The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories Read online

  Then, one winter afternoon, she went shopping with her sister-in-law. When she hurried back it was already past 6 pm. The relative babysitting the boys told her someone from the post office had called several times saying a check she had asked the post office to process on her behalf had been returned. The caller left a phone number and asked her to call back.

  She looked at her watch: It was already past 6:30pm. She hesitated. Then the babysitter said: The caller said he would wait no matter how late.

  She dialed the number. The man at the other end of the phone had been waiting and knew right away who she was. He explained the check had been returned because a clerk had put an erroneous amount on her deposit slip. He asked her to come back the next day with her seal to correct the error.

  She recognized the voice as that of the post office director, inquired about the proper procedures, and then asked, politely, his name so she could take care of this smoothly the next day. The director said his last name was Zhang.

  The next day when she went to the post office, she noticed a stranger sitting where the director used to sit, bent over things on the desk. She asked for Mr. Zhang to process the returned check. A female clerk took the seal from her without saying a word, went about correcting the error, and returned the seal to her a short while later when it was all taken care of.

  She stepped out of the post office. The rare winter sun felt warm. As she walked slowly in the warm sunshine toward her home, she had this odd feeling: She would never see that post office director again for the rest of her life. He must have been transferred, or have been promoted to the general office, she thought. Yet before he left, he called her on account of that error on the check and waited for her return call after the post office had closed.

  He said his last name is Zhang, she murmured.

  (n.d.)

  My Bride

  Wu Nianzhen

  The last night of our honeymoon vacation, my bride suddenly became worried about the new family life that would begin soon. After all, aside from me, she would have to live with my mother and my siblings. With me she had long since felt comfortable and at ease. With my family, well, it was far from being so.

  I tried to comfort her about this. After a while her concern seemed somewhat eased. She looked up and asked: “How should I call Mother?”

  “We all call her ‘Ma.’ However, you can use the same greeting you are accustomed to.”

  “You fool! Of course I will follow you in this.” She hit me with her fist gently and said: “However, I’ll have to practice first.”

  So between stepping into the bathroom and falling asleep, she was calling out “Ma!” “Ma!” the entire time, her face lit with joy and happiness.

  On the way home the tourist bus broke down on the expressway and we were delayed for three or four hours. By the time we reached Taibei, it was well past time for dinner. I suggested we find a casual place to eat but she wouldn’t’ agree.

  “‘Ma’ must be waiting for us.” She said positively and murmured again, with a smile on her face: “Ma, Ma . . . ”

  As my bride had expected, Ma and my siblings were waiting quietly at the dinner table. It was already 10:00pm.

  Ma grasped my bride’s hand and made her sit in her own seat. Then she told me to sit in the chair left empty by my dead father. A long while passed before Ma found her voice and said with tears in her eyes: “From now on, you two will take care of this family. . . . ”

  My bride and Ma held each other’s hand, smiling, their tears glinting under the warm light.

  “I’ll take good care of the family. . . . ” My bride nodded, and called out suddenly, “Mommy!”

  That night my bride sobbed long in my arms. Then she said: “I’m so sorry . . . I was too emotional. . . . I suddenly felt my heart being filled with the love of four people: you, Ma, my Dad . . . and . . . my Mommy. . . . ”

  She closed her eyes as tears flowed down her cheeks and whispered in my ear: “Ah, you fool, you don’t understand. . . . ”

  But I do.

  My bride lost her mother at five. For 23 years she has been a good surrogate mother to her two younger sisters. She never had a chance to say “Mommy” again. Once she told me: “At the time mother was already in a coma. Father carried me to the sickbed and said: ‘Call Mommy, my child, call mommy. . . . ’ I remember, vaguely, that I called as loud as I could: ‘Mommy!’”

  (n.d.)

  The Love Story of A and B

  Yindi

  Time is a magician. When 30 years have passed, it is difficult to tell what is real and what is not real. Below is something strange that happened in my office this morning:

  A and B were my high school classmates. A is female and B male. B was a roommate of mine in the dorm. We shared a bunk and were close like each other’s shadow. When B and A started to date, I had the pleasure of being an occasional messenger between them, as well as a peace-maker now and then. However, the feelings they had for each other during high school were not mature yet. After graduation they parted ways; and each followed his or her own path; they each got married and started a family of their own. One thing they had in common, though: they both emigrated to America, A is a dentist on the East coast while B is a gynecologist on the West coast.

  Yesterday afternoon, A called and said she wanted to come and see me. It turned out she was in Taibei and got my phone number from a classmate. She told me she was to return to the U.S. tomorrow. She sat in my office for about half an hour. Thirty years of time had lapsed. For a while we didn’t know where to start and yet once we started we had so much to talk about. Before leaving she gave me a tin of tea leaves and asked if I was still in touch with B. I shook my head.

