by Jess Row
Say thank you! his mother shouts from inside the compartment.
No, the girl says. Say, Long live Chairman Mao.
Long live Chairman—
Give me that, his mother says as soon as he steps inside the door. Take that wretched thing off! She sits up on the bed, fumbling with the clasp, and yanks it away, leaving a small hole in his shirt. And don’t go outside anymore.
Xiaomei, his father whispers from his bunk. It’s protection. Let him have it.
We don’t need protection, she says loudly. Unbound, her hair falls across her face like a curtain, and she pushes it aside impatiently. We haven’t done anything.
Mama, why can’t I—
They killed Wang Huili’s mother, his father hisses. They took her off a bus on Zhongshan Lu and beat her to death in the street.
The boy’s hands drop to his sides. He has never heard his father talk like this: like a street vendor would say it.
They don’t know us, his mother whispers. Her hair has fallen back in front of her face, and the boy notices now that it is streaked with ash gray. We’re not important enough. Why should we act afraid?
Put the pin back on, his father whispers. Go out there with your sister and salute.
Minutes later, his face again pressed against the window, he hears the familiar snick-snick of his mother’s sewing scissors, the tearing sound, and he realizes she is cutting her hair.
That night the Guards sleep crammed together on the floor of their compartment and in the corridor outside.
The next time she appears it is late afternoon, and he is on his last customer of the day. Lao Jiang’s granddaughter has already come from school; he can hear her following him around the shop with little shuffling steps, asking question upon question. He answers her patiently: This is wild ginseng. This is deer antler. This is pink ginger. At this rate, Chen thinks, she’ll be a Chinese doctor before she leaves primary school.
Would you like some tea?
I’m fine. Thanks.
You are tired, he says. You should take a rest.
It’s hot, she says. I always forget how early the weather changes. April in Hong Kong is worse than August where I come from.
And your work?
She allows the silence to linger while he folds clean sheets and drops them into a basket between his knees.
Slow, she says. Very slow.
He stands and slaps the massage table cushion with his palm. Maybe I help, he says. Lie down.
No, no. Thank you, Mr. Chen. I don’t need it.
Of course no need. I only give very poor massage. But maybe you enjoy. All this time you come here, and not even once you want to try?
A long, whispering sigh. The chair creaks as she stands.
Lie on your back, he tells her. He takes a hand towel, spreads it across her forehead, and puts his fingers to her temples. Fascinating, he thinks. Like touching a television screen: her skin crackles with energy. He makes gentle circles next to her eyes and smooths the creases in her forehead.
Tell me about your home place. Tell me about Oklahoma.
She laughs softly. You really want to know? It’s very boring.
I ask question, yes?
She takes a long breath and exhales. I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s like Mongolia. Very flat, with only grass prairies. No mountains, no trees, no big rivers. Very dry, very windy. Not many people live there. You could say it’s like the frontier: bianjie. Only in the middle of the country.
And you live in small town?
About ten thousand. For Oklahoma that’s medium-size.
What kind of work they have? They have farms?
Oil, she says. They have wells that take oil out of the ground. Well, they did have them. Now there isn’t much of anything. The economy changed, and the price went down, and everybody went bankrupt all at once. It’s a very sad place.
Because now everybody poor.
Because they didn’t do anything about it. They knew what was going to happen. And they kept spending their money. You see a lot of houses with four-car garages and only one little Toyota inside. Those people let themselves be victims. She takes another breath. I told you, Mr. Chen. It’s sad, but it isn’t interesting.
Maybe when you return be different.
Oh no, she says. I’d never go back there. Not in a thousand years.
Turn over, he says. He lays the towel across her shoulder blades and works his fingers between them. Her spine is so taut he can almost hear it hum. Four-car garage, he thinks. He imagines the dimensions of a car, and the dimensions of his room. Amazing. To own all of that space and keep it empty.
Soon finish, he says. Then you let me take a little rest.
Of course, she says quickly. I’m sorry. I’ve taken too long.
