The Season of the Stranger (2 page)

The sentry outside stood watching as they came through the door. He looked at the man and then at Girard and turned away, examining his rifle.

Girard followed the path through the trees, trying not to see the man in his arms. He stumbled and caught himself up against a sapling without bruising the man. Out of the woods and approaching the low wall the man's body took the force of the wind. Girard looked down and saw the fine dust speckling the clotted blood over the eye. He walked quickly.

At the gate was another soldier, tall and bearded, wearing the black of the military police. “Ai,” he said. “What has happened, Andrew?”

“Your colleagues,” Girard said. “The army of the republic.”

The soldier's mouth closed and the wide surprise left his eyes. “The devils.” He opened the gate. “Can I do anything?”

“Yes. Is there another here?”

He nodded staring.

“Good. With a bicycle?”

He nodded again.

“Send him to the university, to my house. Let him tell the cook to have a doctor and hot water ready for me. The cook's name is Wen-li.”

“Yes,” the soldier said. He stood swallowing.

“You have seen this before,” Girard said gently. “Go now and do it quickly.”

The soldier looked once down the road and turned back to the sentry house. Girard started into the town, stepping carefully on the stony dirt road, passing now the high walls of homes, now the open faces of shops. Near the meat market were the children, eight or ten of them suddenly, howling and pointing, more at his strange large-nosed face and brown hair and height than at the unconscious violated being he carried. They followed screaming down a long alley, tripping over the legs of their elders (who sat in doorways holding pipes and cigarettes, glancing once at the procession and closing their eyes again, leaving only the slowly wreathing smoke in motion); they ran, faces daubed with mucus and coaldust, pushing and kicking one another. One of them called to him, “You have blood on your shoe, Bignose,” and the others, laughing, howled variations, bobbing at his side, in front of him, never touching him but always there. “You have blood on your shoe. Bignose; you have blood on your gown, Bignose; you have blood on your face, Bignose; you have blood on your shoes, blood on your gown, blood on your face, blood on your hands,” and they shouted, “blood on your organ, Bignose; on your gown, your feet, your hands, your face, your organ,” chanting in chorus, the mucus-stained faces advancing and receding, approaching and finally disappearing as he left the town and walked on to the field. He saw the open gate across the field, with the flag above it wooden in the wind which flattened the grasses he crossed and brought again the stinging grains; looking up into the yellowness he heard them, grouped behind him at the edge of the town: “blood on your hands, Bignose; your hands, your feet, your face, your gown, your organ.”

He took the short path through the university, the one behind the coalyards, and when he came into his courtyard Wen-li took the man from him. “Put him on the sofa,” Girard said. “Is the doctor here?”

“He is here.” Wen-li took the man inside. Girard went into the kitchen across the courtyard and ran a glass of water from the jug and sat looking out at the sky, sipping the water and fighting his bowels. There was blood on his shoe.

He was well again twenty minutes later when the doctor came into the kitchen. The doctor pushed his head around the jamb of the door first and said, “Hello, Andrew.”

“Hello, Sam,” Girard said in English. “How is the patient?”

“All right,” the doctor said. He came all the way into the kitchen. “I cleaned his eye and sewed up his jaw. He's conscious.”

“Good. Will you have some tea?”

“No thank you. I must get home.”

“I owe you the thanks.”

The doctor nodded. “I thought you made it a rule not to speak English here.”

“I've had a bad afternoon.”

The doctor looked at Girard's shoe. “Yes.” And then in Chinese, “He will be all right quickly.”

“Good.” Girard shook hands with him. The doctor turned and walked away, his black bag and blue gown giving him the appearance of a priest-doctor, the healing saint of an ancient tribe in Babylon or India, come to life now and known to half the world as Liao Hsü-mo and to the other half as Samuel Liao, and to some like Andrew Girard as both; and then he was gone.

Girard went into the house and walked to the sofa. The man lay still, one eye open and the other bandaged.
Young
, Girard thought,
twenty at the most
. The man's jaw was bound and slung, the bandage disappearing over the top of his head and coming around again on the other side. There was a square of gauze over the side of his nose with a runner of tape from his upper lip to his forehead. Girard told Wen-li to get tea, and sat on the table near the sofa.

