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5 Responses to “Post 80s New China Literature”

1. Chung Kwong
   March 26th, 2010 at 10:40 pm

   

   A Sunflower Lost in 1890
   {Translator’s Note: An early work of Zhang Yueran, this is actually a fairy tale made up of a sequence of van Gogh paintings, drawn in words rather than in oil paint., and already reveals the high level of writing skills which will be put into more extensive use in her subsequent, larger scale works.}
   The Chinese original may be found at
   http://book.sina.com.cn/kuihua/2003-11-05/3/22715.shtml
   http://blog.readnovel.com/article/htm/tid_6552.html

   1
   There was fire in the Dutchman’s eyes. Orange pupils. Bursting flames. With my own eyes I saw his pupils swallowing me. I felt my torso vanishing, submerged in his eyes. That’s a waterwell with volcanic temperatures. Apricot coloured well-water filled with suffering, it surrounds me. They say it is called tears. That man’s tears. I watched the teardrops. Intrigued, I put out my hand to touch them. Suddenly sparks flew. Apricot coloured water shot into me, to fight for space with blood. A group of angels passed over me. So quickly they stepped over me. They wanted me to say thank you, in my pain. I tumbled down over there, begging them to tell me that man’s name.
   This was how my youth was set alight

   2
   Do you know? I fell in love with the man with fire in his eyes.
   They say, that burning flame was me, it was my image. When he looked at me he drew me in his eyes. I am happy with my own look. Like the sun in the western sky I watched during so many evenings. It was the home of my spirit. I believe them, for that man was actually an artist. Oh damn; I am in love with that man.
   Once I also loved that hazelnut tree on the front slope, and loved the cloud that made rain on my head in early spring. But it is different this time, for what I love now is a man.
   We didn’t do anything. He just came here during many evenings with glorious setting suns. Right before me with his colour plate and his unseasonable gloom, with me in his eyes. He sat down; us face to face. He started to draw me. That’s when the sun went down, and some birds fought on the hazelnut tree I once loved. Some pale petals left us in the pond water, splashing a little. But neither of us moved; still face to face like before. I felt I was submerged by the swirl in his eyes.
   I glanced at my upside down shadow that I can see from the side of the eye. It made me sad, because it told me I have not yet gone into his eyes. I am in the same place, have not moved an inch. He cannot take me with him. He finished drawing, stood up, the evening breeze with the taste of burning palm floating around us. Yes. Yes. Between us there is the light breeze, the onlooking birds. They said I blushed.
   Then he left, he turned his back on me. Pong. I felt all the lights dimming. Because I no longer looked into his eyes. I no longer see waves of apricot coloured water and the burning light. Light and heat cut into the space between me and him, strangling my line of sight. I saw the mocking light of the moon trying to shine on my shadow, out of proportion. I know she wants to remind me I cannot leave. I know. I am fixed here.
   The man is gone, but I am in the same place, and in love. The friend with me reminds me to lift up my head. He is firm about my staring at the dawning eastern side. Head held high, with sheets of smile. That was my designated appearance. I look around me. This is my home, my fixed home. Fixed like in a lump of amber. Dazzlingly pretty, but completely fixed, sealed in. I suffocate in the tight space. I look aside at my sister and my friends. They do not understand that their shadows look funny, that they cannot jump, or even walk and squat.
   They are only stalks of sunflowers. They have the head and body of a plant, every day worshiping the sun.
   But so am I; just a sunflower.
   But do you know I am in love with a man?
   A sunflower’s love, will it be deformed like her shadow?

   3
   I really want to pull myself out, many times. Though I know my own feet, covered in soil, must be so ugly. But I want to jump, to follow the steps of that man moving away. I wish he had seen me, stopped, us face to face, in the bright heat, with nothing to block our sight. Our line of sight is a straightline rainbow, with happiness making a long ribbon in the uppermost part of red. Then I could tell him, I have feet, take me with you.
   Once there was this story, there was a beautiful fish in the sea; she had a yellow head like me, and a fan-like tail. No feet, just like me. She had the same misfortune to fall in love with a man. So she found a witch, and asked for two feet, which the witch gave her, but took away her voice. She was very upset; she says she wanted to sing for the man. But never mind, now she has feet. She danced many times with the man. But that man’s eyes were already roaming somewhere else. She could not build a rainbow between the two of them. She found feet but not a path strewed with light to walk on. The fish was upset.
   After that?
   I don’t know. I wish I knew, what happened to the fish. That man’s roaming eyes; did they turn back? Could the two feet find the rainbow and run happily afterwards?
   That was a story my sister used to tell me. Just an outline, and cut short. Then she would turn around to flirt with passing butterflies. She often hears this kind of stories from friends who are able to move about. Incomplete, but new and different, she spreads the stories like butterflies pass around pollen, so happily. Yes when she told that story about that fish she was happy; she says the fish must still be feeling sad on the shore.
   But I asked my sister: you know how I can find that witch?

