Aftershock: A Novel, page 1
PRAISE FOR WHERE WATERS MEET
“A gripping, epic novel . . . a remarkable achievement.”
—Paul Brinkley-Rogers, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and veteran war correspondent; author of Please Enjoy Your Happiness
“A stunning, gorgeous novel. Zhang Ling’s Where Waters Meet is haunting and heartbreaking as it navigates mother-daughter relationships in the face of war and famine. I simply couldn’t put it down.”
—Devi S. Laskar, author of The Atlas of Reds and Blues and Circa
“Where Waters Meet brings us back to the turbulent decades in China where people fought one war after another, suffered famine, and endured political persecutions. However, instead of focusing on misery, Zhang Ling introduces us to those who defy their fates. They are brave enough to try sneaking across the border, determined enough to adopt a foreign tongue, and kind enough to care for their families no matter what. A true masterpiece filled with idiosyncratic yet admirable characters, suspenseful mystery, historical complexity, and ironic humor.”
—Jianan Qian, O. Henry Prize winner and staff writer at The Millions
PRAISE FOR A SINGLE SWALLOW
“[A] unique premise of ghostly rendezvous among soldiers, combined with first loves for all three men . . . Clever use of newspaper accounts, military reports, and letters to loved ones advance the plot and complement the dialogue effectively and interestingly . . . superb . . . highly recommended.”
—Historical Novel Society
“[Zhang] Ling deserves all the credit for communicating the universal language of love and war, but credit is also due to Shelly Bryant, the translator, based on how vividly and movingly the novel reads.”
—Enchanted Prose
“Zhang Ling helps the reader see events through a distinctly Chinese perspective in which characters speak from the after-life and natural objects have human agency. A thought-provoking work of fiction.”
—KATU-TV (Portland, OR)
“As a writer of perception and sensitivity, Zhang teases out the many layers of the devastating weight that the war had been putting on the individual, especially women . . . creates gripping suspense . . . In a unique narrative style, A Single Swallow compels readers to reflect on innocence and humanity through the prism of war.”
—Chinese Literature Today
“Themes of gender, memory, and trauma are woven throughout the narrative . . . the story is not just about friendship; it is also about one woman, a single swallow, who changes the lives of three men forever.”
—World Literature Today
“[In this novel] we see not only the cruelty of war but also humans wrestling with fate . . . the novel blends the harsh reality of war seamlessly into the daily lives of the common people, weaving human destiny into the course of the war . . . A Single Swallow puts the novelist’s ability and talent on full display.”
—Shanghai Wenhui Daily
PRAISE FOR ZHANG LING
“I am in awe of Zhang Ling’s literary talent. Truly extraordinary. In her stories, readers have the chance to explore and gain a great understanding of not only the Chinese mind-set but also the heart and soul.”
—Anchee Min, bestselling author of Red Azalea
“Few writers could bring a story about China and other nations together as seamlessly as Zhang Ling. I would suggest it is her merit as an author, and it is the value of her novels.”
—Mo Yan, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature
OTHER TITLES BY ZHANG LING
Where Waters Meet
A Single Swallow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2024 by Zhang Ling
Translation copyright © 2024 by Shelly Bryant
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Aftershock by East China Normal University Press in China in 2009. Translated from Mandarin by Shelly Bryant. First published in English by Amazon Crossing in 2024.
Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662510373 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781662509025 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662509032 (digital)
Cover design by David Drummond
Cover image: © Black Creator 24, © Hibrida / Shutterstock; © CSA Images / Getty
First edition
To 1976, the most eventful year in my memory
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
When Dr. Wilson . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
FOREWORD
In 1976, the sky over China collapsed. That year, three great figures in Chinese politics, Mao Zedong, Zhu De, and Zhou Enlai, all died within a few months of each other. It had long been said that the sun never falls, but it had fallen indeed, leaving the world in chaos.
At 3:42 a.m. on July 28, 1976, when the people of Tangshan had endured an insufferable, sultry summer night, dawn began to break. Just 150 kilometers from Beijing, in Hebei Province, an earthquake shook Tangshan as its inhabitants slept. It had been lurking for a long time, but it still managed to swoop in on an unsuspecting city. The quake was officially declared a 7.9 magnitude on the Richter scale, but this record was later revised to an 8.1 by international experts. Several aftershocks followed the initial quake, leveling the densely populated city. According to the most conservative official statistics, 242,000 people were killed and 164,000 seriously injured, while 4,204 children were orphaned overnight. It was the highest death toll from a natural disaster in the entire record of twentieth-century earthquakes.
Thirty years later, the scars left on the landscape by this tragic event had been erased, and a brand-new Tangshan had replaced the old one on the map. The children who survived the ’76 earthquake had grown up and were inching toward middle age. When they mingled with the crowds on the street, going about their busy lives, it was impossible to discern anything unusual about them. Only they themselves knew that when it was quiet at night, the aftershocks of the earthquake continued to touch the most vulnerable spaces inside them, radiating tremors that no one else could detect.
