Literary Nonfiction

Carlo Rey Lacsamana is a Filipino born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. His works have been published in magazines in the U.S., Canada, the U.K., Germany, Scotland, The Netherlands, Australia, India, and Mexico. Visit his website or follow him on Instagram @carlo_rey_lacsamana.

 

Spoliarium

I am standing in front of the most famous painting in the Philippines, Juan Luna’s Spoliarium (1884), at the National Museum in Ermita, Manila. It is the first picture that welcomes the eyes. I position myself some 10 feet away from the painting to accustom my eyes to its immensity and distance myself from the huddling spectators competing for photographic territory, like desperate paparazzi who don’t bother fixing their eyes to what they are photographing.

Something is new and disconcerting here: Today, paintings are celebrated like pop concerts. Young people respond to art by taking pictures. The immense size of the painting demands from the first timer and the expert the same immensity of attention and silence. It is only in attention and silence that paintings can speak. But such demand is too wearisome, too time-consuming for a society of short attention spans. It takes a lot of patience and time to really look, instead of just a touch away to photograph.

The Spoliarium measures 4.22 m x 7.675 m (about 13 ft x 25 ft). The size of history. I am suddenly reminded of the prophetic words of Walter Benjamin:

“Where we see the appearance of a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe.”

There is not a detail in this picture which does not portray a sense of human catastrophe: the shadowy outlines of the horrified and stunned spectators in the background; the bloodthirsty Roman politicians eyeing the spectacle of the “bloody carcasses of slave gladiators,” in Rizal’s anguished description; the surviving gladiators helplessly dragging their slain comrades; and the woman in the right corner who turns away and sinks down in disbelief disgusted by the cruelty of man. Perhaps she is the wife, or the sister, or the mother of one of the murdered slaves. (How many times did we see these figures in real life?) All situated in the gloom. It is a picture of history. A history of catastrophe.

In his Theses on The Philosophy of History (1940), Benjamin proposes another way of looking at history: “To articulate the past does not mean to recognize ‘how it really was.’ It means to take control of a memory, as it flashes in a moment of danger.” For Luna, painting was a way to grasp history. His choice of a bygone historical moment as his subject (which may have pleased the judges of the Exposición Nacional de Bellas Artes in Madrid so much that they gave him the first prize) conveys the capacity of painting to render history a visibility, the recognition of a memory. The act of painting reinforced by a sense of compassion and ancestral appreciation. To paint is to take control of memory. In most situations, painting intertwines with remembering. It is the crisscrossing of the present and the past. One interrogating the other. The Spoliarium as a whole is a picture of tragic remembrance. What is being transmitted – what is worth remembering – is a historic truth, and according to Theodor Adorno, the condition of truth is to allow suffering to speak. The aim of the corporate media is to package and commodify suffering to make it profitable, thus disengaging suffering from its historical context, making it void and voiceless.

In a dysfunctional educational system, history is taught as a cluster of insubstantial facts, names, and dates to be memorized instead of constructive and debatable truths.

At school we were forced to learn historical facts, which invite little sympathy from us students. Details that do not awaken our curiosity, lessons that fail to connect with the spirit of our times. I find it a miracle that a painting like Spoliarium can tell us more of the blood and spirit of history than any academic schooling can. It is this capacity of art to remind that poses a threat to our society that is prone to historical amnesia and collective forgetfulness. To think about history is not to think about the so-called “big” moments in history from which the familiar names of the textbook protagonists always resurface. No. To think about history is to think about this side and that side of suffering: the enormous price paid by the nameless and the faceless, like the slaves in the Spoliarium.

Luna’s theme, situated in a particularly tragic moment in Roman history, enables us to see and articulate the tragic character of our own history. It is the tragic character of the histories of the colonized and the oppressed, which the powerful have desperately and unsuccessfully tried to marginalize, the very substance of our collective memory. History is tragic, what is tragic is history. This historical sensitivity evoked by the painting is precisely what the corporate media and the entertainment industry are trying to glamorize and stereotype today. The effect is to deny the present any significant meaning. Luna insists that the only way to approach an understanding of the present is through history, by taking control of our memory. Any kind of shortcut is not an option.

Spoliarium mirrors the two magisterial works of Luna’s contemporary, Jose Rizal: Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. Both the painting and the novels reflect the concrete social crisis of their day. Both Rizal and Luna belonged to that group of intellectuals in the 19th century that used art as an agent for social change. They believed in the tremendous capacity of art to shape society, and, in the words of Antonio Gramsci, “to destroy spiritual hierarchies, prejudices, idols and ossified traditions.”

Step a little closer. Look: A mass of dark color surrounds the painting cut by a beam of light (which resembles a glowing lamp inside an interrogation room) to bear down on the figures of the dead slaves. The immensity of the painting is reduced to that sight of death.

Take two steps back. Look all over again: A visitor who sees Spoliarium for the first time will notice that the first thing their eyes respond to is the image of the dead slave, the lifeless body which endured unimaginable pain outstretched in the foreground. It is the pictorial center. It is the point of reference that connects all the painting’s spatial details. And these spaces in the painting evoke different forms of death, which, in the past and in the present, are constant.

1.) Cultural Death: The barbarity of the Roman spectacle is not dissimilar to the kind of spectacle the mass media is trying to concoct in its coverage of wars and aggressions by sensationalizing and de-contextualizing.

2.) Social Death: The indifference of the public towards certain forms of oppression, our present society’s lack of determined self-scrutiny, and the apathy and distance of administrators to the situation of the oppressed, as if neither suffering nor death speak to them nor move them.

3.) Economic Death: An economy embedded in a system which prioritizes the interests of foreign and private enterprise aggravates the insuperable gap between the rich and the poor and fuels the hatred of conflicting classes.

4.) Spiritual Death: The hopeless resignation of the woman and the restless grief of the surviving slaves. The overwhelming bitterness that shakes the foundation of faith.

5.) Physical Death: The unjustified suffering of the oppressed as they perish by inches.

The Moroccan poet, Hassan El Ouazzani, condenses these forms of death in a few provocative lines:

“For sure

the land will offer

new dead people as sacrifice, processions of the blind,

and more medals.”

– A Truce (from Hudnatun ma, 1997)

Spoliarium’s image of death speaks as eloquently today as it did more than a hundred years ago. The forms of death Luna and his generation had to wrestle with are more or less the prevailing forms of death we struggle with today. Only appearances have changed.

It is facile to simply acknowledge Luna’s masterly artistic skills and his contribution to the arts in this country; more than anything else, his great contribution belongs to human awareness. He had the lucidity to recognize the inexplicable suffering inherent in history. And this lucidity is a gift to the living. What the powerful want is to deny the present of its history, its memory. A present without history is without future. Today’s prevailing post-modern art, awash with narcissism and nihilism, seem to be complicit in this denial.

Walter Benjamin in his eighth Thesis writes, “The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the emergency situation in which we live is the rule. We must arrive at a concept of history which corresponds to this.” Luna’s slaves assert the emergency situation. What the powerful deny, the dead affirm. That the slaves are the main figure of this painting, the oppressed that have been unperceived and disregarded for five hundred years, claims our memory. Spoliarium provides a historical perspective enabling us to interrogate the present whose deliberate forgetfulness is the source and cause of our country’s wounds.

No other painting of Luna or after him in the history of painting in this country has given us such a tool of awareness. To acknowledge our own suffering and struggle through the suffering and struggle of others is a kind of lucidity that underlies a spark of hope. What more could you ask of a painting this size, this beautiful, this deeply moving in its mood of pain, and pity?

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Richard and his family live in Shanghai, where he writes, supports his wife’s philanthropic efforts, and ensures their two teens and one toddler don’t sit on any of their nine hamsters. His work has appeared or will appear in Sonora Review, The Dillydoun Review, The Write Launch, Potato Soup Journal, Prometheus Dreaming, The Adelaide Literary Magazine, and other literary magazines. He can be reached via his author website at Richard-c-lin-author.com. He is a proud member of the highly selective ROOTS. WOUNDS. WORDS. Penning My Pieces family of emerging BIPOC authors. “Fight Fire with Fire” is from Richard’s debut memoir, ARIZONA AWAKENING, to be published in Fall 2023.

 

Fight Fire with Fire

 

Crackle, crackle, crackle. This is the sound of Dad eating cereal each morning. Crackle, crackle, crackle. There is no Snap, Crackle, Pop like in the commercials because there is no snap or pop in Dad other than his temper. Weekday mornings we two eat together with only this sound to keep us company. Dad squeezes his eyes tightly shut while crackling away. Is he trying to will away the stab of the morning light? Or rid himself the dread of sweating through the long, sticky drive to work because we own the only car in the entire state without a/c? Or is he purging the thought of spending another day amidst those of such foreign culture and values?

Then again, perhaps Dad just fell back to sleep.

I’ll never know what taunts Dad because we have father/son chats as often as we have father/son game night. Or father/son football toss in the cul-de-sac. Or father/son anything remotely pleasant or fun. And so I watch him eat in this way each morning with unequal measures of fear, dismay, and disdain. When I was younger, it was mostly fear, but increasingly I’ve been consumed by the latter two of late. How can this be my father?

During the weekends, our mornings unfold in near silence, as if we’re a family of mice foraging for food while the lion sleeps nearby. One snapped twig or small puddle splash and…splat! goes the lion’s paw. And Sundays? These are particularly muted occasions as Dad deals with Monday Morning Blues a whole day earlier than the rest of America.

The worst is a morning like this one, an actual Monday morning. Some people, like Mom and I, experience Monday Morning Baby Blues. Pleasant, powdery, pastel. As innocuous to the touch as a baby’s bottom. Others may experience the blues along the spectrum of cerulean to cobalt, on to royal blue and azure. Perhaps even navy blue if they’re prone to depression. Not Dad, he shoots well past midnight blue, the darkest of blues, entering the realm of night and trepidation.

The only thing worse than the sound of crackle, crackle, crackle from Dad in the morning? Him speaking to me.

“How you doing in school?” he asks. Dad typically acknowledges my existence with questions about school. And no, not to ascertain how my baseball tryouts went or how I fared in Model UN. It’s all about the grades.

“I, um, I’m doing ok. I guess.”

“Ok?… You guess?” Dad says, with his voice nearing a low growl. “I didn’t raise a son to guess he’s doing ok.”

I wish to counter with something forceful like You’re not raising your son at all. You’re simply beating him down all the time. However, it’s too early for one of our all-out fights, so I merely say, “Yeah, sure, Dad.”

That’s it. That’s the extent of our morning congeniality.

So I finish my breakfast as soon as possible, utter a quick bye to Dad, offer a more sustained farewell and kiss to Mom, and toss a few choice insults at Mei-mei, my little sister, as she stretches and yawns while passing me on the way out.

Her Monday Mornings start off as blue as a lemon, so despite my name-calling, it’s always, “Oh, good morning Gege!” from her. To which I always respond with the roll of my eyes. No wonder Dad resents me in the morning. I’m to him what Mei is to me. Everything’s relative, and no one enjoys seeing someone chirpier than they on a Monday morning.

I do what I’ve always done when the darkness of Dad weighs too heavily upon me. I escape. Once outside, I enjoy a reprieve during my walk to the bus stop. Although it’s only 8 am, in Arizona, it’s sweltering already. I start to sweat, in part from the heat but also from stress as well. Historically, the bus has been anything but a haven for me.

*****

“Houston to Asswipe 13, you copy?”

It’s Jeff, rousing me out of my stupor as I stare out the bus window. I’ve never touched a drop of alcohol in my young life, but I feel like I know firsthand its debilitating effect with the taste of bile from my morning interaction with Dad still moist on my lips.

“Yeah, sorry, I was thinking of my life.”

“What life?”

“Exactly.”

Jeff is my first best friend and, at times, rival. We are of similar build, height, and temperament. He’s more athletic while I’m more academic. That should equal things out between us. However, this being high school, sports comes out on top, followed closely by sex, drugs, and rock & roll in the hierarchy of high school passions. Academics barely makes the top ten, likely sandwiched between the chess club and yearbook. As best friends and rivals, he and I end up cutting each other down more often than we build each other up. You know, to prevent the other from getting too far ahead. However, at the moment, Jeff accelerates much more rapidly than I along the highway of cool.