   4
   My home is next to the hillside, where scattered graves lay. And a quaint little house, covered by wine-red ivy. When the wind blows, the house is like a strong beating heart taken out of the chest. I often see that woman in the black dress going inside. Her eyes are dark lined, red veins like lamp filaments covering her pupils, her only adornment.
   That day was a green morning. Dew drops fell on my hair, then down into a shivering oval twirl. They are together. I see their simple life, the togetherness that is often, quietly united. I often see other objects move around and come together. Should I not be made content?
   I raised my head. This time the sun feels very far. The day is always longer than the sermon of the clergyman down the hillside.
   Someone dies. The casket is moved up the hill. I see the chilly flower wreaths. Dead people need offerings of flowers. I want to know, that they could only sleep among the pains of the flowers?
   The flower was cut down. Thin green blood flows out of the limp stem. The human holds the flower in hand; the flower feels pain. She could not lie down like she wishes. Her blood stuck to the person’s fingers, even clearer than the tears flowing out of his empty sockets. I often thought, would I want the same kind of death. Standing, looking, abstractly drained of all blood. The flower’s first trip away from the same place, to witness a death, and to die itself. In someone else’s death all is calm and quiet. The flower as the full stop of a life.
   The flowers, dying standing up, cannot but have to listen to the talk and talk of the black robed man. I turned my head, no longer looking at the dying flower. Then I suddenly saw on the hillside, that woman with eyes adorned with the blood red filaments. She also wore black, but had nothing to do with that funeral. I and she were all in a moment next to each other; I could almost hear her breathing. And a whiff of wind tangled by death, by weeping, tangled with the dead without means of escaping.
   She saw me, and knew I could see her. She’s far from me, but I felt sure she could see I am a different kind of sunflower. My agitation, my worry. A sunflower over a burning flame, wrapped in desire. I see the sufferings of other flowers when they die, but I still cant help wanting to pull myself out of the earth, to leave, to run, to pursue.
   She came towards me; stood before me, her gaze at me full of pity. She said she knew my thoughts. She’s a prescient witch, and she wants to help me. Her voice was also quickly tangled with the wind and permeates the whole of space. I feel the world around me spinning. She says she wants my wish to be granted, and I at once thought about being able to run, running like a human, panting hard like a human, being with him like a woman. I saw this woman’s thin arm stretching towards me, just touching me, saying “you are a pretty sunflower”.
   My eyes were fixed on her finger. The thin wrinkles cut up its wholeness, making it look like a mesh. Holed and soft. The dried out fingers made me to change my earlier estimate of her age. She must have lived many long years, but so focused, forgetting the need to age and to depart.
   She says I can turn you into a person. You will be able to walk, to hop, to follow your loved one.
   Her words float in the creeping breezes, at once shaping into a cloud that I longed to hug. I slowly said, tell me, what you want from me in exchange. I knew everything had a price, but I dont know what I can do for you; I am just a simple sunflower.
   Then I thought of the fish that wanted to leave the ocean. She had a lovely voice. Her voice was taken in the barter, so she had legs. Legs that could ache, but she spun 16 turns on the shiny glass floor, dancing like a swan with bright feathers and a pale face. I do not know how she ended up, but I envy her all the same. She had something to use in exchange. She was in debt to no one. My voice could only be heard by butterflies, insects, and the divine gifted woman before me. A small, negligible voice, not usable for barter.
   Her thin arm stretched to me again, touching me so lightly. She says I want your body; I want the form you have as a pretty sunflower. I was frightened. but I was also in love with a man. I had no choice. So I asked her, how you want to have my body and what for. She says, when the time comes, you will be a sunflower again, and be back here. I will take you to someone’s wake. She points to the direction where the funeral was. She says, that’s all, you will be held in my hand like her, to die.
   So I too will be the terminal punctuation of a person’s life? Lying inside someone’s decorated coffin, falling asleep during the black-dressed man’s chanting prayer? I looked at the dying flower down the slope. She’s already dead. She lay in a corner of the casket, head down. Her blood had turned brown, no longer translucent. The dazzling spring that belonged to her once, had been remembered and sung, so simply and hastily. She could leave in peace.
   Even when I die I do not want to leave my love. I do not want to tie my death to the death of a stranger. I do not want to shed the last drop of blood belonging to me in a corner of that dumb wooden box, as the lid was slowly closed. But that indescribable obsession of mine for the man and the pursuit. It’s like that flower covered cliff of mine. I want to jump, nothing to be afraid of. Because it is a place filled with echoes. I will hear many many sounds that are continuations of my life. I will have my two feet. I will follow him. I had no fear.
   I asked, who will the dead person be.
   She says, a man I love.
   Ah, she says the man she loves. I look at this woman wrapped in black. Her heavy growth of sorrow surpasses any luxuriant plant you might find. I was no longer frightened. She is an anxious woman; I am an anxious sunflower. In this morning we stood together. As she spoke, her eyes had a despair like shattered glass. The glow of a clear morning shone on the shattered glass, a despair that scatters light. I wanted to be close to her, because I thought her rays of despair could warm me. I thought if I could, I would like to stretch out my hand and touch her. We ought to share what we have in common.
   I said fine. I am willing to die and be your funeral offering, but..but.. why do you choose me? You are human; you have movable hands and legs; you are entirely free to pick any flower, one that you like, one that your lover likes, put it on his grave. You dont need to ask for the flower’s agreement.
   She said, I want a willing flower. Let her see people sing to my love at his funeral; let her attentively listen to the clergyman citing his eulogy. Let her, with others, at the moment when my love’s coffin closes, shed tears.
   The breeze and the clouds seem to turn more sentimental. I began to like this woman. Surely her man did not love her either. But she strives, to do something for him, not giving up, even to the day of his death.
   I said fine, I will be the willing sunflower at your lover’s funeral, sing and pray for him. But do tell me, for how long will I enjoy my two legs.
   The mournful woman says, not sure. You will live till my lover dies. He can die any time, then you stop being a girl. Turn back into a sunflower. I will break your stem, and take you to his funeral. That’s that.
   She was talking as if my fate was already in the past. She was making arrangements for my death. Her offer to me was a poor bargain. But I observed this woman with her unsurpassed anxiety: she was consumed by her love. In the end I will excuse her excessive demand. I can think of nothing more satisfying than agreeing to her plans. I get to grow a pair of legs, and could follow that dutchman. In the burning flames of his eyes I will diffuse into a whiff of light fume, circling in his company. After I die I will be a sunflower with incomparable sympathy, giving comfort to strangers in a grand requiem. Both I and this woman, with the same affliction as mine, will both enjoy solace and happiness. Isnt this a good thing.
   So be it; I exchange my life to have the appearance of a woman. I said fine. I did not even enquire what type of woman I will be. Fat? Aging?
   That moment on her drizzle-season damp face I saw the shadow of spring.
   She said, then you will be going to see your beau, yes?
   I said, not to see, just to follow. The witch said to me: I will send you to his side. But to him you are only a stranger; you understand?
   I said no. He drew me every day. His only had eyes for me. I am rooted to his retina. Even after I turn human, he would remember me.
   The witched gazed at me. I knew she was pitying me. I was ridiculous, so sure of myself.
   It was completely dark then. Our conversation was to end. She came closer again, her smell was dark like her clothes. I was intrigued by the smell of darkness. In my own world, why would there be the colour black at all. I am used to bright yellow, the smell that was reborn and crosses the sky every morning, the smell of explosiveness. I consider yellow to be a macho smell, with a kind of shallow hostility and contempt. The smell of red is what I often drop into in the evenings. Every sunflower loves the sun, but the part I love was the evening one. I look on that red head twined in white, fibrous hair. She is so different from the others. Suspending herself on the western horizon, making a scarlet scene.
   Of course, the red could flame my unnamed want, mainly because of that dutchman.
   I am in love with that dutchman, as you already know. He’s a redhead, having the red and bright fragrance. Some hard-to-see freckles marked his face, like cornflower seeds I once saw, but having the exuberant spirit of ladybugs. His eyes are lit with fire, refracting an enveloping and corrosive light of ruby. I know that would be softer and warmer than soil.
   This ruby red will make me really bloom like a plant in spring.
   This woman here is black. I have no words of praise for her because I do not know the colour black. The colour black charges at me with taste of the unripened. I have no words of praise for her and her black colour, but I like them.
   Her colour black is like a fine coffin. No one wants to be near it, but who could reject it? People curse and flee, but cant help keeping it nearby; it waits in a dark corner.
   Then the woman says, you are really a pretty sunflower.
   She says, you know another name for sunflowers? heliolotus; such a nice name.
   I said, I only only want to know, that guy’s name.

   5
   The man’s name is Vincent. I could not read, but later I saw he sign his name at the side of his picture. I saw he drew me. The shape of the lovely sunflower I once was. I saw the name he signed nudging next to my picture. “Vincent” is together with me. I see that my stems and leaves were almost touching those nice letters. I wanted to touch them. My Vincent. My van Gogh.
   It was a clear morning when I turned into a woman. Everyone was asleep. No one was having a nightmare. All quiet. I was pulled out by the root. The witch held my neck. Her fingers were like the icicles that I used to fear in winter.
   I said it did not hurt. I was in love with a man. That man’s eyes had fire. He was going to give me warmth. I dared not look down. My feet must be so ugly. They had bones like reptiles’.
   I was worried that I had to take them running. I was worried I would fall, and lose sight of my Vincent. A crowd of angels stepped over me, but no one told me his whereabouts.
   I was cold. The morning was too young to see the sun. My family was sleeping so I must not cry out loud.
   The soil on my feet fell off bit by bit. It was the castle in which I used to live. But it was not warm like that man’s heart. Now I am leaving the soil. I go to live in his heart.
   All those who love me, why do you need to weep? I am only changing my place of residence.

   6
   I came to St Remy. Shining sunlight and flowing river allowed me to see my new shape. The balanced shape of a woman. I went uphill along the path. There are many trees, few people. I see on the slope, outside the main door, some sick people. They were looking out to the distance, in their old and new ill-health.
   I walked slowly. I was not used to my two feet. They were so unfamiliar. Like two frightened hares, starting and stopping while hugging the ground. But they are so white. I now have white, not muddy, feet. I was feeling tense. Passing through the main door, I see people around. I wanted to ask them, am I a goodlooking girl? I have seen few women. I do not know which way of combing hair is supposed to be fashionable. Before I went there, the witch in the black dress combed my hair, tidied my clothes. She said she had no socks, sorry.
   Mirrors are objects similar to eyes and pond water, right?
   I wanted to ask them, am I a pretty girl? Because once I was a pretty sunflower. I was once on Vincent’s canvas, a pretty streak of orange mist. That’s how Vincent likes it.
   I wore a dress. White. The colour of the dandelions on the slope. Just a touch of blue. Look at it too long you feel cold. Maybe I have been looking at the sun too long. My white dress has no lace trims. But the collar and the skirt fold were just right. It was the dress of a nurse. I wear a funny little hat now, white and pointy, like a lotus bud. But but, may I have her good look as well. The upper part of my skirt is covered in little wrinkles, because I have been sitting in a carriage for too long. St Remy is an out of way place. Solitude under cloud cover. The anxious looks of the inmates burnt out the grass on the field.
   In the form of a woman, in the form of a white uniformed nurse, I went through the main door.
   This guy; the man with fire in his eyes. Still flaming, growling. This redhead man with freckles, in the dress of a hospital patient, right in front of me. This man’s hand is not holding a paintbrush; raised, like a stunted branch, dried out, down this thick cloud sealed slope; would he never paint again?
   The man looks like when he put away his brush for the last time, with his hesitant fearlessness, with his sun-cannot-dry-out depression. But he was no longer whole. He was damaged. I saw his side. I saw his forehead, the freckled cheeks, but his ear was partly missing. I saw a hastily healed wound, trying desperately to hide in his sardonyx coloured hair, only managing to tie itself in ugly twists. The maroon scar displays itself in desperation under the sun. I was once so close to that ear. He was turned sideways, next to me, the colour on his brush same as me, with some of my petals and pollen stuck on. I so much wanted to speak into that ear of his. I so wished that it could hear; that he could hear. I so much wished he could hear me say, take me with you. I have been have been standing here too long. I want to follow you, facing you rather than the sun. Even now I still see clearly the outline of that ear, but it could no longer hear my voice.
   I was placed very near to him, with a woman’s body I got in an exchange, calling his name. I called him softly, trying to give comfort to that wounded ear at the same time.
   He turned his head. He is so agitated. He saw a completely unfamiliar woman. That woman’s voice calling him was close to entreating. That woman was in a white dress, wearing a hat. It is all as usual.
   In the softest possible voice I said, Vincent, time to take your medicine.

