300 Foreign Micro-stories

Author: Zheng Yunqin Compiler/Nationality:
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2001-01-01
Features: Suddenly, my office door was flung open by someone. My wife stormed in, unlike her usual self, shouting at me, "Well, you!" "What's this, then?" "I've heard everything you've been up to. I know all your little misdeeds!" Without warning, she pulled out a gun from her handbag and shot at me. A sharp pain shot through my chest. I fell flat on my face on the floor. Just then, I noticed a hidden camera in the corner of the wall was turning. Oh no, it had to be that guy, Yoshiko! She must have spun a web of lies and exaggerated stories to my wife, then filmed me being shot with a hidden camera. The news director of the TV station shot by his wife! If it were to be aired, it would definitely make today's news. As I thought about it, I gradually lost consciousness.
□[Japan] Moriko Mori wrote, Yosuke Ogawa translated
Birthday Gift
As my birthday approached, a dull ache began in my chest. It wasn't because I was turning 35 and feeling melancholy. If that were the case, my 30th birthday would have truly been heart-wrenching. The three birthdays before this were filled with unforgettable, beautiful yet sorrowful memories that had made me forget the pain. However, those days were completely in the past. Those days were gone forever, oh, Mario.
With Mario, it was love at first sight. I couldn't remember where it happened—maybe at a bookstore at the corner of Roppongi①, or in the nearby grocery store, or perhaps in front of a cigarette shop. When our eyes met, I froze instantly, a sharp pain in my chest. He stared at me intently, his lips slightly pursed, a faint smile playing on his face. I thought, "I have to keep him," though he was a stranger I had never met or belonged to, yet I felt as if losing him would be forever. It was an irresistible impulse. Though he was a stranger, I imagined how lonely I would be if he left me, as if I had been abandoned. "Wait," I blurted out, "don't leave me." He didn't seem surprised. After staring at me for a long time, he unexpectedly introduced himself: Mario. And that's how we fell in love.
"How did you get Mario?" I asked later. He replied, "From a French movie I watched. There was a character named Mario who reminded me of me. My girlfriend at the time started calling me Mario." Mario looked wistful. "Actually, I'm not very handsome." I was thinking of something else, of the woman who watched French movies with him. I secretly envied that stranger.
The day we first met in Roppongi was my 32nd birthday. As dawn broke and we parted, I couldn't help but tell Mario about it. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" he looked regretful. "Then I could have bought you a gift." "You are the gift," I said, trembling in the pale morning light. Mario placed his hand on my shoulder. "Look at that star," he pointed to a point in the western corner. Only one star remained in the sky, twinkling alone. "I'll give it to you as my gift."
"I give you the star?" I gazed at the golden star in awe. We parted hand in hand, our one-night connection sealed.
The happiest birthday was my 33rd. We were in Malaysia, in a charming village surrounded by a small bay. It was a moonless night, the air hot and humid, filled with the scent of the sea and thick tropical flowers, and something else—a unique, from the starry night. At the shallow shore, we were naked, letting the waves crash over us. "I forgot to buy a birthday gift," Mario said, like a mischievous boy. "Sorry." "Don't mind," I said, though I felt a bit lonely. Just then, the moon broke through the clouds. "As a compensation," Mario said, "look, all these fireflies." After the moon appeared, the dark sea was dotted with fireflies, like gems of 0.5 carats, twinkling. "They look like jewels!" I exclaimed. "All for me," Mario said, scooping up some seawater with both hands and pouring it into mine. "Happy birthday." The loneliness vanished instantly. Could there be such a precious gift in the world? Could there be a woman who received such a precious gift? In the darkness, my eyes filled with tears.
Another year passed. That day, we were at my father's villa. Thick snow covered the outside. Soon, my 34th birthday would end. Looking at the fire in the fireplace, I said in a bitter tone, "It’s probably another forgotten birthday gift." Mario hunched his shoulders and stood up, his face close to the window. Fine snowflakes drifted silently. "Would you really give me the snow?" I added sarcastically. Mario was speechless. He looked lost and bewildered. For that look, I carried him for three years.
"Women, Mario, even a single rose would do. How much I longed for a token of love from a man I liked." Both of us realized we were speaking in the past tense. Mario never spoke again. The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed; the entire villa had no trace of Mario. I opened the curtains and looked out at the snow-covered garden. In the winter morning light, the words Mario had left in the snow stood out—I LOVE YOU. Since that frigid morning, I had never seen Mario again.
Today, I finally turned 35. Half of my life was over, the turning point for a woman, yet I remained single. I heard a knock at the door and found a young man from a flower shop standing there. Thirty-five deep red roses—sent by an anonymous sender—were held in my arms.
①Roppongi: One of Tokyo's bustling districts.
[Japan] Ishijima Tatsurou wrote, Liu Tiechang translated
Dark Sea
In the evening, the air was stiflingly hot. The night sky was starless, and the sea was unnervingly still. As usual, I came to the back deck of the ship, where a man was already standing, leaning on the railing, staring intently at the dark sea. "Good evening!" I greeted him. He turned his head. His face was gaunt, his eye sockets sunken, his complexion pale. "Good evening!" he replied in a low, hoarse voice, pulling at his thin lips, a faint smile appearing. I walked closer to him and together we gazed at the dark sea: The sea always made me sad, as if someone was calling out from within. "Really?" he replied, running his bony fingers through his hair. "I love such nights. Isn’t this eerie strangeness more interesting?" I thought he was a strange man. Seeing that I didn’t speak, he asked, "They say there are ghosts on this ship. Have you heard?" "Ghosts?" I asked in return. "I hear one of the passengers committed suicide on this dark, windless night. He stared at the sea for a while, then suddenly jumped in. Ah, right here—where we’re standing."