Jeff says, “Listen, we need to get you laid. Take your mind off the rest of your sorry life.”

“Yeah? And you can arrange this for me while you involuntarily remain a virgin yourself?”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “But it may be tougher to get you laid than me.”

I punch him in the arm. He hits me back. We chuckle. Boys. Inflicting pain on each other and then laughing it all off.

Deep down inside, I feel what Jeff says is true. For me, an American-born Chinese or ABC, assuming the role of a romantic leading man is a plot twist even John Hughes couldn’t dream up. And if he did somehow, he could never get the movie greenlighted. It’s just not something mainstream Americans want to see.

“Well, I think you’ll get laid soon. Or at least maybe kiss a girl before too long.”

It’s Mike, my fourth best friend. I’ve forgotten he sits beside me. Blond, somewhat pudgy with round glasses over round eyes on a round face, Mike tends to utter only sphinx-like pronouncements of great profundity or complete insignificance. Often it sounds like it could be either, so we have to parse his words carefully each time to determine whether it is the sage or fool in him speaking. I hope this time he has found the sage.

“Thanks, brother.”

As we get off the bus together and start walking towards class, I feel buoyed by Mike’s validation. However, this quiet moment of joy is punctured by a guttural voice from behind us, “Hey Chinaman, give me a drink of your water.”

In the autumnal days of Phoenix, with the heat still so oppressive that even the cacti seem to recoil a bit, we frequently carry large water canteens to and from school. Being called Chinaman is somewhat less offensive than other variants such as chink or flat-face. However, it’s not far from those. My cheeks redden as I turn to see who’s the latest racist for the day.

It’s Keith, who got held back last year. To me, he’s always looked like he’s come straight off the set of Deliverance and might be the product of a few generations of Appalachian inbreeding. Clearly, I’m not above my own bias either, but at the moment, I’m too pissed to consider the irony.

“Get your own water,” I say.

He makes a lunge for the canteen in my right hand, and I deck him in the arm with my left, which holds my math and social studies textbooks. As each is a fairly hefty tome, my blow staggers him towards the right and backward.

“Just like a chink. Have to resort to fighting with weapons.”

“Uh, these are books.”

“Whatever, flat-face.”

He’s hit the trifecta. Now I’m super pissed. Yet, I stay my hand and don’t call him Deliverance Boy in return. The fact that he’s a full head taller and fashioned from pure muscle helps mightily in keeping me on the high road in this exchange.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Chinky,” he says as he reapproaches me, fists clenched. As an ABC, I’m no stranger to melee. Nevertheless, instead of settling into a fighting stance, I feel my body freezing. So this is what a deer experiences just before the Range Rover sends it sailing back into the woods.

However, just before he can drop my ass, the bell rings. Just like in every boxing and high school movie, I’m saved by the bell.

“This ain’t over, Chinky boy. We fight after school. I’m gonna personally drop your ass off today at your bus stop.”

I finally find the play button for my mouth again and utter softly, “How kind of you.”

“Shit, man,” says Jeff as everyone disperses for class. “Shit.”

With one powerful word, Jeff eloquently sums up the situation…along with the rest of my crappy life.

*****

“Heard you’re gonna fight after school,” Don says with fire in his eyes as he plops down his backpack and sack lunch at our table.

Just a year ago, my number two best friend was a gangly, hobbit-loving fellow Dungeons & Dragons geek who spouted Rush lyrics off-key. Fast forward twelve months, and he’s evolved into a Greek demigod, all because he’s the first to have facial and body hair emerge in all the appropriate places. Picking up weight training didn’t hurt either, as Don has developed biceps the size of our quads.

“Yeah, I get more invitations to fight than Rocky. Everyone wants to test their kung-fu on me.” And they do. I get challenged to fight before school, after school, at recess, during lunch, in the locker room, in between classes, after detention, pretty much whenever and wherever there’s no adult supervision to be found.

“You want me there for you?” asks Don. He’s always at the ready for a good fight. Like it’s part of his workout regimen.

“Nah, thanks, I’m good. I got this one,” I say, trying to pump myself up. “I’ve been watching lots of Jackie Chan movies each Saturday afternoon. And I started taking jiu-jitsu.”

“Hope you’re a fast learner. I think he kicked some junior’s ass last month,” says Jeff. “He’s a year older and has about six inches, maybe twenty pounds on you,”

“And that’s twenty pounds of pure muscle,” Don says. He looks somewhat concerned. “Appalachian Guy is nothing to joke about.”

“I call him Deliverance Boy. And I can take him.” I really don’t want Don jumping in as he did with the Walden twins. At least that time, it was two of them, both on the varsity wrestling team as freshmen. This time, if I can’t take on one, I might as well drop out of high school.

“Who do you call Deliverance Boy?” asks Dave, who just joined us from another table. Dave is my third best friend, whereas I probably barely crack his top 100. It’s not that he doesn’t like me. It’s just that he’s that popular. Every day at lunch, he goes from table to table, working his way around his different groups of friends at Deer Valley. Dave’s like a prophet tending to the twelve tribes of Israel but without the constant risk of death by stoning.

“Appalachian Guy,” says Don.

“Oh, that dude. I’m glad none of us here are that bigoted,” Dave says with a chuckle and roll of his eyes.

“Well, he called me Chinaman first,” I counter.

“And chink and flat-face,” adds Mike helpfully.

“And so you call him Deliverance Boy. Nice job of taking the high road, Rich.”

Don gets back to the vital point of the conversation. “High road or not, you’d better not call him Deliverance Boy to his face, Rich. He’s a badass. There’s a reason why he’s repeating a year.”

The bell rings, and my buddies scatter to the winds. I’m left to wonder what this badass did to get held back a year.

Maim a teacher?

*****

“Hey, what’s up, fellas?” Deliverance Boy walks towards the back of the bus, high-fiving, fist-bumping, and back-slapping a bunch of sophomores and juniors that don’t usually take our bus. Guess he’s invited his own home crowd.

Meanwhile, I’ve got no partisans. Jeff’s mom picked him up from school for a dental appointment while Mike has mock trial. I’m regretting big time that I hadn’t taken up Don’s offer to show up with me. Indeed, Deliverance Boy looks like he’s composed entirely of unadulterated muscle. As I try to slink down in my seat near the middle of the bus, Deliverance Boy catches sight of me. “Hey, Chinky Boy. We gonna have some fun today!”

I prepare to snap off a witty refrain and then realize I don’t have one. Fortunately, he’s moved on to more high fives and fist bumps with his fans at the back of the bus. And it seems there’s some money changing hands. Such a festive atmosphere. It’s as if we’re all headed to a tailgate party before a Sun Devils football game. And I’m the football.

When we arrive at our stop, I try to get off the bus as quickly yet casually as possible. I don’t want to have to deal with Deliverance Boy’s trash-talking before the bout.

“Hey Rich,” says our bus driver in a low voice as I approach him.

“Yeah, Mr. Wilson?”

“I put a fiver on you. Kick his ass. But be careful while you’re at it.” He looks as concerned as Don did at lunch.

Deliverance Boy and his entourage proceed off the bus, which takes a while with all the extra kids. Mr. Wilson sighs as he watches everyone disembark. It seems even he feels tempted

 

to park the bus and join the fiesta. I wish he would; it’d be nice to have at least one guy in my corner today. We all walk about twenty yards to a spot without too many tumbleweeds blowing about and wide enough to afford everyone a good view of the bout, then put down our books and canteens. The Arizona sun shines so blindingly hot, it feels as if we’re on the set of Unforgiven.

I think for a second about stretching and cracking my back one vertebra at a time like Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris do before their epic battle at the Colosseum. Then I decide I’d better get down to business as I have quite a bit of homework. The other kids quickly form an impromptu amphitheater around us. All we need are some guys hawking giant pretzels or cotton candy and Michael Buffer bellowing, “Let’s get ready to rumble” to complete the scene.

This is definitely not my crowd. Apparently, none of them wants to see Bruce Lee yank out Chuck Norris’ chest hairs just before maiming and killing him in Way of the Dragon. No, most of them want to see Deliverance Boy kick the shit out of Long Duk Dong, the sex-crazed Asian geek of Sixteen Candles. So as we start to circle each other, with the dust of the desert swirling around us, the air soon fills with a mélange of “Kick Bruce’s ass!” and “Fuck up Kwai Chang Caine!”

The fight begins well enough with me landing the first few blows as I move in close to eliminate his reach advantage. I guess all those afternoons of watching Jackie on TV start to kick in literally. At some point, I knock him to the ground and stomp on him several times as he rolls away. I feel his rib cage give a bit each time through my sneakers, and it feels pretty satisfying with each kick. I like this fighting shit.

However, this feeling doesn’t last. While Deliverance Boy scrambles back to his feet, I notice a group of adults chatting, eating peanuts, and otherwise watching us as if they are at a Cactus League spring training game. They appear slightly detached like they’re here more for the sun than the actual event itself.

“Hey, hey, hey. Stop, stop, there’s grownups over there!” I whisper urgently. “We’re going to get busted.”

He looks over his shoulder at the adults, “Nah, it’s ok. Don’t worry about it. Those just my parents. And their friends.” He stops just short of introducing each one by name.

So quintessential for me. Your son’s going to fight a Chinaman? Terrific, grab some snacks, invite your neighbors, and join the spectacle. His home crowd has grown much more intimidating, and my confidence wavers for but a split second. That’s all he requires. Like a rattlesnake sniffing fear through the flick of its tongue, he shifts into attack mode. A jab straight to my eye, a roundhouse glancing off my cheek, and an uppercut to my chin­—suddenly, I’m reeling. I’m not thinking I like this fighting shit no more. I’m thinking how do I survive this rather sudden turn of fortune.

I try to close in to extract myself from this kill zone he’s created, but I’m met with a knee, and this time it’s my ribs that crunch under his strike. Instantly, I’m having trouble catching my breath and seeing out of my right eye. I manage to land two quick jabs to his throat and chin, which affords me some space to breathe but only serves to enrage Deliverance Boy as he comes at me with a flurry of fists and feet. I slump to the earth under this barrage, and it takes three of his friends to pull him off me.

Before he leaves, Deliverance Boy spits at me, nailing my shoes. “Next time, you do what I tell ya, Chinaman.”

As the crowd dissipates, with me still on the ground feeling the heat of the desert sand on my ass, all I can think is, what am I gonna tell Dad?

I elect to tell Mom first.

“Richard, how you can get in fight?” Mom asks as she pulls out some ice cubes, wraps them in a hand towel, and hands to me the cold compress.

“Ma, the guy called me a Chinaman, a chink…a flat-face.”

“Your face not flat. Actually quite swollen now.”

“It’s an expression, Mom. White people been calling me this since the fifth grade.”

“Those just words. Why you have to fight?”

“Because they’re fighting words, Ma.”

As a petite and pretty Asian woman, Mom lives in an America populated by the Brady Bunch and the Partridge Family. Nice white people who treat her warmly. Not ones that inhabit the world in which I reside, ones who call us chink, nip, or other terms she doesn’t quite understand.

For her, when Americans ask her where she came from, it’s easy for her to reply, “from Taiwan.” But for me, I have to go through this whole song and dance:

“I’m from Utah. I was born there.”

“Ah, got it…But, you know, where are you really from?”

“Uh, well, my parents are from Taiwan.”

“Oh, cool. I love Thai food.”

And that’s with nice white people.

When Dad arrives home that evening, I share with him what has transpired. I don’t want to, but my facial bruises reveal too much of the tale.

“How could you let other boy beat on you?” Dad says as he sits down at the head of our dining room table.

“Well, for one thing, his parents and their friends were there.”

“His parents and their friends were there? Like what happened Vincent Chin?”

“No, not like him. They didn’t have a baseball bat. And his father only watched.” Vincent Chin was a fellow ABC. Last year, he got his head bashed in with a baseball bat by two white autoworkers who felt they had lost their jobs because of the Japanese. He died at age twenty-seven during his bachelor party, just days before his wedding. Judge assigned the father and son duo two years probation and fined them, setting the price of a Chinaman’s life in America at $3000. I guess about what you’d pay for a decent second-hand American-built automobile.

“So fair fight?”

“Yeah, fair fight if you don’t factor in his friends cheering him on and doing the wave while we fought.”

