Read an Excerpt
The Last Lover
By Can Xue, Annelise Finegan Wasmoen Yale UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 2013 Can Xue
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-300-20688-3
CHAPTER 1
JOE AND HIS BOOKS
Joe, the manager of the Rose Clothing Company's sales department, clamps a briefcase under his arm as he passes through the narrow streets that lead to his office. He is a small, conservative man between middle and old age, meticulous in his dress, with shoes invariably spotless, his beard and hair regularly trimmed. His pale green eyes sometimes have a blank expression, either because he's absentminded or because he's eccentric. He often harbors thoughts of madness. Joe has a mania for reading, and for years he's read one book after another, muddling all the stories in his mind. His memory is of the kind that's excellent at making choices—a grafting memory—so the pathway of his thought is always clear. He usually sits in his office in City B with a novel hidden under the files, trying to look as if he's hard at work. In fact, he's reading all kinds of stories. As he is circumspect and conservative, his clients over the years have never discovered this secret. Joe's manner of reading allows him to practice a singularly coherent method of linking his thoughts together. Every day his job interrupts him countless times, but in the space of a second he can get back into the flow of a story.
Joe's home is on a small hill two streets from the office. From the windows a stretch of blue sea is visible, over which seagulls hover. In the light of an early dawn, he was already on the road to work. The people of Country A rise very late, and there was no one on the quiet street except a black woman, a street cleaner. Joe heard his footsteps on the empty street sounding a hesitant note. To the right, the storefront windows reflected his tidy hair and necktie. Joe turned away shyly and lowered his eyes to the ground when he caught sight of this distinct image of himself.
"Good morning!" he said.
"Good morning! You're out early." The slender woman leaned on her broom and observed him as he slipped by and disappeared little by little into the distance. Her large eyes blinked, as if she were lost deep in thought.
Joe reached his office, turned on the lights, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, then sat at his desk and continued with the story from yesterday. The book in front of him was very old, and its pages were yellowed; it must have been twenty years ago that he'd bought it. Joe had been purchasing books for three decades, and the house on the seafront was stuffed with them. He had taken all the beds and converted them into empty "chests" that sat on the floor loaded with books. Since the previous year Joe had been envisioning a magnificent plan: to reread all the novels and stories he'd ever read in his life, so that the stories would be connected together. That way, he could simply pick up any book and move without interruption from one story to another. And he himself would be drawn into it, until the outer world wouldn't be able to disturb him. Joe had put this plan into action, and after two months of persistence it was already producing results. For example, he could even talk business with a customer (he is, after all, the manager of the clothing company's sales department) and at the same time remain immersed in his stories. He would sometimes stealthily turn aside with a faint smile.
"Joe, my company would collapse without you," Joe's boss said when they met. He was the company's owner, a thin man of about sixty with white hair and wrinkles like canals across his face. "How do you know the secret of getting our customers to like you?" As he spoke he almost sounded sentimental, but at the same time he stealthily sized up Joe's reaction.
"I think it has something to do with my reading." Joe spoke slowly, deliberately weighing his words.
"Reading!" The wrinkles between his boss's eyebrows folded into an upside-down V.
"Yes, I read a lot of stories." Joe's speech quickened as a red flush spread over his face. "I, uh ... I've even been thinking of resigning so I can read books all the time. Really. I've been thinking it over."
"Well, that would be a real loss for my company. You haven't made up your mind yet?"
It didn't seem as if his employer were urging Joe to stay; actually, he seemed hopeful that Joe meant what he said.
"No, not yet. I still have my wife and a child to support."
