‘Finally, we left each other. Not long after I moved out, I learned about her illness. In a way, those cancer cells were not very different from that knife she held in her hand, just manifested in a different way. They killed her.
‘All my life, I’ve made countless mistakes. I’ve done plenty of things that I still question. But there is one thing I did that I would certainly do again, which was to take that knife from her hand.
‘She was wrong, you see, the world of water couldn’t take all of her. Things don’t work in such absolute ways. But she never understood this. Parts of her, like seeds, have been planted on this earth and grown into shoots, flowers, trees, day by day. The roots have dug deep into the soil and will continue to extend, for as long as you and I can imagine. Do you really think that the body can be separated from the rest of us? I certainly don’t.
‘This has been a long story, I apologise. I’m not going to ask you whether you’ve seen the world of water. I think I know the answer already. And I’m not surprised that something brought you back to that village we knew. But for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on, I don’t sense from you any remnants of that total darkness that your mother fell into. For that, I am glad.
‘Keep this little sculpture. Your mother made it. We should visit her some day. I don’t think we’ve ever been to her grave together. We’ll bring some beer. She quite enjoyed beer.’
18
The moon resembled a circular pendant on a chain of three stars. Nights in Beijing were still cool blessings, and Jia Jia untied her hair and allowed it to hang down her back, protecting her neck from the breeze. Early spring’s lime leaves had turned to a palette of lush green, and gingko leaves waved in the wind like miniature hand fans.
Li Chang had been released shortly after the May holidays. Jia Jia’s aunt decided that it did not matter if they were a few days late: they would celebrate the holiday together as a family. After dinner, at Li Chang’s request, Jia Jia had gone to drop off a bag of zongzi at Mr Du’s for the upcoming Duanwu festival. Mr Du was alone at home, watching television. He had not covered up the wall painting. In a few weeks, he had become an old man. Jia Jia could see the despair in his face, the loneliness of a silent apartment at night. She gave him the zongzi, and he thanked her politely for them and gave her a can of white tea in return. They did not exchange many more words, and afterwards, Jia Jia ambled to the Central Business District.
Knowing that Li Chang was returning home, Jia Jia had contacted her estate agent to find a small studio apartment on the east side of town. Her aunt, meanwhile, liberated and excited, had gone to the flower market and bought red fish and red coral for the aquarium. For the past few chaotic days at her grandmother’s home, Jia Jia had been painting. She had begun working on another rendition of the horse on the beach, on a bigger canvas this time. It had kept her busy, and tonight was the first time that she had set foot outside. She had not seen Leo yet; she needed some time to piece the world of water together and absorb her father’s story. It was enough for her to know that he was nearby.
She came across an empty playground and stepped into the sand, careful not to get any into her shoes. Rocking herself back and forth on a swing, Jia Jia glanced up at the building in front of her and counted the windows until she located her apartment. It was the day her tenants were due to move in. The apartment was brightly lit, and there was a young couple and an older woman sitting around a table right by the window. The walls seemed bare – they must not have had much time to set up their furniture. The young couple looked about the same age as Jia Jia. Even from their sitting positions, she could tell that the woman was taller than the man. The man had his back towards the window. He was engaged in conversation with the elderly woman, who must have been one of their mothers – his, most likely. He was leaning into his chair, lifting a beer bottle up to his mouth every few seconds.
All of a sudden, the three of them turned their heads towards the bedroom, appearing alarmed. The young woman stood up and scuttled across the living room towards the back, returning soon with a baby in her arms and a half-embarrassed, half-proud smile across her face.
Jia Jia’s phone vibrated in her bag. It was a message from Ren Qi.
How have you been, Wu Jia Jia? I hope you’re with your family, eating some Beijing food and drinking plenty of wine. I’m getting quite sick of Tibetan food. I’m still here, sitting on the dirt road near the river, with a bottle of qingke wine next to me. Oh, how quiet it is tonight! Do you want to hear something? T.S. told me that when he was a child, there used to be wild tulips growing in this area. Where do you think they all went? There’s nothing here now. Just rocks and water.
Jia Jia imagined him sitting alone on a small road, his crutch and notebook lying next to him, under the same moon that was above her head. She pictured the moon in Tibet to be lower and more brilliant, as if with a slight push it would bounce like a ball from one mountain to another.
After a minute, another message followed:
I wanted to call you, but I couldn’t let myself interrupt this silence. Plus, I’d rather not listen to my own voice right now. I hope you’re getting far in your search for the world of water.
Jia Jia thought for a moment before she began typing:
When are you coming back? Have you found your wife yet? When you come back, let’s meet, and I’ll tell you everything.
After she had sent the message, she placed the phone on her lap. Then she bent down and took off her shoes, digging her toes into the cool sand. She thought about the world of water and how she had been there already, long ago, when her mother was pregnant with her. Perhaps, like her mother, she had left something there too. As her father had told her his story, she had understood that the couple in the photograph were him and her mother. How caring he looked; his hand holding her mother’s arm as if afraid that she would get blown away with the wind. Jia Jia had no memories of seeing such intimacy between them. She could not have imagined that a single gesture like a hand on an elbow could give her so much comfort.
Jia Jia’s phone vibrated again:
I’m not well. Devastated. My wife has returned, but with another man, a Tibetan stud she knew growing up. You should’ve seen her face when she saw me here, waiting like a fool, trying to bring her back from some world of water that I’d never seen before. You know what I did? I smiled at her. She didn’t even want to talk to me.
Jia Jia read his last message over a few times. It pinched at something inside her, knowing that he had not been armed for this, thinking about how much it must have wounded him.
But this is life, isn’t it? his next message said. Sometimes you want to dance, sometimes you want to cry. I’m not crying though. The pain is too fresh. I can’t cry. Not until I see her bookmarked novel on our shelf, or open the half-finished tin of her oolong tea, or find her lipstick under our bed. Until then, I’m not going to feel anything apart from shame. But when the time comes, my heart will tear. I know it. I’m going back to the village now. I have run out of alcohol.
She took a deep breath and looked back up at her apartment and the family, beginning their new lives in the place she had left behind. The playground remained empty, the yellow slide dispirited, holding up for no one in the dark. Jia Jia began typing: