The Train to Lo Wu (16 page)

To leave it on is better, she says. You can relax more.

I want to watch you. I’d rather be awake.

While she makes dinner he runs hot water in the bath and washes himself, scrubbing with the sponge until steam rises from his reddened skin. He shampoos his hair and shaves for the first time in weeks, feeling for patches of stubble with his fingers after the mirror fogs over. His muscles liquefy in the heat; his jaw feels slack, and his leg tingles when he pushes the sponge through the gaps in the brace. As if his body had forgotten the possibility of being clean. Clutching his bathrobe together in the front, he opens the door in a cloud of steam. The radio is tuned to a classical station, a Chopin prelude. She sets steaming plates on the table and turns toward him. The black dress bags slightly around her hips, and binds her chest; she wobbles on Mrs. Mei’s heels like a girl dressed in her mother’s clothes.

After they have eaten for some time in silence the radio program changes to big band music: Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Sinatra. He taps his good foot to the beat. I would ask you to dance, he tells her, but I never learned properly. I suppose I missed my chance.

My mother was a dancer, she says. Not that kind. Ballet. When she was very young she had a teacher from Leningrad.

Did she teach you anything?

Assemblé,
she says, smiling at the forgotten word. And she gave me her costumes. I sometimes would put them on and think I was in Tchaikovsky.

You’re very graceful. You would have been a beautiful dancer.

She wipes her mouth and turns to the window. High cirrus clouds hang over the city like a painted ceiling, turning the harbor lavender. Her lower jaw juts forward, as if he has insulted her and she is considering the right response. What does she see, he wonders, watching her reflection in the glass. What is there for her, in this gaudy, hallucinated world.

I wanted to tell you something, she says softly. But I don’t know how to say it.

What was it?

Everything changes. Everything dies. We say,
life is a cloud
which appears and disappears.
Do you understand?

Ana, he says, how could I
not
understand?

So why say it, she says. What is the use? And she reaches for his hand.

She climbs astride him and arches her back, pointing her chin at the ceiling, dropping her arms behind her: as if her body is a bow being drawn. They move as if borne by waves, in slow, even spasms, until it seems to him a continuous motion, without beginning or end. There is no building tension, no need; even the blood in his veins seems to wash back and forth in a tidal rhythm. When it is over he feels only the fading of the pulse, his body coming to rest, the air chilling his soaked face. She lies on top of him, kissing him; he is so dazed he can hardly raise his arms to embrace her. Is it what you wanted, he whispers, and she says, yes, yes, I want, I want—

The next morning is sunstruck, the sky over the Kowloon hills a faded sheet of blue, and when Ana opens the windows the apartment fills with a clean, sea-smelling breeze. He sits at the kitchen table drinking tea, turning the heavy pages of an old book from Mrs. Mei’s shelf:
Some Painters of the Early Qing.
There is a chapter on Bada Shanren, the painter-turned-monk, with his scribblings of blasted scenery: gnarled trees, broken boulders, ragged, fierce-eyed birds. “The Comedy of Catastrophe,” the chapter is called, and it’s such an apt title that he laughs out loud. What is it? she says, coming to look over his shoulder. He gives her the book, and she pages through the chapter, looking carefully at each plate before turning to the next.

He was born into a powerful family in the Ming dynasty, he explains. Then, when the Manchus invaded, nearly everyone he knew was killed. War, famine, pillage—he saw it all. He became a monk, a wandering sage. For the last thirty years of his life he never spoke to anyone.

These are very pure, she says. Like calligraphy. I like them very much.

He’s kind of a hero of mine. I’ve looked at his paintings for years.

You paint also in this way?

No, no. I don’t have the technique. It’s his thinking I’m interested in.

He had a very still mind. You can see this.

He was a crotchety old bastard, he says, and laughs. Being a monk, he was immune from prosecution. One of his friends said that when he looked at those paintings he felt that Bada Shanren was poking him in the eyes. And even now they have exactly the same effect. I think that’s what every artist wants, whether they admit it or not. He stops and sips his tea. I don’t know how I can talk like this, he says. I don’t have the right, do I?
His
world was destroyed, utterly destroyed. And yet he knew how to respond. There’s no self-pity in those paintings at all.

