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Love in Winter
Winter is a serene old man walking calmly out of an ardent summer, out of the bigoted, romantic, and dangerous air of the tropics, then gradually quieting down. I like summer, but my love sprouts in a winter setting. Of course, this may be seen as the nature I have bestowed upon this love.
Before I ran into him again, my winter had been long and desolate; the icy north wind whizzing past my window was like a shad-owless, invisible man panting as he runs. A bald-pated, commodious sky greeted my window. I sat facing the window in my warm room with a book of some sort in my hands and the sunshine more trustworthy than any of my imagined lovers. Creeping languidly all over my body, the sunshine alone stayed to embrace me during the chilled months and years, soothingly melting the pent-up sorrow and despair in my heart and restoring a sense of composure.
During this winter, my trust in him gradually increased until it was second only to my trust in the sunshine.
After he burst into my life, I felt as if I were living in a world of unreality. My body was but a stationary launching pad for thoughts. Most of the time, I was unable to keep my gushing thoughts from wandering all over the place like a cloud, like a mist. I frequently pinched my cheeks in the hope that the real sense of touching would somehow make me more real.
We started dating regularly. I believed I liked and trusted this man. He steadfastly avoided mentioning the incident at our first meeting, when my loss of control had impressed us both so deeply.
We went out every night. During those years, my sole amusement had been walking. So we walked along Jianguomen Avenue for hours, taking in the sights, a refreshing breeze kissing our faces and colored lights glittering all around. This man, born in the year of the male horse (he always added the male gender to the animal representing his birth year), had the tall, powerful physique of a stallion. I hung on to his left arm as we walked leisurely. Actually, only he was walking, propelling both of us forward. Like the earth itself, he bore my all.
Finally one day, he asked me, "Why didn't you come back after you left that day?" I knew he meant our first meeting. "If I hadn't bumped into you at the theater, I'm afraid you might have disappeared forever. I hate to even think about it-I might have lost a whole world."
I was suddenly quite moved.
There in the middle of the brightly lit street, we kissed. My heart emptied, my limbs turned weak. For a timid young girl tasting a man for the first time, this act was indeed soul shattering. I found myself longing desperately for his body; the strange fear hidden within me gradually dispersed.
He drew me into the shadow of some roadside trees. And there in the leafy mosaic of moonlight, we kissed and fondled each other for a long time. Making an effort to contain his excitement, he unbuttoned a young woman's blouse for the first time in his life, as nervous as a boy who has just learned how to unbutton his clothes being told by his teacher to take his shirt off. Also for the first time he roamed a woman's body with his eyes. We held each other tightly; a young man and a young woman new to the clouds and rains of sex were sent into ecstasy. I felt drained, nothing but a hollow container. The top of my head felt cold and numb, my body became a vast wasteland; a sort of void, the likes of which I had never experienced before, spread unhindered, as if the surrounding area were full of stony peaks and swimming fish.
I do not intend to describe our love here because I simply don't know whether or not it can be called love. Today, five years later, I'm still unable to judge accurately my feelings at that time, since I have never known all the implications of love.
I remember how, when I was burning to take his body into mine, I stopped suddenly, clung to his waist without moving, and sobbed softly, tears glistening in my eyes. I said, "I don't want to see it, don't want to-"
"What's the matter?"
"I just don't want to see it."
"What's wrong? Why?"
I could answer only with low sobs and tears like pearls.
He stopped and caressed my face. The repression concealed in my body for years was like a fish bone lodged in my throat. At last, I plucked up the courage to remove whatever it was from the bottom of my heart and hand it timidly to this man. In a low voice, I implored him to share my burden, for only he could shoulder my fears.
I gave myself over to the protection of his arms and his profession. I had never felt so relaxed because I had never lost control in anyone's arms before. One by one, my sobs transported me to a joyful realm I'd never known existed. But I had never felt so burdened either: I had to face the blurred past of my childhood again in order to share it with him.
A Clinical Conversation
Finally, Miss Dai Er called the young dentist one rainy afternoon. She said she had to see him.
The rain had stopped by the time they strolled through the hospital district, with its verdant trees and rain-soaked leaves. The sun was out, and the sky appeared a fresh, tender pink that dripped down onto the steamy lawn. Old people talked to themselves as they sat idly on park benches, nodding off from time to time. The young Dr. Kong Sen smelled of disinfectant, which made Miss Dai Er feel like a patient.
"So, you've come…" he said. "Are your gums inflamed again?"
At first, Miss Dai Er held her tongue, but then she started talking about something totally unrelated. She talked on and on, delighted to be able to unburden herself of her past.
Miss Dai Er said that in her childhood she had a friend, an architect, a gaunt, weary, middle-aged man who was her only friend. He lived next door to her. At that time, children's toys consisted of sand, cobblestones, and water. Things like building blocks and simple rubber, nonelectric toys were luxuries. Day in and day out, little Dai Er was immersed in the joy of playing in the sand. She dug countless small holes around herself and put a blown-up paper ball into each of the holes (she called the balls mines), then crisscrossed two or three twigs over the holes, covered them with paper, and buried the whole thing with sand. When that was done, Dai Er stood there surveying the area like a general devising strategies in a command tent, while arrayed around her were hidden accomplishments. Closing her eyes, she spun around several times, then walked out of the minefield in the grip of excitement. This was a game she had learned and adapted from the movie Mine Warfare, and she was absorbed in it for a long time.
The grown-up Miss Dai Er recalled her childhood game whether at the office or out among the crowds, and only now realized how her present life resembled that game.
Little Dai Er spent a great deal of time with her architect friend, a reticent man who grew lively only when he played symbolic games (the term symbolic was a modifier the grown-up Dai Er bestowed upon the word game). He taught little Dai Er some games she'd never dreamed of; for example, he taught her how to build high towers by mixing crushed stones with mud. He built them high enough for the child Dai Er to think them truly lofty. They were always in danger of collapsing with a loud crash: a strong wind could blow them down. And as they stood there, lofty and tottering, the architect would lead Dai Er in squeals of delight.
They also played faucet. At the southwest corner of the yard was a long trough with three faucets. The architect often turned them all on at the same time, releasing three powerful streams of water, which nearly drove him wild. He would howl excitedly; the sounds reverberating through the deserted yard sounded especially horrible, both thrilling and frightening little Dai Er.