At half past ten that evening, as Zhang was preparing for bed, the concierge called from downstairs. Someone by the name of Gong Shen was in the lobby, asking to see him. Zhang told the concierge to pass Gong Shen the phone.
“Are you alone?” Mad Dog asked.
“Yes,” Zhang said. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait? I was about to go to bed.”
“If it could wait, I wouldn’t be here.”
Zhang sighed.
“Come downstairs,” Mad Dog said. “I think we should go for a walk.”
Five minutes later, when Zhang stepped out of the lift, Mad Dog took him by the arm and steered him out of the main entrance and into the grounds. Mad Dog’s hair hung in greasy strands, and his jacket was loose on him, as if it had been borrowed from a much larger man. He had been drinking—Zhang could smell the alcohol on him—but he wasn’t drunk.
“I’ve been doing some reading,” Mad Dog said. “Some thinking too.”
It was a warm night, and the sky was an oily brown, sticky too somehow, like the inside of an oven that hadn’t been cleaned in years. The two men followed a curving path that led past the outdoor swimming pool and on through a modest forest of bamboo. Mad Dog was talking about female ghosts, and how they appear in all manner of forms and guises. He gave examples. As Zhang listened, he felt he was beginning to see the teacher his friend must once have been.
“Take the nu gui,” Mad Dog was saying. “A nu gui is the spirit of a woman who has been mistreated. She might have committed suicide. She might even have been murdered. Or she might just have led a miserable life. The nu gui generally returns to the place where she experienced the abuse. What she is seeking is not revenge but justice. She tends to frighten women, but rarely does them any harm. With men, however, she behaves like a femme fatale…” He gave Zhang a knowing look.
“If you go back in time,” he continued, “women’s lives were harder than men’s. Their voices were seldom heard. They were more likely to have grievances. Perhaps that’s still the case, even today…” He paused under a streetlamp to light a cigarette, and then moved on. “It follows that female ghosts are more plentiful. They have the best stories too—the most poignant stories. In a typical zhiguai, a mode of expression now viewed as giving a voice to the voiceless, one finds countless instances of female ghosts.”
The two men passed through the compound’s eastern gate. Binjiang Avenue was almost deserted, just the occasional goods van or taxi. They crossed the road, their shadows slanting away from them, over the sodium-lit tarmac. Entering Dongchang Riverside Greenland, a strip of park that bordered the river, they set off along a wide path that would lead, eventually, to the bus station on Lujiazui West Road.
Mad Dog picked up where he had left off. “Ghosts aren’t necessarily evil,” he said, “or even disruptive. Of course, there are ghosts who seem determined to cause trouble, but that’s probably because they misbehaved when they were alive. More often than not, though, ghosts are personifications of misfortune or distress.”
The two men passed a huge iron grapple bucket that was mounted on a plinth, like a sculpture. Until the late eighties, a coal-processing plant had stood on the land where the park now was.
“In ancient Chinese,” Mad Dog went on, “the character for ‘ghost’ has its root in the character for ‘to return’—and there are many reasons for returning, life being so infinitely preferable to death, despite all the suffering and boredom that go with it.” Letting out one of his typically humorless chuckles, he flicked his cigarette butt into the bushes. “In the final analysis, ghosts are manifestations of something that is incomplete. That’s what a ghost is: someone who still has something to resolve.”
Out on the river, a tug surged past. Mud swirled beneath the surface of the water. A faint breeze blew, carrying a sweet, rotten smell that reminded Zhang of chicken feed.
He walked on, with Mad Dog following behind. A few moments later, Mad Dog stopped him by pulling on his arm.
“What is it now?” Zhang asked.
Mad Dog pointed. “Look.”
Next to the path, and overgrown with climbing shrubs and creepers, stood a rain-stained concrete structure that had been preserved from the old mining plant, and perched on the high girder that ran horizontally across the front was a large brown owl.
Stepping closer, Mad Dog clapped his hands.
Zhang asked what he was doing, but Mad Dog ignored him.
“Go away,” Mad Dog shouted. “Leave us be.”
“Mad Dog?” Zhang said.
But Mad Dog kept shouting and clapping and jumping up and down.
Zhang turned his attention to the owl. Though it was gazing at Mad Dog, the old man’s antics didn’t seem to have any effect on it whatsoever. Its indifference was absolute, disdainful. Otherworldly. Mad Dog whirled off across the path and scavenged in a nearby wastebin, returning with an empty soft drink can. He took aim and flung it at the owl. It missed by at least a foot. The owl didn’t even flinch. The same flat platelike face, the same unblinking eyes.
And then, when they were least expecting it, the huge bird shook itself, unfolded its wide wings, and soared off into the darkness over the river. To Zhang, it appeared to have departed on its own terms, as if obeying some decree or summons to which it alone was privy. He found that he was a little in awe of it.
“Did you see that?” Mad Dog said in a low voice.
“An owl.” Zhang shrugged.
“Yes, but did you see?” Mad Dog turned to him, and his eyes were glittery and wild. “It was her.”
Zhang stared at his friend. “What? You think—”
“I don’t think. I know.” Mad Dog went and leaned on the railing that bordered the west side of the path. “Some ghosts have the ability to turn themselves into animals, or objects—even into weather. It is believed that they gain strength from such mutations. They don’t observe the usual boundaries, you see. Time, space—identity…The skin is not as big a barrier as people think it is. And with female ghosts, there’s an extra level of significance. When they transform themselves, it represents a protest or a rebellion. They’re challenging all the old patriarchal notions of logic and law.”
Zhang joined Mad Dog at the railing. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“What I find odd,” Mad Dog said, “is that they usually transform themselves into something that seems ordinary or natural, something suited to the environment. You’d think she would have appeared as a duck, or a dog. A gust of wind. Much more unobtrusive. But no. Obviously, she wanted to stand out. She wanted me to notice her. In deciding to be an owl, which is a rare sight in these parts, she was signaling her presence.”