by Can Xue
A pall hung in the air at dinner that night. She ate with her dad, the black child, and her female assistant in the kitchen behind the flower shop. A rumble echoed in her ears. She told her father that something was wrong with her ears, but her dad said he had heard the same sound—it came from underground. The black child said it was the sound of snow melting on the snow mountain. Dad happily patted the child on the head and said he was a great kid. He called the child “Ying.” Halfway through the meal, she lost her appetite and put her chopsticks down. She felt her prospects were bleak. While they were eating, a customer showed up and bought all the flowers in her shop. He said, “There’s no point in your keeping any of them.” As soon as her dad and the child left, she started packing.
Although her dad told her she didn’t have to take anything, she still spent the whole night packing.
When she was about to board the train, her dad rushed up with the black child to see her off. Dad joked, “My daughter is now commander-in-chief. You have to be ready for war.”
The train left the city and entered an area of plains as far as the eye could see. The sky was gray, and there was no sign of human life. The sparse willows and camphors lacked vitality. It was a very long time before she saw a wild dog on the horizon. It had probably run away from its home out of fear. After looking out the window for a while, the director felt tired. She sighed and lay down on the bed. The dining car staff were delivering boxed meals, but she didn’t feel like eating. For some reason, the lights were out in the car. It was growing dark, little by little, and the people in the car were turning into shadows, all bordered in red. The moment they moved around, there were flashes of feeble red rays. A shadow approached, bent down, and said softly to her, “The snow mountain . . .” All at once, the dark plains appeared in her mind. They were so dark that not only could she not see dogs, but she couldn’t see trees, either. She sat up, intending to say something to the person, but he had walked away.
The train started and stopped. Day broke and darkness fell. Some people boarded, and some disembarked. The director recalled traveling four days and four nights, one day longer than scheduled. As the train approached the frontier, her mind was filled mainly with the silhouette of the snow mountain. It was a high mountain whose peak was the only snow-covered part. Pine trees were dense at the foot of the mountain. At first, she didn’t see this mountain; she only imagined it. Her train of thought walked ahead in the snow alongside the snow leopard. Then, all of a sudden, the snow mountain loomed in front of her. Somehow, she felt that it wasn’t real, but more like a slide show. Sometimes she couldn’t distinguish the white mountaintop from the background color of the sky.
“Hello, director. I’m the one who talked to you that night.”
She looked up and saw a man who looked like a farmer. His grin revealed yellow teeth. He asked if she remembered him. She said she did: he had talked with her the night before she set out. The man smiled even more broadly. He gave a thumbs up for her good memory.
“Your father sent me to act as your guide. Large packs of wolves have recently appeared on the frontier. It’s dangerous.”
She thought his northern accent was very pleasant. If she hadn’t been looking at his ugly face, she would have assumed he was handsome. She wanted to ask about some things on the frontier. But after casting an eye in all directions and noticing five or six people staring at her watchfully, she didn’t speak.
“We have to take a small path into the city. Don’t worry. Your father . . .”
Something seemed to enter his mind, and his expression turned ambiguous. He looked all around. All of a sudden, he slammed into the people crowding around him and flipped one of them over. Then he hurried to another train car.
The director could remember nothing more about that day. She only remembered squeezing into a tunnel behind that farmer. Then she walked mechanically because the darkness had robbed her of any sense of direction.
And so she became director of the large-scale Design Institute. In the dreary conference room, people walked back and forth in front of her like shadows. She believed they were the human shadows she had seen on the train because they were bordered by the same red color. She heard a burst of applause: people were waiting for her to speak. At first, she didn’t know what to say. After hesitating a while, she spoke inarticulately of the rain in the south, of her flower shop, of her endless lonely waiting, of the peddlers on that street, and even of the suspicions and fears of the flower growers. She spoke softly and emotionally, and the audience was absolutely silent. She spoke for a long time. Finally, she was exhausted. She had never been so exhausted, so—to everyone’s surprise—she leaned over the lectern and fell asleep.
She awakened in a strange room. She thought mistakenly that she was still in her hometown, but when she walked into the living room, she saw the farmer. He stood up and introduced himself as a flower grower from her hometown.
“You gave a splendid speech last night!” he said.
She looked him up and down doubtfully, for she didn’t understand why he spoke with a northern accent. He excused himself to go to work.
It was a long time before she saw him again. By then, his intangible tropical garden had already been built, and he served as the gardener.
The first time he took her to his garden, she somehow lost consciousness. The sharp calls of the long-life bird brought her around. Although she felt suffocated in the garden—as though being interrogated by those beautiful unknown plants—she still liked being there. She talked with the gardener in the pavilion until the sun set behind the mountain. When she returned to her residence, many children were singing outside. She turned to look at the gardener, but he had disappeared—probably taking refuge behind the banana trees.
