by Jess Row
But you can’t just stop.
Who says, he asks the ceiling. Who says what I can and can’t do?
Sunim, he says, do you like living here?
In the hallway the elevator dings and the old woman screams her thanks to the attendant. The nun stares at the floor, a marble statue.
My like and dislike are not important, she says.
Why?
I am a nun, she says, raising her chin and giving him a faint smile. I do not choose. So I am free to go anywhere.
But you must get lonely sometimes.
Si fu, m’geidak—
On her knees she turns to the old woman in the doorway and bows, speaking rapidly in Chinese. The woman retreats into the hallway.
I’m sorry, he says, when she turns back to him. I shouldn’t say these things. I don’t know anything about Buddhism.
Do you have the same pain as before?
Sure, but I hardly notice it. I’m used to it by now.
There is a reason for this, she says. What we call pain is not really pain. It is the fear of pain. If you are not afraid, you still have pain, but you do not suffer.
She looks so earnest that he can’t stop himself from smiling.
Let me show you something, she says. Look at this wall. Can you describe it?
It’s empty, he says. Blank. Nothing on it. Just a wall.
Yes. When you expect there to be something, then there is nothing.
How else can you see it?
The wall is white. The floor is yellow.
He laughs, resting his head on the floor. I give up, he says. You win.
So feelings are also like this, she says. Always changing, coming and going. Insubstantial.
I’m taking up the old woman’s time, he says. I should go.
Kneeling at his side, she drapes his arm over her neck, fits her shoulder into his armpit, and hoists him upright in a single motion. Their bodies touch for the blink of an eye; then she is walking to the door and opening it, calling Wu tai tai, deui m’jue, deui m’jue, cheng lai la.
We are like mirrors, she tells him, standing in the doorway. You see me and you think: she is unhappy. That is a reflection of your own fear. You see yourself in me, but you don’t understand my mind.
Is that so, he starts to say, but stops himself. Sarcasm won’t mean anything to her, he thinks. Her English is too literal. Then tell me, he says, what do you see?
The kneecap is broken, she says. The tendons were cut in many places. Now we must do stretching and massage, so the muscles do not become weak. When the bone has healed we will begin to exercise.
Is that all?
The old woman shuffles between them, banging her cane against the floor.
I am sorry, she says. Is there something else?
Her face is utterly open, attentive—expressionless, he thinks, but not in a bad way, not numb, or angry, or blank. She hardly blinks at all. It unnerves him.
No, he says. I guess not.
That night after washing the dishes he lowers himself onto the couch, propping his legs in front of him on a low stool. His stomach rumbles, his lips burning from the peppers. He folds his hands into the oval shape, closes his eyes, and tries to imagine nothing: to not imagine. For a moment he feels a sensation of weightlessness, as if he’s risen an inch into the air. His nose begins to itch; he strains to keep himself from scratching it. Downstairs a door buzzes. In a distant corner of his mind he hears an old advertising jingle playing on an out-of-tune piano: I’d like to buy the world a Coke—He tries to slow his breathing, as she instructed, counting to seven with every exhalation, but after a few repetitions he forgets to count and has to start again. Finally he gives up and raises himself to get a drink of water. Insubstantial, he thinks, standing with his glass by the sink. Airplane lights blinking as a jet rises from the runway, banking, turning east.
The colors shift from blue and violet to scarlet, saffron, gold: he has passed from the forest into a meadow. His face flushes in the baking heat; dry grass crackles underfoot. Locusts are singing in trees nearby. He wants to spin around in circles, to lie down in the grass and drink the air. His heel touches something cold, and he winces; he tries to draw it away, but it is stuck there, as if to a block of ice. He shudders and gasps, opening his eyes, and looking down: his feet are resting on the floor.
Did I hurt you? she asks.
No—no. He raises his head. Outside it is almost dark, and the light in the hallway has been turned off. He can barely see her face in the gloom. What time is it? he asks.
Mrs. Wu canceled her appointment, she says. I went an extra half hour. Are you all right? Do you need some water?
