I went back to the ‘memory wall’. Not with my father, however. What he had been trying to communicate had been said that evening, and it was something we never spoke of again. Instead I would visit the wall on my own. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Sometimes I would head there straight after school. I would read the poems, including the one my father had left for me. I would read the names of the people who had disappeared. Murmuring the names of those people under my breath made me feel – wherever they were – they might not be so lonely any more. And that made me feel less lonely too.
One day I arrived on a grey afternoon. And there was nothing left but rubble. They had smashed it in the early hours. I had supposed it would happen, sooner or later. I saw one or two people walking on the other side of the road, but I felt certain I was the only person to have come to see the monument. Now I was the sole mourner at its wake. I did not feel sad exactly. Only a gentle, numbing feeling. Hopelessness. The memory wall had been a delicately wrought structure, formed by the feelings and colours of the past, held together by love and loss. It had been in some way … sacred, because it was more than simple bricks and mortar; it had, for a short and precious time, housed the ghosts of the past.
But what did any of that mean against the brute force of diggers and bulldozers? What did it mean when there was something stronger, something meaner, something harder that could come along and smash it to smithereens? It suddenly seemed to me this was life’s inevitable corollary; that imagination would always be papered over by propaganda, that the poets and peacemakers would always be stamped out by those who had force on their side.
And yet. I’d memorised what my father had written about me; those words lived in me now. Perhaps the same was true for others.
I knelt down and took a small piece of white rock and placed it in my pocket. From above, the greyness of the sky grew darker and it began to rain. Feeling the cold beads of water clinging to my hair and lacing my skin, I felt a shrill of warm melancholy. I stayed there for a few moments, as still as I could, a small human statue protruding from the rubble, but then the downpour became a deluge, and I bolted, running for cover. The sky above became a mass of churning vaporous grey, a great vortex bordered by slashes of vicious black cloud.
From within that mass of grey, lightning peeled and rippled, and the sound of thunder rumbled so loudly it shook the ground with its violence. Pulling my jacket up and over my head, I scooted down a side street, trying in vain to shield myself from the rain, but the street itself had become a moving river. My feet squelched and sank in the rivulets of water that were rushing down concrete gullies; the water was everywhere, squeaking in the skin at the small of my back, slithering across my toes. And when I tried to peer into the murky gloom ahead, my vision was blurred and fragmented by rain.
Blinking furiously, I managed to make out the shape of a doorway – a shop. I stumbled towards it and pushed the door open, hearing a faint tinkle of a bell against the backdrop of slapping, pounding rain. Once again, a great yawn of thunder pealed across the heavens, shaking me to the bones. I slammed the door shut behind me with a gasp.
I wiped my face with a soaking sleeve and blinked. I was in a dark shadowy room of books. There were books everywhere. Books on old shelves. Books in piles on the floor. Books stacked in columns from the floor rising towards the ceiling, like thick, crooked plants shooting up from the ground. Rickety old stairs led down to the main section where someone was sat at a desk, their figure illuminated by candlelight. I wanted to disappear behind a bookcase, to wait until the storm had spent its force, until my clothes and skin had been dried by the warm air which was rich and lazy with the dusky scent of old leather and paper. But the proprietor had already seen me. I had been raised to be obsequiously polite to adults, deferential to a fault, so I made my way towards him, still blinking the raindrops from my eyes.
‘Hello, sir,’ I said.
He looked up at me. His old puckered face was a rich burnished brown ravined with wrinkles, and two misty blue eyes gazed out, shimmering with amusement.
‘Spot of rain out there, is there?’ he asked, smiling.
In the same moment, the thunder crashed, and the bookstore itself seemed to tremble.
‘Yes, sir, there is a drop or two!’ I said, with as haughty a tone as I could, for even I realised when I was being mocked.
He smiled all the more, and then the lines on his forehead wrinkled in consternation, and he waved one straggly arm at me.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he spluttered. ‘Come in. Come and sit down. I’ll make us some tea.’
I took a seat at the old mahogany desk. The old man shuffled out of the room. When he came back, he brought two small cups of green tea. The china was cracked and worn, and the rims were a little dirty. But I didn’t want to appear impolite, so I took a sip. Perhaps because of my damp and clammy skin, the tea tasted particularly sweet and reviving. In fact, it might have been the best cup I’d ever had.
The thunder rumbled again, though it sounded further away this time. The old man’s face wrinkled with delight.
‘Are you frightened by thunder and lightning?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ I said stiffly, feeling I was being mocked again.
‘I only ask because some children are.’
‘I am almost fourteen, sir.’
The old man smiled again, but this time with a hint of pathos.
‘Forgive me. I am very old, as you can see. To me, most people look like children.’
I felt a little sorry for him then. So I ventured a confidence.
‘I didn’t think I was frightened of thunder and lightning. But just now … outside … I did get a bit scared.’
He nodded his head in grave understanding.
‘You know what is interesting? Here in China people are taught from an early age to be afraid of thunder and lightning. But there are some places in the world where that is not the case. Did you know that?’