Bie keqi. I think it good for you. His fingers make long, soft strokes along her back. Old fool, he thinks, what did you think you could do? Could ten fingers let your demon out? Finish, he says. He pours a cup of tea and sets it on the armrest of the couch, then sits down, leaning his head against the wall.
I don’t want to go, the boy says. He is sitting on his bunk, his legs drawn up to his chest. All around him the train makes its cooling noises, little hisses and clanks: they have just drawn into Lishan. The lights in the train have been turned off; his father, in the doorway,is silhouetted in the flickering light of candles and battery torches. Boys in the corridor are playing guess-fingers. Two! Six! Ah, shit! Seven!
What did you say?
I don’t want to.
This is your home, his father says. Our home. Grandma is waiting.
How do you know?
Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, they won’t stop long. Get up!
I can’t see anything, the boy says. He presses his hand to the burning-cold window. I thought it would be daylight. I want to see the mountains.
You’ll see them in the morning.
Baba—
His father reaches out and pulls him off the bed by the collar.
As soon as they step out onto the stairs they can see the signs, written in huge characters on sheets of newsprint; some of them are lit from behind, like paper lanterns. Immediately he recognizes his father’s name, everywhere, on every one.
Chen Zhaolu capitalist roader Chen Zhaolu May sixteenth leader Chen Zhaolu China’s Khrushchev Strike down landlord Chen Zhaolu
Arms pull at him from ten directions; his father seems to melt into a crowd of shouting people, Red Guards, soldiers, villagers. Someone loops a string around his neck and suddenly he is wearing a placard that bangs against his knees. He looks down, trying to read the characters, and a hand seizes his hair from behind and yanks his head upright. Put on the cap! someone yells. Put on the dunce cap! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!
I knew it! I knew it!
What? he starts out of his chair. What is wrong?
You said gou zai zi, she says. You were a gou zai zi. In 1967. That’s how it happened.
You make mistake.
The movement to the countryside. You went out from Shanghai—how old were you? Ten? Eleven?
The demon speaks, he thinks. The demon is loose.
You lied to me, she says. Why did you lie?
He drinks from his teacup with a shaking hand, and cold tea splashes his leg.
Zuo ba, he says, loudly, harshly. Sit down. Lower your voice.
Lao Jiang and his granddaughter are quiet. Chen struggles to his feet, feels his way along the wall to the door, and closes it.
I am sick, he says, still holding the door handle, speaking to the wall. You must understand this. When I am standing, when I am walking, I have this dream. All during day I have it. I can not control.
Not dreams, she says. Memories. You have a disorder caused by trauma. Do you understand what that is?
No matter which word.
Mr. Chen, she says, forgive me for saying this. Your face is covered with scars. Anyone can see you weren’t born blind.
Ni gen tamen yi y
ang, he says. You are the same as them. How long did you spy on me? How many times?
The shop is dead silence. Her breaths are quick and jagged; she is crying, he thinks, or about to. Let her cry.
It’s in your files, she says. At the Services for the Blind. Where you came across the border, where you were found. I’m sorry, Mr. Chen. I thought that you would trust me. I thought you would tell me yourself.
A fly circles lazily around his head, once, twice.
I can choose, he says. I not choose be born in Cultural Revolution time. I not choose take away from my parents. I not choose leave China. I not choose learn English. But I choose not talk to you.
There’s no need to be ashamed.
I not shame. Shame not the point.
You’re holding on to it, she says. Let it go. Let it out.
He turns toward her voice and shakes his finger at the air.
There are no words, he says, his throat suddenly dry. No Chinese words. No English words. You can never describe.
Maybe not. But it’s important to try.
The fly’s buzzing makes him dizzy; for a moment he is standing in a strange room, wondering why his cane is not in his hand. Old head, he thinks, why resist her? If you don’t tell her now she’ll perch on your grave and pester your ghost.
They did it with brick, he says. Sharp corner of brick from inside fireplace. They break off. Take with wok tongs and put in my eye.
