The Lost Garden Read online

  Columbia University Press wishes to express its appreciation for assistance given by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange and Council for Cultural Affairs in the preparation of the translation and in the publication of this series.

  The translators acknowledge with gratitude a publication subvention from the National Taiwan Museum of Literature.

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  E-ISBN 978-0-231-54032-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Li, Ang, 1952-

  [Mi yuan. English]

  The lost garden : a novel / Li Ang ; translated by Sylvia Li-chun Lin with Howard Goldblatt.

  pages cm. — (Modern Chinese literature from Taiwan)

  ISBN 978-0-231-17554-8 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-17555-5 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-231-54032-2 (electronic)

  I. Lin, Sylvia Li-chun, translator. II. Goldblatt, Howard, 1939- translator. III. Title.

  PL2877.A58M513 2015

  895.13’52—dc23

  2015017756

  A Columbia University Press E-book.

  CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at [email protected].

  COVER AND BOOK DESIGN: VIN DANG

  COVER PHOTOGRAPH: ANTONIS MINAS

  COVER MODEL: ALEXIA GALATI

  References to websites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing.

  Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

  WHAT SEPARATES US FROM CHINA

  WHAT SEPARATES US FROM CHINA is more than spatial, temporal, even cultural distance; it is more like a gulf between hearts.

  My ancestors once lived in China, which they called Tangshan, a place with a highly developed culture, where people wore silk and satin and used fine china.

  When I was a child, my father taught me in Taiwanese to recite Chinese poetry. When Taiwan was under Japanese rule, he called himself a Han; for a while he even admired Chairman Mao, whom he considered to be the savior of the laboring masses. But we were given a drastically different view of China from those who arrived in Taiwan in 1949. The tangled emotional ties, grievances, and resentment have never ceased to exist, even now.

  In the oppressive climate of White Terror during Taiwan’s four-decade-long martial law era, we diligently worked at piecing together the history of Taiwan of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the island was frequented by competing merchants from Japan, China, the Netherlands, and Spain, all of which treated Taiwan mainly as a site for trading silk and silver.

  This is a promised land that has enabled me to construct a story of the Zhu family, whose ancestors were pirates, and whose curse was passed down through the generations, until its eventual realization.

  I have spent years with friends in Taiwan’s opposition camp. Comparatively speaking, Taiwan has been luckier than most countries, for it became democratic without a bloody revolution, an accomplishment worthy of making all Chinese proud. Democracy and freedom have made it possible to write about taboo subjects, which is critical for writers like me. But the key is to write a good novel, a work that can withstand the passage of time.

  Things change with time, but the issue of national identity explored in this novel exists not only in the past, but in the present, and in the future as well. It is an eternal polemic, since it originates from the gulf between hearts.

  Whatever separates us from China, and other related issues, has always been the heart, the gulf between hearts.

  LI ANG

  IN THE EARLY DAYS OF 2015

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  PUBLISHED IN 1990, three years after the lifting of martial law in Taiwan, The Lost Garden was the first full-length novel to re-create in fictional form the White Terror Era, reference to which was a political taboo for more than four decades. Showcasing Li Ang’s talent to convey poignant insights through well-crafted details and innovative narrative techniques, the novel also marks a turning point in her writing career, expanding her scope from a predominantly feminist approach to increasingly multifaceted portrayals of contemporary Taiwan. The novel has attracted considerable scholarly attention in Taiwan and elsewhere since its publication. A French translation has been in print since 2003; now an English version is finally available for a broader audience.

  The garden (yuan), with its multitiered metaphoric and symbolic role, has been the central focus of scholars who have analyzed and written about the novel. “Mi,” the first word in the Chinese title, has been variously interpreted as “strange,” “mystifying,” “labyrinthine,” and more. After consulting with the author, I have chosen “lost” to signify the loss of the garden to its rightful owners during Yinghong’s father’s time. The sense of “loss” is further conveyed in the second strand of the narrative, in which decadent and lavish banquets are a manifestation of an island lost in materialism. In addition, “lost” hints at how individuals became lost in the garden, thereby encompassing the mystifying sense of a labyrinth suggested by scholars. During the translation process, I have striven to adhere as closely as possible to the tone, the sentence structure, and the images of the original text. The Lost Garden is narrated in a semiformal language and quasiclassical style, which I have attempted to duplicate in my rendition. Words in languages other than Chinese are in italics throughout the novel.

