Zero and Other Fictions Read online

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to sing a song for you.”

  The light fell on a long-haired young man with a broad nose and a yellow face. Holding a guitar, the young man began to croon. He sang a song in English. Eyes narrowed, full of expression, he was absorbed in his singing as if intoxicated.

  “Thank you, thank you, once more? Okay, okay!” said the young man.

  Lai Suo couldn’t sit there any longer. Those fashionable, elegant, wealthy young people with nothing to do. His ears filled with laughter and song, and with the sight of their affected gestures, Lai Suo was forced to stand up and hurriedly pay his bill. He pushed the revolving door and stepped out onto broad, straight Ren’ai Road at dusk to once again feel the mysterious life force in the last rays of the sun.

  That life force compelled him to take a seat on a bench on the sidewalk across from the towering edifice of the TV station, staring blankly.

  “What is it I really want to do?”

  At that moment, Lai Suo began to feel a sense of regret. Perhaps he should not have made such a long trip to be there. By this time, his wife had probably cleared the dinner table and was sitting quietly in front of the TV, the children around one side, the middle of the sofa—Lai Suo’s seat—empty. He was the head of the family, the father of three children. He sat there with his feet up on the coffee table, laughing at the funny show on TV. His wife and children also laughed. That is a snapshot of the Lai Suo family, their evening fun.

  He really shouldn’t have made the long trip to be there. He should be sitting in front of the TV, drinking tea and eating soda crackers. Then he would stretch and head off to the bedroom, take off his clothes, climb into bed in the dark, and thus bring the day to a sentimental, good, or indifferent close.

  9

  It gradually grew dark, and the mercury lamps on both sides of the street went on like a long string of silent firecrackers; the whole street was brightly illuminated in an instant. Lai Suo’s eyes followed one bright set of car lights to the next to the end of the street. Time was short! He had to hurry up and think. He focused on the brightly lit TV station. Now, what time did he wish to recall? His childhood or youth, his marriage or his baffling middle age? There were just a few words of resentment for this life of his—“Handing in a blank page.” He had disgraced the Lai family. Lai Yun, his older brother, was wealthy; he looked after his brother who had gone to school, arranged his marriage and gave him shares in the factory. The day before Lai Suo’s dad passed away, he sadly looked at them and said, “Ah Yun, look after your little brother.” Lai Yun was over fifty years old and had a big belly. When he laughed, his eyes narrowed to slits. At that moment, his face was covered with tears and his nose red from crying.

  “Dad, you’ll get better,” said Lai Suo, holding his dad’s thick, spotted hand with gray nails in his own. “Next month we’ll go to Southeast Asia and look around.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Lai Suo’s dad. “Lai Suo, come here.…”

  He was partial to his oldest son, while Lai Suo’s mom was partial to her younger, more refined son. After Lai Suo was released from prison, he stood cringing in front of his father. His dad looked at him for quite some time, tears streaming down his face; he tried to say something but couldn’t utter a word. After a long while, he brought out an old gray suit (it was the suit Ah Yun had tailored for his dad when he was married). “Wear this,” he said. “Come along, let’s go see your older brother.”

  “Dad,” replied Lai Suo, hesitatingly, “I’d like to go see Mom’s grave first.”

  It wasn’t until the first Sunday after he had started working at the jam factory that he finally went to the public cemetery in Muzha. Lai Suo’s family, three generations, four adults and four children, were all present. Lai Yun ran around in circles taking care of everything; his wife was tied up with the kids, and Lai Suo’s dad stared angrily out the car window without uttering a word. Lai Suo, who was on the verge of tears, kept wringing his hands. There were two cars—one followed the other. The kids kept sticking their hands out the window and shouting, “Grandpa, Grandpa!”

  One hour later, they stood at the top of the cemetery, looking down at the desolate graves overgrown with weeds.

  “In a few years, they won’t be able to squeeze any more in here,” commented Lai Suo’s dad. He was wrong—seven years later he would be buried in an out-of-the-way little corner, to get to which Lai Suo’s family had to climb over grave after grave.

