The Girl Who Played Go

77

In class Huong passes a note to me under the table. I unfold it: “Well?”

I tear off a sheet and reply: “!”

A few minutes later another missive arrives, and the writing is so violent that it has broken through the paper in places: “My father arrived this morning. He’s taking me away with him at the end of the academic year. I’ve had it!”

Our lessons end this week. I despair at the thought of Huong being married off to the son of some minor country dignitary, and the effect of this emotion brings on the contractions again. As soon as the bell sounds, I bow to my teacher and hurtle to the toilets with my bag full of wadding.

Huong has followed and is waiting for me outside the door. Her lips are trembling and she can hardly speak. I drag her away from the other pupils and she bursts into tears. My stomach hurts, but Huong throws herself into my arms so that I can’t bend over to repress the spasms. I hold her to me and my sweat mingles with her tears.

She has to have lunch with her father, and she begs me to go with her. She wants to negotiate a year’s reprieve.

With his silk tunic and his watch on the end of a gold chain, my poor friend’s father is a farmer dressed up as a gentleman. He takes us to a luxurious restaurant and we have hardly sat down when he starts enumerating the expenses of her education, all that money earned by the sweat of his brow.

“Anyway,” he says, striking the table with his fist, “all that nonsensical investment is coming to term. You’re packing your bags.”

His yellow teeth are disgusting. Huong is white as paper, she daren’t open her mouth.

I feel terrible. Every now and then the clatter of plates and conversation swells to a deafening thrum. I drop my chopsticks and bend over to pick them up. Huong leans over and whispers, “Go on! Say something!”

What should I say? Where do I start? My friend is putting all the weight of her happiness on my shoulders. Struggling against the pain gnawing away at me, I drink three cups of tea in quick succession and, feeling a bit stronger, I try to explain to the old crook that his daughter really should finish her studies and get a diploma.

“How much does a diploma cost?” he splutters in my face. “I can’t read and I’m doing well enough! I’ve had enough of plowing my money into this chamber pot. She needs to show me a bit of a return now! And as for you, Miss Stick-your-nose-in-everything, you should think of your own future. You’re not bad-looking, your parents should hurry up and find you a good match.”

I stand and leave the restaurant. Behind me I can hear the old man shrieking with laughter.

“Is that your best friend? Little bitch. I’ll tear your eyes out if you see her again. After lunch I’m taking you to buy some dresses. You’ll see, you’ll have the best dowry in the region.”

I hail a rickshaw in the street.

There has been less blood since midday, but I am exhausted. I long to sink into a deep sleep. Mother is at home: to return now would mean being exposed to her sharp eye. If I go to bed it would be like admitting that I am ill, and they would soon find the cause.

I snooze in the rickshaw and, after making the boy wander around for a long time, I remember I have arranged to play go. I return home immediately but remain hidden in the rickshaw and send the boy to ask the housekeeper to get the two pots of stones.

The terra-cotta statue is already there on the Square of a Thousand Winds.

Our game is moving towards its final phase, and I regain some of my old energy and dignity as I play. But time is against me: I am dazed by the sunlight while my opponent meditates at length. I close my eyes, but my ears are filled with endless waves of muffled rustling. There is a huge clearing opening at my feet, and I lie down on the cool grass.

I am woken by the click of a stone on the board: my opponent has just played his turn. Our eyes meet.

“Would you do me a favor?” I have hardly formulated this request in my mind before it leaves my mouth. He doesn’t even know my name.

I get up, feeling feverish and racked by the pain in my stomach. I need to run away from these players, from the game of go, from the whole town.

I get into a rickshaw and my opponent sits down next to me. He has more pronounced muscles and wider shoulders than Min; and so the bench seat seems narrow. Lulled by the rolling motion, I feel as if I am setting off on a long journey. I am no longer myself, I am floating.

The rickshaw stops at the foot of the hill, and I start to climb. The Stranger follows me, still silent, as the wind wafts the bitter perfume of wildflowers over us. My legs are shaking and I can’t breathe very easily, but luckily I have started to sweat and the fever seems to be breaking. I wait for the Stranger, who is walking slowly with his hands crossed behind his back. He looks up, but lowers his eyes at once.

Who is he? Where is he from? The answers would only erase the peculiar and familiar, disturbing and fleeting figures that people our dreams.

We go past the path that leads to the place where I sat on the chipped marble carved into the shape of a flower and faced Min, waiting for my first kisses.

After the broken-down pavilion, I head deep into a pine wood where the path peters out. Insects are calling, the shiver of wind has dropped and here and there rays of sunlight stream through like waterfalls. A clearing.

Love has been buried forever under the leaves at my feet. I lie down on the ground and rest my head on my bag. The grass tickles my arms where I bend the stalks under my neck.

I want to sleep.