   7
   It is St Remy. The hyperventilating slope tightly sealed under cloud cover, hospital, door, inmates, lockup, new nurse and Vincent.
   There were many nights when I could be on the night shift in the room next to Vincent’s. At night, the sky of St Remy is unusually high. The hospital start to feel disturbed. I know how turbulent the bloodflow of the patients are. Their injuries and pains tell them not to stop, the agitation and damage that would not cease. Outside the main door are the well built guards. They are hot tempered and violent, tending to show their bravery by overcoming resistance. I hear their struggles with the patients during the night. I hear the sound of falling. Blood, tears, sense. It is a fighting ground.
   I am a little woman. They would not call to go outside. I stood in a corner shivering a little. I fear my guy would be among them.
   I could always go to his room. He would be sitting there, hand raised in mid air. A half written letter on the table. He is quite, but looks tense.
   I said the nights of St Remy are cold. I sat next to him. He was wearing an oversize linen shirt. I could see the breeze blowing into it, hiding in his bosom. His fingers are still raised. He should straighten his collar. Do something do something Vincent.
   I miss so much his look when he drew, the pleasant smell of the paints dispersing above the hillside of my home, dropping on my slightly raised forehead. Then I would get feverish, keep getting feverish, even now. Now I am a woman who stands before him having a fever because of him.
   How did his agile fingers dry out in the warm humid air?
   Draw something draw something Vincent.
   The man did not look at me. He really does not recognize me. He thinks he has not seen me before, thinks he has not put me in his mind. It was because of his injury. Idle minded after his injury. Too idle minded to remember a sunflower. He lived inside his frozen body, exercising its simple option to live.
   I wanted him to draw. I went to get his brush. Before I went back, tears came at last. I want to thank that witch. She made my body whole, even including the ability to have me cry. Tears are beautiful things, like those that fell from the sky. I miss my hillside, my home on the slope, and the time when I wanted above everything else to follow this man.
   I returned to his room. I put the brush into his hand. He held it, but did not move further. My finger touched his finger. For a long time, my finger was left in the same position, together with the hand that had no life. I sat down, quiet like when I was a sunflower. I watched my finger; it was the only thing that kept the nice posture I once had.

   8
   Kay.
   Who is Kay.
   Kay is the woman with the trace of serious smile who constantly remained in his sorrow.
   In his memory, Kay was always sitting a little higher than he, in a black dress. Kay shakes her head and said no. Kay always shaking head. She says, no no.
   When I saw Kay’s photo I thought of the moon. Sunflowers dont usually like moonlight much. The sun and dense solid light, that’s what sunflowers admire. But this does not stop moonlight from being a beautiful sight all the same.
   Kay is still a charming woman, with an empty smile like moonlight, a reflected illusion that no one would have the heart to give the lie to.
   She kept saying no to Vincent. She turned and left. She did not hear the spilled out emotions of the man she left behind.
   A prostitute. Vincent was talking to her. Vincent looked over this easy to understand prostitute, with her pregnant anxiety. He thought her genuine. She was not a reflection like the moonlight; neither sentimental nor romantic, but real. He saw that the sunflowers on the slope wilted or went away. He saw the back of Kay. Saw the thick fog that covered the whole of his world. In the end he felt there was nothing higher than being real. He put his little flame of passion into her palm.
   But that palm could not be closed. Helplessly the passion slipped to the ground. Vincent was stunned.
   Another painter. Overflowing with talent. He came to Vincent’s little apartment. He was full of light. His brilliance allowed Vincent to see his own little apartment all aglow, but he could no longer open his own eyes. He was captivated by the brilliance, could not move, no longer free.
   He wanted to work, eat, sleep, in the same place as this great man. He wanted to have that person’s rhythm to regulate his own pace. Because he loved that artist’s brilliant life. He wanted to hold on to this artist passing through his life. He even repainted their apartment. Yellow. Like I used to be. But the brilliant person was constantly provocative. The bright guy laughed at his life, and showed contempt for his art.
   Argument. Fury. Storm. Two men in a fight linked to their arts. How did the brilliant great man lose his benevolently lifted corners of his lips? Murderous weapons, pointing where? hurting who? The brilliant man escapes. The little yellow room dims again. Blood flew. Vincent holding a little piece from his body. They had been torn apart. He was angry, so that part of his body left him.
   He was a road junction. Many stepped over him, and he himself goes in separate directions, no longer a whole.

   9
   I was too late dear Vincent. Before I came so much had already happened. I now stand before you, but you cannot identify me. You cannot put anything into my hands.
   I did everything possible to come before you, to follow you. My dear, I am a breeze that does not die down.
   Recover, then I and you can leave St Remy.
   Yes I want to take you away. We two can go to that hillside, all right? We dont want to hear any crying. I wont cry again, all right? We can see other sunflowers. I like the hazelnut tree. We can build a home next to it. Leaves falling now? Piling up thick. Piling is good. Vincent, go home with me.
   I decided to sneak the guy away. Lift up the breath-choking cloud cover. Let’s leave St. Remy.
   I think this is the night. I take him away. He likes me. I always use the gentlest voice telling him to take medicine. He would come with me.
   This afternoon I am in good mood. I learnt knitting by copying other women. I knit a red sweater for Vincent. Red like maple leaves. Very soft. In the afternoon I was in the hospital hallway knitting the last few stitches. I was humming a tune I just learnt, in a mellow voice; I was more and more like a woman. I felt good. After a little while I went in to see Vincent. He was painting. In good spirits. Smiling too. Reading letters from his brother.
   A small boy came by holding his storybook. He was a patient. Pale, good looking patient. I was fond of him, often wondering whether I too could have a child one day. I wanted a little boy like him, handsome. But I would not let him be sick. The boy passed next to me. I have often seen him but never talked to him. Tonight I am leaving so maybe would never see him again. So I talked to him.
   He had long eyelashes, and freckles. The more I looked at him, the better looking he seemed.
   I asked what he was doing.
   He said he came out to read a storybook.
   What book. I was curious. That book with the sky-blue cover, he obviously likes very much, holding on tight.
   He thought a bit, then gave the book to me to see.
   I giggled, a bit embarrassed. I said, I cannot read; could you read it to me.
   He said sure. He was an outgoing little boy, different from the clammed up kind of men I liked.
   He sat down, sitting on the bench where I was knitting, side by side.
   He read me a swan story, then one about solider in heavy tipped boots going to town. Very nice; we two kept laughing.
   Then..then.. he said he will read a story he liked most; then he became sad.
   The story started. It was actually the story of that fish. That fish determined to move to the ground, getting legs but losing voice. The story was the same as how my sister told me, but I never heard the ending before. Was that fish with aching feet all right on land? So as I heard him speak I became more and more tensed up, more and more shivery. I was in my mind quietly praying for that fish.
   But the boy said in a touched voice, later, that mermaid was so unhappy; her lover forgot her. She could not be with him. She returned to the shore. It was morning. She saw the first ray of daylight. She jumped down; turned into a bubble; reflected many rays of sunlight; slowly sank into the deep sea.
   After a long while, I finally knew the final fate of that fish.
   I was silent. The boy looked up and asked: sister; only a story; why did you cry?

   10
   Such an evening. The odd patients of St Remy’s asylum were walking about. Now and then there were still arguments and fights. Some relatives and partners come to visit. Cries; sighs.
   I and the boy were sitting on a long bench in the hallway with twilight and smell of camilia, he read the story to me from begin to end. I thought of the promise I gave the witch. I thought of the fish falling into ocean. I should be happy I at last knew the ending of the story. I knew, as if I saw. I saw her jumping into the ocean. She can sing again.
   I knew, so I should understand. In anything it cannot be everything. Love was once the iron hook cutting into the throat of the fish, so the fish lost her speech, and could not even voice complaints. When she was released from love, she was weary from her struggles. She had no need to complain.
   Love was what pulled me up by the roots. I had no root, no need to belong. Now love was about to release me.
   The boy asked me not to cry. He went to his dinner. He says his dad would that night bring his favorite salmon, and that night he would bring me some. My dad, he was still on that hillside. When the autumn wind comes, he would surely shiver.
   The boy left. Just like I felt would be, suddenly, the witch came. She stood in front of me. She had not changed at all. Her lamp filament eyes were bright.
   She says her lover is dying. She did not say more. We had an understanding. She was sure I remember my promise. I will return with her. Like that fish returning to the ocean.
   I said, let me say goodbye to my lover.
   She followed me into Vincent’s room.
   Vincent lay on his couch asleep. On the canvas was a newly painted woman. Kay? Whore? Me? Who knows – we are all in the past.
   I covered him with the newly knit sweater. Red. Is it warmer now my lover?
   The witched was staring at the man. She looked over him closely.
   Is it because she finds the guy before her weird? Sure. He lost half his ear, the look on his face was confused, even in his peaceful sleep.
   The witch had tears as she left.
   Farewell Vincent.

