The Bathing Women

Chen Zai was not home tonight. He had gone to the south on a business trip. Tiao ate dinner, sat back in the armchair, and read a manuscript for a while. Then she took a shower and got into bed. She preferred to slip into her quilt nest early; she preferred to wait for Chen Zai’s phone call in there. She especially liked the words “slip into her quilt nest,” a little unsophisticated—poor and unworldly-sounding. She just liked the words “slip,” “quilt,” “nest.” She never got used to hotels and the way foreigners slept—the blanket tucked in at the foot of the bed, stretched tight over the mattress. Once you stuck your legs and feet into the blanket, you felt disconnected, with nothing to touch. She also didn’t like quilts made of down, or artificial cotton. The way they floated lightly over your body made you more restless. She always used quilts made of real cotton; she liked everything about a quilt nest folded with a cotton quilt, the tender, swaddled feeling of the light weight distributed over her whole body, the different temperatures that hid in the little creases of the quilt nest. When she couldn’t sleep because of the heat, she would use her feet to look for the cool spots in the soft creases under the quilt. When she needed to curl up, the quilt nest would come along with her, clinging to her body. So unlike those bedclothes pinned down by the mattress, where you wouldn’t dream of moving, but would have to yield to the tyranny, forced into an approved sleeping posture—by what right? Tiao thought. Every time she went on a business trip or travelled abroad, she would intentionally mess up those blankets. Cotton quilts always made Tiao sleep well. But unpleasant thoughts pressed in on her after she woke up in the middle of the night. When she turned on the table lamp, tottered to the bathroom to pee, and returned, when she lay back in her bed and turned off the light, at that moment she would feel the intense loneliness and boredom. She began to think about things in a confused way, and the things that people tend to think, awakening after midnight, are often unpleasant. How she hated waking up in the middle of the night! Only after she truly had Chen Zai did she lose the fear. Then she was no longer by herself.

She curled up in her quilt nest and waited for Chen Zai’s phone call. He kissed her through the phone and they talked for a long time. When Tiao hung up, she found herself still not wanting to sleep. This evening, a night when Chen Zai was far away from Fuan, she had an overwhelming desire to read the love letters locked in her bookcase. They were not from Chen Zai, and she no longer loved the man who had written her the love letters. Her desire now was not to reminisce, or to take stock. Maybe she just cherished the handwriting on the paper. Nowadays, few people would put pen to paper, especially not to write love letters.

2

There were sixty-eight letters altogether, and Tiao numbered every one of them in chronological order. She opened number one, a white paper whose edges had yellowed: “Comrade Yin Xiaotiao, the unexpected meeting with you in Beijing left a deep impression on me. I have a feeling that we will definitely see each other again. I’m writing to you on an aeroplane. I will arrive in Shanghai today and will leave for San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll seriously consider your suggestion about writing a childhood memoir—only because it was a request of yours.” The letter was signed by Fang Jing, the date was March 1982.

It was more like a note than a letter. The words, scrawled on an oversized piece of paper, seemed big and sparse. The words looked like they were staring stupidly at the reader. Strictly speaking, it was not a love letter, but the thrill that it brought to Tiao’s soul was much stronger than what those real love letters of his gave her later.

The letter’s author, Fang Jing, had been very hot in the movie business at the time. He’d written, directed, and acted in a movie called A Beautiful Life. After an endless run in theatres around the country, the movie also won a few major awards. It was a movie about middle-aged intellectuals who’d suffered horrendously during the Cultural Revolution but still managed to survive, optimism intact. Fang Jing played an intellectual imprisoned in a labour camp on the border. He was a violinist whose imprisonment gave him no chance to play the violin. There was an episode in the movie that showed how, after the hero endures heavy labour with an empty stomach, when he straightens up in the wheat field, catching sight of the beautiful sunset in the distance, he can’t help stretching out his arms. His right arm becomes the violin neck and he presses on it with his left hand, fingers moving around as on the strings of a violin. There was a close-up of this in the movie, the scrawny scarred arm and that strangely transformed hand. The arm as the violin and the hand playing on it broke people’s hearts. Tiao would cry every time she watched this part. She was convinced that Fang Jing wasn’t performing but reliving his own experience. The scene might seem sentimental now, but back then, at a time when people’s hearts had been repressed for so long, it could easily bring an audience to tears.

