Woods lie to the west of the city.
Thanks to the teeming trees, there is shade.
There is a lake of small size in the woods.
It is there that the only light shines.
2
The people from the city head toward the forest. Under the forest shade, their own shadows lie hidden. They overlap evenly with those of the trees, growing indiscernibly faint; formless, they wander the forest. The forest still lacks a proper path. It has neither entrance nor exit, and with no dead ends, they can’t stop walking. So everyone looks as if they are wandering. They seem to circle the same spot, round and round. Each time someone takes a step, their view remains the same. All around lies grass grown far too long, rocks both large and small; the trees, evenly spaced, have set down roots and soar high overhead. Animal corpses lie neglected here and there. And yet no one ever happens to spot an animal alive and moving, or anything of the sort.
Despite all likelihood to the contrary, the people face one another. As they walk over the shadows of the forest, they draw ever closer. What had once, in the city, been familiar now seems to have turned strange in the woods—and so at such moments, without realizing it, they bate their breath and keep their mouths shut fast. Because no one says a word to anyone, no one knows anyone else’s identity. They have all come from the same place, but at least for now, they are all strangers to one another. Each person speaks a different language as their mother tongue; without so much as a hello to each other, they naturally flee. No part of their bodies touches another person—not shoulders, not arms. They set their shoulders straight ahead, stepping forward to return to solitude.
There is a couple with pale faces. Their naked bodies lie hidden as they sit among the teeming weeds. From far off, with only their heads visible, they look like they might be little children, standing. The lovers look rather sweet—their faces are half-covered by uncut hair grown far too long, their shoulders brushing, side by side. They hold one another’s hands, sharing trace amounts of body heat. The lovers have been there as far back as anyone can remember. Perhaps they have gone nowhere else since they were born.
The people pass by, unaware of the lovers. They all move eastward as the sun sets. To the west, the woods grow infinitely deep; to the east, they have no choice but to return to the city. Their shadows cling to them in silence as they turn, traveling in the same direction. In unison, their pace quickens, as if in flight. They grow desperate at the thought they might go astray and have to remain in the woods. They arrive at the city, still desperate. The city has roads everywhere. Roads mean there are entrances and exits, as well as dead ends. Since all the roads are clearly marked on maps, one can always find them. One might find roads, lost objects, even lost children. No matter what happens, one can neither hide nor disappear. The people arrive home without losing their way, lift their chilly hands high, and knock on the doors. Every door in the city opens at the same time, and then shuts.
3
With everyone gone, the wind blows through the forest. The forest sways in the direction of the wind. Small black birds, hidden everywhere, fly off. They cross the empty sky with great force, as if leaving the woods forever. The only way these birds can avoid nesting in the forest is to constantly leave; as a result, there are no nests in the woods. The wind drives the birds away as it sweeps through, reaching even the deep, low places. It blows to the west of the forest, tilling up sounds along with it; the flickering rustle of leaves infects the space. When it can advance no farther, the coldest, darkest air pools at the very end of the forest. There, alone, stands a man with a black blanket wrapped around him. Motionless as an abandoned statue, he mumbles low and fast. He looks as if he is pouring forth every single word he has said in his lifetime, no exceptions. He does not stop speaking; the wind, however, does. The birds that left the forest in groups, so long ago, fly back. As if the forest were the final destination of their lives, they hide their bodies here and cry. Looming high, the forest conceals the birds.
4
To the east of the forest, the break of dawn gleams blue. Everyone sleeps peacefully. Under their covers, sunken in sleep, they dream one dream after another, detached from reality. In dreams, the berries on a dying tree split open and plummet to the bottom of a cliff. A train off its tracks passes through the woods; behind it, footless children run around joyfully. Their parents climb to the chimney, cut the ladder up to the roof, then watch as they soundlessly applaud. So no one wakes easily from sleep.
A woman sits in an armchair by the living room window. The chair hides all of her small body; only her arms and legs peep out. Her head tilts backward, and she looks comfortable, halfway to lying flat. Her eyes sneak open and stare at the ceiling. For several days, she has awoken unsure of when she fell into such a deep sleep in the first place. The day’s exhaustion pounces on her all at once, dragging her in and out of listless unconsciousness. When she awakens, she has no memories from before, no matter how hard she tries to remember. She simply starts each day ensnared by strange, dirty feelings.
As usual, she stretches out her hand and flips the switch on the wall. The glare of the fluorescent lights hurts her eyes. For just a moment, she squints. At her feet, she discovers a white dishcloth, which she folds neatly and sets on the side table. She gets up and walks up to the door to the room, shut tight. Making as little noise as possible, she opens it and enters. She does not forget to close it.
A wooden cradle lies in the middle of the room. Fixed on its fence-like railing, a mobile of dolls hangs motionless over the crib. The woman made the mobile by hand before the baby was born. On close examination, the dolls’ faces are slightly askew, their eyes and lips somewhat asymmetrical. When touched, a little chime rings as the mobile turns. The mobile always turns clockwise. Though the woman who made the mobile doesn’t know that.
It’s time to wake up.
She leans forward and peers inside. A blanket covers the baby’s body. No part of its body is visible—not hands, not feet—so the baby’s size remains unknown. It’s time to wake up. After staring for some time, the woman gets up. She turns her body as if dancing and makes her escape from the room. Light leaks in through the momentary crack in the doorway, then disappears. When the woman shuts the bedroom door, the room is locked in darkness once again. The quivering mobile slowly stops, and the wooden cradle stands in the middle of the room—just as before.
5
The lake is freezing over.
When the lovers see the ice, their mouths break open at the same time.
Like you said, it hardens from the edges.
6
Day has not yet broken; the city remains dark. An isolated chilly breeze sweeps through the streets and passes on. It blows dry leaves into the alleys, scattering ash in the air. It rattles the windows and flaps the red flags on every house. At the first sign of wind, everyone wakes from their sleep. With effort they open their eyes, but darkness is all around; eyes open or shut, the world looks much the same. Consciousness, once regained, fades bit by bit, and before they can tell real life from dreams, their eyes close and once again they fall asleep. The people resume dreams momentarily paused. They do not know how many times they have repeated those dreams. They lock themselves in dreams for the night.
In the living room, the woman gazes at the window. No curtain hangs from the lintel. Ever since the hem of her old curtain caught on fire and half the fabric burned to ashes, she hasn’t hung anything there. The woman has forgotten this; she stares at her reflection. As the window rattles, her image oscillates between blurry and clear. Neither the wind nor the oscillation lets up.
The woman opens a kitchen cabinet and pulls out a pot. The pot is large, deep enough to hold ten days’ worth of soup. She fills the vessel with water, and starts to warm it over low heat. The flame is too weak for the amount of water, so even after much time goes by, it still hasn’t boiled. She raises the heat slightly and tries to remember the last time she washed the baby. That was so long ago, though.
The house has not had hot water for a long time, so she has to heat the baby’s bathwater by hand. Earlier in the day the tap ran lukewarm, but as the day has grown chillier, so has the water. No matter how far she turns the tap, only ice-cold water comes out. Though a chore, to wash the baby, she has to heat the bathwater in that large, deep pot. She fills it to the brim, heats it, then pours it in the tub. Like the first time, the water doesn’t even simmer; the gas flame merely burns in silence.
Only when the sun has risen
can I wash the baby.
The woman stares out the window. The air outside looks dry, egregiously cold. From inside, she can’t tell how cold. She gazes at the fallen leaves from a distance, at the branches grown bare, and dimly feels the passage from one season to another. Snow falls often in the city’s singular cold. The fallen snow refuses to melt; a white landscape unfolds. The streets vanish, and sometimes people lose their way. They may not come back, even when the snow melts and winter ends.
The woman, seated in the armchair, closes her eyes. As the strength slowly ebbs from her body, her arm falls down off the end table, together with the dishcloth. Without even noticing it has fallen to her feet, she falls asleep. A single wisp of steam blossoms from the surface of the water, then vanishes without a trace. After some time, the water begins to boil, slowly. It spills over the rim of the pot; pours down the sides; a haze of steam billows up little by little into one corner of the kitchen. Faint traces materialize—of a baby’s handprint stamped long ago. The print is roughly the same size as the hands of the baby in the bedroom. The baby keeps trying to touch something or other; as a result, the house is covered in countless handprints. A second handprint is stamped just to the side, a little blurrier than the first. Although they are close together, the two do not overlap. Sometimes, though, they appear at the same time.
7
In the forest, the birds cry out at length. All the birds that live in the forest do is hide in the trees and cry, nothing but cry, as if they have forgotten how to fly. They stay alive listening to one another’s shrieks. The birds cannot see one another; the shrieks provide their only source of news. The man wrapped in the black blanket keeps saying the same words, low and fast:
May I please come in?
I can’t come in?
His words mount the wind and fly away. The birds nip at some of them. These birds follow the words to the point of no return, leaving the forest altogether. They cannot come back after they have bitten the words and departed.
