an honor working for him, I knew that and was therefore concerned about showing reverent gratitude rather than imposing demands. I attempted to adopt his fascination and expected that when the time was ripe, when I was ready, he would allow me to reserve time for my own projects. That day never came, however, and quite soon it became clear to me that I would instead have to carry out my own research during my time off, start with the fundamentals and slowly work my way forward. But there was never any time for this, either, before or after Thilda.
The housekeeper served biscuits and tea. We drank from delicate, thin cups that almost disappeared between our fingers, a tea set he had bought himself on one of his many trips to the Far East in the years before he settled down out here in the village.
As we sipped the tea, he told me about his work. About the research he was doing, about his most recent scientific lectures, about his next article. As I listened I nodded, asked questions, taking care to formulate my words in a qualified fashion and then listened once again. I fixed my gaze on him, wanted him to meet it. But he did not look at me much, instead his eyes slid across the room, across the artifacts, as if they were the ones he was talking to.
Then he fell silent, no sound other than that of the wind tearing the yellowing leaves off the trees out there. I took a sip of tea; the slurping sound was heightened in the quiet room. Heat rose to my cheeks and I quickly put the cup down. But he did not appear to have noticed anything, just sat there quietly without dedicating any more attention to me.
“Today is my birthday,” he said, finally.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea . . . but I extend to you my heartfelt best wishes!”
“Do you know how old I am?” He turned his eyes towards me.
I hesitated. How old could he be? Very old. Well over fifty. Perhaps closer to sixty? I fidgeted, noticing suddenly how warm it was in the room, cleared my throat. How should I answer?
When I said nothing, he looked down. “It’s not important.”
Was he disappointed? Had I disappointed him? Again? His face, however, expressed nothing. He put down his teacup, took a biscuit, how mundane, a biscuit, even though the conversation we were about to embark on was anything but mundane and he put it down on the saucer.
He didn’t eat it, just let it lie there. The room was uncomfortably quiet. I had to say something, it was my turn now.
“Are you going to celebrate?” I asked and regretted it immediately. What a foolish question, as if he were a child.
Neither did he deign to answer. He sat there with the saucer in his hand, but did not eat, just looked down at the tiny, dry biscuit. He moved his fingers, the biscuit slid towards the edge of the saucer, but he quickly straightened it, saving the biscuit at the last second and put the saucer down.
“You were a promising student,” he said suddenly.
He drew a breath, as if he were about to say something more, but no words came.
I cleared my throat. “Yes?”
He shifted his position. “When you came to me I had great expectations.” He let his hands hang at his sides, just sat like that, straight up and down. “It was your powerful enthusiasm and passion that convinced me. I had otherwise not planned to hire an assis
tant.”
“Thank you, Professor. Those are immensely flattering words.”
He straightened his back, sat very erect as if he were a student himself, glanced at me quickly. “But something happened to you.”
My chest tightened. A question. It was a question. But how should I answer?
“Had it happened already by the time you gave the Swammerdam presentation?” Again he looked quickly at me. His gaze, which was usually so steady, wavered.
“Swammerdam? But that was so many years ago,” I said quickly.
“Yes. Exactly. So many years ago. And it was there that you met her?”
“You mean my wife?”
His silence confirmed my question. Yes, I met Thilda there, after the lecture. Or, rather: the circumstances led me to her. The circumstances . . . no, Rahm led me to her. It was his laughter, his derision that caused me to look in another direction, to look in her direction.
I wanted to say something about this, but couldn’t find the words. He leaned forward abruptly, cleared his throat faintly. “And now?”
“Now?”
“Why have you brought children into the world?”
He made the last comment in a louder voice, a voice that almost broke and now he was staring at me, unwavering, a frost had emerged inside of him.
“Why?” I looked away quickly, unable to meet his gaze, the hardness in his eyes. “Well, it’s what one does.”
He rested his arms on his knees, simultaneously inhibited and demanding. “It’s what one does? Well, it is perhaps what one does. But why you? What do you have to give them?”
“To give them? Food, clothing.”
He abruptly raised his voice. “Don’t bring up that confounded seed business of yours!”
He sat back again abruptly, as if he wanted to distance himself from me, and wrung his hands in his lap.
