Elsewhere, page 7
Looking back to the year 1069, it seemed clear that everything was predestined: as an ambitious young politician, Shen Kuo had to move from Yangzhou to the capital; his first wife, Woman Ye, must die during this trip for some unclear reason; he would then express to the chancellor his irrepressible admiration towards Woman Zhang and her widespread virtues; they would get married the next spring.
However, on their wedding night, when Shen Kuo lifted the bride’s red veil and saw her face for the first time, he couldn’t help but think: she really looks like a grey egret.
In spite of this likeness, Shen Kuo always found Woman Zhang a dutiful wife. For more than twenty years, she treated him sensibly and respectfully while managing the subordinates with justice and strictness. He would not say he was not pleased with their marriage. So, when Ping asked him if Woman Zhang beat him regularly with a cane, he laughed.
‘This is why people say rumours end in the ears of a wise man. I’ve heard more absurd things about her. You don’t need to worry. She’s a reasonable woman,’ Shen Kuo said, reaching out his hand to adjust Ping’s right elbow.
He was teaching Ping to write. She stood by the desk, holding an ink brush firmly with her right hand while trying to relax the wrist. She pressed the rice paper with her left hand, dipped the ink brush onto the ink stone, holding her breath, and wrote: 乙.
It was mid-April. Ping had finished practising the characters on the first column of the page and moved on to the second column. The first character was easy. She wrote five in one stretch: 乙 乙 乙 乙 乙.
‘Did Yi tell you what this character is?’ Shen Kuo asked.
‘It’s yi,’ Ping said.
‘That’s correct. It’s his name. It means “the second”.’
‘Yes. He told me you named him Yi because he is your second servant. The first one had died before he came.’
‘That’s right.’ Shen Kuo smiled. ‘He was only nine years old when I bought him – that was almost fifteen years ago.’
‘Can you teach me your name, Master?’
Shen Kuo was bemused. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Names are important, aren’t they? I heard our fates are concealed in our names. I’ve learnt that my name means “ordinary”, Yi’s name means “second” – I want to know what your name means.’
‘Well,’ Shen Kuo said, ‘mine is a bit complicated.’ He took a piece of paper and wrote down the first character: 沈.
‘This one is the name of my family, Shen,’ he said. ‘It’s a phonetic loan character of Chen.’ He wrote: 沉. ‘It means “heavy”. And my first name is Kuo.’ He wrote: 括. ‘Which has various meanings. So I gave myself a stylised name to specify the meaning of my first name. And my stylised name is Cun Zhong.’ He wrote: 存, 中. ‘They mean “exist, in between”. My name Kuo basically means “existing in the middle”. It manifests the Confucian doctrine of impartiality, reconciliation and compromise.’
‘Incredible.’ Ping exhaled, staring at the characters on the paper. ‘I wish one day our children could have fine names like this.’
Shen Kuo’s heart sank. As the days got warmer, The Book of Forgetting was about to come to its last chapter.
‘I’ve been wanting to ask you,’ he said. ‘What do you think of Yi?’
Ping’s wrist shook and the pen dabbed on the paper, leaving a black stain.
‘He is a dutiful teacher,’ she said quickly. ‘He always speaks of you with the utmost loyalty.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I have an arrangement for the two of you – I’m afraid an extraordinary plight will befall me and this family. And I want you to run away with Yi. I’ve prepared some gold and a carriage. I’ll inform Yi about the arrangement soon, and you need to go before the summer.’
Ping stared motionlessly at the ink stain on the paper while Shen Kuo explained the purpose of Huang’s visit and the imperial edict that would terminate the lives of everyone in this estate. When Ping lifted her head, her eyes were filled with tears.
‘You are truly kind, Master,’ she said. ‘You do not deserve to die and I will not abandon you in such adversity. I must think of a plan – a plan that will change your destiny.’
Shen Kuo reached out his hand and touched her cheek gently, as if he were touching a reflection in the water. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Although I’ve failed to see any way out. The emperor wants me to die. Therefore, the death of Shen Kuo is but inevitable.’
