Wu Ming-Yi - The Man with the Compound Eyes

Dahu’s junior high school classmate Ali was a primary supervisor at a deep ocean water company. He came to the cleanup site to carry out an inspection wearing the latest model of respirator. “I’m telling you, it’s not in the papers yet, but over ninety per cent of our pumps and pipes are devastated. The pipes are covered in trash from the vortex. We put an underwater camera down and it’s not a pretty sight: the bottom’s done for.”

“Worse than the county government says?”

“Dahu, don’t be so naive! How could the county government possibly tell the truth? Seriously, I’m worried that my boss is going to just leave the pipes in the Pacific and take the hell off.”

“I can’t say for anyone else, but I believe your boss has it in him, absolutely.”

“Christ, the County Mayor is probably going to up and leave one of these days.”

The sea once had the power to put fear in the hearts of the people living along the coast, and to change their fates, but now it had turned into a demented old man with some teeth missing. The wind blew up light plastic bags that had dried in the sun. They were like flowers, unbearably putrid flowers. Having lived all that time in Haven, Dahu always felt half-Pangcah himself, and now he couldn’t help worrying about his Pangcah friends. How would they survive? And what would become of their long-imperiled fishing culture?

Ali picked up a section of hard plastic tubing that had probably floated around in the ocean for decades and said, “We can process glass bottles easily, but nobody knows what to do about these older plastic tubes. You know what? The past few years the government’s poured tons of funding into reducing the amount of garbage in the vortex, but it’s actually a scam. Think about it. Where is the trash supposed to be buried after it’s been cleaned up? All the incinerators, landfills and advanced trash-sorting facilities on the island wouldn’t have enough capacity to digest it all. You think Ilan and Taipei will welcome the garbage out of the goodness of their hearts? Dammit! Japan and China have been passing the buck, but garbage is fair, and now the ocean currents have broken the vortex up and everyone’s getting what’s coming to him.”

On the last trip before dark, Dahu discovered that Alice’s bright yellow car was not where he’d parked it. She must have taken it. Just then his cell phone rang, and sure enough it was Alice.

“Dahu, can you let me stay in your hunting hut?”

“Sure, but it hasn’t been used in a long time. I hope it’s still habitable.”

“Great. Thank you, Dahu.”

“You want to live there?”

“Well … sort of.”

“It’s not too comfortable.”

“No, it’ll be fine. I’ve got a tent and a full set of climbing gear. No need to worry about me. Oh yeah, how’s Hafay?”

“She’s fine, but the Seventh Sisid collapsed.”

“I saw. The same thing will happen to the Sea House, I reckon.”

“Yeah, maybe. When the time comes everything will collapse. Where are you now?”

“Close to your hut.”

“Can I go over and help?”

“No, no help, I don’t need any help. Dahu, listen to me, I want to be left alone for a while. I’ll come and find you when I’m ready.”

When Dahu got back to the village that evening, Umav told him that she’d taken Hafay to see the walking trees again in the morning. “It’s different during the day.” The walking trees was actually a stand of fig, phoebe and autumn maple trees, weeping fig trees in particular. The aerial roots of fig trees drop from the branches down to the ground and grow into prop roots. Villagers once used fig trees as border markers, only to discover that they could “up and walk.”

“Come spring, I guarantee you’re in for a surprise.”

“You mean in the forest, right?”

“Yup.”

“There’ll be butterflies,” Umav interrupted.

“Yes, there will. In winter, some different species of crow butterflies will gather here, and for a certain time after they pupate there’ll be golden cocoons everywhere. Later they’ll emerge from their cocoons and there’ll be swarms of butterflies flying wing above wing. Ah! It’s a moving sight to see.”

“Really! I guess I’ll come next year and see for myself.”

“You can just settle down here. Our village could use an extra pair of hands. Lots of tourists are making the trip already. We’ve survived relying on this forest and that mountain.”

Hafay didn’t respond. Dahu felt he’d been a bit too forward in saying what he’d said, but it was too late to unsay it now.

Several days later, Dahu encountered Hafay as he was arranging things in the traditional house in front of the Forest Church. She couldn’t get to sleep. So they started chatting while tying the corn up to dry by the window. After helping with the coastal cleanup for the past week, Dahu was exhausted. Hafay seemed to sense this and said: “You’re beat, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“People give off a certain smell when they’re tired.” She laid her hands on Dahu’s shoulders and started to give him a massage.

“Do they? I’ve never heard that before.”

“I’m a professional, you know! I used to work as a masseuse in Haven.” The sound of the wind whistling through the Forest Church could be heard a long way off. The breeze on Dahu’s back really relaxed his muscles. “I really studied the art of massage. Ina taught me, and so did other girls in the massage place. Your sense of touch can tell you a lot. Joints and tendons can feel like they are bubbling with vital energy, like there’s some live animal running around in there. A person who’s giving a massage uses her fingers, elbows and joints to apply pressure to those places and loosen them up. I kid you not, sometimes you’ll see dark vapors escaping from a guy’s body. But if you inhale them you’ll have a terrible pallor the next day.”

“Really? Sounds almost supernatural.”

“It’s true. Nothing supernatural about it.”

“What were the customers like?” Dahu knew but asked anyway.

“All guys. They came for a hand job. The massage was just kind of on the way.”

Dahu was surprised that Hafay would be so candid. Indeed, there were two kinds of masseuses. A few were real masseuses, but most were the other kind, and Millet was the other kind. It must be obvious to Hafay what he was thinking. Dahu blushed.

“ Aiya , it’s no big deal. It’s just making money by doing another kind of labor, that’s all.”

“You’re right.” Dahu did not know how to respond, so he laughed and said, “Actually, I’ve been to a place like that.” As soon as he had said it he felt he had said the wrong thing.

“You told me, that day, when we were driving. You mentioned Millet.”

“I did? Ha! I told you about Millet?”

“Uhuh. Oh yeah, do you know what Hafay means in Pangcah?”

“Sure do. The first time I went to the Seventh Sisid, I thought, Hey, isn’t that a coincidence? Hafay means millet.”

Like the sound of some plant weeping, Hafay suddenly started to sing. She sang in Pangcah, improvising the lyrics up as she went along.

Ignored, unseen, mislaid with ease, a tiny millet grain ,

might fall away in the faintest breeze ,

beneath the August rain .

You passed on by, you passed on out, my wristwatch read 6:10 ,

the time the grain was set to sprout ,

interred, to live again .

“My name is Lasu Kiyadimanu Atile’i,” I said. “You can call me Atile’i.”

“I’m called Alice.” I guess that’s what she said.