‘I did not.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his tone becoming more animated. ‘Do you know where Denmark is?’
‘It is in Scandinavia, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s quite right. A long time ago, the people who lived in those regions were called Vikings. They taught their children about thunder according to their religious beliefs. And they believed that thunder was the sound of one of their gods, Thor, fighting with evil giants in the skies. He would throw his invincible hammer and the sound it would make each time it struck an evil giant was the sound of thunder. So, at night, when the Viking children heard thunder, they would know not to be afraid. It was just Thor protecting their world from the evil giants who lived beyond it. Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that wonderful?’
The old man was clearly delighted with this information; he looked at me expectantly.
I nodded my head and smiled. It was a nice story.
His enthusiasm seemed to swell.
‘I’ve got just the book for you. Just the book!’
He got up from his seat, his spindly body creaking and wheezing, and he stumbled away. I heard a rustling and rummaging and then a louder clatter. I couldn’t help but smile. He returned, more dishevelled and panting. He dropped the book neatly onto the desk, almost displacing his tea.
‘There,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Norse Myths. As you will note, it is the ’53 edition, a beautifully rendered work by Larsson with illustrations by Steig.’
It did indeed look like a beautiful book; the faint image of an otherworldly map, replete with castles made of cloud, scratched into the rich leather parchment. He pushed it towards me.
‘Thank you, but I can’t, sir.’
For the first time his eyes became timorous, almost fearful.
‘You mean to say you don’t like reading?’
‘Oh no, not at all. I love reading. I love storybooks and poems and books about history too.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I … I don’t have … money.’
His expression crinkled in a frown and he rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.
‘Well … well, how about this? You take the book home with you. And read it. And when you are done, you bring it back. What do you say?’
His eyes were shining with hope. For a second it seemed as though he were the child and I the adult.
I nodded. He clapped his hands in delight, the childlike gesture once again belying his years, and I couldn’t help but smile shyly in return.
I shuffled out of the shop with my precious cargo clutched underneath my jacket. The storm had exhausted itself with its own ferocity, leaving in its wake only a mild drizzle, and from the streets arose a faint, diaphanous mist. The buildings appeared as dark shapes behind that gauze of grey and the few people who were fumbling their way through the beclouded air seemed as shadows, stencilled against the darkening gloom. The air was cool but fresh, and after the warmth of the bookshop and the hot tea, the tips of my fingers began to tingle.
I pressed the book against me. I was terribly excited and could not wait to get home to read it. Already I knew that I wouldn’t tell my mother or father about the book. I wouldn’t even tell my grandmother. It seemed to me that the old man and I had entered into a special pact. And it was nice to have some part of my life separate from my family. It was nice to have a secret. I thought about his ancient, withered face, but with eyes mild and youthful, and was filled with a sense of wonder. I think I understood why he had lent me the book. Because he knew I would come back to return it. And – in that little shop, nestled in that back alley – his days and his evenings were perhaps lonely. In that way, we weren’t so different. I was surrounded by people at school, it was true, but I didn’t have any real friends. Which meant I was lonely too.
I got to my building, climbed the stairs and entered the corridor. I was still wrapped in my thoughts of gods and thunder when I heard a muffled yelp. I turned. One of the doors on the corridor was ajar. I think, even at that point, I knew something was wrong. I knew whatever was going on behind that door was something I didn’t want to see. Shouldn’t see. But I was pulled towards it with dreamlike inevitability. I saw my arm stretch out in front of me, pushing the door open. I found myself stepping inside.
In the gloom I saw two people, our neighbours the Cuis. Dongmei and her husband Yunxu. They were a childless, younger couple who mostly kept themselves to themselves. Dongmei was hunched up on the floor, her back pressed against a wall, helpless and terrified. Her mouth was bleeding. Yunxu was standing over her. A shopping bag had been split, its contents rolled out across the floor. My stomach lurched. Dongmei was trembling violently – I had never seen an adult so frightened. As though sensing my presence, Yunxu turned his head. When I had seen him in the corridor in the past, I had inclined my head slightly and said ‘Hello, sir’ as I did with all the adults on our block. He had returned my greeting, friendly enough but faraway, as though he were looking through me. That was not unusual, for adults rarely see children. But this time he saw me. There was something strange and desperate and ugly in his expression, and the corners of his lips turned downwards in a feral leer. He blinked twice, and lurched his way towards me. I saw the shadows under his eyes. His gaze was bleary and bloodshot. He too was trembling. But not with fear. With rage. He leaned into me, deliberately. His breath stank of alcohol. He grinned but the grin was deformed and threatening.
‘You like to listen in, don’t you, you dirty little bitch!’
It was little more than a whisper, but there was in it something so obscene, something so hateful. He pulled his hand back. I felt he was going to hurt me, I was sure of it, but I remained rooted to the spot, paralysed with shock. Then he brought his mouth close to my face, and gave a single rancid belch. The warm stench clung to my skin, and I felt myself gag.
He laughed.