   11
   The witch and I walked side by side on the hillside of St Remy. I see the asylum over increasing distance. Lover and noise both no more.
   I and the witch, two women, finally walking and talking side by side.
   I asked, your lover already dead?
   She said, I expect he is about to die.
   I asked, cant you keep him longer.
   She said, my keeping him is my going to his funeral.
   Oh yes; sometimes what we need is to keep at the moment death, not to keep for real.
   I came again to my hillside. Autumn. Weed and the year’s wilting flowers filled my sight.
   My home still there? My family still humming in the breeze?
   I lacked the courage to go near them.
   I meandered around the hillside. I saw a butterfly who was once friends with my sister. He was turning and humming around some other flower.
   My sister. How is she.
   On the morrow, the witch washed her face clean, changed into a different black dress. She said, today is it. Her loved man died. Today will be the funeral. She says, you will go.
   I said, fine. We leave. I will sing the requiem at the top of my voice.
   The witch asked me to close my eyes.
   Her craft was the mildest hurricane. In a moment I was again a sunflower. She grasped me in her palm; she says, you are still a pretty sunflower.
   I felt my body losing water, and it was not as painful as I imagined. I smiled and said thanks.
   Her palm was warm. I tried hard to support my heavy head with the body, to go to the funeral with her.
   The funeral was different from what I expected. Just some scattered people. Muffled weeping.
   The witch walked straight to the casket. She knew nobody, but she looked like the host. The people at the sides move aside to give her an open path. She was a solemn woman. She was tightly grasping a fully bloomed sunflower. I am a solemn sunflower.
   The casket was rough. I saw grubs boring holes, the cutting sound of teeth disturbing the rest of the person about to depart.
   Finally I was next to the coffin. I could see the face of the dead person.
   That, that was a most familiar face.
   I could no longer say there is fire in the man’s eyes. His eyes are closed forever. Freckles, red hair. torn ear. My Vincent.
   The witch whispered into my ear: this man, he was also my great love.
   I was surprised, but pleased.
   I see my Vincent again; he was wearing new clothes, not wearing the new sweater I knit for him. He must be cold.
   But I am happy. I will leave with you. I was your favorite flower. I turned into a woman to see you in St Remy. I knit you a maple-leave-red sweater. All these you do not know, but not to mind. I was a sunflower that you loved. From now I will be with you. We together in this lousy wooden box; we together sink into the ground. It’s wonderful.
   Our home will always be the hillside
   Our coffin is about to be laid into the ground.
   I strained my head up to see the sun one more time. I also saw many people.
   Many people came to see you off, dear Vincent. I see Kay with her kids. I saw the whore who once hurt you. They were shedding tears for you. And that brilliant painter. He came to be reconciled to you.
   And also this witch. She was standing far away, our eyes meeting. We were smiling at each other. She spoke to me in the voice that only I could hear:
   Isnt that the pursuit you wanted?
   I smile; I said, yes thank you
   She also says to me, yes thank you.

2. Chung Kwong
   March 26th, 2010 at 10:41 pm

   

   The Salvation of the Peach Blossom
   {Translator’s Note: Here is another recurring theme in Zhang Yueran’s stories, about a girl’s first sexual experience, an issue of considerable moral, even business, significance in Chinese culture. The story displays a mixture of cynicism and naivety which might be curious to a westerner, but is common among young Chinese women.}
   The chinese original may be found at

   http://book.sina.com.cn/kuihua/2003-11-05/3/22708.shtml

   1
   Peach blossom petals are falling into my eyes. One piece, two, many. Pale pink; deep pink; redish. But..but..I still cannot turn complacent like the hare.
   2
   Every day before going to sleep, I would always play the music of Tori Amos.
   The time is about 5 past 11. I would have just brushed my teeth and untied my hair before the mirror. Turning off lights. She must be ridden with illness, constantly having spasms; I feel a satisfaction from her pain.

   What I see is her appearance as a girl. Girl, not woman. She was wearing her cutsie dress, having on her newly bought warm hat. She had just become known. Being acknowledged by classy people. She was sitting at the piano, cheers and piano music merging together. She was happily laughing. She had just taken many sets of photos. She likes her own new set up. Like a new buck rushing forward. She was wearing a loose sweater of a fresh apple green colour. Her brows were lemon coloured, like all her posters; a marketable girl.
   。
   She likes this kind of rushing joy. She, sitting next to her piano, driving forward to before everyone’s eyes like an express train, and everyone says, we love you.
   She is now in the street. She was going from one place to another, hurrying. Hurrying in the deep night, she was thinking of her good fortune, along the way humming the songs in her new album.

   What does she know that lust rising from sewers was flooding the eyes of the man behind her. How could she know. She was in front, and happiness was right before her. She was looking at it, not seeing anything else.
   The man charged to the front of her. Happiness was blocked off. She saw the man’s raging lust right before her. She could not see anything else.

   I do not remember which year’s event this was for Tori Amos. If I remember correctly, it must have been a year of misfortune.
   I like most her album titled Boys for Pele. The covers were the two scariest pictures I have seen. She was lounging in a wooden chair, in a old grey boiler suit, the whole leg stretched out from the blue jean skirt, a hunting rifle across her side. Her hand was most lovingly lifting the rifle, as if cradling a joyful guitar. She was covered from the knee to the ankle in mud, icy cold in colour. Under her foot was a coiled python. Her hair was rust red like the gun stock; her smile was peaceful.

   She was laughing, or may have just finished telling a story about violence. She looked content.
   In the other photo, she was sitting beside a window, warm light rinsing her relaxed face. Her patina coloured coat was open, revealing part of the breast. She was nursing a piglet. The pink piglet had its eyes tightly closed, snout adhering to her breast. Her face was full of maternal loving.

   But after all it was a pig. This is why the picture was so shocking. She was speaking soft words to the pig; they were smugly loving to each other in the morning light.
   Tori Amos, in a street silting with male lust. She sees lust suddenly streaming out on this deserted night like pedestrians during the day. But they do not love her; they have come to destroy her.

   The man stands before her, saying heavily: I am your admirer; I like your songs.
   Hehheh.
   Her refined music was liked by this scum. Then her person; now it’s her body.
   After talking, the man closed in on her.
   Black body; black night; covering this just grown girl.
   I do not remember which year it was, Tori Amos being raped in a dark street by her fan. A black, who said heavily, I love you.
   I love this woman who nursed a pig. For under her calm surface hid turbulent fears. I would even guess her idea of sex is twisted, filled with the same kind of fear. She began to look arrogant. Elevated very high, she likes her own chaste image. She wanted to find ways to cleanse herself. She is with animals and music and nature, everything other than men, hoping to keep herself clean.

   I have the same desire as this woman. The desire to be clean. That’s why I love her.
   And she looks like one of my friends. More and more alike.
   3
   I am a virgin.
   I emphasize this not to show off my virtue, nor to regret my inexperience. I just happen to think of this often. Sometimes I wanted to add another word: I am still a virgin.
   I eventually remembered I was the one who fear sex, not Tori Amos. It was my subconscious hope that this woman, whom I respect, shares the same problem.
   I imagine her running in the street and being drowned by lust. I think of her butterfly-like mouth no longer screaming in the end. Her hair glamorously covering her shamed face. She hoped that was a field of reborn mountain flowers. She was a new born field; on this field nothing happened before.
   I have always lived in a large city. I often see sex; saw; heard. But I do not want to talk about it, to touch it.
   I accept smoking; I accept drinking. The only thing I resist is sex.
   TV at night. I see the white bed.
   I see Tony Leung’s shoulders, and his back.
   I see the bright eyes of the girl at night, like cats’ eyes.
   Duras’s Lover is like the tolling bell of virginity.

   After watching halfway, I could no longer stand it; I stood up to run off.
   I was watching it with Guoguo. We often watched VCDs together shoulder to shoulder. Our hands touched, now and then making comments that constantly lack relevance.
   This time I said to her in disgust, this girl is so cheap.
   She looked at my messy long hair, tempetuous, almost on fire.
   She said, what’s wrong with you. You are not normal.
   I kept making a cold laugh. hor..hor..hor..hor
   She said, you are ill again.
   I said. Guoguo, it’s just I found you are like this girl.
   She stopped for a moment. She knew very well. Knew long before. She went on, it was such a long time ago; why you still cant forgive me?
   What is forgiveness? Is it the chocolates we often shared? Or the bouquet I will one day receive from your hand at your wedding?
   She started to apologize: I am sorry; sorry; it was wrong of me. But I did not get anything from it.

