They come from Cities of Literature
Apr 17, 2024
International Writers Residency is a regular exchange program of UNESCO's Creative Cities Network. Nanjing launched the program in 2019, and it has been carried out for five times so far. In 2023, Nanjing invited six writers to carry out residency activities under the theme of “Urban Life and Literature”. During the month-long program, the six international writers delved into the daily life of Nanjing, immersed themselves in its cultural heritage and rich literary atmosphere, and wrote excellent works in different styles from their own perspectives.
1. MANDARINA
Ángel Fábregas García
Ella vendía mandarinas iluminada por los neones en un húmedo callejón. La luz llegaba hasta allí desde una concurrida plaza con infinidad de puestos de comida. El reflejo esquivo y sincopado de los neones iluminaba su dentadura desgastada mientras yo permanecía junto a ella preguntándome cómo había llegado hasta allí desde mi pequeño valle en el otro extremo del mundo. El planeta es un vaso comunicante y pudiera ser que el agua de mi río se filtrara en la tierra hasta donde estaba ahora , que me arrastrara de alguna forma, al menos a mi espíritu o conciencia, qué se yo.
Ciertamente mi cuerpo voló en una de esas compañías comerciales con severas restricciones de equipaje y pulcras azafatas. No tuve donde empaquetar a mi conciencia o espíritu, lo mismo da, y facturé solo mi cuerpo y un ligero equipaje para evitar el exceso de peso de la manera más discreta posible. A veces la conciencia o el espíritu pesan bastante y esos imprecisos materiales son más fáciles de transportar mediante métodos inefables aún no catalogados por la ciencia. De momento, a nadie interesan tales vías por sus nulas ventajas comerciales, estén emparentadas con el viaje astral o con la mera filtración en la tierra.
La mujer me miró con curiosidad, nuestras vidas eran tan diferentes. En un fogonazo, uno puede esbozar la existencia de quien tiene enfrente, en un instante como el que llevó a mi conciencia hasta allí a través de un agujero de gusano, o de agua pura, cómo podría saberlo. Esa noche, tras cerrar su puesto en el callejón desolado, ella volvería a su casa más allá de las diez para comer su sopa con fideos en uno de esos gigantescos bloques de apartamentos esparcidos entre otros gigantescos bloques de apartamentos que conforman gigantescas urbanizaciones de bloques de apartamentos. No son frecuentes los occidentales en Nanjing. Tampoco son frecuentes las vendedoras de fruta de ojos rasgados en mi vida, allá donde corre el río que presumo me ha traído hasta aquí, tan lejos e inesperadamente.
Seguro que ella Inventaría algo sobre mí, por qué razón estaba en su ciudad y había ido a un callejón como el suyo en lugar de a algún gran supermercado. Después se miraría las manos ásperas de manejar cajas y patatas manchadas de tierra y daría por concluida su pasajera elucubración, que no era al fin y al cabo sino una licencia fantasiosa, un ligero entretenimiento ajeno a cualquier realidad tangible. Sus manos sí eran reales, su aspereza ajada por el tiempo y el agua fría de los baldes con los que regaba el callejón cada mañana.
Me miró sin extrañeza, como si me conociera de toda la vida. Era más joven que yo pero no lo aparentaba. Habría nacido en torno al principio de ese periodo de la Historia china conocido como la revolución cultural. Le pedí que me pesara unas mandarinas por señas y me sonrió.
Después regresé a mi hotel para extranjeros, unas manzanas hacia el centro, donde se ubican las tiendas de moda de grandes marcas europeas y americanas, los bares que sirven Whisky y Martini y los concesionarios de Ferrari. Ese emporio se encuentra a pocos cientos de metros de los puestos de fruta o carne sin refrigerar como el de esa mujer. Eso debe ser un rasgo de la nueva revolución que campa por aquí, los humildes puestos de fruta junto a los concesionarios de Ferrari.
Ya en mi habitación, sentado en mi cama, miré la televisión encendida sin entender una palabra mientras me comía una mandarina y pensaba en la mujer que me la vendió. Los anuncios de detergentes y electrodomésticos son iguales en todas partes, solo con observar el desarrollo mudo de la trama de cada spot publicitario podría subtitularlo sin dificultad, pero me apetecía más ejercitarme en esa otra fantasía de perseguir el rastro de ella hasta su imaginaria casa perdida en algún lugar de la inmensa ciudad.