Who did? Red Guards?
The boys from the village. From Lishan. After they took us from train.
Just boys? Then who told them to?
I tell them.
He reaches up and slams the fly against the doorjamb.
They already knew when we come, he says. They were ready for us. My father beat to death right there, next to the train. My mother they take away and rape. Then she hang herself. This is what I heard.
He opens the door. Across the street, a radio blares a shrill Cantonese pop song. Lao Jiang is pulling down the gate, drawing the padlock chain through the handle. Chen! he shouts. Are you asleep?
Now I go home, he says. You make story. Make paper if you want. You try.
Somewhere near, outside the doorway of the hut, a boy is crying and vomiting on the ground. Ten paces away, he thinks. Perhaps more. Yet the sound is perfectly clear. He is lying with his head restingon the dirt floor, and yet he can hear the wind skittering dead leaves along the ground outside.
I can’t, the boy sobs. I can’t look at him.
He raises his head an inch.
I’m all right, he says, in a loud, clear voice. It doesn’t hurt so much now.
The door creaks.
You’re alive, another voice says. We thought we killed you.
Is it day or night?
It’s morning.
I need some water, Chen says. Can you bring me some water?
It’s here in the basin. I don’t have a cup.
I can stand. Give me your hand. Don’t be afraid, Chen says. He reaches out, stretching his fingers in the direction of the voice. I can’t see. I won’t hurt you.
The hand that takes his is an old man’s hand, ridged and cracked, the fingers curled stiff.
What is your name? he asks the darkness.
Chen raises his head. It is the strangest sensation: for a moment he wonders whether the ceiling is leaking again. He wipes a finger across his cheek and tastes the salt.
Eyes, you old frauds, he thinks. Good for something all this time.
The last time she appears at Lao Jiang’s she remains standing, refusing to sit. I have a package for you, she says. Something crackles in her hands. I’m putting it on the table.
Mrs. Chong, just a moment, he says. He washes his hands and wipes them before reaching for the envelope. Inside is a thick booklet, heavy and stiff; he runs his hand along the spine and feels the Braille.
Blindness and Self-Erasure: A Case Study
I paid to have it transcribed, she says. It’s only fair. I realize you may not want to read it.
He opens the cover and runs a finger along the first few lines.
While in other respects a completely normal individual manifests few overt signs of a trauma and recovery.
So already you finish.
I couldn’t do anything else, she says. I had to.
He slides the book back into the envelope and carefully closes the flap, wrapping the string fastener around and around until no string is left. You are hardworking girl, he says. One day you make a big success.
Mr. Chen, she says, please. I’m sorry you felt that I tricked you. I want you to accept my apology.
Why need apology? he asks. You already get paper. No problem. He wipes his fingers on his jacket and again drapes the cloth over Mrs. Chong’s ankle. Automatically his hands set to work, the heels of his palms pressing against the tendon.
I described my methods, she says. And I reported how you responded when you found out. I tried to be fair. I didn’t go easy on myself.
Ghost woman, he thinks, bile rising in his throat. Dream-stealing woman. Your methods. His hands shudder, and Mrs. Chong starts in her sleep.
Mr. Chen, she says. Are you still angry with me?
Not angry. Maybe sad.
I am also sad, she says. I hoped you would feel better, now that it’s over. Now that it’s out there.
Out there?
Out in the world. Your story. Now other people can read it and know about you.
At that moment he feels as if he’s standing outside on the sidewalk, and the late afternoon sun is warming his neck, his bald scalp. He lifts his hands and smiles in her direction. Not me, he says. Not about me. Only you.
No, she says. I’m only the observer. It’s not my experience.
This your problem. You only look with your eyes.
I don’t understand.
Oklahoma, he says loudly, as if it were a charm for making things disappear. Maybe you go back there. Maybe you already there, no need to go.
She is silent for so long he wonders if the charm has worked.
I meant well, she says. I came to apologize. You don’t have to be cruel.
