LI TANG
THE TOWN AT THE END OF THE WORLD, PART III
translated by David Huntington
11.
In the town at the end of the world, I wake up. My thoughts are foggy. Everything aches. Sunlight is pouring in through the window. With some effort I sit up, pulling myself toward the edge of the bed. The birds cry out incessantly, a sawing sound. In my daze, time passes—I don’t know how long. The sunlight lengthens bit by bit, and my headache with it.
No one bothers me here. Other than Erin and I, no one even thinks of this place. I lie in peace. But soon I begin to feel parched, a fearsome thirst, as if my throat is becoming rough and swollen.
I try to shift my legs off the bed. Not easy. Sometime in the night, my legs lost their strength. It takes an enormous effort to stand, like stepping through a soft, cottony cloud. Supporting myself on anything within reach, I manage to walk out of the house and down to the riverbank. I take a seat on a good, round rock.
The fish in the river watch me with curiosity. Just a few two-inch trout. They don’t recognize me. I don’t recognize any of them either. I cup some water in my hands, bringing it to my lips. Ah! My lips are like hot charcoal.
I don’t know how it came to this. After drinking, I lie down on the bank in a patch of tall grass. I’m like a fish tossed up onto the seashore, gasping for air, utterly helpless. I think to myself: I need a can of watermelon. A little sugar boost. But there’s nothing I can do.
The next time I open my eyes, I’m lying on my own bed. There are people around me, including Lars, Old Mo, and the Colonel. I even see Erin.
You’re finally awake, Lars says. How’d you get so sick?
I’m too weak to make a sound.
You have a serious fever, says Old Mo beside me. You were unconscious when we found you.
It was Erin who found you, says the Colonel. We couldn’t find you anywhere. Finally, it was Erin who thought to search there.
As soon as I look at Erin, she turns and leaves.
She’s still mad at you, huh? Lars whispers in my ear. But don’t worry. It will work out.
I give him a smile. He pats my shoulder. Dr. Nietzsche will fix you up, Lars says. He’s the best doctor in town. Right beside Lars stands the doctor, a tall, thin man, looking slightly embarrassed by Lars’s words.
It’s nothing serious, just a cold, he says with a warm smile.
The evenings can get chilly, Lars says.
Indeed, says Dr. Nietzsche. He rubs his hands and slings his medicine box over his right shoulder. I’ll take my leave, he says.
Have a good one, says Lars. If you’re free sometime, drop by for a visit. The doctor nods, then turns and leaves. His clothes are washed so white, they’re dazzling. I close my eyes, but no sleep comes. My stomach is gurgling. I still can’t talk.
They seem bored, but they don’t want to go. More visitors arrive, one after another, only to be shooed away by Lars. None of them are people I know. None, in the end, but one—the girl who had been kidnapped by the giraffe.
Lars doesn’t shoo her away.
How awful, she says, looking at me. You found him in the tall grass?
Yes, the tall grass on the riverbank, to be precise, says Lars.
Such a pity, the girl says. She looks at me with compassion. I think her eyes are quite beautiful. Compassionate and beautiful. After she leaves the house, only my few companions remain.
It’s nothing, don’t worry, your body’s just low on sugar is all, Lars says.
Your body’s sugar content is abnormally low, Old Mo tells me, adding, that’s what the doctor said.
Lars walks over to my record player, stares at it for a while, then starts it. A familiar tune flows out from within. The record player was dug up by the Colonel in the Garden of Ruins. He gave it to me. It’s quite old, but it still works. Now a tendril of sound floats out, like a thread in a beam of light.
Let’s dance, Lars suggests.
So the Colonel, Old Mo, and Lars all start dancing. A local, small-town dance. It’s said that such a dance is the reason this town became the end of the world. It’s not easy to understand. No one can say exactly how this came to be. Still, these days, this dance has become a means to happiness, that much is clear.
I watch them moving to the music.
Later, when Erin returns, they stop. She’s holding a few cans of watermelon, and watches with a slight look of surprise.
