Читать книгу Dragon's Gate - Vivian Bi - Страница 9

Chapter One: Snow

I

Shi Ding could not figure out where he was or how he had got there. He stood on a cold stone floor surrounded by thick pillars. The pillars were old and it took him some time to distinguish the reddish paint and golden dragons drawn on them. They supported a high domed ceiling with carved beams and rafters. In the middle of the ceiling, two giant wooden dragons were entwined, craning their necks and gazing down with fearful pop eyes. The place felt like a temple but had no Buddha in it.

A gust of cold wind blew the heavy wooden doors open and a white figure swirled in. It was a woman, thin and pale with frosted hair and ragged clothes. She stood there, waiting for the wind to die down, and then began to dance. Her movements were slow but forceful. Her body swayed and turned, her long, loose sleeves flapped up and down, turning everything they touched white. With each step, the floor became a snowfield and the pillars became icicles. She blew cold air up to the ceiling and the dragons seemed to shiver, their colours fading as they turned into ice sculptures. Shi Ding hid in a corner and watched with fascination. How wonderful it would be to possess this magical power.

The woman swirled outside and Shi Ding followed. To his surprise, he was at No. 10 View Street, where he lived. He had never known a temple was next door! A few children were playing hide and seek around the two ancient scholar trees and two women were chatting and washing vegetables under the tap. A man from the rear courtyard walked a bicycle towards the front gate. Muffled laughs and cries filled the air. Before Shi Ding could identify the neighbours, one by one, as the woman’s sleeves touched them, they turned into ice. The tap was still running but now it spat out foam-like snow. In no time, the yard became a field of ice sculptures – the children, the women and the man – that gradually blended into the blinding white background.

Shi Ding’s fascination gave way to fear and a sense of dread. Then he saw his parents standing inside the front courtyard, arguing and taking no notice of what had happened. “Mum, Dad, get up and run!” he cried but no sound came out of his mouth. He wanted to rush over to save them but his feet were frozen to the ground. Watching the woman getting closer to his parents, with all his might he shouted: “GET UP, OR YOU’LL GET BURIED!” This time he managed to make a distorted sound and he woke up.

The dream was so vivid that Shi Ding could not be sure it had only been a dream. Slowly, his surroundings regained their colours. The two-toned grain in his desk, the autumn hues of the Fragrant Mountain painting, the patchwork quilt, all created by his father, proved the world was not a dull place.

The world was not frozen either. Shi Ding felt warm, although there was no stove in his room. This traditional compound did not have central heating, and to keep their houses warm in winter, everyone simply moved their stoves inside and installed stove-pipes to work as both smoke ducts and radiators. The Shi family’s stove was installed in the kitchen, at the front of the house; Shi Ding’s room was at the back of the house. But his father had punched holes in every wall and fashioned a web of piping along the ceiling of every room so that every part of the house felt warm as toast.

Shi Ding reached for the double-bell clock on the desk. It was a gift from his father when he had started school. He had painted one bell red and the other green so that they looked like two old fashioned hair buns. Shi Ding smiled. He really appreciated his father’s ingenuity and passion for colour.

Lately, there had been quarrels between his parents because of his father’s passion and hobbies. His mother argued that in the spirit of the times, his father should devote his talents to the big picture: he should participate in revolutionary propaganda in the Beijing Turbine Factory where they both, and most of the neighbours, worked. “It’s time to abandon your useless gimmicks,” she said.

His father was sparing with his words and his only rebuttal was that it was his “gimmicks” – his innovations in the factory – that had once brought honour to their family name.

Shi Ding had never forgotten the day his father had successfully replaced the heavy, foot-operated system of the big punch machines with a hydraulic button. The factory leaders escorted him home with drums and gongs. Shi Ding was seven at the time, so the red silk flower pinned on his father’s breast appeared enormous in his eyes.

His father’s “gimmicks” had also appealed to Shi Ding’s vanity. Last year, he had helped his father assemble a three-band transistor radio. It had a pleasant tone, and was smart and compact with a stainless steel frame and fine black mesh over the speaker. As far as Shi Ding knew, this radio was the flashiest piece of electronics in the neighbourhood. He boasted at school that he and his father would soon assemble a television set, an invention they had only heard of, but never seen.

But Shi Ding had been taking his mother’s side and believed that if his father had used his talent for “big things”, he would have made Shi Ding as proud and elated as his neighbour Wang Lixin. Wang Lixin enjoyed absolute authority over all the youngsters of No. 10 simply because his father, Wang Tong, had been successful in the factory. And what had Wang Tong achieved besides having some slogans on big banners hung around the factory and forming Beijing Turbine Factory’s Revolutionary Propaganda Team? All these would have been as nothing if his father had bothered to take part in “big things”.

“Get up, or you’ll get buried!” The shrill voice from the yard startled Shi Ding and he recalled the very same words in his dream. Was he dreaming that he was dreaming? He cried out: “Dad! Where are you?”

“I’m here”. Shi Wangcai pushed open the door and popped his head in, holding his hands in the air to avoid touching the door. They were covered in white flour. “A nightmare? It’s okay now.” He smiled at his son and said, “Nine o’clock already. Get up, will you? It’s been snowing all night. Aunt Sun has been calling people to clear the snow for some time.”

