Shan Sa: The Girl Who Played Go

To show her how magical this old room really is-it is one of the few to have escaped the bombing-I turn out the lamps and light the candles. Scrolls of calligraphy and paintings loom out of the darkness and gradually blend with the tinted frescoes on the walls. There is a majestic set of shelves full of books at one end, and on my lacquered table little painted birds frolic among the leaves. Two pots of go-stones have pride of place atop an old carved wardrobe, to watch over me at night. Huong picks up a manual about go and leafs through it. She takes one of the combs I collect, long and fine, made of polished silver and decorated with feathers. She fingers my pearls. A long silence falls between us.

Then she sits on the edge of the bed and opens her heart to me: she was born out in the country and she lost her mother when she was eight years old. Her father remarried and was completely crushed by his new wife’s bulk and drive: she would set off every morning with a pipe in her mouth to oversee work in the fields. The stepmother hated Huong, and it was not long before the arrival of her twin stepbrothers deflected her father’s affection. To them she was just a slut. As they grew up, the boys took pleasure in hurting her: they tormented her like two young cats toying with an injured sparrow. She was constantly insulted by her stepmother, who was peculiarly eloquent when it came to insults. Huong was exiled to a little maid’s room and, at night, she would count the raindrops falling on the roof. They were innumerable, like the sorrows she had to endure.

When she was twelve she was sent to school: the stepmother was rid of the thorn in her side and Huong discovered freedom.

She was a passionate and determined child, and she shook off her accent and transformed herself into one of the young town girls. It didn’t take her long to understand what made these city-dwellers tick, and she put these mechanisms to her own use. Thanks to a few coins slipped into the boarding housemistress’s pocket and a couple of bottles of wine at the end of the year, she was given permission to go out whenever she liked. She shared a room with girls older than herself, and was initiated into the pleasures of champagne and chocolate and the waltz. By imitating them she learned to put on makeup, to lie about her age and to get herself invited to balls. Men came to fetch her in their cars, whispering empty blandishments to her and telling her how beautiful she was.

Since then, the holidays have become pure torture. Back there, the house is dark and damp, and the smell of the draft animals is disgusting. Her father spits on the floor, her stepmother shrieks at everyone, and her brothers-instead of sitting properly at the table-squat on their chairs so that they can inhale their food all the more efficiently.

It is nearly nighttime and I offer Huong my bed. She snuggles into it, next to the wall, and carries on talking until her words become muddled and her voice dwindles to a whisper.

I stay awake for a long time. My friend is seventeen, and her father is looking for a husband for her-that will bring an end to a party that has gone on for three years. Will she ever meet a man who can change her fate?

There are days when I suddenly have new strength and will, and I can look death in the face with a sense of peace and joy. Guided by my country’s need, I fulfill the destiny of an imperial soldier with my eyes closed. But the path a hero must tread is not as straight as we might imagine: it twists and turns through the harsh mountains of sacrifice.

This morning I wake up lying on my stomach on ground that has been burned dry by the sun. I snooze on in the warmth rising up from deep in the earth. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and it is a long time before I open them and become aware of a tombstone just centimeters from my face. I have been sleeping on my mother’s tomb.

I stifle a cry of alarm and wake myself properly this time. The winter sun is not yet up, and this room commandeered from peasants is like a cave. My soldiers are snoring in the dark. Who can give me the key to my dream? How can I know whether it was a premonition? Could it be a message from my mother before she leaves this world? Who can I find to tell me-here and now, thousands of kilometers from Tokyo? Is Mother alive and well?

I have thought about my own death for so many years that it has become as light as a feather, but having never prepared myself for my mother’s death, I will be unable to bear its weight.

It is impossible to reconcile family and fatherland: a soldier is a man who destroys his loved ones’ happiness. If my life has been of any use, the nation owes that to one woman’s sacrifice.

Feeling my way in the dark, I find a piece of paper and a pencil stub. I cannot even see what I am doing, but I write a short letter to Mother, telling her of my regret. I have neglected her for so long!

I fold it in four and slip it under my pillow. How many days do we still have to endure before we renew contact with the world?

Huong makes a strange confession.

“My father is very rich, but I have to beg him for money. He gets angry, and he ends up giving me only half what I need, throwing it down onto the table at me.” Then she goes on, “I’ll marry an older man who’ll know how to pamper me.”

A few days later she leads me to understand that she has fallen for someone.

“You see,” she says, “a real man is different, not like the boys with mustaches who lurk outside our school. He can guess what you’re thinking, anticipate what will make you happy. When you’re with a man, you’re no longer a girl but a goddess, a sage, an ancient soul who has lived in every era, a wonder that he contemplates with all the intense curiosity of a newborn baby.”

Even though Huong has become my best friend, I never quite understand what she is saying. Her convoluted soul is divided between light and darkness, she is both blatant and discreet, and her life is full of mysteries despite everything she confesses to me. This Monday morning she has come to school exhausted and on edge. Although her hair is plaited, I can see evidence that it has been curled and then straightened. She is intoxicated with some joy that only she understands.

“The best demonstration of love a man can give,” she tells me, “is his patience as he watches a virgin maturing.”

I flush and find I can’t utter a word. She doesn’t seem at all embarrassed to be talking about something so intimate, and yet there is a grandeur, a heroism to her indiscreet confessions. There is a realm of life that I haven’t yet grasped. I feel like a blind person who has never seen the splendor of the sun.

“How can I get out of this darkness around us?” I ask Huong.

She pretends not to understand.

“How can I become a woman?”

She opens her eyes wide and cries, “You’re mad. Leave it as late as possible!”

Back to the civilized world.

The town of Ha Rebin is in the northern extremity of Manchuria, a strategic place in the Sino-Russian conflict. Our warships are challenging the Russian navy on the River Love, which is several kilometers wide.

When twilight falls on this noisy, bustling town, the domes of all the mosques, the crosses and virgins on the churches, and the sloping roofs of the Buddhist temples are all silhouetted against the bloodied brilliance of the sky. Russians, Jews, Japanese, Koreans, Chinese, English, Germans and Americans live side by side in this cosmopolitan metropolis. Each of these peoples has found a way of recreating its own landscape and living according to its own culture.

Yesterday I slept among bales of straw, lulled by the howling wolves and the moaning wind. I drank melted snow. My uniform was burned, full of holes and ingrained with sweat and filth. Today I am in a clean uniform and back in a bed with a woolen blanket in a heated room. I am off to visit the prostitutes with a few of the other officers. I blow my savings by choosing a Japanese girl.