  Then, a strange thing happened. This afternoon, B, whom I had all but lost touch with since graduation, called me, too. He said he had been back to Taibei for a conference and finally got hold of my phone number from a mutual friend. I said: “This call of yours is a bit late. If you had dialed this number yesterday, I would have told you A is in my office and is chatting with me over tea. You would certainly have dashed over to see A, whom you haven’t seen for 30 years!” B said; “Really? Really?” He dashed to my office and asked, still gasping: “Perhaps A has changed her flight? Perhaps she is still in Taibei?” I told him to call up a few classmates who would know A’s whereabouts. B was given this accurate information: A has boarded a 10:30 flight this morning to return to America.

  B had such a lost look in his eyes. He then asked me for A’s phone number and address in America and wanted to leave right away. I gave him the tin of tea leaves A had given me and said: “You both, without talking, brought me a tin of tea leaves. I’ll keep yours, but hers, you can take back to America and enjoy. You didn’t get a chance to shake her hand, but this tin of tea leaves, at least, still has a lingering warmth of her hand. Take it with you. Better than nothing, you know.”

  At that he took over the tin and hugged it to his chest, a smile appearing on his face. He said good bye and left me to linger a bit longer in the memory of this old-time love. I have always wondered: Which would be better, the two of them, after 30 years of no contact, missing each other again by as little as one day? Or, what if they had suddenly encountered each other again in my office that day? What kind of ramifications would such a reunion have?

  (n.d.)

  Nightclub-tique

  Zhong Zimei

  Monogamy has collapsed. The short, temporary relationships between men and women are now maintained through “open rendezvous” (no more “secret rendezvous”). Childbirth is handled by “Generational Reproduction” chain stores.

  All “open rendezvous” happen at nightclubs. The nightclubs of the 20th century, though, are nowhere to be found. The nightclubs of the entire world are gathered in the vacuum 230,000 kilometers from the earth to the moon. They are made of colorful soft plastic, semi-transparent, big ones about one kilometer across, and small ones only 10 meters. These oblong things float in the atmosphere, ro
ck slightly, and bump into each other softly, as spontaneous and romantic as can be. Hence a new expression is coined to describe this new nightclub phenomenon: “Nightclub-tique.”

  Tonight, John flew his spacecraft again to “Nightclub-tique.” His partner was Gonzales—an impeccable beauty.

  They had just finished the first round of French cognac when two tall and strong police officers appeared in front of them. One of them said to Gonzales coldly: “Give me your left hand!’

  He gripped Gonzales’s ring finger and lifted the nail easily, all the dark red parts glittering right before their eyes.

  “A fake human indeed! Where is your product registration card? No? An illegal fake human! You’ll have to come with us—”

  “Wait a second!” John stood up and removed a golden card from his waist belt.

  The coldness of the police melted away. One of the officers swiped the card against the magnetic buckle of his waist belt and gave John a salute:

  “Mr. John, member of the Global Commission! You have two of your five amnesty rights left. All right, we will grant amnesty to this lady.”

  When the police left, the ashen-faced Gonzales threw herself into John’s arms and cried gratefully:

  “You won’t despise me just because I’m a fake, John?”

  John burst out laughing. He gently lifted the nail of his own ring finger.

  “You’re a fake, too? How can fake humans sit on the Global Commission?”

  “Why can’t commission members be fake?” It took John a while to stop laughing. “Let me tell you a secret. My card is fake, too.”

  John reached to wipe away the tears from Gonzales’ cheeks. “The tears in your dacryocysts must be counterfeit. You should use Daiyu. That brand can’t be faked. The world we live in today, there are too many fake things. Who knows, this French cognac may not be real. . . . ”

  Just then another group of police swarmed in. They were not coming for John, though. Instead, they dragged out the manager from his office. The manager was shaking from head to toe.

  “The license for this nightclub is fake, damn it!’ A police officer shouted.

  John walked up and showed them his golden card.

  An arrest was thus warded off. The manager bowed to John so many 90-degree bows and returned to his office.

  “John! You are something! I’m so proud of having someone like you among us fake humans!” Gonzales snuggled in John’s arms and said again softly, as if to herself; “How nice it’d be to return to monogamy. . . . ”

  Outside the window, the most splendid vista of nightclubs in the entire Milky Way still unfolds its endless story of “Open Rendezvous”—the story of Nightclub-tique, real and fake alike.

  (2000)

  family

  Blowfish

  Wang Renshu

  He learnt about this from someone and decided to make the move.

  Somehow he got a basket of blowfish and carried it home quietly.

  Three successive years of disastrous harvest left him with barely enough grain to pay the landowner and little to feed his family of five. It had been excruciatingly difficult for him, all alone, to pull the family through from last winter to early spring. Now, all that was left was hunger.

  But how could he let his family suffer hunger?

  When his family saw him back with a full basket, they all jumped for joy, as if he were an angel.

  The kids met him at the door, half dancing.

  “Pop, Pop! What is it? Let’s eat it!”

  At this tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Eat.” he mumbled, terrified by his own voice, terrified for the lives of his kids; his heart nearly froze.

  He told his wife to cook the fish and then left on the pretext of an errand. Not that he didn’t want to die himself, but that he didn’t want to watch with his own eyes how his family would die. So he wanted to stay away for the time being.