It’s OK, he says. It’s no problem. He tries to breathe out the anger, but it remains, a fist wrapped around his windpipe.
She touches his ankle.
You are unhappy.
I am. I can’t do my work here.
What work do you have?
I’m a painter. Or—I was a painter.
Ah.
You’ll think me very self-pitying, he says. It isn’t as if I’m feeding the hungry or saving sick babies. But I’ve been living in Thailand the last year and a half, and I’ve never worked so much in my life. For a while I was finishing a painting every week. And now—being here—it’s all changed.
I am sorry for you.
How can you be? Stop it, he tells himself, it isn’t her fault, she can’t control it any more than you can, but irritation overwhelms him; her calm seems condescending, even insulting. Everything is emptiness, right? he says. Suffering isn’t real. Then why should you care?
She shakes her head once, vigorously. You misunderstand, she says. It is real to you. You feel it.
You’re goddamned right. His eyes are suddenly wet; he stares up at the ceiling, and blinks, furiously. I think it’s over, he says. I don’t know if I can ever get back to it.
Then there is something else you must do, she says. It could be a message. Perhaps you are not a painter at all.
He feels a sharp pain in his solar plexus; for a moment he struggles to breathe. That’s easy for you to say. I’ve never done anything else. This is my whole life you’re talking about.
Then what do you want to do?
I want to go back. I have to start over again.
She looks back at the floor. If you let go of it, she says, if you don’t make here and there—if you stop always thinking Thailand and Hong Kong—it will be easier for you.
That’s impossible, he says, his head rising from the floor. I don’t want to play these word games anymore. How does the world exist, if you don’t have here and there? I’m not a nun. I have to choose.
Yes, she says, giving him a defiant look. You should choose.
When he says his name into the phone it echoes loudly, drowning out the receptionist’s voice in New York. A long silence, and she asks again, annoyed, Curtis who?
Curtis Matthews for Alex Field. He represents me. The sentence repeats twice and dies away. It’s a bad connection, he says. Can you hear me?
Where the hell are you?
Hong Kong, he says. Alex, it’s good to hear your voice.
I’m glad you called. How’s the leg?
Goddamned travel insurance wouldn’t cover any of the hospitals in Bangkok. I had to leave; there wasn’t any other way. This woman I met, Mrs. Mei—
He stops. Something—a tiny click, a muffled sound on the other end of the line, as if a hand has been placed over the receiver—tells him Alex isn’t listening.
It’s a long story, he says. I won’t bother you with the details.
But you’re recovering, right? That’s the most important thing.
I hope I am, he says. It’s hard to tell. Did you get the last paintings I sent?
We did.
And?
For a moment he wonders if the connection is broken, but he can hear the faint ticking, ticking of the timer, his Hong Kong dollars falling into space.
I think they’re wonder
ful, Alex says. But the market’s changed, Curtis. We haven’t gotten the kind of interest I hoped we would. It’s all swinging back to conceptualism now—nobody’s looking for color anymore. Nobody cares if you can draw. You’d be amazed at the crap I’ve seen this season. Every figurist painter I know is having a terrible year.
He looks down and sees a sampan bobbing across the water, and for a moment he imagines it exploding, raining bits of debris on the black waves. I had a feeling, he says, willing his voice not to shake. Well, then. This is costing a fortune.
You should come back to the States, Alex says. We miss you. Everybody here misses you. You should apply for a summer residency, maybe a teaching job for the fall. Once you’ve recovered, I mean. Things will pick up again.
I think I may go to Mexico, he says. I’ve lost my taste for mescal, you know? I think I’m ready to eat the worm.
Alex gives an audible sigh, almost a groan, at the other end of the line. Don’t do this, he says. It’s melodramatic. It’s self-pitying. It’s not like you, Curtis. I’m saying this as your friend, understand?
Write me a letter sometime, Curtis says. Say hello to Helen, would you? He presses down the receiver and covers his face with his hands.