8
To the city’s east, dawn breaks. Blinding light silently illuminates the streets. The shadows of chimneys clinging to houses’ roofs overlap. They overlap and shatter in the too-narrow gaps between the shadows. Broken, they drift over the streets. Sunlight pours into every window in the city. Even when everyone leaves and the houses lie empty, light illuminates the spaces just as before. Light drifts over the faces of the people lying down, asleep, inside their houses. They shrug off the blankets draping their bodies and, one or two at a time, wake up. Though they strain to remember the previous night’s dreams, the more they try, the faster the dreams vanish. They start each day without any such memories. A certain sadness has become the foundation of their days. Each person’s sadness differs in scale, and so each person passes the days differently.
The inside of the woman’s house suddenly fills with smoke. The light cannot pierce it, but lingers in the windows, illuminating only the smoke’s surface. Upon close examination, the smoke has texture and shape. One cannot hold it in one’s hands. It cuts, crosses, dissolves in the air, advancing throughout the house. At that moment, the woman opens her eyes. She looks up sharply and stares at the ceiling. The smoke creeps into her barely open mouth. She coughs dryly a few times and gropes for the table; hands empty, she sets her head straight and looks around. The dishcloth lies spread out like a pancake. She has no idea how it fell on the floor again; hadn’t she folded it and set it on the table? She gets up from the armchair and walks toward the window. The closer she draws to the window, the more indistinct the view outside.
Dawn finally broke.
Today the baby must be washed.
No raising a dirty baby.
The woman presses her hand to the window. Her handprint completely obscures the baby’s. She feels a trace of warm air under her palm. The sunlight spreads wide over her hand as it crosses the window. She pushes the window hard, but her hand keeps slipping. All the handprints traced on the window are vanishing. No one will know they were ever there at all. No matter how hard she pushes the pane, it will not open. As soon as the woman removes her hand, a transparent drop of water rolls down.
Soon, she gives up trying to open the window and hurries to the kitchen. The roiling water in the pot settles down in no time at all. Though she shut off the flame, smoke still billows from the pot, giving off a faint burning scent. The woman goes to the front door, which she unlocks and opens. The instant she does, the smoke starts to dissipate. She leans against the wall, wiping her sweaty face with the dishcloth. She swallows her thick saliva and catches her breath, pausing to take a careful look at the house around her. She passes a hand through her hair and inhales deeply. She touches her forehead; she’s a bit feverish. When the woman looks at her bare foot, it’s covered in dust. The front door hasn’t been used in so long that the dust has gathered around it. A pair of old shoes lies abandoned.
Suddenly, a figure is visible through the smoke. A person stands in front of the door. Though small, they walk inside before the woman can see who it is. They seem at first glance to be female; small and thin. As the woman slowly rises from her seat, the entryway light automatically turns on, illuminating a familiar face.
I didn’t knock,
but somehow you knew; you left the door open.
Open up when I knock from now on.
The woman’s mother enters the house. The front door closes by itself; inside the quiet, desolate house, a sound like a shriek briefly bursts out before disappearing like a flare signal. Soon after, the porch light turns off. The woman is still standing barefoot in the cold entryway.
9
The inside of the house is dim. It looks like thick fog hangs in the air. Because the front door was open, much of the smoke from earlier has dissipated, but it isn’t completely gone. The sky looks clearer today, the weather more pleasant than before. The woman’s handprint remains stamped on the window. It’s almost transparent, invisible if one doesn’t look closely. Later, when the window fogs up again, someone might discover the handprint that appears on the glass. The baby’s handprint, however, has been erased, is nowhere to be found.
The woman’s mother stands wordless, looking around at the living room. She sweeps her hand over the side table and turns the lights on and off. She looks at the picture on the wall for a long time, touches it secretly. The house is so simple that there’s nothing much to look at; still, the woman’s mother walks around the room, looking and touching. The woman watches from a distance, unconcerned. Her mother takes in the room with her eyes, as if this is the first and last time she will visit this home. The woman speaks in a near-whisper:
Mother, the baby is sleeping in there.
The baby is so young, so small.
Really? You have a baby?
The woman’s mother stands in front of the door for a long time, then returns to the living room. Only then does the woman discover she is clutching the dishcloth in her hand, and shakes it out in the air. The wrinkles from her grip remain. She goes straight into the bathroom, plugs the sink, turns on the water. The dishcloth is full of stains, made at some unknown point; she kneads it several times, bubbles forming from the soap, then rinses it. She opens the plug and the drain sucks down the dirty water. A small whirlpool forms and disappears. The woman hangs the wrung-out cloth on a rack and washes her hands. Her fingertips are stained red.