“Then you shouldn’t fight,” Dad yells. “Only fight when can fair fight. Otherwise, you get beat on.”

“Well, you beat on me all the time, Dad, so what’s the difference?”

“Difference? Simple. You’re my son. I didn’t raise you be beaten by others.”

“No, you just raised me to be your punching bag, Dad.”

Boom! Punch to the shoulder to shut me up and simultaneously affirm his point and mine.

Dad pounds on me whenever I speak or act out of line. Typical infringements may involve talking too much, talking too excitedly, talking without the proper level of respect. Or just talking. Most often, this occurs around the dining room table during dinner time. As I sit to my dad’s right, my left arm takes the brunt of the blows, so it has become slightly larger than my right. The swelling, like other traumas of youth, never seems to subside completely.

Recently Mom has moved me to the opposite end of the table. However, this affords me little respite as Dad simply resorts to throwing his chopsticks at me to express his displeasure and rage. If he misses with his chopsticks, he’ll grab Mom’s or Mei’s, raining them down on me like Patriot missiles upon Lebanon. Getting hit by a chopstick isn’t much of a big deal physically. However, getting nailed on the face with one or two courtesy of Dad knocks the emotional wind out of me each time.

“Let’s go bike riding,” Dad says out of nowhere after dinner. “Get some exercise.”

“What?” I ask, a bit stunned by his invitation. Father/son cycling is certainly not the norm in our family. Father/son algebra and one-way boxing matches, yes. Father/son cycling, exercise, or any other recreational activities, no.

After ten minutes of riding around the neighborhood, Dad asks me to show him where the boy lives. I comply with a measure of apprehension. When we turn into Deliverance Boy’s cul-de-sac, I see him there with his father working under the hood of their car. Not sure what Dad might do, I pedal nervously behind him. As he glides past them, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he simply expels an impressive amount of phlegm right at the feet of both. When they look up with surprise and repulsion, he stops his bike and glares at them with the Eyes of Genghis Kahn and centuries of derision and disgust. They don’t say a word. Off we ride, and I feel a slight warmth in my stomach. Guess that’s sufficient to get the message across: no one beats on Philip’s son other than Philip himself.

*****

Five years ago, in Saint Anthony Village, a quiet, quaintly named suburb of Minneapolis, the Thompsons lived across the street. The family had five brothers, the oldest twelve and the youngest around my age, eight. On weekdays, they kindly escorted me off the bus after school.

They welcomed me each evening, forming a charming barbershop quintet of sorts with their chorus of: “Chinese Japanese, dirty knees, look at these!” You know, that hit classic. And they kept me company. We didn’t make snow angels together in the winter. Instead, they tossed me to and fro, creating so many this-is-how-the-victim’s-body-was-splayed-upon-the-ground-chalk-outlines upon the snow.

One day Dad came home early. Having so much fun, none of us noticed him driving by, then backing up the Dodge Dart to park beside us at the edge of our front yard. He got out of the vehicle, sized up the situation, and pounced, managing to grab the eleven- and twelve-year-old brothers. Out flared the Eyes of Genghis. He roughly walked both of them across the street, all the while slamming their heads together every few steps.

“Quit bang heads, or you hurt yourself. Or you dizzy from running around? This game very fun. But you must be tired. Let me escort you back home. You know, take you back to where you come from. Like you say to Richard each day.”

Dad walked them across the street and tossed them into their front yard. I smiled. Finally, Dad terrifying some other kids for once.

The next day their parents arranged a pow-wow with Dad and Mom. It took place in the middle of the street, which had become a sort of DMZ.

“My sons said you manhandled them yesterday. Just because they walked on the sidewalk in front of your house. We don’t appreciate that.”

“I thought they Richard’s friends. They wrestle him five-on-one in the snow. So I join the game. Make the teams even.”

“Our sons would never pick on your son. We are Christian.”

“Yes, same, same. I would never manhandle your sons. I am Buddhist.”

Dad was about as Buddhist as Moses, Mohammed, and Jesus combined. I guess he made his point. The Thompson boys never escorted me anywhere again after that day.

*****

So Dad protects the family from outsiders. Meanwhile, Mom protects us from Dad.

Filled with the incandescence of a thousand suns with just the slightest hint of sadness at times, Mom makes Mei-mei and me her life, providing us with a welcome refuge from the thunder and lightning of Dad’s fury.

She can be a fierce Tiger Mom, but for the most part, Mom saves her most extreme ferocity for Dad, erupting in the occasional uprising against his domineering ways and protecting us when she feels he goes too far. Their arguments are pitched battles. They dredge up personal slights and sins from years ago and hurl them at each other like sharpened sticks tipped with venom or serrated stone covered in vitriol.

Mom often threatens to leave Dad, but then thoughts from the significant (how to divide the family finances) to the trivial (how to split the family photo albums) keep her tethered to him. This evening she again broaches the subject with me at the dining room table while Dad showers.

“Why won’t you come with Mei-mei and me? We can start a new life without your dad.”

“No, Ma, you and Mei-mei go. I’ll stay with Dad,” I say, despite a part of me wishing to run off with them.

“But he yells, hits you all the time.”

“Well, Mom, you do too sometimes.”

“But not all the time, not like your dad.”

“Yeah, Mom, you make up for the quantity with quality,” I say softly with a wan smile. “Besides, he doesn’t strike me when you’re not around.”

“So, you won’t come with us if we go?”

“No, Ma, sorry. Dad will be all alone if we all leave.”

Mom sighs, resigned and tired. I feel she cannot find the strength to leave without me, and I can’t muster sufficient bitterness or apathy to leave my dad.

They say that battered people don’t leave because they are afraid or ashamed. Or they somehow feel responsible or want to help their abuser. I’m not sure which is the case with Dad and me. I’m no longer deathly afraid of him. I’ve never been ashamed or blamed myself for his internal fires. But I’m not sure I want to help him either, even though he may be more battered internally than I am externally. And even if I had wanted to, how can I help him when I can barely fight for myself?

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Bhaswati Ghosh writes and translates fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her first book of fiction was ‘Victory Colony, 1950’. Her first work of translation, ‘My Days with Ramkinkar Baij’ won her the Charles Wallace (India) Trust Fellowship for translation. Bhaswati’s writing has appeared in several literary journals. She is an editor with The Woman Inc. and is currently working on a nonfiction book on New Delhi, India. More about Bhaswati: https://linktr.ee/Bhaswatig

 

*

 

Homes and the World

 

From womb to the world, I bring emergencies in my wake.

 

1. LAJPAT NAGAR

 

Ten days after I’m born, democracy in my country gets turned on its head; constitutional rights are left meaningless for all practical purposes. The Indian government has just declared a state of Emergency. While I have no memory from that time, people who do still recoil in remembered fear when talking of those “Dark days.” Of disappearances and forced sterilizations, of tortures, interrogations and blank newspaper pages – a way to refuse toeing the government line.

My mother has to fight her own emergency, meanwhile. Her marriage has just fallen apart and she’s back in her parents’ home in Lajpat Nagar in New Delhi. When I come bundled up from Holy Family, the Christian missionary hospital where I am delivered to Kasturba Niketan – the refugee rehabilitation colony where my grandmother works, my mother is in desperate need of a job.

Before that first house grows on me, the Emergency has been lifted and my mother finds employment. Her old employer – the library at Delhi University – takes her back, making an exception on its policy regarding rehiring former employees. Her pre-marriage work record helps as much as her post-marriage personal crisis.

The house that my mind stretches the farthest back to is the one we move to from Kasturba Niketan. It’s a two-room rented accommodation, a part of the full house owned by Mr. Khera, one of the thousands of Punjabis displaced by the Partition of India who made New Delhi their home in the 1950s. This house is where I would first learn the power of a bribe when my mother puts a slim Dairy Milk bar in my hand as she and my brother sneak out to watch Trishul – a just-released Hindi film about a son growing up to avenge his wronged mother. Its stuffy interiors would also make Khera’s house (the name we would simply remember it by later) my earliest mischief-making workshop. One evening when I can’t be seen anywhere, the family would throw a fit and a search unit go out to find me. When they all return empty-handed and shakily tense, I emerge from behind a sofa where I had been hiding all this while, unable to determine what the fuss is all about.

Somewhere between accompanying Grandma to the hospital where Grandfather is being treated for cataract and loitering about the courtyard that’s obscenely disproportionate in its expanse as compared to the matchbox interior where we reside, I figure out Grandma wants to be in her “own” house and this is not it. I go to the family altar one day. It’s a wooden hub where all the gods and goddesses live inside picture frames or as small idols. I take one of my slippers and start thrashing with it the photo of Ganesha, the god of good fortune. I beat him black and blue, my toddler mouth lashing in tandem, “Why aren’t you giving Grandma her own house?”

 

1. SRINIVAS PURI

 

I will learn to be patient.

 

We’ve moved houses again, but this too, isn’t Grandma’s own house. She has worked to rehabilitate refugees who fled into India after the country’s Partitioned independence but hasn’t yet been rehabilitated herself. She and Grandpa also lost all their property overnight when the country was divided into India and Pakistan in 1947.

It’s a sarkari (Hindi for government-owned) accommodation she has been given. This is where I will make my first real friends with whom I would laze on summer afternoons, sampling tart raw mangoes with chili powder and playing pitthhoo. This two-room house with grey cabinets that packs the six of us – me, my brother, our mother, grandfather, grandmother and maternal uncle – is the happy haven where mother helps me with school work and grandfather keeps up with my post-school meal tantrums. This is where I learn the algebra of a community. The buckets of water my anemic mother draws during summer months from the house on the ground floor to cope with the water scarcity bothers me but I’m not yet big enough to share her load. Neighbours help us forge equations by letting us watch Sunday telecasts of Hindi films and cricket matches on their televisions, women (mothers and grandmothers) huddle on charpais to knit sweaters in the winter, Janmashtami and Ram Lila celebrations every monsoon and autumn see both adult and children kick butt as different neighbourhood groups try outsmarting each other in decorations and performances.

This is also where I learn the chemistry of fear.

One October morning, the prime minister, the same one who declared the Emergency ten days after I was born, is assassinated. I’m nine years old now. Her death makes parts of my city combustible. Members of the Sikh community – the one to which the two bodyguards who shot the PM down belonged – are dragged out of their houses and burned alive. Many of them are torched inside the taxis they drive across the city. The violence is allegedly carried out at the behest of the ruling party to avenge its leader’s killing. On our neighbour’s faces, I see the terror that emerges when fire reacts with fear. Section 144C is clamped in various areas, making it illegal for groups of people to gather in public. Women become widows overnight, their children fatherless, their families left without any earning members.

The violent killing of our prime minister has shaken me, but I’m unable to grasp the burning mayhem that follows. I think of Baby as I hear about Sikhs being burned and butchered. Only a year ago, I was part of a small crowd that had huddled in the living room of Baby, a lanky Sikh teenager, and her family living across us shared. We were there to watch the finals of the 1983 cricket World Cup. India had startlingly entered the finals and faced the formidable West Indies team. As we watched the nail-biting final over, holding our breath, the collective gasps transformed into yowls of joy. India had just beaten the West Indies and our cheers along with those of Baby and her folks became louder as the Indian captain lifted the World Cup, his big grin refracted on our faces.

 

III. C. R. PARK

 

I am finally double digits old, and Grandma finally has her own house. If you could call it one, that is. She’s no longer entitled to a government quarter and has been pushed to the wall to get the construction of her house started on the modest plot of land she bought in another corner of South Delhi. When the six of us arrive in our semi-constructed new house, we don’t yet have an electricity connection. My brother and I have to soon get used to studying in candlelight and armies of mosquitoes as we prepare for our impending half-yearly examinations.

The area we’ve come to live in is named after an Indian freedom fighter, but this is its cosmetic name. It has another, more official name – EPDP Colony. The last two letters of that abbreviation – expanding to Displaced Persons – bear the genetic code of our family history. Unlike the mostly voluntary displacements that have seen me move to four different houses in the ten years of my life so far, those two words point to a more sinister, irreversible type of displacement. The kind Grandma and Grandpa experienced when they lost what Grandma calls their “Desh,” literally meaning one’s country, but in essence meaning homeland, to the Partition of India some thirty years before my birth. She tells me about the country’s division along its eastern and western borders. She and Grandpa came from the east, and after years of negotiations, a group of folks, including Grandpa, were able to get the central government to sell them plots of land at a subsidised price.

