第五章 (Chapter Five)

Autumn had descended once more. The boundless sky seemed to grow more distant with each passing day. The rice paddies beside his inn were taking on a golden hue. The cool winds of dawn and dusk pierced to the marrow of his bones like knives. The fine days of late autumn and winter, it seemed, were not far off.

One afternoon a week prior, he had taken a copy of Wordsworth's Poems and wandered along the field paths in idle reverie for half a day. Since that day, a cyclical melancholy had clung to him ever since. The two female students he had encountered on the road a few days earlier haunted his mind, robbing him of all peace. Whenever he recalled the incident, he would blush fiercely, even when alone.

Of late, no matter where he went, he could not shake a sense of restlessness. At school, he felt the Japanese students were subtly rejecting him. He had long ceased visiting his few Chinese classmates, for returning from such visits only left him feeling emptier inside. They simply could not fathom his inner world. He would visit them hoping to receive some sympathy, yet after a few words were exchanged, he inevitably regretted having come. On rare occasions when the conversation grew animated, carried away by a momentary surge of warmth, he would pour out the details of his private and public life. But on the way home, he would regret his indiscretion, his self-reproach far sharper than if he had stayed away. Consequently, his Chinese friends all began to say he had become neurotic. Upon hearing this, he felt a heart full of vengeance toward these Chinese classmates, just as he did toward the Japanese students. Day by day, he grew more distant from them. Even when they met on the street or at school, he would offer no nod or greeting. When the Chinese student association held meetings, he naturally absented himself. Thus, he and his compatriots had virtually become two feuding families.

Among his Chinese classmates was one particularly strange fellow. Burdened by his own marriage, which he deemed a moral transgression, this man took peculiar delight in exposing others' scandals to conceal his own flaws. It was he who had first pronounced him neurotic.

With his social ties severed, he was left so lonely and desolate that he hovered near death's door. Fortunately, in the inn where he lodged, there remained the owner's daughter, a presence that could still tug at his heartstrings. Otherwise, he truly might have taken his own life. The innkeeper's daughter was just seventeen that year. She had an oblong face, unusually large eyes, and when she smiled, two dimples appeared on her cheeks, revealing a glint of gold from a tooth. Because her smile was so exceedingly lovely, she was often seen wearing it.

Though he loved her profoundly, whenever she brought his meals or came to make his bed, he assumed a stern and unapproachable air. Though he longed to speak to her, the moment she appeared, words failed him. When she entered his room, his breath grew so short he could scarcely exhale. His suffering in her presence became unbearable; so much so that lately, upon her entry, he often had to flee the room. Yet his yearning for her only deepened with each passing day. One Saturday evening, all the other students from the inn had gone to City N for amusement. Being strapped for funds, he merely took a stroll by the pond to the west after dinner before returning.

Back in his room, after sitting awhile, he felt the emptiness of the second floor, himself the sole occupant. He sat in utter silence until, growing restless, he thought of going out again. But to go out meant passing the door to the owner's room, which, along with his daughter's, was situated right beside the main entrance. He remembered that when he had come in, the owner and his daughter had been at dinner there. The mere thought of the agony of passing before her made him abandon all thought of venturing out.

After taking out a copy of C. Gissing's Novel and reading three or four pages, the still air was suddenly broken by several distinct splashing sounds. He listened intently. Instantly, his breathing quickened again, and his face flushed crimson. After a moment's hesitation, he gently opened his door and, without even his slippers, crept on tiptoe down the stairs. Softly opening the lavatory door, he stood transfixed by its glass window, peering out. It turned out the inn's bathroom was next door to the lavatory, and from this window, everything within was clearly visible. He had thought a glance would suffice, but once his eyes fell upon the scene, he was nailed in place as if by spikes, utterly unable to move.

Those twin peaks of snow!

Those plump, white thighs!

The curves of that entire form!

Hardly daring to breathe, he stared intently. The muscles of his face began to twitch. The longer he looked, the more violently he trembled, until his shuddering forehead struck the glass pane with a light tap. Enveloped in steam, the naked "Eve" called out coyly, "Who's there..."

Not a sound escaped him. He leapt from the lavatory and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

He reached his room, his face burning as if on fire, his mouth parched. Slapping his own cheeks, he fetched his bedding and threw himself upon it. Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, he strained his ears, listening for sounds from below. The splashing had ceased. After the bathroom door opened, he heard footsteps that seemed to be ascending the stairs. With his head buried under the quilt, the ear within his heart told him plainly, "She is standing right outside the door."

He felt as if all the blood in his body were surging upward. He was terrified, mortified, and yet terribly elated. But had anyone asked him, he would never, under any circumstance, have admitted to feeling happiness at that moment.

He held his breath, ears pricked, and listened. There was no movement outside. He deliberately coughed once-still no sound from beyond the door. Just as he was puzzling over this, he suddenly heard her voice downstairs, conversing with her father. A cold sweat broke out in his palms. He strained desperately to catch her words, but could make out nothing clearly. After a pause, her father laughed heartily. Pulling the quilt completely over his head, he gritted his teeth and muttered, "She's told him! She's told him!"

