Shan Sa - The Girl Who Played Go

I now realize that it was not a joke and it is too late to say no. I empty my glass of sake and seal our agreement. The Captain is actually very clever and his quirkiness is deliberate and deceptive. The minute I stepped inside his room he already knew he would use me somehow. As we played go together, he was setting the trap in which I am now caught: I have no choice but to slip into the skin of a Chinese.

Min loathes games, he thinks they’re a waste of time, but this afternoon, after prolonged pleading, I have managed to make him change his mind. He agrees to play cards on condition that we stay in bed and my stomach serves as the table. For him, every pleasure is ultimately related to erotic gratification. He is quite incapable of working out his opponent’s strategy and loses gloriously, rushing to throw his cards down between my breasts. I find his laziness and his flippant attitude exasperating and, to punish him, I leave the room on some flimsy pretext and head off to the Square of a Thousand Winds.

The players are sitting there meditating and snoozing. Having failed to find a partner, I sit myself down at a table and wait for an amateur to come past. With my head resting on one hand, I lay out the stones and start an imaginary game against Min. A shadow falls over me and I look up. A stranger, with a panama hat pulled right down over his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, inclines his head slightly. I reply with a nod and gesture towards the chair opposite me. The Stranger doesn’t seem to understand and makes as if to move away, but I stop him.

“Do you know how to play go?”

He still doesn’t speak.

“Come on, you look like a connoisseur. Sit down, let’s play.”

“May I ask at what level you play?” the lump asks me with a terrible Peking accent.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to play without some knowledge of your handicap.”

“Let’s start a game. I’ll give you a little demonstration!”

He hesitates for a moment and eventually sits down. It’s obvious that this stranger has no idea of my reputation. Like many stupid people, he is deceived by my appearance.

I push the black stones towards him noisily.

“Over to you.” [16]

He puts his first stone down in the northwest corner. His pretentious behavior earlier is still niggling at me and I decide to play a nasty trick on him. I reply by sticking a white stone alongside it. You never start the battle with such close combat. That is one of the golden rules of the game.

Disconcerted, he looks up at me and sinks into thought for a long time.

The stones fight over the 361 intersections formed by the nineteen horizontal lines and the nineteen vertical lines on the square board. The two players divide up this virgin land and, at the end, compare the extent of their occupied territories. I prefer go to chess because it is so much freer: in chess the two kingdoms with their armored warriors confront each other across the board, but the agile, twirling stones in a game of go spiral round each other, setting traps-daring and imagination are the qualities that lead to victory.

Instead of establishing my frontiers, I attack my opponent head-on. My white number four lures him into a duel. He stops to think again.

My number six is blocking his black number five, and rallies with the others to surround his number one.

In extremis, he parries by placing his number seven.

I smile. The joke is over, now I am constructing my game.

The Stranger’s play is infinitely slow. I am surprised by his convoluted deliberations: each of his moves translates a desire for harmony within the whole. His stones make a subtle, airborne sort of progress like the dance of the cranes. I didn’t know that there was a school in Peking where elegance had the edge over violence. Now it is my turn to be perplexed, and I let myself be carried away by his rhythm.

The Stranger suddenly interrupts the game just when it is becoming really exciting.

“I have a meeting,” he says gruffly.

A little put out and wanting to resume the game as soon as possible, I say, “Come back at ten o’clock on Sunday morning.”

Through his glasses I can see that there still isn’t a glimmer of enthusiasm in his eyes.

“Never mind, then,” I say, standing up.

“All right,” he agrees eventually.

I make a note of the positions of the stones on a piece of paper and gratify the Stranger with a smile. Having used it on Cousin Lu, Min and Jing, I know my weapon well.

And he does indeed look away.

The disguise I have chosen-a linen tunic, a panama hat and a fan embellished with calligraphy-gives me something of the solemnity of an imperial official, and the pair of glasses makes him look like an academic.

The rickshaw boy can tell straightaway that I am not from the area, and he decides to swindle me: instead of going straight to the Square of a Thousand Winds, he sets off on a long detour round the town. His voice shuddering with the physical effort, he tells me some of the history of the region. Four hundred years ago the court nobles discovered the local forest and built sumptuous palaces on its fringes. For many centuries they cherished these lands, which were rich in game and beautiful women. A Thousand Winds, which was originally just a small village, grew into a town where trade and local crafts could flourish. The city is like a miniature copy of Peking, with the same rectangular layout. When the Manchurian Empire disintegrated, some of the Peking aristocracy followed the Emperor to the New Capital; others took refuge here. They can be identified by their elegant brand of poverty: they wear outdated robes, and they oppose any form of modernity by keeping their nails long (a sign of the leisured classes) and their heads shaved with the traditional little plait at the back.

After taking me along the ramparts, rife with beggars, firebreathers and monkey trainers, and after showing me the main square with its large, old-fashioned private houses, he eventually comes to a stop on the edge of a wooded square.

“This is the Square of a Thousand Winds,” he says and then asks mysteriously, “Do you play?”

I do not answer.

All round the park players confront each other in silence across the low tables, and judging by their clothes they come from all levels of society. If I had not come here I would never have believed such a place existed where a passerby could be offered a game of go. I have always thought that go was the exclusive reserve of the elite, each game a ceremony carried out with the greatest of respect.

I do not find this phenomenon altogether surprising, though. According to legend, this extraordinary game was invented by the Chinese 4,000 years ago, but during the course of its over-long history, its traditions have been worn away, and the game has lost its air of refinement and the purity of its origins. Go was introduced to Japan over a thousand years ago and there it has been meditated over and perfected to the point of becoming a divine art. In this too, my country has demonstrated its superiority over China.

In the distance I can see a young woman playing against herself. At home it would be unthinkable for a woman to be alone in a place where there are so many men. Intrigued, I move closer.

She is younger than I thought, and she is wearing a school dress. Sitting with her head resting in the hollow of her hand, she is deep in thought. The stones have been laid out on the board with considerable skill, and I am drawn in to examine them more closely.

She looks up, wide forehead and slanting eyes like two finely drawn willow leaves. It is as if I am looking at Sunlight aged sixteen, but the illusion is short-lived: the apprentice geisha had a shy, closed sort of beauty, but this Chinese girl sits watching me unabashed. At home, elegance is associated with pallor and women avoid the sun; this girl has spent so much time playing outside that her face glows with a strange charm. Her eyes meet mine before I can look away.