The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories. Shouhua Qi

      Door Forever

      Shao Baojian

      An old town in the South. A small compound with an old well. Inside the compound live eight or nine ordinary families. The same old-styled one-story houses, the same configurations for many years, despite the addition of modern gadgets inside the houses recently.

      Among the eight or nine households, two of them have only one resident each: old bachelor Zheng Ruokui and old maid Pan Xue’er.

      Zheng lives right next door to Pan.

      “Morning,” he greets her.

      “Leaving?” She replies and passes him, not slowing one step.

      How many times have the neighbors seen the two passing each other in the compound but heard only those two words? They are disheartened by the simple, emotionless repetition.

      Pan is a bit over 40. Slim, oval face, pale skin, dressed simply but tastefully. She can still be considered charming. She works at the florist down West Street. The neighbors have no idea why such a charming woman would want to remain single. They only know that she is entitled to love yet has never married.

      Zheng moved into the compound five years ago right after Pan did. He is an art worker for a movie theater, a painter more conscientious and careful than talented, it is said. He looks much older than his age of 45 or 46. His hair, dry, messy, faded, shows no benefit of being combed often. His back humps visibly. Thin face. Thin and narrow shoulders. Thin hands. Only that pair of large eyes always glint with light of youth, and of dreams.

      When he returns home, he often carries a bunch of fresh flowers, roses, crabapple, wintersweet, and so on, in all four seasons, and places the fresh flowers in a tall and translucent blue vase.

      He isn’t in the habit of visiting the neighbors. Once home, he stays inside. Sometimes he comes out to wash clothes, dishes, and that tall, translucent blue vase. He then fills the vase with clear well water and carries it home with extreme care, his mouth pouting.

      A thick wall stands between his bedroom and that of Pan’s.

      Next to his bed is an old bamboo bookshelf, the height of an adult, set against the wall. Atop the bookshelf on the right is the permanent place for this blue vase.

      Besides this are some paintings, hanging here and there, some Chinese, some foreign, some by others, some by himself.

      It would be apparent from the configuration of furniture and the film of dust that has gathered, that this household misses the presence of a woman, the aura of warmth only a woman can create.

      Yet the vase is always cleaned spotless, the water inside always crystal clear, and the flowers always fresh and in full bloom.

      The neighbors have once cherished a fond hope that the flowers he carries home would one day appear inside the house of his next-door neighbor, Pan Xue’er. Yet this miracle never happened. Naturally they began to develop a sweet and gentle feeling of sympathy for Zheng.

      It drizzled one early morning in fall.

      Zheng, holding an umbrella, greeted Pan as usual: “Morning.”

      Pan, also holding an umbrella, replied as ever before: “Leaving?”

      The rain stopped in the evening. She returned home from work, but he didn’t.

      Word came that Zheng, while painting in the studio of the movie theatre, had a heart attack and fallen to the ground. He died upon arriving at the hospital.

      Some in this ordinary compound sobbed.

      But Pan did not cry, though her eyes were red.

      Wreathes were brought in, one after another. That big one decorated with all kinds of fresh flowers but without an elegy band, was from her in memory of him.

      In this ordinary compound the sudden absence of an ordinary man, an old bachelor who had not been favored by love, was felt keenly and with regret.

      A few days later Pan Xue’er moved away. Sudden and unexpected.

      While packing up Zheng’s things one day, the neighbors couldn’t help being amazed: That blue vase looked like it had been cleaned recently; the white chrysanthemum in it had not faded.

      Everyone’s eyes popped when they moved the old bamboo bookshelf.

      A Door! On the wall was a finely crafted purple-red door with a brass handle!

      Their hearts were tossed into turmoil: So that’s what was going on!

      The neighbors grunted and sneered. The sorrow and respect they had felt for this old bachelor only a few days ago was gone, replaced by an anger that could not be described or uttered.

      Then, someone reached to pull the door open, but cried out—the brass handle was flat, and the door and its frame were as smooth as the wall.

      A door painted on the wall!

      (1986)

      The Moonlit Window

      Deng Kaishang[1]

      The moon, pale as jade, peeked from behind translucent clouds, drifted in through the delicate window, and fell onto the small writing desk in the room. The tenant’s exquisite writing brush, breathing in the fragrance of fresh ink, rested on a small, finely-carved wood stand.

      Five water chestnuts. No, four and a half, to be more exact: one of them having been bitten in half by the tenant. The remaining half, its stem still intact, lay upright on the small desk. Basking in the pale, pure moonlight, it looked like a miniature pyramid.

      A small piece of square-shaped marble, exquisite, pure as a beam of frozen moonlight. Underneath the rock was a stack of manuscript paper, words written in graceful penmanship, its title: “Revision Suggestions for On Spring Vistas in Mountainous Villages (Three Volumes).”

      Underneath the stack of manuscript paper was a family letter, which cracked visibly somewhere along the lines where it had been folded; the V-shaped rupture rippled with moonlight, shiny like a dagger. The visible portion of the letter showed words written with both resolve and feminine sensitivity:

      Full moon beaming in the sky, stars sailing to the west, but woe welling up in my heart: A full moon is not as good as a full family! ‘Once a couple, forever a couple,’ and we had that ‘once’ for 12 years! My conscience, a woman’s conscience, tortures my soul to this very day that we have been washed apart by the currents of life. My soul cries in pain; my soul is bleeding. Oh, let’s get married again! I beseech you. The only thing I will ask of you is to quit this editor’s job. What did you get in return for ‘making bridal dresses’ for others half of your life? Ten years of cold wind and rain, a head of frosty hair. So listen to me this time!

      The letter closed with: “I beg you to quit smoking.” In a corner of the letter were two red, bean-sized marks: two drops of blood having soaked deep into the paper. Next to them was a line from the tenant after reading the letter: “Endless will flow this feeling of love!” It was taken from Bai Juyi’s poem “Endless