by Jess Row
At the corner he turns left. A girl scolds her boyfriend for missing a date.
Dim gaai m’hoh yih da din wah—
A bus stops at the corner: whoosh of air brakes.
Newspapers crumple underfoot outside the Jockey Club parlor.
Old man, he tells himself, pay attention. No daydreaming.
A whiff of bitter herbs: he turns sharply and ducks into the shop, folding his cane as he does so.
He and Lao Jiang have worked together so long they hardly need to speak. In the rare event of a new patient Jiang will come into the massage room and tap on Chen’s knee, or ankle, and grunt a few words in Shanghainese. Even that is usually unnecessary, for Chen’s fingers know the source of tension immediately, as soon as they touch the skin: they have long since stopped doing his bidding.
Cantonese opera plays on a tinny transistor in the back room. Some of his old women patients are so talkative they cannot stop themselves, even in his strange company, and so he has known them for years, their agonies and triumphs: thousands won at mah-jongg, sons made managing directors, grandchildren moved to Canada and Australia and America. His mind wanders and comes to rest.
Each day, it seems to him, it becomes harder to resist, as if a trapdoor has been pushed back in the floor of his mind, and light floods in. At first only details come into focus: the ragged edge of a blanket, rust flaking from an iron frame. Faces appear, their lips moving silently, then voices.
I have to go to the bathroom, the boy announces.
At the end of the car, his father mumbles from the bunk below.
He wriggles out of the blankets and scrambles down the rungs to the floor. The cold blazes against his skin. Pulling his shoes on, he gazes in wonder at the etchings of frost on the window glass.
North, he thinks. We are headed north.
He runs, soles thumping along the walkway.
Why, he wonders. Why, why? What good does it do anyone?
Mr. Chen?
He lifts his face toward the sound.
Mr. Chen? It’s Jill Marcus.
Sit down, he says, drink some tea. With you in a minute.
Her first name is unpronounceable to him: the nearest he can get is jir, no matter how hard he tries. So he calls her Xiao Ma, with a rising tone: Little Horse. His private joke. She is a full head taller than he is; when she comes near he feels himself speaking to her shoulder. Long hair, unbraided, that moves the air around her when she turns. Blue eyes, so she says. A smell of lavender enters the shop with her and lingers for hours after she leaves.
Her skirt rustles as she crosses in front of the doorway.
I’m sorry I’m late.
Yes. I watch the clock for you.
She giggles, like a girl, and he hears the pages of the newspaper crackling as she opens it.
He doesn’t remember how long she’s been coming to the shop, having lost the habit of counting months and days. Since the previous summer, perhaps. Twice a week she sits in a chair to the side of the room, reading aloud to him while he gives massages and touches pressure points. The old women are respectfully silent, uncomprehending; even when she reads from the Chinese newspapers, her Beijing accent is impossible for them to follow. He prefers the gaps and slurs of her English, her flat, nasal way of making even familiar words strange. The name of her home place is a ka la hou ma, Oklahoma; he savors the sound, like the taste of a strange fruit.
He has forgotten how she found him, whether it was through Community Chest or Services for the Blind, but it hardly matters. Nor does he care what she chooses to read: about China, anything happening in China—a fire in an oil refinery in Liaoning, a chess competition won by twins in Wuhan. She is a little bit obsessed, he thinks, even for a yanjiu sheng, a graduate student. But the important thing is that she comes like clockwork, like a wake-up call.
Today it is an article about village elections in Shandong province, long and full of difficult English words. He waits, half-listening, for a gap—a page turning, a sip of water—and changes the subject.
How your research is going?
Almost finished, she says. Soon I begin writing the first chapter.
I think you work too hard. Take rest before writing.
She closes the newspaper; the breeze fans his face.
I’ve had all the time in the world.