He wakes at the first graying of dawn, tears starting in the corners of his eyes. Images float out of his last dream. The tiny white eye of the moon above Doi Suthep. An emaciated Burmese boy curled up in the darkness of a kitchen hut, his face lit by the glowing opium in his pipe. Now you wish you had smoked it when you had the chance, he thinks. Even your memories are nothing. He turns his face to the wall, closing his eyes, but the faintest sounds invade his sleep; buses whooshing around the curve toward Central, garbage collectors calling out to one another in a hoarse singsong.
For three days he stays in bed, rising only to drag himself to the toilet. His knee is fused solid; there is no pain, but when he tries to bend it it feels as if it will snap and fall away, like a rotted branch. Clouds move fleeting shadows across the ceiling. He selects a book from the stack beside his bed, reads a few sentences at random, and lets it fall to the floor.
On the afternoon of the third day the telephone rings. He waits for the answering machine to pick up, and then remembers that there is none: in Hong Kong, where everyone has a mobile phone, there is no need. Still he feels no need to get up. Everyone who Mrs. Mei wants to speak to will know she is in Paris. But the rings persist: twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five. Finally he lurches out of bed, snatching his cane, and limps across the room to the desk.
It is Ji Shan Sunim. She sounds agitated, even angry. Why have you not come to the therapy? It is vital that you come every day. Have you been sick?
Yes. I’ve been ill. I’m sorry I haven’t called.
Do you need medicine? I will send someone to get it for you.
No, he says. There’s no medicine.
But you are in pain, she says after a moment. I can hear it.
I’m sorry. I don’t think you would understand.
What is not to understand?
Every morning I wake up and realize that my career is over, he says. How can you know what that’s like? Nuns can’t fail; you can’t fail if you don’t want anything. How am I supposed to tell you about it?
In the background loud voices babble, raucous laughter rises and falls.
I don’t think I can keep coming to the therapy, he says. I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to get well.
Then I will come to you.
I’m not worth your time, he says. Don’t bother.
What will I do, he wonders. More than an hour has passed, and he is still leaning against the desk, his back to the window. The silence burns in his ears; he taps his cane against the floor just to hear the sound. For a moment he imagines pulling the old television off its shelf in the closet and plugging it in, but no, he thinks, you do that and in a moment it will be April, and you’ll have wasted five months watching bad old movies and Chinese commercials. He sees himself sitting by the window with his leg propped on a chair, washed in blue light, sweat beaded on his forehead. Choose your poison, he thinks. The doorbell rings.
When he opens the door she uncrosses her arms and takes off the baseball cap she has been wearing, as if to help him recognize her. She is wearing blue jeans, a pink cardigan over a yellow polo shirt someone must have loaned her, her gray nun’s shoes, a small leather bag in one hand. His hand holding the cane trembles, he reaches out to the door frame for support, and she slides her hands under his arms and presses herself to him until he wonders if his ribs will collapse. She is so strong that if his good knee buckles, if he throws away his cane, she will still hold him up. What’s happening? he hears a small, petulant voice asking. What’s she doing? You’re not ready—and he bites down on his lower lip, hard, to distract himself. When will I be ready? he thinks. What other time is there than now?
When he wakes in the morning she has already taken her blankets from the sofa and begun moving the furniture, sliding the armchairs next to the wall, turning the coffee table on its side, rolling up the carpet. On an end table she has made a makeshift altar: a tiny Buddha seated on a cigar box, a spray of dried flowers, three plums on a saucer. Her movements seem stiff, even awkward, until he realizes he’s never seen her body unconcealed by robes. How uncomfortable it must be, he thinks, watching from the doorway.
Have you eaten?
There were noodles in the refrigerator, she says. She picks up the rolled carpet and folds it in half, as if it were made of paper. You don’t mind?
Of course not, he says. Did you like them?
For a moment she seems confused by the question, her eyes wandering over his shoulders. Less pepper next time, she says. She balances the carpet on her shoulder and walks past him to the hall closet.
Sunim, he says, what are you doing?
My name is Ana.
Ana.
She closes the closet door and steps slowly into the light, her eyes intent on his face. I am disrobed, she says. I am no longer a nun. You understand.