“Will you be able to eat? Perhaps the bandage is too tight.”

“I could chew slowly,” the man said, “but I am not hungry.” He stared at the ceiling.

“Tea, then.”

“Yes, tea.”

Girard took a blanket from the bedroom and came back and threw it over the man's body. When it touched him the man trembled. He shifted his vision to the window and stroked his forehead and crewcut slowly with one hand, stopping to feel the linen strapped across his head. “This is very ironic,” he said.

“Don't talk if you don't want to.”

“I am well. It was the shock. The sharp blows and the shock. There is nothing broken.”

“No. The doctor said you would be well soon.”

“It was Doctor Liao?”

“Yes.”

“That too is irony.”

“Why?”

“Doctor Liao was educated in America. The lieutenant had an American pistol. The soldiers had American rifles.”

“Oh,” Girard said. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“No. I do not smoke.” He smiled under the bandages. “I suppose it is an American cigarette.”

“Yes.”

The man looked at Girard then for the first time. Girard smiled.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“My name is Girard.”

“Andrew Girard?”

“Yes.”

“Better,” the man said. “That makes it a little better. And Doctor Liao too is all right. They say that you have not been here too long, but that you understand well.”

“Perhaps I understood some of it before I came here.”

“Perhaps.” He felt the bandage again. “Thank you for this.”

“It is foolish to thank me.”

“Yes,” the man said. “Would you like to speak English?”

“No,” Girard said. “Continue this way. You know English?”

“Fairly well. And some French. I prefer Chinese, of course.”

“What is your name?” Girard asked.

The man smiled. “It seems to me that I heard you telling the lieutenant that you knew me.”

Girard laughed.

“Ma,” the man said. “Ma Chi-wei.”

Wen-li came in with the teapot and two cups on a tray. He set them on the table and poured. Girard took a cup and held it out to Ma Chi-wei, who raised his hands from his sides and held the cup in both of them, saying, “I can manage.” Girard picked up the other cup.

“Ma Chi-wei, Pao Wen-li,” he said.

“Honored,” they said together.

“Ma Chi-wei will stay here tonight,” Girard said.

“No,” he said. “I cannot. I came here to attend a meeting, and now I will be late; but I feel stronger. I will go soon.”

“You may have more trouble getting back to the City,” Girard said. He turned to Wen-li and added, “Ma Chi-wei is a well known leader of the university in the City.”

Wen-li nodded and said, “I have heard.”

Ma Chi-wei said, “There will be no trouble.” He smiled. “This is perhaps the greatest irony. They will not touch me again for a time; they fear your nationality.”

“You are right,” Girard said. “As you wish.” Wen-li went out. “I do not think this is such irony,” Girard said. “I think you have invented a doctrine about Americans which does not apply to all of them.”

“Of course. And yet without a doctrine nothing would be done.”

“You are right again.” They sipped hot yellow tea. “But even the doctrines must always be in a state of change.”

“Not always,” Ma Chi-wei said. “That would be equivalent to having no doctrines at all.”

“Perhaps. But no more such irony.”

Ma Chi-wei smiled. “No. There will be no more such irony. In fact,” he sipped the tea with a harsh gurgle, cooling it in the drinking of it, “such irony runs counter to our doctrines.” They laughed, and then were silent.

When Ma Chi-wei had finished his tea he set the cup carefully on the carved table and said, “I see you have a phonograph.”

“Yes. Would you like to hear something?”

“Have you Beethoven?”

“Some. Shall I play it?”

He shook his head and winced and said, “No. I will go now if the walking is easy. But I will come back to listen.”

“Good,” Girard said. “As soon as you can.”

Ma Chi-wei threw back the blanket and pivoted on his buttocks until his feet were on the floor and his head rested on the soft back of the sofa, outlined in the dusk against the grey-green dull sky, his shadowed eyes invisible; light seeped through the pane behind him. He leaned forward and rose slowly in delicate balance and when he was erect he held himself against the padded arm of the sofa, blinking his now visible eyes.

“I had forgotten entirely,” Girard said. “You will need clothes.” He went to the bedroom and got a sweater and trousers and a gown. He came back and said, “What size shoe do you wear?”