American, he thinks; you hear it in the way her voice squeaks, as if a demon were trying to leap out. Impatient. Get on with it, Americans always say. She lived three years in Chengdu, teaching English at a shoe factory, and it didn’t change her a bit.
So what do you think, Mr. Chen? Will the village system work?
He smiles; this is the way she always is. You ask the wrong person, he says. How can I know about these things?
I follow the old saying: Lao tou duo jing yan. The old have more experience.
He laughs. Old or young doesn’t matter. Politics I not understand. You ask anyone and get better answer.
Mr. Chen, she says, you know you are a remarkable person.
I am not special, he says. Hong Kong blind people library only have English books, English records. So I learn English. There are many old ones like me. Before library hire Chinese people make recordings.
But you’re the only one I know, she says. To me you are special. So I ask your opinion.
He frowns, bunching his eyebrows together. Sometimes he doesn’t know what she’s getting at. Drink more tea, he says. This is special kind from Yunnan. Good for digestion.
The newspaper rustles again. Let’s see what else is going on, she says. A long moment passes; he asks Mrs. Sze to lie on her side, and puts a fresh towel over her shoulder and neck. Under the cloth her skin stretches like a loose-fitting shirt.
The shop door slams; a rough old woman’s voice calls out to Lao Jiang in a thick Hangzhou dialect. Outside in the street, a lorry’s brakes squeal, and ten horns sound at once: as if someone has smashed both fists down on a keyboard.
All day long his father paces up and down the walkway outside their compartment, or stands at an open window, smoking cigarette after cigarette. From someone he has bought or borrowed a blue jacket and hat, but he still wears the gray wool pants of his suit, and brown leather shoes with thin wooden soles, and his gold-rimmed glasses. Anyone could see that he doesn’t belong, the boy thinks, and for the first time he feels a vague fear, fingers pressing gently against his windpipe.
Baba, he asks, why are we going to Lishan now?
Your grandmother is ill. The cigarette crackles as his father smokes it. She is very old. At any moment she could walk to the wood.
To the wood?
She could die. He squats down so that his eyes are level with his son’s; his breath smells rotten, decayed. Eyes watering, the boy stiffens his head so it will not turn away.
Do you know what they say about mothers when they die?
No.
If the children are there, then the mother can close her eyes. She can rest. But if the children are not there she can’t close them— she’ll always be looking, waiting for them to arrive. She dies with her eyes open.
But what about your classes?
I won’t teach my classes. Not this year.
What about Mama’s job? Don’t they still need her?
We think it’s better to be in the country this year, his father rasps. In my home place. Chairman Mao wasn’t born in the city, you know.
Of course not, the boy says stiffly. Chairman Mao was born in Shaoshan.
So this is like going back to our Shaoshan. Back to our roots. Just so you know that there are other places in the world than Shanghai.
Shanghai, Chen says. Shanghai—he reaches for the counter behind him and misses. For a moment everything is black, as if someone has pressed a hand over his eyes. He lurches, losing his balance, and clutches the edge of the sink. Porcelain smashes near his foot, and his shoe is suddenly warm and wet. He feels her hands on his shoulders.
Lao Chen! Ni xiao xin dian!
&
nbsp; I’m all right, he says. You can speak English. Is it the teapot?
What happened? Should we call a doctor?
A little dizzy. I didn’t eat this morning. Lao Jiang, he calls out. Bring a broom.
Crazy old fool, Mrs. Sze says from the table. Come on! My eyes are killing me.
All right, he says. Xiao Ma pushes him gently from behind; he reaches out and feels the cracked vinyl cushion, and places his hands lightly atop the old lady’s forehead. Aiya, she murmurs. Better.
Were you thinking about Shanghai?
What?
You said something about Shanghai. Were you having a day-dream?
Ah. Yes, it must be. Maybe I hear something on the radio.
A moment passes. She turns the page, and begins to read again.
In the morning the boy opens his eyes and stares at the rusting slats of the bed above them. The sky outside the window is the color of dirty snow. He pulls a hand from beneath the blankets and holds it up to the light; it is as pale as boiled chicken skin.