   I said, what did you hope to get from it? Wasnt it what you wanted most, to let yourself sink to the lowest?
   Guoguo started to weep. But this time, the only time, I did not weep with her. I did not even give her comfort. I turned off the TV. The bed in the dark room, the girl’s rubber soft but bouncy body, the back of the man, all vanished on the TV.
   Guoguo said, Xiaoran, could we still be friends? It is too hard on me; I cant stand it. It’s been a long time. You never never willing to let me off.
   Guoguo, it is not that I wont let you off; I wanted too much to let you off, to let you go. Let you leave with the decaying time, with the water flows. Go, and quietly. Show yourself to be while like snow, and melt before me like snow.
   She went out of my home. This time I cannot predict the time she would come next. She knows, I cannot develop into any kind of friend. I have been living on the oxygen she breathed out, maybe not fresh, but dependable.
   She was like a rainbow, damply hung in a high corner of my heart, emitting light. Sometimes an impression made too deep and clear looks like a wound, dribbling colourful blood, tricking me with confusing shade of colour, getting me to forget the pain for the moment.
   3
   I now have a boyfriend called Zhushi. I have a lover but I am not sure whether I love him.
   I am really a confused person; my fear of sex has been transferred to love.
   I and my lover cannot love.
   My boyfriend is a ungrown child. He is a little younger than I, still fond of fisherman hats and doll faced icicles. He still liked drawing and poem writing. He still thought the world is filled with brightness. The worst part is he thought all the time I am a child. A clean child, like his poetry.
   He is a polite kid. Had no bad history of making me cry, never been in a fight. Quiet like the koala bears on the verge of extinction.
   Most importantly, he never mentioned sex. We only kissed, with his eyelashes blinking; I felt like I was kissing an angel.
   To a ill child like me, this is precious. He did not give me any pain.
   I like him, maybe just because he is a child. This child in a state of ignorance, he would not come to watch The lover with me; would not talk about last night’s romantic dream still being enjoyed today.

   We played Tori Amos’s songs on our CD machine. A woman we both like. But the boy would not know what I thought in my mind.
   He could not see Tori Amos running in the long street of the night, running till my heart runs with her. Her shoes are wet, tears fading the girl’s bright cloths. She is now a woman. She grew up in the street. She no longer enjoyed bright colours nor liked men.
   I was running with my idol. I and she saying together we want to be cleaner; cleaner.
   All this my lover would not know. He thought I was just quietly sitting next to him listening to the songs.

   But this is just temporary quietness. When he grows up, he would know, he would be driven by his peach coloured dreams, by his rampant lust. He would be like my last boyfriend, saying to me with implications: it must be beautiful to have sex.
   Too bad. We will for sure not be able to quietly sit together
   Though I think I love him, I would still say like I said to the last boyfriend, get out.
   This is why I live in fear. His growing up is a threat to me.

   He is not a pet I keep, but I would still be like treating a pet, cut off love before he grows up, abandon him.
   Sorry my love, my Zhushi. I think I wont get into marriage for my whole life, and of course cannot have children. I will hold my belief in cleanliness as I age. My illness will stand out more obviously as my age increases. I will become eccentric and standoffish. When I am quite old, I will return to live in my parents’ home out of loneliness. The will look upon me with puzzled and anxious eyes. They will accommodate me, but they will not love me like they loved me at a young age.
   I will age fast.
   I am still a virgin.
   I am still a virgin.
   I am still a virgin.
   That will be my future. I cannot even get back my friend Guoguo. We had a big quarrel. It was inevitable. Our quarrel had its causes, our quarrel had its reasons. Our quarrel ended in the evaporation of her, this brightly coloured rainbow, in my heart. Since then rainy days were continuous, the sky never clear, and rainbows had nowhere to hang up after rain.

   The bible says real love is even after this person hurt you or harmed you, you still love.
   But the bible did not specify the manner of love. I admit I still love Guoguo, but this does not prevent me from hurting her at the same time as loving her. Nasty behaviour, like what she did.

   5
   I once had an ignorant but immaculate sexual fantasy.
   I and Guoguo had a pledge, brightly coloured like peach blossoms. We wanted to welcome our first time on the same day at the same time.
   Done together, the pain would be less, right?
   We met at age 12, and were friends for six years. We were like a two headed flower. Same crest, same leaves and stem. We should of course change together, grow together.

   We were in neighbouring rooms, with clean beds, and boys being loved.
   We wanted many many petals of blooming roses; we wanted the light of many many glass lamps; we wanted light music; we wanted pink fluffy pyjamas.
   And..and..we want a small piece of white cotton cloth. Stubbornly, even conservatively, we wanted to save those trickles of blood. They will adhere to the white cotton cloth, they will serenade our change, or call it singing to its glory. They will leave their unique signatures on the cotton cloth, a signature like an unchangeable flower.
   The blazing peach blossoms grown out of love.
   The boy I had sexual fantasies about, it was not Zhushi.
   He and I had always always been courteous classmates. Always always, we got along peacefully and appreciated each other. But I felt we were not far apart. If we took just one more step, we would have been together. He was the only boy I ever wanted to marry
   His teeth and hair were good enough for doing advertisements, his complexion pink like a loved dough boy kept in my pencilbox from my childhood.
   I pointed him out to Guoguo.
   Guoguo said, but he is only so so. I said Guoguo you must accept him, because I, whom you loved most, want to marry him.
   Little me, wearing an unstained white school uniform dress, standing not far from him, making an exaggerated gesture, loudly calling out his name. I could see him clearly. I could even see his thick hair, like his passion, rampantly growing under the sun.
   Did this thing actually happen, I always wondered.
   6
   I and Zhushi went to the countryside. We picked fresh heads of wheat, to take back and dye into different colours. They would look nicer than flowers.
   Zhushi wore a boiler suit, and a wide rimmed cowboy hat.
   This is my present time; this is my lover.
   I absent mindedly watched him picking heads of wheat some distance away. Maybe he was quite near me; I am not sure; I could not see clearly. But I could feel his thick hair also rampantly growing under the sun. Very nice hair, lighting up, heating up like a lamp. Is Zhushi a lamp? He is lit up, and warm, isnt he. I wanted to call out his name.
   But I feared I would call out another name.
   7
   That was Guoguo; my dearest little friend, who looks like Tori Amos.
   Also like Tori Amos, she is a seductive, eyecatching girl.
   She is half a year younger than I; my treasured kid sister.
   She drank more, smoked more than I. Her smile was more worldly than mine. She was maturing quickly. She was beautiful.
   She was a siren rainbow. Even more curvy than a rainbow.
   Guoguo; I do not know which way you are going; would you keep developing so arrogantly?
   My serious illness started on her 18th birthday. Her age 18th birthday had to be different. As usual I went around the whole city finding the most beautiful card. Got a face-sized sunflower. As usual I kissed her, and kissed her again. I said, congratulations. Guoguo; I congratulate your becoming an adult.
   Guoguo looked at me and wept.
   I was very surprised; wiping away her tears I said, is growing up making you so upset?
   She said, look Xiaoran, am 18, I am grown up. So today I have something to confess to you. I did something wrong.
   Her expression was subdued, but I knew there was something serious.
   She said, I am sorry.
   I said, all right just tell me; you are my little sister; whatever wrong you have done, I will always love you.
   She smiled to show her thankfulness. A severe smile, cold like the Siberian cold front that had just reached the city the evening before.
   I had sex with someone. She said this. Paused a little and started to weep again.
   It was worse than I expected. I did not know whether I was mournful, surprised or upset. I thought of my treasured sister before me; we made a brightly colourful agreement, like peach blossoms.
   Peach blossoms can be torn apart; an agreement should not be broken.
   Peach petals are falling into my eyes; one petal, two, many.
   At last I asked, when?
   Two years ago, she said.
   Two years; quite a long time. I should have discovered her rapid growth during those two years, while I was still an ignorant child. But I suddenly looked at her pitifully. I asked quietly: did not hurt a lot?
   A lot, she said. Very very painful. More painful than you imagined, she said.
   I had a shiver. I asked, then, who was it?
   She was stuck for words right now. I could hear her body grinding away like a machine.
   I could feel her internals trying to crush and erase that name.
   The name will be a stiff, sharp weapon.
   The name she said was that boy I loved. I recalled it many times, two words with a particularly charming sound.
   The name was a sturdy weapon. It cut the rainbow, and tore all the peach blossoms.
   I said, not bad. You are my little sister. You could take my place in many ways.
   She shook her head. She said, sister, I was wrong. You said he was so nice, and I wanted to get closer to him to see if he was actually the way you liked it. I was curious, not malicious. But I was already punished. I suffered a lot of pain. It was like a plan. He took me to a rundown old hotel, even had instant contraceptive ready for me.
   Guoguo’s little lips, transparent like cherries, were still continuing to move. She kept talking and talking.
   And, and, there was no clean white cotton cloth. There was nothing. There was no solemnness. Only pain and dirty sheets. He disgusted me. You know how much I wanted the white cotton cloth; it would make me forget pain; make me feel it is worthy. Make me feel peace.
   I was crying at the same time. My prince was dragged down his white horse. His glory was no more.
   No white cotton cloth, no blossom of twisted love results.
   Pain pain pain pain…
   From that moment my fear of sex started.

   I ought to pity my little sister. I would like to pour all my hate on that boy with healthy teeth and hair, with all the nice things; but it does not work.
   I divided my love on the boy and Guoguo. So my hate must also be divided.
   I hugged Guoguo, for the moment. But the rainbow has turned into rain, into nothing.
   Guoguo, I still love you, but even the bible did not delimit how I can love you. I can hurt you on the one hand and love you on the other.
   I and Guoguo kept quarrelling. Up to the time we watched The lover, we were heading towards separation.