I think you will begin painting again soon, she says.

He closes his eyes. I’m going to disappoint you, he says. I’m not Bada Shanren.

She tilts his chin upward with her hands and kisses him on the forehead.

Don’t worry about me. Don’t even think that I am here.

I should show you some of my work. Would you like to see it? He looks across the room at the suitcase propped up next to the apartment door; it contains his paints, a few rolled-up canvases, and boxes of slides. He hasn’t opened it since leaving Bangkok.

She reaches across the table and picks up the pencil lying next to his sketchbook. Take this, she says, handing it to him. Draw a picture right now.

Of what?

Her eyes roam across the apartment. That, she says, indicating the window.

What, Hong Kong? No, I don’t do cities. No landscapes.

Not the city, then. Paint the sky.

In the mornings she works on his leg for hours, kneading the muscles of the ankle and thigh, until his back begins to cramp from lying so long on the floor. After lunch and a short rest he sits on a chair and holds his breath as she unbuckles the brace. The skin underneath is almost translucent, webbed with veins; the slightest breeze raises goose bumps across it. She raises the leg by the ankle until it is parallel with the floor, and they begin as they did two months before, with the tiniest possible motions, bending the knee so slowly that with his eyes closed he can hardly tell whether it has moved at all. Only now it is his effort, not hers; with each millimeter extended he imagines the tendons snapping like old rubber bands, and instinctively locks the knee straight again. Sweat stings in his eyes; his fingers grind against the rattan seat of the chair.

Breathe more deeply, she tells him. You are making good progress. Soon we can take the cane away.

I thought we weren’t supposed to expect anything.

She smiles and caresses his ankle.

When the sun sinks into the haze above Stonecutters Island, throwing long shadows across the floor, they rise and go into the bedroom and make love without speaking. Afterward he sleeps, exhausted, and wakes in a dark room, smelling the dinner she has prepared. He reaches for the sketchpad sitting on the night table, and for the few minutes before she calls he draws straight lines and circles with his pencil, enjoying the feeling of holding it in his hand, the flow of the line away from the tip.

Stay with me, he says to her one evening as they finish eating.

Of course. She picks at the remaining rice on her plate, eating every grain. There is much work left to do, she says. You are not well yet.

I mean for good. He picks up his water glass and taps it against the table. We could go back to America. Have a house together. You could easily find a job, you know.

She stares at him patiently, unblinking: as if anything could be possible, or necessary. After a moment she wipes her mouth with a napkin. You want to be married, she says. To marry me.

Yes, he says. That’s what I mean.

You would be a painter again. And I would earn money with therapy?

We could live in Boston. My parents have an apartment in Cambridge—we could rent it from them. I have friends there who would help us. There are many schools there. If you wanted, you could go back to college.

She stacks their plates and carries them into the kitchen, treading silently across the floor. I would like to study again, she says. Improve my English.

And then maybe someday we could go to Krakow.

She says nothing, and he wonders if he has mispronounced the name. Krakow, he repeats. Poland.

I was not born there, she says, over the sound of rushing water from the faucet. If that’s what you mean. I was born in the country, on a farm. Near Poznan. Later I went to school in Krakow.

Where are your parents?

My father is dead. My mother does not see me.

What do you mean?

When I became a nun she would not accept me.

She comes back to the table, drying her hands on a dish towel.

But if you were married, he says, maybe she would reconsider. Anyway, we wouldn’t
have
to go to Poland. Not if you didn’t want to. We could go anywhere.

She smiles down at her hands, folding the towel and draping it over the back of a chair. As if laughing at her own compulsive neatness, or remembering a private joke. Sometime I would like to go to Chicago, she says.

Why there?

