glass at traces of water at the foot of the wall. Arching his back, he was looking at it very earnestly.
“Rushu,” he said to me, “This old wall has experienced everything. I always want to find some clues in it. This isn’t asking too much, is it?”
“Of course—” I said hesitantly, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Good. Good girl. In times to come, you’ll complain. You pay too much attention to minutiae. There’s nothing I can hide from you.”
At the time, his words sounded a little unreasonable. Only now as I recalled them did I understand. But did I really know what his purpose was? It was very likely that he was setting off a smoke bomb to distract me. So it made more sense to take it as a permanent rejection. This would put an end to useless illusions. He had said “There’s nothing I can hide from you.” Maybe this meant that he would hide everything from me. When he said “There’s nothing I can hide from you,” was it a way of ridiculing me? Or he might have had a longer-range plan and thus was scattering bait and waiting for the fish to take it? He had waited for so many years to pass: he was really patient. Now the fish had taken the bait and so he should feel gratified. But I noticed that in his excitement he grew thinner by the day. The gratification that he had fabricated for himself was poison to the nerves and gave him insomnia.
The other thing had occurred even earlier. I was about seven or eight at the time and had come back from playing outside when I heard him whispering with Grandmother. They were talking about a neighbor who had just died, and they were looking very serious.
“Rushu, if Grandma gets an infectious disease and the rest of you might catch it, what should be done?” Grandma asked.
I remember that she was reaching for me with her plump arms as she spoke in a kindly tone.
“Then we’d carry you out to the courtyard.” I rolled my eyes and thought myself clever.
They both began laughing.
“Rushu is really bright.” Father stood up excitedly and began pacing in the room.
Grandma’s face brimmed with warm smiles. She patted me on my little head and let me go. I shot out of there like a bullet and quickly forgot the episode.
Now, remembering incidents from my childhood, I also recalled that Father and Grandma often chatted with each other. Was it beginning at that time, while they were chatting, that they masterminded my future? When I was a child, Grandma told me the story of the souls’ night visits. Now, of course, I no longer believed those absurd tales, so who was the person Nishu saw?
I decided to ask Father directly.
When I went in, he was sitting with his eyes closed. In the shadows, his sunken cheeks made him look frightening.
“Who? Who else could it be?!” He said impatiently, “Of course it was I.”
“Nishu—Shu said you aren’t that tall.” I stuttered.
“Damn! Can’t I stand on a stool? Ah?” He glared as if he wanted to eat me.
“At work, I’ve heard a lot of rumors from my colleagues. I thought, if you really haven’t gone out, how can others know what’s going on here?”
“No wall can keep secrets inside.”
He closed his eyes in exasperation, intending to ignore me.
=
I remember that in our childhood we always joked about Father behind his back. Laughing and joking, we made cynical remarks, as though none of us took him seriously.
One day, Father took me for a walk. He walked slowly with his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought. Back then, there weren’t many cars, but only a few rickshaws. A thick layer of ash had accumulated on the blacktop road, and Father’s old-fashioned leather shoes left footprints in the ash.
“Papa, why do you always wear these leather shoes? You don’t even take them off at home. Didn’t you ever wear any other shoes?”
Father’s feet stopped in the ash, and he looked at me with a feeling of grief. I was frightened by my own joke. At a loss, I tugged at his clothes. He stopped for a long time—until someone came up from the opposite side of the street. Perhaps it was the person he’d been waiting for. It was a man of average height. His clothes were much like those that most drivers wore. His rough face was expressionless. He came over and shook hands with Father and referred to a promise the two of them had made earlier. Father replied, “I’m sorry! Sorry!” Disappointed, the other man walked away, swinging his arms. When he turned around, he glanced at me ominously. I shivered.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“He came to collect the debt that I owe him.” With that, Father resumed walking in his old-fashioned shoes.
Following behind, I observed his footprints. Because he walked so gingerly, his footprints were always even. Not like mine—one footstep heavy, the next light: mine weren’t at all uniform.
When we got home that day, a lot of guests were there. They were all Father’s old friends who had come in a group to see him. Father was heavy-hearted as he entered the room. He waved at everyone and said, “The debt is due now.”
The guests seemed uneasy about him. With one voice, they said: “Isn’t there any room for delay?”
“Unfortunately no.”
Dispirited, Father lowered his head. His expression was anguished. The guests gestured to one another and quietly left.
After they left, Father raised his head and looked at me in a swivet and said, “Rushu, in fact, the debt doesn’t have to be paid now. I can keep putting it off. You can repay it for me in the future, okay?”
Afraid, I retreated to the door. I didn’t know if I was afraid of really assuming the debt or if I was afraid that I didn’t grasp what he meant. Actually, I didn’t understand what he’d said at all, and I was all the more afraid because I didn’t understand. I held on to the door, preparing to run off.
“I was kidding you. Don’t you want to help Papa at all?”
“No,” I blurted out.
“Okay. That’s good. I feel reassured.” He looked as if he’d suddenly seen the light.
=
Father died in the harsh winter. His large body was bent into a curved bow. One hand turned into a firm fist placed on his chest. I stood at the head of his bed, my inner curiosity rising little by little: What was he holding in his hand? The people from the funeral home hadn’t arrived yet, and the other family members were outside preparing for the service. Taking advantage of their absence, I hurriedly knelt in front of the bed and seized Father’s cold fist and tried my best to open it. I tried for a long time, but it wouldn’t open. I felt Father moving. I sat down on the floor and trembled. From behind, I heard someone say coldly: “Truly diabolical.”
I looked around: my brother was standing at the door.
“Who are you talking about?”
“You, of course! You scared
