Half-light, grey-light, daylight on a hillside. That woman, that same woman, walking towards the gates of his house, his family house in Tabata, his wife darning some cloth at the kotatsu, the woman pausing by the stone lantern in the garden, his wife singing to their son, the woman sliding open the doors to his house, his wife kneeling before her in the genkan, the woman holding out her newborn baby towards his wife, his own son crying, the baby screaming, his wife crying, the woman screaming, his wife turning to look for him, on the futon, in a Chinese-patterned robe, on his chest a Bible open, his wife shaking him, his wife shouting at him, pleading with him, screaming at him, ‘Wake up, wake up …’
Feeding charcoal to the fire, we speak of the foetus …
For twenty-two nights, for twenty-three days. On his back, in his bed. In the room, on the ward. In the hospital, on Miller Street. Mongolian winds banging on his window, yellow dust blocking out the sun. The sun fighting back, the spring now arriving. His fever finally subsiding, the pain now relenting.
Dr Satomi smiled and said, ‘Good news, Sensei. You are recovered. You are well enough to leave …’
4
Down a busy street, sitting in a carriage, driven at great speed. With Mr Yosoki, the distinguished poet, as his guide. Ryūnosuke had no more time left to lose. The afternoon rainy and already dark. Through the showers, through the gloom, the passing shops –
Dark red roasted birds, hanging side by side, catching the lamplights, illuminating and reflecting, shop after shop, silverware and fruit, piles of bananas, piles of mangoes, hanging fish bladders and their bloody torsos, skinned pigs’ carcasses, suspended hooves-down, on butchers’ hooks, flesh-coloured grottos with vague dark recesses, sudden white clock faces, their hands all stopped, a shabby old wine shop with a worn old sign, written in the style of the poet Li Taibai.
A wider avenue now, then around another corner, and another, into another alleyway –
The heart of the Old City, the heart of the Real Shanghai, once encircled by walls, walls built to repel Japanese pirates, the Dwarf Bandits from across the sea, the walls now gone, the heart of the Old City now open, open and beating, beating and welcoming, welcoming him –
Out of their carriage, into a second alley. The pathway precarious, the cobblestones crumbling. Stores selling mah-jong sets, stores selling sandalwood goods, sign after sign, one on top of another, ordinary Chinese in long-sleeved black robes, bumping and banging into each other, but with no words of apology, yet no words of anger, no words at all.
At the end of the alleyway, the entrance to the Yu Gardens, and a large ornamental lake. The lake covered with thick green algae, carp hidden in its waters, crossed by the Bridge of Nine Turnings, lightning flashes zigzagging this way and that, built to confuse evil spirits, devils unable to turn corners, and in its centre the Huxinting Teahouse. Dilapidated, forlorn. A ruined stone wall around the lake, before the wall a Chinese man. In blue cotton clothes, his hair in a queue. Pissing into the lake, oblivious to the world; Chen Shufan could raise his rebellious banner in the wind, the Anglo-Japanese Alliance could come up for renewal again, nothing would disturb his nonchalant manner as the serene arc of his urine poured into the algae-choked lake before this famous old pavilion and its bridge. A scene beyond melancholia, a bitter symbol of this grand old country –
‘Please observe,’ chuckled Yosoki. ‘What runs over these stones is Chinese piss and only Chinese piss …’
One whiff of the overpowering stench of urine in the late-afternoon air, and all spells were broken –
The Huxinting Teahouse was nothing more than the Huxinting Teahouse. And piss was only piss. One should not indulge in careless admiration, thought Ryūnosuke, on his tiptoes, tottering after Yosoki, past a blind old beggar sat on the ground; so many beggars, beggars everywhere. Dilettante beggars and hermit beggars, professional beggars and genuine beggars. Dressed in layers of old newspapers, licking their own rotting knees. On the cobblestones, before this beggar. His whole miserable life, written out in chalk, in calligraphy better than Ryūnosuke’s own: Aching, longing for something you can never, never truly, truly know. That must be Romanticism …
‘Come on,’ called Yosoki. ‘Come on. No time to be daydreaming with the beggars of Shanghai, Sensei …’
Back in another alleyway, lined with antique shops. Their Chinese proprietors, water pipes in mouths, among clutters of copper incense burners, clay horse figurines, cloisonné planters, dragon-head vases, jade paperweights, cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl, marble single-leaf screens, stuffed pheasants and frightful paintings by Chou Ying. But at the end of this alleyway, there stood the Temple of the City God. The old focal point of the town, a venue for entertainers and a site for fairs. And here dwelled the City God –
The Lord of Old Shanghai.
Many years ago now, Ryūnosuke had bought a postcard of this legendary temple. He had used it as a bookmark, often preferring the picture to the words he was reading, dreaming of the day he would stand here before the City God –
Amidst the smoke and the noise, thousands of people, coming and going, paying their respects, offering up incense, burning paper money, bills of gold and silver, hanging from the ceiling, the beams and the pillars, covered in dirt and grease, the judges in Hell seated on both sides – pictures and statues evoking illustrations from Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio or The New Jester of Qi; magistrates from Hell who killed thieves who terrorised towns, clerks from the netherworld who broke elbows and chopped off heads – the red-faced City God himself towering, rising into the evening sky, before Ryūnosuke, Ryūnosuke entranced, Ryūnosuke