   8
   I got to know Zhushi during a trip. It was the spring of my age 18, the first time I travelled alone.
   Mom sent me to the airport. We met Zhushi. He went to the same high school as I, junior to me. We only vaguely knew each other’s names. Mom entrusted me to him, asking him to look after the totally ignorant me.
   As it began to get dark, we were chatting in the airport waiting lounge.
   I said I am older than you; I dont need you to look after me.
   He smiled and nodded. He did not believe me. Indeed I looked as if I needed looking after; always did.

   From southern city to northern city. Snowing started. When we parted he owed me a cassette containing his speech. As things went, he came to give me the cassette; then one thing and another, we always promised to bring the other side something, we always owed the other side something, unsettled debts.
   After Zhushi came into my life, I knew I might enjoy a temporary salvation. But I was deeply sucked into darkness and Tori Amos. And into my fear of sex. He was only a kid. When he discovers my illness, he would leave me. Or I would find him grown up, I would become furious. I will leave him.
   But he is different from all my boyfriends. He is a pure boy. When I was with him I could often the sound of angels flapping their wings. A xiaxiaxia sound.

   He regularly went to a western restaurant with large picture windows and a lawn. Later I found out, it was because the place had his favorite reading club. In the large glass paneled cupboards, there are many kinds of rare English books. He is a member; they exchange books.
   His home has a semi circular balcony. On his window curtains he pins different coloured buttons.
   He is a christian but not a proselytizer; he always says, I only hope my efforts are seen by God.
   In his mail box there are always tickets to picture exhibitions and stage plays.

   He never quarrels with others. When asked to comment on someone he dislikes, he would say dont know well. He went to see Guoguo alone, but only to ask, when I have minestrone soup, would I object to carrots; when I eat pizza, would I object to onions. And all the things I like to have, he would remember one by one.
   When we were late getting back after a date, he would phone my mother after getting home. He would apologize, sorry autie; it was my fault that Xiaoran came home late. Please dont be upset with her. He even turned his mother and my mother into friends. They have long talks over the topic of us, full of interest.
   We are well matched. If only time turns back to before Guoguo was 18, when I was still a healthy child.

   9
   Finally, in a summer afternoon after Zhushi’s high school graduation, my Zhushi grew up.
   We were sitting together. He said look Xiaoran, I graduated. I think I am capable of promising I will marry you.
   My face quickly turned colour. I was afraid he would continue, to say what I fear to hear. This is the Zhushi I love. I cannot say to him, get out.

   Zhushi; you dont know that I can hear nothing. In my mind, Tori Amos was starting to run again. She was caught by the black guy. Her route to happiness was blocked. She cried; she sang.
   Zhushi, Guoguo was my loved little sister; there are more photos of her than me in my home’s photo albums. She and a boy went to a dark place. Dark like that street Tori Amos was on. The boy, my loved boy, smiled slyly. Like that black man’s smile it had the filthy lust of the sewers. They were together.
   Zhushi please say no more.
   I at last opened mouth to stop what was coming. Fine fine. I know.

   He said, Xiaoran, I have been waiting for this day, waited a long time. There are things I think I ought to tell you.
   This is a speech format I am familiar with. Like Guoguo’s. During her adulthood ritual, after accepting my present, my blessings, she told me what happened between her at 16 with the boy I loved. No white cotton cloth; no love with respect.
   I started to cry again. I said enough; say no more. I have no energy to hate someone.
   Zhushi showed the most painful expressions since I met him. He previously never experienced pain; so nice. Why we have to grow up. He said, Xiaoran, what happened to you, what happened to Guoguo, I knew. Guoguo told me. I always pretended not to know; I actually was not the boy who knew nothing that you think of me as. I am truly in love with you, like in the marriage oath, whether in sickness or in pain; and I definitely want to marry you.
   What do you know, other than hurting me! I roared at him.
   I would never hurt you; anything you dont like, we need never do. But I still want to marry you. We will peacefully listen to Tori Amos songs; her hurt has nothing to do with yours. You know, you know, Tori married someone. She wore white lace, smiling so innocently. She is happy now. You can be too. But you must keep me in your life. I can keep it upright.
   I will always respect you, he ended.
   I stared at him with swollen red eyes. He is a fool, wanting to devote his life to save this ill person. I said, never mind Zhushi; that would be unfair to you.
   Your loving me makes it fair; your letting me stay in your life makes it fair. He says. He comes closer, to kiss me.
   I love Zhushi. I want to provide him with fairness.
   Under the strong sunlight of this summer day, I open big my weeping eyes. I look at this boy. I see him clearly; including his hair, luxuriantly growing in the sunlight. And the sheet of pink at the bottom of his eyes.
   Pink is so bright, can bloom into many peach blossoms.
   Peach blossom petals fall into my eyes, one petal, two, many.
   I ask God whether I will have another chance to grow peach blossoms.
   God and all the people who love me stand behind Zhushi. They say, pluck up your pride, my dear child.
   She finally stopped. The girl running in the dark street. From girl to woman. She had put on clean white silk clothes, standing brightly on the other side of the street. The other side of another street. She says she recovered. She asked, what about you; how are you getting along?
   I? I..I at last called out his name. Zhushi, Zhushi, Zhushi. This time I wont use the wrong name. This irreplaceable name.
   I said, Zhushi, I have a very important question. Very important, I want to ask you.
   He asked me with the greatest softness: what, Xiaoran.
   With tears covering my face, asked Zhushi:
   You have a white cotton cloth, right?

3. Chung Kwong
   March 26th, 2010 at 10:42 pm

   

   Xiaoran
   {Translator’s Note: This too is a fairy tale, with a macabre storyline, whose main function appears to be leading the reader towards the final picture: an oldish man lays dying, while a girl performs actions amounting to a final ritual, in this case, painting her lips with the man’s blood. Similar scenes appear in other stories of Zhang Yueran, an issue of psychological significance that can be subject to much debate.}
   Chinese original may be found at