Suddenly you’re all dancing? She holds back a smile.
Uhuh, says Lars, scratching his head. He’s at his cutest in these moments.
I see a black bird land on the windowsill. Everyone looks. From the bird’s beak hangs a small pocket watch. It bows its head, then opens its beak, dropping the watch onto the sill before flying away.
The Colonel goes out, reappearing a moment later outside the window. He takes the watch.
He shakes it in the sun and smiles, as if to say, don’t you see? All is well.
12.
In the town at the end of the world, all is well. Erin feeds me canned watermelon. Bit by bit, the sugar returns to my body. Outside the window, sunlight twinkles, and the shadows of the trees sway, never stilled. The others have gone. Only Erin and I remain. The wind blows in, blowing into my body, blowing around the sugar inside me.
I look at her slim, graceful figure. The air carries the cool and refreshing taste of early winter, like the scent of peppermint. There seem to be some translucent fish shuttling between us. I reach out a hand, stroking her soft, smooth arm, like grasping a tender shoot of new leaf. She looks at me surprised, but then quickly gives me a mysterious smile.
I kiss her, absorbing her sweetness.
Something pushes me, lifting me up.
I open my eyes to see that the ceiling’s been torn open. A light blazes down, so bright it’s difficult to keep looking. I see a pair of enormous eyes staring back at me, huge black eyeballs, shifting every so often. I hear a shout from far away, like an echo in the mountains.
13.
In the town at the end of the world, the morning’s first ray of sunlight always tastes different. I open my eyes to find Erin, head out the window, sticking out her small, nimble tongue. I come to her side. Her hair is untied and hanging freely. Her slim shoulders make it impossible not to embrace her. And so I do.
She giggles. She’s always loved to laugh. But whenever she’s not laughing, she has the expression of someone who’s been wronged. It’s still early, and there’s no one outside. Now and then a hummingbird zips by. They’re busy gathering food for winter.
What flavour is the light today? I ask.
Orange, she says. Ayah, you’re pulling my hair, let go already.
I release her. The moment my arms relax, she springs free like a deer. She turns on the record player. Music drifts out.
What was the dance that Lars and those guys were doing yesterday? It was very interesting, she says with a smile.
I don’t know, I say.
I look out the window. It’s perfect weather. A sky of pure sapphire. Winter will be here soon, the insects and animals will hibernate, the river will freeze, the air will turn bitingly cold. During the splendid winter days, people gather around fires to stay warm.
Shall we go for a walk? Erin says.
Sure, I say. She turns off the record player. For a moment the music lingers in the house, before gradually fading away. We both like these moments—the record player off, but with one last sound clinging in the air, as if loathe to depart. We listen silently until it’s gone.
Great. She stretches.
We wander on without direction. At this time, one by one people are waking up, going about their business, preparing for winter. Some go into the hills for firewood, some hoard vegetables, some women even sew quilts in the sun. Erin enjoys watching them, their fluid needlework. She says that she envies them, that she’s too clumsy, can’t use a needle, can’t sew a thing.
I say nothing. Our hands find each other.
Without realizing it, we’ve wandered to the cannery. In the sunlight, the cannery gives off a friendly and pleasant feeling. But, in reality, the years haven’t been kind to it. I recalled the scenes of childhood, when we circled it, playing hide-and-seek. When Erin and I enter, we’re hit by a familiar scent. The smell of fruit.
Inside, the factory workers are bustling about. The coldest days of winter will be here soon, and it’s essential to store up some canned provisions. The cans are piled up neat and tight, as tall as a person. Of course, this is far from sufficient.
Sure enough, the Colonel is here, wearing gloves, filling the cans with the prepared pulp and juice, then lidding them with a tool. He’s such an earnest old man. Needless to say, he’s been working since dawn.
I greet him. He looks up and smiles.
Get over here and help, writer, he says to me.
No problem, I say. Erin and I walk over. The Colonel hands us some gloves. He gives Erin and me a good look, then asks, So you two made up? Erin puts on the gloves, saying nothing, but her expression is relaxed and happy.
We start canning.
Erin is across from me. Every once in a while, I raise my head to look at her, but she never looks up. She’s always so focused. I like how she looks when she’s focused. Before long, the pile of cans beside her is much larger than mine.
I think about how she looked when I first met her.
Back then, she worked in the sugar factory, and she liked to go around with the factory girls. Their bodies all carried the scent of sugar. I would watch them from a distance, smelling the sugar in the air.
The Colonel comes over. It’s already noon, time for lunch. We go with the workers to the alfresco restaurant. I don’t want to eat anything, only canned food, so the Colonel gives me a couple cans of watermelon he had brought.
While eating my second can, I suddenly recall a childhood story about a grasshopper. As it goes, there was a grasshopper who liked to sing, but then it froze to death in the winter. Its soul went up to heaven, and it resumed its singing there.
I can’t help but tell the story.
My grandfather told me that same story when I was a kid, the Colonel says mockingly, eating a huge bowl of cornmeal.
That story is such a cliché, Erin says. I’ll tell a new story. It’s about a sheep . . .
By the time she’s told the sheep story, I’ve already finished my cans and shaken out the last drops of watermelon juice.
We return to the cannery and work for a few more hours.
When it gets dark, the Colonel comes up to me, saying, You did good, that’s it for today.
But I really haven’t done much. I return the gloves to him.
When we leave the cannery, the sky is already black. Darkness comes early in winter, even when it’s far from late. Erin and I go for a stroll in the grove, and she tells me about the time she encountered a black bear.
It really scared me, Erin says. Fortunately, it was busy cracking some wild walnuts with a stone, and it didn’t see me.
I remember that black bear. It was from Old Mo’s zoo, the only one. Back then it was still small and always looked lonely.
We pass through the forest and see the river. The water flows clear and shimmering in the moonlight. Not far from here is Death. I can see clearly where it is.
Should we go over? Erin says.
No, I shake my head, I don’t want to go there.
That’s fine, Erin says, no matter.
So we turn back, heading again towards the grove. I recall again the scene of that night. The blue tiger as well as Huihui. She had said that she wanted to leave this place. Where would she go? Could she really have found “the end of the world”? In this town, “the end of the world” has always been a legend. Though we all know it’s here, no one has ever found it. Some have put forward that Death is actually “the end of the world,” but that would be a bit too convenient, and there’s no evidence.
I’ve always suspected that Huihui has truly found it.
When we arrive at the riverside, a five-inch carp leaps out of the water, its body shining with bright droplets. After walking away, a crisp plunk sounds out from behind us.
14.
In the town at the end of the world, every winter, people hang a small bell under the eaves. The bell is silent, or one might call it mute. Normally, it doesn’t make a single sound, besides when it snows.
Whenever snowflakes start drifting through the air, the bells start to ring. And as their soft dinging merges into a steady tinkling, it’s an extremely pleasant sound. In the town, this has become a tradition. Every household hangs these silent bells.
At dawn, Erin and I turn over the whole house, looking for the bell. I can’t remember where I put it, because it’s silent. We rummage through every place we can think of, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Maybe we left it in Death, Erin says.
So we cross the forest and river, back to Death. Death is crouching in the winter light, looking docile, almost like a hibernating beast. I can’t help but say, hibernation looks a lot like death.
Or you could say that death looks like hibernation, Erin says. She’s in a pretty good mood today.
We enter and start searching. Not even a few minutes later, we find it—under the bed. I pick it up and give it a couple shakes (of course there’s no sound), then keep it in my hand. It’s not big. I can’t remember why I brought it here. Can you? I ask Erin.
I can’t either, Erin says.
Right, we both don’t remember. But at least we found it, I say. We might as well hang it here.
Erin thinks for a while, then says, well, okay, it’ll be the only bell around here . . .
Because this is the only house around here, I say.
