The Season of the Stranger (38 page)

It went on like that, the cheerful noise and the excited faces; it went on because there was no reason for it to stop, no one wanted to stop. The soldiers were relaxing for the first time in many weeks, really relaxing now, not simply catching breath, and they gave in slowly to the fact that they were heroes, gave in at first in bewilderment and then happily, realizing what they had meant to these students. And the students too began now to realize what this meant. It meant the end of waiting, the end of hoping and despairing, the end (but this they did not realize until later) of uncertainty, uncertainty about the war or about their work or about their status, their standing as Chinese or true Chinese or renegade Chinese or not Chinese at all. (Later they saw that the crystallization had begun this morning, had begun slowly and warmly in a fusion of the soldiers and the students with the soldiers the freers and the students the freed, so that later when the soldiers were administrators and the students were students the loyalty was transferred easily, smoothly, and immediately; but the loyalty existed only because the uncertainty was gone and finally there was something to be loyal to, something which would not soon alter, a fixed relationship; all of which had been impossible before.)

A very few of the students (the quicker; those who left the happy circle of laughing warriors and went off to be alone for a few moments, to think) saw that they might have spared themselves months of hot speech and thought, months of convincing themselves and others that this was the moment to be awaited; because it did not happen because of them and it would have happened in spite of them, and all that their work meant was that they belonged (which was important too) but it did not tell them where they belonged. Those few (alone momentarily: to think) saw themselves as a noisy reception committee, saw themselves replaced as heroes, and, worse than that, saw themselves fully committed to their own replacement and at least for the time being to the cessation of their own activity, until the relationship was defined, until the uncertainty was finally gone.

But these were very few. The others worshiped. They had not known it would be like this, but they had waited for it, and now they were happy; it was what they had wanted, and they had wanted it for many years. It was the end of their war, and if the end had come in the quiet tired tramp of conquerors' (liberators', they said) feet, in the sun and soft wind of a day in early spring, in the low laughing chatter of heroes' voices, if it had come that way and not in the immediate unmanning roar of falling shells, not in the scream of a bayonet attack, not in the waving of a bloodied banner, not in the foolish bravery of proud sweeping cavalry charges (and some of them, but few, had thought that it would be like that), it was still the end.

The officers dismissed the men after a time, and the field cleared; groups wandered through the grounds, the blue-clad men and women and the khaki heroes, and the sound of voices thinned, spread. Now the field was bare and tan and breeze-swept again, empty and cold and flat, empty except for three or four quiet students who sat at its edges seeing nothing, their minds turned inward; seeing not even tomorrow, sitting still and silent on the bare ageless earth, glimpsing dimly what this mild morning of birds and running streams might mean to history.

When Andrew was gone Li-ling had tried to go back to sleep. Her eyes closed willingly and the warmth soothed her. She was dropping off into nothingness when a sharp almost audible tick snapped her brain awake and her eyes open. She could not remember what she had been thinking, or dreaming, of to rouse her like that and force her heart into an exaggerated beating. She lay thinking, remembering in the softness of the bed. After a time the thinking slowed and stopped and she was at the edge of sleep when the tick came again. This time she sat up and when the blanket slipped away from her shoulders a chill touched her. Shivering, she remembered that Andrew was at the gate. It was not that; but something related to Andrew's being at the gate was keeping sleep from her. She forced thoughts through her slowed mind. The chill touched her again and she shivered again, and then in the shiver she had a feeling, and the feeling became a thought. It was the voice of the man who had come for Andrew. It had not been Cheng. Now, awake and cold, she remembered that, and it was not greatly important. She had heard the voice before, whoever it was, and she would not be kept from sleep by it. She slid beneath the covers.

She must have fallen asleep quickly. Now there was another voice, and she was waking slowly. The voice came again, “Andrew. Andrew,” and she recognized it as Cheng's.

“Cheng,” she called. “Wait. Andrew is not here.”

He was quiet for a time and then he said, “Is it you, Li-ling?”

“Yes,” she said. She hurried out of bed and into her gown. She found shoes and put them on and went into the living room. She loosened her hair and ran her fingers through it and smoothed it and then she turned on the light.

He smiled shyly. “Excuse me,” he said. “Excuse me.”

She smiled back. She felt a little sad. “Do not apologize. Sit down.”

He walked to the large chair and sat. She offered him a cigarette and he shook his head. “We have smoked too much tonight.”

She nodded. “Andrew is at the gate,” she said. “A man came for him a short time ago.”

“I suppose they needed him there,” Cheng said. “There was negotiation.”

“Of what kind?” She sat on the sofa.

“The Nationalist troops left. There was a conference before they left. The Communists agreed to let them reach the City without interference, in return for their abandoning the university without a battle.”

“When did they leave?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“What time is it now?”

“Almost six o'clock.”

Outside it was grey. To the east it was lighter and pink. “He should be home soon,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Nothing very exciting happened at the dining hall. We just heard that the Nationalist soldiers had left. I came to tell him that.” He smiled. “I should have known that I would be too late.”

“I will tell him you were here,” she said. She heard Wen-li banging at the stove in the kitchen.

“Good,” Cheng said. “It has been a tiring night. And before I forget, there will probably be a ceremony of some sort at about noon. The official change of hands. Tell him that. Although I suppose he will know.”

“I will tell him.”

He stood up. “Good. Then I will see you later.”

She got up and went to the door with him. “See you later,” she said.

When he had left she looked out through the courtyard again. She stood at the door for a few minutes watching, and then she turned and went in to bed. She fell asleep immediately.