Shen Kuo did not mean what he said. In fact, ever since he had heard about the sprouting love affair between the servant and his new concubine, he realised there was hope for his escape. He had been observing, waiting patiently for the right moment to talk to Ping. After all, he had always been proud of his comprehensive understanding of the universe, his ability to see how everything was inherently connected and how, with perfect timing, the constellation of destinies could be shifted with the faintest nudge.
When Shen Kuo smelled the familiar scent of moxa in the air and saw vases of pomegranates, sunflowers and gardenias blooming in the estate, he realised in surprise it was the Double Fifth Festival already. He could not believe it was May; he still sensed the remains of January.
Woman Zhang had always been fond of festivals and this time was no exception. Every room teemed with flowers. Every wall was hung with bundles of moxa grass. A huge golden Buddha was invited from the White Horse Temple and enshrined in the great hall, in front of which three pagodas of rice dumplings and fragrant sachets were presented on cloisonné plates.
On the afternoon of 5 May, the festival dinner began. Shen Kuo sat at the head of the table and looked around at the faces of his guests, wife and concubines. He raised a glass of wine. ‘Happy Double Fifth Festival to all, especially my prestigious guest, Mr Huang.’
‘It’s my honour to be here, I’ve been indulging myself in the marvellous book collections of the estate,’ Huang said, raising his glass and finishing the wine.
‘We’re very pleased to have you,’ Woman Zhang said. ‘I wish you and your wives could stay until the Mid-Autumn Festival.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality. I’d love to, but I have my imperial duties.’
‘Then let’s drink to your departure.’ Woman Zhang filled up their glasses and drank with Huang.
Under her orders, Shen Kuo’s concubines – Jin, Ying, Yue’er, Su, Lan, Ping, Lian, Mei, Wei – went to drink with Huang one after another, finishing six bottles in no time.
As Huang stood up from the table and staggered to the toilet outside, Woman Zhang gave a cough, nodding slightly at Servant Yi.
On Huang’s way back, in the nine-turn corridor, he saw two figures cuddling. When he got closer, he recognised they were Servant Yi and one of Shen Kuo’s concubines.
‘You damn lackey!’ Huang shouted, gripping Yi’s arm. The concubine collapsed to her knees.
Huang hauled them both back to the great hall and threw them in front of Shen Kuo. ‘Look at what I found outside,’ Huang said. ‘Mr Shen, these two lowlifes have brought shame on your house.’
Shen Kuo looked at the young pair. Before he said anything, Woman Zhang stood up, yanked Ping’s hair and slapped her fiercely. ‘You deserve nothing but a piece of white silk robe,’ she said. ‘I order you to hang yourself immediately.’
Tears streamed down Ping’s face. To everyone’s surprise, Yi jumped up like a leopard and pushed Woman Zhang away. ‘Leave her out of this, you despicable cow!’
This was the only moment Shen Kuo felt sorry for his wife. Being gripped by a sharp sense of nostalgia, he averted his eyes and signalled to two other servants, who brought Yi under control.
‘Take him to the stable,’ he gave the order, staring at the golden Buddha. ‘I’ll deal with him tomorrow. Ping, you go back to your residence. No one shall harm you.’
And then Shen Kuo walked away by himself, in front of his guests, wife and concubines. He disappeared behind the door, the sound of his footsteps vanishing along the corridor.
It was on this same night – the night of the Double Fifth Festival – that Shen Kuo died in his study. It was believed that Ping freed Servant Yi and the pair sneaked into the study with a flask of oil. They brought in all the firewood and set it alight before running away together. The fire burnt for two days. When it was finally put out, everything was destroyed, leaving only the iron frames of seven braziers and a black skeleton.
His guest Huang left despondently with his caravan. His wife, Woman Zhang, became preoccupied after the tragedy and eventually slipped into Wenxin Lake on a starless night. A few days later, when the servant finally found her and dredged out her body, she was bloated and looked like a pregnant sow.
