Williams Tomb

The World of Chinese is happy to present modern Chinese fiction from young Chinese writers in our new column， Dragon’s Digest. This issue， we bring you an excerpt from “Williams’ Tomb” （《威廉姆斯之墓》W8ili1nm^s～ Zh～ M&） from author Di An （笛安）. Born in Shanxi Province， Di An published her first novel in 2005， “Farewell to Heaven” （《告别天堂》G3obi9 Ti`nt1ng）， and in 2008 her story “Yuanji” （《圆寂》， “Parinirvana”） won the China Novel Biennale prize. Di An won the most promising newcomer at the Chinese Literature Media Awards for “Memory in the City of the Dragon”（《西决》X～ Ju9）， the first novel of her “the City of Dragon Trilogy”. The novel saw sales of over 700，000， followed by the successful sequels， “Memory in the City of the Dragon II” （《东霓》D4ng N！） and “III” （《南音》N1n Y～n）.

When I was younger， he’d always say to me， “Son， be brave.”“Bravery” was a medicine that healed everything： you chewed it and swallowed it so it could treat the laughing and shaking shadows made by trees on the curtains， or the green bug called the “looper”that lowers itself without a care from the sky. It could treat the piercing cold that comes when you have to leave your bed on a cold winter morning. It could treat the kids who were bigger than me and used to bully me， or the repugnant teachers and words they wretchedly declaimed， the solemn norms of the world. I still don’t understand why I don’t hate those things that make me afraid， yet I am so determined to hate “bravery.”Or perhaps I’m just choosing a soft fruit to squeeze because the “fear” is so powerful， or maybe it’s because “bravery”is something that invaded me， while the “fear” comes from within me and belongs wholly to me. I said before that I must chew it and swallow it. It’s very bitter. So I can say simply that I am not a brave person. In fact， “not brave” is a polite， neutral， and civilized way of saying it. Father used other words to describe me：“limp dick，” for example， or “hopeless case，” or “snot bag” ―this one in particular when I shed tears―and also， “good for nothing.” It’s not as if he was a coarse father； no， when he spoke his tone had a cadence， his voice was deep and resonant， and his breath came from his lower abdomen. There was something calm and unhurried about his choice of words―he was once the parent representative of the graduates at my alma mater， where he read a speech to over 1，000 people in the great hall. After the speech was over my form master smiled at me warmly， which was unprecedented.

His back was bent slightly forwards and he stared me in the eye. In that silence I wept whilst thinking that the sound of my sniffling was especially dirty. Quietly， slowly， Father said： “Take a look at yourself. Look at the hopeless case you are. When your father was on the battlefield in Vietnam fighting for his life， I never thought that I would end up having a limp dick for a son. Remember this， a limp dick like you will only wait to die， on the battlefield or not. You’ll lose to a person who is brave and strong， understand？ I’m thinking about you. I don’t want you to become a good-for-nothing.” During the long days he kept repeating these phrases： the same old stuff with a different label. I came to know by heart the key words used to describe a coward―usually after saying his piece he would stand up straight and look coldly at my mother who would be standing by the door. The adults would exchange indifferent， knowing looks， my mother’s expression as icy as her long slim fingers. Sometimes Mother would furrow her brow lightly， and slowly close a copy of Czerny Teaching Materials―sometimes it was Bach―and say， “If you want to tell him off like this in the future， wait until my students are gone so you don’t interrupt our lesson.”

I never expected my mother to save me. In reality， most of the time I only wished that Mother would close the door a little more tightly， and then even more tightly， so the sound of their piano music would fill the gaps in my father’s reprimand. The smooth music was my mother’s， and the inexplicably brittle sound of the piano was the student’s―how great that they didn’t need to pay attention to what was happening next door. With this otherworldly music playing， it was as if all the shame I felt had a place to go.

That was when I was 14. After reciting words that hadn’t changed for years， like a priest saying Mass， he changed the ending： “You’ll be ansoon. You don’t really plan to become a good-for- nothing， do you？” Why he was reprimanding me again I’d already forgotten. Most likely it was to do with the high school exam. He just knew how to summarize all my weaknesses into “being a coward，” “a good-for-nothing，” “lacking in confidence，” leading always to the final conclusion that I would become a good-for-nothing. I am becoming a good-for-nothing right now. I will eventually become a good-for-nothing. I have to become a good-for-nothing―otherwise， I’m afraid that I can’t make up for the diligence of his cursing over the years. At this point I could hear in the room next door the sound of the piano stool scraping against the floor. My mother appeared at the door of the dining room， her shoulders thinner as she trembled. She said clearly： “I’ve had enough of you.”Then she said， “Can’t you just be quiet？ I can’t bear you. What right do you have to tell off our child this way？ Limp dick？ You never even went to war. When you were in Vietnam the war was over. All you did was stay a few days in the hospital and help carry stretchers. Tell me， what kind of life and death was it？ Don’t lie to the child， and stop lying to yourself. I’m begging you， okay？” There was still the same look of indifference on her face. Without hesitation Father raised his right arm， and then a slap fell on my face. “What the hell.” Father was baring his teeth. “What the hell is all this.” I didn’t know who he was cursing. I forget who it was that said that the enemy of an enemy is a friend―but it’s wrong. In that moment Father and Mother became enemies. I saw a deep loathing in her eyes， but as for my mother and I， we felt even further apart. “Tell me， what kind of life and death was it？” In the days that followed， I thought back to my mother’s terrific lines and admitted with embarrassment： Mother was a hero. She

made me feel ashamed in a completely new way.

