The drops in the branches are so beautiful… In the dawn light my mind moved slowly. So beautiful. I looked at the trees round the stone lantern, at the area of the garden that had so fascinated Shi Chongming. A slow bud of recognition was opening dreamily inside me. Frozen drops of blood and tissue were sprayed in the branches, as if something had exploded there. Draped across the stone lantern, like a faded paper chain, was… A hazy memory of a newspaper photograph – a nameless Japanese victim, his viscera spooling below the car.
Jason…
I stared at what was left of him for what seemed like hours, astonished by the patterns – the braids and furbelows, the little scrolls like Christmas decorations. How could it look so beautiful? A wind came, buffeting and pirouetting the snowflakes, springing the blood from the branches. The wind rattled through the broken panes in the gallery and whirled along the corridor. I imagined myself from above, I imagined looking down at the garden, at all the vermiform paths and the thickets, I imagined the way the blood would look, a halo round the stone lantern, and then as I drew further away I saw the roof of the house, its red tiles all gleaming in the melting snow, I saw the little alleyway with a solitary old woman clipping down it in clogs, I saw the poster of Mickey Rourke, then the whole of Takadanobaba, the ‘high horse field’, and Tokyo glittering and glinting next to the bay, Japan like a dragonfly clinging to the flank of China. Great China. On I went, on and on, until I was dizzy and the clouds came over and I closed my eyes and let the sky or the wind or the moon pick me up and drift me away.
59
Nanking, 21 December 1937
I don’t know how long we stumbled through the trees in our desperate flight, the snow flurrying behind us. We went on and on. I had to pull Shujin much of the way because she was quickly exhausted and pleaded with me to stop. But I was remorseless, dragging her with one hand, the cart with the other. On and on we went, into the forest, the stars flashing between the trees overhead. Within a few minutes the sound of the motorbike had died away and we were left with only the sounds of our breathing on the deserted mountain, as quiet as a ghost mountain. But I wasn’t prepared to stop. We passed hulking presences in the darkness, the burned and abandoned remains of the beautiful villas, the vast, plundered sasanaqua-covered terraces destroyed, the faint smell of their cinders hanging between the trees. On we went, wading through the snow, wondering if the dead, too, lay out there in the dark.
Then, after a long time, when we seemed to have scrambled half-way to the heavens, and the sun was already sending up red dawn rays above the mountain, Shujin called out behind me. I turned to find her leaning against a camphor tree, her hands on her stomach. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please. I can’t.’
I slid down the slope to her, catching her by the elbow as her knees gave way and she sank into the snow. ‘Shujin?’ I hissed. ‘What is it? Is this the beginning?’
She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Please.’ I shook her arm. ‘This is no time to be shy. Tell me – is this it?’
‘I can’t say,’ she said fiercely, her eyes flying open and fixing on mine. ‘Because I don’t know. You are not the only person, my husband, who has never had a child before.’ Her forehead was damp with perspiration, her breath steamed in the air. She moved her arms round herself in the snow, creating an odd little nest, curling into it. ‘I want to lie down,’ she said. ‘Please let me lie down.’
I dropped the cart. We had come so high up that the fires of Nanking were no more than a red stain in the dawn sky. We had reached a small level area, hidden from the lower slopes by dense walnut, chestnut and evergreen oaks. I walked a few yards back and listened. I could hear nothing. No motorcycle engine, no soft footfall in the snow, only the air whistling in my nostrils and the clicking of my jaw as I worked my teeth together. I climbed the slope, and walked in a great circle, every few paces stopping to listen to the great gulping silences among the leafless branches. It was already getting light, and the weak rays filtering through the trees alighted on something about twenty feet further down the slope, half buried in leaves, forgotten and moss-covered. It was an enormous stone statue of a tortoise, its snout and shell covered in snow. The great symbol of male longevity.
My heart rose. We must be near Linggu temple! Even the Japanese hold a shrine sacred – no bombs had dropped on our places of worship. If this was to be the place our child emerged into the world then it was an auspicious one. Maybe a safe one.
‘Come here, behind these trees. I’m going to build you a shelter.’ I turned the handcart on to its side and pulled out all the blankets, packing them tightly under the cart. I led Shujin inside, lodging her into the bed, giving her broken icicles from the trees to quench her thirst. Then I went to the other side and kicked snow up against the cart so that it would be invisible. When she was settled I squatted next to it for a while, biting my fingers and staring out of the trees to where the sky was growing lighter by the second. The mountainside was utterly silent.
‘Shujin?’ I whispered, after a while. ‘Are you well?’
She didn’t respond. I shuffled nearer the cart and listened. She was breathing fast, a tiny whistle of air, muffled in her forest bed. I took off my cap and shuffled closer to the cart, cursing myself for knowing so little about childbirth. When I was growing up it was the province of the matriarchs, the stern sisters of my mother. I was told nothing. I am ignorant. The brilliant modern linguist who knows nothing about birth. I put my hand on the cart and whispered, ‘Please, tell me. Do you think that our baby is-’ I broke off. The words had come out of my mouth without thinking. Our baby, I had said. Our baby.
Instantly Shujin seized on it. She let out a long, drawn-out cry. ‘No!’ she sobbed. ‘No – you have said it. You have said it!’ She hauled the cart upwards and pushed her head out: her hair wild, tears standing in her eyes. ‘Leave!’ she cried feverishly. ‘Leave me. Stand now and walk away. Walk away.’
‘But I-’
‘No! What ill luck you have invited on our moon soul!’
‘Shujin, I didn’t intend-’
‘Walk away now!’
‘Please! Keep your voice down.’
But she wasn’t listening. ‘ Walk away with your dangerous words! Take your curses away from me.’
‘But-’
‘Now!’
I dug my nails into my hands and bit my lip. What a fool I had been. How thoughtless, to have infuriated her! And at such a time! At length I sighed. ‘Very well, very well.’ I backed away a few feet through the trees. ‘I will stand here, just here, should you need me.’ I turned, so my back was towards her, and I was facing the dawn sky.
‘No! Further! Go further. I don’t want to see you.’
‘Very well!’
Reluctantly I took a few more clumsy steps through the snow, until the slope of the mountain put me just out of her sight. I sank dejectedly to the ground, knocking my knuckles against my forehead. The forest was so quiet, so silent. I dropped my hand and looked around. Should I try to find help? Maybe there would be someone in one of the houses who could offer shelter. But the radio reports had said that all these houses had been looted, even before the eastern gate had been breached. The only people I might encounter would be Japanese army officers, lording it in the deserted mansions, drunk on plundered wine stores.
I straightened, and stepped a little way out of the trees to get a sense of what else was nearby. I pushed aside a branch, took a pace forward, and my breath caught in my throat. For a moment Shujin was forgotten. We had climbed so high! The sun was coming up behind the mountain, pink and flecked with cinders from distant fires, and further down the slopes, perched among the trees, the intense, glazed blue of Sun Yat-sen’s mausoleum shone against the snow. If I turned to the east, between the mountains I could see glimpses of the thirsty yellow plains of the delta stretching away into misty horizons. Below me the city basin was smouldering like a volcano, a black pall of smoke hung over the Yangtze, and I saw, with a sinking heart, that it was all as I had guessed: the river at Meitan was in chaos – I could see bombed boats and sampans listing in the mud. Old Liu had been right when he said east was the direction to go.