Over a decade ago I said that writing must touch the most painful spots in one’s heart as it records mankind’s most unbearable memories. Now I believe that one must write things about which people feel most discomfited, about people’s most uncomfortable conditions. The writer must put himself on the dissection table and under the microscope.
Twenty-odd years ago I boasted shamelessly: I write for myself. Writing for absolution is writing for myself, but only to a point; I think I ought to write for the people I hurt, and for the people who hurt me. I am grateful to them, because each time they hurt me I cannot avoid thinking about the people I hurt.
Sensei, I am sending you a packet of what I’ve been writing off and on over the past year. I think I’ll stop writing Gugu’s story and concentrate on a play with her as the central character.
Every time I see her she asks after you. She really and truly hopes you will visit again. She even wondered if you might have trouble affording a plane ticket, and she said I must tell you that she will buy one for you. Gugu added that there are many things she wants to say, but cannot bring herself to say to anyone. If you were to come, however, she’d tell you everything. She said she knows one of your father’s deepest secrets, something she’s never revealed to anyone. If it were to become known, it would shock you to your core. Sensei, I have a good idea what that secret is, but I’ll wait till you return, so you can hear it directly from her.
Finally, while it has already appeared in the material I’m sending, I want to tell you anyway: though I am not that far from the age of sixty, I have recently become the father of a newborn infant! It makes no difference how this came about, Sensei, nor how much trouble will follow this child through life. I ask the blessing of a man of such noble standing, and hope that you would honour us by conferring a name on him.
Tadpole
October 2008, Gaomi
1
Gugu always impressed me as a woman of incredible audacity. There did not seem to be a person alive who frightened her, and there was nothing she was afraid to do. But Little Lion and I personally witnessed her frightened to the point of foaming at the mouth and passing out — over a frog.
It happened one April morning when Little Lion and I were to be guests of Yuan Sai and my cousin Jin Xiu, who had opened a bullfrog breeding farm. In the space of only a few years, Northeast Gaomi Township, a one-time backwater, had undergone a major transformation. Impressive white stone levees had been built on both sides of the river, and the green belts along the riverbanks had been beautified by the addition of rare flowers and exotic plants. Over a dozen residential developments, some with towers, and European-style villas, had sprouted on both banks. The area developed until it began to merge with the county capital, and was only a forty-minute car ride to the Qingdao airport. Korean and Japanese investors were building factories there, and most of our village had been given over to the Metropolitan Golf Course. Although the area’s name had been changed to Chaoyang District, we still called it Northeast Township.
The distance from our community to the bullfrog farm was about five li; my cousin wanted to send a car, but we declined, preferring to take the riverside pedestrian path, where we passed young housewives pushing baby strollers. Their faces radiated health, their eyes shone, and the elegant aroma of expensive perfumes wafted from their bodies. The babies were sucking on pacifiers or sleeping soundly or looking around, eyes darting in lively fashion; they all emitted a sweet smell. Little Lion never missed asking these young mothers to stop so she could bend down and stroke the little babies’ pudgy hands and tender, fair faces. Her expression proved her love of the little ones. As she stood in front of one blond, blue-eyed foreigner’s stroller with a pair of twin babies in seersucker caps, she reached down, touched one and then the other, and said something under her breath as tears came to her eyes. I watched the mother smile politely as she grabbed hold of Little Lion’s clothing: Don’t dribble on their faces.
Little Lion sighed.
Why did I never notice how cute babies are before?
That just shows that we’re getting old.
That’s only part of it, she said. The quality of people’s lives has improved now, and so has the quality of their offspring. That’s what makes them so adorable.
We met some people we knew on the way, stopping to shake hands and chat, emotionally commenting on how old we’ve gotten and wondering where the decades had gone.
We saw a fancy cruise boat sailing slowly down the river; it looked like a floating old-style tower. Joyful sounds came across the water from women dressed in ancient costume, like characters in paintings, playing music and singing in the ship’s cabins. A speedboat throwing up rooster tails of spray raced past and scared away all the gulls.
We were holding hands, a loving couple, though we were each thinking our own thoughts. She was probably thinking about children, all those lovely children; but what flashed through my mind were images of that frightful chase on this very river so many years before.
We crossed on the pedestrian walk of the recently completed cable bridge, on which BMW and Mercedes sedans were common sights. It was an elegant, gull-winged bridge that ended with the golf course to the right and the renowned Temple of the Fertility Goddess to the left.
A temple fair was in progress on that eighth day of the fourth lunar month. The temple grounds were packed with automobiles whose licence plates showed them to be from outlying counties, even a few from other provinces.
The spot had once been known as Fertility Goddess Village, its reputation gained from the temple that had stood there. As a child I’d gone there with my mother to burn incense; the image had stuck with me, though the temple had been torn down at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution.
The new Fertility Goddess Temple had a towering main hall with red walls and yellow tiles. On both sides of the crowded paved path peddlers of candles, incense sticks, and clay dolls hawked their wares to tourists.
Buy a doll here, buy a doll.
One of the peddlers, dressed in a yellow Chinese gown, head shaved, looked like a monk. He rapped a stick against his Buddhist temple block, known as a wooden fish, and sang out rhythmically:
Buy a doll and take it home, a happy family you will soon be.
Take one this year, raise one the next, soon Mum and Dad, you will see.
No finer dolls you’ll ever find, all crafted from the finest clay.
Lovely faces have all my dolls, eyes, noses, mouths of beauty.
My dolls are most potent, sold to villages in eight counties.
Buy one, you’ll have a dragon; buy two, a dragon and a phoenix.
Buy three for happiness, wealth, and a long life; buy four for two pairs of officials.
Buy five for five distinguished scholars; buy six, no, I can’t give you six or the wife will surely pout.
The voice sounded familiar, so I walked up to see. Just as I thought — it was Wang Gan.