“Really? Has everything turned white?”

“What do you think? Just get up,” Shi Wangcai continued as he disappeared behind the door. “Today is Lantern Festival so I’m making dumplings.”

Shi Ding quickly put on layers of clothes, folded his quilt and smoothed the sheet, one of the “good habits” his father had taught him. Then he went to the front of the house where the living room and his parents’ bedroom were. Opening the front door, Shi Ding once again fell into a trance – was he really awake? The drain in the middle of the yard, framed by a 50 centimetre high square cement wall, had vanished. The courtyard was a level snowfield. The coincidence of dream and reality was thrilling.

“Shi Ding, Shi Ding! Come and help us! We can’t open the door.” Muffled voices rose up from the southern house.

No. 10 View Street was a 300-year-old residential compound with a large open outer yard and enclosed front and rear courtyards. The front courtyard had an ornamented gateway that led people into it from the outer yard. Inside, four evergreen pines stood at the four corners, guarding the four households. Shi Ding’s family lived in the northern house, traditionally the master house, which stood at the top of a flight of white marble stairs. Its deep veranda looked down on the southern house, the servant rooms, built three steps below ground level to match their occupants’ humble station. This was where Shi Ding’s classmate Dong Ermei now lived with her father and brother.

Dong Ermei was a pretty girl who attracted many boys’ attention – Shi Ding was one of them. Her father was always Mr Dong to his neighbours, never the familiar Old Dong or, to the children, Uncle Dong, because he had joined the Kuomintang before the Communist takeover. He was a night-shift doorman in the factory. Ermei did not get on with her father. “My father hates me because I am nothing like my brother. He’d be happier if I didn’t exist.”

She had indeed nothing in common with her brother, Dong Pingshun. While she was noisy and cheerful and failed her school tests every now and then, Pingshun was gentle and melancholic and had been a top student in high school. If it hadn’t been for Mr Dong’s political problem, Pingshun could have studied philosophy at Beifang University. Instead, he worked as a labourer in a small factory. Mr Dong devoted himself to his son out of guilt. “Dad would wipe my brother’s bum if he asked,” Ermei said resentfully. “But to me, ha, he has never shown a kind face. ‘Ermei, don’t do that!’, ‘Ermei, you’re so shameless!’” She mimicked her father’s tone, her face full of contempt. “Mum died a long time ago; otherwise I’d ask her if I was picked up from a rubbish tip.”

Now the front door of Dong Ermei’s house was banked almost halfway up with snow. The small glass panel in the door was frosted over but Shi Ding could see a pair of eyes behind a little clear patch. They were Ermei’s, bright and expressive, and madly attractive to the young man. He rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over in his haste. Lifting his knees high and carefully avoiding the invisible drain, he made his way across the yard and down the concealed steps of Dong Ermei’s house. He pressed his face against the glass panel in hope but found himself gazing into the suspicious eyes of Ermei’s father. Startled, he jumped back and lost his balance, landing heavily on his bottom on the steps. “Ha, ha, ha …” Dong Ermei stifled a laugh. Pained and embarrassed, Shi Ding scrambled to his feet and started to scoop the snow from the steps with his bare hands, crying out in a funny voice: “Help! Help, everyone. Mr Dong has been buried alive!”

Just then, with a big stretch and yawn, Wang Lixin emerged from the eastern house, which opened onto the podium of the gateway and was traditionally the residence of the chief guard. Wang Lixin was another of Dong Ermei’s admirers, and when he realised what had happened, he shouted, “Ermei, don’t worry, I’m coming!” Then he saw Shi Ding. “Are you stupid? Do you want to watch them die? Go and get a shovel! Quickly!” He jumped into the snowfield and made his way towards Dong’s house.

Shi Ding stood up, silently cursing. “You insufferable idiot. If it wasn’t for your father, who’d take you seriously?” Many other young people hated Wang Lixin’s bullying, but no one dared offend him because their parents had warned them not to. Shi Ding’s mother had recently been promoted to factory chef, and she repeatedly cautioned him: “Don’t displease Wang Lixin. It’s impossible to get a good job like mine without his father’s support. You don’t mind tasting all those delicious leftovers I bring home, so don’t spoil it.” But it was hard to put up with Wang Lixin’s rubbishing in front of Dong Ermei.

Wang Lixin had twice failed to go up to the next grade, so he was older than his classmates and had developed into a solid young man. He had inherited his father’s typical northerner’s appearance: square face, high bridged nose, bushy eyebrows and large eyes. Shi Ding was as tall as Wang Lixin but his slender frame was no match for Wang Lixin’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. His face was also dotted with pimples. He often detected appreciation in Ermei’s eyes whenever Wang Lixin was around and he was jealous.

Shi Ding walked dejectedly back to his house. But then he bit his lip to suppress loud cheers when he noticed that Wang Lixin was hopping straight towards the invisible drain.

“Ermei, you’ll be out … Oh!” Wang Lixin stumbled and fell right into the drain. He tried to push himself up but banged his head on the edge of the drain and collapsed back down. Wedged in the drain, he howled: “Oh hell! I’m stuck!” Shi Ding bent double with laughter. Dong Ermei joined in from behind her door.