Cuando con dificultad concilié el sueño, todavía afectado por el jet lag de mi cuerpo, que no de mi conciencia, peculiares borboteos y meandros del pensamiento me condujeron de nuevo a través de la tierra o del aire o del agua, ( siempre estuve muy influido por los filósofos presocráticos en mis sueños), de aquí para allá entre Asía y Europa, de mi vida a la de aquella mujer, la que había comenzado a imaginar antes de acostarme. Se sucedieron cataclismos y planicies serenas que fueron adquiriendo los colores brillantes de los neones nocturnos de las calles de Nanjing, tan surreales en la realidad que no desentonan en el sueño, tan psicodélicas como esa canción de Los Beatles en la que mil lamas parecen cantar en la cima de una montaña del Himalaya .
Cuando desperté, todo se me antojó intencionadamente distinto a mi alrededor. Yo no sé exactamente qué estoy diciendo cuando digo tal cosa, solo que me parecía apreciar que las cosas querían ser así y no de otro modo. Bajé a desayunar y ni se me ocurrió tomar un ápice de desayuno occidental, huevos, bacon y cosas por el estilo, como hice el día anterior. Mis pies me dirigieron raudos hacia unos noodles con cilantro bien picantes, lo cual me extrañó sobremanera.
Después del desayuno , obvié mis obligaciones de aquella mañana, y como el que no quiere la cosa, sin saber por qué, me encontré de nuevo frente a la mujer del puesto de fruta . Allí estábamos otra vez los dos, mirándonos ahora con cierta intención. Para ser completamente preciso, en realidad era yo quien vendía la fruta y era ella quien me miraba desde fuera del puesto. O para expresarlo con mayor exactitud, su cuerpo permanecía en el puesto pero mi conciencia estaba dentro de ella. Sentí, por supuesto, que quien me miraba, que no era otro cuerpo que el mío, era ella sin ningún género de duda.
Me pidió unos kiwis sonriendo y por señas le indiqué su precio. Tampoco es que entonces sucediera nada especial entre nosotros, solo algo tan cotidiano como comprar unos kiwis, aunque al principio me sintiera raro en el pellejo de aquella mujer y a ella le ocurriera lo mismo con respecto a mí. En cualquier caso, era una rareza completamente natural, aunque el asunto rozara el oxímoron. De cualquier modo, si hubiéramos podido comunicarnos, la complejidad lógica del asunto era tan abrumadora, que decidimos no hacer el menor aspaviento y seguir cada uno a lo nuestro.
Diez días después ella estaba recogiendo plácidamente la cosecha de aceituna en mi recóndito valle mediterráneo y yo habitaba su apartamento de un riguroso minimalismo socialista y recordaba a su marido, también el mío habría de decir ahora, como había ocurrido cada noche desde que él murió cinco años atrás.
La solución científica de tamaño embrollo tendrá lugar con seguridad en unos años, tanto de las filtraciones viajeras de agua que funcionan en plan holograma, como de la colonización de la conciencia de otros. De momento y en cualquier caso, yo me sentía realmente afortunado de vivir en Nanjing, no sabía por cuanto tiempo, y de dedicarme a la venta de fruta, aunque no me gustara demasiado la sopa que me cocinaba cada noche cuando llegaba a casa.
Por otra parte, también me constaba claramente que ella estaba de lo más feliz con mis aceitunas aunque no supiera absolutamente nada sobre la confección de aceite. Yo no sabía nada sobre la venta de fruta y ahí me tenían tan contento en el otro extremo del mundo. No puedo explicar cómo hacíamos cada uno lo nuestro porque no lo sé, el caso es que funcionaba. Tampoco es asunto que me incumba , igual que lo de los medios de transporte de materiales metafísicos . Yo recordaba muchas veces ese verso de Lorca que dice “ … Pero yo ya no soy yo, ni mi casa es ya mi casa…”, y lo entendía a la perfección.
Para ser honesto, confieso que lo que más me preocupó durante aquel tiempo fue la delicada cuestión de que aquella mujer conociera al dedillo mis miserias, incalificables secretos, vicios ocultos y ridículas supercherías, aunque después lo pensé mejor y consideré que era complicado que sus interlocutores en mandarín pudieran revelar a alguien de mi interés el pequeño puñado de mezquindades insignificantes en las que consisto. Me quedé más tranquilo aunque con cierto resquemor. Contradictoriamente también experimenté ese fatuo orgullo de saber que alguien conocería de primera mano sin mi intervención las cualidades que me adornan. En lo que a ella respecta, comprobé que era un alma pura, casi angelical, lo aprecié en el primer vistazo que di a su espíritu en esta nueva condición que se me había brindado por lo que fuera. Eso sí, a veces se afligía por algunos recuerdos propios y ajenos, aunque quien no padece algo por el estilo. Su familia vino a menos en el tiempo en el que ella nació, el de la revolución cultural. De su dedicación al arte en varias de sus disciplinas, algunos de sus miembros pasaron por obra y gracia de la guardia roja a uno de los campos de reeducación habilitados en la época, y se reeducaron tan bien que en adelante se dedicaron a vender fruta.