The kitchen is slowly finding its way back to its prior appearance. The pot that had vomited smoke not long before now lies at rest. The water inside is still hot. The flame was put out only recently, so the pot hasn’t cooled. She could fill it halfway up and heat the bathwater again, but in the end, obstinately decides not to do so. She stands by the pot and watches the water cool.
10
I walk over the frozen lake.
My heart cannot come any closer;
I draw ever further from you.
11
The daylight shines quietly into the house. Each object in the room casts a shadow. A shadow the shape of the woman’s mother rises like a picture on the wall. The form is partially obscured by the shadow of an armchair; only the head peeks out. The sunlight reaches only as far as the living room. Among the shadows of the kitchen, the woman picks a teacup. Most of her teacups are in a bad state, chipped or cracked. Some are completely broken. Only one intact cup and saucer set remains. It has been too long since anyone has visited her house.
The woman takes out unpatterned white teacups and saucers. Bubbles form as she carefully rubs the cloth so as not to break them. She places the cups upside-down on the drying rack and boils water in the kettle. She takes out a glass jar of tea leaves, scrutinizing the sides of the translucent container. The name and type of the tea was once written on the glass in letters now faded, indiscernible. She drops the nameless tea leaves into the kettle and places the lid on top. The tea, when fully steeped, has a subtle ochre tint. The woman pulls out a tray and places the cups on it before carefully transferring them to the side table; at that moment, her mother quietly opens her mouth and mutters,
Don’t wake up the baby, dear.
Maybe you should name it when it wakes up.
If it doesn’t respond at first, just keep calling it.
That will make things better.
The woman looks down at her teacup without saying a word. The tray perches on her hand precariously, like it might fall at any moment. Her hands go slack, as if she has forgotten she is holding it. It falls to the floor; a clunk batters the silence. The tea in the teacups wobbles almost imperceptibly. Her mother breathes calmly, evenly, with no sign of surprise. Her final words trail off into deep sleep. The woman stares at her mother: someone with the same face, same figure as hers, sleeping in the armchair. Every day the woman falls asleep and wakes up in this chair. She’s never seen anyone else sleeping in it. And so she feels as if she is looking down at herself, staring blankly at her own face, deep in sleep. She stands there, wearing an indifferent expression, for a very long time.
Steam billows from the white teacups. Aromatic haze blurs the space between the cups. One or two tea leaves have settled from the surface of the water to the bottom; untouched, it cools. The woman props herself against the wall and waits for her mother to wake up. She thinks, for a very brief moment, about how the entire day might well pass like this. She draws her legs up to her chest, curls her arms around them, and buries her face in her knees. She closes her eyes. When she does, her mother’s shadow subtly obscures her body. Trapped in the corner of her living room, she doesn’t realize this. She has no way to know that her mother’s eyes are open, looking down at her.
12
Clouds cover the sun. Light disappears from the living room. The woman’s mother slowly awakens in the darkened room. As soon as she takes a step forward, the woman, still crouched against the wall, stares at her. Her mother stands like that for a while, as if her feet are too heavy to lift. The bedroom door, at a distance, looks firmly shut; the woman’s mother has never entered the bedroom. The door is always shut, so she has never even looked inside. She has never seen the baby, never heard its voice or its cry. The baby is still sound asleep. A thin blanket covers its body.
The woman’s mother leaves the house before any light comes back into the living room. No way of knowing where she is headed; the door shuts before her mother has even started off in a direction. Perhaps she is still standing there, facing the front door. Maybe she is waiting for the door to open without her knocking. Maybe she waits for the woman like this every time. Nothing except an old pair of shoes lies, haphazardly, in the doorway.
13
Without a single breeze coming through, the forest has come to a halt. A small, hidden bird falls from a tree. The bird unfolds its wings amidst the thick weeds, shivering. After some time, it stops breathing—and at the same moment at the opposite end of the forest, another bird falls from a tree. The falling birds do not cry. They just stop breathing, in the same way. Small traces of the birds pervade the forest. The man in the black blanket whispers, his voice lower and faster. A dead tree stands in front of the man. It is rotting, its roots exposed.
May I come in?
I can’t?
Not even if I’m dying?
Well, where is the way out?
The man’s words are trapped in the woods. Birds die, no longer biting the words. The words pile up like tombs over the bodies of the dead, hardened birds. The man is still there, a dark figure rising up over the weeds.
14
The sunlight shining on the house gradually retreats. It hangs anxiously by the windowsill like a small stain. Eventually it will let go and recede, but for now it tries its best to stay. At some moment, the sun vanishes. The interior of the house swiftly darkens. The woman, still leaning against the wall, wakes up and raises her head.
