The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [51]
On the afternoon of the third day the telephone rings. He waits for the answering machine to pick up, and then remembers that there is none: in Hong Kong, where everyone has a mobile phone, there is no need. Still he feels no need to get up. Everyone who Mrs. Mei wants to speak to will know she is in Paris. But the rings persist: twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five. Finally he lurches out of bed, snatching his cane, and limps across the room to the desk.
It is Ji Shan Sunim. She sounds agitated, even angry. Why have you not come to the therapy? It is vital that you come every day. Have you been sick?
Yes. I’ve been ill. I’m sorry I haven’t called.
Do you need medicine? I will send someone to get it for you.
No, he says. There’s no medicine.
But you are in pain, she says after a moment. I can hear it.
I’m sorry. I don’t think you would understand.
What is not to understand?
Every morning I wake up and realize that my career is over, he says. How can you know what that’s like? Nuns can’t fail; you can’t fail if you don’t want anything. How am I supposed to tell you about it?
In the background loud voices babble, raucous laughter rises and falls.
I don’t think I can keep coming to the therapy, he says. I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to get well.
Then I will come to you.
I’m not worth your time, he says. Don’t bother.
What will I do, he wonders. More than an hour has passed, and he is still leaning against the desk, his back to the window. The silence burns in his ears; he taps his cane against the floor just to hear the sound. For a moment he imagines pulling the old television off its shelf in the closet and plugging it in, but no, he thinks, you do that and in a moment it will be April, and you’ll have wasted five months watching bad old movies and Chinese commercials. He sees himself sitting by the window with his leg propped on a chair, washed in blue light, sweat beaded on his forehead. Choose your poison, he thinks. The doorbell rings.
When he opens the door she uncrosses her arms and takes off the baseball cap she has been wearing, as if to help him recognize her. She is wearing blue jeans, a pink cardigan over a yellow polo shirt someone must have loaned her, her gray nun’s shoes, a small leather bag in one hand. His hand holding the cane trembles, he reaches out to the door frame for support, and she slides her hands under his arms and presses herself to him until he wonders if his ribs will collapse. She is so strong that if his good knee buckles, if he throws away his cane, she will still hold him up. What’s happening? he hears a small, petulant voice asking. What’s she doing? You’re not ready—and he bites down on his lower lip, hard, to distract himself. When will I be ready? he thinks. What other time is there than now?
When he wakes in the morning she has already taken her blankets from the sofa and begun moving the furniture, sliding the armchairs next to the wall, turning the coffee table on its side, rolling up the carpet. On an end table she has made a makeshift altar: a tiny Buddha seated on a cigar box, a spray of dried flowers, three plums on a saucer. Her movements seem stiff, even awkward, until he realizes he’s never seen her body unconcealed by robes. How uncomfortable it must be, he thinks, watching from the doorway.
Have you eaten?
There were noodles in the refrigerator, she says. She picks up the rolled carpet and folds it in half, as if it were made of paper. You don’t mind?
Of course not, he says. Did you like them?
For a moment she seems confused by the question, her eyes wandering over his shoulders. Less pepper next time, she says. She balances the carpet on her shoulder and walks past him to the hall closet.
Sunim, he says, what are you doing?
My name is Ana.
Ana.
She closes the closet door and steps slowly into