The Girl Who Played Go

21

The square in front of the town hall is seething with people, and with my basket over my arm I drag Moon Pearl through the crowds. She complains about being jostled, about the price of grain, about how little game there is for sale. She is unusually talkative and strangely jumpy as she criticizes everything we buy. I am exasperated by her constant moaning, and I can’t wait to be rid of her.

In the last three years her life has changed into a great river of despair. I so miss my bright, cheerful sister with her dark plaited hair tied with fiery colored ribbons. She used to be constantly on the move, spinning round, sitting down only to get straight back up again. She persecuted us with that explosive laugh of hers.

Today a few wisps of wavy hair straggle from under her hood and float limply on her pale cheeks. Her hair has lost its shine, a metaphor for her entire being, dulled and subdued.

I shake her by the arm.

“Why don’t you divorce him then!”

She stares at me, opening her beautiful slanting eyes wide. Tears stream over her face.

“He loved me, Little Sister…! He swore I would be the only woman in his life…! I don’t think he’s forgotten his promise. It’s stronger than him… Yesterday evening I followed him… he went to the theater with some loose woman, a depraved creature who let him fondle her in his theater box…”

I don’t know what to say to her. Our new customs have condemned polygamy, but this hasn’t stopped men being fickle, or released women from their suffering. My parents are very enlightened, they encouraged my sister to marry the man of her choice-a marriage of love that has caused pain and unhappiness.

People are glancing at us and turning to listen, but Moon Pearl is too convulsed by her tears to realize how ridiculous she looks. Luckily a rickshaw comes past; I stop it, put my sister on the seat and ask the man to take her home. She is so intoxicated by her pain that she doesn’t even try to resist.

I carry on buying the things Mother has asked me to find. The local farmers and hunters come here every Sunday, traveling overnight to stand shivering outside the city gates, waiting for them to be opened. I finish my shopping as the sun reaches its zenith; the snow has melted this morning and there is an icy slush underfoot as I head for a tearoom. They have set up a stove by the door, so I sit down beside the stall and order an almond and hazelnut tea. The boy serves me quickly: a thin stream of scorching water flows from the spout of a giant kettle decorated with dragons, and lands in a bowl a good meter away. Behind me someone starts to sing:

A shiver runs through the crowd: the song has been banned. Anyone who dares sing it risks being sent to prison. I see people looking round in astonishment with pale, anxious faces. Just ten paces from me the brave individual starts again, and he is soon joined by other voices. More and more people join in the chorus and the song spreads through the whole market.

Policemen blow whistles to sound the alarm. Shots are fired. Rallied by the gunfire, a peasant who had been crouching beside his basket of eggs gets to his feet, clutching a gun in his hand. Some distance away another takes rifles from on top of some straw bales and hands them out. These armed men head towards the town hall, jostling passersby as they go. The tea stall collapses, making a terrible noise, and I am carried away by the crowd.

People are crying, shouting and wailing in terror. It is no longer clear who is advancing towards the government guards and who is dropping back to try and escape. A human tide carries me towards the gates of the town hall where the gunfire is intensifying. I struggle, but the men’s blood is up and they hardly notice me. I trip on a body and fall. My fumbling hands come across a cold, wet jacket: a policeman lies there stabbed, staring at me with his blank, upturned eyes. I get back to my feet, but one of the peasants brandishing his rifle jabs me with his elbow and I fall back onto the body. I scream in horror.

A young man leans over and offers me his hand. He heaves me up. He is a student with a swarthy complexion. He smiles at me.

“Come on,” he says. He gives a quick nod and another student appears, casts a contemptuous eye over me and takes hold of my other arm. They raise me up between the two of them as they forge a path through the crowd.

There are fierce, noisy battles in the streets, and the two students flee, dragging me with them. As if they already know which police positions have been attacked by the rebels, they avoid these sites of bloodshed and eventually come to a stop by the gates to an impressive property. One of them opens the door to reveal an abandoned garden where crocuses peep up through the snow. The house is European in style with half-moon archways and diamond-shaped window panes.

“This is Jing’s house,” says the swarthy-faced student, indicating his friend. “My name is Min.”

Min explains that the owner of this property, an aunt of Jing’s, has moved to Nanking, and that Jing has willingly taken on the post of overseer. His deep, youthful voice sounds not unlike the man who was singing earlier.

“And you?”

I introduce myself and ask if I can use the telephone.

“The rebels have almost certainly cut the telephone lines,”

Jing tells me rather impatiently, but when Min sees the look of despair on my face he offers to try for me.

The bare walls in the sitting room still bear marks where pictures must have hung, and the red lacquered floorboards are scratched and scored where furniture has been moved. In the library hundreds of books still stand in neat lines on the shelves, while others have been thrown haphazardly on the floor. The low tables are cluttered with full ashtrays, dirty cups and plates and crumpled newspapers. It looks as if a meeting was held here last night.

Min opens a door to reveal the bedroom and a bed draped in crimson silk dotted with chrysanthemums. He picks up the telephone on a side table, but can’t get a line.

“I’ll take you home when everything’s calmed down,” he says in his warm, friendly voice. “You’re safe here. Are you hungry? Come and help me make something to eat.”

While Min prepares the noodles, peels the vegetables and cuts up the meat, Jing sits on a stool by the window listening to the commotion outside. There are occasional gunshots, and with every shot a mocking smile appears on the corners of his lips. I don’t know what will happen to my town, I think that these pseudo-peasants are members of the Resistance Movement against the Japanese army. The newspapers say they are bandits who pillage, burn, take citizens hostage and then use the ransom money to buy arms from the Russians. Anxious about my parents and about Moon Pearl lost in the streets in her rickshaw, I sit down, get back up again, pace up and down the room, leaf through books and then slump down onto a stool next to Jing.

Like him, I listen to every sound. Only Min seems to be calm, whistling an opera tune as he works. A delicious smell wafts over from the cooking pot and it isn’t long before Min proudly presents me with a bowl of noodles with beef and sweet-and-sour cabbage. He hands me a pair of chopsticks.

That is when I remember that they are waiting for me at home to celebrate my sixteenth birthday.