Según supe por infusión, que no podría calificar como divina, pero sí como indescriptible, su propio esposo muerto hacía cinco años padeció también el efecto de aquella represión por su vocación artística, que no es que se saliera gran cosa del tiesto, aunque si lo suficiente para llamar la atención de alguno de los numerosos inquisidores que por entonces rodeaban a todo el mundo. El hombre era bastante mayor que su esposa. 1966 fue el año en el que ella nació y comenzó la revolución cultural, además de lanzarse el disco Revolver de Los Beatles. Por entonces su marido comenzó a despuntar como prometedor pintor de murales tradicionales. Supe de aquellos recuerdos como si fueran los míos propios, porque eso fueron por un tiempo, y compadecí a aquel tipo aunque nunca lo conociera en lo que el resto de humanidad llamaría la vida real y yo no podría calificar ya de ese modo.
Y todo fluyó así durante un tiempo, aunque tampoco puedo afirmar que fuera plácidamente, pues fui partícipe tan sustancial de las cuitas y terrores de aquella mujer de espíritu cristalino, como imagino ella lo fue de la desazón que a menudo me atenaza por dentro. No fueron pocas las veces que me vi llorando frente a la ventana del apartamento en la octava planta del edificio en el que vivía la que ya era mi uña y carne espiritual.
Ahora recuerdo todo aquello con la difusa evanescencia de la polución bajo el sol de un fin de semana en Nanjing, la urbe mítica en la que se convirtió esa ciudad para mí cuando todo terminó como había comenzado. Somos pocos los españoles en comparación con los chinos, siempre lo hemos sido, aunque unos cuantos de mi país hicieran mucho mundo hace algunos siglos y yo haya seguido su senda en un descubrimiento tan diferente. Pero aunque me asentara por un tiempo en Nanjing, al menos en espíritu o lo que quiera que sea tal cosa, ( no pretendo bajo ningún concepto entrar en discusiones que se tornen bizantinas), no muy tarde comencé a echar de menos las rutinas de mi cuerpo y he de confesar que algunos de sus placeres. Sentí nostalgia de mi recóndito valle cerca del mar de los romanos.
Sabía con toda certeza que la mujer que consideraba ya como mi hermana sufría la misma añoranza de su tierra y el hartazgo de costumbres a las que era tan ajena como el ruido omnipresente con el que los españoles aderezan sus vidas, sea lúdico, político o ambiental. También padecía con el fuerte olor a pescado frito en aceites usados más de la cuenta, y eso afectaba a la pulcritud de su espíritu, o eso creía ella.
El caso es que pasado un tiempo, un buen día apareció de nuevo frente al puesto de fruta que yo regentaba ya con toda solvencia. Por supuesto, lo de menos era nuestra apariencia externa, solo contaba lo de dentro, y fuimos al grano de la manera más concisa posible, que fue sin palabra alguna. Al final de aquel extraordinario camino ambos nos miramos sin asombro y decidimos volver por donde nos habíamos largado. Todos los ríos regresaron a su cauce desde el cercano y majestuoso Yangtsé.
Cierta vez hace años me ocurrió algo parecido con otra mirada , aunque en aquella ocasión se tratara de una rata callejera que siempre recordaré, aquellos ojos ajenos cruzados un instante con los míos, indiferentes a eso que los humanos llamamos sentido . Algo de eso había en la mirada de esta mujer, aunque sus ojos no eran otros que los míos. Puede que esta digresión en torno a la rata tenga que ver con que yo nací en uno de los años del conejo, 1963, y posea alguna afinidad oculta con los roedores por un simbólico e inasible misterio. Son tantas las cosas que ignoramos.
Consumado nuestro relevo de nosotros mismos, por ser parco y lo más claro posible, me largué con viento fresco a dar una vuelta por el centro de Nanjing en tanto comía algunas mandarinas que llevaba en los bolsillos, esas mandarinas de sabor diferente a las que tenemos por aquí, sin pensar demasiado en todo aquello, había sucedido y como ocurrió se fue lentamente como el sueño tranquilo de un meandro del Yangtsé.