She stares at the armchair and picks up the teacup in front of her. Now gone cold, it has no scent. She sets the cup on the tea tray and takes it to the kitchen. The tea leaves swish out of the cups into the sink, then settle at its bottom. The water in the pot is cold. No warmth at all, as if it had never been boiled in the first place. The base of the pot is blackened. The woman tilts the pot and dumps out its contents; the water sweeps the tea leaves down the drain. As she washes her hands in the bathroom, she suddenly looks at the dishcloth hanging behind her. A droplet dangles from the tip of the wet fabric.
The bedroom is still dark. The door remains closed as ever, any light blocked from entering. The room has windows, but they are covered by large pieces of furniture and the fluorescent ceiling light is burnt out. No matter how many times one flips the switch on and off, the light doesn’t turn on. Of course, no one here wants to turn on the light or get rid of the furniture. So the room stays dark, with nothing going on at all.
The woman opens the door and enters. She forgets to close the door behind her, and what remains of the light from the living room leaks inside. A single beam shines onto the cradle. The woman opens the drawer and takes out a single fresh blanket. All the same size, with the same pattern. She pulls one out, then removes the blanket currently over the baby and replaces it with the new one. The new white blanket covers the baby’s tiny body nicely.
I didn’t wash the baby today, either.
Nor can I give it a name.
The woman smooths out the blanket that had covered the baby. Near the hem is a small piece of embroidery, which she touches with her fingertips, taking a closer look—then covers her face with the soft, thin blanket. The woman’s shoulders shake; her body trembles. She holds her breath and weeps as she shakes the cradle’s railing with her dry hands. The mobile turns clockwise, chiming softly, beautifully. The child does not clap its hands or stretch out its arms to touch the dolls on the mobile. It doesn’t poke its foot in the air or shake its arms and laugh. It just sleeps, eyes gently closed. The woman is still in the room; the door closes on its own.
Night falls on the east side of the city. The people finish their work days and come out to the streets, one after another. The streets are filled with the shadows of people heading home. They stamp and squash and step over today’s deep, thick shadows. They arrive home all at once, covered in dust. Their rumpled blankets are unchanged from the morning. The people lie back down and close their eyes. They are on the verge of dreaming. All the lights in the city go out at the same time.
15
I dance a dance on the frozen lake.
To sustain its beauty, I dare not stop.
You make a face as I do and scream from afar.
In an instant, a single crack spans the lake.
16
The forest lies, as ever, to the west of the city. One can reach it without a compass by following the path of the setting sun. Like always, the people of the city turn their backs to sunrise and head for the forest. Their shadows hide in the forest’s shade. They meander the forest, enjoying freedoms unknown in the city. Eventually, someone discovers a lake. The banks of the lake have none of the ubiquitous gum wrappers, no cabins or sailboats; there are no signs of visitors at all.
The surface of the lake shines brightly. A leaf floats atop the water and then sinks. The people watching from a distance collectively sigh. What might once have settled at the bottom of the lake, never to rise again, and still be there at this very moment, no one can ever know for certain. They stand, feet rooted under the shade of the trees. They take one step forward into the light, and the lake stretches out before them, but they merely watch from afar before turning back. They leave without throwing a single stone; the water sits still. The water fixes the entire gleaming landscape on its surface.
There is a couple by the lake. They sit with their legs together, their naked bodies hidden behind the weeds. The water rests at their feet, white clouds hanging above. The clouds don’t move, they just hang. In other words, clouds are blocking the sun; the lake’s only source of light is gone. The lovers walk clockwise around the lake. The beautiful lake stays to their right; they keep their heads turned in the same direction to look at it. The man, to the left, sees only the back of the woman, to the right. The woman, to the right, has forgotten the face of the man, to the left. They are holding hands as they leave each other. But because they cannot leave the lake, they linger. Eventually the clouds lift, and the light slowly fills the air. The same amount of light as before shines upon the lake. In no time, the couple is gone. Only light remains in their place.
17
Wind blows in the forest and then stops. The small black birds that used to fly in are gone. Their once-ubiquitous cries are gone. The birds that once hid themselves in the forest all die in the same way. They fall from the highest point and plunge headlong into the rocks. Crumpled, lying amongst the thick weeds, they grow hard and cold. Their wings are folded neatly, as if they knew they would never fly again. The birds do not see each other before their deaths. Their bodies hidden, they die one by one. The man wrapped in the black blanket stands tall. He seems to be the forest’s sole shadow, rising up from the darkness. At the foot of the black shadow, the last bird takes its life, and the man momentarily stops breathing; he tightens his lips. Weak breaths disappear into the air. The black blanket flutters to the ground, sending gray dust in all directions. With the wind in the forest settled, dawn quietly arises.