“What are you all doing here? Didn’t you hear me calling? Go out and clear the snow now!” Sun Lanfen strode into the yard. The western house where she lived had traditionally been the housekeeper’s and now, as it happened, Sun Lanfen was the elected compound leader. She was red in the face, her forehead covered in sweat, and her whole body radiated heat. “The street is blocked but some important foreign guests will be coming to Beihai Park to celebrate our Lantern Festival. Do you hear?” She clambered over to the drain, grabbed Wang Lixin by the ear and dragged him out. “Ah, Aunt Sun, you’re killing me! Mum, help me!” Wang Lixin squealed like a stuck pig.

“Spare your mum. She’s sick and you and your dad never help. Get up!” She pulled harder.

Wang Lixin hauled himself up. “You’re pulling my ear off. Ouch!”

“Shut up, you wuss. It’s always you – wherever there’s trouble, you’re in it.” She turned and saw Shi Ding. “You, too. Get a broom and go out to the street. You’re not much better than him, full of tricks.”

“But Aunt Sun, what about Mr Dong?” Shi Ding pleaded.

“What about him?” She walked down the steps to Dong’s house and kicked the snow aside with her feet as she shook the door with force. Chunks of snow fell from the door onto her hair and shoulders but she kept on shaking. Finally, the door opened a crack, and with Mr Dong and Ermei pushing from the inside they were eventually able to squeeze out. “Snow won’t move away by itself.” Sun was breathing heavily as she stepped up to ground level. “You need to do something about it.”

“Thank you.” Mr Dong followed Sun Lanfen and humbly explained, “I had a day off. That’s why I was home last night. If not for you – oh, Heavens –”. Turning around to look at his house, he fell silent.

“Don’t thank me,” Sun Lanfen said, dusting the snow off her shoulders. “I need you to go out to clear the snow.” Noticing how pale Mr Dong was, she stopped. “What’s the matter?”

Mr Dong trembled and quoted an old saying: “When snow buries a house, lives must be lost. Mrs Sun, what should I do?”

The southern house not only had a low foundation, but also a low-pitched, almost flat, roof. Wrapped in snow, the house looked like a big white coffin. It was a bad omen, Sun Lanfen understood, but she said bluntly, “Come on, this is a new society. Nobody believes that superstitious nonsense.” She yelled at the three youngsters listening keenly to their conversation: “What are you loafing around for?” As they disappeared through the gateway, she turned back to Mr Dong. “Listen, I’ll call Old Shi to see if he can do something about it.”

II

Shi Ding’s mother worked at the turbine factory. On this day she was allowed to go home early as a reward for her extraordinary effort in making 300 stuffed buns, the special Lantern Festival treat for the workers, before morning tea break. “You’ve set a great example of serving the people, Lin Guiru,” the director of Beijing Turbine Factory said, praising her. But Lin Guiru knew that she had done it because of the elation drawn from meeting that morning with Wang Tong, her neighbour, her boss and, since then, her … She did not know how to put it.

Since commencing work in the canteen, Lin Guiru had left home at five every morning to make the fifteen-minute walk to the bus stop. View Street was in Beijing’s Central Park District, linked at one end to Beihai Park, and the other to Jingshan Park. It was shaded by an avenue of huge ancient evergreen trees with low shrubs hugging the wide footpaths. When the weather was still, moonlight or streetlights cast shadows that seemed like giant ogres lying in wait. When the wind blew, the tall canopy of trees gave up strange noises, howls and whispers, and the branches made the street lights flicker. In Lin Guiru’s imagination, the noise was the curse of heaven, the branches the arms of ghosts, the shrubs the hiding place of thugs. She had a sense of being followed by ghosts or by thugs because she seemed to hear faint footsteps behind her. Of course she never dared to look back.

This morning, the footsteps were so distinct in the crisp snow that it could not be her imagination. She started to run but tripped, falling face down. Suddenly a big pair of hands were thrust under her armpits and pulled her up. “No, no! Spare me, please …”

“Shhh … it’s me, Wang Tong.”

He had been following her, he told her, every morning for two months. Why? “I promoted you to the canteen and then I realised that because he was a night shifter, Old Shi could not walk you to the bus stop. I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you. So I …” Wang Tong sounded shy. “Sorry, Little Lin, I didn’t mean to scare you. I tried to be as quiet as possible. Forgive me?”

Lin Guiru blamed her husband Shi Wangcai for what happened afterwards. Shi Wangcai had been a good husband. He was the most skilful at work and the handiest in the home. Apart from his mechanical inventions, he did exquisite work with wood and fabric, so their house was well equipped and decorated with beautiful things. He was also a good cook who could create sumptuous banquets and turn radish skins or outer leaves of cabbage into delicacies. His skills had brought honour, extra money and comfort to his family.

But lately, Lin Guiru felt there was something lacking in her husband. While everyone else tried hard not to be left behind by the rapidly unfolding revolutionary situation, he had actually gone backwards. In order to avoid the weekly political study sessions in the factory, Shi Wangcai had asked to be put on permanent night shift. “Why?” Lin Guiru asked him angrily. “Why are you so willing to team up with the likes of Mr Dong?” As usual, she did not get an answer.

If Shi Wangcai had just been more in tune with the times, she would never have allowed Wang Tong into her heart.

