The Bathing Women. Tie Ning

clutching the bag of dough sticks and my heart as confused as a tangled bunch of twine. I must have been stupid to the extreme, because even after Fang Jing escaped my pestering (if that was what it was) and had boarded the train to return to Beijing, I still hated him and missed him—to hate is to miss. I stayed there and didn’t want to leave because Fang Jing had just sat there, his breath and the warmth of his body lingering. Chen Zai, you arrived again, always showing up at moments like these. But I wasn’t afraid of you anymore, nor did I pretend to be someone I wasn’t, as I had the year I fell at rubber-band rope. We were all grown up and you were like an older brother of mine, not too close but not too distant, either. We lived in the same complex; we would smile and talk a bit when we saw each other. I sensed that you meant me no harm and had never intended to ridicule me. You walked over and sat next to me. You must have been going to Beijing also—I knew you were a graduate student of architecture. You said, “That man who was just talking to you looks very familiar. Isn’t he the big celebrity Fang Jing?” I burst into tears then, burying my face in my hands without caring. Time slowly made me understand, that day in the waiting room, it was exactly because I was with you that I could be so free. Only you, no one else, could allow me to cry in public without restraint. You accidentally witness everything about me, my slyness, my falling, the love carved in my heart, and its loss. You’ve seen all of it. I held on to you as if I had grabbed a lifesaver, spontaneously telling you everything about Fang Jing and me, regardless of whether you wanted to hear or not. We sat in the waiting room for an entire day. You bought bread and water when we were hungry; neither of us touched the bag of dough sticks. You didn’t return home with me until very late. You lied that you were going back to Beijing next morning; you told me only after we walked into the building that you had to take the train back to school that night. Only then did I realize you’d stayed just for me. I didn’t know why I would load all my trouble and sadness on you, about whom I didn’t know much. Time made me understand it was unfair to you, but it seemed fated.

      Why do you always run into me when you’re at your lowest? Why do you run into me when you don’t want to run into anyone? On that windy night, I saw a delicate little girl holding the postbox, sighing, and hitting it, although you didn’t know you were sighing. I hadn’t yet seen your face then, but from your body, from that small dark figure of yours, strangely I felt a deep pain like I’d never felt before. Later you turned your face toward me. It was too dark to make out your expression, but my own pain increased because you seemed so much in pain, although I couldn’t see it in your face. Real pain is expressionless; real pain might well be a little girl holding a postbox under the dim streetlight. I couldn’t help being moved by you, moved in a way that will stay with me all my life, I thought. Yet what felt like a vow might have been a young man’s impulse, a momentary instinctive sympathy for the weak. Back then I wasn’t considered an adult yet, although I was five years older than you were. But I was wrong; my long love started when you were twelve, right from the night when you stood in front of the postbox. How happy I was when I found out you and I lived in the same complex. You wouldn’t know for many years how I’d find excuses to pass your building, Number 6. That summer afternoon, the afternoon you fell when you were jumping, I didn’t pass by your building by accident; I’d circled the building many times on my bike. I didn’t intend to see you fall; I just wanted to see your little face in the daylight. But you fell just as I came around. You raised your head, looking at me with a frown, half of your face smeared with sweat-soaked dirt. I wanted to say I loved your small soiled face. I loved the vain little trick that you played, pretending to be so casual even though you were limping. I loved your back as you hurried, where a little braid came loose. I even remember the song you hummed then: Villages and kampongs, beat the drum and strike the gong, Ah Wa people, sing a new song … with your knee bleeding, you sang “Villages and Kampongs” and went home, not leaving me the slightest chance of saying hello. It’s my own business that I love you. When I was looking at your back, fluttering and dusty, I had a vague feeling that you would make me feel rich and full; you would always be the immovable centre of my heart. But why does it matter? For many years I deliberately avoided telling you how I felt. I was especially surprised when you told me your story in the waiting room so suddenly. Your total trust of me was so unexpected and cruel; it mercilessly pushed me further away. I couldn’t express my love for you when you’d just lost your love; I would look like some rat trying to take advantage. You always controlled the distance between you and me; we could be only so close and no closer. I don’t know how long I have to keep all this bottled up, but I don’t want to stay far from you; I like to see you often, and to do my best to help you when you need it.

      A week after the postbox incident, when Tiao went to check for post and newspapers, she unexpectedly found the letter she had sent out, the one to Yixun at the Reed River Farm. She’d been so eager that she’d forgotten to put on a stamp, and the letter was returned for “unpaid postage.”

      When Tiao, who had been on edge for a week, expecting Yixun to come home any minute and turn the house upside down, who often broke into a cold sweat at a knock on the door, finally got the letter, she almost laughed out loud. Ah, post office, how grateful I am to you! Ah, postbox, how grateful I am to you! she shouted in her heart while she clutched the letter that had strayed for days, as if she were afraid it would fly away. The dark clouds cleared and the sunshine returned. This “lost-and-found letter” gave her a lifelong fondness for the post office and postboxes, which always seemed to have some mystical connection of good luck for her.

      She slipped the letter into her pocket and then opened the door. After handing the newspaper to Wu, she rushed into the bathroom and locked herself in. She sat on the toilet and tore the letter to shreds, until it was turned into snowflake-like bits. She dumped them into the toilet and flushed it again and again. Fortunately, Wu was not paying attention to Tiao’s behaviour.

      Tiao emerged from the bathroom completely at ease. She wanted to forgive her mother. She even thought if Dr. Tang came again, she would try her best not to object.

       Chapter 3

       Where the Mermaid’s Fishing Net Comes From

      1

      Dr. Tang came again, and this time he brought his niece Fei.

      Tiao was immediately drawn to Fei, who was fifteen that year, but to Tiao she already appeared to have the body of a grown woman. Her dark eyebrows, red lips, and deep chestnut curls on her forehead lit up Tiao’s eyes. It was a time when makeup wasn’t allowed, so how were Fei’s lips so brightly coloured and gorgeous? It was also a time when perms were banned, so how did Fei get her curled fringe? How did she dare? The vivid lips and curled fringe made Fei look like a visitor from another planet; those slightly skewed eyes of hers gave her a touch of boldness and decadence. Tiao learned the word “decadence” from political posters. It was a bad word, but for some reason this bad word made her heart race. Even though she didn’t completely understand the meaning of decadence, she was already sure it applied to Fei precisely. Perhaps by associating this word with Fei she unconsciously expressed her own attraction to evil: the female spy, the social butterfly … in the movies she used to watch, those women, constantly surrounded by men, always wore expensive and beautiful clothes, drank good wine, and looked mysterious. That would be decadence, but why were decadent people so pretty? Fei was decadent, and that vague decadence in her excited Tiao. She had never met a female before Fei who thrilled her so much. She felt that somehow she’d already started to worship Fei, this beautiful, decadent girl. Because of this, her loathing for Dr. Tang lessened somewhat.

      Dr. Tang brought two movie tickets, distributed by the hospital, for an Algerian film, Victory over Death. “Let Tiao and Fei go, otherwise who knows how long they’ll have to wait for the school to buy them group tickets,” Wu said very agreeably, seemingly eager to please, which annoyed Tiao a little. Although she liked