I jumped into the river for!”
All of a sudden, the people’s footsteps were no longer in sync. In the dense, dark shadow, Gu couldn’t get a good look at these faces, nor could he see the scenery outside the window. But he could still hear Ju calling him and he could still hear the wheelchair rolling past. The two big fellows had vanished, and the wheelchair was being steered automatically. A dark gust of wind in the room took hold of him and detached him from the circle. In the corridor, Gu still heard Ju shouting: “Mr. Gu! This is it!!”
When Gu went downstairs, the entire building rang with all sorts of meows. They were meowing wildly everywhere—in the wards, the offices, and the bathrooms. Gu knew they weren’t cats but were “catmen” hiding in this building. Perhaps they’d been provoked by Ju’s arrival. He himself had stayed here such a long time, and yet they’d never gone wild like this before. Ju must be the key character. If he hadn’t come, the “catmen” might have merely been a little restless. And the red leaves wouldn’t have appeared outside the window in winter. He quickly went down to the fifth floor, where the odor of Lysol made him drowsy. He thought, The person who jumped from the ward window last night: perhaps the words he had shouted were identical to the words Ju had just shouted—“Mr. Gu! Mr. Gu, this is it . . .”
Night
Visitor
=
“Everyone has to die. After death, there’s nothing.” My late father once said to me, “After you die, who knows what you had planned while you were alive?” Having said this much, he lifted his head arrogantly. A nearly despicable expression floated across his face.
After hearing this, I remember glaring at him a few times and sneering inwardly twice. As for him, he strolled around the room. He was wearing a pair of old-fashioned shoes, and his nylon socks gave off a sour, sweaty smell. That smell permeated the room all summer, for he never opened windows.
Father’s bedroom was at the end of the house; when he went out, he had to go through all of our rooms, but we didn’t need to go through his room. I went to see him about once a month. He generally closed his door and kept busy as a mouse with his large pile of old books. When I knocked, he was flustered when he came to the door. As he covered what he was working on, he led me around a large stack of disorganized books and settled me into an old chair beneath the window. The cushion, made of yellowing reed catkins, was lumpy and uncomfortable. When he and I talked, he blocked my line of vision with his broad body. Perhaps he was afraid that I’d see what he was working on.
At the time, I regarded Father as an old man with nothing to do, a person who lingered on in a worsening condition in a dark room. Family members and neighbors thought the same thing. Because he’d been retired for years, you could say that he had retired from life a long time ago. Generally, no one thought much about him. Sure, he had a few foibles. You couldn’t say he was sick just because he liked staying in his room and not going out. Old people always take things to extremes.
=
It was time for me to visit Father again. I was a little concerned, because he hadn’t eaten much for a few days and he wasn’t in a good mood, either. He was always angry, scolding people at the dinner table for no reason. Everyone was baffled by this. When he opened the door, his thin face was expressionless. I glanced into the room: he’d covered all the books with an old cloth, and the old chair had been moved away from the window. Father didn’t seat me while we talked. He was standing, too, because—apart from that old chair—the only place to sit was a small stool. Ordinarily, he sat on it to straighten out his heap of old papers, but this time, for whatever reason, he had tucked the small stool under the bed.
I stood there chatting aimlessly of household trivia. As I talked, I was getting more and more flustered, for all I wanted was to escape from there as soon as possible and steer clear of this awkward errand in the future. Through all of this, Father kept a straight face and paced with his hands behind his back. All of a sudden, he stopped, walked over, and shoved open a side door that faced the courtyard. The room brightened at once. Only then did I notice that he had moved the cupboard and begun using the side door behind it that had been closed for years. The door had warped, requiring great strength to open it, and it was even harder to close again. Father beckoned to me to help him. We pushed it hard several times before it reluctantly closed. As I brushed the dust from my clothes, I noticed that his haggard face was a little flushed.
“Rushu, you never thought I could open this door, did you?” Father turned around so that I couldn’t see his expression. “This door goes straight to the courtyard. Something could happen without anyone knowing. Of course the rest of you wouldn’t notice, for you’re preoccupied with other things. Your attention wanders, and so does your sister’s.”
“Papa—” I said.
“One can do whatever one wants to do!” He twisted around crabbily and looked at me almost savagely. “Do things furtively, and no one knows. Ah!”
“Papa, if you feel bored staying here alone, you could take walks in the park with me every day,” I said uncertainly.
“Me? Bored? Whatever made you think that? Let me tell you, I’m a very busy man.” With that, looking extremely arrogant, he seemed to start thinking intently about something.
“Rushu, get me the scissors from the lowest drawer,” he ordered.
I felt that at this moment Father was extremely vigorous. It was as though he wanted to strut his stuff over something.
The drawer was a jumble of little sundries. After searching for a while, I found the small scissors and handed them to him.
Taking the scissors, he charged over to where he usually sat, removed the old cloth, grabbed an old book, and began carefully snipping the book into scraps. In this dim room, the kaki kaki sound of the scissors was particularly grating. I could hardly control my feelings.
After cutting up one book, he cut up another. There were not only books in the pile, but also all kinds of old notes and correspondence. He cut whatever he got hold of. After a while, the floor was stacked with wastepaper. I saw his old bare, blue-veined hand squeezing the scissors hard. His fingernails turned purple. When he wasn’t paying attention, I quietly withdrew to the doorway.
“Rushu, go ahead and leave. There’s nothing here that concerns you,” he said from behind me.
=
It was about a week later when I heard my colleagues’ rumors about my family members and me mistreating my aged father. They made special mention of me, saying that I “had cut Father’s palm with scissors” and that Father “had wailed.” The rumors were well-founded and vivid, and I couldn’t help shuddering. I didn’t dare look at the others, nor did I dare defend myself. I just shivered blindly.
It was tough to endure this until I got off work. When I reached home, I groped for my key in my purse in the dark corridor. Just then, my brother leapt out from an invisible place and patted me on the shoulder. Paralyzed with fright, I nearly fell to the ground.
“Ha ha!” He patted me on the shoulder again and said with a laugh, “You got off work really early today.”
“Early? It doesn’t seem early to me.” I looked at him bitterly. I wanted to go to my own room.
“It is early.” He yanked on my arm and continued talking. “It’s hard for all of us siblings to get together. Usually everyone is busy. We only sit at the same table at mealtimes.