The traveller opens his eyes and thinks of the dream he had. It already starts to fade in the room. Pale light casts in through the window. He hears the rain pattering on the pane and pushes himself up.
‘You’re up.’ The young woman sits by the table, wiping her eyes quickly with her hand.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asks.
‘I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep,’ she says. ‘And I thought I should start packing since we need to leave before the hostel gets busy.’
‘We’re almost in the mountains. Nobody will recognise me there.’ He gets up, puts on his gown and sits down by the table.
A fruit knife and orange skins lie on the table. The young woman is packing some medicine blocks. ‘I don’t want to risk it. Not after everything that happened,’ she says.
‘I understand. We’ll go early then.’ He disposes of the fruit skins, puts the knife away and stacks the books together. Underneath one book he sees a piece of paper. He reads: When travelling in the summertime.
‘I didn’t know you’d kept this page. I thought it was burnt with the study,’ he says.
The young woman doesn’t look up. ‘It’s a souvenir.’ She puts the medicine into the lower compartment of the luggage.
He doesn’t ask more. They pack item after item.
‘Put on the boots,’ he says. ‘The paths are muddy in the mountains.’
She puts on the boots and the raincoat. He squats down by the back of the luggage, puts his arms through the straps and lifts it up. Quietly they leave the room and walk down the stairs. The owner is dozing behind the counter.
Outside the rain has got heavier, flowing down from the eaves like a mirror.
‘The reason I kept that page is not because I have any affection for him,’ the young woman says. ‘I only feel troubled because I was the one who engineered his death.’
The traveller sighs. ‘Your plan wouldn’t have worked if they were not, in the first place, trying to use you to kill me. I would not have been able to live if it wasn’t for you. You saved my life.’
She looks at him. Her beautiful face is soaked in sadness. ‘Thank you, Master.’
‘I’m not Master any more. I shall remain nameless for the rest of my life.’ He puts on the conical hat and walks into the rain. She follows.
The rain hits the traveller’s hat. The luggage on his back seems to be of great weight. The traveller walks hunched, like a mantis. The young woman is behind him, stepping lightly and rhythmically, like an oriole.
The summer rain pours down. They walk towards Burnt Mountain.
Stockholm
in late november, i flew to stockholm for a weekend to attend a literary event. My friend H, who had known me for ten years, was the organiser. H had convinced himself, after a long phone call in September, that I was suffering from postnatal depression. You need to take some time off from the baby, he had said. How about coming here in a couple of months’ time and joining a panel to discuss women writers in diaspora? It’ll cheer you up.
The event took place the day after my arrival in an old bookstore in Södermalm. I sat beside a spiral staircase and chatted with my co-panellists for about an hour. There were roughly twenty people in the audience, mostly senior citizens, all thoughtfully dressed, observing our conversation in a calm and benevolent manner.
Among them was a pale young man sitting in the back row, who smiled at me whenever I looked in his direction. After the event had finished, as I was gathering my coat and scarf, he approached me and wondered if he could ask a question.
Certainly, I said. Under his eyes were the worst dark circles I’d ever seen.
What is your favourite Chinese word?
His question was not at all what I had expected. It depends on the context, I said, and saw from the corner of my eye that H was miming drinking from a glass.
My favourite word is lanshan, he said.
I immediately recognised which word it was. You don’t mean blue mountains, do you? I said.
After a brief delay, the stranger laughed. No, I don’t.
It’s a very beautiful word, lanshan, I said. Oblique and melancholic.
He looked satisfied.
I saw H was tapping his watch at me before tilting another imaginary drink into his mouth. I really need to go now, I said.
Wait a second. The young man took out a pen from his satchel bag, gripped my wrist and scribbled on the back of my hand.
I hope to see you again. He gave me back my hand and left.
Later, in a local pub, I ordered a double whiskey and showed H what the young man had written. That weird guy didn’t give me his number but left his name, I said, as if this will help me see him again.
Delar, H said, reading from my hand. It’s not a name, just a word. It means pieces: like fragments.
