Where had all my semen gone over the years? It must have seeped away into the innumerable capillaries along my vas deferens. I’d never played away with other women, or even had wet dreams, although I used to worry about it. The embarrassment of stains on the sheets. I used to worry about the lack of sex, and sometimes thought I should sort myself out. If I got some toilet paper ready I could probably do it without making a mess. But in the end I didn’t. So where had all my sperm gone?
I sneaked back into the building opposite. My footsteps echoed in the empty building, the traces of my last visit still clear in the thick dust. I turned off my mobile. It was like hiding in an abandoned well. A burst of noise from people passing in the street below, then silence fell again, deeper than before. I was alone. As usual, the woman opposite was busy in her kitchen — they took a lot of trouble over their food. She was in her nightie, all skin and bones, exploited, bled dry, like depleted soil. Sometimes I wished she had a lover — it was only what her husband deserved — but there was no sign of one. She taught at a medical school nearby. I used to spot her coming out of a classroom, pale and drawn, but I never saw her talking to any of her colleagues. She never smiled. She was timid, like a sheep, holding her teaching notes close to her chest, as if hiding her scrawny bosom. She didn’t have many friends. The only one I saw was an elegant nurse who went around with her hand tucked into the pocket of her uniform.
Something was bubbling on the stove. She took off the lid and steam billowed out, rounding out her figure. She was very much at home in her kitchen, her movements practised, deft. She took a ladle and filled a very small bowl from the pot — the broth must have been very precious. She tasted it and then carried the bowl into the sitting room. He was sitting up at the table for dinner, but when she gave him the bowl, he didn’t want it. He pushed the bowl back to her, but she wouldn’t take it either. They argued as it went back and forth until she picked it up and headed for the bathroom to throw it down the toilet. He came after her and tried to grab it, but now she wouldn’t give it up. He started pleading, begging her. He certainly could put on an act. Finally she allowed herself to be persuaded. She made a playful fist and punched him gently on the shoulder. He smiled. Would she have been making jokes if she had known the lie that lay behind his smile? Would she have cooked for him at all?
But we’re all hypocrites. That’s something the empty flat taught me. There were plenty of other scenes to watch when our upstairs neighbours weren’t at home. It was non-stop entertainment. The woman in the next flat spent all her time putting on make up and admiring herself in the mirror. On the other side was an old boy who was forever groping his live-in housekeeper. She’d just carry on with whatever she was doing as if nothing was happening. Once I saw her leading him out on to the street — he must have been unwell — supporting him by the arm like a dutiful granddaughter while she called him a cab. The boy in the flat downstairs used to spend all day hiding in his parents’ bedroom watching TV — changing the channel as soon as his parents got back. One man on the ninth floor used to practise fierce expressions, nodding and jerking his eyebrows up and down like a yoyo. Once I thought he flashed me a smile, but he couldn’t see me, he was just smiling at himself. An old woman on the fifth floor was always in bed, fiddling with a radio and paying no attention to her children when they went in and out of her room. Once they organised a party to celebrate her reaching one hundred years old. Everyone said she’d reached such a great age because her family took such good care of her. But a few days later she struggled out of bed, staggered to the window and scrambled awkwardly on to the ledge, wailing like a cat.
‘I don’t want to live any more,’ she screeched.
Her son and daughter grabbed her and held on.
‘Oh, please don’t make such a fuss,’ they begged. ‘Whatever will the neighbours think? Haven’t we done enough for you?’
Eventually the old woman climbed back in. She would have to go on enduring pain and misery so her children could keep up the pretence of her blessed old age. Her home was her living hell.
Our upstairs neighbour was in the kitchen again, wearing her nightie. It hung so loosely on her that it seemed to swathe her like a parcel. She looked preoccupied as I watched her body moving under its wrappings, her bosom, her soft waist, the slopes and creases of her belly and hips. Her husband was there too — he rarely seemed to go out. Why wasn’t he entertaining clients? What was a grown man doing with himself, stuck at home all evening?
They were talking. He followed her around the house, from kitchen to sitting room, whispering into her ear. He went everywhere with her. But I wanted her to be free of his shadow. I only wanted to see her. Time edged by. He was still following her every move. Hypocrite! Stop being such a fake. I know what you’re going to do as soon as you get into bed.
Eventually they got ready for bed. She stood there in her nightie. The light went off. Everything died. Darkness. I stared into the darkness. My mind started to wander. I stared. Slowly my hand went down to my crotch. I knew what I was going to do. I imagined that body in that bed. I could imagine anything, do anything. Like an emperor. My dreams were so much more seductive than reality.
Then she sat up.
What was she doing?
All I could see was her silhouette …
5
I got some night vision binoculars off the black market. That wasn’t a problem — I was used to picking things up illegally — but then I realised I had no place to keep them. I wasn’t that bothered about losing them, but I didn’t want my secret getting out.
I couldn’t store them in my safe at work, any one of the staff might get a crowbar and walk off with them. It wasn’t safe to leave them in the car, there were far too many thieves around. And I certainly couldn’t bring them home. None of our drawers was locked. They all had keys, but god knows where the keys had got to. And I couldn’t change the locks. How could I explain a drawer which suddenly had to be kept locked?
I’d never had any secrets. I didn’t even have my own money. My wife and my daughter could rifle through all the drawers as much as they wanted. How stupid. I should have kept some privacy.
There was nothing in the world that was only mine.
Then it occurred to me I could hide the binoculars in the space above the dropped ceiling. Not in the sitting room — how would I ever get them in or out without someone seeing? — but in the bathroom. The bathroom was right by the front door as well.
I went to the toilet, locked the door, turned on the tap, took out a ceiling panel and stowed the binoculars away. I couldn’t help smiling as I came out. I’d never been this secretive before, not even when I was selling fake drugs.
Our city was famous as China’s biggest centre of herbal medicine. Secret imperial remedies, age-old prescriptions, the Yellow Emperor’s medical encyclopedia, the theories of yin and yang and the five processes, everyone could spout them chapter and verse. Our city was also notorious for having its very own ‘Bin Laden’, a gangster who always dealt ruthlessly with his enemies. I’d seen him cut someone’s liver out to use for medicine with my own eyes. Right there in the street. His thugs grabbed hold of his victim, and he brought the knife down with a swish, as if it were a calligraphy brush. The man begged for mercy. Bin Laden listened. He asked questions. It looked like they were negotiating. The victim seemed calm as Bin Laden slowly drew a line down his chest, as if he was being tickled and holding back a laugh. Suddenly the knife thrust in and blood spurted out, spattering the bystanders. Bin Laden stepped aside. The murdered man lay still, uncomprehending, as if he was trying to smile. The colour drained from his face. The blood pooled on the ground. His liver was still warm. It had taken less than three minutes.