Jia Jia gazed out at the gradually awakening world, pausing briefly at her awareness that nothing had stopped for Grandpa’s disappearance. Wolves were going on their hunts, ants were building their nests, birds were fetching food for their hatchlings. And T.S.’s mother was already standing on the roof above the donkey shed, tossing hay at the animal.
Jia Jia traced her story in her head. Chen Hang’s death had brought her here. She had met Grandpa, who knew about the world of water and made fish-man sculptures, but Grandpa had disappeared during the night. T.S.’s mother had given her this photo, and the couple in it must have had something to do with Grandpa and the world of water. The fish-man takes tulips, but no tulips have blossomed.
She needed some sleep. Ren Qi seemed to sense this and, like an animal that had accidentally stepped into another’s territory, he retreated to his side of the room and took out his notebook. He did not write anything, only opened it to a blank page and began stroking his chin. Jia Jia curled under the covers and turned away.
She imagined tulips. An entire field of them. She imagined that it was night, and the moon was radiating a pale, creamy light. The thousands of buds bloomed into white flowers, and one by one, the gradual opening up of each flower lulled Jia Jia a little deeper into sleep.
When Jia Jia packed up her things the following afternoon, Grandpa was still missing. Daylight had not brought him back. There seemed to have been an unspoken consensus in the village that if Grandpa had not returned by the next day, then his departure would somehow become permanent.
And now it was Jia Jia’s turn to leave. T.S.’s family stood in front of their home and, waving their hands, told Jia Jia to visit again. She waved back and responded that she would. Disappearance, she thought, was really nothing more than departure without saying goodbye.
Ren Qi insisted on walking her to the car. Panting, he limped across the fields and up the hill.
‘Where will you stay?’ Jia Jia asked.
‘I asked T.S. whether I could pay and stay in his house. But he knows my wife, so he brought me to her family. They told me that I can stay there for now,’ Ren Qi said. ‘I hadn’t even met her parents before, until this morning.’
‘Do they know where your wife is?’
‘Her family had no idea. She hasn’t contacted them, they told me. But don’t you worry, I’ll find the fish-man and my wife. Then I’ll message you.’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you not going to pass by the river again?’ Ren Qi asked.
Jia Jia shook her head. It was not about the log any more, that was only one of the many things that had directed her here. She would come back one day, she decided, to paint all of this. Perhaps she would ride an army-green motorbike as well, with her canvases strapped to the back. For a moment, she felt the mountains growing taller around her.
T.S. met her at the entrance of the village with his car boot already open. Before Jia Jia got in the car, Ren Qi gave her a pat on the shoulder. It was a warm, loving touch that rested there for a second longer than she had expected, as if something was flowing from him into her through his fingertips.
‘Have a good flight back,’ he said.
‘Until next time,’ Jia Jia said. The words came out of her with a certain stickiness, like honey being pulled out of a jar. She jerked open the car door.
Ren Qi adjusted the crutch under his armpit and said, ‘Do you think your husband is there too? In the world of water? After all, he was the one who showed you the fish-man in the first place.’
Jia Jia paused. A group of children ran past on their way home from school. The image of Chen Hang kneeling in the bath with his forehead stuck to the bottom plunged itself into Jia Jia’s mind. She shook her head decisively.
‘He’s dead,’ she said, and climbed into the Jeep.
‘That’s right,’ Ren Qi said in a tone that people used when they did not understand something but were fearful to ask again. He closed the door for her and took a step back from the car. A reserved smile hovered under his nose.
T.S. started the engine and manoeuvred a bit on the narrow road to turn the car around. Before they drove out, Jia Jia managed to catch a glimpse of the field where Grandpa had planted tulips less than twenty-four hours ago. T.S.’s mother was right, not a single leaf had grown there, even though Grandpa had been planting for years. As they turned the corner, the farmhouses disappeared one by one until Jia Jia could not see the village any more. And so began an eight-hour drive through winding mountain roads; a meditative drive. A left turn followed by a right turn, repeatedly, until they lost track of how many turns they had already made and how many they had coming up. After a while, it felt as though they were always driving on the same strip, and what was moving was the road below, not the car.
Jia Jia was on her way home, and her mind began wandering back to Beijing, to Leo. She took out her phone, but he had not messaged her since their last meeting. She could picture him at the bar, hair gelled back, wearing his bow tie, squeezing lemons. When was the last time an image had brought her so much comfort? It made her miss him terribly.
How long had she actually been gone? Counting the time she had needed to finish up Ms Wan’s painting and arrange her travel documents, she realised she had not seen Leo for more than a month. She had told him that she did not want him to wait for her, and it had been the right thing to say. But now, she wanted to tell him about everything: the log, the stories she had heard, the tulip bulbs, the writer she had met, the photo.
The road was still weaving a net around the mountains. What if T.S. fell asleep? The car would tumble down the cliff and both of them would die. There was a good chance that nobody would find them in these lost mountains; their bodies would merge with the soil. If Leo was in fact waiting for her to return, she would disappoint him.
A sudden urgency for Beijing scratched at her heart. She had to be in the same city as Leo again, to know that if she walked in a certain direction, he would be there. These thoughts were like warm stones piling up inside her, and she closed her eyes and tried to still her mind.
16
Jia Jia pressed on the doorbell of her father’s apartment. She took a deep breath.
When her plane landed, she had thought about going to Leo’s bar, but instead had taken a taxi to her father’s straight from the airport. She had not been there for more than two years. She wanted to speak with him, calmly, about his marriage, and tell him that she would give him back his money. She did not want to owe him. Since her father was now married to Xiao Fang, she imagined that his apartment would be carefully decorated with vases of flowers, colourful blankets, framed photographs and who knew, perhaps even a plump, spotted cat.
The door was the colour of black tea. It opened slowly, revealing her father in his blue pyjamas, holding a copy of People’s Daily in his hand.
‘Jia Jia!’ At the sight of his daughter, he flung open the door. ‘I didn’t know you were back,’ he said cheerfully, lifting his grey brows. Even Jia Jia was taken aback at how genuinely pleased he seemed. She forced a smile and pulled her suitcase inside.
‘I thought I’d call in,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the money. Xiao Fang told me that it was from you. I haven’t used it. I’d like to transfer it back.’
‘Keep it. I know you need it,’ said her father.