Vertical Motion by Can Xue & Karen Gernant & Chen Zeping

Author:Can Xue & Karen Gernant & Chen Zeping
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781934824375
Publisher: Open Letter
Published: 2011-09-13T03:00:00+00:00

THE ROSES

AT THE

HOSPITAL

=

When I was at home, I always heard people mention “Gaoling.” I got the impression that it was a hill, with several long, narrow little streets leading to it. On the hilltop was this city’s largest hospital. People said that Gaoling wasn’t far from my home. The streets were filled with small houses and dilapidated old two-story wooden buildings. The residents were mainly poor laborers. Those people could barely afford coal for cooking, so when the children had time they headed for the main street with brooms and dustpans. As soon as they saw a little coal fall from a rickshaw, they rushed over and brushed it into a dustpan. In talking of Gaoling, this is the way the adults referred to it. I grew more and more curious: What on earth was Gaoling like?

As it happened, one Sunday I was buying stationery in the vicinity of Gaoling. After doing that, I took a small, narrow alley to Gaoling itself. The sun was strong that day, and people were all taking cover in their houses. I saw no one on the narrow asphalt road. I was perspiring. I walked straight to the end of the road and still didn’t see anyone. After I climbed the hill, the road turned and became a downgrade. I hesitated a little and then decided to turn into the area of small, narrow dilapidated houses. It was next to an adobe house that I walked in, and then I immediately saw a filthy public toilet. After passing the toilet, I came to a home where a mourning hall had just been erected. Hanging in the hall were photos of the deceased: it was a sweet-looking girl wearing a red scarf. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. The coffin hadn’t been carried in yet. I was confused: I’d never seen a funeral for a child. I wanted to stand there and watch, but someone drove me off. Someone’s heavy palm struck me on the back. Enduring the pain, I ran off, almost crying.

“She died of meningitis,” a girl about my age told me.

She looked like an old hand. She had pigtails, and her hands were rough. You could tell by looking at her that she was used to doing housework.

“I don’t dare stay at the mourning hall,” she added, haughtily curling her lips.

I lacked the courage to accost the girl. The atmosphere all around was too secretive, and I wanted to get away. Between two adobe houses there was a narrow path that could accommodate only one person. As I was about to take the path, the girl pulled me back. She was strong: she pulled at me until I nearly fell down.

“It’s a dead end, you fool.”

She wanted me to go with her, and so we circled back to the mourning hall and went past it. Some people were already sitting in the hall: they had begun beating the gongs, and a woman was sobbing. I didn’t know if it was her mother or a relative.

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