His boss peered into his face for a moment, shook his head slightly as though a little disappointed, and motioned with his hand for Joe to leave. Joe departed, pondering what his boss might mean by what he'd said, turning this over and over in his mind until his thoughts led to a dark tunnel. This man, whom he'd worked with for many years, clearly understood his employee. But as to how deep this understanding went, and what he thought of Joe's approach to life, and what hopes he had for him, Joe couldn't tell from his expression or speech. His behavior was equivocal and vague, in distinct contrast to the precise operation of his denim manufacturing company. Joe had the impression that his employer concerned himself very little with the company's day-to-day affairs, although he was interested in his employees' attitudes and the degree of their loyalty to the company. Joe wondered why his boss didn't seem to expect him to continue working there permanently. This was an insult to Joe's self-regard, especially since he was very conscientious about his work and had an intuitive knack for the proper arrangement of things. Joe himself had great respect for this capability. At this point in his thinking, Joe recalled his boss's wife. She was vivacious and clever, a gaudy woman of middle age. He thought this woman, Lisa, wasn't a good match for him, yet his boss treated her with constant affection. Joe thought of his own home, his plain and capable housewife, and their likable son, who was off at boarding school. By comparison, he could understand the harmonious relationship between the company's owner and his wife. But what did his boss think of him? What sort of expectations did he have for him? Joe was at a loss. There were occasional moments when Joe thought he might even tell his boss about how he read novels on the sly during office hours, but every time the words were on his lips he swallowed them back. Joe was a cautious man, circumspect to the point of being a touch pedantic. Once during a gathering at a restaurant his boss had gotten drunk and said, pointing at Joe's nose, "Don't think I don't know what you're up to!" Joe had turned white, thinking his life was about to undergo a great change. In fact, nothing happened, and his life went on as before.
After Joe left the owner's office and returned to his own, he felt a floating sensation pervade his body. He opened a book and followed its heroine through the alleyways of a slum. But today the small alleys didn't lead off in every direction. In one sunlit alley a fearful dark shadow appeared up ahead, with the pa pa flapping sound of a cloth fluttering in the wind, even though there was no sign of the wind blowing. Joe stopped in his tracks, frightened. At that very moment a telephone rang, and his secretary said a customer from the south was here to see him.
This man, named Reagan, had a square face and a stern expression. He wanted to sign a long-term contract with Joe. Joe figured that he would want to haggle as usual, and rapidly ran through a number of scenarios in his mind. But Reagan didn't open his mouth. Moving a chair over to the window, he gazed down at the people clumped together in twos and threes. He propped his very broad chin on his left hand as if he were calculating, but also as if he were thinking about something that had nothing to do with business matters. Joe was perplexed, and thought again of the alleyway in his book. When Reagan started talking, Joe jumped with fright because his voice was raised in a near scream.
"In the south, there are rubber tree groves and coconut palms everywhere. How much clothing do you think the workers need to wear? Haven't you ever thought of that? Do you have that much imagination? Yesterday two workers drowned in the bay because the clothes you make are too thick and heavy, and it's hard to get them off quickly ... What kind of idiot designed these clothes? One of the workers who drowned was a girl. There were people who saw her leap out of the water like a fish and then sink back in. You fool!"
He held his head in both hands, looking unbearably vexed.
Joe was silent and reluctant to speak. He didn't know what he could say to make this better. He'd known Mr. Reagan for many years. He was an educated and highly cultivated farm owner—or, rather, he didn't come across as a farmer at all. He seemed more like the owner of an antiquarian bookstore. But today he displayed a violent temper.
"Do you really want to keep doing business with us?" Reagan looked contemptuously at Joe.
"We could design some light outerwear, pieces that can be taken off easily," Joe answered mechanically.
"I don't appreciate your way of thinking at all."
Joe was at a complete loss after Reagan tossed off this icy statement. When Reagan had visited his office in the past, a scent of the open country, of canola flowers, had emanated from him. Joe would inhale this odor keenly, and involuntarily he'd drawn the deeply tanned southerner into the network of his stories. He had never sensed that Reagan felt any hostility toward him, but today he knew that he did. Joe drew his arms in as if he felt a chill, and Reagan noticed the movement immediately. He asked whether Joe was tired of doing business with him. If so, they could break off the discussion.
"Like the two of us ..." Reagan let out half a sentence and then swallowed it back.
Joe thought that he was trying to say that between two men like them it was difficult to reach an agreement. What was going on today? They had worked together for years; his figure often appeared in Joe's stories, with that square jaw reflected in the mirrors along the road, swaying back and forth ... on the pathways in Joe's mind there were always mirrors hung on the tree trunks along every side. Not long ago, Reagan had given Joe a pair of wild birds, and their dazzling, variegated plumage had sent Joe into fantastical reveries. Then he had gazed at Reagan's expressionless face and felt that the man must be a conjurer with capabilities beyond anyone's expectations.
Reagan walked up and down Joe's office several times before asking Joe to hand him the contract. Then he signed several pages at lightning speed, so quickly that Joe couldn't see clearly what he was doing. His memory retained only an image of protruding blue veins and the long thin right hand. In his mind he marveled: How could a farm owner have a hand like that?