   http://book.news.sina.com.cn/longbook/1093410372_tentalesoflove/37.shtml

   1.
   Man o man; why arent you asleep yet?
   I sat at the window looking at the watch; the clock chimes every hour, and I see the clock arm stretching to me like a bright stethescope, sneaking into my heart. The silvery mirror was shining on the downcast face. My lips, so pale.
   On the window sill are the stems of narcisscus. I look after them every day. The watering can is transparent, with printed flowers. Long neck, long arm, like to girl with an unhappy face. Every day I fill her belly with water; I can hear the girl’s moans. During many many bright afternoons, I dragged the girl by the arm to look after my flowers.
   I have six stems of narcisscus. I often take a pair of scissors to plunge into the roots of the narcisscus. Poking and poking, to reveal the white pulp, reveal its fresh flesh and blood. I would push the scissors down gradually, and the plant juice would slowly seep out, wetting my hand. This pair of scissors must be made of high quality steel; it feels so cold. I held onto it, but it remained cold after sucking out all my thermal energy. Finally I put the little scaly bits of the root together. They are intimate like potato skins, light like the wings of little grasshoppers. I lightly blow them away and stretch out my hands; the dehydrating winter sun dried out the plant juice. I have a pair of plant flavoured hands.
   2
   During the winter, Xiaoran buys six pots of narcisscus every day, putting them in a row on the window sill. She uses a shiny pair of plant scissors to kill them. She stands on the balcony drying her plant flavoured fingers in the sun.
   Then she stands in the turning wind holding the scissors, absent minded. She could see the man inside the room.. He is wearing a camel coloured cardigan and oversized striped pants. In this winter he likes to drink a Mocca coffee with too much cocoa powder. His whole mouth is sticky sweet. He has a chaise lounge, and would recline on it most of the time, reading the papers, smoking, and painting. All the time he sits there. When his beard is overgrown, he would lie on the chaise lounge shaving. If he cuts his chin, he would sit on the chaise loung stemming the bleeding.
   Sometimes when the girl passed next to him carrying her narcisscus plants, the man would tell her, sit down. His words could always wrap tightly around her like the first snow of a severe winter. Xiaoran would tightly shrink her arms into her sweater sleeves, pull over a stool, and sit down. She finds the stool very hard, but she sits, not moving; then the man would start to paint. Xiaoran feels she is such a clumsy obstacle, stuck in the middle fo the room. She could see time stepping over her body, and afterwards continuing to flow forward smoothly. She is a stuck out blade growing in this gentle winter.
   3
   The man is a painter; the man is her father; the man is a scum.
   The woman was driven off by him. When she stood at the door for the last time, she was carrying some messy wounds, fixed a glance on Xiaoran, and closed the door without looking back again. Xiaoran saw the door, as it it was a magic box, closing on the season’s storms. She saw the woman rushing to a distant place like a breeze of wind. One strand of the woman’s hair got stuck to the door. Xiaoran went over and took down that strand of ordinary black hair. It was winter, and cold. She quickly slid that hair deeply into her sweater sleeves.
   Xiaoran could not remember how many turbulent battles there have been. She only remembers she moved many times, each time to a shaky wooden attic. During each battle she hid in the furthest room, but the stairs, walls and ceiling kept trembling. The woman’s yewe like cries bound many circles around Xiaoran’s neck, making a knot. In much fright, Xiaoran leaned on the bedhead, scratching off the paint with a nail clip. After each battle, the woman sat in the middle of the room listlessly. When Xiaoran walked by her she looked at Xiaoran with disgust and hate in her eyes. Then she would roar at the man, like a she wolf whose den had been taken by force. Xiaoran went to the balcony; she saw flower petals that had been shaken to the ground; it was starting to rain again.
   On that day there was another violent quarrel. Through the crack in the wooden door Xiaoran could see the woman’s face covered in blood. She wanted to go in. She hated the woman’s cry, but she had to go to the rescue. The man opened the door, and quickly pushed her out, quickly closing the door. Locked it. The man pulled Xiaoran to the side of the door. Next to the door there were his black suitcase and a long armed umbrella. The man was recently away on a long trip. Holding Xiaoran with one hand, the man’s other hand quickly opened the suitcase. In the weak greyish light, Xiaoran saw him take out a cloth doll. The doll, it was very nice. She wore a rose coloured dress, the kind Xiaoran always wanted, with raised black flower prints. Xiaoran could see the fine lace softly limped against the doll’s legs, and the doll was cutely smiling. He locked her and the doll outside. In weather nasty enough to freeze the snowman, Xiaoran slipped and fell, then stood up again, several times.
   That day was her birthday; it ought to have been a day for making some serious wishes. Xiaoran thought, should she love her father a little. He was nicer than mom; he remembered her birthday. Xiaoran could hear even louder cries from inside the house. But she felt she was frozen, stuck in the middle of the yard like the snowman. Xiaoran looked at the doll, looked at her two-linen coloured pleats, but her own hair was just thrust into the sweater collar like a bundle of grass. Xiaoran sighed, you look so nice, doll.
   Xiaoran remembers that when the door opened it was already evening. She stood up slowly. The snow on her body cracked and rolled down; only the doll in her bosom was warm. As Xiaoran walked she could see her feet swollen into two balls, stretching her shoes to the breaking point. She hobbled into the house. Her mother was standing at the door, face covered in congealed blood. The woman looked at Xiaoran closely. She suddenly stretched out a bloody palm and slapped Xiaoran.
   She said, just a doll could buy you?
   With her swollen feet, Xiaoran wabbbled a few times like swing doll before she slowly fell. Her nose knocked against the door frame, and she was afraid it might drop off like that of the snowman. Lucklily, it merely bled.
   Xiaoran held up her face, with a hand on the chin to catch the blood flowing down. She saw the woman going back to the bedroom to take a small bag and rush out. She saw the woman passing next to her, giving her a look of contempt. It was the last time she and her dear mother exchanged looks. Then the woman went to a far off place, quick as a breeze. Xiaoran went to the doorframe to take down her mother’s hair, but she did not have a nice box to put it in; at last she put the hair inside the doll’s dress pocket.
   For many years afterwards, Xiaoran, the doll and the man lived together..
   The man did not have any quarrels with Xiaoran. Because Xiaoran was always obedient. For 10 plus years Xiaoran was always quiet, moving, cooking, raising plants with him. The man is a painter; he liked to put Xiaoran somewhere to paint her. Xiaoran would quietly sit there and let him paint.
   Between periods of painting the man would light a cigarette, and slowly say, I love you more than I loved your mother. You are so quiet. Then he would suddenly embrace Xiaoran, saying fiercely, you will be with me all the time.
   Xiaoran thought, should I be thankful? to the only person who cares about me.
   So many years, only for that birthday, Xiaoran received a present, that doll and a strand of hair from her mother.
   4
   When I moved to this little town the man told me, he wanted to paint the cold winters of the town. But actually, when winter arrives the man goes into hibernation like one of those animals. He lies on his chaise lounge, not going out.
   I live on the upper level of an attic. I grow six stems of narcisscus. The man says to me, you can have some flowers, but not too many; very strong fragrance gives me headache.
   To the east of the city there is the flower market. I can get there just after passing that bend.
   When I went to buy the narcisscus today it was a foggy morning. I got two stems in full bloom. Holding one plant in each hand, I also had four potato-like tubers in a bag hanging from the wrist. I tightened my scarf and wabbled my way back. Water from the narcisscus roots splashed on my hands, feeling cool, giving a little life to this dull winter.
   A crowd of boys came towards me. They appeared as if from all four directions. They used different kinds of cologns, each charateristically monopolizing the air. I felt suffocated. Some of them held skateboards, some were smoking, one was spitting out a mushroom shaped blueberry gum. Purple hair; blond hair, waving on their heads like flags. Big bodied colourful zip-up ski jackets; loose unlaced shoes.
   I could see him through the gaps between the flowers, the boy in front. He had hair like a lit up volcano. In the tweed pocket of his burgandy jacket, coins and a cigarette lighter jingled. I saw him pass by looking somewhere else; I saw him rub shoulder with me, actually rubbing shoulders, and my flower – it swayed, jumped out of the pot, jumped to the ground. The flower died in the broken snow, like yesday’s tealeaves being quickly splashed next to a door frame.
   Roaring laughter; the crowd of wicked boys with different cologns. I gave my attention to my loved flower again. I squat down to pick it up.. But I was not complaining, since in this evening the flower would have died under my scissors. Just a bit earlier, and a wholesome death. I picked it up. The boy also squatted down, helping me to pick up the pot. I and he stood up together. I felt that his cologn was like a pleasing smell of some flowers. He smiled at me. I once again looked at the boy between the narcisscus plants. He was goodlooking, like an imported toy sailor. Standing in the snow; standing before me.
   I thought I ought to move on; I have been standing there for a bit of time, but did not get their apologies. I thought I’d better leave. But I could see that the boy, he was watching me. Looking at me with a very serious, detailed look, like a PhD at the animal he was researching. I thought looks could be wicked or insulting, but do you believe, do you know that at that moment I felt the sun shining all over, sunlight adhering to his stare, shiring on me together, giving me the desire to display on a big stage. I showed a wrenching, pitiful look.
   The boy, looking at me, still. I wanted to ask him whether he was also a painter, because that kind of look I had only seen from my dad.
   Boy on my left; boy on my right; boy on my timeless stage.
   He at last spoke to me; the only thing he said to me. He said, you, your lips are too pale; otherwise you would be a beauty.
   It was an insulting tone, but in my numerous recallings of the sentence I felt a warm concern.
   The boys around were all laughing, cheering as if at the finish of a comedy. I was in the centre fo the stage, deeply embarrassed.
   Heyhey; you know the pub at the end of the street? The second floor one with the round stage. Tonight we have a party there; why not come along. Er.. remember to put on lipsticks, pretty girl. The boy had his head high, eyes raised, saying this to me. The boys around laughed again. They are used to singing his chorus. He is the blinding halogen lights in the middle of the stage.
   I and my flowers were standing at the same spot. Watching them go past. I saw the boy in the lead withdrawing his glance, turning off all the lights on the stage. I was still standing there. The narcisscus plants in my hands were still dripping water; subconsciously I bit my lips, wetting them.
   Then I quickly ran in the direction of home.
   Halfway I suddenly stopped at the door of a brighly lit shop. In the shopfront a row of colourful little dresses were swinging. I stopped for a little while, and bought a dress.
