LET IT ALL GO

LET IT ALL GO

A tale of different generations and love lost

一个失恋的女儿带着母亲去海边旅行，一段散心之旅却面临意想不到的无奈

When I woke from my afternoon nap, Mama had already left for the beach. “You don’t need to join me,” she said. Before leaving she poured me a glass of water, chopped an apple and left me half. The side of the fruit exposed to the air was already turning brown.

I could sense that morning’s vicious headache curling up behind a nerve ending. For the whole trip jet lag and swinging temperatures tormented me. In the bathroom I turned on the shower and waited as hot water traveled through the creaking pipes. Up on the rack, the neatly folded hotel towels and washcloths were still clean and stiff while the dingy old towel she brought dangled from a bar. Every inch was frayed, a jarring image clashing against that pristine backdrop, making it impossible to look away. But that wasn’t the end of it. Pulling away the towel I would fi nd a neat fi lm of cellophane coating the bar. It was like a Resident Evil reenactment, where skin rot is spread by touch. I already knew she had brought mosquito repellent, alcohol, and cotton swabs, but hadn’t imagined she would bring an actual box of cellophane wrap.

“Don’t be such a worry wart,” I told her the fi rst night, after fi nishing in the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” she said stubbornly. “Don’t you know these hotel-chain maids wipe the toilets with the towels?”

“You take the newspapers way too seriously. This isn’t one of those cheap hotel chains. Look out the window. We have a view of the ocean.” As I spoke, I pressed the remote switch next to the bed that opened the curtains. She shifted uncertainly to stand beside the window, but the murky night obscured everything.

“Once, when I stayed at a hostel, I wore someone else’s slippers and got a fungal infection,” she crowed.

“How long ago was that? Twenty years?”

“Right after I got married, 20, no, 30 years ago. But what does that have to do with this? “

“The world is changing!”

“Well it’s not getting any cleaner!”

“Your outlook is way too bleak. You see danger everywhere.”

“Exactly. Why else would you have been made to suffer like that? I can tell that your heart was shattered.”

“What!? Where did that come from? You need to stop watching all those TV shows.”

“I’m not like you. People my age just want to pass their time away cheerfully. What do you want me to change?”

“Nobody wants you to change,” I snapped, getting crabby. Now, with her out of the room I felt I could relax. I pulled my hotel-shampoo-washed-hair into a bun that persistently dripped water. Opening a window, I could see the beach in the distance dotted with people, dogs and seabirds: no clatter, no clamor, just silent serenity. I didn’t put on any clothes—perfect. I assumed there would be a strong wind blowing—delusion. But surfers rushed into the ocean with their boards to meet waves that rose abruptly before disappearing into white foam.

Grabbing my book, I went down to the hotel cafe.

Originally, I had planned to read it on the plane, but there were two women from Wenzhou sitting behind me. They had opened a grocery store and gossiped endlessly about shopkeepers opening shops and business in Chinatown.

The splintered, seesawing pitch of their chitter-chatter

ZHOU JIANING

周嘉宁

Zhou Jianing was born in 1982 and published her first short novel collection when she was 20 years old, now working as the style director of literature magazine, Newriting （《鲤》）. She writes in a simple, accurate, and restrained style that Chinese literary critics often connect with Richard Yates, Carver, and Hemingway. Her representative works include Clear Is the Sky, How I Ruined My Life Step by Step, and Waste City.tugged at my nerves. Beside me, however, Mama slept through the whole fl ight. Her seat belt was pulled tight, eyebrows knitted and short breaths uneven. Midway, I fell into a hazy sleep, but soon the dehydration and rumbling of the cabin came back to torture me. At least I was acclimatized to sleep deprivation. Just sitting still like that, my bones, nerves, skin, and hair felt like pieces of weather-worn porcelain.

In the restaurant adjoining the cafe I now saw two chunky waitresses in aprons standing hands-on-hips against the fi re retardant kitchen door. They shot a cold glance in my direction. There were no other customers, so I walked out onto the terrace that faced the beach and where I could have a smoke. We were near the tropics and there was a shocking gap between morning and evening temperatures. The sun’s glare turned everything into a dazzling white mirage, but whenever a dark cloud passed, the ocean wind would scream like a headache. Some of the people on the beach wore sweaters. Others were in bikinis playing beach volleyball with pasty sand plastered to their bodies.

A hobo came along pushing a cart and stopped on the other side of the terrace railing. He pointed at my cigarette pack to indicate he wanted one. I hesitated for a minute, slid one out, and handed it to him. He had his own lighter, but the wind had picked up and the click clack click clack went on for ages. Once the cigarette was lit he leaned against the rail and took a deep drag. He wore a small, purple hat with a sequined crown. His face was pale, and the corner of his mouth split into a long scar.

“Where you from?”

“China,” I said.

“Ah, aha. Beijing?”

“No, I am not.” I was in no mood to talk.

“I once had a girlfriend from Beijing,” he actually started singing. “I once loved a girl, she’s from Beijing, from Beijing.”

“Uuh.”

“Why are you here? On vacation?” He continued.

“Correct.”

“And your friends are?”

