Sixteen years later, the building was still there, and I wondered how much it had changed, if at all, since 1989. There was no lobby, there was not even a door, just a grey staircase that led up from the street. I went up, passing room after room; metal grates or small altars, offering oranges to the ancestors, were all that separated each dwelling from the stairwell. The apartments were minuscule, with barely enough space for a bed. I saw windows the size of a sheet of paper. I climbed higher and higher. The door to 9F was closed and though I stood before it for a full half hour, I could not bring myself to knock. I had an irrational fear that Ba would open the door, that I would face the window he had climbed through. I turned around and descended. After leaving the building, I took a taxi to the district office of the Hong Kong Police where I requested a copy of my father’s file. An officer helped me fill out an application for access to information, telling me that I would receive a reply, by post, within thirty days. I left the police station and wandered aimlessly. Standing on an overpass that crossed a six-lane thoroughfare, and despite the noise of traffic and the vibration of the entire structure, I could hear nothing. My life felt entirely out of order.
I took the subway almost all the way to the Chinese border, switched to a bus and then walked up a paved road. My father’s only request had been to be buried at this cemetery, a place whose name brings together the characters 和 (harmony) and 合 (to close, to be reunited). But I did not know, and had never known, exactly where his ashes lay. In the cemetery office, I was surprised to find they had no record of him at all. The young man at the desk asked, bored but apologetic, if it was possible that my mother had scattered his ashes in the Garden of Remembrance. “It’s possible,” I said. “She never told me.” The man returned to his paperwork and I went outside. All the graves were set on narrow terraces, rising upwards along concrete steps. After walking for several hours in the heat, I was drenched in sweat and could barely see. Crickets cried unceasingly and the butterflies were delicate yet large as handkerchiefs. Above me, cotton balls that seemed to come from nowhere glided through the air.
I came by chance to a small columbarium where, inside, four tiny tea cups and four pairs of red chopsticks lay waiting on a sheet of newspaper. Square niches, for holding urns and ashes, were mounted on the walls. But some squares were empty: these had only cardboard covers with two characters written in red marker, 吉 (fortunate) and 玉 (jade). What this meant, I could not fathom. The room was soft with spiderwebs, and the teacups and chopsticks appeared to have been left behind by ghosts. Desperate to find him, but afraid, too, I studied all the pictures one by one. His picture was not there. I left the columbarium and walked between the graves, but still Ba could not be found. At last I sat down on the steps of a long walkway. A worker, clothed in blue, passed by, with a white towel tucked into the collar of his uniform. He wanted to help but I could not communicate what it was that I wished for, and finally he left me where I was, under the sun, thinking of my parents.
Four weeks later, a small box arrived at my office at the university. Inside were a number of documents, police and autopsy reports, some of which my mother had already received. There were a dozen photographs of my father’s body, his clothes and few possessions. There were also letters I had never seen before, eight from my mother, and five from Sparrow. One of Sparrow’s letters contained a composition, 31 pages long, the pages taped together: a sonata for piano and violin called The Sun Shines on the People’s Square. At the top, Sparrow had written: “For Jiang Kai.” The pages, copied by hand, were dated May 27, 1989. A one-page report stapled to it took me many minutes to decipher. Finally, I understood that these pages had been accidentally misfiled and the error had only come to light in 1997 during the digitization of all police files. Because so many years had passed and the file was now closed, they were releasing the original documents to me, the only surviving family member. I was looking at letters that even my mother had never seen — not when she went to Hong Kong to bury my father and not later on, when she, too, requested the file.
I took everything home. That night, I read through the pages slowly, once, twice, three times. I woke up in the night and reread it. The photographs of my father’s body, the cold detachment of the report and the details of the inquiry opened up emotions I could not stand to feel.
Finally, I put the papers back into the box, and the box under my desk. I went on with my life, returning to the world of numbers. Their possibilities, their language and structure, filled me. They were as beloved, alive and universal as music.
—
Not long after, I met a colleague who was also a professional musician, a violinist. His name was Yasunari, and he became my closest friend. One night, I gave Sparrow’s manuscript to him, confiding its origins. Yasunari said he would arrange everything.
A few weeks later, I went to his apartment. We opened a bottle of wine, toasted the composer, and then I sat on the sofa and listened. I had never heard Sparrow’s music before, but as the violin and piano began, I felt a strange humming, as if I’d heard this music in my childhood. Perhaps it was an echo of Bach’s Sonata No. 4, an echo of that recording of Glenn Gould and Yehudi Menuhin I would later chance upon in Chinatown: it was as if I knew this person, and had always known him. In that piece of music, I imagined I heard three voices — piano, violin and composer — and in their separateness, they carried sorrow, yes, but also…how can I describe it? Inside The Sun Shines on the People’s Square, I heard an unbroken space protecting all three, and also a limitlessness, an ever-expanding room like the desert. All of my unanswerable questions seemed to circle within the notes, at the intersection of piano and violin, between the music and the pauses, the rests. How did a composer live his life unheard? Could music record a time that otherwise left no trace?
I walked home. Lights on the ski hills gleamed faintly behind the clouds, leaving a blue wash in an otherwise darkened sky. I thought about my father, about his love for Sparrow and Zhuli. How many notes are there in Bach’s Goldberg Variations? In Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony? How many words are each of us granted over the course of a lifetime? That night, I began writing down my memories of Ai-ming. I wrote slowly at first, and then the story quickened. I hoped that writing would allow me, finally, to keep the promise I had made to Ma. I wanted, as Ai-ming did, to move forward, to take a further step.
A few months later, Yasunari asked me to marry him and I did. I was twenty-eight years old, but still far too young and unsettled in myself. Indeed I might go so far as to say that I was hostile to myself; I was, in so many ways, my father’s daughter. I broke Yasunari’s heart when, after only a short time, I abandoned our marriage, and I felt as if I had torn my own future into pieces. My father’s death consumed me, a rift had opened between my thoughts and my emotions, and one day I woke with the sensation that I was falling through that rift and would fall forever. I was drawn to suicide.
Time passed. My emotional life was, as Big Mother Knife would say, as firm as a stack of eggs.
And yet, during this time, my research flourished. Blindly, I followed the first principle of pure mathematics, the hunger for beauty; in number theory we say that beauty exists in the machinery. Unexpectedly, my work on elliptic curves won a French number theory award and the revered journal, Annals of Mathematics, published one of my papers. My name was put forward for a Meadows Prize. I wondered at the absurdity of things. I had no explanation, except perhaps that I fell asleep as one person and woke as another. The surface of my life confounded me. Yet, in the world of numbers, everything felt possible: numbers had no substance and were made entirely of thought.