This Love Could Not Be Delivered Read online

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One: 1984

  A Dirty Dance

  Execution Night

  A Hooligan's Sketch

  Beauty and the Flesh

  The Son's Room

  A Model Stepfather

  Go Find That Student!

  Someone Else's Child

  Chapter Two: 1990

  "Open"

  A Fetus in the Belly

  A Poem Dedicated to a Wedding

  Heaven's Mercy

  Counterfeit "Open"

  A Feeble Happiness

  Chapter Three: 1996

  The Wind's Direction

  Premature Aging

  "Bainixiande"26

  "Big Brother Danqing"

  Rainbow Vomit

  Family Games

  Crying Crocodile Tears

  Chapter Four: 2000

  The Start of a Wonderful Epoch

  Recaptured in a Web

  A Catalyzing Note

  "Disbelief"

  "Ta"31

  A Prolonged Stare

  An Obligatory Hug

  Chapter Five: 2006

  Covering and Desensitizing

  The Uncrossable Street

  From Cruel to Cool

  Bring on Another Storm!

  The Greatest Second

  The Dustbin of Memory

  Dedication

  This story begins on the night of Christmas Eve, 1983. The root source of all events were to proceed from that one night. It decided everyone's fate, and it was unavoidable for decades to come…

  This night was to be the final mark left in public memory about Lu Danqing. He sprouted up that night like a newborn, yet shriveled down to the ground till his very death. Due to its ties to romance and life, this memory was to be forever extended, expertly spiced up, swallowed whole, and meticulously digested…

  The book is hereby solemnly dedicated to Lu Danqing's nineteen year-old life.

  Chapter One: 1984

  "I n twenty minutes-no, only eighteen-you'll be gone. The dead and living will each find their proper place. What's there to say? How ridiculous it is that all I can think to do is struggle to remember how you looked as a baby taking a bath, laying in the wooden tub all sparkly white and chubby, babbling goo-goo ga-ga, with your fat, tender fingers splashing up water! In a flash you're grown up, yet in another flash, you're marked for death. How can I be expected to abandon you-I'm not even old yet!"

  A Dirty Dance

  [1]

  The winter of 1983 was in most ways the same as the winter of '82-Mother Earth was likewise oppressive and her landscapes were painted in the same monotonous colors. It was a time when entertainment in any form was discouraged and even Christmas went unmentioned (…doesn't it seem ridiculous just to think about it?) The newspapers just listed off some annual steel and grain production figures and reported on some progressive-minded employees who persevered in their hard work. People were happy just to get a towel and New Year's card from their labor unit 1.

  But Lu Danqing just couldn't ignore Christmas as the common man in the street would. Though it was just his first year in college, he felt like a completely reincarnated man in vibrant, new flesh. He did, after all, have his own bold style and outlook. But no-this is Christmas. How could it be just another day? It's a holiday that any real college student should be celebrating! What's more, he had several years of visual arts' study under his belt and had copied a good stock of oil paintings. Western art…how beautiful and youthful it is! Such freedom-and how inexplicable, yet impossible to ignore!

  He and his congenial college friends, who were perfectly suited to him, started discussions two months ahead of time and conspired in countless ideas and plots. It was a process that got too complicated and irritating, so they opted to start skipping the details. In a word, they finally carved it in stone: their group would have a dance-a dignified dance, and the best imaginable-just like in novels and movies.

  Once confirmed, it was ready like an arrow cocked back and aimed at a far and wide target, which was certain to be shot. Goal-oriented men, whether it be in conduct or discourse, easily stand out from everyone else.

  Lu Danqing and his partners all had a gut feeling that this winter was going to be different from all others. In this crossroads of the old and new years, they were concocting a highly romantic, fashionable and fantastic brew. They were the leaders and pioneers of their time, like the sun at eight or nine in the morning, shining a spring light of warmth and excitement over a drab and dreary winter.

  Dance? Sounds like total hogwash! But really, there's nothing difficult in the world-you just have to make up your mind, walk your talk, and all roads eventually lead to Rome. A student in our class took the initiative in providing a location. His father was a Tibetan-assistance cadre who always stayed with his mother in his maternal grandfather's house. His own house was empty with no one living there the whole year round, so borrowing it for a night was a cinch. As for Lu Danqing, he knew a student who was responsible for looking after the audio system in the campus public announcements room and who could get his hands on some very good music tapes that would make anyone twist his hips. There was also someone responsible for borrowing a four-speaker boombox (the kind you can carry while you dance) from a non-alumnus. And still yet there was a campus activities planner who swore he could ask a friend in the school auditorium to help in getting something like a color backdrop for the stage. They were even thinking of putting up a few rows of golden crepe flowers, lighting color candles, and using the lighting for some atmosphere. If we all could rub our nickels together, we could buy snacks and red wine and line them up along the window sill. Then we could let everyone stand by the window looking out into the nightscape while sipping wine and whispering in each other's ears…It all sounds so wonderful…

  Thus the organization commenced two weeks before the dance with Lu Danqing in the lead, rushing around almost like a rebel chief, dishing out all kinds of duties in every direction like a drill sergeant. As for music, there needed to be a mix of both romantic piano and reliable dance tunes. The wine didn't need to be too expensive, but the color should be good. The crepe flowers should be the shiny kind…Due to over-excitement, Danqing was being a bit mysterious (and he did so intentionally), and though it certainly never needed to be a big secret, Danqing required all the young men to act like underground revolutionaries as he set the example, maintaining mystery and caution. On the sports field when they were around students not in the know, they'd exchange glances in a unique code language, occasionally feigning to cough amid certain public coincidences and blowing whistles…all of which were accompanied by carefully thought out movements. They were like the catalysts used in chemistry class that were reacting down a succeeding chain, as if in all of them were going to catch fire and even explode when that terminal night finally arrived.