Tiao never thought she would come to know Fang Jing personally. She had recently graduated from university and, through connections, got a job as an editor in the Fuan Children’s Publishing House. Like all young people who admired celebrities, she and her classmates and colleagues enthusiastically discussed the movie A Beautiful Life, and Fang Jing himself. They read all the profiles of Fang Jing in the newspapers and magazines and traded information with each other: his background, his life experience, his family and hobbies, his current project, what movie he entered in a film festival and what new award he won there, even his height and weight; Tiao knew all the details. It was by chance that Tiao and he got to know each other. She went to Beijing to solicit manuscripts for books and ran into a college roommate. The father of this roommate worked in a filmmakers’ association, so she was very much in the know. The roommate told Tiao that the filmmakers’ association was holding a conference on Fang Jing’s work and that she could get Tiao in.

On the day of the conference, her roommate slipped Tiao into the meeting room. Tiao has forgotten now what was said in the conference; she remembers only that Fang Jing looked younger than he did in the movie and that he spoke Mandarin with a southern accent. He had a resonant voice, and when he laughed, he frequently leaned back, which made him look easygoing. She also remembered he held a wooden tobacco pipe and would wave the pipe in the air when he got excited. People thought that was natural and charming. He was surrounded by good-looking men and women. When the conference ended, the attendees swarmed forward, held out their notebooks, and asked him for autographs. Her roommate grabbed Tiao’s hand, wanting to rush forward with the crowd. Tiao rose from the chair but backed away. Her roommate had no choice but to let go of her and push forward on her own. In fact, the notebook in Tiao’s hand had been turned to a new page, a blank page ready for Fang Jing to sign his name. But she still backed away clutching the notebook, maybe because she was a bit timid, maybe because an incongruous pride inhibited her. Even though she was so insignificant compared to him, she was still unwilling to play the airhead autograph hound. She backed away, all the while regretting the lost chance. Right then, Fang Jing stretched out an apelike arm from the midst of the swirl of people and pointed at Tiao, who stood apart, saying, “Hey, you!” as he parted the crowd and walked toward Tiao.

He came up to her and grabbed her notebook without asking, and signed his famous name in it.

“Happy now?” He looked directly into Tiao’s eyes with a faintly condescending attitude.

“I guess I would say that I’m very grateful instead, Mr. Fang Jing!” Tiao felt surprised and excited. Emboldened, she started to forget herself. “But how do you know what I want is your autograph?” She tried to look directly into his eyes, too.

“Then what do you want?” He didn’t understand.

“I want … it’s like this, I want to solicit a manuscript for a book project—” she said, on the spur of the moment, confronting Fang with childlike seriousness, distinguishing herself from the autograph hunters.

“I think we should trade places,” Fang Jing said, fumbling in his pocket and taking out a wrinkled envelope. “Think it’s okay to ask you to sign your name for me?” He handed the envelope to Tiao. Tiao was embarrassed, but she still signed her name, and, at Fang Jing’s request, left her publishing house’s address and number. Then she took the opportunity to talk further about the idea for which she was soliciting manuscripts, even though she had come up with it on the spot only a few minutes before. She said she had submitted a proposal and the Publishing House had approved it. She intended to do a series of books featuring the childhoods of celebrities, including scientists, artists, writers, scholars, directors, and professors, aimed at elementary and middle school students. Mr. Fang Jing’s work and harsh life experiences had already attracted so much attention, if he could write a memoir about himself for children, it would definitely become popular with them, and would benefit society as well. Tiao talked quickly while feeling ashamed of her reckless fabrications. The more ashamed she was, the more in earnest she pretended to be. It was as though the more she talked, the more real it seemed. Yes, it felt quite real. How she hoped Fang Jing would turn her down while she rattled on. Then she would feel relieved, and then everything would be as if nothing had happened. It was actually true that nothing had happened. What could happen between a big celebrity and a common editor from the provinces? But Fang Jing didn’t interrupt her or turn her down; those TV journalists interrupted them, swarming over him to take him to his interview.

