‘Always make sure to take out the roots,’ he told her over and over again. When he had made sure that she knew what qingke sprouts looked like, he left her alone to work on a small patch of field.
She worked slowly and tried to do exactly what T.S. had shown her, her exposed arms burning from the sun. Occasionally, when she stood up straight to stretch her back, Jia Jia looked towards the curve on the road. When she and T.S. had arrived the day before, Grandpa must have been sitting at home and spotted them coming. Should she ask him about the carving? Knowing that Grandpa did not like to talk, would it be impolite to enquire too much?
At nightfall, Jia Jia had dinner with T.S.’s family. Grandpa, as the eldest, sat at the table first, followed by T.S.’s mother, and lastly, T.S. and Jia Jia. T.S.’s mother had fried some potatoes and stir-fried some vegetables. She taught Jia Jia how to eat tsampa. She had already mixed the barley flour with some buttermilk tea, and Jia Jia was told to squeeze the dough into balls with her palm.
‘You have to wash it down with some buttermilk tea,’ T.S.’s mother said, in her strong accent. ‘It can be difficult to swallow without some liquid.’
Jia Jia did not eat much; the flavours were too pungent. While she ate, she observed Grandpa. He did not smile, only chewed his food and sipped loudly on the tea that T.S.’s mother kept pouring for him.
‘You’re not used to Tibetan food,’ T.S.’s mother said to Jia Jia, smiling.
‘It’s my first time here,’ Jia Jia explained.
‘My son told me your husband is Chen Hang. I remember him. He quite enjoyed Tibetan food.’
‘Yes. I can imagine.’ Jia Jia paused and picked up her cup of tea and rested it in her palms, hoping that T.S.’s mother would not ask more about her husband. ‘I have something I want to ask Grandpa,’ she said. ‘I know he doesn’t speak much. But I’d still like to ask.’
T.S.’s mother looked at her son and then at Grandpa. The old man nodded and reached his hand into the bowl of dough.
‘The fish-man on the log. I want to know more about it,’ Jia Jia said, her eyes on Grandpa. Grandpa looked at the ball of dough in his hand for a while and Jia Jia could not tell whether he was going to respond.
‘He doesn’t speak about that log.’ T.S.’s mother finally broke the silence.
‘He doesn’t speak about anything, really,’ T.S. added. ‘I’d give up if I were you.’
Looking between T.S.’s mother and Grandpa, Jia Jia could tell there was something that both of them knew, but neither of them wanted to say. Grandpa drank his tea and would not even look at Jia Jia, though she kept her gaze on him. T.S. turned to her with a ‘told you so’ expression, and Jia Jia knew she could not ask more, at least not tonight.
After dinner, the village eased into slumber. Windows dimmed one by one, until all Jia Jia could see was the moon and the constellations. She could not sleep, her mind was restless and the skin on her arms was stinging from sunburn. She put on a jacket, grabbed her phone to use as a torch, and crept out of the farmhouse. The path towards the stream was easy to remember – up the hill, past the fields, and a five-minute trek in the direction of the pig-shaped mountain. She could hear animals but was unable to identify what they were, and she thought about turning back.
With everything that had been happening, Jia Jia would not have been surprised had she found that the log had moved by itself. She wrapped her arms around it and tried again to pick it up but it was heavy. Instead, she gently touched her forehead to it, feeling the damp, chilled wood against her skin. Alone with it now, it was as if she had known the fish-man for a long time. She listened to the sounds of the stream, her skin against the log, waiting for something. A sign, perhaps. But everything around her was moving – the water, the trees, the insects – except for the log. The log remained still and silent. She lost track of how long she stayed with it.
Eventually she made her way back, and saw the outline of a man hobbling on the muddy road. She felt a sudden panic: she should have brought a kitchen knife with her, at least. The man was turning towards her: he must have heard her approaching. She shone her torch at him, hoping that it was just T.S. out looking for her.
But it was not him. The man had a crutch under his arm.
‘Ren Qi?’ she whispered loudly.
He held his arm over his eyes and shouted, ‘Can you turn off the damn light?’
She hurried towards him and switched off her torch. ‘It’s me!’
It took a moment for him to recognise her, and when he did, he shouted again, ‘Wu Jia Jia!’
She quickly covered his mouth with her hand. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘Do you want to wake the entire village? How did you find me? I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
‘I was looking for my wife. I didn’t expect to find you instead!’ He laughed and smacked her on the back.
‘Looking for your wife out here in the middle of the night?’ She laughed too and tugged on his arm. ‘Come. Let me show you something.’
‘Oh! You found him?’
‘Quiet! You’re being loud again.’
Ren Qi trailed behind Jia Jia, forgetting to whisper and cursing when he tripped.
He pointed to a plant and said, ‘That looks like cannabis!’
‘I’ll wait for you if you want to pick it,’ Jia Jia said, smiling.
When she presented the wooden log to Ren Qi, she could not see his reaction but imagined it to be one of ridicule for her obsession. He stood there, his back to her, quiet as stone, and looked at the thing for a while. But when she moved around to join him, she found that she had been wrong. There was no ridicule, no intrigue, in fact there was nothing in his expression. He was looking at the fish-man but not paying attention to it, as if he were walking on a busy road of pedestrians and the fish-man were merely another one of many faces. She had expected too much, for a stranger to take an interest in a silly wooden log.
‘My husband’s name was Chen Hang.’ Jia Jia spoke softly. ‘It was an unexpected kind of death. Weird, really. Upside down in the bath in our apartment.’
She let out a little snigger and despised herself for it. She climbed onto the rock and crouched down, showing Ren Qi Chen Hang’s position when she had found him in the bath. Realising how absurd she must look, she quickly straightened her back and held out a hand to help Ren Qi up. They sat with the log in between them.
‘He drew a picture before he died,’ she said. ‘A creature from a dream he’d had here, in this village. A fish-man. It has the face of a man with a big forehead. So big that when you’re looking at it, it’s difficult to focus your attention on his other features. But my husband sketched the whole face out, even the wrinkles on its lips. From the neck down, it’s a fish. But that part is less detailed.’
‘Fish body, man head,’ Ren Qi said, writing characters on the surface of the rock with his index finger. ‘And with a big forehead.’
‘I wasn’t there when he drew it.’ She paused. ‘When I remember Chen Hang, I see him holding a hotel-room pencil, sketching the fish-man. I wasn’t even there for that, but that’s what I remember. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘I have to say that is very strange.’ He took out a cigarette.