“Thirteen,” Ma Chi-wei said. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa.

“Mine are seventeen,” Girard said, “but Wen-li wears a twelve, and an old pair will be larger.” Ma Chi-wei pushed himself off the sofa. “How does it feel to stand?”

“There is dizziness, but I will be all right.”

“Good. Put these on,” Girard said. “I will get the shoes.” He threw the clothes on the sofa and went to Wen-li's room. When he came back with the shoes Ma Chi-wei was wearing the trousers.

“These are American military trousers,” Ma Chi-wei said.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “It is no longer ironic.”

“No,” Girard said. “But it is funny.”

“What is funny?”

“The size. Look at them.” Girard moved toward him. “Let me roll them up. Sit down on the sofa.”

Ma Chi-wei sat and Girard rolled the cuffs back for him. While Ma Chi-wei put the sweater and gown around himself Girard went to get socks. He came back and knelt and slid them onto Ma Chi-wei's feet. He slid the shoes over them. Ma Chi-wei stood up and walked to the bathroom. “Here,” Girard said, “take a handkerchief. There may be blood.”

Ma Chi-wei took it and looked into the mirror and then smiled and said, “I will not use it on this nose, I promise you.” They laughed. Ma Chi-wei put his hands on the edges of the washbasin and leaned forward to the mirror. After a moment he said, “Excuse me. I must urinate.” Girard left him and closed the door and waited.

When Ma Chi-wei was ready to leave they went to the front door. Girard asked him what the meeting was for. “There is fighting in the north,” Ma Chi-wei said. “Perhaps nine hundred li from here. It will affect our conduct if it comes closer. We are in the process of deciding what that conduct will be.”

“More doctrines,” Girard said, opening the door.

“More doctrines,” Ma Chi-wei agreed. “But doctrines of a flexibility.”

“Listen,” Girard said, “what will you do for a citizen's card? It was in your clothes, I suppose.”

“No. I had left it at home. It was that for which they first arrested me. When I told them my name the rest followed.” He saw Wen-li in the kitchen and called, “Thank you for the shoes.”

“It was nothing,” Wen-li called back.

“And now I will not need it,” he went on to Girard. “The issue is greater. And they will know me as your friend.”

“I am happy that they will,” Girard said.

Ma Chi-wei looked out and turned to Girard with his hand outstretched. “Thank you for many things,” he said.

“Yes,” Girard nodded. “Never mind.” They shook hands. “Tell me one thing before you go.”

Ma Chi-wei looked up, still holding his hand. “What is it?”

“What do he dust and the wind and the yellow mean?”

“You do not know?”

“No.”

He smiled and this time Girard noticed his teeth: even and large and almost too white, gleaming slightly. “It happens each year at this time. The wind shifts and comes suddenly from the north, from Siberia; and when it comes it brings with it the yellow desert dust of Mongolia, of the Gobi. It comes quickly and on it rides the cold, the cold that we will know until the third month of next year. It is really nothing more than that, but for some who hold to their superstitions it means evil and death, the denial of green. Logically. For the farmers of north China it could mean nothing else, and among the children of two hundred generations of farmers there are some who must believe.”

“Ah,' Girard said. “That explains a great deal.”

Ma Chi-wei dropped Girard's hand and padded calm and erect across the court.

2

Girard ate slowly in the evening. He had bathed and worked, alone and wanting to be alone, until Wen-li called him to the table. Girard ate silently, stilly, eating and enjoying the tastes but trying not to think. Wen-li carried the meal across the court on a tray, covering it with a clean towel. The pork strips were lean and peppery, hot, with a good smell, and the potato was soft and clean, crisp-jacketed. Girard left the red wet tomatoes in their dish. The wine lay cold in his body.

Wen-li, bringing the coffee, said that they would have to wear the heavy gowns tomorrow; and feeling the cold cross the doorsill with him Girard agreed. Girard took the coffee to the small table and left it there to cool while he sorted the week's papers; he took a marksheet from the bookcase and when he had the papers arranged he sat on the sofa correcting them. The coffee was hot and after the second cup he had no trouble keeping his mind where it belonged.