Not long after the conference, Tiao received the first letter from Fang Jing, written on the aeroplane. She read the letter numerous times, studying, analyzing, and chipping away at the words and lines to reveal what they meant or did not mean. Why did he have to write a letter to me on an aeroplane? Why must he reveal his location in Shanghai or San Francisco so carelessly to a stranger? In Tiao’s mind, everything about a celebrity should be mysterious, including his whereabouts. Why would he only consider the idea seriously because it was a request of Tiao’s? Did that make sense? She turned those thoughts over and over in her mind, unable to think clearly, but unable to resist puzzling over them, either, letting a secret sweetness spread in her heart. At least her little vanity got an unexpected boost and her job would probably get off to a wonderful start as well. She’d have to take that offhand, improvised plan seriously. She would make a feasible, deliberate, and persuasive presentation to her editor-in-chief, trying to get the plan approved by the Publishing House just because a celebrity like Fang Jing had promised to consider writing for her. Everything sounded real.

A few days later, Tiao received Fang Jing’s second letter from San Francisco.

This was number two in Tiao’s file:

Tiao:

You don’t mind me leaving out the word “comrade,” do you? I feel very strange. Why do I keep on writing to you—a girl who wouldn’t condescend to ask for an autograph from me? When a large group of beautiful girls leaped at me, you backed away. Please forgive me for such a silly, conceited sentence. But they have been leaping at me constantly, which I’ve enjoyed for the last two years, half reluctantly, and yet with a feeling that it was my due. Then you appear, so indifferent and so puzzling. Right now, on the West Coast of the United States, thousands of miles away, your face on that day appears before me constantly, your eyes like an abyss that no one would dare to look into, your lips mysteriously sealed. I don’t think you came to me on your own; you were sent by a divine power. When I left for America, I brought a map of China along as if compelled by a supernatural force. It was a little pretentious, as though I were showing off how much I love my country and what a fanatical patriot I am. Not until later did I realize I brought it because I wanted to carry with me on a map of China—Fuan—your city, where you live, small as a grain of rice on the map, which I constantly touch with my fingertips—that grain of rice just like … just like … I think, although we have only met once, we actually don’t live far apart, only two hundred kilometres. Maybe sometime I will go to the city where you live to visit you. Does that sound ridiculous? If it’s not convenient, you don’t have to see me. I would be happy just to stand under your window. Also, after serious consideration, I believe the topic of your proposal is very important. I’ve made up my mind to write the book for you; I can write during breaks between scenes on set.

I went to the famous Golden Gate Bridge this afternoon. When I stood beside the great bridge to look at San Francisco in the sunset, the dream city created with its man-made island, I got a clear idea about this city for the first time. If I had misgivings or prejudices about cities before, San Francisco changed my perception. It made me realize the heights human wisdom and power can reach and what a magnificent scene the human and the city create together out of their striving. I don’t know your life experience, and have no idea how much people your age know about Western cuisine. Here at Fisherman’s Wharf, they sell a very interesting dish: a big, round, crusty loaf of bread with a lid (the lid is also bread). When you open it, there is steaming-hot, thick, buttery soup inside. The bread is actually a big bowl. You have to hold the bread bowl carefully while eating. You have a bite of bread and a mouthful of soup. After you finish the soup, you eat the bowl, which goes down to your stomach. When I stood in the ocean breeze eating my fill of the bread bowl, I recalled the years I spent in the labour camp. I was thinking even if I exhausted all the creativity in me, I couldn’t have invented such a simple and unusual food. Oddly, I also thought about you. For some reason I believe you would love to eat this.

Of course, most of the time I was thinking about our country; we’re too poor. Our people have to get rich as soon as possible. Only then can we genuinely and frankly get along with any of the cities in the world, and genuinely rid ourselves of the sense of inferiority hidden in the depths of our hearts, the sense of inferiority that usually reveals itself strongly in the form of pride. It also exists in me … I think I’ve taken too much of your time. I’ll save many things for when we meet; I’ll tell you more later, little by little. I’ve been feeling that we will have a lot of time together, you and I.

