Mu Xin - An Empty Room

Woman: “Good intentions? She has good intentions, indeed.” The woman slashed her hand slowly across her neck and added, “I wouldn’t believe that if you killed me.”

Man, after a pause: “Tempers flare easily, you know. My sick mother isn’t going to get better. Forgive her.”

Woman: “Sick? I’m sick, too. You mother and sister together are capable of all sorts of tricks.”

Man: “That’s why I’m always afraid to come home. . ”

Woman: “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t come home again. They already laugh at me as if I were a widow.”

Man: “Now that’s obscene.”

The city was separated from the suburbs by a river. Many who worked in the city only went home on weekends. Most of these commuters were cheerful. I suspected that the man and woman were newlyweds. The woman couldn’t bear to part from her husband so she rose early to see him off in the rain. From their brief conversation it was apparent that the woman didn’t get along with her in-laws. The man obviously couldn’t do much about it. Even though they were newlyweds, even though their periods of separation must have brought them even closer to each other, they had more worries than happiness. That she and her mother-in-law and sister-in-law had to live under the same roof was the main cause of their sad domestic situation. In the confines of their home, they couldn’t avoid each other and could barely live with each other. I could tell from their pale and weary faces that they hadn’t slept well the night before. When the husband came home, the woman’s complaints of the past week would naturally pour out of her, her voice rising to a fervent pitch. His mother and sister would also complain to him and would make a list of his wife’s wrongdoings, perhaps even delving into trifling details. Why couldn’t they live in separate homes? Perhaps there was a housing shortage or perhaps they didn’t have the money to rent another place. Complicated affairs often have simple explanations.

I was content with my leisure and private insights. And I considered myself experienced in reading humans. Besides, with no family, my life was much simpler than a god’s.

The bus was about to leave. The couple exchanged a long glance. Then the man jumped onto the bus and sat in the seat in front of me. The woman passed the black umbrella to him from an open window and ran into the rain, head down.

The man hung up his umbrella. He sat still for a moment and then bent forward, weeping into the back of the seat in front of him.

A fellow passenger in tears would otherwise have little to do with me. But by chance I had overheard their conversation, had seen their pale faces, and had even speculated about their situation. The other passengers were probably unaware of his troubles.

Being selfish and often particular about people’s appearances, I usually wasn’t particularly inclined to compassion. If the weak and the victimized seemed ugly to me, they could hardly arouse my pity. I was often conscious of my lack of generosity and chastised myself for superficially judging people. But then I also forgave myself for the same reason because what I saw as ugly sometimes actually reflected the heart of the person.

The weeping man didn’t evoke any ugliness. He was dressed plainly and had handsome features, including proportionately thick eyebrows. He was of medium stature, perhaps not quite thirty years old. I could see how his slender shoulders spasmodically heaved beneath his navy blue jacket; I could hear how he expressed his suffering nasally and how he let out intermittent long sighs while shaking his head. . I felt an urge to stroke his back and talk to him about the possibility of a more harmonious relationship between his mother, sister, and his wife. . I wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, just fine.

I realized I first needed to close the window. It wasn’t summer anymore and the man was thinly clothed.

As his sobs lessened, my thoughts of conversing with him also faded. Some people weep in a hidden place hoping to be discovered. Others weep in a hidden place where they don’t wish to be found. These two mindsets could characterize the same person, possibly different expressions under different circumstances.

The book in my satchel could stop these aimless thoughts.

He must have fallen asleep. He looked so fragile I was afraid he might catch a cold. I wanted to take off my jacket and cover his shoulders but I hesitated for fear of waking him up. I wasn’t sure why I felt so eager to help him, while also feeling afraid of being too friendly. . But should I watch him while he caught a cold. . I could wake him up but then he would weep again. . Well, let him sleep then. . since his wedding day all his weekends have been consumed with family conflicts. . He probably had never anticipated such problems before marrying. . or perhaps he had but decided to get married anyway. .

It seemed as if I were holding a kind of dialogue with him.

I returned to my book.

The bus neared its destination. I put my book away. Just as I was about to wake the man up, he was wakened by a sudden jerk of the bus and raised his head — then remembered his umbrella. I saw his face again when we got off: he indeed had been sleeping.

The surface of the road glimmered in the sunlight. The man walked ahead of me toward the ferry, his gait slightly wavering. Suddenly he started twirling his umbrella, making circles and circles — clockwise, counter-clockwise — while he whistled to the rhythm of the twirling.

It was the same man with a navy blue jacket and black umbrella.

The ferryboat was crowded with passengers. I stood at the bow, facing the wind. I had often thought that a human being is like a container holding both joy and sadness. But a human being isn’t a container. He is more like a pipe through which both joy and sadness flow. A pipe with all sorts of emotions flowing through it until one’s death or until it is emptied. A madman, then, is someone whose pipe is stuffed, or cracked. .

He who can feel sadness easily can feel cheerfulness more easily. Thus he possesses a strong capacity for survival. He whose pipe thickens must be slow in feeling either joy or sadness. A blocked pipe eventually breaks. The world is made up of many unblocked pipes like the man in navy blue with his black umbrella. I should be able to twirl my umbrella in his lighthearted manner after I have wept and grieved. Or else I should always be excluded from the world which includes them. They are insignificant people. I am less than insignificant.

in the temperate zone, at the start of each season, a sacred aura delicately begins to insinuate itself in the wind. While winter lingers on, spring’s cold air feels tender and moist as it stirs up private, fleeting memories. Each passing day silently acknowledges the change of seasons so that the beginning of spring is received with paramount propriety and somberness. If it should turn clear and warm in an instant, if the birds should suddenly fly and chirp without restraint, the weather would just as quickly, as if from remorse, turn gloomy, and might even result in freezing sleet.

Spring doesn’t arrive so easily. Spring is like a melancholy yet dignified man. It is no wonder then that a person with deep addictions is sometimes likened to spring. Toward the end of March, in this temperate region, humidity from the earth’s interior rises and spreads across the plains by the sea. A hazy fog fills the early morning but by noon the fog transforms into huge clouds that seem suspended by the sunlight in the air. When dusk falls, the horizon starts to blur, and the more it blurs, the closer its desire moves toward you. Borders in the fields become unrecognizable while cottages, churches, and wetlands in the woods are immersed in a milky mist. Night doesn’t seem to turn dark on time. Eventually, a full moon hangs in the heavens, a pool of yellowish haze, solemn and vast in design, not unlike a refined maze.