  The translation and publication have been made possible in part by a translation fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a translation grant from the National Museum of Taiwan Literature. I am grateful for the encouragement of Jennifer Crewe, director of Columbia University Press, which has published a large corpus of fiction from Taiwan. I thank the two anonymous readers for their meticulous checking of the translation. Rather than supply footnotes, as they recommended, I have provided explanations and clarifications in the text where appropriate. The term waishengren, literally, those from outside the province (of Taiwan), commonly refers to residents who emigrated from China to Taiwan at the end of the civil war in 1949. I recommend Joseph Allen’s Taipei: City of Displacements to those interested in learning more about Taiwan’s capital city, and A New Account of Tales of the World, translated by Richard Mather, for further reading of the text Yinghong’s father consulted.

  Howard Goldblatt read many versions of this translation and offered considerable editorial suggestions, which merits listing him on the cover. I thank my old friend, Li Ang, a supremely gracious writer and a delightful author to work with, for her timely assistance in responding to queries and for assisting in the application for a publication grant from the National Museum of Taiwan Literature.

  SYLVIA LI-CHUN LIN

  BOULDER, COLORADO

  CONTENTS

  What Separates Us From China

  Translator’s Note

  Prologue

  Part I

  One

  Two

  Part II

  One

  Two

  Part III

  One

  Two

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  IN THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER, sweltering heat permeates every corner of the Taipei Basin, pressing down on this coastal city with stifling heat and sultry air.

  The basin is like a magnet for oppressive heat that smothers the city in clammy dampness, like colorless, odorless foam rubber that fills up and encases the high rises and dense residential districts, as well as the meandering streets, with no prospect of ever leavi
ng. All seems submerged in molasses.

  When night falls, the sun loses its power, if only temporarily. An occasional breeze from the surrounding hills might set the stagnant heat in motion, but it feels more like a pot of boiling water that has just been removed from the stove top—water roils on the surface while the steamy heat is buried deep down, stubbornly unmoving.

  The heat is interminable. Given the island’s subtropical location, it experiences only moderate differences in temperature from day to night. Heat that takes over the city in the day refuses to back down at night, hovering like a fire-spitting beast regardless of time of day. Over the long summer months, it stays put, persistent and relentless.

  Zhongshan District, near the Tamsui River, was dotted with small American-style bars. Lacking neon signs, most were lit up only by streetlights, recognizable late at night by simple English letters burned or carved into ebony wooden plaques.

  One of the bars, Red Wood, stood out, for its cursive letters were highlighted by suggestive pink light from the pink-and-green neon sign of the barbershop next door.

  It was nearly midnight on a Friday, the beginning of the weekend for foreign-enterprise employees. The bar was half full, with mostly men who, with their loosened ties, were obviously entry-level white-collar workers.

  The corner was outfitted with a modified, short Taiwanese-style bar, with stools now occupied by Caucasian customers who were smoking in silence. Unaccustomed to stools, the local Taiwanese preferred to sit with friends at tables.

  With the air-conditioner going full blast, cigarette smoke hung in the air before slowly dissipating. Ear-pounding music sounded anxious and rushed, making it difficult to tell whether the muffled voice of the singer came from a man or a woman, who was screaming as though his or her mouth was full, but with little energy. The customers had to shout, even when sitting across from each other, so most simply sat there, not knowing what else to do. Those who couldn’t stand the boredom looked around the room with glazed eyes.

  Suddenly the door opened and in swarmed a half-dozen people led by a short, frail man in his twenties dressed in a black tank top and jeans. A paper sign a full meter in length hung from his neck down to below his knees. Two bright, eye-catching words had been scribbled in red on the white paper:

  Help Charlie

  Below the English words was a Chinese phrase written from left to right:

  Cha-li bing le. Charlie is sick.

  Someone snapped off the stereo, creating an abrupt silence that prompted those facing inside to pause in their survey of the bar and turn to look toward the entrance. The young man with the sign walked in slowly, followed by a tall, even younger-looking man, who was also wearing a tank top that showed off his rippling chest, shoulders, and arm muscles. Despite his brawny appearance, he seemed shy and timid; coins clattered in the tall tin can he was shaking.

  “Charlie’s sick and we’re collecting money for him,” he said in badly accented Mandarin, glossing over the four tones in a sort of affected monotone, like a foreigner trying to converse in the Beijing dialect. Phony sounding, he was obviously putting on an act.

