The Girl Who Played Go

33

On the Square of a Thousand Winds I am playing against Wu, the antique dealer, having agreed to give him eight handicap points. When he is beaten, he slinks away with a sigh.

Just one game of go is enough to exhaust most players. They need to eat and sleep in order to return to their normal state, but I react differently: my mind is whirring from the very beginning of the game, and the effort of concentration stimulates a paroxysm of excitement in me. For hours after the game is over I don’t know how to let out the force that’s accumulated within me, and I search in vain for some form of release.

Today, as on every other day, I head for home, taking great powerful strides. The most extraordinary daydreams come to me: I feel as if I no longer belong to the world of mortals; I see myself joining the ranks of the gods.

A man calls out to me and I look up and see Jing crossing the road on a bicycle. There’s a birdcage covered in a blue cloth on the rack behind his seat. He brakes alongside me.

“What are you doing here with that cage?”

He tears off the cloth and proudly shows off two robins.

“These birds love going out for a ride. Usually people swing the cage along as they go for their morning walk. But I could die of boredom walking like an old man, so this is my latest invention.”

I laugh, and he asks whether I would like him to take me home. Darkness has fallen and I can no longer make out the faces of the passersby: I can climb onto his bicycle with no fear of being recognized. I’m holding the cage with my left arm and I put my right arm round Jing’s waist. He sets off and I have to cling to his waistcoat to keep my balance. My fingers slip on the silk and fur, holding firm on a level with his stomach. Under the fur-lined waistcoat he is wearing a cotton tunic. The warmth of his skin burns my hand through the weave of the fabric. With each movement of his legs, the muscles contract and relax beneath my fingers. Disconcerted, I remove my arm, but Jing then leans into a corner, forcing me to hold him all the more tightly.

I ask him to stop beside the back door. The street has high walls on both sides and is poorly lit by one feeble streetlamp. Jing’s cheeks are burning red, he is breathing noisily and fumbling for his handkerchief.

I press mine to his forehead. He thanks me and wipes his face, which is dripping with sweat. Embarrassed by my watching him, he turns towards the wall and unbuttons his tunic to run the handkerchief over his chest. I ask whether he has any news of Min.

“I’m seeing him tomorrow at the university…”

I hand the cage to him and he takes it firmly in his arms.

“Your hankie smells nice,” he says, almost in a whisper.

A loud clatter makes us both start: the bicycle was not properly balanced against the tree and it has fallen over. Jing bends over, picks it up and flees like a hunted hare.