Can Xue - The Last Lover

At the train station Reagan stepped onto the northbound train. He’d said to Vincent beforehand, “I always get onto a train at random. And, randomly, whatever train it is reaches home.”

On the road back to the office, Vincent reminded himself by saying: “Hui Mingxia, Hui Mingxia. .” In front of the office building he saw Joe and asked him where he was going. Joe said he was going to meet his client Reagan, who was on the train to arrive in the city at three in the afternoon.

“People from places like that enjoy making sudden attacks.” Joe looked troubled.

Vincent saw that Joe was putting a thick book into his briefcase.

The scale of the Rose Clothing Company’s business grew larger and larger. Joe’s customers were increasing, and these were all large-scale transactions. This left almost no time now for reading, and his business trips grew more frequent.

Once he went to a large pastureland in the north, where the owner’s house sat halfway up a mountain. Although it was the height of summer, when night came to the mountain it turned cold. Even wrapped up inside the thick pajamas his host had given him, Joe still felt a little cold. The owner, Mr. Kim, was a Korean. In his youth he had emigrated with his parents.

“I own ten thousand sheep, and cows and deer, too,” Kim said. “I don’t bother about the business side of the farm. I live like a retired king on this mountain. When I heard you were coming, I knew my opportunity had come. Now, let’s empty our cups together. This is good liquor, and tonight it might make you realize your desires.”

Outside the sky was already dark. Joe saw that within the room there were many big, human shadows walking back and forth, yet Kim didn’t seem to see them. Joe was afraid, but he still had to feign composure. Kim told him how several years ago his wife and son had both died of pneumonia, one after the other. They couldn’t endure the severe climate of this place. But he was himself loath to depart. It was as if a demon possessed him: the place was too beautiful. If it were morning, he would climb with Joe to the mountain’s frozen peak to see the scenery.

“Do other people live in this building?” Joe couldn’t help asking. He thought of the horror novel he’d brought along.

“Ah, yes. I have two guests. Many years ago they came to my house for a visit, then they went missing. I sense that they are inside the house. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Joe discovered that when he said these words Kim’s face had a cruel expression. A head of black hair shone under the lamplight, making Joe think of a black wolf. Fearful, Joe didn’t pursue his questioning. He saw a dark, unmoving shadow behind Kim’s back, and the lenses of Kim’s glasses sent out an insidious reflected light. Joe said he had drunk too much and should go to bed.

Joe went to the guest room, bringing the alcohol fumes with him. Half awake, half asleep, he realized that it was a luxurious bedroom. But why were there so many black cats on the bed? Altogether there were five of them, all lying stretched out on the silk-and-satin quilt spread over the bed. Small green lamps were lit in the bedroom. It seemed much colder than the living room had been. Joe felt a shiver run through him. He swiftly dug into the quilts, and the cats seized their chance to squeeze in, too, furry but in fact comfortable. Lying down, Joe sobered up. Someone was knocking lightly at the door, but he didn’t have the courage to answer. He decided to keep the lights shining continuously. Just now, in the living room, Kim had spoken of Joe’s company. He said that the Rose Clothing Company was a monster, but if Joe could only escape to an Eastern country he’d be able to struggle out of the beast’s claws. Kim from start to finish of his speech had watched Joe coldly from behind his lenses, watching until Joe recoiled. Deep in his heart, Joe didn’t care about what Kim was saying. Although he seldom had time at present to read books, this didn’t hamper his construction of his world of stories. On the road he’d already channeled this journey into the web of his story. And so, despite the terror in his heart, he was excited.

This enormous pastureland, named Dangulan or Red Old Blue, was so beautiful. Joe, getting out of the taxi, had stood there stupefied. It was a beauty that would keep others at a thousand kilometers’ distance, a stern beauty. That silent and unbroken grassland; that arrogant, ice-capped mountain without signs of habitation; also that house built halfway up the mountain, only the one and no second house — all these without speech closely pressed Joe’s spirit. Joe couldn’t help cowering, but there’d been no trace of the taxi for some time. Kim, wearing pajamas and holding a pipe in his mouth, came down the steps of the large building and casually shook hands. Joe noticed that his hands were extremely strong. They even had a sort of magnetism, as if hinting to Joe, telling him that he’d already entered Kim’s realm.

Kim’s household included only a female cook past her prime. There were no servants — or perhaps none of the servants appeared on the scene. At meals the cook sat off to one side, but from first to last she didn’t speak a single word. Judging from her countenance, with its severely shut mouth, she apparently looked down on Joe. Joe was disheartened, and wanted to go to the guest room early, then shut the door and read that horror novel he’d brought along. But Kim suddenly started talking to him of his homeland, Korea, with his voice both sharp and urgent, as if he would open wide his inmost heart to his guest on their first meeting. In Joe’s impression, Kim’s homeland seemed to be floating, a dancing single-story building in midair. In this building the men and women had stopped cultivating crops or buying and selling. Yet these people’s hearts held surprising lusts. They were capable of long periods of sex in dreams, not waking from lethargic sleep. . “Yellow roses are in full bloom at the foot of the iceberg.” When Kim spoke this ambiguous sentence, Joe saw that he had bleeding red gums and his whole face looked a bit like a tiger. But Kim suddenly stopped in the center of the room, his voice again an ear-piercing scream: “So many years have passed. Does the sun still hang in the East?”

Listening and listening, Joe entered into Kim’s story. Even afterward, Joe couldn’t really distinguish between the boundaries of Kim’s story and his own. Kim’s matchbox-like single-story houses always exploded open all at once, and from inside all sorts of ghosts flew out. The ghosts scattered in midair and disappeared into the human world, endangering people’s lives. “Korea is a balloon in a boundless ocean,” he told Joe in affirmative tones. Joe lowered his head to see his own sleeping robe embroidered with many foxes, but only felt desire leaping up between his legs. The more he listened, the more interesting he found Kim to be. In his heart he called this short man “a hawk”; he did not know why he named him this.

Outside it grew windy, with howling gusts, and the building started rocking as if the wind would smash the whole thing. Joe was scared, and he curled up in a ball, prepared to get under the table. Kim stood solidly on the floor. Perhaps he took this building to be a large ship on a billowing sea. He leaned close to Joe’s ear, telling him a secret: “My house was built with no foundation. This building is in the style of my homeland.” After a while the building became steady, yet the storm winds gusted even more violently, and it sounded as though hailstones were striking the tin sheet roof. Kim reached out an arm and hung it over Joe’s shoulder. Joe once again exclaimed at the magnetism in his body. “Who would come here? Other than you,” Kim said.