"Lie on your stomach, and pull down your pants."
It was useless to resist. Even Mommy obeyed him. She rolled over obediently and pulled down her pants.
For two whole months, the seven-and-a-half-year-old Dai Er experienced the world through the unvarying command of "Lie on your stomach, and pull down your pants." She learned that no one else could take that resonating needle for her. Everyone had his own needle to face.
The long needle entered her buttock and stabbed at her heart. She grew up with that needle.
The dental office resounds with the provocative screeches of teeth being drilled and scraped. They grate on Miss Dai Er's nerves and make her shudder.
The stocky, young dentist approaches her, holding a hypodermic syringe.
"No!" Miss Dai Er's scream disturbs the rigid operating protocols of the dental office.
A Fortuitous Encounter
That I actually met him was certainly the will of heaven. It happened five years ago. One day at dusk when the feeble face of evening had already faded, night's curtain fell in a rush, allowing no explanation. At that time, my persistent nostalgia invariably led me from a stage pieced together by historical fragments to a theater displaying the passage of time. On that day, I walked alone into a grand theater decorated with a mix of luxurious splendor and religious decline. It was at the entrance where I ran into him; to be precise, at first I was captivated by the eyes of a handsome, bright young man, and then I recognized him by his voice.
"Is it really you?"
I collected myself and looked at him, able to identify the focused yet limpid eyes. The space beneath the eyes, however, appeared only in my imagination; except that in my imagination, the chin had been broad, with sharp edges and corners, whereas the one before me was steep yet smooth. The Grecian nose was just as I had imagined, belonging to the right person.
"Yes, it's me. I know you… part of you, anyway." To be acquainted with a handsome man in this way-how could I help but smile?
He was smiling, too. He stroked his chin with his right hand, and the large palm slid along with a lively whistle. Neither of us mentioned the event we had experienced together.
"Are you… alone?" He asked.
"Yes."
"If you don't mind, I happen to have two tickets."
"I've got one." I showed him the ticket in my hand.
"But mine are in the front row."
"Um… aren't you going to wait for her any longer?"
"Who?"
"Um…" I turned and looked around.
He took my arm gently before I turned back around. "I'm waiting for a girl just like you."
I smiled and shook my head but followed him nevertheless.
The heavy curtains opened, the lights dimmed, and all was quiet. I've always thought that the biggest difference between an office and a theater is that an office is a stage and that even if you don't like to perform, you must play a role regardless of how unimportant it is. There is no escape. Even though your office is tranquil as still water and only one or two people-actors-are around you, you are still unable to indulge in your inner world: your facial expression will betray you. The office is a stage, an outer life, an unclosed space. In a cinema or a theater, however, once the lights are turned off and the darkness spreads around you, you are swallowed up by a vast emptiness. Although in the darkness, countless heads are hidden and the air is filled with whispers like a tired night wind quietly perched in a vast forest, you gain a peaceful space where your heart is able to wander freely. You watch a miniature world and telescoped time on the stage; your pearllike tears flow, you giggle, you can't help yourself, you let yourself go.
That day's play was about love, and the actors performed with wild intoxication. A man poured out his heart to a woman as beautifully as if he were lying, and a woman lied to another woman as beautifully as if she were telling the truth. I was totally immersed in the story and the passion on stage. When the curtains closed and the lights came on, I was dragged back to the theater from somewhere within my heart by the noise of movement around me, and once again I saw his focused yet limpid eyes.
I said thanks.
He also said thanks.
We walked out together. We made our slow way through the excited crowd, his arm shielding my back to protect me from being jostled. From time to time, his arm was pushed up against my back or waist by the crowd, and to me it felt like a gentle, comforting caress. When we reached the exit, he helped me with my coat. This act, subtle and natural, made my coat warmer and more velvety.
To get from the theater to the bus stop, we needed to pass down a narrow lane with buildings on both sides. I had already thought about the hidden dangers in the cramped space on the way to the theater, but since it had not yet been entirely dark, the imagined danger had been no more than a fleeting concern. Now the darkness was thick as ink as we left the theater, and the moon, like an eroded boulder, showed only a tiny sliver. Completely caught up in the dangers of the long, narrow, dark passage, I asked him to stand at this end of the lane and wait until I ran to the other end and said good-bye to him.
He laughed. "Why so complicated? I'll go with you."
"No."
"I don't mind. Really."
"There's no need. I… really no need…"
"But why?"
"I'm just afraid… suddenly somebody might…"
"Oh! Including me?"
"Um…"
"You really are a little girl. You need me, but you're also afraid of me. OK, you go first, then shout, and I'll come over and see you home."
I accepted happily.
I ran the whole way without taking a single breath, as if it were a hundred-meter dash. His eyes and silhouette remained behind me, exactly where I'd left them. As soon as I reached the other end, I shouted, "I made it."
And from the other end, his footsteps sounded.
When we were together again, he earnestly guaranteed my safety. I felt I could trust him. This trust originated from a shared memory, which I cannot reveal here.
As we walked, reluctantly we recalled that event. I told him how impressed I had been by his eyes and by his voice-the low, gentle voice of a cello filtering out from behind closed doors and windows. Unexpectedly, every detail of the event, including my manner and behavior, remained fresh in his memory.
"I knew then that you'd never return," he said.
Walking slowly along the deserted night street, we talked about things far and near, including the romantic play we had just seen. I said I didn't agree with one of the leading man's lines. The "rib theory" is ridiculous, I said. However intimate the original Adam and Eve or their future replacements might have been, they each had their own heads, their own thoughts, and their own spirits. Women were independent.
He agreed.
"Maybe that's why I have no religious beliefs," I said. Five years ago, I talked about love as earnestly as I did about death.
We parted a short distance from my house.
He stroked my hair gently and said, "You talk like an adult." He emphasized the word like, implying that I was really only a little girl.
"There's no contradiction." I ignored his implication.
"Contradictions are beautiful. You're a contradictory girl."
His silver-gray raincoat softly flapped against my body, and I felt a sort of moist tenderness. He leaned toward me slightly, but that's as far as it went.
The moon was full, and the pale yellow streetlamps shimmered at the tips of our shadows. Feeling his breath caressing my cheek, I lowered my head, not knowing what to do.
I freed myself from the embrace of his flapping raincoat and said, "Don't."
"Don't be nervous. I just want to hear your story."
I looked into his face; I felt safe and relaxed.
The Reappearing Shadow
Miss Dai Er is sitting in the dental chair of Dr. Kong Sen, her head tilted slightly backward, her left leg stretched out straight, her right knee bent inward and tucked under her left calf. Her hands lie stiffly on her flat abdomen. A slight tremble causes her shapely breasts to jiggle like a pair of startled little heads. The young dentist is gazing absorbedly at the nervous body of the young woman, who seems solitary and helpless under the strong light of the lamp.
Watching the approaching Dr. Kong Sen, who is holding a full hypodermic, Miss Dai Er is in a great panic. She opens her mouth wide, and the brutal syringe, which is about to stab her upper jaw, makes her pale and sends her out of control.