When she woke again she felt new and clean. She leaned to the curtains and pulled them apart. A line of sunlight shone on the blanket. She put her hand into it and felt its warmth. She got out of bed and put her shoes on and called into the living room, “Andrew.” He did not answer. She wrapped her gown around her and went into the bathroom and washed. Then she came back to the bedroom and dressed. When she was dressed she went out to the kitchen.

Wen-li was inside. He had his back to her. He was leaning on the far windowsill, and he looked as though he had been staring down the road for some time. She knocked. He turned and came and opened the door. “I am awake,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten o'clock, I think.”

“And he is not back?”

“No.”

They looked at each other and then they looked down the road. She shrugged. “No one knows what conferences and meetings they may be having. But he must be tired. I wish he would come.”

“I too,” Wen-li said. “I will bring breakfast.”

She ate and then sat for a time waiting. She wanted to go looking for him and to see what was happening with the new troops, but she did not want to embarrass him by interrupting a conference, and she wanted to be here when he returned. He would be tired and probably hungry, and before he went to sleep she would want to hear what had happened. She read for a few minutes but with only half her attention. She put the book away and went outside and up on the hill. There might be activity near the railway line.

There was nothing. The only soldier in sight was a sentry at the blockhouse far off, the one the Japanese had built. Over it a new flag was flying. Otherwise it was nothing more than a day in early spring. She watched the sentry walk back and forth. Then she went down into the courtyard, and back into the house.

At eleven o'clock a man came into the courtyard and she jumped up from the sofa, but through the window she saw that it was Cheng again. He came to the door and knocked and she let him in. “Is he back?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I thought you might know where he was.” He shook his head. “I do not.”

“Are they still having meetings?”

“The students are not,” he said. “I saw the dean walking with a group of soldiers, but I have not seen any of the professors.”

“Perhaps there is a faculty meeting,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“How are the soldiers?”

“Wonderful and wonderfully behaved. One of them is a former classmate of mine. The university is full of groups of soldiers and students, walking and talking.”

“Good,” she said, “And the City?” The City seemed unimportant. She knew it was not, but she had not even thought of it until now.

“Besieged,” he said. “Surrounded. But the capitulation should come today. They are incapable of holding out, and they do not want to.”

“Then there will not be much blood,” she said.

“No, there will not be much blood.” He looked at the door and at her again. “I will go now,” he said. “I want to talk with the soldiers. Will you come along?”

“No. I want to wait for Andrew.”

He nodded. “See you later.”

“See you later.”

She spent the day in the house. In the afternoon Wen-li went out to ask about Andrew, but no one had seen him. Wen-li was gone for an hour, and when he came back and told her what they had said she could feel her cheeks shrink and her back grow suddenly stiff and tired. She closed her eyes.

“Who was it that came for him?” Wen-li asked.

She opened her eyes. “I am not sure,” she said. She felt better. “But I know the voice. Let me think.” She went to the sofa and sat thinking of the students she knew. The voice did not fit any of them. She remembered her teachers. It was not one of them. “If I could remember,” she said. “If I could remember.”

“Think,” he said. He went out to the kitchen. As she thought, she could hear him working. She took Andrew's class lists from the bookcase and went over the names. It was not one of his students. She remembered who had been in the dining hall the night before. It had not been the radio man or the telephone man or any of the people who had spoken to them. She concentrated on the voice itself, trying to remember it. She failed. She could hear it saying, “They want you at the gate,” but she could not remember whether it was deep or high or young or old.

Wen-li came in later and looked at her. She shook her head. “I can almost remember it,” she said, “and I know that it was familiar. But the answer will not come.”

He frowned. Then he said, “I looked out at them last night. I barely saw the man. But I thought I knew his walk. And now I cannot remember.”

“Then it must be someone from the university,” she said. “Someone we both know.”

He nodded. Then he smiled. “Then it is all right,” he said. “He must be at a long meeting. Perhaps they are deciding policies, or discussing something very important.”

“Yes,” she said. But she had begun to be troubled. Deep in her mind was the name of the man, waiting to be forced out, and the more she thought about it the greater grew a strange feeling that she would not be happy about the answer. She made fists of her hands and stared out the door into the courtyard.

“What is it?” Wen-li asked.

“I am worried,” she said. “Something worries me. I do not know what it is.”

His face clouded over with an understanding look, as though he too had a worry deep inside him. “I have asked a friend to inquire,” he said. “My friend is well-known and a gossip. He will find out and come to tell me.”

“Good,” she said. “May it be soon.”

Half an hour later Wen-li came in again. “My friend is here,” he said. “According to him no one knows anything of Mr Girard.”

She began to weep. She did not know why. Perhaps the strain of trying to remember had made her weep. If I could remember, she thought. Why can I not remember?

Still weeping, she said, “Will you go to Dean Chou? Ask him?”

Wen-li was not looking at her. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, I will go now.” He went out.

When he was gone she gave way completely. She lay on the sofa and sobbed. Since the last time with her father she had not known what it was to be afraid, and now she was afraid. She was afraid all through. She wept and beat the pillow with her fists and wished aloud that she could remember, or that he would come, or that he would send a message. No one had heard from him, there was the horror. No one had heard. In her weeping she remembered what she had told him near the observatory the night before, and then the fear became terror. I have done it. This has happened because of my words. She bit the heel of her hand until she could not stand the pain.

Then the weeping was over, and the pillow-beating. She sat up and rubbed her face with a handkerchief. She breathed deeply and rested. She was still afraid, but something in her was congealing slowly around the fear. And now she knew that it was a fear for Andrew and not for herself. There would be no more tears. He would be home tonight and then the fear would be gone and the hollow tight feeling of her face and the tiring stiffness of her back. He would laugh and kiss her and she would not let him out of the house again.