I stand on the bench (with Erin’s support) and hang the bell under the eave. It’s suspended on a red thread, shimmering in the sunlight. When the wind blows, it swings along. Of course, there’s still no sound.
Since we’re here, we don’t want to leave. The weather is colder and colder every day. We go inside, light a fire, and nestle together beneath a blanket, watching the roaring flames in the fireplace.
Just like this, time passes. The sky gradually darkens. We get hungry. I tell Erin, let’s go to the tavern to find something to eat. She says, sure.
I walk ahead, Erin follows. There’s not trace of the usual hummingbirds that hover and dance through the skies—they’ve probably gone into hibernation. I’m not sure where we’ve walked to. I know, I’ve lost my way again. At that moment, Erin quietly takes my hand.
This way, she says.
So she leads me by the hand down another road. I know it’s the right one.
We arrive in the blue basin. From far away, it looks like another planet. Everything is completely blue. Even the lamplight is blue lamplight. We enter, and in the blink of an eye, we also become blue.
The tavern is packed. We toss back a few drinks and order a few dishes. Some vegetable noodles for me and some stir fried bamboo shoots for her. We eat. Halfway in, Lars comes over, pulling a chair up.
Hey, you two look really happy, Lars says.
You look happy too, I say.
It’s true. Can you guess what happened? Lars says. It’s Old Mo. Last night, Billy came back.
Of course I remember Billy. He’s a golden-haired sheepdog. When we used to go to Old Mo’s zoo, Billy was the one we most wanted to see, because he was so beautiful and friendly with people. Later, he ran away with the rest of the animals.
Billy returned? I say. I have to go see.
It’s true, he’s returned, just last night. Old Mo held him and cried until morning, Lars says. But Billy’s aged. He’s as old as Old Mo. He’s not the same Billy he used to be.
We don’t say much else. Some other people pull Lars off to go drinking. It’s as if he knows everyone, and it makes me a bit envious. For me, it’s almost the most impossible thing.
After eating, we leave the tavern. We return to Death by moonlight and curl up in our nest, prepared to sleep. At that moment, we hear a distinct tinkling.
Seems like the first snow is tonight, Erin says, looking out the window.
I’m too tired to move. Accompanied by the pleasant tinkling, I sink quickly into the realm of dreams.
15.
In the town at the end of the world, the heavy snow has finally arrived. In the early morning, I pull open the shades and am blinded by the reflection off the snowbanks. The snow is so deep I almost can’t open the door. But it’s stopped falling. The little bell is still hanging there. It shimmers in the light.
Erin is woken by the sun. Rubbing her eyes, she sits up on the bed. I see her exquisite little breasts gathering the light, just like the bell. She sleepily dresses, layer by layer, until finally she pulls on a red sweater.
The sweater looks a bit old, but it has a subtle, pleasant scent.
I like this smell.
I can’t help but wrap her in my arms, taking big whiffs of the old sweater. She giggles and tries to break free with no success, so finally she just has to put up with my tight embrace, like an early morning captive.
Okay, okay, she smiles and caresses my hair. I’m hungry.
I release her. We have a simple breakfast and drink some juice.
The after-snow sunshine is so pure it makes one feel soft inside. We walk in a large swath of light, inhaling the fresh air. The snow beneath our feet makes a slight noise. Our footprints trail out behind us. First tracks.
The river is still flowing, carrying a few branches that had snapped under the weight of the snow. It will be frozen before long.
Where are we going? Erin says. White fog comes from her mouth.
I don’t know, I say. Snowflakes start falling—not big, just drifting lazily earthward like down feathers.
On the road, we meet a red ice cream truck, selling freshly made ice cream. Making the ice cream is a girl I’ve never met before. She takes clean snow and puts it in a container, then adds a few different ingredients, mixing flavours.
Children are grouped around the ice cream truck. The truck is cute, like a red fawn.
We also buy some, just for a taste. When my tongue hits the ice, I feel it shiver with pleasure.