When the director had recalled this much, she saw the young nurse craning her neck outside. She shouted loudly, and the young nurse returned. The director asked what was going on. She replied that a couple outside wanted to see her, but the charge nurse wouldn’t let them in. Without a word, the director put on her shoes and walked out.
From a distance, she saw Nancy’s profile as a shadow vaguely fused into the darkening light of dusk. Next to her, José’s figure was a little more distinct.
“Director, we miss you, so we’ve come to see you. We were here yesterday, too,” Nancy said.
“Oh, that damn charge nurse. Nancy, you have a few gray hairs.”
A large flock of sparrows settled on the ground. The director absentmindedly looked all around, and then looked again at this couple, as though placing herself in a certain setting from years ago. Just then, José said, “Director, do you have to leave us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. When I saw the two of you just now, I remembered the situation when you first came to Pebble Town. That’s when I began to get sick. The charge nurse is coming.”
The director walked back. When she had disappeared behind the door, José saw that Nancy’s whole face was wet with tears.
“That was a devil. Just now, I saw that the back of her hand was covered with long hair,” Nancy said as she sobbed spasmodically.
“You mean the charge nurse?”
“Yes.”
They left the hospital hand in hand. As they walked, they recalled their association with the director. Under the soft rays of the street light, their memories drifted all around them; they seemed especially illusory. They discussed a significant topic for a long time: the third day after they had arrived here, outside the farmer’s courtyard in the outskirts, the director had told José that the thing he and Nancy were looking for had vanished long ago. What had she meant? But their discussion went nowhere. Nancy said sadly, “Now there’s only me. Just me.”
José gripped her hand, as if to suggest “And me, too.” Nancy glanced at him appreciatively, shook her head, and forced a smile. Suddenly, José realized that he could never take the place of the director in Nancy’s heart. He heard Nancy saying something else, but talking so quickly that he
couldn’t hear what she said. Then he did catch a few words: “She’s so beautiful . . .”
“Nancy, is Pebble Town beautiful because of us, or are we beautiful because of Pebble Town?” José shouted.
Nancy didn’t answer. They heard someone in the stream over there: Was it Qiming? They looked and looked, but couldn’t be sure. Nancy whispered to José, “It’s an apparition.”
Nancy thought to herself: she still had to go to the hospital. She’d go by herself without telling José. Just then, she heard José chewing something a little like a bone. José said he was eating dates from the sandthorn tree next to the road. The sound came from his chewing on the pits. Nancy hadn’t seen him pick the dates, so she believed he was lying. His face was hidden in shadows. He brought his left hand up to his mouth. Nancy distinctly saw him chewing his finger. She screamed and sank into a crouch. Her stomach was churning. José also crouched down. As he put date pits in Nancy’s hand, he said, “Let’s go home. Let’s go home.”
Nancy looked at the date pits under the street light for a long time. Each one was intact; they hadn’t been chewed. Why had José said he was chewing them? Was it just because the director had said the thing they were looking for didn’t exist? She sensed that her husband was more tenacious than she was.
After Nancy and José had been to the hospital, the charge nurse was even stricter with the director because the director had had a flare-up after they’d left. She had lost consciousness for a day and a night. The young nurse taking care of her was fired by the charge nurse. Now, two male nurses tended to her. They stayed in the office opposite the director’s room, not leaving even briefly.
The director’s gaze was still fastened on the tree outside the window; its yellow leaves were gone now, and its bare limbs pointed boldly straight up to the sky. One morning, she noticed a youth in the tree. Was it her son? Her son used to love climbing trees. She gestured to him from her bed. He shook his head gravely. The way he shook his head wasn’t much like her missing son, but she was still excited. Just then, one of the male nurses was about to close the curtains, but the charge nurse stopped him. The director heard the charge nurse say, “Let her look; it’s good for her.” They withdrew quietly. At the same time, the boy slid down the tree.
She hadn’t ever gotten a good look at the charge nurse’s face, because she always wore a mask. Once, when she came to take her pulse, the director noticed that her hand was all skin and bones. She blurted out, “Is something wrong with you?”
“You’ve got me. I don’t know.”
That’s actually the way she answered the director. The director thought it was a novel response. She wondered if the nurse was ugly. But the eyes visible above the mask were actually unusually beautiful, though icy cold. She couldn’t help but stare at them whenever she had the opportunity.
Yesterday afternoon, the director had dreamed of drowning in the stream. She had struggled hard and yelled. When she opened her eyes, the charge nurse was clutching her neck with her claw-like hand. When this nurse noticed that she had awakened, she let go and said angrily, “I was helping you breathe just now, but you wouldn’t cooperate. I once had a patient who was just as stubborn as you, and he choked to death.”
The director looked hopelessly at the ceiling and quietly asked the nurse if she could allow her to go outside for a walk. She was bored. She also said that the screen window was so tightly closed that not even a little insect could fly in.
“You can go. Go ahead. The main door is wide open!”
