The Girl Who Played Go

51

When I woke up this morning the sun had already reached the top of the pear tree. The sprigs of new leaves on every branch look like flowers lolling open.

I am happy, but this happiness doesn’t draw on a feeling of peace, it is fed by contradictory emotions. The cicadas, acutely aware of the secrets of my soul, chant gleefully. The light of a pale sky spills onto my bed through the open curtains. I imagine my town, offered up to the light, as a naked woman waiting for her lover.

Mother has gone to the market with my sister. Father has shut himself in the library where he battles assiduously with Shakespeare’s language. The house is cool and calm, the doors and windows stand open and the smell of leaves mingles with the heady fragrance of jasmine that permeates our rooms. In the sitting room Wang Ma, the maid, is busy with a feather duster.

The poor woman’s son died of tuberculosis six months ago. She goes over and over the memories of him, and the dead boy is now more alive than ever. Father listens to her- while he goes on thinking about his books-and offers her some completely meaningless comfort: “You must have strength, my dear.” She can communicate her pain more easily to Mother and Moon Pearl. Her endless reminiscences elicit their sighs and sometimes even tears, and this is what Wang Ma wishes.

This morning my compassion has changed to uneasiness. I am carrying my happiness in my belly as if I were pregnant, and I don’t want it ruined by Wang Ma’s sobbing, not at any cost. Before she even opens her mouth, I rush outside.

“I’m going to the Square of a Thousand Winds,” I say. “I’ll be back later.”

The Stranger is already waiting for me. His face is hidden by his glasses, but I can see that it is stiff and motionless like his body. Sitting bolt upright on his stool, he looks like a guard at the gates of hell in some ancient temple.

We position our soldiers at the intersections. The Stranger delimits his territories on the outer edges of the checkerboard with prodigious economy and precision. Go reflects the soul: his is meticulous and cold.

My generosity in letting him play first gives him an advantage: he is one step ahead of me in occupying the strategic positions. Disputing these with him would disadvantage me further. I decide to take a risk: sure of my base in the northwest corner, I set out to conquer the center.

It is hot and I flap my fan in vain. I am impressed by my opponent: opposite me he sits exposed to the sun and lets it burn down on him without any sign of irritation. He sits completely motionless, his face streaming with sweat, his hands on his knees and his fan held tightly closed.

The sun is reaching its highest point. I ask to break for lunch and make a note of our positions on a piece of paper. We agree to meet after the pause.