The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [15]
They did it with brick, he says. Sharp corner of brick from inside fireplace. They break off. Take with wok tongs and put in my eye.
Who did? Red Guards?
The boys from the village. From Lishan. After they took us from train.
Just boys? Then who told them to?
I tell them.
He reaches up and slams the fly against the doorjamb.
They already knew when we come, he says. They were ready for us. My father beat to death right there, next to the train. My mother they take away and rape. Then she hang herself. This is what I heard.
He opens the door. Across the street, a radio blares a shrill Cantonese pop song. Lao Jiang is pulling down the gate, drawing the padlock chain through the handle. Chen! he shouts. Are you asleep?
Now I go home, he says. You make story. Make paper if you want. You try.
Somewhere near, outside the doorway of the hut, a boy is crying and vomiting on the ground. Ten paces away, he thinks. Perhaps more. Yet the sound is perfectly clear. He is lying with his head restingon the dirt floor, and yet he can hear the wind skittering dead leaves along the ground outside.
I can’t, the boy sobs. I can’t look at him.
He raises his head an inch.
I’m all right, he says, in a loud, clear voice. It doesn’t hurt so much now.
The door creaks.
You’re alive, another voice says. We thought we killed you.
Is it day or night?
It’s morning.
I need some water, Chen says. Can you bring me some water?
It’s here in the basin. I don’t have a cup.
I can stand. Give me your hand. Don’t be afraid, Chen says. He reaches out, stretching his fingers in the direction of the voice. I can’t see. I won’t hurt you.
The hand that takes his is an old man’s hand, ridged and cracked, the fingers curled stiff.
What is your name? he asks the darkness.
Chen raises his head. It is the strangest sensation: for a moment he wonders whether the ceiling is leaking again. He wipes a finger across his cheek and tastes the salt.
Eyes, you old frauds, he thinks. Good for something all this time.
The last time she appears at Lao Jiang’s she remains standing, refusing to sit. I have a package for you, she says. Something crackles in her hands. I’m putting it on the table.
Mrs. Chong, just a moment, he says. He washes his hands and wipes them before reaching for the envelope. Inside is a thick booklet, heavy and stiff; he runs his hand along the spine and feels the Braille.
Blindness and Self-Erasure: A Case Study
I paid to have it transcribed, she says. It’s only fair. I realize you may not want to read it.
He opens the cover and runs a finger along the first few lines.
While in other respects a completely normal individual manifests few overt signs of a trauma and recovery.
So already you finish.
I couldn’t do anything else, she says. I had to.
He slides the book back into the envelope and carefully closes the flap, wrapping the string fastener around and around until no string is left. You are hardworking girl, he says. One day you make a big success.
Mr. Chen, she says, please. I’m sorry you felt that I tricked you. I want you to accept my apology.
Why need apology? he asks. You already get paper. No problem. He wipes his fingers on his jacket and again drapes the cloth over Mrs. Chong’s ankle. Automatically his hands set to work, the heels of his palms pressing against the tendon.
I described my methods, she says. And I reported how you responded when you found out. I tried to be fair. I didn’t go easy on myself.
Ghost woman, he thinks, bile rising in his throat. Dream-stealing woman. Your methods. His hands shudder, and Mrs. Chong starts in her sleep.
Mr. Chen, she says. Are you still angry with me?
Not angry. Maybe sad.
I am also sad, she says. I hoped you would feel better, now that it’s over. Now that it’s out there.
Out there?
Out in the world. Your story. Now other people can read it and know about you.
At that moment he feels as if he’s standing outside on the sidewalk, and the late afternoon sun