But I didn’t ask for that, he says. I never told you—
You should rest, she says. Taking his cane, she slides one arm under his shoulder and walks with him to the couch. Soon we start the therapy, she says. Later I will cook for you. Otherwise you will never get better.
I feel guilty, he says. Why would you disrupt your whole life for me? I didn’t want this to happen.
She sits on the couch next to him and takes his hand in her lap. At first it seems to hold her full attention—she kneads the palm, rolls the loose skin of the fingers, works her thumb between the knuckles—but at the same time she opens and closes her mouth, as if straining to breathe. Finally she releases the hand and looks up at him. It is not so hard to understand, she says. I can help you. And you also can help me.
Me? he says. Look at me. I’m not in much of a position to help anyone.
She blinks twice, rapidly; a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch, and turns to look toward the door.
I’m sorry, he says. You said I had to choose, didn’t you? But this isn’t a choice. I don’t have the faintest idea what you want from me.
Nobody will be able to help you if you are so closed, she says fiercely, turning back to him. You are like an insect. All hard around the outside.
Shell, he says, trying not to smile. The word you’re looking for is shell.
So laugh, she says. Laugh and forget. She begins to rise, but he reaches over and catches her arm, feeling a sharp spike of pain in his thigh as he does so.
I’m sorry. I’m not making fun of you.
Her arm feels terribly fragile; expecting her to pull away, he holds it lightly, tentatively. She does not move.
Let’s start this over again, he says. Don’t leave.
She stares at the floor, her cheeks reddening, and he thinks, she is embarrassed by happiness.
You see? she says. It is not so difficult. You are helping me already.
In the afternoon she boils herbs
in a pot on the stove, filling the apartment with a sour, earthy smell, and covers the floor with Mrs. Mei’s monogrammed towels. When he lies down she wraps the herbs in washcloths and ties them around the brace, at the ankle and the thigh. Close your eyes, she tells him, and places a damp, hot cloth across his face. He hears her footfalls across the floor, more pots clattering on the stove; the lights dim, and her fingers pull his toes forward, cupping the heel.
What is this? he asks. You’ve never done this before.
My grandmother taught me.
Your grandmother?
When I was a child, we had no medicine. Even aspirin we did not have.
He remembers a movie from elementary school: Life Behind the Iron Curtain. Gray buildings under ashen skies; streets lined with bare trees, smoke boiling from factory chimneys. How nightmarish it seems in memory: as unreal as the bogeyman, the children who got lumps of coal in their stockings.
I wish you would tell me about Poland, he says. How you became a nun.
So many questions today, she says.
I want to keep talking. I’m a little afraid of this.
Why? It hurts?
No, he says. It feels wonderful—too wonderful. It’s a narcotic.
A what?
Like being drunk.
You are courageous, she says after a moment. Most people would want to forget.
Courage has nothing to do with it. I’ve had too many hangovers in my life, that’s all.
Holding his ankle with one hand, she moves the other slowly up to his calf, gently squeezing the muscle through the holes in the brace. He feels how thin his leg has become underneath its plastic frame: a mass of tendons and nerves that quivers under her touch. When he grimaces she removes her hand and returns it to his ankle. There is a new tenderness, a slow, deliberate quality in the way she handles him. He reaches up and peels away the cloth from his face. His eyes widen; the room shifts more sharply into focus around her.
To leave it on is better, she says. You can relax more.
I want to watch you. I’d rather be awake.
While she makes dinner he runs hot water in the bath and washes himself, scrubbing with the sponge until steam rises from his reddened skin. He shampoos his hair and shaves for the first time in weeks, feeling for patches of stubble with his fingers after the mirror fogs over. His muscles liquefy in the heat; his jaw feels slack, and his leg tingles when he pushes the sponge through the gaps in the brace. As if his body had forgotten the possibility of being clean. Clutching his bathrobe together in the front, he opens the door in a cloud of steam. The radio is tuned to a classical station, a Chopin prelude. She sets steaming plates on the table and turns toward him. The black dress bags slightly around her hips, and binds her chest; she wobbles on Mrs. Mei’s heels like a girl dressed in her mother’s clothes.