The girl in the convenience store looked at me across the shelves. She was standing behind the cashier， her hair tied to one side. Chinese. Don’t ask me how， I just knew. I have a hobby―finding out who is Chinese out of a bunch of Japanese girls on the street on a weekend， in the store or on university grounds. If you needed to ask how―maybe， hiding within the majority of Chinese girls， there is an unspeakable， faint sloppiness―not necessarily in the way they do their make-up， or the way they hold their bags， or even in their expressions. I can’t explain it， that indescribable sloppiness circling them like a curl of smoke not yet extinguished. They are like cigarette butts that are still alight， easily distinguished by their easy heft and warm ash. She bent slightly， took the beer and tea from my hands， scanned them， and asked under her breath in Japanese： “Just these？”“And a pack of Seven Stars.” I used Chinese. She gave me a bright smile. Looking behind her， she touched the Seven Star booth with her fingers. She asked me which kind.“0.8.” I replied. “What？”She didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to smoke， and there wasn’t a man in her life who did. “0.8 refers to the nicotine content， Miss.”I smiled， “It’s on your right hand side. That’s the one. The dark blue one. That one. Are you new here？ You’re not very familiar with the business.”“I didn’t realize.” She raised her face， and her smile this time was braver than her first： “You look so young， but you’re addicted to nicotine.”Yes， I’ve seen my father smoke two packs of Camels a day. The streets in the evening appear even narrower because of the shadows made by the flickering streetlights. Except it doesn’t matter. The houses in this community looked like they were made of toy building blocks， and the narrow streets made them look even more so. I walked slowly， boldly setting one foot in front of the other. After all， my shadow behind me won’t be stepped on. There was a bus stop a few dozen meters from here―only two stops to Yokohama and its wide roads. My rented apartment was hidden between the two floors of a small building with a pointed roof， behind the animal hospital and faced diagonally to the launderette. If I was getting back in the middle of the night， I usually used the stairs that hung outside of the building―the ones the landlord used when he fed his pigeons. I would walk to the second floor and use all my strength to push open the window to my room， and transform my body into a pole of the sort used for hanging clothes between the rail and the balcony of the apartment. I would swing once and slip in-side. Sometimes I would forget to take off my shoes and hold them in my hand before slipping in， so there would be a few black marks on the tatami mat. It didn’t matter. I’d deal with it when I returned to the apartment. However， my qinggong wasn’t good enough： when I flew into my room， I could never be stealthy， so my descent was always accompanied by my neighbor’s complaints―my neighbor was a student at the dental academy.

Though right now I didn’t need to go back to my nest because this street was so clean and quiet， it lacked a human spirit―no trash， no noise， nothing but houses with lights turning quietly on and off―I felt I had to do something about it. Therefore I sat with my back to the streetlight and tore the ring-pull from the beer in the bag， and tore open the Seven Stars I bought―I had a lighter in the pocket of my jeans.

I sat on the near side of the road with a vending machine on the other side. We looked at one another warmly， and as I roughly tossed cigarette butts on the spotless ground it looked at me forgivingly. Then I picked up my second cigarette. I knew it understood what I was doing. It looked at me as if looking at a spoilt child leaving his first footprints on snowy ground that was as quiet as death.

I lived in a community similar to this one the year I first arrived in Japan. I will never forget that afternoon： a middle-aged man wearing an immaculate uniform and a peaceful expression was pruning the hedges into squares. The constant noise of the electric saw was as natural to him as breathing， and as the shrubs bent their waists to him， the benevolent look on his face remained the same. I felt extreme fear then： why on earth are the people in this country so unified， and why did they want to work together to clean off the dirt that was a natural part of this world？ Really， did they think that if they did this， it would prove that they were not ordinary people？ But this thought passed in a flash. I would gradually get used to everything.

“Hi， what are you still doing here？” I didn’t know how long it’d been， but the girl from the convenience store walked past me and was looking at me in surprise.

“Clocking off？” I gestured to invite her to sit down. She sat down by my side， opened a bag of snacks and began to eat， like it was a picnic. She picked up the half-empty can of beer， drank in big gulps， and looked completely comfortable where she was.“Are you new here？ I’ve seen every Chinese person who lives around here， apart from you.”“I only moved to Yokohama last weekend.” I said. “Where did you live before？” She asked.“In Numazu. It’s a port town. Have you heard of it？”“It’s very small， right？ What are you doing in Yokohama？ Work， study or business？”“I’m studying at Yokohama National University.” I crushed the can in my hand.“You’re strong.” Her smile blossomed like a flower. “But it’s two months until school starts. Why didn’t you go home？”I didn’t answer， and she didn’t see at all that she had crossed the line. She bent her head towards me and said： “If you’re not going home， then you’re going to earn some cash before school starts. I have friends in Yokohama. I can get you a job. Why don’t you leave me your number？”“Thank you.” Inside， I was starting to hate her.

“Hey.” She looked at me curiously， there was a strange vagueness in her smile. “You look great when you’re smoking， very manly.”

Naturally I didn’t spend the night with her， something that others would have done as a logical conclusion. I see girls like her all the time. Under the ghoulish light of the nightclubs， in parties where strangers and people you know mix with evil intentions， there were always girls like her， and nobody knew why but there was a greediness， a flirtatiousness and even improper closeness―they would exchange bright glances or come say to me， in a warm breath through lips that alcohol had reverted to their original color： “You are so handsome，” or“You are so manly.” But if I pulled them over and kissed them， they would only end up screaming and running away. I really didn’t understand， was there something that made me seem frivolous？ As I was absent-mindedly trying to figure out how to get rid of the girl from the convenience store， there was an unexpected “ping，” and my computer would receive an email for me in the apartment only a few dozen meters away. I’d read it in the middle of the night once I got home， or maybe I’d read it in daylight the next day. It made no difference， because the e-mail would tell me about my father’s impending death.