The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

36

Mr Lin was excited when he saw Ho’s handwriting on a letter he had picked up from his district post office in the Beijing suburbs. Perhaps Ho was writing to express holiday greetings. Mr Lin knew that in England people celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ – who, he had been told, was not only the son of their God, but had also been a revolutionary communist who was tortured and executed by the authorities.

He thought he would wait until he got home to open the letter. Or perhaps he would hand it to his wife and see the pleasure on her face. They both missed their child. It had been a difficult decision to send Ho to England, but they did not want him to be a factory worker like themselves. They wanted Ho to be a plastic surgeon and make a great deal of money. Young Chinese women across the world were growing ashamed of their oval eyes and small breasts.

Mr Lin stopped at a stall to buy a live chicken. He selected one that would provide meat for several days, paid for it and then carried it upside down to the vegetable and fruit market, where he bought a gift pack of holy apples as a present for his wife. The apples cost five times as much as ordinary apples, but Mr Lin liked his wife very much indeed. She hardly ever quarrelled with him, her hair was still black and her face had few lines. The only time she was sad was when she spoke about the daughter they could never have.

He reached the playground, which lay at the foot of the tower block where he and his wife lived on the twenty-seventh floor. He looked up and located their window He hoped the lift was still working.

When he arrived home, panting and breathless, his wife rose from her chair and came to greet him.

He said, ‘See who is writing to us,’ and handed her Ho’s letter.

She smiled with delight and touched the colourful red, green and gold nativity stamp as though it were a precious artefact. ‘It is the birth of their Jesus,’ she said.

The chicken squawked and struggled to be free. Mr Ho took it into the tiny kitchen and threw it into the sink. Then he and his wife sat down together, facing each other at the small table. Mrs Ho lay the letter down between them.

Mr Ho took the holy apples out of the plastic bag and placed them next to Ho’s letter.

His wife smiled with delight.

He said, ‘They are for you.’

She cried, ‘But I have not bought you anything!’

‘No need, you gave me Ho. You open the letter.’

She opened it slowly and carefully, and scanned the first few lines. Then she paused and her face became stone. She pushed it across the table and said, ‘You must be strong, husband.’

Mr Lin gave several cries as he read through the document. When he came to the end, he said, ‘I have never liked the Poppy flower. It is vulgar and it spreads its seeds too easily.’

The chicken squawked.

Mr Lin got up, took a sharp knife and a wooden block, and quickly severed the chicken’s neck. He threw it back into the sink and watched the bright blood gush down the plughole.