Decidí ir a comprar unos recuerdos en el entorno del templo de Confucio antes de regresar a mi país, como cualquier turista en una fresca y soleada mañana de otoño, entre las hojas doradas de los ginko bilobas y las infinitas motocicletas que parecían brotar del asfalto. Como el lugar estaba alejado, opté por tomar el metro desde una de las estaciones del centro.
En el pasaje subterráneo, frente a una de las bifurcaciones que conducían a las diferentes líneas, divisé a una mujer algo mayor que mi hermana del puesto de fruta con un largo palo a su espalda del que colgaban dos grandes platos de metal repletos de algo rojo. Eran fresas. La mujer vendía fresas. Como un resorte ella me miró y yo aparté mi vista inmediatamente con unos reflejos que jamás creí poseer. Pensé que ya tuve bastante, no quería meterme en más líos que, por lo demás, no podría explicar a nadie, aunque creo que la razón determinante de mi impulso fue que echaba de menos las croquetas de mi madre y el cilantro a destajo no me sentaba bien.
Pasado un tiempo, ya de regreso en mi pequeña ciudad de provincias española, reflexioné sobre el hecho de haber apartado la mirada de manera tan radical de aquella mujer. Ya no tendría nunca la oportunidad de vivir su vida salvo si la inventaba. Eso es un sucedáneo que no está mal, aunque incomparable a la genuina experiencia. Muchas gentes con anchura de espíritu inventan vidas, incluso cuando van al cine. Suelen coincidir con las personas que adoran los grandes y pequeños ríos como el Yangtsé o el de mi valle, eso presumo yo.
He comprado mandarinas infinidad de veces desde entonces en Granada, mi ciudad natal, y he mirado en innumerables ocasiones a las vendedoras y vendedores de frutas con toda intención por intentarlo de nuevo, pero no hay manera de que salte la chispa.
Sería del todo absurdo que una cuestión tan insondable como la que relato tuviese que ver con nimiedades como la nacionalidad, o siquiera la raza y he llegado a la conclusión de que puede que aquí la gente hable demasiado mientras compra fruta.
Esa debe ser la razón del desajuste, que la gente cree que se entiende por la mera razón de hablar la misma lengua sin reparar en que la empatía es otra cosa que tiene que ver con una disposición del alma, perdonen que me ponga cursi.
Entendido eso, no hace falta otra cosa que un río que nos conduzca en espíritu o como quieran llamarlo al sitio adecuado frente a alguien cuyo país, idioma y cuestiones por el estilo no son tan importantes, se lo aseguro.
Lo decisivo seguramente reside en el silencio, el ángulo de la mirada que se lance al otro y la fruta que se elija.
Y la mandarina es una apuesta segura, no me tomen por charlatán.
2. LITERARY ODYSSEY:TRACING NANJING AND XINGHUA’S STORIES
Debby Lukito Goeyardi
In Nanjing’s heart, where history breathes,
Museums echo ancient beliefs,
Nanjing Museum, a vault of time,
City Wall Museum, tales in line.
Confucius Temple, wisdom’s shrine,
Ming Dynasty’s walls, stories entwine,
Ming Xiaoling Mausoleum's grace,
Niushou Mountain, a tranquil place.
Amidst Nanjing's gems, they find their place,
History’s pages, an open space,
Strolling past the city walls,
Immersed in narratives' calls.
From Nanjing's hold, to Xinghua's sphere,
Writers gather, their thoughts sincere
Five minds converge, Bi Feiyu's lead,
Guides discussions, plants the seed.
In Xinghua's air, words explore,
Two nights’ stay, memories store
Ancient wonders, a writer’s grace,
Tales endure, time can't erase.
Nanjing's tales, Xinghua's lore,
Pens are drawn, their stories soar,Simple words, tales entwine,
In these cities, stories refine.
Whispers of emperors, scholars wise,
Their echoes linger, stories rise,
In Xinghua’s presence, history near,
Five writers' musings appear.
Xinghua's air, a different charm,
Where ancient relics keep them warm,
Underneath the stars, stories bloom,
In Xinghua's quiet, tales resume.
Together, writers engage in thought,
Guided by wisdom, insight sought,
‘Riding Horse on a Rooftop’, they discuss,
In Xinghua's aura, creativity’s fuss.
From Nanjing's legacy, Xinghua's lore,
Words entwine, their essence soar,
Simple wonders, tales combined,
In these cities, stories find.
Oh, Nanjing’s ancient embrace,
Xinghua's tales, a different space,
Linked by ink, these two cities meet,
Where stories thrive and thoughts greet.