January 6, 2006
St. Michael’s Hospital, Toronto
When Dr. Wilson walked into the office, he saw his assistant’s eyebrows twitch.
“The emergency department transferred the patient here. She’s been waiting for a while.” Casey wrinkled her nose and indicated Consultation Room 1.
Dr. Wilson had been licensed to practice medicine for nearly two decades, but long before there was a psychiatrist named Henry Wilson in these parts, there was a medical assistant named Casey Smith. Casey had been working in the hospital for thirty-three years, and she had seen countless people. These people were like handfuls of fine sand, scraping Casey’s nerves day after day, year after year. In the end, she had not only lost her sensitivity but also seemed to have lost all her emotions. It was extremely rare to see a look of surprise or sorrow on her face.
Dr. Wilson could tell that she had encountered a tough case this time. “The author of Dream of Shenzhou is here. She was just nominated for a Governor General’s Literary Award. There was an hour-long interview with her on CBC’s National last Saturday,” she said.
Dr. Wilson grunted as he went to retrieve the medical records from the pocket on the door. He glanced at the name on the edge. Shirley Xiaodeng Wang.
“If the ambulance had arrived ten minutes later, she wouldn’t have survived.” Casey drew a finger across her wrist and whispered, “Suicide.”
Dr. Wilson opened the medical records and glanced at the ER referral report.
Gender: Female
Date of Birth: April 29, 1969
Occupation: Freelance writer
Marital status: Married
Pregnancy history: Three pregnancies, one birth (has a thirteen-year-old daughter)
Surgical history: Appendectomy (1995), abortion (1999, 2001)
Overview of condition: Severe anxiety and insomnia accompanied by headache for unknown reasons, long-term use of sleep aids and painkillers, movement of right arm slow, X-rays reveal no skeletal abnormalities, attempted suicide by cutting right wrist with razor blade two days ago, called 911 for help afterward, police investigation records revealed that this is the third time patient has called for help after attempting suicide, previous two times were three years ago and sixteen months ago, both times patient overdosed on sleeping pills, no record of criminal or violent tendencies
Referral opinions: Transferred to the Department of Psychotherapy for comprehensive psychological assessment and treatment
Attachments: Police and ambulance on-scene reports, patient’s daily medicines, patient’s drug allergies
Dr. Wilson pushed the door open and walked in. He saw a woman in a white patient gown with blue stripes. She was curled up on the sofa, her legs pulled to her chest and her hands wrapped around both knees with her chin wedged between them. Hearing the door, she looked up, and Dr. Wilson saw two eyes like black pit
The woman’s lips moved, and a faint sound escaped from between them. It would not be quite accurate to say that Dr. Wilson heard the words. Rather, he felt a slight tremor on his eardrums and, after a moment, those tremors began to take on the vaguely recognizable shape of words.
He suddenly realized what she had said. Save me.
Her words were like a slender iron awl, piercing a thin gap in the surface of the doctor’s mind. Inspiration gurgled out through the gap unexpectedly.
“Please lie down, Shirley.”
With a rustling sound, the blue stripes running along the length of the woman’s body gradually smoothed out, becoming straight lines. The woman’s hands were folded across her lower abdomen, and her sleeves were turned up, revealing layers of gauze wrapped around her right wrist. Several suspicious dark spots were evident on the gauze.
“Close your eyes.”
The black pits on the woman’s face disappeared, and silence fell over the room.
“Shirley, how long have you been in Canada?”
“Ten years. Please call me Xiaodeng. That’s my real name.”
“A Chinese name?”
“Yes. It means a little lamp to light the night.”
“Xiaodeng, how much do you know about the Western theory of psychotherapy?”
“Freud. Childhood. Sex.”
The woman’s English was generally smooth. Though the difficult pronunciations were just a little off, it was easy enough to understand.
“That’s just one part of it. What do you think of it?”
“It’s bullshit.”
Dr. Wilson couldn’t help but smile.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he asked tentatively.
The woman’s response came slowly, as if she were performing some difficult mental calculations.
“Two years and eight months ago.”
“And when was the last time you cried?”
This time the woman’s response was quick, with almost no hesitation or pause. “I’ve never shed a tear. Not since I was seven.”
Dr. Wilson nodded slightly. “Xiaodeng, please keep your eyes closed. Take five deep breaths, very deep, so deep that the muscles in your abdomen are scrunched together. Slow down the rhythm of your breathing. Very, very slow. Relax completely, every muscle, every nerve. Now, tell me what you see.”
They stopped talking. There was only the sound of the woman breathing, the breaths at first deep, then becoming increasingly ragged. Her breath rustled like a little snake sweeping through blades of grass, dense grass alongside a lengthy road, the snake slithering for a long time before finally stopping.
“A window, Dr. Wilson. I see a window.”
“Try it. Open the window. What do you see?”
“Another window. One after another.”
“Push it again. Go all the way to the end. What do you see?”
“The last window. I can’t open it. No matter what I do, I just can’t.” She sighed.