Three years after we move to this house — I am teen now and I bleed every month – there’s a lot of bloodshed in our colony. A group of Sikh gunmen have attacked the neighbourhood on the eve of Kali Puja, when Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction is worshipped. In the years following the assassination of Mrs. Gandhi, the prime minister killed by her bodyguards, demands for a separate Sikh homeland gain momentum, resulting in one of the most violent periods of insurgency in independent India.

There are four different worship venues spread over the colony and the gunmen go from one to the next to hunt their victims. I’m in one of the venues, playing the harmonium for my friend as she sings in a music competition. I’m supposed to sing after her. She can’t complete her song, though, and starts weeping in the middle of it. I wonder what has suddenly made her so nervous and by the time I understand the reason, all I know is that we need to run as fast as we can. There’s commotion all around. My eyes search for my mother in the audience. As soon as I spot her, the three of us join the terrified crowd to make our escape. A neighbouring resident gives us shelter. Cramped in his family’s living room I blankly watch the TV where a weekly biopic on Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal king, plays. An hour or so later, we get a hitch from a car and make it home, where my grandparents are oblivious to the harrowing events gripping the neighbourhood. When they hear about it from us, they are as relieved to have us back unharmed as they are shocked. Over the next several weeks, we reel in fear as we learn how close neighbours were gunned down not too far from our house. The gunmen, apparently on a mission to avenge the high-handed anti-terrorist measures of Punjab’s Bengali governor, choose to shoot men dead right in front of their wives and mothers, even as they spare the women and children.

About a month after the dark night of Kali Puja that never came to be for us that year, I find a small scrap of paper that I take to my grandparents. It has these words written in Hindi, “Beware and be prepared.” As my grandmother reads it aloud, I can see the panic it brings to both her and Grandpa’s face.

“Who could it be?” I probe them and while they don’t offer a direct answer, I’m advised to be more careful. We need to be on our guard, Grandma says. The worry on their faces deepens, and I can’t take it any longer.

“I wrote that note,” I tell them. We all have a comforting laugh as they rebuke me. The house nameplate behind which was the letterbox mocks me for days, weeks and years, asking why I carried out that cruel prank on the two people who helped develop the very foundation of who I was. I am unable to come up with a satisfactory answer.

This house, my Grandma’s own, will become my most intimate, most unforgiving secret-hoarding twin. It will grow as I do, bleed in its puberty, struggle restlessly for identity in its youth and eventually reconcile to the inevitability of coming of age. This is where my mother will attach wings on me to help my creative talents soar, find the money from her meagre salary to enrol me to dance and music classes, teach me the art of reciting Bengali poems and songs to sing at Durga Puja competitions, and take me from one venue to the next for inter-school music competitions. This is the house where she’ll have a custom cabinet built to house and display all my prizes.

In the end, the house will turn into my sole mate as its cold hands pull me inside its crevices when I’m fifteen. My grandparents will die within a year of each other, leaving me an empty nester. Only, I’m a fledgling here, with no experience of flying.

I will learn to give in to the ghostly clasp of a brooding house.

I finish school, go through university, join the workforce. Governments come and go – from the right, centre, to a medley of right, left and everything in between. Mosques are razed to the ground, self-immolations take place to protest against reservations to lower castes in education and jobs, more blood flows through the streets and more terror attacks rock the country. I keep descending deeper and deeper into my cave.

One day, I quit full-time work and become even more home-bound. Every morning, I walk on the terrace, taking in bird calls and morning scenes – children off to school, office traffic, and vegetable vendors with their heaped carts. For the first time in decades, I feel relaxed, inside and out. Embracing my introvert soul wholeheartedly, I become a part of virtual writing and blogging communities, the online world safely cocooning me in a mesh of seemingly like-minded souls.

I come across a fellow blogger whose family history follows a track similar to the skewed trajectory of my own. We are both second-generation refugees, with borrowed nostalgia and quilted memories we’ve inherited from our grandparents. We’ve both, him more than me (he’s from Punjab), been scarred by and survived terrorism. We read and comment on each other’s posts and write guest posts on each other’s blogs. We go on to collaborate on the editing and publication of a book written by an activist working with Adivasis in Central India. Two years after we first meet through our blogs, we get married.

After twenty-four years of living in this house, my grandmother’s own, I step out of it.

From home to the world, I’ve carried with me my mother’s hardship, the politics of my homes, and my grandparents’ displacement anxiety. At the same time, I’ve also been able to transcend some of these through an admixture of time’s healing passage and the unique circumstances that became a part of my story.

That’s more than a refugee heir could ask for.

 

 

 

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Karolina Wróblewska is a Shanghai enthusiast. She has lived here for over a decade, mesmerised by old Shanghai lanes and their inhabitants. Trained in sinology, she enjoys Chinese ink wash painting and writing about her Shanghai experience.

 

But I didn’t want to be a strawberry

 

I like to imagine myself as a memories collector. I find, gather, organise, and appreciate; a seamstress that arranges snippets of fabric into intricate patterns. No wonder, because since childhood, I wanted to be a dressmaker. One of these days, I will take out my patchwork and admire its beauty.

***

The first telephone set appeared at our home somewhere in the eighties. It was a blue dial. It was such a novelty that my sister and I wanted to call someone at all times. It was this kind of magic we could not comprehend. How could a piece of plastic make a ringing noise, and upon picking up the handset, your grandma’s voice came from the inside of it? Incomprehensible magic. You had to have a reason to make a phone call, and therefore we were not allowed to touch it.

But my parents were at work when I returned home from school. (Those were good old times when people were not afraid of letting children come home from school independently, with house keys dangling from their necks.) Hania was a good friend of mine. She was my classmate and a neighbour too. She had two long braids. Her mum was a hairdresser, and her father was a policeman. Her family must have had the telephone installed about the same time as us, so Hania and I came up with a great prank, alternating once at her place and once at mine, we would take out a thick book of yellow pages and call people randomly.

We usually started the conversation by pretending that we called from the kindergarten. Depending on who answered the phone, we would say something like: “Hello Sir, your grandson is waiting for you at the kindergarten. You forgot to pick him up. Come quickly, please!” We tried to sound like adults; kids are so naïve. Seldom an angry man’s voice on the other side of the line would scold us, and we were frightened, sometimes a drunk would utter unintelligible words at us, rarely we were threatened: “Making stupid jokes! I’ll find you, and you will see!” We would hang up the receiver promptly. But I remember an old lady who answered the phone and willingly had a conversation with us. She spoke in a soft and pleasant voice. I feel she must have been very lonely, and our prank was a nice digression in her otherwise lonesome existence. I remember we were asked a lot of questions, so the conversation went on and on. We laughed, and the lady seemed cheerful too.

We were found out as soon as a telephone bill arrived, and it put an end to our games.

***

I once came across “Orange Crush”, an essay written by Yiyun Li. Although she lived thousands of kilometres away from me, I could absolutely relate to her story. In her piece, she described the first time she was exposed to western culture in the form of an orange drink for the Chinese market branded as Tang. A bottle of the beverage was so expensive that you could buy tones of oranges for the same price. A monthly lunch allowance would be just enough to buy a bottle. The drink came into the market with an appropriate TV  commercial. The family on the TV screen was not only very healthy but utterly happy. Needless to say, all thanks to Tang.

It was China in the nineties. It reminded me of my own experience, which must have been a decade earlier, maybe the beginning of my primary education—Poland in the eighties.

There were no commercials on TV back then, but we too looked up to America. Same as the narrator of “Orange Crush,” I also had my little American Dream. I wanted to taste exotic fruit, like a banana or an orange. It was an unattainable thirst. Back then, we could only get locally grown fruit and vegetables, so it was up to my imagination to picture myself tasting something so out of the ordinary. Until one Christmas when all of a sudden there was a delivery of bananas to our local supermarket. My mum must have accomplished a challenging task, nearly a miracle, to buy a tiny bunch of bananas.

The view of bananas was so unreal that I consumed my first ever banana in front of a giant mirror in the hall of our apartment. I cannot even recall the impression the taste made on me. All I know is that there I was, standing facing the mirror in a cool, nonchalant pose pretending to be someone for whom eating tropical fruit was the most ordinary thing on earth. For a moment, I turned into somebody else. And I thought how great that would be to be this somebody else.

The banana was soon gone, but the memory of the absurdity of the situation remains vivid till this very day. Since then, I have tried Chinese cuisine, Japanese, Thai. I have tasted sushi, curry. I have eaten avocados, passion fruit, papayas, pomelos. All the things I had not dreamt of because I did not know of their existence whatsoever.  With time they became common and ordinary.

***

At one point, I wanted to be a scientist, like my grandfather. He was a biologist. He showed me the magical world seen under the microscope; tiny particles of plants enlarged under the magnifying glass. When I was about seven, we spent summer at a lakeside somewhere near my hometown. We would take long walks in the woods during which my sister and I were trained to recognise trees by the types of leaves, barks; poplar, oak, birch, aspen, chestnut. We could distinguish them all.  It was there where I carried out my first ever scientific experiment. My parents were displeased. My mum, in particular, did not appreciate my sudden rush to science. Looking back, I don’t blame her. In my research, I wanted to prove that my corrective eyeglasses (which I was terribly embarrassed by) can float on the surface of the lake. I guess that subconsciously I wanted to get rid of them. The experiment proved me wrong. My glasses (not the first pair within a few months) drowned in the depths of the lake. I, therefore, bowed out from further research.

***

The bakery was my favourite pastime game. There was a sizable sandpit in a playground right behind our apartment building. It was rimmed with a short concrete wall with wooden boards on top of it. All the kids from the neighbourhood loved to spend time there. We had plastic moulds, which we filled with wet sand. Upon flipping them over on the boards, the perfect loaves of bread, cookies, stars, shells and cakes appeared. Miraculously, we could somehow sense the aroma of freshly baked pastry. One of us would be a baker, and the rest were customers. “How can I help you?” would the baker ask. “I’d like this loaf of bread and a star cookie, please”, a customer would reply. “Here you are!” In the way of claiming our orders, we would smash the purchased items with our little hands. Bang! And a loaf would turn back to scattering of sand. Bang! And the same would happen to the star, the shell or the cake.

***

The baking game was great, but “treasure hunting” was probably even better. It meant walking at the back of the apartment buildings in our settlement, under the balconies. There were usually very narrow paths between the buildings and flowerbeds. Searching for treasures meant simply to look for garbage thrown by accident away from the balconies. Once, someone threw out their balcony, not quite unintentionally, a whole box of metal buttons. That was one of the best trophies ever. For many years afterwards, mum would still use them to replace lost buttons in our jackets, trousers, shirts. But it was not the greatest. The greatest treasure ever was thrown out of a car that stopped abruptly on a busy overpass going towards the city centre. Right next to the overpass was an empty clearing with only a few bushes and tall grass that nobody ever mowed. Our block-of-flats was just beside it, so we kids used to play there a lot. And so, on one ordinary day, a car stopped nearby, and a bag full of goodies landed in the grass. It contained some trash; old, broken toys. The only item I remember, which must have been my prize, was a black lace fan. In my little eyes, the fan was the most magnificent object ever.

***

There was some aura of scandal around our next-door neighbour – E and a romance too. I didn’t understand much of it, especially why was there a woman banging on E’s door in a fury one day. She lived alone with her teenage son, and from time to time, she had male visitors. Some were foreigners. One of them, Bogdan, was one of a kind. In my childhood years, people were not allowed to travel abroad, not even possess passports. The iron curtain between us and the rest of the world was tightly sealed. To me, Bogdan was a representation of that unattainable wonderful world. He was tall, handsome and gallant; a real gentleman, very generous too. Bogdan always used to bring presents, so the entire neighbourhood was awaiting his visits. Once, he got my sister and me a tiny doll each. The dolls weren’t much bigger than our hands, but to us, they were the most precious toys in our collections. We loved them and admired Bogdan even more. The other time he brought a set of extraordinary butterfly brooches. They were made of wire and stocking knit. Each butterfly was a different colour. All the ladies (including my sister and me) were to select one brooch. What a difficult choice that was!