Wei, his sister mumbles, jabbing an elbow into his side. Stop moving! Go back to sleep.
Jie-jie, he says. Tell me again.
Tell you what?
What you remember.
It’s a very small place, she says. Just a bunch of houses with court-yards. And green fields on all sides. It’s in a valley, you know, but you can never see the mountains, they’re always hidden in the clouds. You won’t like it there.
Why not?
The boys are rough. They’ve hardly been to school at all—they only work in the fields. They like to fight. And they say dirty things all the time.
I’ve been in fights.
Don’t be ridiculous, she says. You shouldn’t resist them. Just make friends with the toughest one, the leader. Teach him how to write bad words. Otherwise they’ll tie a stone around your neck and throw you in the river.
The boy curls his arms around his stomach and turns to face the wall.
I’m only joking, she says. You take everything so seriously.
The family in the room above his listens to the television at full volume; the sound echoes in the pipes and rattles the window-panes. In the winter he lies in bed with his headphones on, listening to the radio, but now he opens the window and moves his chair against the wall so that he can lean his head back on the sill and doze to the faint sound of traffic, ten stories below. Coming out of the dream, he hears buses hissing along Nathan Road, delivery trucks creaking on old brakes. Drumbeats from a car stereo. He flattens a hand against his chest and feels his heart reverberate like footsteps in an empty hall.
You will go mad this way, he thinks.
Thirty-one years. And you have not yet leaped from the train.
He lifts his head slightly. A feeling of danger lingers in the distance, a sound barely within range. Old Chen, he thinks, what’s wrong with you? What do you have to be afraid of?
Last year at this time, he remembers, we went to the flower market, Lao Jiang and his wife and I, each of them holding an elbow. Peonies, orchids, amaryllis. Buffeted by clouds of scent, like a perfume factory. Last year I wasn’t afraid of dreams.
And what has changed recently in your life, old head?
The American girl.
He sits up straight, and then stands, pacing the room, taking deep, angry breaths. It isn’t possible, he thinks, she’s done nothing wrong, she only has a soft heart. But then there are the funny questions she asks sometimes, the talk of interviews. He laces his fingers together and pulls them apart. Isn’t she only a polite girl?
How could she possibly know?
Tell me again what is you study, he says to her. He is washing his hands between customers, craning his neck to hear her over the hiss of the faucet.
Anthropology.
No, no. Your project.
Patterns of adjustment over time, she says. The way people who have survived traumatic upheavals adapt to changes in their environment later on.
Ah.
Taking the situation now in China as an example. The last ten years: 1988 to 1998. And then the decade before that— beginning with Deng Xiaoping’s election. And then the twelve years before that.
He feels as if someone has knocked against his chest like a door.
Cultural Revolution time, he says, reaching for a towel. So long ago.
For some people it’s as if it were yesterday.
He dries his hands carefully, rubs his palms together and massages his face; there is a sharp pain between his eyes that will not go away. Here there many protests, he says, remembering what Lao Jiang has told him. Riots. Always police in the streets. I stay inside for many days.
Hong Kong was lucky, she says. One woman I met in Wuhan was locked in the same room for a year with her three little sisters. One of them died. One jumped out the window. One went crazy. The man that was responsible is now the head of her work unit. Still lives down the street from her.
Anybody can make a story, he says. How you know who to believe?
I trust them. And I ask lots of questions.
He turns and spreads a new towel out on the table, smoothing its wrinkles. Lao Jiang, he thinks, don’t be so shy, come interrupt us. Tell a joke, for once. Talk about the weather. But the shop is quiet and sleepy. A fly drones past his ear.
Let me give you an example, she says. If you were someone I wanted to interview, first I would listen to you tell your story. In a very relaxed way—no pressure, not too many questions. Then I would go around and talk to other people, and see if they remembered things the way you did. Maybe I could find a document, some kind of official record. Then I would come back and ask the hard questions. Connect the dots.