Lin Guiru planned to stop at the local shop on her way home to buy a couple of red lanterns and some sticky rice balls for the evening. It would make her husband happy and today she wanted to be nice to him. Then she saw Wang Tong waiting outside the change room, holding a box. “Little Lin, this is for you.” Inside were two bags of sticky rice balls, half a dozen steamed buns and two foldable paper lanterns. “Enjoy the Lantern Festival!” He pushed the box into her hands and quickly started to walk away.

“Excuse me, Old Wang,” Lin Guiru called out after him. “I, I … How can I …?”

Wang Dong turned back. “You can, you just can.” He looked around quickly. Seeing they were alone, he whispered, “Tomorrow morning at quarter past five, I’ll see you at the end of the street.”

Shi Wangcai worked on Mr Dong’s house for a couple of hours, even though he did not believe in superstitions. He had agreed to do it for Sun Lanfen’s sake. The woman was loud, impulsive and sometimes brash, but Shi Wangcai respected her.

No. 10, a compound of thirty-three households, had a front gate, two public toilets, electricity and water meters. Every day, the toilets and yards needed to be cleaned and the gate locked and unlocked. Every month, water and electricity bills needed to be calculated for each household and the money collected door to door. It was Sun Lanfen who organised the roster; she supervised it all and stood in for the occasionally negligent residents. She also had a tender heart, despite her yelling and screaming.

There was one incident last winter Shi Wangcai could never forget. In winter, the resident on duty had to turn off the valve to the water main. The valve was set in a one-metre-deep dry well covered by a heavy iron lid. Pulling up the lid was a challenge in freezing conditions because it sealed tight in the cold air. Inside the well was a long-handled two-pronged metal fork. Holding the fork in one hand and a torch in the other, the resident on duty had to wedge the fork into the handwheel of the valve to turn it off. Their hands would still be shaking from removing the lid, making it difficult to control the long-handled fork, so the job could take ten minutes. Finally, after replacing the lid, the half-frozen resident had to run from courtyard to courtyard, putting a bucket under each of the taps to let the remaining water in the pipes drain off. All this was to ensure that the pipes did not freeze and crack.

One night, Sun Lanfen knocked on the Shi family’s door. “Old Shi! I need your help.”

Shi Wangcai was still working on the day shift at that time so was in bed already. As he was dressing, his wife Lin Guiru yelled out, “It’s not our turn tonight. Can’t you spare him?”

“No, I can’t. Old Shi? You coming or not?”

Sun Lanfen led Old Shi to a house in the outer yard. “I need a witness.” She pounded on the front door. “Dr Xu! Come out to turn off the water valve. Tonight it’s your turn.”

“We’ve done it,” a sleepy voice shouted from the bedroom.

“Really?!”

“Our son Xu Yongcai did it.”

“You have a son?! That’s news. I thought you owned a slave. Come and have a look at him!”

They followed to her house. When Shi Wangcai saw the boy in Sun Lanfen’s bed, he understood her anger. The boy’s parents had sent him to turn off the valve, but Xu Yongcai was too small. When he tried to wedge the long fork into the handwheel of the valve, he had fallen into the well, hit his head on the bricks and lost consciousness. Had Sun Lanfen not gone to check the water main, he would have frozen to death. “You wouldn’t notice his absence and you wouldn’t care!” Sun Lanfen yelled.

Most of the residents knew how lucky they were to have Sun Lanfen in their compound. Last year, when the local government had asked them to elect a compound leader, the thirty-three households had voted unanimously for her.

Now, Shi Wangcai measured the little landing in front of Dong’s house and decided it was too small for an outward-opening door, particularly since the entrance was below ground level. Even a few shopping bags could make it hard to open the door fully. The first thing he did was rehang the door so that it opened inwards. And then he assembled a metre-high plywood gate and installed it at ground level, at the top of the stairs to prevent things falling to Mr Dong’s landing.

He was pleased with his work but Mr Dong remained anxious. “What about the bad omen?” he asked. “What can I do to ward it off?”

“Mr Dong, stop torturing yourself. Good omen or bad omen, they’re all in your head.”

“No, no, Old Shi.” Mr Dong shook his head like a rattle-drum. “You don’t understand. If anything goes wrong in my family, it’ll fall on my poor son, Pingshun. I’m not kidding. I can’t take this risk.” His voice trembled. “Please, please help me!”

Shi Wangcai was astonished. He walked back to his own veranda to get an overview of Mr Dong’s house. He surveyed it from different angles and then an idea came to him. “Okay, Mr Dong. Bring me your ladder and pick up thirty-six bricks and a small bag of cement from the co-op next door. Leave it to me.”

Mr Dong held the ladder while Shi Wangcai clambered onto the roof. Bucket by bucket, he pulled up the materials Mr Dong had gathered and moved them to the middle of the roof. He cleared the snow, removed some tiles, then marked out and flattened a 400 by 600 mm rectangle. He poured out some cement and mixed it with snow before laying the bricks. He ran two bricks length-wise on two parallel sides with one brick joining them up on each of the other sides. He laid six courses and soon a half-metre-tall false chimney appeared on Mr Dong’s roof.