In Nanjing's heart, where spirits soar,
People's kindness, an open door,Amidst the tales, in every face,
A sense of home, a warm embrace.
In Nanjing's heart, memories gleam,
Each moment, a cherished theme,
Stories bloom, in the city's fable,
Nanjing's memories, forever stable.
3. Nanjing Serenade
Kyle Mewburn
He shuffled along the pavement, head bowed, woollen cap pulled low over his ears. The weather had turned cold again. A biting wind swept a flurry of sycamore leaves swirling around his feet. The sky roiled with sickly clouds, pregnant with snow.
Another journey around the sun almost over, he thought. The words tinged with bitterness. He glanced at Qing, perched on the lip of the plastic feeder clamped between the bamboo bars of her cage. She cocked her head, as though reading his thoughts, but remained silent.
'Don't worry, little one,' he said. 'I'll have us both home safe and warm before the snow comes.'
He almost stepped off the pavement without thinking. But jerked his leg back as a scooter swept past. So close it set his heart racing.
Or maybe not, he thought. Nothing was certain any more. Each step could no longer be taken for granted. Or at least that's how it felt. Diu had been his anchor, tethering him to the days. Now she was gone, he felt adrift. An empty husk at the whims of the wind. With only his daily routines keeping him from being swept down a drain.
Turning, he spotted an empty seat. He shuffled over and sank onto it with relief.
His doctor always claimed he'd live to a hundred. As though that was something to look forward to. He only carried on because he'd promised Diu he wouldn't let himself go. That he'd try to stay fit and healthy. She knew him too well to leave without a vow, written in love.
So every morning and every evening, without fail, he completed his slow circumnavigation of the bustling tapestry of streets they'd called home these last fifty years. And, once a week, he went through the taijiquan movements with all the other old people in the park. Surprised, each time, not to hear his joints creaking.
His routines were all he had now. A relentless moon pushing and drawing him through the days.
He lifted up the cage and peered inside.
Qing fluttered onto her perch and eyed him quizzically.
'Do you have a song for me, yet?' he asked gently.
The bird dipped its beak into its bowl of sugar water and shook its head.
He'd bought the bird in spring, drawn to its quiet dignity. Its unwillingness to bend to expectations. Its stoic silence reminded him of Diu.
She'd always had a strong voice. When she was young, her singing had been renowned through the region. She might have been a professional had it not been for Chang, and love, and a child that demanded all the energy they could muster.
Her singing had always been the soundtrack to their lives. Whether soothing a child who would never understand a word, or know how much his mother loved him. Or crooning softly as she prepared their meals. Until the cancer had robbed her of her gift. Robbed them both. He'd always encouraged her to sing, despite her ravaged voice. Insisting her songs were a gift worthy of Fung-si. She would accept his compliment with a smile, before silently resuming her tasks. He pushed himself to his feet. His body felt like a heavy burden, one he was forced to drag around each day. His doctor always said he had the heart of an ox. As though a heart was mere muscle, requiring only oxygen. Most days it seemed more curse than blessing.
He stopped to buy oranges.
Shī Yún greeted him warmly. 'The oranges are very sweet today. I will put in an extra one for your sweet Qing. Perhaps it will loosen her tongue.'
'Thank you,' he said, taking the bag. 'Very kind.'
After several paces, he paused to hook the bag on his free arm. Glancing along the street, he noted the bare branches reaching like skeletal arms to snatch at the clouds. Their sleeves cloaked in fire. Yellow, red and umber. The pavement painted in cold shadow.
He quickened his pace as the wind reddened his cheeks.
'Chang!' a voice called from behind.
By the time he'd turned, a scooter had pulled to a halt beside him. The yellow-bedecked driver proffering a plastic bag.
He studied the offering suspiciously. His mind awhirl with questions. Had he ordered something for dinner and forgotten about it?
The driver flipped back his visor, revealing a familiar grinning face.
'Ahh! Huimu!' he said, a question furling his brow. 'Someone mixed up an order,' Huimu explained. 'I can't take it back. So I thought you might like to have it.' His grin widened. 'They're Yǒng Lè's dumplings. Your favourite. Right?'
'Thank you,' he said, accepting the offering. 'Very kind.'
Huimu bent forward to peer in the cage. 'Has your bird sung yet?'
He shook his head. 'No. Not yet.'
'You should take it back,' Huimu said. 'It must be broken.'
'Even birds need a reason to sing,' he said.
Huimu shook his head in bewilderment. Then swept away without another word.