  “Ah Suo,” said Lai Suo’s dad, turning his head, “your mother was thinking of you before she died.”

  Lai Suo had told himself that he wouldn’t cry again. Before the kids had caught up with them, Lai Suo was already bawling as Lai Yun, holding the smallest child, started crying loudly before he could catch his breath.

  The caretaker of the cemetery, seeing the situation, said, “Let’s burn some spirit money.” This put an end to the tears of Lai Suo’s family.

  “The paint on the inscription has already faded,” said Lai Suo, rubbing the gravestone.

  … OF THE XU FAMILY OF YANSHAN, HENAN PROVINCE.…

  “Find someone to touch up the inscription and plant some flowers on the grave—what do you say, Dad?” said Lai Yun.

  “That won’t do,” said the caretaker. “Not only will it ruin the fengshui, but the goats will come and eat the flowers.”

  The goats in the area ran wild over the mountain, trampling the graves of Lai Suo’s mom and dad as well as urinating and defecating on them.

  “That’s not right,” said Lai Suo, angrily getting up off the bench.

  God was a shepherd, or so said the Christians. The neon cross on top of the distant church glowed garishly. Lai Suo walked through the pedestrian underpass. When he came out the other side, he could no longer see that church.

  10

  Lai Suo arrived at the TV station a half hour before the interview.

  Before the guard could do anything, Lai Suo strode through the door with his head held high. The guard gazed at his small, energetic silhouette from behind, wondering where he had seen the guy before.

  In this way, Lai Suo had rashly intruded into the labyrinthlike building. It was a modern scientific fusion of dream and reality, art and beauty, along with the fake and the overstated. He went from one studio to the next, from one age to another. He stopped in the Ming dynasty for five minutes, poked his head into the Qing dynasty for a look-see, and at a quarter to eight, entered his own program.

  Mr. Han came out of the makeup room wearing a light blue suit, tailor-made to fit, the collar of his Thai silk shirt worn out over his lapels. His step was firm, his face radiant, and he was in high spirits, as if he were walking to the podium.

  “Mr. Han, please take the seat in the middle,” said the director, filled with respect. “Our journalists, Zhang and Chen, and Mr. Yang, you will sit over here.”

  “Are we going to start now?” asked Mr. Han in an extraordinarily calm tone of voice.

  “Everyone ready,” shouted the director.

  Lai Suo stood outside the glass window of the control booth, on the other side of which was a row of monitors displaying the same thing. The control booth operator put on his headphones and crushed out his cigarette. The program was about to start; everyone waited with bated breath. Lai Suo was fascinated by what he saw. He watched as people ran around moving mercury lamps and stage props and testing microphones, and the director made exaggerated gestures.

  “Begin,” said the director.

  “First of all, on behalf of the seventeen million compatriots of our free nation, I would like to welcome Mr. Han on his return to the embrace of the motherland in the anti-Communist camp,” said Mr. Yang of the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Han, looking into the camera without blinking. “Allow me to express my heartfelt gratitude for the generosity of the government. In the decades that I was in Japan, there wasn’t a moment I didn’t feel regret. I apologize to my ancestors and to all
my compatriots.” At this point he struck the table with his fist. “The Communist Party ruined me.”

  He had struck the table the same way thirty years before. Lai Suo, who had been sitting in the last row and who was in charge of opening the door, had been awakened by the noise.

  “What does the KMT stand for? Tell me.” Mr. Han grew increasingly more excited as he spoke. Impassioned, fists flying in the air, he faced the thirty-five members of the Taiwan Democratic Progressive Alliance and shouted himself hoarse. Lai Suo’s shocked admiration knew no bounds. A short time before, Mr. Han had warmly asked him about his family, relatives, and friends and their impressions. Lai Suo was too embarrassed to reply—they didn’t know, they were illiterate. What about himself? Did he like his job? It wasn’t a matter of liking it or not—he did anything Mr. Han asked him to do. That’s good. Do you have any problems? No, that’s good, that’s good. At this point, he turned to ask Mr. Cai, “How’s he doing?” Mr. Cai replied in a whisper (Lai Suo could hear him), “Where’s this moron from? He actually passed out the flyers at the market, and people used them to wrap meat and fish.” “Goodness!” replied Mr. Han, slapping his forehead. “Get someone cut out for the job.”

