The Train to Lo Wu Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Jess Row
make recordings.
But you’re the only one I know, she says. To me you are special. So I ask your opinion.
He frowns, bunching his eyebrows together. Sometimes he doesn’t know what she’s getting at. Drink more tea, he says. This is special kind from Yunnan. Good for digestion.
The newspaper rustles again. Let’s see what else is going on, she says. A long moment passes; he asks Mrs. Sze to lie on her side, and puts a fresh towel over her shoulder and neck. Under the cloth her skin stretches like a loose-fitting shirt.
The shop door slams; a rough old woman’s voice calls out to Lao Jiang in a thick Hangzhou dialect. Outside in the street, a lorry’s brakes squeal, and ten horns sound at once: as if someone has smashed both fists down on a keyboard.
All day long his father paces up and down the walkway outside their
compartment, or stands at an open window, smoking cigarette after
cigarette. From someone he has bought or borrowed a blue jacket and
hat, but he still wears the gray wool pants of his suit, and brown leather
shoes with thin wooden soles, and his gold-rimmed glasses. Anyone
could see that he doesn’t belong, the boy thinks, and for the first time he
feels a vague fear, fingers pressing gently against his windpipe.
Baba, he asks, why are we going to Lishan now?
Your grandmother is ill. The cigarette crackles as his father smokes
it. She is very old. At any moment she could walk to the wood.
To the wood?
She could die. He squats down so that his eyes are level with his
son’s; his breath smells rotten, decayed. Eyes watering, the boy
stiffens his head so it will not turn away.
Do you know what they say about mothers when they die?
No.
If the children are there, then the mother can close her eyes. She
can rest. But if the children are not there she can’t close them—
she’ll always be looking, waiting for them to arrive. She dies with her
eyes open.
But what about your classes?
I won’t teach my classes. Not this year.
What about Mama’s job? Don’t they still need her?
We think it’s better to be in the country this year, his father rasps.
In my home place. Chairman Mao wasn’t born in the city, you know.
Of course not, the boy says stiffly. Chairman Mao was born
in Shaoshan.
So this is like going back to our Shaoshan. Back to our roots. Just
so you know that there are other places in the world than Shanghai.
Shanghai,
Chen says. Shanghai—he reaches for the counter behind him and misses. For a moment everything is black, as if someone has pressed a hand over his eyes. He lurches, losing his balance, and clutches the edge of the sink. Porcelain smashes near his foot, and his shoe is suddenly warm and wet. He feels her hands on his shoulders.
Lao Chen!
Ni xiao xin dian!
I’m all right, he says. You can speak English. Is it the teapot?
What happened? Should we call a doctor?
A little dizzy. I didn’t eat this morning. Lao Jiang, he calls out. Bring a broom.
Crazy old fool, Mrs. Sze says from the table. Come on! My eyes are killing me.
All right, he says. Xiao Ma pushes him gently from behind; he reaches out and feels the cracked vinyl cushion, and places his hands lightly atop the old lady’s forehead.
Aiya,
she murmurs. Better.
Were you thinking about Shanghai?
What?
You said something about Shanghai. Were you having a day-dream?
Ah. Yes, it must be. Maybe I hear something on the radio.
A moment passes. She turns the page, and begins to read again.
In the morning the boy opens his eyes and stares at the rusting
slats of the bed above them. The sky outside the window is the color
of dirty snow. He pulls a hand from beneath the blankets and holds
it up to the light; it is as pale as boiled chicken skin.
Wei,
his sister mumbles, jabbing an elbow into his side. Stop
moving! Go back to sleep.
Jie-jie,
he says. Tell me again.
Tell you what?
What you remember.
It’s a very small place, she says. Just a bunch of houses with court-yards. And green fields on all sides.
But you’re the only one I know, she says. To me you are special. So I ask your opinion.
He frowns, bunching his eyebrows together. Sometimes he doesn’t know what she’s getting at. Drink more tea, he says. This is special kind from Yunnan. Good for digestion.
The newspaper rustles again. Let’s see what else is going on, she says. A long moment passes; he asks Mrs. Sze to lie on her side, and puts a fresh towel over her shoulder and neck. Under the cloth her skin stretches like a loose-fitting shirt.
The shop door slams; a rough old woman’s voice calls out to Lao Jiang in a thick Hangzhou dialect. Outside in the street, a lorry’s brakes squeal, and ten horns sound at once: as if someone has smashed both fists down on a keyboard.
All day long his father paces up and down the walkway outside their
compartment, or stands at an open window, smoking cigarette after
cigarette. From someone he has bought or borrowed a blue jacket and
hat, but he still wears the gray wool pants of his suit, and brown leather
shoes with thin wooden soles, and his gold-rimmed glasses. Anyone
could see that he doesn’t belong, the boy thinks, and for the first time he
feels a vague fear, fingers pressing gently against his windpipe.
Baba, he asks, why are we going to Lishan now?
Your grandmother is ill. The cigarette crackles as his father smokes
it. She is very old. At any moment she could walk to the wood.
To the wood?
She could die. He squats down so that his eyes are level with his
son’s; his breath smells rotten, decayed. Eyes watering, the boy
stiffens his head so it will not turn away.
Do you know what they say about mothers when they die?
No.
If the children are there, then the mother can close her eyes. She
can rest. But if the children are not there she can’t close them—
she’ll always be looking, waiting for them to arrive. She dies with her
eyes open.
But what about your classes?
I won’t teach my classes. Not this year.
What about Mama’s job? Don’t they still need her?
We think it’s better to be in the country this year, his father rasps.
In my home place. Chairman Mao wasn’t born in the city, you know.
Of course not, the boy says stiffly. Chairman Mao was born
in Shaoshan.
So this is like going back to our Shaoshan. Back to our roots. Just
so you know that there are other places in the world than Shanghai.
Shanghai,
Chen says. Shanghai—he reaches for the counter behind him and misses. For a moment everything is black, as if someone has pressed a hand over his eyes. He lurches, losing his balance, and clutches the edge of the sink. Porcelain smashes near his foot, and his shoe is suddenly warm and wet. He feels her hands on his shoulders.
Lao Chen!
Ni xiao xin dian!
I’m all right, he says. You can speak English. Is it the teapot?
What happened? Should we call a doctor?
A little dizzy. I didn’t eat this morning. Lao Jiang, he calls out. Bring a broom.
Crazy old fool, Mrs. Sze says from the table. Come on! My eyes are killing me.
All right, he says. Xiao Ma pushes him gently from behind; he reaches out and feels the cracked vinyl cushion, and places his hands lightly atop the old lady’s forehead.
Aiya,
she murmurs. Better.
Were you thinking about Shanghai?
What?
You said something about Shanghai. Were you having a day-dream?
Ah. Yes, it must be. Maybe I hear something on the radio.
A moment passes. She turns the page, and begins to read again.
In the morning the boy opens his eyes and stares at the rusting
slats of the bed above them. The sky outside the window is the color
of dirty snow. He pulls a hand from beneath the blankets and holds
it up to the light; it is as pale as boiled chicken skin.
Wei,
his sister mumbles, jabbing an elbow into his side. Stop
moving! Go back to sleep.
Jie-jie,
he says. Tell me again.
Tell you what?
What you remember.
It’s a very small place, she says. Just a bunch of houses with court-yards. And green fields on all sides.