“Take five more deep breaths. Relax. Now, push again. Push until you get it open, and tell me what you see.”
There were more sounds of breathing, heavy and slow. She breathed with difficulty, like a pack animal climbing a slope.
“I . . . really . . . can’t.” She finally gave up and slumped into the sofa like a lump of soft dough.
“Then tell me about your childhood.” Dr. Wilson covered her with a thin blanket.
She lay silently for a long time, the corners of her mouth twitching gently, as if she were in pain, a pain almost too heavy for the nerves and muscles to carry.
“If you don’t feel strong enough to talk, we can always schedule another session.” Dr. Wilson stood up, ready to end the conversation, even though it hadn’t gotten very far.
“It’s not that I’m not strong enough. It’s just that I didn’t have a childhood to talk about.” The woman reached out from beneath the blanket and pulled at Dr. Wilson’s sleeve.
“What about your mother? Everyone has a mother, right?” He sat down again.
When the woman opened her eyes, confusion was evident in them. An earthworm burrowed back and forth between the corners of her eyes and brows. Her forehead bulged and deflated, now bright, now dark.
Dr. Wilson knew her mind was traveling.
“Let me . . . think about it,” the woman mumbled.
Dr. Wilson tore a sheet from his prescription pad and scribbled two lines of orders, one for Casey and one for himself. Casey’s read, Stop pain and sleep meds ASAP. Try placebo. One course of treatment. To himself, he wrote, Encourage tears.
April 1968
Fengrun County, Tangshan, Hebei Province, China
Seventeen-year-old Li Yuanni leaned on her walking stick as she sang beneath the locust tree in her yard. The song had an interesting title: “The Laundry Song.” It was about a group of young Tibetan women washing clothes for the PLA soldiers stationed in their village. A loud gesture of praise and gratitude for the good deeds the soldiers had done for the locals, with the edge of propaganda smoothed over by the beauty of nature weaved into the lyrics in the form of snow-capped mountains, warm sunshine, and the glistening Brahmaputra River. Yuanni loved the song.
The tree had lived for many years. It had seen the stable boy of Emperor Kangxi watering the horses in this yard, and it had heard the young, reckless Boxers drinking and plotting a rebellion on the street corner. It had witnessed the dirty underbellies of Japanese planes as they hovered overhead, dropping their black waste over the land. The tree had seen all the ups and downs for countless years, witnessing both the thrill and the desolation of dynastic change. As the tree grew old, the stories it held multiplied, and so did its branches and vines, creating a dark patch of shade under the shining white sun. This was the season when birds practically tore their throats out in this canopy, each vying to sing louder than its companions—but now, there was only silence in the tree because the birds were entranced by Yuanni’s voice.
Yuanni’s voice was not a voice at all; it was a stream of qi. When the qi was generated just below the navel, it was gentle and unobtrusive, but as it climbed up through the organs, it picked up all sorts of emotions. By the time it made its way out over the tongue, it had become a pointed iron nail that pierced the eardrum, drilling one hole after another.
People from the county seat had heard Tseten Dolma’s powerful singing on the radio, and they had seen the Red Guards from the provincial capital singing and dancing on the stage of the county’s Revolutionary Committee. But all those voices were passed through the loudspeaker, filtered by the wires and iron box, creating an inexplicable feeling of estrangement. Yuanni’s singing was completely unadorned, and though it was rough, it had a sort of naked intimacy. The people of the county seat had never seen anything of the world. They thought this was the sound of nature.
A crowd gathered outside the courtyard.
“Stop singing. Are you trying to attract the wolves?” Her mother came out of the house and held out a hot towel so Yuanni could clean her face.
Yuanni flicked her mother’s hand away and hobbled to the courtyard gate. “What are you looking at?” She stood on the steps, spitting the words at the crowd. The words smashed a hole in the ground, stirring up a thin plume of dust. In fact, the words had an intended tail, an even more snappy “Fuck off”—it was on the verge of slipping from her tongue, but she bit it off. She knew the song she had just sung should never be allowed to develop a relationship with this phrase. She had witnessed with her own eyes the catastrophe that could be caused by such a careless mistake. Young and ignorant as she might be, she knew there was a limit.
Everyone was taken aback. What startled them was not the words she spoke, but her face.
The residents in the county were undergoing an unprecedented aesthetic crisis at the time. Ancient beauties like Imperial Consort Yang Yuhuan and Empress Zhao Feiyan had been knocked down and trampled in the dust, and later beauties like Ke Xiang and the Flower Girl, popular characters in modern revolutionary dramas, were still in the slow process of being conceived. It was in this unprecedented aesthetic break that Yuanni’s face appeared. Without any furtive glances or whispers, in unison, those gathered outside the door let out an exclamation. Before the long exclamation could pull itself to its full length, it was cut off by the courtyard gate. Yuanni slammed the door with her cane. Those outside the door stood at a loss, digesting the shock and confusion, before finally dispersing in twos and threes.