Cruel? What means cruel? Spy on old man, make notes, is this cruel?
All right, she says. If that’s the way you want it. She turns toward the door; he feels a breath of scented air across his face. I’m leaving for Beijing in a month, she says. I didn’t want it to end this way. I wanted you to be proud.
He turns away from the sound of her voice and grips the edge of the sink. Proud of what, he wants to ask her. Of these useless bits of meat?
Is that all you have to say? she asks. Is it over?
Over? he thinks. How can it be over?
Yes, he says. It is. Yes. Now please go.
It is true spring, the last days before the air grows thick and oppressive; back in his room, he leans his face out the window and takes long breaths. Old head, you should take walks, he thinks. Like you used to. Take a taxi and go to the Services for the Blind again. He feels absurdly happy, light-headed; as if there was a towel around my mouth, he thinks, and I was breathing through it but didn’t know. And now it’s gone.
The book lies open on the bed next to him. Every once in a while he turns a page and passes his hand over a line, careful never to read two in sequence. Typical adjustment procedure, Taylor (1987) indicates that, Evidence of earlier trauma, Manifestedin such behaviors as. It has been years since he has read Braille, but it comes back to him easily. Words, only words, he thinks, they come and go so swiftly. What is the use of them, after all? Subsequent visits indicated an increased level of. He laughs, letting his head fall back to the pillow. As if it means something, he thinks. As if I am in there somewhere, waiting to get out.
Now that she’s gone, what will you do? he wonders. Will you go on dreaming?
No. I won’t walk through that door again.
Lao Jiang’s granddaughter will talk to me, he decides. Soon she will become bored with dried salamanders. She nee
ds some stories in her life. Like this one: how a book can become a bird. He reaches for the report, closes it, turns and flings it out the window; pages snap and flutter as it falls. Zhu ni zhunyi gaofei, he thinks. Take life. Now it is time to fly.
For You
January, the depths of winter: nights longer than the days.
Rising at four, the students bow to the Buddha one hundred and eight times, and sit meditation for an hour before breakfast, heads rolling into sleep and jerking awake. At the end of the working period the sun rises, a clear, distant light over Su Dok Mountain; they put aside brooms and wheelbarrows and return to the meditation hall. When it sets, at four in the afternoon, it seems only a few hours have passed. An apprentice monk climbs the drum tower and beats a steady rhythm as he falls into shadow.
Darkness. Seoul appears in the distance, a wedge of glittering lights where two ridges meet.
Sitting on the temple steps, hunched in the parka he wears over his robe, Lewis closes his eyes and repeats to himself, my name is Lewis Morgan. My address is 354 Chater Gardens, Central, Hong Kong. My wife’s name is Melinda. He tries to see her face again, the way it appears sometimes in his dreams, and usually he can’t.
On Monday evenings he accompanies Hae Wol Sunim down the mountain to the local outdoor market. While the monk buys the main provisions of the temple—barrels of kimchi, hundred-pound sacks of rice—Lewis goes to the Super Shop for the extras the international students need. Vitamin supplements. Vegetable oil. Peanut butter. Milk powder. Nescafé. When the old woman at the register sees him, bundled in his gray robe and stocking cap, she puts her hands together in hapchang and addresses him as sunim, monk, and he has to resist the urge to shake his head and try to correct her. It’s all the same to her, Hae Wol reminds him. Remember, she’s not bowing to you.
Before Hae Wol became a monk he was Joseph Hung, an accountant at Standard Chartered Bank and the secretary of the Hong Kong Shim Gye Zen Center. Lewis met him for the first time two years ago, when a Zen master from Korea came to give a public talk at Hong Kong University; Joseph was the English translator, and afterward, Lewis walked up to him and asked, can you help me? For months they met every Friday for coffee at the Fringe Club in Central, and after Joseph left for Korea they kept in touch, using the temple’s e-mail account, until he finally told Lewis, You have to try it for yourself. He repeated the instructions for sitting Zen, and wrote, No more letters for six months, OK?
