Shan Sa - The Girl Who Played Go

Mother leaves us before supper: she is going to sit through the night with my sister, who has been in bed for several days. I eat alone with Father and, as usual, his voice soothes me. I ask about his translations and his eyes light up, he recites a few sonnets to me. I notice the silvery hair at his temples with a tinge of sadness. Why do parents grow old? Life is a castle of lies slowly dismantled by the passage of time. I regret not spending more time looking at the people I love.

Father asks me what I think of his poems.

“They’re very beautiful, but I prefer our ancient verses, which say:

Or this one:

Father is angry, he can’t bear my indifference to foreign civilizations. As far as he is concerned, it is this sort of cultural egocentricity that will be the downfall of China.

“I hate the English,” I explode. “They fought us twice just to sell us the opium that they had forbidden in their own country. I hate the French, they pillaged, and then burned the Spring Palace, the jewel of our civilization. And ever since the Japanese have been laying down the law here in Manchuria, everyone cheers on the advances and the economic growth. I hate the Japanese! Tomorrow they will have invaded the whole continent, and then you’ll be relieved because China will be annihilated and it will at last be forced to shake off its backward attitudes.”

Hurt by what I have said, he gets to his feet, bids me good night and withdraws to his bedroom. I leave the dining room slowly and reluctantly: I was wrong to attack my father; his poetry is all he lives for.

I lock my door, draw the curtains and sit on the bed looking at the teapot in the middle of the table. I use scarves and handkerchiefs to make a strong rope. The gray smoke of the incense used to daze mosquitoes rises slowly under my window.

Dying is so simple. A fleeting moment of suffering. In the blink of an eye you are over the threshold, into another world. No more pain, no more fears. You sleep so well there.

Dying is like rubbing snow together, setting fire to a whole winter of cold and ice.

I take up the rope and attach both ends to the posts on my canopied bed. The knot is firm and steadfast, like a tree that has been growing there for a thousand years. I sit back on my heels and look at it until my eyes hurt. I only have to get to my feet to stop this train of thought.

There isn’t a sound. I lean forward to check that the knot is firm. I put my head through the loop, but the rope under my chin is uncomfortable. What I want is the emptiness, to fall through the air. I am terrified by the dizzying pleasure of it: I am both here and over there; I am me and I am no longer me!

Am I already dead?

I take my head out of the noose and sit back down on the bed.

Drenched with sweat, I get undressed. I dampen a towel in the basin and wash myself; the cool water makes me shiver. I pick up the teapot and drink the infusion, but it is so bitter that I have to stop several times to catch my breath. I put the cotton wadding between my legs, undo the knot, take apart the rope, and lie down on my bed with my hands on my stomach.

I wait, with the light on. Since Min’s death I can’t go to sleep in the dark. I am afraid of his ghost. I don’t want to see it.

I dream of a forest where the dazzling sunlight filters through the trees, and a magnificent animal walks between them. It has a smooth golden coat, a mane like a lion’s and the fine, slender body of a well-bred dog. I am furious that it has trespassed onto my property, and I call to a leopard, which leaps out from the trees and throws itself at the intruder. I suddenly become the injured animal, the leopard is tearing at my insides and plowing through my entrails with its fangs.

I am woken by my own moaning. There is an unbearable pain running down from my swollen stomach and into my thighs, then it suddenly subsides. I get to my feet with some difficulty and head for the basin to cool my face in it. I drag myself to the kitchen, where it takes ten whole ladlefuls of water to slake my thirst.

Later my sleep is interrupted by the pain again. I fall off the bed, dragging the sheets and pillows with me. On the ground I cling to the table legs and struggle in vain against the intolerable cramps.

When the pain has abated, I bend over to see whether the blood has started flowing between my legs. The wad of cloth is still spotless, and I think I can see Min mocking me in this stubborn whiteness. I can no longer feel the weight of my limbs. After the agony an obscure warmth runs from my toes all the way up my body, but instead of feeling pleasant, this comfort makes me shiver. I lie there, stretched out on the ground, looking at the mess in my room with perfect indifference.

A new spasm of pain, then another. The night seems so short, I am afraid it will come to an end and I will be found in this pitiful state. I should have killed myself.

The dawn has already tinged the curtains with white, and the chirping birds are announcing the new day. I can hear the cook sweeping the courtyard. Any minute now someone will find me, any minute now I will have to look into my father’s eyes and I will die of shame.

I gather the last of my strength and get to my feet. My arms are shaking. I couldn’t lift a feather if I tried.

I slowly tidy up my room as the morning sun blazes down, cooking the floor tiles. My back is in agony and, whether I stand up or lie down, I can’t escape the feeling that I am going to give birth to a ball of lead. I sit down in front of the mirror, which shows me my devastated face. I put on some powder and a little makeup.

The blood comes as we are having breakfast, when I have stopped thinking about it, when my mind is completely empty. A scalding river courses between my legs. I rush to the bathroom and find a frothy black liquid on the wadding. I feel no joy and no sadness.

Nothing can make me feel anymore.

It is time for school. To avoid the dishonor of staining my dress, I stuff the napkin with everything I can find, cotton wool, fabric, paper. I put on two pairs of underpants, one on top of the other, and choose an old linen dress of my sister’s, which I have always hated for its drab color and shapeless cut. I do my hair in a single plait and tie it with a hankie.

When I get out of the rickshaw I walk slowly towards the school building, taking small steps. All around me girls are running: in the morning the young are as noisy as a flock of sparrows. One of my classmates taps me on the shoulder: “Hey, you look like an old woman of thirty!”

I have been waiting an hour for the Chinese girl.

When I was still a regular soldier, I loved guard duty. Standing with my gun clasped to my breast, I would spend the night listening for the least sound. When it rained, I had a hood that cut me off from the outside world, and I became a fetus floating in its own world. When it snowed, the soft, fat flakes swirled down like so many syllables, white ink on black paper. As I stood there motionless, I felt as if I were turning into a bird or a tree; I was a part of nature in all its immutability.

The Chinese girl appears at last, sketching a smile by way of a greeting. I stand and bow. She is slightly hunched, her eyelids swollen and her face like that of one just woken from a long, deep sleep. There are heavy lines at the corners of her mouth, and the hair that has strayed from her plait has been clawed behind her ears. She looks absent, dreamy, the way my mother used to look when she folded my kimonos.