It’s very late at night now. Outside my window, the waves of the Pacific Ocean sound like they’re right in your ears. I hope you receive and read this letter. I’ll be returning to China within the week. If it’s possible, can you please reply? You can send the letter to the movie studio. Of course, this might well be too much to hope for on my part.

Wishing you happiness,

Fang Jing

_____, _______, 1982

3

When she was a senior at a university in Beijing, her roommate in the upper bunk, the one who took her to the conference on Fang Jing’s work later, often returned to the dorm late at night. Everyone knew she was madly in love. Miss Upper Bunk was a plain girl, but love gave her eyes an unusual brightness and made her whole face radiant. One night, when she returned to the dorm on tiptoe in the dark, she didn’t climb into her upper bunk as usual. That night, Tiao in the lower bunk was also awake. From her bed, Tiao quietly watched her roommate walk into the dorm room. She saw Miss Upper Bunk take out a small round mirror from a drawer, raise the mirror towards the window, and study her own face by moonlight. The moonlight was too dim to allow her a good view of her own face, so she tiptoed to the door and gently pushed it open. A beam of yellow light from the hallway shone on her roommate’s body. She stood in the doorway and angled her head and the mirror toward the light. Tiao looked at her face; it was a beautiful face with a hint of drunken flush. She must have been content with herself at that moment. This girls’ dorm, deep in sleep then, had become rich and peaceful. Tiao was touched by the sight, and not just because of her roommate, but why else, then?

Another late night, her roommate tossed and turned in her bed after coming back. She leaned her head down to Tiao’s lower bunk and quietly woke her up. Then she climbed down and lay side by side with Tiao, and began to speak in urgent tones. She said, “Tiao, let me tell you—I have to tell you—I’m finally no longer a virgin. A man loves me, and how wonderful a thing it is you couldn’t possibly understand.” She wanted Tiao to guess who the man was, and Tiao guessed a few boys from their class. Miss Upper Bunk said condescendingly, “Them? You can’t mean them!” She said she never would have anything to do with the men on campus. She said they didn’t have brains and she admired men with avant-garde ideas and a unique insight on society, those forward-thinkers who could enlighten people. She had fallen in love with a forward-thinker and that forward thinker liberated her mind and body, turning her from a virgin into a … a woman. “A woman, do you understand or not, Tiao? You have a right to enjoy this, too, and you’ve had this right for a long time, without realizing.” Her upper-bunk roommate described the experience of being with that forward-thinker. She said, “Do you know who he is? You’ll be shocked if I tell you his name.” She paused as if to let the suspense build for Tiao. Tiao was really excited by her words and couldn’t help asking, “Who is he, who is he?” Her upper-bunk roommate took a deep breath and then breathed out a few words gently as if she were afraid of frightening someone away. “The author of Zero Degree File.” The name was indeed breathed out, barely formed on the lips. To this day Tiao still clearly remembers the nervous hot breath of her roommate when she said the words: “Zero Degree File.”

Zero Degree File was a work of fiction, representative of the “Scar Literature” school, particularly popular among young people, with whom the author of course had made his reputation. At the time, people followed a novel and author with great sincerity and enthusiasm. The enthusiasm might be naïve and shallow, but it had an innocence and purity that would never come again. Tiao would certainly have envied Miss Upper Bunk had she stopped right there, but she couldn’t. She felt compelled to share her intimate happiness with others. She said, “You have to know he’s not an ordinary person but a writer, a writer overflowing with talent. Tiao, you know, only now do I truly understand what ‘overflowing’ means.” She said, “This writer, overflowing with talent, is so good to me. One night I couldn’t fall asleep and I suddenly had a craving for dried hawthorn berries, so I shook him awake and asked him to go out and buy some for me. He actually got up and biked through the entire city looking for dried hawthorn berries. A writer, overflowing with talent, went to buy me dried hawthorn berries in the middle of the night! Did you hear that, Tiao? Did you hear that? Are you still a virgin? Tiao, are you still a virgin? If you are, then you are really being cheated. Don’t you realize how late it’s getting? You’re really good for nothing until you …”