“What’s that for?” asked Mr Dong, peering at it from the Shi family’s veranda. Shi Wangcai gave no answer but signalled him back to hold the ladder. When he came down, Mr Dong realised that the man was nearly frozen. He nudged the shivering Shi Wangcai inside his house and rushed to get a hot water bottle.

“No, not that. My hands, my hands are gone. Cold water, please,” Shi Wangcai groaned.

Mr Dong brought a washbasin filled with cold water but was unsure. “You want cold water, really?”

Shi Wangcai plunged his hands into the basin even before it reached the washstand. It was almost five minutes before he stopped shivering. Meanwhile, Mr Dong poached two eggs in a big bowl of sugared ginger soup for Shi Wangcai to reheat the man’s body.

“Oh, that’s nice. Thank you. I thought I was going to lose my hands. The snow mixed with cement was absolutely ice cold.” Before Mr Dong could ask again, he said, “Now, bring me a piece of paper and a pen and I’ll explain what the chimney is for.”

He wrote two big characters on the paper: home and tomb. “Have a look at these two characters. The only difference between a home and a tomb is where to put the little dot. What is that dot? A chimney. The living need to cook meals, so it is on the top. The deceased don’t, so it’s dismantled and put away. When the King of Hell, if there is one, comes to seize his new subjects and sees the chimney, he moves on.” He pushed the piece of paper in front of Mr Dong. “Get the idea?”

“Thank you!” Mr Dong was convinced. “Mrs Sun is right, you’re the ideas man. Now I can relax,” he said with a cheerful smile. “But how can I pay you back? Stay for lunch, please.”

“No need, we’re neighbours.” Pleased with himself, Shi Wangcai left.

When he got home, he was surprised to see his wife there. “You’re early,” he said, putting his tool box in the back room, where he had his workshop next to Shi Ding’s room. Not hearing a response, he quickly went back. “Are you okay? Has something happened?”

“What do you mean? What could happen to me? If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem!” Lin Guiru erupted, shocking not only her husband, but herself. Seeing his stunned expression, she knew that she had lost control. To cover up, she said, “Sorry, I … I just had a fight with the bus conductor. That woman is a real bitch!”

“What happened? I mean, what did she do?”

Lin Guiru was not ready for the question, so she replied briskly, “Can we not talk about it? You’re so annoying.” She walked off to the kitchen in a huff.

Shi Wangcai gazed at her disappearing figure and shook his head. His wife had become more and more estranged. It was the outside world, this new round of political campaigning that has muddled her head, he persuaded himself. He did not like confrontation.

“I made some dumplings this morning with your favourite mushroom fillings,” he said, changing the subject as he went into the kitchen.

The Shi family’s kitchen was the envy of all the neighbours. While everyone else had just a stove and cooked their meals and boiled water under the eaves in warm weather and inside in winter, the Shi kitchen was a proper six-square-metre room. Shi Wangcai had enclosed one corner of the veranda as a kitchen and then cut a door into their living room. He set the stove and cupboards against the end wall of the veranda, and a dining table, big enough for the three of them to sit around, on the opposite side. Three baskets hung from the ceiling above the table, one for cooked food, one for groceries and one for vegetables.

Lin Guiru was now putting things into the baskets. She replied cheerfully, “Mushroom dumplings! Wonderful. I’ve brought home some sticky rice balls. We can have a festival lunch.” She showed her husband the box of goodies.

“Wow,” he said. “They’re from the Beihai Imperial Restaurant, top quality. When did you buy them?”

“I went to Beihai Park just now. I thought we deserved to have something good.” Lin Guiru started to blush. She turned to face the stove and busily set the pot on it.

At his wife’s back, Shi Wangcai frowned. Beihai Park was closed that day for important foreign guests. That was why Sun Lanfen had called everyone to clear the street. He was unwilling to expose Lin Guiru’s lie because it was too hurtful to both of them. Why then had he asked such a question that would trap her? “If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem.” Lin Guiru’s words rang in his ears.

Shi Ding came back home just then, with a plate wrapped in a kitchen towel. “Dad, look what I’ve got,” he said, rushing into the kitchen. “Oh, Mum, you’re home too. Look.” He unwrapped the plate to reveal three sweet smelling shallot pancakes. “Ermei’s father gave them to us. I’ve had some already – delicious.”

“You went to bother Ermei again? And begging for food too?” Lin Guiru did not like Dong Ermei. The girl was precocious and would draw Shi Ding into her web.

“No, Mr Dong called me in. Don’t jump to conclusions. Chairman Mao says: ‘No investigation, no right to speak’.” He turned to his father. “Dad, what you did is amazing. Mr Dong worships you now. He asked Ermei to learn from me because I’m your son. Ha, ha, wait till Wang Lixin hears this.” He tore off a piece of pancake, stuffed it into his mouth and began to help putting dishes on the dining table.

During lunch, Shi Ding explained to his mother what his father had done for Mr Dong. Then he asked, “Dad, why did you need exactly thirty-six bricks?”

“Well, you know, Mr Dong is such a worrywart, I had to be careful.” His son had lifted Shi Wangcai’s mood, so he explained in high spirits, “Traditionally, six is a lucky number ensuring things will be smooth and easy. Six sixes are thirty-six, which we call ‘the number of plain-sailing’.”