He turned down the narrow alley towards home. The apartment buildings rising up around him like canyon walls, each balcony festooned with drying laundry, fluttering like prayer flags.
The lift was broken again. He trudged up the stairs, pausing at each level to catch his breath. Three children sprinted past, charging upwards without effort. A young couple strolled down, offering a courteous nod, their eyes absent of recognition.
Once he'd known every family in the building. Or, rather, Diu had. She'd always been there for family emergencies, offering food or words of comfort and wisdom. She'd always known what to say. Or do. Which dish might return a smile or glimmer of hope to others' faces. Sometimes he'd begrudged the time they were stealing from him. It was pure foolishness, of course. Her heart was always with him, even during her absences.
Home, at last, he deposited his bags on the kitchen bench and carefully placed the cage on the table beside his favourite chair.
Qing fluttered to the floor of her cage and performed an excited dance.
'Maybe you're a dancer, not a singer,' he said, chuckling.
He felt his heart slowing again. His cheeks glowing with warmth. As he sat his chair, studying the bird in silence, bitter memories seeped from the shadows. All his life, people had tried to impose their own expectations on him. Like his parents, who insisted he be an engineer, not an artist. He'd been too weak, or too respectful, to rebel. And by the time he met Diu, he'd lost the secret of flight — his wings clipped and his soul manacled to the earth. Diu was made of sterner stuff. It was something else he always admired. Sometimes he wondered what she saw in him. When her family became convinced their son should be put in care, it was him they turned to. Pulling his strings with consummate ease. But Diu knew better. Their son had been given so little. The least he deserved was his freedom. And their love.
He felt an uncommon swell of resolve rising.
Heaving himself from his chair, he carried the cage to the window. Placed it carefully on the sill. Swung open the window. Then lifted the cage gate. Qing hopped onto the cage floor, then through the open gate.
He pulled up a chair and sat down to watch from a safe distance.
The bird danced across the sill, its head cocking one way, then the other, before jumping onto the rail. Spinning round to face him, it lifted its head and began to trill. A song of beauty, joy and wonder. A song as light as hope. He felt his heart swelling. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear Diu's voice woven through the fabric of the song's cadences. As words of a long-forgotten song rose in his mind, he began to hum along.
The bird's voice continued rising, as though it might serenade the entire city.
His lips curled into a smile.
As the bird fluttered through the window to freedom, he closed his eyes. His final breath escaping in a contented sigh. 4. Nanjingers
Miodrag Kojadinović
Nanjinger no. 1, the kiosk lady
Why did you stop and look at me? Not
for half a second, not for a second and
a half, but maybe two, you old man with
a big nose? Why was I so interesting?
I sell my wares and mind my business.
I work on the corner right where the
street changes name from Pearl River
one to Guangzhou City’s. People stop
by for all sorts of daily necessities but
no one ever notices me, nor do I them.
I am not a wet market trader, not a foot
massagist. I am a simple matron of an
age similar to yours, just a few years
short of your 55ish-or-so and will be
retiring very soon.
I’m most definitely
not a someone who causes interest in
strangers. Even my husband has barely
noticed my freshly died hair and my
son who lives in Shanghai never ever
comments on the way I dress for work,
did not even when he was still living
with us here in Nanjing.
So I do not
understand you. What did you want?
What did you see in me that was not
there in the women you see daily in
your country, whichever it may be?
Especially as there was no dirty look
of lust in your eyes, I remember seeing
not often, but at times, in the days of
my long gone youth; just curiosity. Are
we really so strange to you? We, the
most normal people on Earth? Nah,
must be something else. And it dis
quites me and makes me wonder.
Nanjinger no. 2, Hong Xiuquan (Renkun)
I never thought I would manage to do it.
Reach all the way up north to Nanking.
Lead people who trusted me and followed
the lead I pushed somewhat haphazardly
through the vastness of our country, the
Central Realm of the World.
I was a mere
parvenu, a “newcomer” because my
thirteenth generation ancestors on only
my father’s side had come from the north
to settle in the warm, lush, Cantonese
speaking former Nan Yue. Never were
we Hakkas fully accepted there, barely
tolerated were we.
And then my discovery
of the Truth in the teaching of the foreigners
whom our compatriots once called the
Southern Barbarians, the Western preachers
who revealed to me about that magnificent
Man I will realise is my very Older Brother.
None of it, honestly, made me a potential
saviour for my fellow-Chinese, yet I, Hong
Huoxiu, knew I was one. So here I am
in Nanking, our capital of old, holding it
strong and about to overthrow the hated
rulers in the frozen northern capital of
Paekking.