He did not sleep a wink that night. At the first light of dawn the next morning, he went downstairs, his heart pounding with trepidation. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, before the owner and his daughter had risen, he fled the inn as one escaping and hurried outside. The dust on the main road, damp with morning dew, was not yet dry. The sun was already up. Without a second thought, he headed straight east. In the distance, a farmer approached slowly, pulling a cart of wild greens. As the man passed by, he suddenly said, "You're up early!" Startled, a fresh blush spread over his gaunt cheeks, and his heart began to race wildly. Could it be, he wondered, that this farmer also knew?

He ran on aimlessly for a long while before turning to look back. His school was now far in the distance. The sun had climbed higher. Feeling for his watch, he found the silver-dollar-sized timepiece was not on him. Judging by the sun's angle, it was likely around nine o'clock. Though hunger gnawed at him, he could not bring himself to return to the inn and face the owner and his daughter. He thought of buying a snack to stave off the hunger, but a pat of his pocket revealed only twelve cents left. He went to a village sundries shop and spent every last cent on some bits of food, intending to find a secluded spot to eat. Coming to a crossroads where two paths met, he gazed south. The road running north-south, which intersected his own, was nearly deserted. It sloped downward to the south, flanked by high embankments. He knew this road had been cut through a small hill. The main road he had just traveled was the ridge of that hill, with the crossroads at its center. The transverse path intersecting the ridge road sloped away on both sides. Hesitating at the junction for a moment, he chose the southerly descending road. Once past the high embankments, his path opened onto a vast plain, stretching straight to the city on the far side. Against the azure sky on the plain's distant edge lay a dark cluster of woods. That, he thought, must be Shrine A.

Having passed the embankments, he glanced up the slope to his left. Along the hillside bordering the high wall, he saw a low parapet enclosing several thatched cottages. Upon the door of one cottage hung a horizontal plaque inscribed with three characters: "Fragrant Snow Sea". He left the main path, took a few steps to the parapet's gate, and gave it a casual push. The two wooden doors swung open of their own accord. He stepped inside nonchalantly. Within the gate, a winding path led from the entrance up the slope towards the hilltop. On either side grew many ancient, gnarled plum trees. He knew this was the plum grove. Following this serpentine path northward up the slope to the summit, a scene like a painting unfolded before him: a level clearing. The garden spanned from the foot of the hill, across the south-facing slope, to this flat expanse at the top, all arranged with exquisite tranquility.

To the west of the summit clearing rose a sheer cliff of a thousand feet, facing another cliff on the opposite bank. Between them ran the north-south road he had just traversed. Backed against this cliff stood a small tower and several single-story cottages. Their doors and windows were shut tight, indicating they were likely used for selling food and drink when the plum blossoms bloomed. Before the tower lay a grassy lawn. In its center, several white stones encircled a flower bed where an old plum tree lay recumbent. At the southern edge of the lawn, where the level ground began to slope away southward, stood a stone stele recording the history of this plum grove. Seating himself on the grass before the stele, he took out his purchased snacks and ate.

After eating, he sat for a time in a daze upon the grass. Not a human sound stirred from any direction; only an occasional birdcall drifted from the distant branches. Lifting his head to gaze at the limpid blue sky and the radiant sun, he felt that everything around him-the trees, the cottages, the blades of grass, the birds in flight-all partook equally of nature's nurture beneath the peaceful sunlight. The memory of his transgression the night before had now vanished like the sail of a distant ship, lost to who knows where.

Across the level ground and slopes of the plum grove, winding paths crisscrossed in all directions. He rose and wandered about for a while before noticing another single-story cottage nestled among the plum trees on the slope. A few paces east of this cottage lay an ancient well, half-buried under a pile of pine needles. He tried the pump; it groaned a few times but yielded no water. This garden, he mused, was probably only opened to the public when the plum trees were in bloom; ordinarily, it stood empty and uninhabited.

At this thought, he murmured aloud to himself, "Since it's vacant, why not ask the garden's owner if I might lodge here for a time?"

His mind made up, he hurried down the hill, intent on finding the owner. As he approached the gate, he happened upon a farmer in his fifties entering the garden. After offering an apology, he asked, "Might you know who owns this garden?" "I'm the one who manages it," the farmer replied. "And where do you live?" "Just over there, across the road." As he spoke, the farmer pointed to a small hut west of the path. Looking west, he indeed saw a hut at the far end of the high embankment. He nodded and asked further, "Could you rent me that tower house in the garden to live in?" "That's possible. Are you alone?" "Yes, quite alone." "Then you might not want to move in." "Why is that?" "Students from your school have moved in several times before. They all found it too desolate and moved out again within ten days or so." "I'm different from the others. If you'll rent it to me, I've no fear of solitude." "Well, in that case, I've no reason to refuse. When were you thinking of moving in?" "This afternoon, if it's convenient." "That's fine, perfectly fine." "Would you mind airing it out and giving it a clean? I'd hate to be rushed after moving in." "Certainly, certainly. Goodbye, then!" "Goodbye!"