As she said this, the nurse inspected her fingers. The director suddenly noticed blood stains on those skinny fingers. The charge nurse grinned, startling the director.
After the nurse left, the director changed from her hospital gown to her street clothes. She washed her face and combed her hair, and finally left her room. In the corridor, the male nurse offered his arm, but she pushed him away. She soon reached the hospital entrance. She was surprised that everything had gone smoothly.
She stood next to the road and saw a four-wheeled carriage rushing toward her. Nancy stuck her head out the carriage window and called to her. The carriage stopped in front of her, and Nancy pulled her up and then closed the door.
“I’ve kept watch here all afternoon. Seeing you coming out, I hailed this carriage. We can ride around the city.”
It was dark inside the carriage. Curtains covered the windows. Once more, the director felt a suffocating, drowning sensation, though it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been during her nap. Nancy held the director’s icy hand tightly, hoping to warm her up. They held hands in silence, and long-ago events were resurrected vividly in her mind. Outside, the carriage rushed on; inside, the director’s thoughts also sped up. Worn out, she leaned her head on Nancy’s slender shoulder. Over and over, she said, “Nancy, ah . . .”
Nancy didn’t know how much time had passed when she heard a noise outside and realized that the carriage had rushed into the market streets. These streets were newly constructed: they were filled with the lively scene of people and cars coming and going. The director sat up straight and tapped Nancy’s knee lightly. She said, “The flower shop I opened in the south has now started selling Celebes orchids. I heard that exotic flowers are very popular. The flower growers are falling all over themselves to plant them.”
“Is our gardener one of those flower growers?” Nancy asked.
Nancy’s eyes wandered in the dim light: she saw the rather deserted small street. The dark stone street glistened in the rain. The flower shop was on the corner, a pot of Nippon lilies at its entrance.
“Yes. He’s the one who brought me back home. Look: I’m in the north, but at the same time I’m in the south.”
“It was the advertisement you put in the newspaper that changed my life.” Nancy heard her own voice quivering.
When the carriage returned to the hospital entrance, the director suddenly became weak and light as a feather. She couldn’t move. She needed Nancy’s help to get up. Nancy was surprised that the director weighed so little. With the driver’s help, she easily got her out of the carriage.
When they walked to the ward, the director kept joking, “Actually, there’s no body under my clothing.”
Nancy settled her into bed, and then sat on a stool next to it. The director wondered why the charge nurse and the two male nurses were ignoring her. The corridor was very quiet, as if no one could come in. The director asked Nancy to lean close and then she told her that she hadn’t eaten anything for a long time, for each time food was delivered to her room, she had furtively dumped it into the bucket of swill under the kitchen sink. No one had discovered this, and the director was quite proud of herself. She emphasized, “I’m getting cleaner by the day.”
She wanted Nancy to tell Grace that she thought there was still hope for her. At that, Lee’s wizened figure appeared in Nancy’s mind. He had died: How could there be any hope for Grace as a lonely widow? She used to have Lee and the dog: that was hope. So, back then, she always wore black clothing and a white flower. Nancy’s lips moved, but she couldn’t speak. The director started laughing and said, “Do you think there’s hope for me?”
Nancy glanced at the director’s wan face. All at once, she felt enlightened. She remembered that Qiming used to wind-bathe facing the glittering snow mountain. And so she shouted to the director: “Yes, there’s hope for you! There’s hope!”
A breeze blew the curtains open a little, and they saw the little boy in the tree. Suddenly, the director howled in grief, like a wolf. Nancy stood up and looked out the window. The little boy had disappeared without a trace. The two nurses burst into the room to give the director a shot. The director held out her arm obediently.
Nancy thought of Ying, the black man. Where had he gone? This was the end of his benefactor’s life, yet he had unexpectedly disappeared. She had asked the director, but the director had merely shaken her head. Perhaps he’d really gone to the Gobi Desert to look for gold. Many times in the past, sitti
ng at the desk in the office looking at the faint contours of the snow mountain in the distance, she had listened to his emotional confidences about the director. Ying regarded the director as his mother, the person he was closest to. He had told Nancy this many times. But the day they heard that the director had fallen ill, Nancy and Ying had run into each other in the corridor of the office building. As they walked, they talked of this. Ying had been jittery, saying he had to take a business trip right away and couldn’t go to see the director. He didn’t explain. Nancy thought this was odd. They left the office building and went to the dining hall. Ying was listening intently to something, and Nancy asked what it was. He said, “The drumbeat.” Just then, José walked up, and Ying approached him and said sadly, “Mr. José, I have to begin carrying out that plan. I can’t wait any longer.”
José fell silent. As they walked together, none of them said anything else.
Later, Nancy and José talked about Ying. José said, “He’s going to implement the director’s ideas. That’s a very beautiful thing to do. And someday, I will do the same thing.”
“Of those who’ve gone there, not one has ever come back,” José continued.
They were absorbed in reveries.
