Gao Xingjian - One Man

"We're putting out the lamps, we're putting out the lamps! The teacher is worn out from walking all day and has to sleep!" The older woman started herding everyone out. People grumbled, but reluctantly went off. The two women also said good night and went off with the last of the crowd.

The remaining embers in the charcoal burner died, and the room suddenly turned cold. A chilly draught was streaming in from the classroom, so he got up and shut the door. It blew open again straight away. When he shut it again, he found there was no bolt. The door and doorframe was pitted with nail holes, but the bolt had been removed. He steadied himself, then went to the classroom to shut the main door, but, in the darkness, could not find the cross bar. The metal holders on the two parts of the door were there, but the cross bar was nowhere to be found. He got a desk and rammed it against the two parts of the door, returned for the lamp, then went into the inner room behind the wooden partition. On the far side, there was a small door that opened to the classroom. The bolt to the door had also been removed, and only the metal bolt-holder remained. Fortunately, the doorframe was tight, so the door was jammed shut. He didn't go out again to see if the door of the other classroom could be bolted. Nothing here was worth stealing, apart from the two helpless young women from the city who usually slept here.

He blew out the lamp, took off his shoes, socks, and clothes, and lay down to listen to the mountain wind groaning like the deep growl of a wild animal. When the wind had passed, he again heard the sound of the water from the deep river. That night he slept badly. A nagging feeling that some wild thing was going to charge in any moment seemed to have kept him half-awake all night. In the morning, when he got up and pulled aside the blankets, he saw stains all over the gray sheet. The same stains were also all over the two pillows. He felt sick.

On the way back, his mind turned to what had happened with his student Sun Huirong, and he came to the realization that he had gradually become weak and cowardly after living these years in the countryside. He had hidden himself away securely, but, while he had peace of mind and could spend long periods of time in front of the mountain looking at the rushing river, not thinking about anything, he was, in fact, no better than a maggot.

She wants to look at ancient forests. You say where will you find ancient forests in Sydney, it will take days driving to some uninhabited place on this continent, Australia. Anyway, you've seen everything from the plane. It's an expanse of red-brown dry land with some jagged, fishbone-like mountain ridges poking up out of it. It was like that for hours on the plane. Where will you find primeval forests?

She unfolds a tourist map, and, pointing at a green patch, says, "Right there!"

"That's a park," you say.

"A national park is a nature preserve," she insists. "Animal and plant life there are kept in their original habitat!"

"Are there kangaroos?" you ask.

"Of course!" she replies. "You don't have to go to a zoo to see them. This isn't France where your wolves are purchased from all parts of the world, then fenced off somewhere so they can poke out their heads for tourists to look at."

Unable to change her mind, you mumble, "I'll have to see friends at the Performance Studies Centre about a car."

You also say that, although they had invited you here to put on one of your plays, you had only just met them and don't want to impose on them. She says that the trains go right there, and, pointing on the map to Central Railway Station, draws a line down to the patch of green at the Royal National Park.

"There's a station at Sutherland. See, it's easy to get there!"

She, Sylvie, hair cropped short, boyish like a middle-school student, looks much younger than she actually is, but her ample buttocks indicate that she is already a mature woman. You toast a slice of bread and add milk to your coffee. She drinks her coffee black, never with sugar, and eats her bread without butter. It's all to keep her figure.

The two of you come out of the small building where you are staying. Suddenly, she runs back inside, remembering to get a towel and her bathing suit. She says that just across the nature preserve, the Royal National Park, is the beach, and she will be able to have a swim and lie in the sun.

The train goes from Central Railway Station right through to Sutherland, a small station, and only a few people get off. Outside the station, there is a small town, but it's not clear where the forest is. You say you will have to ask someone, and return to the exit to ask the ticket seller, "Which way is it to the ancient forest? The park, the Royal National Park!"

"You need to go to the next station, Loftus," the ticket seller at the little window says.

So you get tickets and go back into the station. Twenty minutes later, a train comes, but it doesn't go to Loftus. That will be the next train.

Half an hour later, there is an announcement over the loudspeaker that the next train is running late, and the passengers should go to the platform on the other side. She asks the fat stationmaster what the problem is. The man replies, "Just wait, just wait, it'll be here." The door of the guardroom promptly shuts.

You remind her that the day the two of you arrived in Australia, people said it took two to three days, or even a week, by train from Sydney to Melbourne, and that they themselves would never make the trip by train. If they didn't go by plane, they would go by car. You say it's likely you will both be waiting until dark. But Sylvie paces back and forth and is all worked up. You tell her to sit down, but she can't stay seated.

"Go to the vending machine and buy a packet of peanuts, or those oily Australian nuts, the round ones, what are they called?" You're teasing her, and she ignores you.

An hour later, the train finally comes.

Loftus. Outside the station is an even smaller town, also gray and drab, and on the overhead bridge above the railway tracks is a horizontal banner: visit the tram museum.

"Do you want to go?" you ask.

She ignores you, runs back to the ticket window, then signals to you. You start toward the exit, and the ticket seller motions the two of you to go back into the station. You ask her, "Is the ancient forest on the platform?"

"You don't understand his English!" she says.

As you return into the station, you thank the ticket seller in English. She gives you a look, and laughs. She is no longer angry, and explains that the man said it was closer, going via the platform. All right, you follow her across the tracks, walking on the gravel heaped there for repairing the road. A man on duty, in a uniform, is watching the pair of you, and you shout out to him, "The park? Where is the Royal National Park?"

You know this much English. He points to an exit where the fence is broken.

The two of you get to the highway, where there are lots of speeding cars but no pedestrians. A big sign on the fence around the railway station reads TRAM MUSEUM; there is an arrow on it. There is no option but to go there to ask the way. Inside a high gateway is a small, toy-sized wooden hut, and, nailed to it, is a sign with the admission price clearly written on it, the price is different for adults and children, but there is no one inside selling tickets. A large open space has been laid with small metal tracks, and a carriage of an old tram with neatly painted paneling stands there. A woman with ten or so children surround an old man wearing a cap with embroidered sides and a sunshade. He is explaining the history of the tram. The old man finally finishes talking, and the woman and the children get on board the tram. He now turns to them, and touches his cap to salute. Sylvie tells him why she is here, and the old man spreads out his hands and says, "This is the National Park. It's all around us, the two of you and me. This museum of ours is a part of the park!"