   It was a rose purple long dress. I saw it swinging in the city’s grey apricot morning light. A layer of sunlight evenly sprayed onto the skirt, like a cover of tight little scales on the silky cloth. Like a big kite, it swished to the sky above me.
   I have not wanted a dress. I did not care for such fancy stuff. Did not love objects that strongly delmit the female sex.
   But at that moment, my hand that was holding the narcisscus, could not help wanting to touch it.
   It made me think of the dress on the doll; so much alike. That dress which made me envious for ten plus years. It was like a victory flag raised by the doll to announce, remind me of my failure. Right, I have never been given the same enticing gift.
   I bought it. I bought my first dress, holding it proudly as if avenging my defeat.
   Then I very very quickly ran home.
   5.
   Xiaoran quickly opened the door of her home, rushed into the studio. The narcisscus plants and the dress she held was cast at the side of the door; then she began to dig deeply into the set of coloured paint, searching. On the ground there were piles of paint tubes and tins. Some were already dry; some were mixed, changed into dirty colours. She took them up one by one, put one down, picked up another. The man heard the sound she made, and asked from his chaise lounge, what are you looking for.
   Xiaoran did not reply, just continued looking; she started to give up on the paint tubes, and turned towards the large colour tins that had not been used for some time. Her movements were swift like those of a squerril; he expression was serious like a general planning a battle.
   The man said, what are you looking for, really? The man still received no reply; he heard the girl knock down tins, making clunking sounds, and the sound of paint flowing out, drip, drip.
   The man got up from his chaise lounge. Rushed into the studio, asked, what are you looking for.
   Red paint; you have any red paint left? Xiaoran asked in a gush.
   No. I have not used such bright colours for a long time.You forgot I asked you to throw them away when we moved? Now none. To paint the grim winter here I would not need any reds at all. The man answered slowly.
   Xiaoran did not say anything more; she merely stopped the futile search she had in hand, standing there motionlessly. Like a wound up doll that has done enough dancing, dumbly stuck to the ground. She gave a heavy sigh, some splashed paint staining her leg, slowly slipping down, giving her body a covering of greyish green.
   The man asked, what do you want red paint for?
   Nothing, Xiaoran replied, slipping past the man, going to the kithcen to brew the coffee the man liked.
   6
   I gave the coffee to the man, then I carried the newly bought narcissus plants up the attic The fog has dispersed. The sun has been re-posted, like a public notice exhorting people to get energized for their work. The narcissus plants were put on the balcony. I do not know when they will bloom. The scissors are next to my hand, silvery and shiny, a great temptation to me; I suddenly thrust the scissors into the narcissus;; the juice in the roots dripped out like those paints. They died as before. I cannot wait for the evening.
   Then I settle down bit by bit. I moved my stool to the balcony; sat down. I thought back to the looks received just now. I thought about that boy’s stare, as longlasting as a storm.. I thought of his burning hair, spreading like bush plants, his thin lips opening and closing as he talked, like a tempting butterfly.
   I heard a crowd of boys laughing, rehearsed, supportive laughters. Like the eagles that attack the dead body during a sky funeral, they envoloped me, submerged me.
   I suddenly shivered a little; hopefully that my spasm had a nice posture.
   I suddenly thoght of my new skirt; it was still lying in that cold bag.
   I took it out of the bag a bit at a time, like pulling out the source of happiness to slowly reveal it to the world. I put the doll next to the bed, so it could watch me change clothes.
   Roses suddenly bloomed all over my body;. I feel as if many thorns are pricking my skin. This dress grows onto my body, never to be separated from me again.
   Doll o doll; look at me; am I pretty?
   7
   Xiaoran walked about in the pre-evening attic. The time was 6pm. The man had a meal of barbecued fish and a dish of boiled rolled corn. He would usually fall asleep after a full meal, waking up around 8pm to watch movies about gunfights. He would in such times be specially excited, sometimes even pounding his brushes on the easel making banging noises. But right now he ought to be falling asleep.
   Xiaoran could hear the yells of the noisy kids outside. She knew they were all going in the same direction. She felt there was a icy and peaceful spot at the poles worthy of every penguine converging there. She ground up the chopped narcissus petals, rubbing them on her body and neck. The juice of narcissus slowly soaked in, drifting into her blood. She could hear it disperse, she could hear it merge in; right, merging in, like a pair of glances
   The clock chimed; the man was still not asleep. He was turning the pages of a picture collection bought some time ago; his spectables now and then slipped down his flat nose; he pushed it up, continuing to turn the pages, not at all sleepy.
   Xiaoran deeply wished to go to the air outside; she wanted to follow the steps of those wild boys; she wanted to stand in front of that boy, listen to his teasing of her. But the man must sleep; only then could she jump out of the wooden box, leaving behind the man’s snores and dead narcissus plants, to go on a date.
   Xiaoran bit her lips with her teeth, the small toothmarks like at string of colourless convallanias on her lips. Then Xiaoran went downstairs. She remembered that on the balcony below there were some narcisscus tubers still; so she went down with her scissors.
   Holding the scissors in hand, hand shrunk inside the sleeves, wearing a pair of cotton slippers with dropped off fur, she rushed downstairs, walking straight towards the narcissus tubers.
   The man saw her, and suddenly said, sit down.
   What? Xiaoran had a start.
   The man had picked up the brush next to him and gestured Xiaoran to sit down. He slowly said, you are wearing a dress today; very different. Xiaoran was still for a moment, and then realized the man wanted to paint. She stood, put down the scissors on the wooden bench for brushes, then pulled over a chair and sat.
   At that moment she felt time had stopped; she was fixed on a rusty wheel, her rose skirt wilting on this tall wheel. She placed her hands tightly against the dress, as if holding onto the last petal. The world was about to lose all its water; raising her head she saw at the corner of the man’s dry eyes, a pile of muddy dirt was accumulating like a piece of cloud.
   Xiaoran felt as if someone was calling her from downstairs. She felt a bright red carpetted road slowly stretched from outside her home. She felt she should step onto it, walking on. She felt grand stares are waiting for her at the end, for his roses. Xiaoran wanted to jump up, to fly out. Fly ouf of this dark cave in the evening’s last ray of sunlight.
   8
   It is as if I see my doll dancing on the floor upstairs. Her lips are very red.
   9
   The man gradually slowed down his painting. He wrapped the petite girl with his look. It was as if he treasured her for the first time. He liked very much the girl’s new dress. The new dress made the girl look like a full and fetile woman. Like her mother when she first appeared in his life.
   Smile; why dont you smile. The man said to the girl. You never smile; now have a smile.
   The man was for the moment tolerant and warm, like a child letting itself go.
   Xiaoran could see the boys outside the window like a flock of white pigeons flying by. She smiled.
   The man was very pleased. He felt no drowsiness. He had stopped, just watching the girl.
   Suddenly he stood up, and forcefully pulled Xiaoran to him. He held the girl tightly. The girl was placed next to the man like a stood up raft. Her raised hands were suspended mid-air. Xiaoran was still holding the staged smile; she was feeling more aggrieved by the minute.
   The boy was saying, you, your lips, too pale; otherwise, you would be a beauty.
   The doll was still dancing; it had made 7 turns, the rose dress opening new flowers.
   All this would be passing her by.
   10
   The man is embracing me tightly. My two hands are suspended mid air. My mind and eyes are hiding in the fresh rose dress to go on a date. I am thirsty. My lips are flaking off in little bits like a dehydrating fish.
   All will be passing me by right next.
   The clock chimed again. The clock arm is like a cruel stethescope, striking at the fragile psyche I have as a sick patient.
   I feel strongly; the heart suddenly heating up with the sound coming from not far away.
   Man o man; why arent you asleep yet?
   Before my eyes, shining brightly
   Before my eyes, shining brightly
   The blades are so easily lifted from the little table behind the man. My hand quickly held onto it tightly. My hand and the blades, like two separated magnets, found each other. The immediately joined together. The love each other; they are in cahoots. I think I know what they are planning; I think I know what is about to happen. But I have no time to turn back. My heart is somewhere else, busy. I am dancing, turning circles like my doll, drowning in a pile of stares.
   The blades searched, and entered in the centre of the man’s body. For the moment the man did not move. From his mouth emerged winds that can tear up a net. I pressed the blades again, deeply into the man’s fat and thick back. The I quickly pulled the blade out.
   With this I am very familiar. I am well practicsed, like I used to do with narcissus roots.
   The man did not make any protesting sounds. I was thinking whether to help my father stem the bleeding. I threw down the blade, then groped with my two hands to find his wound. I felt a warm font flowing onto my palm. I felt a fragrance stronger than that of narcissus juice.
   The man still had the same tolerant smile. He laid down. He covered up the warm font behind him, dropping down like a stone.
   11
   Xiaoran looked at the man. On the man’s easel there is a patch of warm colour. Xiaoran thought it might be her rose skirt, but who knows. Xiaoran suddenly turned, and rushed up the attic with her red, warm font hands.
   The flight of stairs is so long; on the rail and the floor, starees drooled.
   Xiaoran had never run so fast. Panting, she stopped next to her dressing table
   She breathed, open mouthed, at the greyish mirror. She looked at herself. never before seeing herself so clearly.
   Her lips were covered by dull purple scabs.
   She looked at herself, at her self. Then she slowly raised her hands.
   Facing the mirror, she wipe the blood on her hands drop by drop on the lips. Warm blood adhering to the lips, blooming into deep red rhodondendrons. Thinking of what the boy said. Xiaoran looked at the flaming red lips in the mirror, and smiled contentedly.
   12
   I, smiling at the red flower in the mirror.

4. See China: Global Chinese Culture
   November 9th, 2010 at 1:34 pm

   

   [...] have the additional problem of treading on current political sensitivities. The readers with free time and pocket money to spend on reading, the high school and early college students, are more into personal navel gazing and sentimentalities, such as what I discussed in http://www.seechina.org.cn/2010/03/26/post-80s-new-china-literature/ [...]

5. Chung Kwong
   November 9th, 2010 at 8:15 pm

   

   You can find a collection of Zhang Yueran’s works at

   http://sinazen.com/kuihua.txt 《葵花走失在1890》
   http://sinazen.com/yingtao.txt 《樱桃之远》
   http://sinazen.com/jianyue.txt 《是你来检阅我的忧伤了吗》
   http://sinazen.com/hongxie.txt 《红鞋》
   http://sinazen.com/shiai.txt 《十爱》
   http://sinazen.com/shuixian.txt 《水仙已乘鲤鱼去》
   http://sinazen.com/youshang.txt 《飞一般的忧伤》 /
   http://sinazen.com/shiniao.txt 《誓鸟》
   http://sinazen.com/wupo.txt 《琥珀
   http://sinazen.com/qingchun.txt 青春正传
   http://sinazen.com/mayi.txt 骑蚂蚁看海