“I came with my mother. She went to the beach. The sun is too hot.”

“Vacationing with your mother. That can’t be easy. Ouch!” He whistled and said, “How old are you, 20?”

“Huh?” I couldn’t help but giggle, “You know how to talk nice.”

“Don’t you know it,” he chuckled. “Are you one of those sad, gloomy, depressed types?”

“No way.”

DEEP, RED SUNBURN SPREAD FROM HER NOSE TO HER CHEEKS. SHE WAS HUFFING AND PUFFING BUT LOOKED OVERJOYED AND CONTENT.

“My guitar’s broken, or else I’d play a song for you. I only know Elvis. I’m old school.”

“Some other time.”

“I have to go. It’s been an unlucky day,” he pointed to the cart behind him. “See, the plastic bin ripped. Paul from the restaurant over there has a new one for me. I’m on my way to get it.” He put out the cigarette, pushed his cart forward a couple of steps and then turned around and said: “Let me give you a tip. Don’t eat the fi sh and chips from Paul’s place. His fi sh isn’t fresh!”

Mama returned after a while. The two waitresses were changing the tablecloths and arranging the tableware for dinner. I could see her in her orange hat approaching from far down the beach. She’d bought it just for travel. It was crumpled and aged her a few years. She’d also bought a handbag in the same color scheme. It was canvas, not leather, and she wouldn’t stop complaining about it. She lurched through the sand. Deep, red sunburn spread from her nose to her cheeks. She was huffi ng and puffi ng but looked overjoyed and content.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“I went for a walk along the shore.”

“For the whole afternoon?”

“Yes. I hiked passed two bays. All the way behind that rock,” she pointed energetically. I looked, but couldn’t see anything. “You should get out and walk around a little. Stop thinking about him. We’re here to relax and forget our troubles. Remember?”

“I wasn’t thinking about him at all, but now I am! Now I’m thinking about him!”

“Do you still have a headache? What a shame. It’s the last day, and you didn’t get to see the bay.”

“Let’s just go eat. I’m hungry again. You?”

The soft evening sun draped over our shoulders as we walked along the beach. It wasn’t dark yet—naturally that meant it wasn’t dinnertime either. All the restaurants we looked into were dead black. There was only a scattering of white people sitting on chairs outside and drinking beer. I caught a glimpse of a shop with the letters for Paul on the sign and for whatever reason hurried my steps. But Icouldn’t help looking back. A golden deep-fried fi sh and a fi zzing bottle of cola were printed on the placard by the door—next to it, a guy with a mohawk was making a phone call.

Eventually we found a Japanese restaurant and sat down. On the fi rst night she gorged herself on the rich food here: greasy, deep-fried local snacks and pungent Southeast Asian cuisine. Like all the other tourists, we sat at a table veiled by tree leaves and observed the beachgoers from our reclined repose. At this hour the sunbathers rose in ranks and began languidly shuffl ing away. “We should talk,” she said. The food was slow and she could no longer stand the silence.

“We talk every day,” I said, with as much good humor as I could manage.

“You still haven’t told me the truth,” she said. “You should have told me earlier.”

“I’m not as upset as you think. I’ve totally accepted it.”

“Just like that, you’ve accepted it?” She looked at me skeptically.

“It’s nothing. He fell in love with someone else. Anybody can fall in love with someone else.”

“Fool’s talk. As if you loved someone else?” She nearly thrust her face into mine, “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Never!” She spoke loudly, but her voice quivered and fell fl at at the end. I thought she was on the verge of crying and couldn’t understand why she was getting so upset. All we could do was twist our heads toward the dimming horizon.

When our dishes arrived I kept silent and absorbed myself into the food. She took two self-conscious mouthfuls and pushed her bowl away. I didn’t look up at her. A fl y whirled around between us.

“Did he beat you?” She asked abruptly.

“What?”

“Did he beat you?” She repeated.

Sliding my bowl away, I jammed two trembling hands into my purse, pulled out a wad of change, and slapped it down on the table. She followed me out of the restaurant. In single fi le, we toiled across the sand. Heading to the hotel we passed by Paul’s restaurant again. The neon lights were now glowing and the seductive smell of deep-fried food wafted out of the entrance. Before I had the chance to slip by, the hobo with the sequined hat bowed out of the doorway. Pushing his cart he stumbled toward me enthusiastically.

‘Ha, I knew I’d run into you again.” He smiled and spread open his arms. A tacky, pink, plastic box was now fi xed to his cart. “Paul gave me a new container and I also got a blues harmonica in C!”

Feeling awkward, I nodded without smiling and stepped off to the side.

“Is that your mom? She’s got your good looks.” He turned to her and said, “Hi.”

“Who’s that man? What’s he saying?” She locked her hands together, glared at the strange man, lowered her shoulders, turned to me and shrilled, “Who’s that man!?”

“He’s a garbage collector,” I said.

“What does he want?”

“He says good evening.”

“Make him leave.”

“It’s okay, Mama, he’s just saying hello.”

“Make him leave. Now.” She yanked on my sleeve and shooed him away in a panic.

“We should return to the hotel,” I said to him. “You know...”