My mother’s uncle lived there, she says. Always we talked about Chicago, when I was a child. She had many letters he wrote to her, before the war. Everything he described—the cars, the streetlights, all the different foods. So many strange English words. Michigan Avenue. Ferris wheel. I used to dream about what it would be like. And still I’ve never
been
there.

I think you would be disappointed.

Of course. She shrugs. Anytime, if you have a dream, you will be disappointed. Life is always that way. Still, if I have the chance, I would go.

So you don’t believe in hope, he says, trying to keep his voice neutral, to avoid the note of desperation. It isn’t any use making plans, then, is it?

She draws a long breath and lets it out, slowly, evenly. Hope always means desire, and desire brings suffering, she says. Like a wheel turning. One revolution.

Usually when we say that word we mean change, he says. A reversal. You know what I mean? Overthrowing something. He reaches across the table and covers her hand. When things are not the same as before.

Yes, she says. That is the difference.

He hears himself saying, in a clear, declarative voice,
I will
never understand you. You’ll never explain yourself, and yet I don’t
care.
Is there a better definition of love than that?

Before dawn she slips from his arms and lights a stick of incense on the windowsill. The burning tip and its reflection: like tiny red eyes staring at him in the darkness. Palms together, she bows, knees folding, and touches her forehead to the floor. He raises himself on his elbows. She sits up on her heels and begins to sing in a low voice, as if it is a lullaby.

Shin myo jang gu dae da ra ni
Na mo ra da na da ra ya ya
Na mak ar ya ba ro gi je sae ba ra ya

What is that, he whispers, when she has finished. What does it mean?

A dharani, she says, staring straight ahead. A seal. A confirmation.

Confirming what?

Passing over, she says. Beginning and ending.

All day she keeps a distance between them: cleaning the bathroom while he eats breakfast at the table; sitting at the table as he bathes, drinking tea, gluing the handle to a coffee cup he dropped the night before. He leaves the door open and watches her. Between each movement her hands pause, as if there is a time delay; as if she has to remind herself of the task.

You’re unhappy, he says late that afternoon. They have just finished the day’s stretching, and are sitting at the table drinking tea. I can tell. You’re thinking about the nunnery, aren’t you?

I am sorry.

You don’t have to be sorry, he says. Tell me what to do. Let me help you.

She stands and walks into the kitchen, looking out the window. The setting sun turns her face the color of straw. She puts her palms behind her waist and leans over backward. For the first time she seems tired.

I have an idea. His pulse throbs in his neck. Let’s go out somewhere. I want to see the town.

See the—

You can borrow a dress from Mrs. Mei again, he says. Please.

No, she says. Not just for me. You will be exhausted.

I
love
you, he says, laughing. Do you know what that means?

Then they are standing by the curb on Hollywood Road: a woman in a slightly baggy cocktail dress and pink baseball cap, holding the arm of a tall man whose body seems tilted against her, who waves a cane at passing taxis as if to threaten them. When one finally pulls over she helps him maneuver into the backseat before sliding into the front, speaking sharply to the driver in Chinese.

Where are we going?

Downtown, she says. Lan Kwai Fong. Where the bars are.

How do you know?

The bodhisattva lives in the world but is not of the world, she says, turning to him, her face marbled by the passing neon signs: red draining into yellow draining into blue. All things to him are skillful means, she calls out, over the roar of the engine. The bodhisattva does not hesitate.

At the New Asia Club they sit next to a window that opens onto the street, buffeted by pounding music from the dance floor. It is a Tuesday, he realizes, and still the sidewalks are jammed: red-faced businessmen loosening their collars; Chinese teenagers with bleached hair and skateboards; shirtless garbagemen brushing past women in evening gowns. A line of red taxis descends the street at a crawl, blowing their horns, as if part of a never-ending New Year’s parade. The noise is so terrific he feels he is underwater: it presses on his eyeballs, pushes the air out of his lungs.

Are you uncomfortable? he shouts into her ear. Do you want to leave?

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. I like it, she shouts. I have never been to a place like this.

You can take off your hat if you like.

Yes?

It’s not so uncommon now. A woman with a shaved head.