Frontier. Can Xue

Er chortled for no reason. Qiming struggled free of him, and even though everything was blurry in front of him, he groped his way into his room, removed his shoes, and got into bed.

      No sooner had he lain down than he had a sudden recollection. It was a rainy night. He’d been sleeping peacefully, but was awakened with a start by the sound of rapping on the wall. Was it a thief? It was really pathetic if someone had to come out and steal during a downpour like this. He gradually became aware of a sliver of light entering the room. What on earth? He sat up to light the kerosene lamp beside the bed. The first match he struck didn’t catch. When he struck a second match, someone grabbed his hand, preventing him from lighting the lamp. Just then, Qiming noticed the sliver of light widening. A wall was moving, and he smelled the weeds and shrubs. Was he in the open country? The person who grabbed his hand spoke, his voice sounding as if it came from a vat. It was unpleasant.

      “I want to create a tropical garden here. What do you think? I tried it, but tropical plants won’t survive here. But we can build a greenhouse in the air. Don’t you see? It’s absolutely unobstructed. It’s ideal for a tropical garden. I’m a southerner, wandering around this place. Can you identify my accent?”

      Actually, aside from the unpleasant buzzing quality, his accent was the same as the local people’s.

      “But my house wasn’t originally built in the unobstructed wilderness,” Qiming protested.

      “So what? Living here, young man, we have to be flexible. Hunh. Can’t you tell what my accent is? I’m from the southernmost place.”

      Qiming wanted to ask him something, but the sliver of light suddenly disappeared. Maybe the wall had come together again. The person disappeared in the dark. The next morning, it was still raining. He forgot all about this incident.

      Now although he wanted to think this incident was a dream, it certainly hadn’t been a dream. It was simply an incident that he’d completely forgotten. When he had talked with that person back then, he’d been absolutely clear-headed—a little as if his body had been in another space. Was that person the Design Institute’s gardener? Qiming thought he hadn’t conversed with the gardener before. The gardener was taciturn and a little arrogant. No doubt that person was one and the same; he had conversed with him. This person did build the tropical garden of his dreams here: Qiming had heard several people talk of his flower garden, but he hadn’t seen it yet. He wondered if the gardener knew Haizai in the past. How were they connected? Why had Haizai said the gardener was also from Fish Village? Also, he hadn’t approached this taciturn guy for years, and now as soon as Haizai arrived and mentioned him, he finally remembered talking with him on a rainy night about the garden—the garden that, even now, he still hadn’t seen. What kind of garden was it? Several people had spoken of it, but they disagreed on where it was. Some said it was on the east side; some said the south. Others said it was inside the Design Institute; still others said it was on a hill in front of the Design Institute. Someone else said the gardener’s tropical garden was halfway up the snow mountain. Later, Qiming saw the gardener again, but the gardener was cold to him, giving no sign that he knew Qiming.

      Another week had passed since he remembered his brief conversation with the gardener. One night, Qiming really did dream of the tropical garden. Many poppies were growing outside the garden, and one huge banyan tree nearly occupied the entire space. It wasn’t like a tree, but more like the devil. He walked around amid the aerial roots—so dense that the wind couldn’t penetrate them—and thought he would never be able to extricate himself. He felt, too, that the aerial roots had turned into countless frosty hands that were grabbing and pinching him.