Everywhere I look, there are kids throwing snowballs. We weave through the combat zone. I take a few hits. I see Old Mo sitting on a bench not far from here, quietly watching the scene. A dog with long, yellow hair is lying across his lap, seemingly sleeping. It’s Billy. Old Mo strokes Billy’s back every so often.
We walk over. Old Mo greets us first.
Hi, Old Mo says with a smile. Where are you two going?
We aren’t sure, I say. Is this Billy?
It is, it is. It’s Billy. Old Mo lowers his head and looks at the soundly sleeping dog. He’s come back. He’s always liked sleeping.
Shall we go find the Colonel and have a drink? I say.
No, Old Mo says, Billy seems to be afraid of strangers. He doesn’t want to go anywhere right now.
We remember him, I say, but back then he was still so small.
That’s right, Old Mo says, stroking Billy’s fur.
All right then, I say. See you later.
We say goodbye to Old Mo and Billy.
16.
Erin and I arrive at the seaside. The weather is nice, though I’m tired of the scenery. We lean against the rocks in silence. The heavy snow that had fallen here a few days ago, it left no trace. It’s as if this spot is always holding to a single season, everything constant and fixed. As always, the seagulls are circling over our heads, crying out like steam whistles. As always, the little boats are floating out on the waves, waiting in their places, unmoved.
It’s as if nothing has changed. Except that winter has definitely arrived.
We eat canned watermelon, watching the snow descend, flake by flake. Snow falls on my neck, icy and irritating. The sugar is spreading through my body, or more precisely, it seems to not only be in my body, but also diffusing in that space between her and me. I savour this moment. I suddenly recall a poem, but the particular words escape me. All I can think is that there exists such a poem.
What do you want to say? Erin asks, watching me. Her eyes are bright, like snowflakes glistening in the sun.
I don’t say anything, easing myself into a good long stretch. The canned watermelon’s finished. I remember when I was little, we would string the empty cans on fishing lines, then cast them in the river. Each time we hoisted the fishing pole, there would be little fish hiding in the cans. We would set the fish free and continue, until every last bit of sugar in the cans had been washed out by the river.
I feel myself gradually sinking into memories, but that’s not what I want. So I stand and look at the town behind me. The town is bathed in the newborn sun. Snow is drifting in the air, scintillating and translucent.
I see Lars down by the dock giving me a wave. He’s about to go out to sea again, just like all those years ago when he went out the first time, so young, unaged by the coarse ocean wind.
Through the curtain of snow, I can almost see the Colonel drunk and lying on top of a high mound. He’s playing the almond game with himself. The ground around him is covered in all kinds of excavated things.
Old Mo and Billy are sitting under the eaves, watching the snow fall. His hand is gently stroking Billy’s fur. Billy is still out of sorts, occasionally making some small, muffled sounds. They are sounds only Old Mo can understand. He rubs his eyes with his palms.
Death is still waiting in the grove, silent, as if it will never change, even in ten thousand years. But I know: it is always changing.
Not much later, the snow stops. Once it stops, it melts quickly. I notice the white-robed people approaching slowly from far away. They are just as they were, bald and silent. Some among them are young, while others look ancient. They form a long line, advancing step by step. They leave countless footprints. Once the tide rises, little crabs and starfish will take residence in their tracks.
I watch them walk by. At the end of the line, I see Huihui and that blue tiger. She is riding on the blue tiger’s back, the tiger padding along slowly. Its footprints are several sizes larger than a human’s.
The tiger stops. I see Huihui turn her head, looking at me from far, far away. Then, with the same slow pace, the tiger carries her into the ocean. It walks just like that, straight ahead, until both the tiger and Huihui have completely vanished from my line of sight.
Not even the slightest sound.
Winter is already here. I am tightly gripping Erin’s hand, or rather, Erin is tightly gripping my hand. We can feel one another trembling. I want to tell her, my book is actually already written, it’s only missing an ending. I must wait for it patiently. But I’m so afraid of what will come.