“For sure, for sure.” He continued standing there without saying anything else.

Then, she put fi re in her stride. My shoes were fi lling with sand as I tried to keep up, when a group of teenagers rushed toward us from a nearby surfi ng school. They wore tight wetsuits and carried surfboards as tall as a person. One last strip of daylight still glowed on the horizon. The surfers hastened past and the boys in the lead soon charged into to the ocean.

Back at the hotel we changed into our swimsuits, having decided to go down for a swim in the outdoor pool. We walked down a long corridor and onto the deck where an oasis of tropical plants thrived in the inky darkness. Without warning it began to rain. By the time we got to the edge of the pool we realized that temperatures had dropped by at least ten degrees. Ocean winds blew from all directions and I could feel my headache stirring behind the nerve ending. I pulled my jacket tighter.

“Let’s go back. It’s too cold,” I said.

“What a shame. This is the last night,” she said.

“We could get a drink at the bar,” I said deliberately.

“You drink?” She stared at me and turned to the pool that crackled under the shower.

We headed back the way we came and neither of us spoke for a while.

“I don’t hate him and I don’t expect you to understand, so you’re better off just accepting it,” I said.

“I understand. The world is changing. Times are bleak.”

“No, that’s not it. You don’t understand.”

“In our day people didn’t get divorced. Even if you didn’t love each other, you still lived together. It wasnormal. We suffered the heartache. These days nobody can suffer it. One day, he’ll realize that fi nding someone like you isn’t that easy. It doesn’t matter who you’re with. It’s all the same in the end. He’ll see that one day.”

“That’s not the point.”

We arrived at the entrance of the bar. She halted, peered inside and immediately took a step back.

“They’re all foreigners,” she said, staring at me.

“It’s too cold. I’m going to get another headache. I need to sit for a while and have a drink, and then I’ll come up.”“Tomorrow we have to leave for the airport before dawn,” she stammered. But all of the arguing was clearly exhausting her as well. She gave in and headed for the elevator. I found a seat by a window overlooking the terrace; darkness now engulfed the vista, but the ocean was right outside.

The bar was tiny and there was hardly any space between the seats. There weren’t many people. A man facing me had a hot sandwich and glass of beer in front of him. It was already his third glass but the sandwich was still intact. He spent most of his time focused on the window. Every so often he would turn his head and smile. I drained a glass of wine and ordered another. He pulled his chair closer and started talking from across the table.

“Are you from China?” he asked politely.

“Yes.”

“There aren’t many Chinese restaurants around here. There’s the Li Ji next door. They serve hot pot.”

“Good choice actually, for this weather.”

“It is cool this evening, but tomorrow will be nicer. You could go out to sea. Have you been?”

“No. My mother will get seasick.”

“So you’re keeping your mother company?”

“You could say that,” I said, knowing she thought it was the other way around.

“I have three kids. Two of my daughters work in the city and my son’s divorced. He once brought my granddaughter here on holiday and they spent the whole time out on the boats.”

“You live here?”

“I own a rental shop across the street. It’s got anything you might need, from skateboards to boats.”

“Do you catch fi sh on the ocean?”

“Sure, I was good with a line and hook once, but I got tired of the sea and don’t go out anymore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you say I invite you out for dinner tomorrow?”

“But...” This was the last night I thought.

“But what? Bring your mother along, or do you have any other family members here? I want to hear about your city. I had a pacemaker implanted this year. I’ll never be able to travel again, but I’m tired of this place.”He swallowed another mouthful of beer. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or not.

The man wrote down his phone number. It had a long area code and country number and he insisted I call him the next evening. Picking up my room card I said goodbye and walked onto the terrace to smoke my last cigarette of the night. The rain stopped, and the air was cleared of fl oral aromas, leaving only the fi shy stink of the sea. It was so much colder. I huddled up to light my cigarette and turned around to see the old man sitting; lonely in a leather chair. His eyes were shut as though he were sleeping.

“Stop holding me so tight. You’re pulling my clothes,”he said into the wind.

“What!” I shouted, but it was as though the wind was whisking our words back from where we came.

“You’re pulling my clothes!” He turned his head around.

“Slow down. They drive on the left here. You keep hugging the line.”

“I’m only going 60. Stop nagging!”

“But there’s too much wind. I’m getting a headache.”“Then why don’t you wear a helmet?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You never listen—we need to stop at a pharmacy—did you put on sunscreen?” he said softly, lowering his voice. He didn’t know that his words were scattered by the wind.

Ten whole years had passed since. We had been driving down an island road with a magnifi cent Buddha and swarms of irritating bees in the distance. But now everything was fi ne. I couldn’t even remember that island’s name. All I could dredge out of my memory were worthless bits and pieces. At any rate, there and then I inhaled a mouthful of smoke and let it all go.– TRANSLATED BY NICOLAS RICHARDS (芮尼克)

Author’s Note: This piece was written after I went on a trip with my mother. What I want to discuss is the distance between people—be it family, lovers, or strangers—how we communicate as individuals, how such communication is effective, and,

ultimately, how we interpret solitude and solve the problems it causes.