To save China.
To give to my
long suffering compatriots in the area we
hailed from centuries ago and others from
where I grew up, a liberation from the
unwanted Qings, a minority that took over.
No, it probably won’t be easy, but it is why
Brother God brought me to this Earth, in this
incarnation and I am doing my best, knowing
it is my destiny. I’ve done my task, Sky Father.
Nanjinger no. 3, a person with a Monkey King mask
Sure, you have to pay! The foreigner
wanted a photo with me, I gave him
a dozen poses, gracious and stylised
and you took the photos, much more
than just one. So it costs money. My
mask costs, the clothes cost, the make
up does.
I am deaf. Have you even
tried to understand how different it is
from your privilege of hearing? I’ll
never work in the fancy office you
work in, with your cashmere beige
coat, your expensive brown loafers.
So I stand here at Fu Zi Miao boats
embankment and people take photos
with me. For, what else could I do?
At best, I may get a job through the
government plan that gives businesses
tax benefits for employing people with
a disability like me. But it’s mostly for
those in a wheelchair.
Yes, I do know.
I have been to the employment office,
of course I have. I know it is just like
that in other countries too. People pity
the blind, try to help those who have
a problem walking and (for the most
part) they find us, who do not hear,
funny.
So I am not condemning you.
Just pay for the service I rendered.
Of course, you can pay with your
phone. Who do you think I am, some
brute from the rural areas who does
not use modern day technology? Yes,
thank you.
Have a good day. Evening,
whatever. Good doing business with ya.
5. Hunting Endangered Species
Nick Holdstock
When I heard that I had been accepted for a writer's residency in Nanjing I immediately thought about going hunting. Ever since I first came to China, in 1999, hunting has been my favourite pursuit. I don't hunt in the countryside, although I am sure that my endangered quarry can be found there. I only hunt in towns and cities, and always by daylight. I hunt alone. I carry no weapons. I am willing to walk the streets for many hours, whatever the weather, seeking signs of my target.
On a bright November morning, in a pleasant haze of jet lag, I walked the streets of Nanjing with no plan. I wentwest along Jianye Lu between the kind of bright, modern buildings that to a hunter such as myself are like the trees of a forest: no matter how beautiful their shape they are an obstruction. I happened to glance left and saw a stone bridge going over a canal, and on the other side, a small street heading south. I can't fully explain the hunter's intuition that made me walk down Pingshi Jie. Perhaps it was the lure of unobstructed sky. Within a few minutes in that neighbourhood I knew I had found what I was looking for, but also that I was too late.
I am a hunter of old buildings. I enjoy ancient temples, tombs and monuments, but what I really prize are ordinary dwellings where people live. For me, these provide a stronger, more direct connection to the past, a past which is sometimes still a part of the present. When I first came to China, I lived in a small city in Hunan where there were still wooden houses. Over the course of the next two years I watched them being demolished and replaced by white-tiled buildings with blue-tinted windows that looked like a toilet. No one I knew seemed to care about this destruction of the city's past. Most thought they were just dirty, ugly buildings that needed to be replaced. I could understand why they were being demolished - I'm not sure I'd have liked living in these cold, draughty structures - but they were also historically important. It seemed a paradox that a country with such a long, rich history should be willing to let its cities destroy so much of it.
Over the next decade, as China's cities developed at a prodigious speed, it became increasing difficult to find residential neighbourhoods older than the founding of the People's Republic (and soon even danwei were being demolished). When I went hunting in first-tier Chinese cities the most I would find would be a few scattered houses in a peripheral area property developers had yet to reach. The 'nail house' phenomenon seemed to sum up the situation perfectly. They were islands in a new sea. And as these small houses became more endangered, my sense of achievement on finding them became even greater.
On Pingshi Lu I found a few elegant grey houses from the late Qing or Republican period. Their bricks had a solidity, a density, that made them seem capable of lasting for another century. But around them was either empty space or fenced off buildings. The district, which dates back to the Ming Dynasty, had once been known for its blacksmiths, fur traders and pickled vegetable merchants - there's a local saying that in the district "to walk three steps is to remember a literary allusion, to walk ten is to encounter an ancient story". But in 2009, and then in 2013, a wave of demolitions destroyed the majority of structures in the area. There was a massive outcry, and a sustained public campaign, but by the end there wasn't much left. The city reversed its plans for the area after the second wave of demolitions, and released a “Plan for Preserving the Appearance of Pingshijie Historic District,” under which residents would be allowed to stay and structurally sound buildings would be renovated. But this hasn't happened yet. Behind their high walls the old buildings are quietly degenerating. As I walked down the narrow alleys, looking at the signs warning people that the leaning structures were unsafe, I could glimpse parts of the roofs, a few sculpted eaves, but this wasn't enough. I felt like a hunter who has only found a pile of bones.
