The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories. Shouhua Qi
bride lost her mother at five. For 23 years she has been a good surrogate mother to her two younger sisters. She never had a chance to say “Mommy” again. Once she told me: “At the time mother was already in a coma. Father carried me to the sickbed and said: ‘Call Mommy, my child, call mommy. . . . ’ I remember, vaguely, that I called as loud as I could: ‘Mommy!’”
(n.d.)
The Love Story of A and B
Yindi
Time is a magician. When 30 years have passed, it is difficult to tell what is real and what is not real. Below is something strange that happened in my office this morning:
A and B were my high school classmates. A is female and B male. B was a roommate of mine in the dorm. We shared a bunk and were close like each other’s shadow. When B and A started to date, I had the pleasure of being an occasional messenger between them, as well as a peace-maker now and then. However, the feelings they had for each other during high school were not mature yet. After graduation they parted ways; and each followed his or her own path; they each got married and started a family of their own. One thing they had in common, though: they both emigrated to America, A is a dentist on the East coast while B is a gynecologist on the West coast.
Yesterday afternoon, A called and said she wanted to come and see me. It turned out she was in Taibei and got my phone number from a classmate. She told me she was to return to the U.S. tomorrow. She sat in my office for about half an hour. Thirty years of time had lapsed. For a while we didn’t know where to start and yet once we started we had so much to talk about. Before leaving she gave me a tin of tea leaves and asked if I was still in touch with B. I shook my head.
Then, a strange thing happened. This afternoon, B, whom I had all but lost touch with since graduation, called me, too. He said he had been back to Taibei for a conference and finally got hold of my phone number from a mutual friend. I said: “This call of yours is a bit late. If you had dialed this number yesterday, I would have told you A is in my office and is chatting with me over tea. You would certainly have dashed over to see A, whom you haven’t seen for 30 years!” B said; “Really? Really?” He dashed to my office and asked, still gasping: “Perhaps A has changed her flight? Perhaps she is still in Taibei?” I told him to call up a few classmates who would know A’s whereabouts. B was given this accurate information: A has boarded a 10:30 flight this morning to return to America.
B had such a lost look in his eyes. He then asked me for A’s phone number and address in America and wanted to leave right away. I gave him the tin of tea leaves A had given me and said: “You both, without talking, brought me a tin of tea leaves. I’ll keep yours, but hers, you can take back to America and enjoy. You didn’t get a chance to shake her hand, but this tin of tea leaves, at least, still has a lingering warmth of her hand. Take it with you. Better than nothing, you know.”
At that he took over the tin and hugged it to his chest, a smile appearing on his face. He said good bye and left me to linger a bit longer in the memory of this old-time love. I have always wondered: Which would be better, the two of them, after 30 years of no contact, missing each other again by as little as one day? Or, what if they had suddenly encountered each other again in my office that day? What kind of ramifications would such a reunion have?
(n.d.)
Nightclub-tique
Zhong Zimei
Monogamy has collapsed. The short, temporary relationships between men and women are now maintained through “open rendezvous” (no more “secret rendezvous”). Childbirth is handled by “Generational Reproduction” chain stores.
All “open rendezvous” happen at nightclubs. The nightclubs of the 20th century, though, are nowhere to be found. The nightclubs of the entire world are gathered in the vacuum 230,000 kilometers from the earth to the moon. They are made of colorful soft plastic, semi-transparent, big ones about one kilometer across, and small ones only 10 meters. These oblong things float in the atmosphere, rock slightly, and bump into each other softly, as spontaneous and romantic as can be. Hence a new expression is coined to describe this new nightclub phenomenon: “Nightclub-tique.”
Tonight, John flew his spacecraft again to “Nightclub-tique.” His partner was Gonzales—an impeccable beauty.
They had just finished the first round of French cognac when two tall and strong police officers appeared in front of them. One of them said to Gonzales coldly: “Give me your left hand!’
He gripped Gonzales’s ring finger and lifted the nail easily, all the dark red parts glittering right before their eyes.
“A fake human indeed! Where is your product registration card? No? An illegal fake human! You’ll have to come with us—”
“Wait a second!” John stood up and removed a golden card from his waist belt.
The coldness of the police melted away. One of the officers swiped the card against the magnetic buckle of his waist belt and gave John a salute:
“Mr. John, member of the Global Commission! You have two of your five amnesty rights left. All right, we will grant amnesty to this lady.”
When the police left, the ashen-faced Gonzales threw herself into John’s arms and cried gratefully:
“You won’t despise me just because I’m a fake, John?”
John burst out laughing. He gently lifted the nail of his own ring finger.
“You’re a fake, too? How can fake humans sit on the Global Commission?”
“Why can’t commission members be fake?” It took John a while to stop laughing. “Let me tell you a secret. My card is fake, too.”
John reached to wipe away the tears from Gonzales’ cheeks. “The tears in your dacryocysts must be counterfeit. You should use Daiyu. That brand can’t be faked. The world we live in today, there are too many fake things. Who knows, this French cognac may not be real. . . . ”
Just then another group of police swarmed in. They were not coming for John, though. Instead, they dragged out the manager from his office. The manager was shaking from head to toe.
“The license for this nightclub is fake, damn it!’ A police officer shouted.
John walked up and showed them his golden card.
An arrest was thus warded off. The manager bowed to John so many 90-degree bows and returned to his office.
“John! You are something! I’m so proud of having someone like you among us fake humans!” Gonzales snuggled in John’s arms and said again softly, as if to herself; “How nice it’d be to return to monogamy. . . . ”
Outside the window, the most splendid vista of nightclubs in the entire Milky Way still unfolds its endless story of “Open Rendezvous”—the story of Nightclub-tique, real and fake alike.
(2000)
family
Blowfish
Wang Renshu
He learnt about this from someone and decided to make the move.
Somehow he got a basket of blowfish and carried it home quietly.
Three successive years of disastrous harvest left him with barely enough grain to pay the landowner and little to feed his family of five. It had been excruciatingly difficult for him, all alone, to pull the family through from last winter to early spring. Now, all that was left was hunger.
But how could he let his family suffer hunger?
When his family saw him back with a full basket, they all jumped for joy, as if he were an angel.
The kids met him at the door, half dancing.
“Pop,