***

In winter, my dad and I used to go skiing. Only two of us were the sporty ones, so mum and sister stayed at home. The company that my dad worked for owned a small resort in Karpacz, in Karkonosze Mountains. It was an old, probably post-German villa with the fabulously sounding name Zameczek (The Little Castle). He and I went there nearly every winter. We rented a tiny room in Zameczek and went skiing from morning till dusk.

On the main street of Karpacz stood a miniature windmill, to some incomprehensible cause called The Windmill of Love. I used to demand to be taken there every time we went to the mountains. I stood in front of a petite windmill, mesmerised. Tiny figurines of a miller and his wife on the balcony made me freeze enchanted. It was rising inversely proportionate to myself. As I was growing taller, year by year, it was shrinking in my eyes. Nevertheless, I was always staring at it with admiration, not noticing its decay and fading colours.

Winters used to be colder and snowier than we get nowadays. It is one of the most evident and visible proofs of climate change. These days we have snow in April sometimes, but winters are generally milder than they used to be. I grew older, my father changed the workplace, and we stopped going to The Little Castle altogether. With time I even forgot how to ski.

***

I remember that I always wanted to be a princess. (Thus, I loved going to the Little Castle in winters.) Every year our kindergarten threw a costume party, and for a few consecutive years, my mum dressed me up as a strawberry. Maybe she did not have the resources to make me a princess, but most likely, she just thought the idea too clichéd, too trivial. She wanted something out of the ordinary. I must admit that my mum worked miracles to turn pieces of material into such an incredible, bespoke outfit. The costume included green headwear that resembled a calyx, and there was even a tiny pedicel sticking out. The dress was made of some green nylon fabric. Back then, to buy a piece of cloth was a marvel, so my mum must have had supernatural powers to achieve that. There was a white collar around the neck with a couple of strawberries embroidered on it. And on top of all that, an enormous strawberry was sewed on the front, from the waist down. The strawberry was bright red with white achenes and three green sepals. Everybody admired my mum’s talents and adored my dress. But I, as every girl of my age, wanted to be a princess. I didn’t want to be a strawberry.

***

It was a childhood of spellbinding beauty, enchanting and joyous—that childhood of mine. How many of the numerous toys children nowadays are given by their parents and family friends will be cherished and remembered like that miniature doll in a bright dress or cute, rinky-dink butterflies I was given all those years ago?

I look at a pile of presents under the Christmas tree. December 2020. Two girls compulsively open their beautifully wrapped gifts. There is only a little time to admire each gorgeous, expensive, new toy. It is quickly glanced at as if in passing. Pieces of torn wrapping paper land on the floor, covering already unwrapped toys. Another box is being lifted and the procedure repeated. By the time the last boxes are opened, it’s nearly bedtime. The pile will occupy space on the carpet, or maybe an adult will mercifully put them aside before good night.

04.2021

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Karolina Wróblewska is a Shanghai enthusiast. She has lived there for over a decade, mesmerised by old Shanghai lanes and their inhabitants. Trained in sinology, she enjoys Chinese ink wash painting and writing about her Shanghai experience.

Guilin Park

It was pure naivety on her side to go to a park in the middle of October holiday to seek some tranquillity. She realised that as soon as she reached Guilin Park on Wednesday morning. Renshan renhai, as they say in Chinese, which literally means people mountain people sea, or in one word – crowded.

It felt unreal to be surrounded by this sea of people while in other parts of the world people sought shelter in their homes, and were advised not to leave their seclusions unless necessary.

Nevertheless, she was determined to find a quiet spot, away from the crowds, where she could open her drawing pad and do some sketches of nature, pretending it was a remote place, somewhere in the country, not a busy park in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world. She spotted a little pavilion on a tiny hill. To find the way to the top of it was not easy, because the stairs were hidden among tall trees and bushes, and there was a pond on the other side of the hillock.

She was surrounded by vivid colours. The grass was dazzling green. The sun shone brightly, the sky was perfectly blue and so was the still water of the pond, mirroring the heavens. As if to complement this idyllic ambience from time to time she could sense the sweet fragrance of Osmanthus blossoms. The most marvellous and ephemeral scent ever.

Her chosen spot looked completely deserted but while she was climbing the winding stairs she noticed a man coming out of nowhere, aiming the same direction. They reached the pinnacle at the same moment. The situation was awkward. It was obvious that both of them wanted to be left alone, but none wanted to withdraw. The spot was too perfect to give it up easily. The pavilion was surrounded with a short concrete fence, and the passing which constituted an entry to the little square in front of the building was blocked by a blue tape, so none of them could give way and go to the opposite side.  She put her bag down, he put his flask on the wall. “He might as well stay,” she thought generously, after all, she wanted to avoid crowds not a single person. He must have thought otherwise because, after a while of hesitation, he grabbed his glass flask filled with tea, which has probably been refilled many times, and turned to mildly rusty colour, and left.

Pretending to be indifferent to the situation (although she did feel guilty a bit), she took out her sketchbook and pencils and sat quite restfully on the short wall. As soon as she made herself perfectly comfortable she heard the sound of a whistle. She looked around, and as could be expected, there was a guard down the mound near the pond pointing at her and shaking his head as if saying, “sitting on the wall is not allowed.” “I should have brought my bamboo chair” – she thought. People do bring strange objects to parks all the time. People here carry strange objects around the town all of the time! No one would be surprised or indignant. Even today she saw old men strolling around the park lanes with beautifully ornamented cages and birds inside them. Not to mention all those senior citizens with their own foldable stools that frequented subways during rush hours.

Let alone strange things that happen here all the time. Just yesterday she had witnessed that utterly surreal scene. She walked down Shanxi Road when suddenly someone walking a dog came straight at her. As she stepped sideways to let them pass she nearly bumped into a pig! It was quite a handsome pig with grey patches all over its pink body; as if carrying a map of the world on its back. The owner, a young man, was pushing his pet gently forward with nudges. Would anyone pay any attention to a bamboo chair if she brought it to the park? Very unlikely. She caught eye contact with the guard, made an OK sign with her hand and stood up, just to lean against the wall, which was less comfortable but still acceptable.

She created a little view of a pond with a small stone bridge over it, with an old crooked tree, a strange stone, so-called guai shitou or gongshi, and a pagoda in the distance. Gongshi means Scholar’s rock and is a must-have element of a traditional Chinese garden, and so should also appear in landscape paintings. Three places in China are sources of scholar’s rocks. The ones in Shanghai are the most probably from Lake Tai area, from neighbouring Jiangsu province, so are called Taihu stones (Taihu shi). Their appearance must be very unique, the shape irregular, and they have to have some holes and cavities in them.  And so she placed a big and perfectly irregular Taihu shi in the foreground. Her sketch emanated calmness. The place she created was quiet and deserted, and so black and white compared to the bright colours of the nature that encircled her on that perfectly sunny day.

She has always been surrounded by woods, she thought dreamily. The view of the crippled tree made her think of those handsome, tall trees in her Chinese name; Lin sounded dignified and earnest. Funnily enough by adding merely three drops of water to her two slim trees you would get yet another version of lin – a shower; thousands of little tears. But it was a bright day with no threatens of showers.

At some point, by the corner of her eye, she noticed the man with the tea flask on the other side of the pavilion. There must be another way up the mound to the other side of it. He placed his bottle on the wall and put his hands together in prayer. He bowed several times and was gone.

She witnessed a great and clandestine scene, she thought. The park was once  (at the beginning of the XX^th century) privately owned by a rich gangster. She knew that much. It’s a very picturesque place full of magical hidden corners, beautiful pagodas, charming pavilions, tiny hills, old bamboo trees. The place radiates wealth and splendour. There is water, there is a mountain, elements of a perfect landscape much loved by southern Chinese.

Now, she was sure of that, she uncovered a great secret, she had figured out that the man (most probably) was a descendant of that powerful family.  He comes to pay respects to his ancestors, intimately when no one is there. She was overwhelmed by solving the mystery. No one else, but she knew who the man was.

She continued drawing, occasionally disturbed by passers-by who probably wanted to take a photo with the house as a background. And they did with the pavilion and a foreign lady in the background. But she did not mind… She drew.

At one moment “a descendant” of the rich gangster appeared again with his glass tea flask and a middle-aged couple and gesticulating was explaining something to them vividly. “So what is this place?” she asked as if in passing, pretending disinterest, but in fact deeply curious to hear about his family secrets. “It’s Guanyin pavilion, you know?” She turned back, and behind herself she noticed a large board hanging above a beautifully carved front door. The sign in huge golden characters on black background clearly stated Guanyin ge. She realised once again that she tends to be carried away by her imagination quite some times.

Of course, she knew the slim statue of Guanyin, seen so many times in Buddhists temples. “She is the Goddess of Mercy, you know?” “I do.” And upon realizing that she can understand what he says, he explained with great engagement: “You see those twisted stone stairs? They are so tricky, that old person should not try to climb them. And do you know why? Because human life is intricate. In the course of our lives, we deviate from the straight route. That’s why our life path is not straightforward, just like this path up the hillock. Now we must climb up this mound to seek Guanyin’s mercy and forgiveness, repent the sins, you know?”

The couple was still there, mesmerised by this surreal scene. It seemed there was something wrong there. A Chinese man was explaining some intricate stories in his mother tongue using sophisticated expressions to a foreign woman, and she nodded as if in understanding. “Do you understand what he says?” – a man asked in disbelief. “I do,” she replied and immediately was overpowered by the feeling of losing the ability to comprehend this foreign speech. It happened repeatedly before. Often when someone praised her language skills she froze and blocked the words from her ears.

As expected, from that moment onwards she couldn’t grasp the meaning of what he was trying to convey. “Blah, blah, blah, you know?’ “No,” she admitted with shame. “No?” now he was surprised. “It’s history, you know?” She might as well keep on nodding, after all, she knew he was introducing her to the history of Guilin Park, which was not owned by his ancestors after all, and which she could later google. So she was “nodding in advance.”

And later on, she did make it up and learnt that the residence was built by one of the three most infamous Shanghai criminals, Huang Jinrong, in 1929. Even Wikipedia states his occupation as a gangster!

Huang and his family moved to Shanghai from Suzhou when he was only 5. He was a good and obedient child. As a young boy, he worked as an apprentice in a picture framing shop near Yu Garden. Back then he did not show any signs of making a gangster. Later on, he shifted to work in his father’s teahouse. Here he found opportunities to make connections with the underground world and built his first gang. He led a double life. In 1892 Huang entered the French Concession police force and became a detective in the Criminal Justice Section. He proved to be an outstanding detective. Doubtlessly thanks to his wide connections in the criminal world. Having built a broad network of informants he had great achievements. It is said that he used to accept bribes and gifts while receiving visitors in his teahouse. “Friends” would pay for dropping investigations, or intensifying the investigation on their enemies. He worked for Police force while running his profitable “business” at the same time, until his dismissal. Some say he crossed a line by beating in public a son of one of Shanghai Warlord in 1924. He was even arrested but soon released thanks to the help of his faithful friends; two other prominent figures of The Green Gang – Du Yuesheng and Zhang Xiaolin. Some say he simply retired in 1925. After that, he entirely devoted himself to the shady businesses of qingbang triad.

He must have sinned greatly throughout his life. Now she understood the need of those winding steps up the hill to Guanyin Pavilion climbed to repent of sins.  She understood also the meaning of qingbang repeated by the old man in the park as if the alien word would be more understandable if is repeated enough number of times (qingbang meaning green gang).

“Blah, blah, qingbang, blah, blah, qingbang (…)” the man perorated. The situation got a bit awkward, she was not sure whether to nod or to shake her head. Maybe her face expression was not showing enough understanding or emotions, because she was soon left to herself again in the pious vicinity of Guanyin. Not for long though. Soon a rather very elderly lady, with heavy make-up, wearing a traditional dress (from some ancient times), with bizarre ornaments in her hair and a silk flat fan with a wooden handle, so-called tuanshan, appeared with a male photographer. Lin put her sketchpad down and looked at the scene with a certain dose of disbelieve. The woman was looking fantastical, as she posed with grace half-hidden behind the fan. She was mesmerised by the absurdity of that scene. There were other people like herself here, acting as if they existed in another world and a different era. They too left her alone, soon afterwards.