Tiao didn’t know why her upper-bunk roommate had to associate dried hawthorn fruit with virginity, as if she didn’t deserve to eat dried hawthorn fruit if she were still a virgin. The statement “I’m finally no longer a virgin” jarred Tiao, and made her confused and agitated. In any case, that “finally” shouldn’t be the highest expectation that her roommate should have for her own youth. Maybe she exaggerated. When one era urgently wanted to replace another, everything got exaggerated, everything, from novels to virginity. But the frenzied enthusiasm of her roommate still affected Tiao. When her roommate chattered, she felt like an ignorant moron of a country girl, completely uncultivated, an idiot who’d fallen behind the times and whose youth was flowing away downstream with the current. It was indeed an era of thought liberation, liberation-liberation, and liberation again. The trend swept over Tiao and she felt like she were being dragged along, accused, and ridiculed by her upper-bunk roommate. Her body seemed to be filled with a new and ambiguous desire. She must do something, but even the “must do” was a kind of blind exaggeration. What should she do? She wasn’t dating; there was no man on campus worthy of her attention. Then she should look beyond the campus. One day her roommate said she was going to introduce her to someone. She said, though the guy was neither a writer nor a poet, he was pretty close to poets, an editor for a poetry magazine. She said he was fun to talk to. She said at a literary gathering he read a poem called “My Ass”: “O my ass and this ass of mine, why would I sit down beside the bourgeoisie when I sit down? Stool of the working class, I beg you, I beg you to receive my ignorant ass—even if you are a neglected stool …” Tiao didn’t think it was a poem. Maybe the author was imitating those who did crazy self-denunciations in the denouncement meetings. The “poem” just reminded Tiao of her own butt, making her think about the secret, happy times when she pretended the down pillows were a sofa. She had never realized that one could talk about asses so openly in poetry; after all, very few could have the imposing manner of Chairman Mao, who wrote about asses in his poems. But she went on a date with this editor, deliberately looking for some excitement. After all, she was only a student and the man was the editor of a poetry magazine. An editor was no more than a step below a writer; barely lower than a writer.

They met on a cold evening in front of the art museum and shook hands with a little stiffness. After the greeting, they began to stroll back and forth. With the thick down jackets and tightly fitting jeans both wore, from a distance they must have looked like a pair of meandering ostriches. Tiao had never gone on a date alone with a man, particularly a man so “close to poets.” As they started to walk around uncomfortably, Tiao was struck with the meaninglessness of it all: What was she doing here? Where did she want to go? Didn’t her roommate tell her that the editor was a married man when she set them up? She meant this to indicate that Tiao could relax; they could date or not, no pressure—can’t a man and woman meet alone, whether they’re on a date or not? In eras like the sixties or seventies it might have seemed absurd, but things were different now. From her roommate’s perspective, only when a single female student dated a married male editor could an era be proved open and a person be proved free. And at this moment, her theory was being put into practice with Tiao’s help. Unfortunately, neither Tiao’s body nor her mind felt free; she was very nervous. When she felt nervous she just babbled. She talked about the boys and girls in her class, the food in their cafeteria, and how their professor of modern literature walked into the classroom with a misbuttoned shirt … she went on and on, quickly and at random, so her conversation wasn’t at all intellectual, clever, fun, or witty. Her mind went completely blank, and her blank mind soberly reminded her again and again how ridiculous her meeting with this “ostrich” beside her was. By spouting endless nonsense, she was simply punishing herself for going on this most absurd date. She rambled on and on, full of anxiety because she had no experience in ending a meeting that should have ended before it began. She even stupidly believed that if she kept on talking without a pause, she could hasten the end of the date. Finally the editor interrupted her, and not until then did she discover how nasal his voice was. She didn’t like men with nasal voices. People who spoke that way sounded pretentious, as if they were practicing pronunciation while speaking. The editor said, “Do you plan to go back to your hometown? Your hometown is Fuan, right? Even though it’s an ancient city, it’s still provincial. I suggest you try and arrange to stay in Beijing for your graduation assignment. It’s the only cultural centre. Of this I’m very sure.”