men and women, her ambitions were couched in an obscure turn of thought. As a child she had wandered far and wide with her old father through the mountain range which girdled that ancient piece of land. Of it no good can be said, and even in our modern times, the most scientific of men avoid the treacheries and infidelities of those nameless peaks. In her eighth year, on one such sojourn, she left her father sleeping, and went alone into places even he, faultless and intrepid man that he was, would not go. There she was told the things that she must do. There was given into her keeping the deep heart of her life which would eclipse all things and which in time would itself be eclipsed by a successive and deeper darkness.
Nightfall. An old man is leading a donkey through the city gates. He has come far, from So Lu Chen, and, eager to find a bed, he takes the first turning and passes before the seamstress’s shop where she is seated in the window, addressing herself to first this silk now that, first this thread now that. He stands, transfixed, as a gown takes form beneath her hands that run like water across the supple cloth. All the light in the world issues from a candle in a nearby window. As it gutters and the last light is cast off it like a cloak, the gown lies finished and laid across the arm of a mannequin. The seamstress’s shop is empty. Even the street is empty. The man has moved deeper into Bao Suk, and his donkey trails after him, insensible to the wonders of caprice and adornment.
One Door or Two
As it happened, a young laborer was building a small house for himself and for his family. He was a poor man, and his family was poorer still, for money is lost in every passing of hands, not least from the wages of a dutiful husband. At any rate, the family was poor, and the house to be built would have but one room. Long hours
in the sun, the man had been planning the house, and he had come to the decision that his house should have but one door, as was the custom in those parts. Now the laborer’s wife was a lovely woman, and had been the prize of the district until she had taken his hand and let him lead her beneath the marriage arch. This was a strange thing, accounted strange by all concerned, for the laborer’s wife could have had any man, rich or poor, but of them all, she had chosen him. And it was not for his looks, nor for his wits, nor for his temper, as the laborer would in none of these ways impress. No, she had married him because of a certain child that had grown in the dark, deep inside her, and which, when she was aware of it, had told her by kicking and scraping that if she would be safe and whole and living, she should at once be married. And so she had done; the child arrived, and 3 long years had passed, living within the house of the laborer’s father, day and night, forever beneath the watchful eye of the laborer’s mother, who wondered day and night, why had she, the local beauty, married her plain son. And when the time came for their own house to be built, she had told her husband that they must have two doors, one to the east and one to the west, that the sun might be let in in the morning, and let out at nightfall. One door or two, the laborer asked himself, as he walked up and down in the fields. One door or two, he asked himself again, as he trudged home through a patchwork of hills. For his mother had told him, day in day out, you must watch a pretty wife. You must watch her with both of your god-given eyes, and with the others too, that are little spoken of. For she will squirm in your arms, and tell you that she is yours, but my son, beauty cannot be kept. It is restless, and will speak to every passing eye, will allow the lissome stares of every passing man.
One door or two. One door or two. It was to be but a one-room house. And as she says, day and night, the sun must be allowed to pass. Not just through all the broad and empty places, but through this town of man, and through that town of man, through anger and misfortune, through pettiness and filth. And every sun will be a deeper, a crueler sun. And every sun will know far better the shape, the broad dull shape, of the wound it makes on your face and arms, the wound it presses, deep through the windows of your eyes, where such things will be remembered, but can never be made good.
Trickery
He had two little ones in his care. There there, he would say, and hold them one at a time, pressed up against his chest or leg. How they loved such times! With trumpeting cries they would race away and back. Were they children? Were they capable of such a brutal thing as childhood, such a sweet band of thieves as that? No, no, they remained just as they were, and sat about inventing riddles, which they would leave by the nearest road for travelers to find.
TWO
A Letter
Everyone has moved away or died, but you are still quite young. You bathe each day in the salt sea, and ring your lonely shack with twined cornflowers. You are, it is said, expecting a visitor. If the others don’t speak of it, it is because there are no others. There’s no one but you, and you are too young to know how completely you have been beaten.
Before the Emperor
There were once two clowns who traveled the land. They would never be seen in the same city, nor would they speak of each other. However their hatred was a known thing, and everyone longed to see what would happen if they were brought together in one place. Many stories circulated about their hate, regarding how it was begun, and why. Some said they were brothers, others that they were father and son. Both were the favorites of equally prominent noblemen, and so one might not be humbled before the other without calling higher powers into contention.
However, it became the will of the people that the two clowns be brought together unawares, on the great stage of the Capital. It was the will of the Emperor of course, and had little to do with the people. Yet the Emperor was in the habit of calling his will the people’s, and so I have told it thus.
In any case, the clowns were assembled, one in each wing, each thinking his was the only act. The curtains were pulled, the clowns emerged, to stand face to face, as the Emperor watched from his box, surrounded by his retinue, as the massed nobles pressed up against the fur-trimmed stage, as the merchants peered through opera glasses from the far corners of the theater....
Well they were not clowns. It is not known who they were. They did not know each other. They did not know anyone. And when they met on the stage, they did nothing but stand with unpainted faces staring at the thousand jeering heads that slandered the air. But of course, no one spoke. The theatre was entirely silent.
The first clown took a sharp knife from the little bag he had been given. From a seated position, he carefully cut his feet off at the ankles, cradling first the left foot, then the right. He took the severed feet, and gently placed them in his bag. His face was calm. The stumps of his red legs wept a steady stream, passing the time, and he was soon asleep.
The second clown drew a whistle from the folds of his coat, and blew three long notes. An enormous bird jumped from the crowd and snatched the clown’s head from off his shoulders before galloping like a horse three times around the stage. At this point, it was speared by a daring young man who attended the Emperor. The headless clown had fallen from beheading into a kneeling position, hands folded before him.
The crowd was hushed. What did the Emperor think of all this? He had the clowns skinned and had the skins made into costumes which he would wear in alternation to the many costume balls it was his habit to give in the winter season. Of course, from the one skin-suit his head stuck out, and from the other his feet. Therefore the Emperor was always recognizable, which is proper and correct, and prevents terrible mistakes from being made on the part of the foolish or the brave.
An Argument I Chanced To See
It was never and it was nevertheless along a poor and thoughtless line of thought that we had come. There were no longer shopkeepers. There were no longer shops. What it did mean to us? We were forced to make all our own things. Thus we became shabby and kind, and famous in a silly, stupid way. Seven ideas were listed in a book that