  “… Mr. Han, can you tell us something of your impressions upon first setting foot again on the motherland?”

  The cameraman handed the camera to his assistant beside him, pushed open the door, walked over next to Lai Suo, and took a cigarette out of his pocket. He liked interview programs like this one because he didn’t have to push the camera all over the place. Music shows, though, he detested on account of the singers who would shake their asses in front of the camera.

  “How did you get in? There’s no audience allowed for this program.” He didn’t even glance at Lai Suo.

  “The door was open, so I came in.”

  “The security people must all be asleep,” replied the cameraman. “You should go to studio two—it’s real lively over there, not boring like this show.”

  Lai Suo again made no reply—he hadn’t come here to answer other people’s questions.

  “The progress of the motherland is simply unbelievable,” said Mr. Han. “I was shocked as soon as I stepped off the plane. I said to myself, This is a modern city! In Japan I had seen reports on TV about the prosperity of Taiwan, but I didn’t really believe them.”

  Lai Suo listened patiently. The cameraman finished his cigarette and said, “God!” and set off toward his assistant.

  “You’ve been to mainland China. What is your impression?”

  “I got to know several individuals over there and was duped by them—Sun Qimin and Zhang Wansheng, among others—when they came to Taiwan to fight for unification. If they’re not dead, they are still in a labor camp. The authorities in mainland China can suddenly turn hostile and don’t consider morality or justice. Our government is different. Although I committed a great wrong”—at this point he paused before continuing—“I was confused at the time.…”

  Lai Suo had met Sun Qimin and Zhang Wansheng of whom he had spoken; it was a long time ago. They all spoke beautiful Hokkien. In the meeting room at the magazine, Mr. Han had asked everyone to welcome them by standing and applauding. When Sun stood on the podium, he bowed at the waist like a Japanese and said, “Elders and brothers, one and all …” He spoke brilliantly and had been specially trained. Initially, Mr. Han had been excited, but the longer he listened, the less interesting he found it. The young Lai Suo noticed that he was on the point of standing up several times but simply shook his head and stayed seated. At that moment, Sun had reached the point—we let the Tibetans, Mongolians, and Miao manage their own affairs. To speak frankly, we don’t have the power to govern such a large area, much less this small corner known as Taiwan. Today we would like to help our Taiwan compatriots establish a democratic, progressive, egalitarian, compassionate society. Tens of millions have been eliminated through struggle in mainland China. What has that been all about? It is nothing but a clichéd lie. In a corner of Studio Three, Lai Suo saw through the game of the Communist Party and was very proud of himself.

  The Communist Party loves nothing more than peace—Sun paused and took a sip of tea. Mr. Han took the opportunity and leaped up to the podium and said: Everyone, let’s have a round of applause. Thank you, Mr. Sun, for your guidance.

  “Can you tell us how you discovered the Communist plot?”

  “I sensed early on that they wanted to use me to achieve their goal of ‘liberating’ Taiwan.”

  Young Mr. Han told them that after Taiwan was liberated, everyone would be given an important position. What about Lai Suo? A county magistrate, perhaps? Which county? It didn’t matter which county. Someplace in the north would be best, because each time he went home, everyone would shout, Hey, County Magistrate Lai Suo, hey, Mister County Magistrate!

  “It was arranged for many compatriots in Japan to come and see me. I told them of the importance of Taiwan’s independence.”

  “What was their response?”

  “At the very beginning, some were interested, but in recent years very few showed any interest. At the time, I asked myself …”

  At that moment, Lai Suo thought of Fatso Du. Du said disdainfully, “We have Marxism and the KMT has the Three Principles of the People. What about you? What do you have?”

