Sinful child

Author: Bai Xianyong / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-12-01
Features: The Son can be said to be the only long in Bai Xianyong's creative career, and also the most unique one. The novel features a group of delinquent youths in Taipei Central Park—the "Youth Birds"—whose intricate and poignant inner journeys are both shocking and thought-provoking. The author extends deep sympathy and compassion to these children in the cold night, filling the work with the radiance of humanity: "Written for those who, in the deepest, darkest night, still wander the streets, homeless and lost." In our kingdom, there is only night, no day. As soon as the sun rises, our kingdom becomes invisible, because it is an extremely illegal land: we have no government, no constitution, no recognition, no respect—we only have a motley crew of citizens. Sometimes we elect a leader—a person with seniority, elegance, presence, and influence—but we also casually and arbitrarily overthrow him, because we are a nation that is fickle, unrule-bound, and.
When it comes to the territory of our kingdom, it is actually as pitifully small as it gets, no more than two or three hundred meters long and a hundred meters wide, confined to a small patch of land around the rectangular lotus pond in the new park on Taipei’s Chuanqian Road. The edges of our kingdom are surrounded by layers of tangled tropical shrubs: green coral trees, bread trees, palm trees with sparse leaves, and a row of king palms near the road that sway endlessly, sighing like a dense fence that hides our kingdom from the outside world, temporarily isolating it. Yet the threat of the vast world outside the fence is felt acutely within our territory at all times. From the radio station beyond the jungle, a loudspeaker frequently broadcasts sensational news from the outside world. The female announcer of China Radio, with her sharp Mandarin, demands: "American astronauts have landed on the moon! International drug traffickers in Hong Kong and Taiwan were arrested this morning! The fertilizer bureau corruption case will go to court tomorrow!" We all perk up our ears, like a group of deer surviving a forest of tigers and wolves, listening with extreme alertness. Every rustle of the wind is a warning to us. As soon as the sound of police boots with iron nails—click-clack, click-clack—invades our territory from the palm grove, we instinctively scatter like birds and beasts. Some rush to the front of the radio station and blend into the crowd; others sneak into the toilet, pretending to urinate or defecate; others flee to the park gate, hiding behind the ancient tomb-like steps of the museum, seeking refuge in the shadows of the stone pillars, where they can temporarily survive.
Our anarchic kingdom offers no protection, and we all rely on our primal instincts to navigate survival in the darkness. Our kingdom has a murky history—we don’t know who founded it or when it began. Yet in this secretive and illegal micro-nation, many moving and untold stories have unfolded over the years. Our elderly leaders, when recounting the past, often sigh with a mix of sorrow and slight pride: "Ah, how could you ever match those days?"
It is said that years ago, the lotus pond in the park was filled with red lotuses. In summer, the flowers bloomed one by one, floating on the water like bright red lanterns. But later, for some reason, the city government sent people to clear the pond of all the red lotuses and built an octagonal pavilion in the center. Around the pond, several pavilions with red pillars and green tiles were also constructed, adding a touch of ornate, antique charm to our originally rustic land, a blend of the secular and the bizarre.
When our elderly leaders mention this, they inevitably sigh with nostalgia: "Those bright red lotuses—how beautiful they were!" Then they share names and stories we’ve never heard before, recounting tales of heroes who left our kingdom years ago to seek their fortunes outside. Some have long disappeared, leaving no trace. Others died young, their graves overgrown with wild grass. But some, after five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years, would suddenly reappear on the edge of the lotus pond in the deepest, darkest night, returning to our dark kingdom, pacing anxiously around the pond as if searching for the soul they lost years ago.
Then our elderly leaders nod, half-closing their eyes, their faces filled with compassion and wisdom, concluding with deep emotion: "It’s always like this. You think the outside world is big? One day, there will always be a day when you’ll obediently fly back to our old nest."