Su Tong - Madwoman On the Bridge and Other Stories

The room was as crude and dilapidated as Meng had expected. The patterned sheets and cotton quilt were damp to the touch. There was a Peacock TV at least a dozen years old, and with the colours distorted so the female broadcaster acquired a green face and lips that looked like they had been smeared with blood, a horrifying shade of red. The only surprise was the presence of a balcony, and quite a sizeable one at that; a solitary luxury feature futilely fixed outside the window. Diesel turned the air-conditioning on with the remote, which he then slipped into his pocket. Noticing the surprised expression on his guest’s face, he began to explain the guesthouse rules and regulations.

‘I can’t do anything about it. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but we’ve already lost four remotes.’

‘Do you really think I’m going steal your remote?’

Diesel shook his head, ‘Not that you would steal it. I just told you, didn’t I? Those are our rules. After I turn on the air con, I have to take it with me.’

‘You really don’t trust me, do you? When all is said and done, what you’re afraid of is that I’ll run off with your remote.’

‘Hmph! You, sir, have an unpleasant way with words. Everyone has to obey the regulations. I’m on duty today, and if the remote control gets lost, it’s me who has to replace it.’

At this Meng laughed out loud. ‘No matter how you put it, you’re still afraid you’ll have to replace it, right?’ Meng’s attitude seemed to amuse Diesel. Keeping a protective hand on his pocket, he walked self-consciously towards the door, as if to effect an escape. Meng, behind him, said, ‘We should have a chat. Can I talk with you?’ But Diesel didn’t turn back; he just waved him off with his hand and said, ‘No. You should rest.’ Meng followed him out the door, but by that time his figure was already disappearing down the stairs; the little old man had made a break for it, just like a child. Meng could appreciate how he felt. Actually, he wasn’t at all certain he wanted to chat with this one-time teacher, especially given that their student-teacher relationship had long since vanished, like mist in the morning. Nor did he have any clue what it was they should talk about.

Through the window, he could see that snow had fallen on the balcony. A mop was propped up in one corner; it even had a plastic bag over it. Meng paced around the room and considered giving his cousin a ring, but quickly discarded the idea. The air-conditioning was purring along. Meng put his hand in front of the air vent, but it was still blowing cold. The temperature in the room hadn’t changed. He reflected that this was not fated to be an evening to enjoy; he was mentally prepared for further unpleasantness. Perhaps Diesel had been right: a native son returning from his travels should be generous in his judgements. Meng opened the door onto the balcony and a gust of cold wind blew in his face. He nearly abandoned the thought of going out, but then he realized that it looked out over a school or, to be more accurate, the sports grounds of a school. And suddenly he felt he had seen it before.

The sports ground was only 20 metres away, and the fallen snow could not obscure the oval outline of a running track. In the nocturnal haze, you could also clearly make out the straight lines of horizontal and parallel bars. The school, too, was clearly on the demolition list, since already certain buildings were skeletal, the doors and windows removed. A very high f lagpole stood loftily in the nightscape, but the flag had been struck, too. Meng followed the flagpole down with his eye. He could just make out the stairs leading up to the platform. They were covered in snow, and from a distance emitted a shimmering white light. Déjà vu. Meng turned his head to look out to the north-west, and it was then that he saw the black form of the brick Song Dynasty tower, facing the f lagpole in the distance. Meng’s orientation in the city suddenly returned, and he was certain that the school he was looking at was Eastern Wind High School, his own high school.

He could still remember that the length of the track at Eastern Wind was 375 metres, making it 25 metres shorter than the track and field standard. That was something his P.E. teacher had told him back then; he had been greatly impressed by the talent Meng had exhibited for the longer distances. Meng looked down on the snowy sports grounds and hazily made out a whitevested adolescent dashing along the track — 375 metres — four laps to make exactly 1500. That had been his best event. That was his former life. Meng shouted out in a strange voice at the abandoned sports grounds; they looked totally desolate in the night. Some concrete prefab slabs were piled where the sandpit was located. Someone had built a snowman on the pile, exacerbating the desolate look of the grounds. A native son returning from his travels. Meng suddenly contemplated the odd chance that led him to witness this unnatural scene. He laughed and thought, I’m not that kind of person. I won’t bear the cold any longer just to indulge in nostalgia. Everything is coincidence. And what is coincidence? Why, coincidence is coincidence.

There had still been no change in the room temperature. Meng realized quickly that although the air con was blowing air, it hadn’t been set to heat. He walked out into the corridor and called downstairs, ‘Hey, you! There’s a problem with the air con. Can you come up and have a look?’ He was surprised at how he had addressed Diesel. No matter what, he shouldn’t have just shouted ‘hey, you’. There was the sound of languid steps on the staircase, then Diesel emerged in his sweater, holding the remote. He looked as though he had been sleeping.

‘What’s wrong with the air con?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it working? Why should there be a problem?’ From his expression, Meng could see that he was in a mood to make himself unpleasant. He seemed to suspect Meng of making things up just to pick a fight.

The smile disappeared from Meng’s face: ‘Come see for yourself if there’s a problem or not.’

Diesel was clearly only superficially acquainted with the air con. Meng watched as he pressed randomly at the buttons on the remote. The fan suddenly coughed and died. ‘Crud,’ Diesel shouted suddenly, ‘Is it locked? It’s locked, isn’t it?’

Meng said, ‘It’s an air con machine, not a camera. It doesn’t have an automatic lock.’ He motioned for Diesel to hand him the remote, but was ignored. Diesel was still anxiously hitting the buttons, then he uttered, ‘Young people think they know everything. Just because it’s air con and not a camera it doesn’t have an automatic lock. Is that a scientific way of thinking?’ Meng gave a small laugh, ‘Let me give it a try.’ He held his palm open and asked, ‘Do you think I could have a try?’ He watched as Diesel’s nostrils convulsed for a moment before he suddenly placed the remote in his hand. ‘You want to try? OK, go ahead and try,’ Diesel said. ‘If I can’t get it started, let’s see you do it.’

His totally unnecessary anger reminded Meng once more of the long-ago physics class. It was with exactly that kind of annoyance that he had taught the principle of siphonage. The atmosphere. Pressure. Atmospheric pressure. Meng couldn’t resist joshing him, and remarked, ‘Maybe there isn’t enough atmospheric pressure.’

But Diesel didn’t take it as a joke and sniggered coolly, ‘That’s what young people are like today, throwing around concepts they know next to nothing about.’

Meng suddenly felt himself in a tight corner. Under Diesel’s mocking eyes he pressed the remote control buttons but failed to reanimate the exasperating air con. It seemed to have given up the ghost. Scratching his head, he said, ‘Could it be that it needs a new battery?’