“But who is the mysterious sender?” Zhuli asked.
“Who knows? There was a note which said that even banned music should be assessed on its own merits, that songs as well as novels could serve as samizdat, passed from person to person. Some foolish idealist. One of your kind, I’m sure.”
“Someone from the Conservatory?” Zhuli said.
“At first we thought it was the Professor or Kai,” Ling said. “But they both swore it wasn’t them. In fact, Kai told us turn it in to the authorities. I swear, the boy is afraid of his own feet.”
“But isn’t Kai right to be cautious?” Zhuli asked. She thought Ling and her aunt were perversely unaware, as if they had never attended a political study session or encountered a blackboard newspaper.
“Ha, I know what you’re thinking,” the Old Cat said. “But, child, when you’ve seen as much as I have, you realize the die is cast. The so-called ‘enemies of the People’ are the ones whose luck has run out, nothing more. One day the traitor is Shen Congwen, the next Guo Moruo. If they want to come for you, they will come, and it doesn’t matter what you read or what you failed to read. The books on your shelves, the music you cherish, the past lives you’ve lived, all these details are just an excuse. In the old days, spite and jealousy drove the eunuchs in all their power struggles. Perhaps we live in a new age, but people don’t change overnight.”
“But why give the authorities an excuse?” Zhuli asked. “If the neighbourhood can turn in one family of counter-revolutionaries, the whole block might be saved. People are just trying to get by.” A voice in her head scolded her: Why do you persist in playing music that is outrageously formalist? Why did you react disdainfully when Kai brought you the correct music? Are you too idiotic to realize that the very existence of a violin soloist is counter to the times?
“Because, Zhuli,” the Old Cat said, “these books were bequeathed to me by my beloved father. At some point, a person must decide whether they belong to the people who loved them, or whether they belong to the emperors. The truth is, my ancestry is long and my past is complex because this country is old. Ah, our country is old! How can the Party convince me otherwise? I know who I am and I know what old means. If the Party knows it too, well, good for them. I must meet the destiny that was written out by my lineage. If they want to hurry me into the next life, okay. I’m old, I’ll go. I would only miss my little Ling.
“The things you experience,” she continued, “are written on your cells as memories and patterns, which are reprinted again on the next generation. And even if you never lift a shovel or plant a cabbage, every day of your life something is written upon you. And when you die, the entirety of that written record returns to the earth. All we have on this earth, all we are, is a record. Maybe the only things that persist are not the evildoers and demons (though, admittedly, they do have a certain longevity) but copies of things. The original has long since passed away from this universe, but on and on we copy. I have devoted my minuscule life to the act of copying.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Ling said. “When the authorities come, she’s soft as porridge. She knows how to ply them with old-woman words.”
The Old Cat grunted. “Sure. That, too.”
“Still,” Zhuli said, “in these times, we should take precautions.”
“Ah, child. Sometimes an old woman simply gets set in her ways. She’s like a pain you can’t dislodge.”
Ling, San Li, Kai, the Old Cat, they must all come from exemplary class backgrounds, Zhuli realized. They had never been targeted and so, deep in their bones, did not believe they could be. They were free because, in their minds, they persisted in believing they were. Maybe they were right but Zhuli felt as if she were watching an oil drum that was about to explode.
She began to shift the books off her lap so that she could get to her feet.
Still seated, Ling reached out to gather the empty cups. The Old Cat was humming to herself, and the resemblance between the Old Cat and Ling made Zhuli feel as if she were standing between two arias. Maybe these volumes of books acted as a kind of sponge, shielding the Old Cat from the muck of the city outside her door.
The violin case knocked against Zhuli’s knee. She was glad they had not asked her to play for them. Each time she lifted her bow to perform, she felt as if parts of herself were being peeled away.
“It was fate that you found us,” the Old Cat said. “Or, to put it another way, fate that I found you again.”
“What do you mean?” Zhuli asked. She was holding her father’s book in her hands.
“Oh,” the Old Cat said. The smile on her lips tried to hide a lasting pain. “Ignore my rambling. My thoughts wander from time to time. I get lost in the things that were.”
—
Sparrow pedalled his bicycle behind Kai. There was no moon, only haphazard lighting, a low wattage bulb in a window, the glow from the oil lamp in an outdoor kitchen. At last the pianist coasted to a stop. “Forgive me, Sparrow,” he said, turning. He was shivering as if he were ill. “I had to do it, I have to draw a clear line. Please, let me go. I have to…There’s no choice. Can you understand? I have to do it for my parents, my sisters. I am the only one left. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry…” They were sheltered by a willow so heavy with leaves its branches swept the ground. Kai looked at him with a beseeching air. “Let me go. There’s nothing else to do. We must trust the Party in everything. Everything.” He turned and began pedalling away. After a moment, Sparrow, too, began pedalling again, but slower now. Other travellers drifted between them and up ahead, Kai merged into the darkness and slowly disappeared. Sparrow rode for what seemed a long time, but the boulevard continued, endless. The wind picked up and he heard a hollow banging on the air. Everyone began pedalling faster, hoping to get home before the downpour, but it was already too late. Lightning broke the sky apart. Rain smacked the concrete so hard it ricocheted up, hard as pellets. He was instantly drenched. In a single moment, the rain had swept everyone off the road, towards shelter, and only a single car pushed on, oblivious. Sparrow turned into a laneway and dismounted. All he could think about was his desire to be with Kai, to pass another night with him, the desire was sharp and undeniable. I care for him, yes, and what difference does it make, how and to what degree? To whom does it matter? He stood gripping the handlebars, bewildered by his own self-delusion. To love as he did was, if not a counter-revolutionary crime, foolhardy and dangerous. Such love could only lead to ruin. Behind him voices called out, but the words were only gusts of air. A child reached out and firmly pulled him sideways, under the shelter of a tree. All Sparrow saw was the sudden disappearance of a city full of people.
At last, the rain ebbed. The road was silver with water. People came into the road anyway, their legs disappearing, sometimes up to their knees.
He climbed back onto his bicycle. Almost immediately he sank down as the front tire gave out. He must have hit a nail or a shard of glass. Sparrow was aware, suddenly, of the cold weight of his wet clothes and the water that dripped down from his hair, down his neck and back. He began pushing the bicycle beside him. Already the clean rainwater smelled of mud, he saw a dead chicken floating towards him beside a head of cabbage. An eddy came, sucked the chicken down and pushed it back up again. A little girl came running towards it, her long hair pasted alarmingly to her face.
As he walked, the water slowly drained away. Sparrow saw the cuffs of his trousers, then his ankles and his shoes. He had the numbing fear that the Shanghai that existed only moments ago was gone, it had been washed away and replaced.