I pulled away, my eyes hot with tears. I entered my own apartment. I kept my head down, passing my mother in the kitchen, slipping into my room without a word. I took out my book and laid it carefully on my desk. I could still taste the foul tang of Yunxu’s breath. I felt a sob rise up within me. I lay on my bed and gazed up at the ceiling. There was a mobile in the corner of the room; fashioned from silver paper, it featured a gently rotating series of stars and moons. It was a relic from the days when my brother was a baby and had shared my room. Then the mobile had hung over his cot. Now it was turning in the gloom, the silver of its paper stars and moons catching the meagre light, gleaming softly in the shadows. And I felt a yearning to be a small child again; to be cocooned in safety and warmth; vaguely aware that the world around you is one of magical stars and fairy-tale moons and that nothing in it is malevolent or sharp.
My mother called. I heard the sounds of my family settling down to dinner. My mother called again. I got up and went to join them. My mother had prepared a sweet and sour soup. It was piping hot and its steam sheened our faces. I felt the heat as a thick vapour, and warm water gathered in my eyes. My brother Qiao, now almost eight, was often so boisterous at the dinner table that my mother would have to shush him or my father would have to shoot him one of his ‘very serious’ looks. Even that wasn’t always enough, because my brother’s bawdy delight along with his gap-toothed grin could often steal a smile from the most severe of remonstrators. But that day he was quiet. I felt his gaze on me, regarding me with a gentle quietness, until finally he spoke a single question so softly it was almost a whisper.
‘Why are you sad, Sister?’
I looked at him and his image blurred, the steam rising from the soup, and tears filling my eyes. I tried to hold it in but instead I began to sob quietly, my family looking on in astonishment.
‘What on earth has happened?’ asked my mother.
I managed to pull myself together.
‘It’s nothing,’ I mumbled.
My grandmother looked at me. She didn’t really do consolation but when she spoke there was a softness in her voice which almost had me crying again.
‘It’s certainly something.’
Everyone was looking at me. I didn’t want to – I didn’t want to return to the incident, but I had to say something.
‘Mr Cui from number eight. He … he …’
My grandmother’s face had hardened, her eyes were like stones.
‘He what?’
‘He told me … a bad word.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t … want to say!’
I had started to cry again. But my grandmother’s lips remained tight.
‘I don’t care what you want. I ask you again. What was it?’
I looked at her; for a moment she seemed like someone else, and her coldness frightened me. I looked at my mother, my father. Then I muttered the word ‘bitch’ under my breath.
My mother gasped. She threw up her hands. She stood up.
‘I have always said … I have always known. They are trash, those people. She dresses in bin bags and every other week there’s another bruise on her face. They fight and copulate like animals. These are the kind of people we have to live with, in this day and age!’
My mother sat back down, shaking her head. For a few moments nobody said a word. I felt exposed; something private and humiliating had been revealed and it made me feel weak and embarrassed. I wanted to finish eating as fast as possible and escape to the solitude of my room. My grandmother turned her head back down to her soup. I realised that she couldn’t even look at me. I was certain I had shamed her, and that, more than anything, broke my heart. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She took a couple of sips of the soup. Then she laid down her spoon, got up from the table and walked out the front door. My brother looked at me in bemusement. My mother shot my father a wary look. For a few moments, no one said anything.
Then there was an almighty crash, followed by screaming. My mother and father dashed out into the corridor. I followed them.
Other neighbours were filtering out of doorways, looking for the source of the commotion. I followed my parents down the corridor to the Cuis’ residence. The door had been broken open. My grandmother had simply removed one shoe, used it as a battering ram, and smashed her way in. When I looked into the apartment, Mr Cui was lying on his back and my grandmother was standing over him; a stout and robust old lady, she was raising that shoe, bringing its hard sole down onto the cowering man’s head again and again, her face white with cold fury. Mr Cui was trying to cover himself, but each blow sounded cleanly and smartly like a whip being cracked. In some other context, it might have been comical, except this was real violence; I caught the blood pouring down his shocked face as my grandmother continued to crack him. My mother was screaming. My father was shouting. Mrs Cui was hunched up on the ground, crying hysterically. The other neighbours joined the commotion, until finally my grandmother was led away. She was frowning as she walked past me. She didn’t look at me. Her face was expressionless, her eyes dull.
None of us returned to the table that evening to eat. The mayhem had driven my brother into a state, and my mother was with him, comforting him. My father had retired to his study, as he so often did. My grandmother had slipped into her room without a word, closing the door. I knew not to bother her then.
Even though I saw Mr Cui a few times after that day, he never spoke to me again. In the corridor, on those occasions when we passed one another, he would bow his head and look away. After a while I forgot all about him. The Cuis moved away some years later, but I couldn’t tell you exactly when or to where. That same night, however, I again found myself lying on my bed in the darkness, gazing up at the ceiling. The noise of the neighbours had quietened down. The corridor itself seemed to exhale in a quiet, night-time murmur. As sleep gradually settled on me, I thought of my grandmother. From somewhere far away came the distant sound of thunder. I thought about Thor, in the clouds, hurling his hammer and killing giants. And I felt safe.