“Neat! And this is 1966! You didn’t tell him, did you, Dad?” Shi Ding was excited. “I’ll tell them after lunch.”

“You will not!” Lin Guiru opened her mouth. “Listen to yourself, all this superstitious rubbish. What planet are you living on?”

“Look, Mr Dong was horrified,” said Shi Wangcai. “You didn’t see his face. Our yard leader Sun Lanfen asked me to sort things out.” He defended himself, emphasising Sun’s title. “Besides, superstition or not, if you believe in it, it exists, just like those ghosts you say you’ve seen.”

“Definitely!” Shi Ding echoed his father. “Mum, tell me how to explain this.” He described his dream, how it matched the reality and how his words in the dream were the same as Aunt Sun’s call to the yard.

Lin Guiru smirked. “Ha, easy! We watched The White-Haired Girl last night on Professor Ruan’s TV, so naturally a white-haired woman appeared in your dream; Aunt Sun was calling people to clear the snow all morning long so that’s what you heard in your shallow sleep.”

“Mum, you can’t be so dismissive. What you just said …”

“Can we just enjoy the food?” Shi Wangcai snapped. “I haven’t been to sleep yet.” He rarely raised his voice so the other two shut up immediately. A silence fell. Shi Wangcai finished first. He stood up, looked at his watch and said to Shi Ding, “Wake me up at six, will you?”

“You can sleep longer, if you like. I’ll cook dinner.” Lin Guiru offered. She felt the need to please her husband.

“It’s only twelve now. Six hours sleep should be enough. I need to put the finishing touches to Professor Ruan’s bookcases.”

“Does it have to be tonight? You’ve done your good deed for today.” Lin Guiru was poised to continue, but caught herself. She had done enough and should not take a further risk. “Anyway, if you say so. Those bookcases are magnificent. Don’t you think, Shi Ding? I was so proud.”

“Yeah, Dad, Professor Ruan kept on plying us with candies and cakes. That’s the first time I’ve tasted chocolate.” Shi Ding suddenly remembered. “Oh, Dad, she was out clearing snow this morning and asked after you. But I didn’t tell her you were doing a job for Mr Dong.” He turned to his mother. “I know what to say and what not to say. Okay?”

III

Ruan Qiling had been restless for two days and two nights. This morning, not seeing Shi Wangcai among the snow cleaners had troubled her further. All she could focus on was what he would do with what he now knew.

She had been a widow for almost twenty years. Many of her marital memories, of love or hatred, resentment or regret, had become blurred over time. But in recent months, her husband’s image had reappeared and her marriage had come back to haunt her. It all peaked two days ago, with Shi Wangcai.

From the start of the September semester of 1965, the peace that had enveloped Beifang University campus had dissipated. Big questions like “Is our society free of hidden enemies who want to subvert the new China?” and “What role has literature played in politics?” were suddenly on the agenda. The sensitive students were on the alert. Ruan Qiling kept her usual low profile, hoping to avoid attention. However, one afternoon the party secretary of the Literature Department invited her into his office.

Ruan Qiling taught world literature. Her special area, late nineteenth to early twentieth century American literature, seemed safe, because it could neither be linked to aristocratic decadence, nor be charged with current American imperialism. But her heart still sank when she was summoned.

Secretary Zhang, a slightly built southerner, thirty or so, invited her in with a humble smile. “Sit down please, Professor Ruan.” He was one of the university’s own graduates so Ruan Qiling had known him for more than a decade. Before being promoted to his present position, he had been a union leader and had once tried to do some matchmaking for Ruan Qiling. Although he did not succeed, the episode had made them acquainted.

“I’ve heard that you’re popular with the students. Congratulations.” He observed her with alert eyes.

Ruan Qiling knew that she had not been invited to be congratulated, so she sat up straight, listening with respectful attention.

“You’ve been teaching Henry James recently. Am I right?”

“Yes, to our fourth year students, as an elective course.” She paused, but when he said nothing she continued: “James has been rising in critical esteem as a master of late nineteenth to early twentieth century literary realism, so I’ve chosen a few works to demonstrate his reputation.”

“Fine.” The secretary nodded. “Now, tell me, how do you see his work?”

Ruan Qiling was on her guard. “I first inform my students that James was a politically conservative writer. Although he’s a representative figure in realism, his depiction of society is far from realistic. He condemned revolution, had contempt for the working class and idealised the elite class …”

“Yes, yes, that’s good, but how do you illustrate his literary achievement?” Secretary Zhang looked at her intently.

“My teaching focuses on his portrayal of characters and personal relationships.” She stopped, noticing a very subtle nod from Zhang. Did it mean “good point” or “got you”?

“Of course, all this has to be put into the right social context,” she added carefully.

“Indeed, indeed, go on.” Secretary Zhang stretched both arms behind his head and began to rock his chair backwards and forwards. His back was to a west-facing window, so the afternoon sun cast his face in and out of shadow, making it hard to see his expression. Meanwhile, Ruan Qiling sat before him bathed in light.

“James’s remarkable achievement is that his characters are rounded. As they move through different relationships the reader’s point of view keeps shifting, making it hard to come to definitive judgments.” Ruan Qiling had given up guessing and said what she believed.

