Can Xue - The Last Lover

The mountain tunnel was left behind. Reagan looked toward the window to discover his face covered in specks of blood; he looked at the floor, and saw a few white plumes. Could that have been a bird just now? He’d plainly felt it to be a person and had heard a man’s heavy breathing.

When Reagan got back to the farm, he ran into a thunderstorm. His car passed through a thick curtain of rain, then stopped in front of the small gray building where the cook, Ali, was coming out to welcome him.

“You’re back. A lightning strike just burned out the electricity. I thought I’d passed over into hell. How could this have happened?”

She was behaving oddly, not coming over to help carry his things. Then, twisting her obese frame, she disappeared inside the building. She must have been badly shaken. Reagan was surprised, too: how could this have happened? Wasn’t there a lightning rod plainly standing on his rooftop?

As he headed upstairs, Reagan’s head felt heavy and his feet light. He felt as if he were swimming along the ocean floor.

That night all kinds of crazed voices shouted in the blackness of the rainstorm. Reagan heard someone discussing how high the water would rise.

In the morning the garden was filled with bright sunlight, but Reagan didn’t wake from his deep sleep.

Ali stood in the doorway, flustered and busied with something. The driver was washing the car.

“Our employer hasn’t gotten up? This is unusual,” the driver said with a smile.

Ali looked at the young fellow sternly, but didn’t respond.

Upstairs, Reagan’s dreams sank to a depth they had never reached before. Deep, deep underneath the black soil, innumerable frenzied tree roots tangled together, making him abandon any idea of keeping his mind clear. He thought naively that he needed only to dig out a passageway, like an earthworm, and he’d be bound to get his head out eventually. With his skull pushed against the dirt, his mouth stuffed with mud, little by little he started to move. All around him there were things whispering, cha cha cha . Perhaps it was the lascivious tree roots. Between root and root were crevices, and even though these were frequently blocked up, in the end he could pass through. Reagan decided to take a rest on one of the roughest root tops. He placed his mud-stuffed ear against it and heard the sap inside thundering like rolling floodwater and shaking the root incessantly. He remembered Ida: her nimble body and these tree roots were so alike! But he found he was having trouble breathing. He wasn’t suited to this dreamscape.

“If Mr. Reagan doesn’t wake up from this long sleep, we’ll both be free!” The driver shouted, paying no heed to Ali’s manner. “Last night when he and I returned home, it was like crossing over the precipice of death!”

Ali ignored the troublesome young man and went back into the kitchen in disgust. From the wide-open door she looked off into the distance and watched the workers laboring under the sun. They wore work clothes and straw hats, and wrapped up their bodies tightly. Ali noticed the young girl who’d arrived two years earlier, Ida. Her face was already blackened by the sun. Ali was aware of Reagan’s intentions toward Ida. She was like an old crocodile in the river, with a perfect and clear knowledge of everything that happened on this farm. Ali’s manner toward her employer was conflicted: she defended him but wasn’t satisfied with him. Sometimes her displeasure reached such a pitch that she had almost no choice but to abandon him altogether. This past year, in the season when the coconuts were ripening, a woman visited Reagan’s house; she was none too young and oddly dressed. Reagan and this woman, who was clothed entirely in black, like a shadow, were inseparable. They kept close together for a week, then she suddenly disappeared. Reagan had seized his moment in the middle of the night when no one was around to see her off. Ali heard the sound of a car. It was Reagan himself driving. After the black-clad woman left, Reagan’s mood improved. He developed a fascination with nighttime fishing, sometimes fishing the whole night through and only coming home in the morning. Ali suspected that the black-clad woman wouldn’t be returning. She also suspected that Ida was her boss’s secret concern, because she was the only nonnative on the whole farm, so the boss couldn’t anticipate her every movement and action. This was how she’d finally touched his heart. Why did he go fishing? Wasn’t it because the girl liked to wander around at night? When she couldn’t sleep Ali often went for walks, and she’d already run into Ida several times. Sometimes Ida was with a companion, and other times it was Ida alone. Each time Ida greeted her absentmindedly, calling her “Mother.” She walked quite slowly, shuffling. She appeared to be looking along the path for some object while muttering softly to herself. If her friend was along, she would help Ida search. At times the night was so black that only animals could possibly see anything. Yet Ida could still see. Oddly enough, her eyes gave off a green fluorescence. Ali had seen it twice, and she’d been so surprised that her mouth had hung wide open. She’d hidden this knowledge in her heart and never shared it with Reagan.

“What are you searching for out here?” Ali stood in the road, blocking the way.

“I’m looking for the diamond ring I lost during the day, Mother.”

“Does Ida have a diamond ring?”

“Yes, I remember it clearly. I’m sure it slid off my finger.”

Ali was sure that the girl was scenting at some odor, that her sense of smell, like a hound’s, guided her along a trail in the dark of night. Ali thought of her own youthful period of wandering about like a homeless ghost. She couldn’t help a small chuckle. She sighed: “Time moves along.”

Ida’s movements were as quick as a snake’s. She ducked into the bushes and disappeared unexpectedly. Her companion stood in the middle of the road calling softly, “Ida! Ida!” Her voice was mournful.

In the room upstairs Reagan still lay in a deep sleep. The curtains were closed tightly, leaving the bedroom in a never-ending night.

Lying on her bed in the singles’ lodging, Ida spat out indistinct words to her friend: “In my hometown, a cloudburst shattered hundreds of the mudbrick houses. . all the leaves of the Chinese banana trees were beaten flat by the rain. That wasn’t rain. . it was like, it was like a flood rushing down from the sky. No one could hide from it. Don’t you understand?”

“I think I understand. How did you escape?” her friend asked.

“Me? At first I didn’t want to live, so instead I couldn’t die. We had to withstand this test every year. . I couldn’t stay there my whole life. I will go home someday. And I’m afraid that the sun here will dissolve me.”

As her friend answered, she discovered that Ida was already asleep and dreaming. The fragrance of coconuts rushed intermittently into the bedroom from the window. She saw that Ida’s expression in her sleep was one of disgust.

“Mr. Reagan has been asleep for two days,” the driver said. “Do we need to call a doctor?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. He had me bring him meals twice. It’s just that he doesn’t feel like waking up. Everyone has the right to do that.” Ali was deep in thought as she spoke.

Ali had met Vincent on the road into the city. She saw him walking, a solitary figure that the sun had burned to a stupor. He appeared to have heatstroke. He’d walk a few steps and then stop, gasping for air.

“Sir, do you need help?”

“My name is Vincent, I’m a friend of your employer. Please, tell me, how is he doing?”

He seemed unable to decide whether to keep on going. His gaze wavered. Ali thought he must be looking for a place to sit down.