Reagan left after he'd finished signing the contract. As Joe showed him out, he caught sight of his boss's figure disappearing into the elevator. What was he doing on this side of the large building? Joe asked his secretary, Jenny, whether the boss had stopped by. Jenny stared at him for a moment and then slowly shook her head, disapproving of his neuroticism.
Joe had worked in this building for over a decade, and he was as familiar as anyone could be with his job and with the business of the company. Within his department, it would be almost impossible for anything out of the ordinary to happen without his knowledge. But today he realized that some things were getting out of hand. These things must have taken place outside of his awareness, and not even by racking his brains could he grasp the clues to what was happening.
That day, as Joe was on his way home from work, someone came up quickly behind him. It was the boss's wife.
"Vincent drinks heavily every day now. He made a spectacle of himself on the lawn right in front of our house." Lisa turned red in the face and she spoke a little bashfully. "He's not young anymore. I've been wondering what sort of influence all of you have on him. Hmm?" The woman swung around and glared at Joe. Sparks unlike anything he'd ever seen before flew from her eyes.
Joe could not answer. He couldn't even recognize the red-haired woman standing in front of him. The generally cheerful, gaudy Lisa was now shoving past him in a fit of rage, almost forcing him off the sidewalk. Like a gust of wind she was suddenly at a distance, her high heels energetically tapping the sidewalk. There were many people on the street at nightfall, all looking with surprise at the completely discomfited man. Joe saw an abyss open in the sidewalk ahead of him, and he walked toward it, thinking perhaps it would lead him into the web of the story he had recently constructed. But that large black open mouth wasn't an abyss after all — it was an underground pedestrian crossing. And just as he reached the entrance to the underground walkway, Lisa rushed out from the shadows.
"Vincent's mad! He's crazy! Damn it, how could this have happened!"
The expression in her eyes was frantic. A strong hand grasped Joe's arm and shook it, and Joe caught the smell of liquor on her breath.
"Hey, Lisa. Try to explain more slowly." Joe spat out these few words with difficulty. A fury—at what, he couldn't place — sprang up in his gut, and he felt disgusted with the small-framed woman.
But Lisa disappeared just as abruptly as she'd appeared. Thinking over the day's strange occurrences, Joe felt his head buzzing with confusion.
Joe's wife, Maria, was at her loom weaving a tapestry. It was her favorite pastime, and also a means of supplementing the household income. Almost all the homes in the neighborhood had samples of her handiwork hanging in them. Today Maria was weaving a scorpion design. With the deep brown insect hiding among exotic flowers, it looked original, fresh, provocative. Maria's body was strong and well-proportioned, and her hands, with the fingernails cut short, were dexterous at any kind of craft. Although she was almost fifty, her eyesight was very good, and she wore her thick brown hair drawn up in a bun.
On the lawn outside, two cats from Africa yowled without stopping, but it didn't sound like their mating call. Maria had bought these cats. Usually they made little noise, appearing and disappearing from the area around the house like ghosts.
"There were some problems at the office today." Joe felt weighed down by care.
"I heard about that." Maria glanced at her husband.
"You? Who told you?"
"Lisa. She stopped by."
"Don't listen to her gossip." Joe impatiently threw his briefcase onto the sofa.
Maria rose from the side of the loom and walked past the dining table to Joe's side, helping him put the briefcase on its stand. Afterward she laid her hand on Joe's shoulder.
"Don't be irritable, it's nothing serious. You're an old employee at the company. How could that old fox Vincent manage without you? Besides, Lisa came here for another reason. She's having trouble at home."
This was an odd thing, that Maria always called Vincent "old fox." Joe had never understood his wife's intuition about him. Joe didn't think his boss was at all cunning. It was just that he acted a bit indecisive. But if his wife wanted to call Vincent an old fox, then let her. Joe didn't care to question her about it.
"What's the problem?"
"According to Lisa, it's an Arab woman. Vincent has been hiding from his wife that he's living with a woman who wears a black veil."
"Living with? Doesn't he go back home after work? I see him there just about every day."
"That's right. But Lisa says other people see her husband at the Arab woman's house every day. How could that be? I think he must know some way to be two places at the same time."
Joe couldn't get used to Maria saying strange things, although she'd always had this habit. Her strangeness had been passed on to the two African cats. Not long before, the brown-striped female had even bitten their son.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Last Lover by Can Xue, Annelise Finegan Wasmoen. Copyright © 2013 Can Xue. Excerpted by permission of Yale UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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