“Why is this remarkable?” Zhang had stopped rocking.

“Well, life itself is complicated and good literature should represent real life, not a simplified version of life. James’s work explores the motives behind characters, going deep into their minds. This gives us an empathetic understanding of their actions …”

“That’s enough!” Secretary Zhang cried and rose to his feet. “Empathetic understanding! No wonder I’ve had so many complaints about your teaching.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pile of papers. “These are all from your class. See this: ‘Professor Ruan seems to want us to believe that there is no clear-cut difference between good and evil …’ And this: ‘Chairman Mao says: love or hate is decided by your class division. But there is no division in Professor Ruan’s literary characters and they all seem to be reasonable’.” He put the papers down. “You’re too out of touch. Fortunately, our students have great political sensitivity.”

Ruan Qiling was speechless. She remained sitting bolt upright and continued wearing her respectful look as sweat streamed down her back.

Secretary Zhang sat back down, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. After a few seconds, he exhaled with a loud sigh. “Professor Ruan.” He shook his head. “People are watching and they are listening. Anyway, let’s stop here. I hope you will go home and think things over.”

He stood up to indicate the meeting was over. Ruan Qiling also rose. “Thank you, I will think carefully.”

“It is not enough just to think,” Secretary Zhang said, annoyed. “You should forget about Henry James. Choose O. Henry or Mark Twain. Some of their short stories are very good in revealing the darkness of Western society.” He noticed Ruan Qiling’s surprise. “Look, literature serves political causes. If Henry James’s work is not suitable to our cause, it doesn’t matter how wonderful it is. It’s worthless.”

He walked Ruan Qiling to the door and paused, his hand on the handle. “I’ve heard that your late husband divorced you because you sympathised with the Communist cause. Is this true?”

Ruan Qiling tensed. “Yes,” she replied softly.

“Well, then, even a Kuomintang reactionary could understand class lines. You should certainly do better. Unless,” he stopped, staring at her, “unless the whole thing was a farce – I hope not.” He opened the door and saw her out.

Ruan Qiling went directly home. An hour later, her house looked as if a bomb had hit it. She had turned it upside down, searching for anything that could expose the “farce”. “Stupid, stupid,” she cursed, not damning Secretary Zhang or the political campaign, but herself. All these years, she believed she had been immune to persecution by the claim that her husband had divorced her because of her “Communist political inclinations”. As the saying went, “A repeated lie can even make its creator believe it.”

It had started more than two decades earlier when nineteen-year-old Ruan Qiling was being pursued with passion by the tall and handsome thirty-year-old Major Chen Zuojun. Unable to resist, she married him in 1943. Not long after their honeymoon, she realised the marriage had been a mistake. One of a long line of scholars, Ruan Qiling was a university graduate with a love of world literature. Chen Zuojun, on the other hand, was the son of a soldier family and had trained at Huangpu Military Academy. All he was interested in was strategy and tactics. Although he adored her and indulged her every whim, she regretted her choice. In the army, promotion involved endless transfers, which meant enduring dislocations and separation. Initially, her husband had urged her to try camp life, but after six months, Ruan Qiling had nearly been driven mad by the life of a camp wife – mahjong, shopping and gossip. In the end, Chen Zuojun gave in and bought her a place in Beijing, where she had lived ever since, in No. 10.

Ruan Qiling’s house was located in the far corner of No. 10, and only her living room window was visible from the rear courtyard. To get to her house, you had to go along a tiny laneway in the corner of the yard that twisted around for about ten metres before reaching her door. The house had many unique features: a front room, timber floor, living room and a small cellar. Above all, it was the only house in the entire compound with its own bathroom, drain and water tap. Ruan Qiling did not have to share the public toilet or engage in small talk with her neighbours.

Chen Zuojun visited her every month. Through his connections he bought her many volumes of world-classics from Hong Kong. Every visit, he presented her with a book as a gift. Each book would be wrapped in exquisite silk ribbons. He himself had no interest at all in these books but he kept hoping that once his wife, this delicate perpetual student, matured, she would appreciate his love.

His last visit was in January 1949, a few days after New Year. Beijing – then called Peiping – had been filled with the anxiety of regime change for months. It was snowing that particular day. Chen Zuojun arrived at dinner time. “I can only stay for a couple of hours. Can you cook something for me please?” He looked haggard so Ruan Qiling quickly brought him a hot towel and a cup of tea and then went off to cook.

“The Kuomintang is finished,” he told her bluntly after putting the chopsticks down. “I had to see you one more time.”

Ruan Qiling wanted to say, “Can’t you just not go back?” But she knew that was out of the question. She quietly cleaned the table and moved everything into the kitchen. When she returned, he had spread some things out on the table: a wrapped box, a bundle of notes and a sealed envelope. “These are for you.” He picked up the box, then said apologetically, “It’s not a book but I hope you like it.”

Ruan Qiling untied the ribbon and put it into a drawer filled with all kinds of silk ribbons before unwrapping the gift. It was a crystal snow dome. Thousands of tiny white flakes formed a snowfield at the bottom of the dome. Miniature houses and human figures were scattered here and there in the field below a dark blue background. Chen Zuojun took it from her hand and gently shook it. The flakes danced around in a blizzard. Seeing the surprise and joy in her face, he smiled and handed it back to her.