He laughs, too loudly; the sound reverberates harshly in the small room. I think you have a hard time with me, he says. I am orphan, you know. I do not even know when I come from China. In the 1950 nobody keep this kind of record.
Is there any way of finding out? What about your passport?
Why need passport? Where I go?
You never tried to find out about your parents? Where you were born?
He wets his handkerchief under the tap and wipes his face.
It is impossible. But finding out not so important.
I think I could help you, she says. The records must be there somewhere. At least we would know when you came, and who brought you. Maybe even your age.
Xiao Ma, he says. I have no story for you. Nothing tell.
But I might be able to help you remember.
Why? Why you want do this for me?
So that you can know.
Just for me? All this work?
Also for my research. For a—for a later project.
Ah. So I am also subject.
Mr. Chen, she says, I think you have a story that would be interesting to many people. There has been very little work done on the experience of the blind in China. You could bring to light—
This not China. This Yau Ma Tei. Hong Kong.
If I find something, can I bring it to show you?
Maybe better not.
In the front room Lao Jiang is arguing with a customer over the benefits of wild versus cultivated ginseng; the young man has a high, nasal voice, and his Cantonese is slurred and shrill, filled with abuse. Don’t try to cheat me, old man. Look at yourself! Are you an advertisement for your products? Standing there, listening, Chen feels a slow paralysis working through his veins, as if his blood had turned to ice. We are finished, he thinks. These young people are the voice of the end.
Mr. Chen?
You very determined girl, he says, turning his head to her with an effort. I sorry I can’t more—can’t cooperate.
I’m not asking for so much, she says, her voice hard and tight. Just the truth. I want to help you find the truth of what happened.
No, he thinks. You want a prize. You want me to be your prize. He clears his throat. You understand, he says. I live here so long, very quiet, and now I am old and no memories. Only food tast
e good, weather hot, children make too much noise. You ask someone else.
He hears the muffled slap of a notebook closing, a pen clicking shut. Keys jingling as she picks up her bag.
Mr. Chen, she says, you are not a fool. And I am not a fool.
No. He takes a long breath. No, he says. That not the question.
Dadao Liu Shaoqi! Dadao Liu Shaoqi!
Running steps thunder in the corridor. A young man thrusts his face into the compartment. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. His face is smeared with coal dust; his eyes are bloodshot. The boy’s father sits up abruptly, banging his head on the bed above. Long live Chairman Mao! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
Long live Chairman Mao, his father says weakly.
Down with Liu Shaoqi!
Down with Liu Shaoqi!
His father’s voice rises into a yell and cracks. The young man seizes him by the shoulders. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. Say it! Say it! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
All during the night and into the morning the train fills with them.
Blue jackets, blue trousers, blue caps; the girls have their hair tucked up underneath. Red armbands. Red buttons and pins. Red stars. Some of them have bedrolls or satchels, but most carry nothing at all. They cluster together in clumps of eight or ten; if one is left behind she runs frantically to catch up, butting away everyone in her path. At every station they pull into, there are more on the platform. Some have their own flags: “Nanjing Revolutionary Red Guards Group Five.” Periodically they burst into song:
The east is red
The sun rises
China has brought forth a Mao Zedong!
I want a button, the boy says loudly. Mama, can I have a button? A girl passing by hears him and bends down, squeezing his arm. Stand up straight! she shouts. He stiffens, thrusting out his chest. Salute! His fingers smack his forehead.
Down with the four olds!
Down with the four olds!
Here, she says, taking a large pin from her shirt. This is from Beijing. It is in the shape of Tiananmen Gate, with Mao’s face in the middle, and the five stars above, like a crown. His mouth forms an O. The redness of it burns through his hand; he has never seen anything so saturated with color, like an eye staring at him.