  Then there was only a loathsome calendar, sluggishly pacing along like a hospital patient and forcing them to stand and eagerly await in dire impatience. December twenty-fourth! December twenty-fourth!

  Having surreptitiously planned minutiae and procedures, it was only until the last minute that they woke up out of their daze and understood. It was like a sudden discovery. Wow, all the active participants are young men! What about young women? What about female dance partners? It's hard to imagine that the most critical part of the dance's composition was nothing but a question mark. How impetuous and over-confident they were to have overlooked it!

  Actually, this necessary and important issue, female dance partners, was always there and duly noted, but it was serious enough that everyone had somehow taken special consideration to avoid it.

&nb
sp; So finally a meeting was called into session.

  Where could these partners be found? The eleven young men-including Danqing-were in a meeting hushing each other and exchanging curt phrases. They were given very little slack. The young women in our class or major? No, they'd surely spoil the secret. (That's strange. Why would they care about spoiling it? It was as if the dance had to remain a secret to remain a real dance!) Female non-alumni are unfamiliar, odd, and hard to contact. Former high school girlfriends-that wouldn't work. They don't fit in and would be scared to come, even if they didn't have to dance. As they hemmed and hawed, everyone was a bit clueless, a bit saddened, and almost frightened as if their dance were going to die in the cradle.

  …Oh. My sister has a good friend, very pretty and energetic, who's a senior in high school. She came over my house once to hang out. I can call her and have her bring some girlfriends along. However…I'm afraid…there was a student hesitating to say something, and his facial expression was somehow tinged with pride.

  What are you afraid of? How could anything go wrong? Everyone bustled up to smother his voice as if their lives depended on it, absolutely not letting him talk.

  I'm not afraid of you guys-I'm afraid of her! Surely she's not your average player. She's passionate and a bit assertive. She stops at nothing. You all have to remember she grew up in a military compound since she was little, and she's quite bossy.

  Yeah, yeah, everyone joined in, wishing they could toss him away. What stops at nothing this, what pushy that-ignoring and forgetting it all. Hence the issue of female dance partners was hurriedly settled, as in any case there was no other way and, for better or for worse, that was that.

  After that, they were blissfully ignorant, rejoicing in what they thought was an exceptionally successful meeting. However, to be honest, not a single one of them could actually dance ballroom, but they'd never have admitted it. What's there to know about dancing?! What's more, think about it-you can make a pose when dancing with her: one hand hugging her slim waist from behind, the other hand enveloping her ice-cold fingers, the bottom of your chin on the tip of her forehead, whispering in her ear. She'll take a wrong step and step on your feet, she'll accidentally fall into your embrace-is there anything better in the world than that?

  Hehe. All the young men could almost hear their own muscles and joints silently being stretched and flexed. Really, they needed to dance all too badly-they needed it from inside their armpit hairs, biceps brachii, hip joints, and every drip of blazing hot blood-they needed it. Ah, to be eighteen or nineteen years old and have that full body of energy. Enough said.

  [2]

  Then on that day after they'd waited for ages, after waiting so long they just about go crazy, the day had come.

  It should be noted well that the weather was bone-chilling. Many were wearing the ever-popular white or prune-colored neck gaiters-pretty, yes, but it made everyone look a bit daft, as if they were missing a chunk. This made Danqing indignant. He furrowed his brows, thinking of the foreign films he'd seen where the men were all in suits and the women all had bare necks and arms…so you couldn't have told him they were going to dance with scrunched heads and holding their cotton winter jackets. His imagination disgruntled and agitated him, and the sky darkened as he bitterly gave up thinking about it.

  Eating a bland dinner in the cafeteria-whether you're excited or upset, a damned meal, like some sort of feeding time-was always like that, and we'd just want to get it over with. Everyone borrowed a bike, and eleven people like a vast throng set out for the apartment that one helpful student had offered. Up to this moment, Danqing, as the organizer, was still melancholy and on the brink of worrying himself sick. He feared he'd imagined the event to be miraculously good, but in reality, it was going to be a big mess. Aye, a dance. I should have never got the idea. It's already a total failure. But the other guys were in an entirely alternate mindset, happily hooting and hollering the whole way as if the road were a red carpet laid curb to curb and sprawling up to a fantastic palace.

  The helpful student was inside. It was Danqing's first time being there, and indeed it was an official's domicile, filled with rooms-four little rooms, perhaps. Under his feet was a old thinly-planked wooden floor. The table had a checker table cloth, and the dark-red velvet curtains bestowed upon the interior an auspicious and calm atmosphere.