I walked south, towards the old Ming walls, taking in the quotidian marvels of Chinese street life. Fortune tellers squatted outside a hospital. A woman on a bicycle was speaking to a security guard in a shrill voice that attempted to explode a minor grievance into a tragedy. At an intersection a man was selling three large turtles suspended from a pole. I turned onto Zhongshan Nan Lu, kept walking, and then in the corner of my eye I saw some flowing grey lines against the sky to my right. I twisted my head, but still could not tell what I was seeing at the end of the narrow street. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was stupid to expect to find anything in such a large, wealthy city.
It is hard to give up such hopes. I walked down the street and saw an opening in the wall directly ahead. Stepping through was like leaving the present. I stopped to appreciate the long street of small stone houses. Through open doors I saw the narrow, dim passages. I saw bicycles, brooms, mops, tables covered with bowls, cups, cleaning products, jars of preserved fruit and vegetables. These ordinary signs of occupation reminded me of streets I had seen in Beijing, Kunming, Changsha, streets that now only existed in people's memories. I walked down the street, thinking it was probably just this one row of old houses, but when I reached the end I realised it was a whole neighbourhood. The streets seemed like another external room of the houses. Sweet potatoes were drying on tables. Washing was hung out to dry. An elderly couple was drinking tea at a small table surrounded by cages containing vibrant yellow songbirds. Over the following hour I wandered happily through the streets of the Da Bai Huang area. I could see that there had been repairs to the houses and the pavement, but these were only small practical changes. I was also encouraged to see notices outside some of the houses that explained their historic significance. Apart from the educational value of these signs - I was surprised to learn that one of the residences used to be a nunnery - it was a welcome sign that the city sees such places as worthy of protection.
The highlight of my visit to the area was the line of river houses a few blocks to the west of Da Bai Huang. On Tang Fang Lang, along the banks of the Qinhuai, a line of grand, two-storey houses have the grandeur of chess pieces. Though all are impressive, for me the best was not the expensively-restored houses, but the single house in its original state. Inside I met three generations of a family who have lived there for over a hundred years. The ornate wooden carvings of deer and fruit on the balustrade were no less impressive for being festooned with bags, shirts, cables, string, and other household items. From one of the rooms a television was playing music while in the courtyard an elderly woman chopped garlic. They kindly allowed me to look as long as I wanted. For some people the jumble of boxes and sacks in the house might have been a distraction from the remarkable interior; for me this made it easier to imagine the many generations of families who have lived in the house since it was built. I imagined merchants, officials, writers, painters, wealthy people, ordinary people, until my head felt full. The economic imperatives of Chinese cities - whose finances still depend heavily on tax revenue and construction fees - mean that the position of places like the Da Bai Huang area are likely to remain precarious. Many will end up like Pingshi Lu. But after my time in Nanjing I am a little more confident that some endangered species will be preserved for those strange hunters who do not want to kill.
6. Snapshots
Elisa Biagini
“pare che non in darno feci questa uscita”
Matteo Ricci
with two wings
I chase the tail
of time, the cut
thread
-
I build this new self
with bricks of tofu:
a memory palace
-
a lost glove,
a part of me
still in Jinling
-
I walk ahead but
my shadow
embraces the
roots of the willow:
won’t let go.
-
a white feather:
a duck escaping
its fate, stories
in wait
-
in the alphabet
of bugs I read
my name,
over and over
-
my path opens
up like a scroll,
looking for the remaining
ginko leaves
-
in the year of the rabbit
I hop between worlds
under the motherly
gaze of the moon
-
I hold it to my ear:
on such a cold day
what story is the
stone telling me?
-
I scatter grains of
purple sand to
remember the way
back to this island
of words
-
cup after cup
of tea-- snow
melted by the warmth
of our eyes
-
I carry my heart
like a lantern
the color of persimmon--
from bitter to sweet
-
beyond a tangle
of wires I see
sausages and shirts
dangling in a wind
of promise.
-
I go against time,
against wind I bend
like bamboo, trying
to tie each word again
“goodbye, goodbye – and yet just one more cup”
Li Bai
“I look for what I miss,
I know not what it is”
Li Qinzhao