He glanced at his watch and continued, “Here is some money for you, and –” he picked up the envelope and hesitated. “These are divorce papers. I’ve already signed them. I’m sorry we have to end like this.”

She froze.

Chen Zuojun put the envelop on the table and stood up. “I have to go now.” He moved quickly to the door, throwing on his scarf and overcoat. Holding the door knob, he turned to her with shining eyes. “Farewell, my little bookworm.” It was at that moment that Ruan Qiling understood this would be their final parting. She took his hand from the door knob and buried her face in it.

It was snowing heavily, with large flakes swirling around. As she watched the red rear lights of her husband’s car vanish into the dark, she realised how false the snow scene in the crystal dome was. When it snowed, there was no blue background; the world was murky.

Chen Zuojun had fallen in battle. The divorce papers had been backdated one year; the reason given was to make a clear break with a wife who “foolishly sympathised with the Communists and obstinately stuck to her wrong ideas”. Ruan Qiling realised what a loss she had suffered. But there was no time to repent as Beijing was taken over by the Communists. She signed the papers and carefully kept them as her amulet. She also kept some old photos, including their wedding picture, his official colonel’s portrait, the crystal snow dome and all the silk ribbons.

Secretary Zhang’s warning, or perhaps threats, had woken her up. She must destroy all mementoes except the divorce papers.

After days of rummaging through chests, cupboards and photo albums, she found what she had been looking for, but her pain and the memories had also returned. Having become the mature woman her husband had anticipated she would, it was all the harder to destroy all traces of his existence.

When Sun Lanfen come to collect the monthly bills, she was shocked by the mess in Ruan Qiling’s house. “Have you been broken into?”

“No, I’ve had too many books. It’s very hard to find anything.”

When it was the other neighbours’ turn to collect the bills, they rarely stepped through her front door because they knew she was very private. Sun Lanfen walked straight in, checked the floor boards, the corners, the windows and the walls, before announcing: “Professor Ruan, your house is really run down. The floor is cracking, the paint is peeling off and how can an intellectual like you not have proper bookcases? You need someone to help you. You definitely need Old Shi.” Before the professor had worked out who this Old Shi was, Sun Lanfen was already leaving with a final word: “I’ll go get him.”

Shi Wangcai had now been working in Ruan Qiling’s house for a month. Every evening he put in a few hours. He had fixed the floor and built a whole wall of bookcases. Ruan Qiling soon discovered that this tall quiet man was not only handy; he was also intelligent and understanding. Her every hesitation or suggestion was considered carefully and his every proposal focused on her needs. Yet there was nothing cringing about him and his manner was confident. As a loner, she enjoyed having him in her house, although neither was talkative. When the bookcase was finished, she offered him more money to paint the house as well.

Two days earlier, Ruan Qiling had noticed that Shi Wangcai seemed preoccupied. Under her persistent questioning, he confessed that he had told his wife that Ruan Qiling had a television set.

“Do they want to watch something?”

“Yes, the ballet The White-Haired Girl.”

“It’s on tomorrow night at seven, isn’t it?”

Shi Wangcai’s face turned red.

“Well, bring them here tomorrow. We can watch it together.”

Over tea in her kitchen, Shi Wangcai tried to begin a conversation. “It looks like snow,” he started.

“Yes it does – we haven’t had proper snow for two years.”

“I like snow, always have. I like to hold the snowflakes in my palm and appreciate their beautiful patterns. I also like the silence snow brings to the world.”

Ruan Qiling was surprised to hear Shi Wangcai’s poetic reply. She smiled and put her cup down. “Let me show you something.”

She went to get the crystal snow dome down. Because of the renovations, she had put it in a cardboard box with the rest of Chen Zuojun’s things on top of the sideboard. She had to stand on her toes to reach into the box. Somehow she lost her balance and knocked the box down, its contents scattering everywhere.

Shi Wangcai bent to pick things up but was shocked by the Kuomintang colonel’s portrait. He picked up another photo, the wedding picture, glanced at Ruan Qiling and returned them to the box. “I think I need to go. Thank you for the tea.”

Holding the snow dome in both hands, Ruan Qiling followed him to the front room mechanically. Shi Wangcai gathered up his tools and left.

As she closed the door, her first impulse was to destroy everything. But just as she was about to light the match, she stopped – this would be seen as destroying evidence because Shi Wangcai now knew of its existence.

The next day, Shi Wangcai brought his wife and son to watch The White-Haired Girl but he himself left for work. His wife was cheerful during the evening so Ruan Qiling relaxed a little. At least, he seemed not to have mentioned what he saw to his family.

This morning, when Sun Lanfen called for snow clearers, Ruan Qiling went out first. She expected Shi Wangcai to be there too but there was no sign of him. She approached Shi Ding to ask after his father. The boy’s evasive reply stoked her anxiety. What would Shi Wangcai do to her?

Ruan Qiling sat on her bed the whole afternoon. Images of her past and imaginings about her future came thick and fast – from the faded red rear light of her husband’s car to Secretary Zhang’s alert eyes – travelling through the afternoon light into the evening dark.

Tap, tap, tap. There was a knock on the door. “It’s me. Shi Wangcai.”