  “We have Mr. Han.”

  “Who is Mr. Han? Who knows him?”

  Lai Suo was busy, extremely busy talking with a bunch of people—some were old friends, some were irrelevant people. Even though this was the case, he still had to make time to listen to Mr. Han’s speech. The situation was entirely different from that of thirty years before. Lai Suo was using a 1970s mind-set to comment on things that happened in the 1940s. He had the upper hand, the complete advantage. The reporter ought to have turned the camera on him. These young reporters, although in the limelight now, hadn’t been born then. Had they seen the Japanese? Had they met a Communist? No. Had they experienced the American bombings? Had they spent time in prison? No. Goodness. What is it you really want to do? If the camera focused on you, you wouldn’t even be able to cut a fart. Lai Suo listened as the cogs in his brain turned.

  “I would like to say one thing more on behalf of all of our compatriots,” said Mr. Yang. “I sincerely welcome your return.”

  “Lastly, Mr. Han, we hope you can say a few words to all those in the world who have been deceived by the Communist Party.”

  “Okay.”

  It appeared that the program was about to end. The director gestured, and one of the workmen squatted and touched the electrical cable on the floor. Lai Suo, who was standing at the control booth, planned to step forward to push his way in front of Mr. Han when the program ended.

  “So this is where you are,” said a young man in a white shirt, blocking his way.

  “What are you doing?” asked Lai Suo, annoyed.

  “I’m a guard,” he said. “You didn’t register as a visitor and you’re alone. What are you doing here?”

  The program had ended a short time before, and Lai Suo was still standing by the steps at the door. Whatever happened, he was waiting for someone.

  The automatic doors suddenly opened. A group of people who didn’t look at Lai Suo hurried down the steps.

  “Mr. Han Zhiyuan,” said Lai Suo, blocking the way.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I’m Lai Suo.”

  “Lai Suo?”

  “From Pan-Asia Magazine.”

  “What?”

  “The one who sold fruit …”

  “I don’t know you!”

  A young man in a pressed suit patted Lai Suo on the shoulder, to help Mr. Han out of his predicament. Then everyone stepped into two black sedans and sped off down the street lit with silver lights.

  The immense shadow of the TV station, like some endless nightmare, stretched to the other end of the street. Suddenly there was nothing left in the world save he himself.

  “I’m Lai Suo, I’m Lai
Suo,” he stuttered. “All I wanted to say was that it’s been a long time.”

  11

  It was close to midnight when he returned home. He gently opened the door, turned on the light, and placed a few things he had picked up in Taipei on the sofa—sleepwear for his wife, coloring books for the kids, and a box of chocolates.

  At that moment, the Holland clock on the wall chimed several times, the hour and minute hands standing straight up. It was an end and a beginning, a starting point and a finale.

  Without moving, Lai Suo slowly raised his head.

  Translated by John Balcom

  the intelligent man

  Several days after the Republic of China and the United States broke off relations, Yang T’ai-sheng began to consider carefully his own future and that of Taiwan. Never in his entire life had he made such a big decision, not even the day he decided to marry Chu Yu-hsiang—it had only taken a few minutes to weigh the sacred duties of marriage and the high cost of living and other such things.

  But reality is not like three buses arriving simultaneously; one could board any one of them without consideration, and even if a mistake were made, one could always return to the point of departure. Reality is not a bus, but the road leading to a goal. Therefore, Yang T’ai-sheng seriously inquired among his many friends, all of whom, in turn, responded earnestly: “In times like these, if at all possible, go to America, because in America you can find many unexpected opportunities.”

  He then quickly sold off all assets at hand, which included some stocks, a house, and a used Ford (the funny thing was that the buyer was one of those friends who had advised him to go to America). All the money was sent to America through a relative in the import-export business. It was exciting to change NTD into dollars. However, when the airplane was high above the Pacific Ocean, Yang T’ai-sheng suddenly felt sad. Then, just like MacArthur on the day he left the Philippines, he said to himself, “I shall return.”