The drawing was nearly completed; an idyllic picture of a non-existing landscape, an idealized world. From far away she could hear a man’s voice. He was singing old Shanghai hits, she knew them from the soundtrack of “In the Mood for Love” by Wong Kar Wai. Her favourite movie. “Huayang de nianhua”. She was moved by the feeling of nostalgia. “Ruguo meiyou ni”. The tune made her emotional. Nage bu duo qing”. She wanted to run down the winding stone stairs to listen to it at close range. It didn’t matter that the old man was not a first-class singer, but just merely a neighbourhood songster. “Ni zhen meili”.

She eventually went down the stairs. Down there people were doing more strange things. Some women were dressed up in traditional Chinese qipaos, made of shiny colourful fabrics. They posed with paper sun umbrellas, which were as colourful as their qipaos. They would raise their hands high up and freeze in that pose like statues of ballerinas or dancers accidentally scattered around Guilin Park. Their shadows were dancing simultaneously with them as they changed their postures. They looked somewhat grotesque but heart-warming at the same time. They were all smiling and laughing, clearly having a good time, indifferent to the glares of onlookers. They did not mind little kids running here and there around the place, adding ambience to that spectacle. The weather was splendid and the photographs would look fantastic on their moments on Social media.

Eventually, she made it to the open-space gallery where an enthusiastic crowd was just applauding the home-grown singer. He was still singing some old hits to the great delight of people. There he was, dancing and gesticulating with exaggeration to the rapture of gathered Shanghainese ladies. It was an extraordinary and peculiar performance. The crowd was clearly in a festive mood. Everyone was so cheerful and joyful, you could tell it was the middle of the long October holiday, and for a moment people forgot about their worries, everyday problems. As if the world outside Guilin Park was an entirely different reality.

But the sun will only be up for a few more hours, and eventually, before dusk, they all will have to wrap up their belongings and return to the real world, and people mountain people sea will flood Shanghai streets again.

October-December 2020.

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Jennifer Mackenzie is a poet and reviewer, focusing on work from and about the Asian region. She makes regular appearances at festivals and conferences, including the Ubud, Makassar, and Irrawaddy Festivals. Her most recent work is ‘Borobudur and Other Poems‘ (Lontar, Jakarta 2012)

 

Village Wedding

 

It was early November and a gale was blowing off the sea.  The official day for heating to be turned on was some weeks away. The cold leapt into you like a demon.  You paced from room to room in the apartment, drinking tea, diving under the doona, reading while pacing, or on the sofa wrapped in the felt-like fabric which contained the essentials for a passable electric blanket.

It was the wedding of someone we knew who worked in another company, and a bus was to take us two hours northeast to a village of cobbled footpaths, neat buildings and an abundant market garden.  The bus was unheated and circled the city twice before all the guests to be transported were catered for.  A brown winter landscape confronted us.  Grey thatched buildings, bare trees decked in plastic bags, dry and stony river beds where water had long ceased to flow, where garbage clogged their suppurating banks.

At the village, we moved through a sequence of small rooms to where the bride and groom were displayed.  If our friend was cold, she showed no sign. Her full beautiful face was as round as the moon, perfectly made-up, her white frock hooped out, half-covering the suited legs of her new spouse, who looked as good as he ever would.

The wedding feast in a nearby restaurant was as cold as Heilongjiang in winter, and by the time the fish was served, the guests appeared decidedly blue, despite the warming power of a dozen toasts.  The mood, however, was warm and generous; the ladies of the village laughed, cackled and debated their way through the banquet, pressing an array of tasty dishes and a knock-out mao-tai on the guests.  When the bus driver woke from his nap, he blared the horn and we boarded, waited half an hour while the return route was decided, and drove into the black night.

The gale continued.  A week later, we saw our friend. The whitegoods we had given her just squeezed into her tiny apartment.  For the first time in our friendship of several years, she was not smiling.  Her voice hit a pitch which had our ears ringing. He is never home, she said.  I come home from work, and I sit here. He never washes.  He comes home at three or more in the morning, in a suffocating odour of smoke and beer.  He yells out, cursing me.  I used to spend my evening with friends, and we’d talk about the future.

 

 

 

 

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Beaton Galafa is a Malawian writer of poetry, fiction and nonfiction. His work has appeared/is forthcoming in Transcending the Flame, Betrayal, The Seasons, Empowerment, BNAP 2017 Anthology, Better Than Starbucks, Love Like Salt Anthology, 300K Anthology, Literary Shanghai, Mistake House Magazine, Fourth & Sycamore, The Wagon Magazine, Every Writer’s Resource, The Bombay Review, Writing Grandmothers, Kalahari Review, The Maynard, Birds Piled Loosely, Atlas and Alice, South 85 Journal and elsewhere.

 

Songxi Village’s Sichuan Opera: The Man with Changing Faces

 

13^th August.

Today will be a great day. The villagers and the authorities in Pujiang are officially welcoming us to Songxi, in a forty-minute-long ceremony. As the sole representative of my country in the 2018 Jinhua Homestay Project, I thought of spending the night memorizing Mu Hong Pu Gong, Pujiangese for the Mandarin Nihao Pujiang – meaning ‘Hello Pujiang’. But there is no need. I will definitely not be the first to greet the people who are now packed in Xu’s Ancestral Hall. I arrive a little late, along with my team. I found them waiting for me downstairs at our residence earlier.

In the hall, all the benches have been occupied except for gaps in the first two rows. These have been reserved for us – representatives of each of the fifteen countries. The upper sections of the hall are occupied by cameramen. I squeeze myself past a few German and South African friends between the first and second row, and find myself a seat. Kung Fu soundtracks emanating from speakers in the background of the stage fill the air. The Master of Ceremonies appears on stage. He honours the VIP, participants of the project, two Ukrainian painters sitting in front of us, a retired Associate Professor, the Mayor of Jinhua, and several others.

Roy and Kathrin, from Israel and Germany respectively, are invited on stage. After speeches of gratitude and optimism, they are given a large flag that has small flags of our countries printed on it – like stars clinging to the sky, deep in the night. They hold it with the Mayor, after which Roy grabs it and waves it around. He waves it nonstop, until the Mayor points to Kathrin. The crowd laughs. He nods, waves it around once more, and then hands it over to Kathrin. The crowd laughs again. She repeats the ritual. One after the other, the fifteen country reps sitting in the two front rows greet Pujiang in their own mother tongues. Moni Pujiang! It echoes back to me, as I think of how I could’ve possibly perceived it if I were Pujiangese – and what it would mean. The MC asks us to greet Pujiang in its own dialect.

Mu Hong Pu Gong!

The ceremony is officially open.

Two dragons appear from the stage’s laterals. On the right of the stage is a red, gold, and white one. It zigzags its way around the ground, rises mid-air, and dances around the open space beneath the stage. On the left is a yellow, green, and gold one. It remains overshadowed by the one on the right, often rising high enough to stare into the audience but lower than the earlier one. As the red and gold dragon towers over us, the other cranes its neck, cowers back, and raises its head again before withdrawing, as if it is searching for someone whilst trying not to be noticed.

The stage is soon taken over by an opera performance from a lady who keeps stretching her limbs, at times twisting her hand and fingers in various directions. Her reddish-pink robe, a pair of white trousers, and a black sleeveless top with a pink flower patch on the chest beneath the upper section of the robe complements the smile on her face. Her eyes stare directly into ours, and even when she’s not looking at us, it does not fade away. The smile only dies when she’s back minutes later to help show a famous calligrapher’s work, drawn right there on the stage. This – the calligrapher’s work – was done with a live performance of a woman in the background, seated next to a table where the calligrapher lay his bowl of ink and white cloth as he moved the painting brush around. She slowly plucked the strings of an ancient zither, as if in anticipation of its echoes to inform her next move.

After these three performances – by the two dragons, the opera singer, and the calligrapher – a masked man walks onto the stage. He is carrying a fan, and wearing a black pair of trousers, and a black shirt with red, pink, and brown stripes running from the neck through the waist to somewhere beneath it. His body is covered with a red cloth from the shoulders to just above the ankles. In flashes, he makes several turns with his head, like a monkey picking fruit in an orchard when the owner isn’t around. He moves forward a little, falls back, changes direction, and scratches his cheek. The moves are accompanied by a Kung Fu soundtrack in the background.

When he first appeared, his face was not the one I’m seeing now. I turn to my neighbor to ask if she noticed it too. She doesn’t hear me. I re-focus on the man. He shakes his head a little, and a yellow face appears. Moments later, he turns around again. A new face appears – blue and black, and a red tongue; white stripes from the eyebrows to the back. The crowd cheers. He brings out the fan in his hand. He splits it into bits and continues with his head movements. The faces repeat themselves on him. One has a butterfly on it. The other looks like a lion, the other a tiger. He lifts his left leg, bends it a little over the knee of his right, and withdraws it. He moves back, then forward, this time carrying a sword. This is a subgenre of the Sichuan opera – the Bian Lian.

Outside, there’s a metric beating of drums whose rhythmic sound pattern is coming through the hall’s entrance. After the Bian Lian, the ceremony is over. It’s time to tour different places – mostly the homes of craftsmen and women in the village. I rush to the door where the drumbeat is coming from. There it is.

In the plaza in front of the hall, old women in camouflage tops, short skirts, and red military berets stand on two opposite sides of the square. They have red bands tied beneath the shoulder on their left arms. Hanging from their necks are the drums. In unison they raise their sticks and release them to land on the right side of the drum. The strokes resemble a heartbeat as the sound fades behind us and the murky grey houses along the streets to our next destination.

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五

 

翻译进行到第五章，维娅在情人节那天邀请男朋友贾斯汀去见父母，结果他的抽搐症犯了。书里写道：“我想，今晚我们大家都装作什么也没看到。服务生。我的抽搐症。奥古斯特在桌子上压碎玉米片，用勺子把碎片刨进嘴里的方式。”

土豆说，如果贾斯汀在我们学校，大概也会被歧视，虽然他是个很不错的小提琴手，但他有抽搐症，父母离异，严重缺乏爱，这些都是他的弱点。有时候学校盛行的就是丛林法则，弱肉强食。

他的话让我不禁一愣。可不是么，如果没有一个良善的大环境，我们每一个人都可能变成弱者，都可能遭到歧视和不公正的待遇。换句话说，人人都有可能成为奥吉，只不过程度不同而已。

土豆直点头，你看杰克，他虽然很勇敢，但不喜欢学习，成绩不好，家庭经济条件也很一般，他选择跟奥吉做朋友以后，立即遭到了全班大部分同学的孤立。大家不跟他说话，假装他不存在，奥吉调侃他：“欢迎来到我的世界！”

是的，我顺着他的思路分析，书中的每一个孩子，他们的生活其实都不是完美的，都有内在的缺点或者外在的缺失。米兰达很漂亮，在学校成功成为人气女孩，但她付出的代价是撒谎和世故；萨默尔几乎可以算得上一个完美的女孩，不过她是混血儿，而且她也有巨大伤痛——父亲去世，与妈妈相依为命；维娅也几乎没有缺点——但她的痛苦正来自于有一个像奥吉一样的弟弟，并从小就承受着各种指指点点。所有这些，包括他们对奥吉的爱，对弱者所表现出来的善良，在糟糕的环境下都可能让他们成为鄙视链上的一环。

“你这么一说，我就明白了。”土豆说，“记得我们班的女孩Z吗？她爱吃，是个胖墩，成绩差，脾气古怪，每天她在Q面前都是一副得意扬扬的样子，命令他，训斥他。但是她转过身，别的同学对她也是命令和呵斥，因为她长得胖，其他同学也欺负她。在大家眼里，她和Q是一样的人。”

“你再想想看，受到歧视和嘲笑的除了胖子，是不是还有瘦子，个子特别高或者特别矮小的人，穷人家的孩子，农民工的孩子，长相不好看的孩子，单亲家庭的孩子，成绩差的孩子，性格内向的孩子，乡下来的孩子，总之一切看起来跟大多数人不一样的人？”我说。

“是的，其实我也被歧视过。记得那年我钢琴比赛拿了大奖吗，我回到学校，却遭到一些人的耻笑，他们说我娘炮，长得太白，不是男人，只有女人才会弹琴。一开始我很生气，还跟他们打了一架。后来我发现，他们一点也不了解古典音乐，他们根本是嫉妒。”

