The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [49]
So feelings are also like this, she says. Always changing, coming and going. Insubstantial.
I’m taking up the old woman’s time, he says. I should go.
Kneeling at his side, she drapes his arm over her neck, fits her shoulder into his armpit, and hoists him upright in a single motion. Their bodies touch for the blink of an eye; then she is walking to the door and opening it, calling Wu tai tai, deui m’jue, deui m’jue, cheng lai la.
We are like mirrors, she tells him, standing in the doorway. You see me and you think: she is unhappy. That is a reflection of your own fear. You see yourself in me, but you don’t understand my mind.
Is that so, he starts to say, but stops himself. Sarcasm won’t mean anything to her, he thinks. Her English is too literal. Then tell me, he says, what do you see?
The kneecap is broken, she says. The tendons were cut in many places. Now we must do stretching and massage, so the muscles do not become weak. When the bone has healed we will begin to exercise.
Is that all?
The old woman shuffles between them, banging her cane against the floor.
I am sorry, she says. Is there something else?
Her face is utterly open, attentive—expressionless, he thinks, but not in a bad way, not numb, or angry, or blank. She hardly blinks at all. It unnerves him.
No, he says. I guess not.
That night after washing the dishes he lowers himself onto the couch, propping his legs in front of him on a low stool. His stomach rumbles, his lips burning from the peppers. He folds his hands into the oval shape, closes his eyes, and tries to imagine nothing: to not imagine. For a moment he feels a sensation of weightlessness, as if he’s risen an inch into the air. His nose begins to itch; he strains to keep himself from scratching it. Downstairs a door buzzes. In a distant corner of his mind he hears an old advertising jingle playing on an out-of-tune piano: I’d like to buy the world a Coke—He tries to slow his breathing, as she instructed, counting to seven with every exhalation, but after a few repetitions he forgets to count and has to start again. Finally he gives up and raises himself to get a drink of water. Insubstantial, he thinks, standing with his glass by the sink. Airplane lights blinking as a jet rises from the runway, banking, turning east.
The colors shift from blue and violet to scarlet, saffron, gold: he has passed from the forest into a meadow. His face flushes in the baking heat; dry grass crackles underfoot. Locusts are singing in trees nearby. He wants to spin around in circles, to lie down in the grass and drink the air. His heel touches something cold, and he winces; he tries to draw it away, but it is stuck there, as if to a block of ice. He shudders and gasps, opening his eyes, and looking down: his feet are resting on the floor.
Did I hurt you? she asks.
No—no. He raises his head. Outside it is almost dark, and the light in the hallway has been turned off. He can barely see her face in the gloom. What time is it? he asks.
Mrs. Wu canceled her appointment, she says. I went an extra half hour. Are you all right? Do you need some water?
It’s OK, he says. It’s no problem. He tries to breathe out the anger, but it remains, a fist wrapped around his windpipe.
She touches his ankle.
You are unhappy.
I am. I can’t do my work here.
What work do you have?
I’m a painter. Or—I was a painter.
Ah.
You’ll think me very self-pitying, he says. It isn’t as if I’m feeding the hungry or saving sick babies. But I’ve been living in Thailand the last year and a half, and I’ve never worked so much in my life. For a while I was finishing a painting every week. And now—being here—it’s all changed.
I am sorry for you.
How can you be? Stop it, he tells himself, it isn’t her fault, she can’t control it any more than you can, but irritation overwhelms him; her calm seems condescending, even insulting. Everything is emptiness, right? he says. Suffering isn’t real. Then why should you care?
She shakes her head once, vigorously. You misunderstand, she says. It is real