The five of us sat around a long table, an unusual distance between each other, and sipped our respective drinks. Anna, one of my co-panellists, was narrating her typical day. H conversed with Jacob – a novelist and his friend – about their trip to Israel next spring. The other panellist, Olivia, who also happened to be H’s girlfriend, sat in silence, slowly rotating her martini glass. As the pale liquid undulated, the olive swirled inside.
You must go to the library, Anna said. It’s the most extraordinary place in Stockholm, in my opinion.
I nodded, trying to ignore the pain thrusting across my left breast.
I often tell my readers, Anna said, I am Swedish in the sense that the city library is my birthplace in this country. It was in the library I learnt the language and later where I wrote my first novel.
The book was a huge success. H swivelled around in his chair to comment. It was shortlisted for the August Prize. Then he returned to his conversation with Jacob.
I’m very lucky, Anna said. Although I will never be able to write Swedish as finely as some of the great writers here, and occasionally some newspaper will refer to me as an Armenian writer. But I’m truly grateful.
I smiled at Anna and quickly touched the top of my left breast. The damp patch was expanding. Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom, I said, standing and picking up my tote bag.
Oh good, you brought your pump today, H said. Olivia had to send her back early last night, he announced to the table in general, so she didn’t end up flooding Madeleine’s poetry salon.
Nobody told me that Madeleine’s still running her little parties, Jacob said. How is she?
I retreated to the bathroom and shut the door. It was cramped, all the walls painted red. Sitting on the toilet, I realised that if I pressed my hands against the walls and feet on the door, I could easily elevate myself from the seat. Instead, I assembled the pump and latched the flange onto my breast. In the low and soothing electric beats, I thought of a perpetual motion machine and then imagined a post-apocalyptic world where the earth was struck by countless asteroids, and all the creatures were annihilated, all the lands scorched. The last human alive was a woman, who woke up in a deserted cottage without any sustenance at her disposal. Fortunately, this woman was still in her postnatal period. So, she found a jar, and began to hand-express from her engorged breasts. And just like Kevin Costner drinking his filtered urine in Waterworld, this woman pulled through with her rich-with-protein-enzyme-and-antibody breast milk.
I returned to the table and people had swapped seats. Olivia and Anna were sitting next to each other, whispering. Come sit with Jacob, H said, waving at me. You must talk to Jacob now that you are in Stockholm.
As I slid down onto the designated chair, H stood up to get another round. I tossed my bag on the floor and asked Jacob how he had found the evening so far.
Jacob smiled, his moustache impeccably trimmed. Is it correct that you were expressing your milk in the bathroom?
You’d hope so, I said. Otherwise I must have been critically constipated.
I want to ask you a question if you don’t mind.
Certainly, I said. H beamed at me from beside the bar and gave me a thumbs up.
I’m curious to know what you did with your milk there, Jacob said. Did you dump it, or, did you drink it?
I had informed H and Olivia, when I had arrived at the airport, that I was going to drink carelessly for the next two days.
Bless you. H spread his arms wide and squeezed me, which had really hurt my breasts.
Actually, just one day. I need twenty-four hours to detox before I go back to feed the baby.
So how is the baby? Olivia asked. She looked fresh, as if having just stepped out of a shower, her straight black hair glowing.
I had not met Olivia before but had read a great deal about her. Her name is Olivia Tanaka. She’s doing a PhD in comparative literature. She speaks four languages, writes fiction in Swedish, poetry in Japanese and owns the most exquisite pair of tits. It would have been a crime not to sleep with such a woman when the opportunity had presented itself. The email had arrived a couple of days before the baby had been born.
H had been writing me these emails for about eight years, in which he would delineate every woman he’d encountered and then fostered a dalliance with. These emails were meant as preparation for his novel, a book he was planning to write when he turned fifty, about a man who corresponded with an elderly female friend, reminiscing about all the romances he’d had in his youth. I had noted that I was not much older than him. He had responded that it was just fiction.
