The Complete Works of Shi Tao 2

Author: Shi Tuo / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-09-01
Features: In the heavy, shadow-laden air, in the silence so profound that even the flight of flies could be clearly heard, I prepared to sit on the old, carved master's chair at the head of the room. Just then, a faint tremor arose in the air, almost inaudible, followed by the appearance of a woman's head from the small inner door. She was one of the familiar types seen in such places—wearing a faded blue cotton dress, about forty years old, looking angry for some reason, like a witch or more like a housekeeper's assistant to a female principal. (She had lived in Mrs. Menglin's house for ten years and, later, I heard she had died two years ago.) She stared at me in astonishment and then asked in a low, angry voice, "What is it you want?" I explained my business, and the housekeeper, like a shadow, retreated inside. I heard murmuring inside for about five minutes, followed by the sound of a drawer being opened and closed, the rustling of clothes, light footsteps, and Mrs. Menglin's cough. The housekeeper reappeared and gestured for me to follow her. "Please come in," she said, then turned and left. Her voice was mysterious, monotonous, and dull.
When I entered, Mrs. Menglin was sitting on a carved redwood bed, almost occupying half the room, with her small, streaked white hair bun and sunken lips gently moving. She had not grown thinner but had become fatter. Yet it was clear at a glance that she had lost something essential—something indispensable to a living person's spirit. Where had her sharp gaze gone? Where had her dignity, her strictness, her keenness gone, which I had last seen her maintain? Dear Mrs. Menglin, how had you changed? She gestured for me to sit at the long table by the window. She must have been napping when I arrived, or perhaps, overwhelmed by emotion, she had gazed at me blankly for a moment. Then she struggled for a moment before sinking back into her seat.
"How long has it been?" she asked, gasping for breath with difficulty. I was surprised at how loud her voice was; her hearing must have been excellent once, but now there was no doubt about it—she was deaf.
"Seven years," I replied, raising my voice as much as possible. She still stared at me blankly, seemingly not understanding. Just then, Miss Su Gu entered from outside. She was still as slender as a willow branch, still walking with her customary light steps, but her entire demeanor was stiff, devoid of her former grace. Her hair was no longer as thick or as dark as before; her oval face, unadorned, had become longer and thinner; faint wrinkles had appeared at the corners of her eyes; her eyes no longer sparkled with the mysterious, captivating light they once did. If she could be compared to a flower, she was like a moonflower placed in a Ming dynasty vase, already withered and faded. Even with adornment now, could she still hide her twenty-nine years?
I was, of course, astonished. Dear Miss Su Gu, how had you changed too? She gave me a sad smile, nodded lightly, and silently sat beside Mrs. Menglin. We fell silent again. We sat there awkwardly, haunted by the melancholy left behind by our past years, reflecting on the connections we had severed.
The old clock on the dressing table—once a gratingly loud old man—had stopped for some time. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a pale yellow line in the dim air. Mrs. Menglin's home was never this desolate; I quickly remembered how we had baked pastries together, how Miss Su Gu had given me a beautifully embroidered purse, how we had carried bamboo baskets to the orchard to buy flowers—alas, seven years! Unaware to us, time had not been kind to us; it seemed all the good things had passed.
"You've grown old," Mrs. Menglin said hesitantly, then seemed to correct herself.
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