“咦，你怎么连这事也不告诉我？”

“我只是不喜欢你保护欲过度的样子。”

 

六

 

一天，土豆回家塞给我一篇文章。是2012年12月8日莫言获得诺贝尔文学奖后在瑞典文学院的演讲，标题叫《讲故事的人》。他用颜色笔在两处做了重点记号。一处是：

上世纪六十年代，我上小学三年级的时候，学校里组织我们去参观一个苦难展览，我们在老师的引领下放声大哭。为了能让老师看到我的表现，我舍不得擦去脸上的泪水。我看到有几位同学悄悄地将唾沫抹到脸上冒充泪水。我还看到在一片真哭假哭的同学之间，有一位同学，脸上没有一滴泪，嘴巴里没有一点声音，也没有用手掩面。他睁着大眼看着我们，眼睛里流露出惊讶或者是困惑的神情。事后，我向老师报告了这位同学的行为。为此，学校给了这位同学一个警告处分。多年之后，当我因自己的告密向老师忏悔时，老师说，那天来找他说这件事的，有十几个同学。这位同学十几年前就已去世，每当想起他，我就深感歉疚。

另一处是：

我生来相貌丑陋，村子里很多人当面嘲笑我，学校里有几个性格霸蛮的同学甚至为此打我。我回家痛哭，母亲对我说：“儿子，你不丑，你不缺鼻子不缺眼，四肢健全，丑在哪里？而且只要你心存善良，多做好事，即便是丑也能变美。”后来我进入城市，有一些很有文化的人依然在背后甚至当面嘲弄我的相貌，我想起了母亲的话，便心平气和地向他们道歉。

作为回应，我给他看第八章的译文。小说已经发展到了尾声，奥吉与全班同学一起参加五年级“走进大自然之旅”，他的长相遭到了一群外校七年级学生的挑衅，杰克挺身而出，其他三位原本敌对的同学也出手相助，结果引起了一场打斗，导致奥吉受伤。这一不幸事件在毕彻预科学校引起巨大的震动，让奥吉和几个保护他的朋友成为风云人物。在毕业典礼上，奥吉不仅因为成绩优异登上了学校的荣誉榜，还被授予亨利·沃德·毕彻奖章——因为他以安静的力量激励了大部分同学的心灵。校长图什曼先生在致辞中以善良为主题，发表了一番发人深省的讲话。他说：

作为人类，我们所拥有的，不只是善良待人的能力，还有选择善良对待他人的能力……善良是一件如此简单的事。真的太简单了。需要时的一句鼓励。一个友好的举动。路过时的一个微笑。

 

七

 

过了一阵子，我上网时注意到土豆更新了QQ空间，发表了一张图片说说。是他在卫生间墙上拍到的一只西瓜虫。他写到：

以前我喜欢猫，喜欢狗，喜欢兔子、金鱼、熊猫、蝴蝶、鹦鹉等一切好看的动物，总是觉得苍蝇、蜈蚣、西瓜虫这样的丑虫子很恶心，不由分说，一巴掌打死。但是现在我明白，生物有高级和低级之分，但生命没有贵贱之分。西瓜虫只是无意间跑到了我家，它有它活着的理由，我觉得自己跟它没有什么分别。小时候看丰子恺的《护生画集》，不懂他为什么说护生就是护心，现在我懂了。所以我小心翼翼地把它放进纸巾，送它到小区的花坛里。

 

八

 

《奇迹男孩》结尾处，作者帕拉西奥写了一篇致谢词，在感谢了一大堆家人和同事之后，她感谢了一个不具名的小女孩：“我想感谢冰激凌店前的那个小姑娘以及所有别的‘奥吉’们，是他们的故事启发我写了这本书”。我意识到这应该是作者的创作缘起，背后应该有一个动人的故事。上国外的网站一查，果然。

事情是这样的，帕拉西奥是一位出版社的编辑，她育有两个“土豆”。有一天，她带着孩子们外出玩耍，在冰激凌店排队买冰激凌时，发现队伍前面有一个小女孩脸部有非常严重的缺陷。她三岁的小儿子乍一看立刻吓得哭了起来。帕拉西奥觉得很尴尬，她立即意识到孩子的哭叫会伤害到小女孩和她的家人，便急急带着儿子们走了。就在他们离开时，她听到小女孩的母亲用非常冷静和友好的口吻对自己的孩子说：“好了，孩子们，我们该走了哦。”

这真实的一幕后来被帕拉西奥写进了杰克的故事，只不过把妈妈的身份换成了保姆。

回到家以后，帕拉西奥感到后悔和自责，她觉得自己当时不应该一走了之，而是应该换一种方式去处理，比如带着孩子和小女孩说说话什么的。她一直在想这么一个问题：这个小女孩和她的家人每天要经历多少次这样的场面？就在那天晚上，她听到了美国歌手娜塔莉·莫森特演唱的歌曲《奇迹》，这是一首她很熟悉的歌，但直到那时，她才真正听懂了歌词：

医生从遥远的城市

来看我

他们站在我床边

对眼前的一切难以置信

他们说我一定是上帝亲自创造的

奇迹

迄今为止他们不能提供

任何解释

 

这首歌词后来如我们所读到的，被放在全书之首，作为题记。帕拉西奥一天之内受到两次触动，当天晚上，她就找到了创作灵感，开始动笔写小说。

我把这个背景故事讲给土豆听。他喃喃地说，噢，原来每个人心里都有个奥吉。

 

 

九

 

三个月很快就过去了。2015年元旦，我准时完成了《奇迹男孩》的译稿，交给了出版社。

我郑重地感谢土豆如此深入地介入我的翻译工作，在这个过程中，我们互相帮助，像朋友一样互相沟通和倾听，安然度过了初到异乡最艰难的三个月。

他说：“妈妈你看，帕拉西奥是图书编辑，你也是图书编辑，她给她的儿子们写了一部《奇迹男孩》，你也给你的儿子翻译了一部《奇迹男孩》。是的，妈妈，我觉得这是你为我翻译的，谢谢你。”

 

 

十

 

秋天，土豆顺利进入上音附中高中学习，追求他的钢琴家梦想。

开学没多久，他突然带回了一个消息，让我大跌眼镜。

原来他的小学同学建了一个班级聊天群，三十来个孩子你拉我，我拉他，他拉她，在虚拟空间重新聚到了一起。大家都发各自的近照到群里，讲述各自的新学校、新班级、新朋友。个个都意气风发，个个都长大了，让人刮目相看。

热闹之际，他向同学询问Q的近况。然后就有相熟的同学把Q拉了进来。

让他感到吃惊的是，小学里发生的一幕幕又再一次上演了。

“哟……”有人说。

“滚！”

“白痴进来干什么，从哪儿来回哪儿去！”说这句话的是土豆曾经的好朋友。

“怪胎没有资格进群！”

“呵呵，笨蛋还学会用QQ了?”

“本群不欢迎你，别把你的皮肤癌带进来！”这个人也是土豆曾经的好朋友。

“你是我们的噩梦，我们没有你这个同学！”

 

……

 

眼看着对话框越来越长，惊叹号越来越多，同学们像得了传染病，一个个加入到驱逐Q的行列，跟三四年前一模一样。不过这一次，土豆决定挺身而出。

“我们早已经小学毕业了，我们是高中生了，我们已经长大了！但是，我看到，我们一点也没长大，我们还是几年前那群愚昧无知的小孩，欺凌弱小，毫无怜悯心，还以为自己正直、勇敢、充满爱心！XXX，XXX，我对你们简直失望透顶，你们不是我的朋友，我为曾经是你们的朋友感到耻辱！如果你们不学习、不反思，永远不会知道真正的勇敢是什么，也不会明白真正的悲悯是什么，直到你们被欺凌的那一天。Q！咱们一起退群吧，骂你的这些人不配做你的同学，他们现在伤害不到你了……”他在QQ群里愤然写道。

“然后呢？”我问。

“大家都沉默了。Q听了我的话，退群了，然后我也退了。”

“你感觉有点失落吧，但是又特别欣慰，很孤独，又很悲壮？”

“是的，这跟我选择做钢琴家一样，感觉既孤独又悲壮。妈妈，我想我终于明白《傅雷家书》里，傅雷对傅聪说的那句话了：先做人，然后做艺术家，最后再做钢琴家。”

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雷淑容，编辑，译者，自由撰稿人。译有《武士花园》《奇迹男孩》《红色狂想曲——古典音乐在中国》《纳尼亚传奇》之《魔法师的外甥》等。

每个人心里都有个奥吉

        雷淑容/文

 

一

 

三十多年前，在我生长的小山村里，有一户人家生了一个傻儿子。他生下来就没有名字，人们都叫他傻子。

傻子是智障，不仅面瘫，还瘸腿。他的父母没钱给他治病，也没心情善待他——因为他是全家人的耻辱和噩梦。他们让他吃剩饭、看冷脸、睡狗窝，对他动辄谩骂和诅咒。在迷信的小山村，人们认为一个残疾的孩子是恶灵转世，是不祥的征兆，对他指指点点，骂骂咧咧，避之唯恐不及。不过，傻子听不懂，他总是呵呵呵地傻笑，把所有的恶意当善意。

大人们很忙，他们不会打傻子。但村里的孩子会。

傻子成天没事干，喜欢在山野之间闲逛，他要么一路开心地采野花，扔得满地都是，要么追逐飞鸟或者蝴蝶，一路嗬嗬嗬地叫。也许是因为孩子们觉得他不配获得快乐，一见到他，立刻就会追上去打。傻子腿不好，逃不掉，经常被打得鼻青脸肿，山村不时回荡着傻子凄厉的哭喊声：“呜呜——呜——”

那是我记忆中惊心动魄的画面，一群孩子在春天的山花烂漫中，在夏天浓密的树林里，在秋天金黄的谷场上，在冬天皑皑的雪地上，追打一个嗷嗷叫的傻子。

谁都可以欺负傻子，没有人保护他，没有人给他一点点关心或者同情。除了他们家的大黄狗。大黄狗是一只大型犬，长相凶猛，对外人总是没完没了地狂吠。但它一点儿也不嫌弃傻子，总是跟在傻子身边，像是他的保护神。正因为大黄狗不离左右，村里孩子的暴行才没那么猖狂。

我怕大黄狗，也怕傻子。我怕傻子用脏手碰我的衣服；怕他嘴角拖着长长的口水；对着我咿咿呀呀说完全听不懂的话；我怕他畸形的长相会传染；怕他进入我的梦境，把美梦变成噩梦。每次路过他家门口，我都会把心提到嗓子眼上。有一天，当我从他家门口蹑手蹑脚经过的时候，只听见一阵低沉的咆哮，接着大黄狗跃门而出，朝我扑过来。我吓得连哭带叫，没跑出几步，就跌坐地上。我绝望地闭上眼睛，等着它的撕咬。

但是很奇怪，大黄狗不但没有扑上来，反而突然哼叽一声，一屁股坐在了我身边。我抬头一看，只见傻子正摸着它的头，嗬嗬嗬地傻笑着。

那是我第一次与傻子对视，也是我唯一一次真正看清他的脸——他的头是变形的，五官歪斜，但是他眼神温柔，像一只刚出生的小绵羊。

傻子没长到十岁就死了。他的父母甚至都没把他葬在家族坟地，而是在山坡上随便挖了个坑，草草埋了。他就像一棵野草，短暂地来到这个世界，自生自灭。奇怪的是，很多年以后，村子里的人和事我都已经淡忘，唯有他的样子我还记得清清楚楚。

 

二

傻子的故事像一个巨大的秘密，一直埋在我心底，从未对人说起。直到我的儿子长到十四岁。

2014年10月，我和儿子土豆搬到上海，住进了一间小公寓，为来年春天考上海音乐学院附中做准备。

对儿子而言，这是一个重大的决定。他在十四岁之际下定决心要成为钢琴家，意味着他不仅要离开喜欢的学校、老师和同学，离开家乡，离开舒适的家，离开正常的生活，更意味着从此离开宽阔的罗马大道，走上一条苦心孤诣追求艺术的羊肠小道。这是一个孤独的选择。