  It was well past noon and he was still not back. The kids had been pleading with their mother for the fish

  Now, his wife, who had been through a lot with him and loved him dearly, would never let the kids eat or taste anything before he had the first bite.

  By the time the sun began to set in the west, the blowfish was still being cooked in the wok. It was then that he came back home, as if walking on air, dreading each step, his mind filled with pictures of his family, all dead, sprawled here and there.

  Remembering his resolve to end the family’s suffering, he quickened his steps. Even from a distance he could see the glistening eyes of his children waiting outside; then, he heard a chorus of their voices welcoming him home.

  “Why, not dead yet?” he thought aloud softly.

  “Pop! We’ve been waiting for you to eat together!”

  “Oh!” He now knew.

  The family scrambled to the table and ate with gusto. They hadn’t had any fish for so long and every tiny bite tasted delicious. Afterwards, he lay in bed quietly and soon fell asleep, waiting for the Dark Angel of Death to descend.

  The blowfish, however, had been cooked for so long its poison had all disappeared. So the family lived and would have to suffer hunger again, day by day.

  He woke up and sighed: “Why is it so hard even to ask for death?” as tears welled in his eyes.

  (1936)

  Two Letters

  Tang Xunhua

  July 1, 1984

  Dear Younger Brother:

  Greetings!

  I’m writing this letter to ask you to forgive me: I’ve lied to you for the last five years.

  Each day of the last five years I was being tortured by the feeling of guilt and wanted to write and tell you the truth, but was forced to keep the lie alive again and again thanks to the hard life we led and to your sister-in-law being bedridden with paralysis. I am not a worthy brother! Remember the 10 yuan a month you have been sending to support our father out of filial love for him? The truth is: our father passed away five years ago!

  Now, for reasons known to you, our life has turned around and your sister-in-law has been cured completely. It’s high time to tell you the truth!

  It is with heartfelt gratitude that I am sending you the 600 yuan you earned with your toil and sweat, which I took from you through lies and in the name of our dead father.

  Could you forgive me? Could your wife, the sister-in-law I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, forgive me?

  Best wishes!

  Your elder brother

  July 7, 1984

  Dear Elder Brother:

  Greetings!

  I was saddened by the news that my father-in-law has long passed away and regret that as a daughter-in-law I have never had a chance to show him my filial love. How can I face my father-in-law when I meet him in my next life?

  You were forced to lie by hard life, so I can fully understand. But could you forgive me for the lie I have told? In order not to devastate my father-in-law and to disturb your life, I did not tell you the news that your brother had laid down his life during the border war with Vietnam.

  The money sent to you was taken from your brother’s compensations. Since I am not hard-pressed financially, I am returning to you the 600 yuan. Please accept it.

  I’d be so happy if Elder Brother could kindly forgive me, too. Please give my hearty congratulations to my sister-in-law on her complete recovery!

  Best wishes!

  Your younger sister-in-law

  (1986)

  Black Butterfly

  Liu Guofang

  His son nestled in his arms. A butterfly flew over, a big black butterfly. His son bolted from his arms and ambled after the butterfly. His son didn’t catch the butterfly. Instead, he ran over and caught his son.

  “Don’t go after the butterfly,” he said.

  “Why?” his son looked up and asked.

  “Butterflies are dead people.”

  “Do all dead people become butterflies?” his son asked.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Wil
l Pa become a butterfly?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  His son still wanted to chase after butterflies, so he held his son’s hands tightly in his own. So many butterflies were hovering and dancing overhead. His son lifted his head and chased them with his eyes, crying out: “See, so many people have become butterflies!”

  He took his son back home.

  From then on he didn’t spend much time with his son. Soon he acquired a lover, a pretty girl. The girl liked him and stayed with him every day. Once the girl said, “Let’s get married.”

  He said, “I’ll miss my son.”

  The girl said, “Easy. I’ll bear you a son.”

  For a long while he didn’t say a word. Then he nodded.

  So he divorced his wife. When he was packing his things up, his son grasped his hand and asked: “Where’re you going, Pa?”

  “A long business trip,” he lied.

  “Pa doesn’t want me any more,” his son said.

  There was nothing he could say.

  Just then a butterfly flew over, a very big black butterfly. He saw his son’s eyes glued to the butterfly. It hovered around a few times and left.

  So did he.

  For a long time afterwards he didn’t see his son. He missed him. When he missed his son badly, his new wife would pat her belly and say to him, “No need to worry. I’ll bear you one.”

  There was nothing else he could do about it.

  Except for waiting, waiting for his wife’s belly to grow bigger. He waited and waited but his wife didn’t bear him a son. He missed his son even more.

  One day, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he went to see his son without telling his new wife. Since he hadn’t visited him for years, he didn’t know where his son had moved. It took him a while to find the new address.

  There he saw a child, much taller than he remembered, the innocent curiosity gone. He knew in his heart that the child in front of him must be his son but didn’t dare to trust his eyes. He said to the child: “Do you know me?”