  He turned on the radiators. Without looking further he could see the apartment was a leftover from a bygone era in which radiators were a baseline amenity. The student was short, small, and had small hands and feet-but being in his own place he was more comfortable and at ease. This only made Danqing more upset. It was odd, but he didn't like other people being more at ease than himself.

  When are they coming? A student was passing out cigarettes as one hung from his mouth and he crack crack played with a lighter, offering as he looked from the side. His formed his queries without subjects, but everyone understood. It was an especially degenerate expression when he asked, and he was like a villain from a movie-quite provocative.

  This unexpectedly gave Danqing a devious tickle, and his bad mood that started on the way in had ended right there. He couldn't smoke and thus refused. For some of them it was their first time, and they immediately started coughing woefully. Ah, the first Christmas! The first dance! The first smoke! Some of them let out audible sighs, as if reciting awkward, improvised poetry with a passionate slant.

  Ostensibly right after that voices of female students echoed up from the stairwell-their steps, huffing, boisterous laughter, plunking things on the floor, screams-via the amplification and transmission unique to a stairwell's space, there was a palpable echo and resonance. Danqing was suddenly put off, or even distressed, ardently hoping there'd be a moment's pause. Without knowing why, he was unwilling to see them so soon. He'd imagined there'd be a long, meandering wait. They should be late, standing them up, and not bursting on the scene in such a direct manner…

  Under the moment's pressure he changed his mind and asked for a cigarette, which he clumsily lit. The others all went to the door to greet the young women, but quickly retreated further back into the apartment, going straight to the windows panes. He took a hard drag on his cigarette and choked himself into a long concatenate of coughs which made him feel useless. He held the first (and aye, also the last) cigarette he was to have in that life. He didn't smoke again the whole night, because all the young men were smoking constantly and without a care, like adults chain smoking in a smoke-filled room…in any case he didn't need any more smoke, as he was already in deep enough of a haze.

  The young women’s' sound and beings had already fully entered the room's embrace. They'd thus become distinct, though dispersed, and no longer mysterious. But Danqing stood stubbornly along the windows, exhausted and thirsting as he anxiously planned to join them after finishing his smoke.

  Some of the young men started cracking up a storm of jokes, some quite apparently prepared before the dance. There was even a guy going around to each of the young women exclaiming, "Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!" 2in a truly foreign manner, making everyone light up with mirth. Danqing perked up his ears and soon he could hear there were about six young women. Paired with eleven young men, that was basically a two to one ratio, like a scientific reagent. Then the clamor of pouring drinks and moving chairs, saying thanks, you're welcome, have a seat here please, let's start…the boombox's four speakers were maxed out as the music made its ceremonious and somewhat ear piercing start. He'd finished his first cigarette.

  [3]

  He finally turned his head around when a young woman nearby started taking off her outer layers of clothing. The other young women were standing around at something of a distance and had only shed their gaiters or scarves, but the woman nearby was whisking off her jacket. Is it really that hot in here? Danqing realized that she was the "passionate, assertive" student that the young man spoke of earlier and the veritable captain of the female dance partner team and the one who invited all th
e other young women.

  She wore a red ski jacket with interlocking stripes of gold in the collar and cuffs which was very fashionable in those days, and it sparkled when she moved. Both her arms stretched out behind her, and her head turned to the side as her chest was pushed forward.

  It was a very familiar pose, similar to the one seen in an obscure oil painting of a voluptuous female model. But the model was pulling something like a shawl down on her back, and furthermore there wasn't a thread obscuring the body, denuding a strong and fit bosom-this momentary segue surprised and captivated Danqing. Or maybe it was just a mirage induced by the cigarette. In a fleeting moment, just like a well-practiced and accomplished painter, he could capture the physical characteristics of the student…his years of research and practice on nudes in myriad oil paintings was suddenly concrete and pulsing with blood at almost an arm's reach with a bold delineation and an inimitable temperature and flavor.

  When her jacket off, she waved her head left to right, with her hair cascading downward onto a new surface, the sweater, and she aimlessly handed the pleasantly-warm ski jacket over to Danqing. It was all so casual and nice! He was somewhat lost in space as his mind drifted to coat rooms often described in foreign novels. She was the eidetic image of a duchess, as he played her lowly servant…Suddenly, someone turned off the overhead light, leaving nothing on but colored-paper tinged glimmers. They were a circle of candles pre-lit and placed along the floor molding, flickering with light lunging back and forth. Then there were curt announcements in an exaggerated tone of voice, whistles and applause…Danqing listened but didn't catch much of it-there was a fog in his brain and an ostensible ring reverberating in his ears. It was likely the cigarette making him sick.

  By means of the colored candles' glow, by means of the dusky light's protective embrace, there were a few couples getting on the dance floor. Wide-soled shoes with raised heels started tapping out a haphazard rhythm, and observers were clapping along in an intentionally disordered meter as if stomping up a vernal pulse. Ah, the spring of 1984. Perhaps events like these are how spring comes around every year.