上海的公寓很旧很小，除了他的三角钢琴，几乎家徒四壁。再加上人生地不熟，自然就生出凄凉的感觉。恰好这时，我接到了一个翻译任务，不假思索就应了下来，同时做了一个严格的进度计划：每天1500字，雷打不动，三个月完成。以我的经验，到一个新地方，只要尽快开始做事，就能迅速融入当地的生活，摆脱茫然和无助。

我几乎是在仓促打开第一页的时候才知道主人公是一个非正常的十岁孩子。这孩子大名叫奥古斯特，小名叫奥吉。这本书的书名是《奇迹男孩》。

从一开始，我就把土豆拉进了我的翻译旅程，把他变成了我的第一读者兼“翻译助理”。因为在这个全球化的时代，几乎全世界的同龄小男孩都拥有同步的娱乐生活。奥吉是一个即将上初一的小男孩，而土豆即将从初中毕业，他们之间天然存在许多共同的密码。接下来形成了一个惯例，当我完成每天的翻译任务离开电脑时，土豆就自动坐到电脑前追看我的译文，检查有没有出现常识性错误或者过于成人化的语言——这是我的要求，奥吉只有十岁，我希望译文符合他的年纪和他所在的时代，不要落伍，也不要成人化，虽然他的思想比同龄孩子成熟。土豆自然当仁不让，甚至吹毛求疵。

“奥吉妈妈的分数计算糟透了，你应该说‘弱爆了’！”

“夏洛特穿的卡洛驰凉鞋，中国人不这么说，你最好改成‘洞洞鞋’！”

“奥吉说，图什曼先生是我新学校的老板，你可以把老板改成‘头儿’！”

“只有傻瓜才会选修领导课，‘呆瓜’更好！”

当然，他也被奥吉的故事深深吸引。一方面，奥吉读《龙骑士》《纳尼亚传奇》《霍比特人》，玩《龙与地下城》，对《星球大战》情有独钟，如数家珍，跟任何一个普通孩子都没有区别；另一方面，从他出生起，在他仅十岁的生命里，动了大大小小二十七次手术，从来没有真正上过学。因为先天畸形，他所到之处，人人侧目或者避之唯恐不及，他被叫作老鼠男、怪物、E.T.、恶心男、蜥蜴脸、变种人、瘟疫。这种巨大的反差让人揪心。

翻译一天天向前推进。如我所预料的，我们在陌生大城市的生活也慢慢从容起来，像一条小溪的水汇入到大河。但奇怪的是，随着译文进度加深，故事越来越扣人心弦，土豆却变得话越来越少。到“奶酪附体”一节时，我注意到他有点不对劲。他在电脑前默默地坐了一会儿，一句话没说就练琴去了。这有点反常，平日里他总是兴致勃勃地跟我讨论书里的细节，什么黑武士、什么徒弟打扮、什么神秘战地游戏，连奥吉出生时，“放屁护士”放了“史上最大、最响、最臭的一个屁”也能让他津津乐道半天。接下来连续两天的“万圣节服装”和“骷髅幽灵”，他都选择了默默离开。我摸摸他的额头，没发烧。问他是不是想家了，他摇头。继续追问时，他抬起头，眼睛里突然有了泪光。

“妈妈……我们班也有个奥吉，你记得Q吗？……我错了，呜呜，我觉得自己简直不是人！”他哭了出来。

 

三

 

我当然记得Q。他是土豆的小学同学，一双怯怯的大眼睛，单薄瘦小，像一棵小豆芽，他的行为和反应比同龄孩子要慢一些。土豆曾经告诉我，Q不会写字，不会数数，没法完成家庭作业，老师向他提问，他总是答不上来，抓耳挠腮地只说两个字：“我痒……”土豆还说，班上很多人都不喜欢他，觉得他笨、傻、土，不愿意和他交朋友。我还记得曾经跟土豆有一番长谈，告诉他每个小朋友都像森林的树，各有各的生长节奏，有的高，有的矮，有的快，有的慢，学得快的同学不应该歧视学得慢的，应该帮助他们。我让他保证过，要绝对善待Q，不能有任何形式的歧视、嘲笑、欺侮。事实上，在翻译的过程中，我也想到了Q，也想到了傻子。

“我是向你保证过，而且我也帮过他……但是我也像杰克·威尔那样犯过错，而且……”

杰克·威尔是班里唯一善待奥吉的男生，是他的同桌兼好友，也是他每天上学的动力以及让他可以躲开各种异样眼神和议论的保护伞。与杰克·威尔相反的是朱利安——同学们孤立奥吉，大多都是出于冷漠和无意，避而远之或者另眼相看——唯有他总是想方设法用恶毒的话语和行为刺激奥吉，伤害奥吉，还试图联合别的同学集体孤立奥吉。万圣节那天，奥吉阴差阳错地没有穿原计划的化装服，无意中偷听到了朱利安与杰克·威尔的一番对话。原来，杰克·威尔善待奥吉并不是出于真正的友谊，而是校长图什曼的安排，杰克·威尔甚至说，“如果我长成他那个样子……我觉得我会自杀。”奥吉受到严重打击，从此拒绝上学。

土豆犯的什么错呢？他告诉我，Q患了一种叫鳞屑病的皮肤病，经常抓痒，以至于全身皮肤粗糙，好像永远在掉皮屑——这也是他无法听课、无法完成作业的原因。全班同学都不敢接触他，害怕被他传染，尽管老师向大家保证这并非传染性的疾病，但每一个人都生怕与他有肌肤接触。正如奥吉的遭遇一样，Q自然也成了全班的“千年奶酪”，没有人愿意跟他同桌、搭档打球、做游戏，没人愿意接触他沾过的任何东西。轮到Q值日发作业本，所有同学都不接，有人拿到后马上移到窗台上晒太阳“消毒”，有人还干脆直接拂到地上去，土豆也一样，好几次把作业扔到地上去了。Q为了向同学示好，每天午饭后主动帮同学收拾餐盘，他个子小，动作慢，经常来不及收，于是就有同学直接拿盘子摔他、打他……土豆虽然没有这么做，但是也心安理得地等着Q帮他收拾盘子，这样的情形持续到小学毕业。整整六年。

六年！说实话，我太吃惊了。一直以来，我自认为很了解儿子，他在我眼里像水晶球一般单纯、透彻，没有丝毫杂质，没有任何秘密。然而他竟然在六年时间里心里憋了一件这么黑暗的事，这得有多大的心理阴影。

见我瞪着他，他委屈地说：“如果我告诉你，你就会逼着我跟Q做朋友，如果我跟他做朋友，我所有的朋友都会不理我，不仅不理我，还会欺负我，如果有人欺负我，你就会跑到学校里保护我……这太丢脸了……”

“呃……”我的心理阴影更大了。

 

 

四

 

Q的事情，我没有责怪土豆。一方面，他们已经快毕业三年了，分散在各中学，Q去向不明，要道歉的话，连人都找不到——即便找到他，这个歉又该从何道起？另一方面，土豆意识到自己的错误，已经自责不已，知错就改，永远都不嫌迟。

故事继续向前发展。不得不说，《奇迹男孩》不仅是一本及时之书，还是一本现实之书、全面之书。作者帕拉西奥可谓儿童心理学高手，她不仅了解孩子丰富敏感纤细的内心世界，还对中学校园的人际和生态了如指掌。她以复调的方式来写奥吉的故事：第一章叙述者是奥吉自己，第二章换成了奥吉读高中的姐姐维娅，第三章是唯一跟他要好的女生萨默尔，第四章是杰克，第五章是维娅的同学和男朋友贾斯汀，第七章是奥吉与维娅共同的好朋友米兰达，第六章和第八章又回到奥吉的视角。六个孩子，每个人都从自己的视角来看待、描述、理解奥吉，对奥吉的命运和遭遇进行多侧面、多方位地剖析和解构，人物与情节环环相扣、息息相关，构成了一个立体的中学生交往图景。可以说，几乎每一个孩子都可以从中找到自我的投射。

土豆投射的对象自然是杰克。这个小男孩成为奥吉的同桌、好朋友和保护者，但他一开始并不是自愿的，而是校长图什曼的刻意安排。他对奥吉的情感有一个从出于责任到成为真正友情的过程。在无意中伤害奥吉，两人经历了一段时间的“断交”后，杰克幡然醒悟，他出手打伤了朱利安，选择重新回到奥吉好朋友的位置。

看到这里，土豆说：“妈妈，奥吉在现实生活中几乎是不存在的。他出生在一个幸福的中产阶级家庭，爸爸妈妈姐姐外婆都无条件爱他，他坚强、勇敢、聪明、见多识广，动手能力强，知识丰富，字写得好，不仅善良还很幽默，是一个品学兼优的学霸，他的优点可以让人忽略他的长相。杰克最后变得很勇敢，不惜打掉朱利安的一颗牙齿来维护奥吉，换作我，也会这么做的，因为朱利安是个混蛋，他虚伪、狡诈、势利，任何一个有良心的人都不会真正跟他做朋友！”

“那你的意思是？”

“其实我也想成为杰克那样的人，但是我不能，有两个原因，第一，Q有皮肤病，而且他性格脆弱，爱哭，成绩差，我没办法跟他做朋友；第二，我有几个好朋友，他们有的是奥数天才，有的是长跑冠军，有的是作文高手，他们每个人都很优秀，都很诚实、善良、开朗，我不可能不跟他们做朋友。”

“没错，你发现了小说与现实之间的差距。奥吉确实是作者塑造出来的理想形象，他有疾，但并不残。他外表看起来不正常，其实内在心智、行为能力和品格不仅正常，更要优于普通孩子。正因为如此，他才可以不用上残障学校，而是跟普通孩子一样上常规学校，甚至是毕彻预科这样的名校。这也正是我们觉得故事引人入胜的原因：一个外表不正常的孩子，要进入一所正常的学校，必将造成巨大的反差，产生强烈的矛盾冲突。奥吉不仅是医学奇迹，还是一个传奇的文学形象，人们喜欢阅读传奇。”

“作者为什么要这样写一个传奇？”

“我想，作者也许是想让人产生思考，如果像奥吉这样的‘奇迹’小孩要融入正常学校都那么难，那比他境况更差，需要特殊照顾的残疾孩子怎么办？从某种程度上来说，奥吉代表着一种分界线，在他之上，是普通人，在他之下，是需要特殊照顾的人，也就是我们所说的残疾人。在现实中，绝大多数的残疾人过着我们无法想象的黑暗生活，他们要么缺胳膊少腿，要么眼盲耳聋口哑，要么有智力或者语言障碍，甚至有可能集几种残疾于一身，而且他们可能从孩提时代起就遭受歧视和欺侮，一生都被正常社会抛弃和排斥。运气好的，有家人的支持和关爱，衣食无忧；再好一点，可以上特殊学校，学一点谋生的本领；运气最差的，不仅挣扎在贫困生活中，被外人排斥，还会遭到家人的歧视，比如我跟你讲过的傻子。就像你说的，在我们跟他们不能做朋友或者非亲非故素不相识的情况下，应该怎么办？难道就应该觉得他们低人一等，就可以欺负他、嘲笑他、打骂他，或者当他人对他们进行歧视和欺辱时，无动于衷地旁观？”

“可是也有很多传奇的残疾人啊，比如霍金？”

“没错，在这个世界上，有一些残疾人是奇迹中的奇迹，他们的天才强大到可以突破残疾的限制，赢得全世界的喝彩与尊敬，甚至改变世界，比如霍金，比如作家史铁生，比如日本的盲人钢琴家辻井伸行，比如澳大利亚的演说家尼克·胡哲等等，但他们无一例外，背后都凝聚着艰辛的付出和家人巨大的关爱。应该说，他们的成功有多大，背后的痛苦就有多大。而且他们是极少数的幸运儿，是被上帝选中的人。”

“妈妈，你打过傻子吗？”

“没有。我一直怕他，从来没有帮助过他，或者给过他一个笑脸，即使那天他救了我，我也没有对他笑一下。这是妈妈一生中最后悔的事情之一。”

“妈妈，如果不能跟他们做朋友，那该怎么办？”

“其实你只要克服一下内心的恐惧就可以了。只要选择不害怕，你就会发现，做不做朋友一点都不重要，你甚至都不用去帮他们，只要正常对待他们就是最大的善意。”

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