To calm me down he will take me to Jing’s house. I will accept his kisses, he will climb on top of me, our two bodies will be wrapped in the crimson sheet like two pine trees bound together by ivy. The bed will be our palanquin, carrying us off to another world.

A deafening sound wakes me from my dreams. Looking out of the window I can see my parents in their pajamas out in the courtyard. The cook has been woken too and has come out of her room with a candle in her hand.

“Put it out!” my father orders her in a hoarse whisper.

“I hope it’s just a military exercise,” says Mother.

Father sighs.

There are more explosions, they sound like the firecrackers we light to celebrate the beginning of spring. Our town counters the explosive din with a stubborn silence: not one footstep, not a single whisper or a sob.

Then everything goes back to the normality of a starlit night. My parents return to their bedroom and the cook shuts the door.

The moon watches us, motionless.

50

As soon as dawn breaks we run tirelessly the three kilometers round the barracks. Our rhythmic footfalls send up clouds of dust and our patriotic songs ring out between the earth and the sky. Our collective enthusiasm warms the heart and dissipates night-mares.

Last night I was wandering through the ruins left by the earthquake. The sky was black with smoke. My ears had become so accustomed to the sobbing that they could no longer distinguish between people crying and the buzz of insects. I was exhausted and would have liked to stop and rest, but every inch of ground was splattered with blood. I stumbled with each step, cursing the gods and shouting imprecations that still rang in my ears after I woke up.

In the bathhouse my fellow officers spend hours in front of the mirrors shaving so that their mustaches are perfectly squared off. I splash my head with ice-cold water and turn to face the mirror. When my image appears I instinctively look away.

Is there a truth on the other side that we do not want to see?

I hold my breath as I look at myself, with my hair standing up in tufts and my bushy eyebrows. A bad night’s sleep has injected red into the whites of my eyes. I examine my naked torso: my skin is red and steaming sweat from the run; there are thick veins running up my neck; the muscles stand taut on my arms; there is a long scar on my left shoulder, a reminder of a bayonet exercise in which I was injured. The twenty-four years of my life have flown by. Who am I? I cannot find an answer. But at least I know why I am alive: my body, which is now ripe, and my mind, which has doubted, loved and then believed, will be my gift-like a cluster of fireworks-to the party. I will explode on the night of our victory.

A quarter to ten and I am knocking at the door of the Chidori. The manager makes me put on my disguise and, as a Mandarin, I slip out of a secret door and into the street.

From my rickshaw, the town still looks incredibly calm. Along the pavements the nonchalance of the Chinese contrasts with our soldiers’ marching as they move about in square formations. The shops have opened their doors and the traders have set up their stalls. The tireless street vendors intone their litanies. I ask the rickshaw boy whether he was woken by the firing in the night, but he pretends not to hear me.

On the Square of a Thousand Winds the players remain faithful to habit and have started their games. I keep half an ear on their conversations, but they open their mouths only to comment on the game.

The Chinese girl appears on the edge of the wood and runs over to our table, light as a bird. There are beads of sweat on her brow.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she sits down.

She unties a bundle of blue cotton cloth and hands me the lacquered pot with the black stones in it.

“Go on. It’s your turn.”

I am perplexed by the apparent indifference of these people to last night’s incidents.

51

When I woke up this morning the sun had already reached the top of the pear tree. The sprigs of new leaves on every branch look like flowers lolling open.

I am happy, but this happiness doesn’t draw on a feeling of peace, it is fed by contradictory emotions. The cicadas, acutely aware of the secrets of my soul, chant gleefully. The light of a pale sky spills onto my bed through the open curtains. I imagine my town, offered up to the light, as a naked woman waiting for her lover.

Mother has gone to the market with my sister. Father has shut himself in the library where he battles assiduously with Shakespeare’s language. The house is cool and calm, the doors and windows stand open and the smell of leaves mingles with the heady fragrance of jasmine that permeates our rooms. In the sitting room Wang Ma, the maid, is busy with a feather duster.

The poor woman’s son died of tuberculosis six months ago. She goes over and over the memories of him, and the dead boy is now more alive than ever. Father listens to her- while he goes on thinking about his books-and offers her some completely meaningless comfort: “You must have strength, my dear.” She can communicate her pain more easily to Mother and Moon Pearl. Her endless reminiscences elicit their sighs and sometimes even tears, and this is what Wang Ma wishes.

This morning my compassion has changed to uneasiness. I am carrying my happiness in my belly as if I were pregnant, and I don’t want it ruined by Wang Ma’s sobbing, not at any cost. Before she even opens her mouth, I rush outside.

“I’m going to the Square of a Thousand Winds,” I say. “I’ll be back later.”

The Stranger is already waiting for me. His face is hidden by his glasses, but I can see that it is stiff and motionless like his body. Sitting bolt upright on his stool, he looks like a guard at the gates of hell in some ancient temple.

We position our soldiers at the intersections. The Stranger delimits his territories on the outer edges of the checkerboard with prodigious economy and precision. Go reflects the soul: his is meticulous and cold.

My generosity in letting him play first gives him an advantage: he is one step ahead of me in occupying the strategic positions. Disputing these with him would disadvantage me further. I decide to take a risk: sure of my base in the northwest corner, I set out to conquer the center.

It is hot and I flap my fan in vain. I am impressed by my opponent: opposite me he sits exposed to the sun and lets it burn down on him without any sign of irritation. He sits completely motionless, his face streaming with sweat, his hands on his knees and his fan held tightly closed.

The sun is reaching its highest point. I ask to break for lunch and make a note of our positions on a piece of paper. We agree to meet after the pause.