  The bartender, an ordinary-looking woman in her late twenties or early thirties, wore light makeup for the sake of her job, but it was clear she did not rely on looks to succeed in her line of work. No, her competence and experience came through as soon as she opened her mouth to greet the newcomer.

  “You’re Xiao Shen from the Lighting House, aren’t you?” She paused. “Isn’t Charlie your manager?”

  “Right. He’s in the hospital …”

  “Ai! Isn’t he the one who got AIDS?” a waitress with a serving tray blurted out before Xiao Shen finished.

  A momentary silence descended on the bar before animated discussion among the patrons erupted, while Xiao Shen, struggling to be heard over the din, stammered an explanation in English: “Charlie is sick. We wanna help him.”

  One of the three men at a table near the entrance, who had unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his blue-and-red tie, reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. His face red from drinking, he picked out a hundred-NT bill with fair, delicate hands that had also turned red from the alcohol.

  “To Taiwan’s first AIDS case,” he mumbled.

  Shen came up with the can, which noiselessly swallowed the bill.

  “Thank you. Thanks. Thank you very much.” The other newcomers joined him in thanking the man.

  Money flew as noisy drunk patrons began making donations, the occasional laughter adding a cheerful note to the atmosphere. It felt more like the end of a party, when the money is collected or when raffle tickets are drawn. Everyone seemed to be having a great time; gone was the earlier boredom, gloom, and ennui. When someone tossed a handful of coins into the can, the metallic clang and the noise from the bar created a festive air.

  The din continued until Shen had made the rounds and was walking to the door, when someone at a table said in a loud voice:

  “AIDS is a condemnation from above, God’s punishment. It’s contagious. You should congratulate yourself he wasn’t arrested and thrown in jail. How dare you come here to collect money?” The speaker was a young white-collar worker. Though his tone was calm and detached, his face was a deathly white, either from alcohol or, possibly, his natural complexion.

  A look of loathing flashed in Shen’s eyes, but then disappeared as his expression turned anxious and fearful.

  “This is Taiwan’s first AIDS case,” he beseeched deferentially, forgoing his earlier toneless foreign-sounding Mandarin. Now it had a Taiwanese accent. “We worked with Charlie. Don’t you think we’re afraid of catching it? Tell you true, we’re scared to death, but we have to help him. Saving his life is the same as saving our own. Besides, just think, Taiwan’s first AIDS case has historical significance. We have to take this opportunity to find a way out for Taiwan’s gays.”

  “I’ll give you some money.”

  A Caucasian at the bar cut him off in standard Mandarin as he took out a five-NT coin. Everyone turned to observe him on his bar stool, hand raised high over his head. He showed off the coin like a magician before letting it drop in the can, where it banged crisply against the side before falling silently to the bottom.

  “Thanks.” Shen thanked the man in the same obsequious, anxious tone. “Thanks a lot.” Looking around and seeing that no more donations were forthcoming, he waved at the bartender and left with his friends. She didn’t look up, merely acknowledging his gesture with a faint smile.

  The pleasant, cheerful voice of a young woman was heard before the door shut and the rock music started up again:

  “They could be partners, the same type, you know. How scary. It’s terrible. The world’s upside down.”

  None of the newcomers turned to look at her.

  A rush of stifling summer-night heat enveloped them in sticky warm air the moment they walked out of Red Wood. Their sweat glands, dried and sealed by the air-conditioning, went into overdrive, and they were quickly drenched in sweat, which, with the combined effects of body heat and the sweltering night, turned hot and wrapped itself tightly around them.

  “Damn it. Fuck. Shit!” Shen wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand. “That foreigner was a real shit. Five NT! That’s ten cents, a dime. That’s no way to treat people. Damn him!”

  No one said anything as they crossed the street and entered a narrow lane flanked by flashing neon signs that formed a colorful stream.

  “He gave us money,” the short guy carrying the sign said cautiously. “That showed his good intentions.”

  Shen rapped him on the head with his knuckles.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, forgetting who you are in the presence of a foreigner.”

  When they reached the end of the lane, they turned onto a major thoroughfare, where cars surged in waves. A wall of flashing TV screens blocked their view.

  “Wow!” they cried out in unison. “That’s amazing.”

  They were facing six rows
of six twenty-eight-inch TV sets filling the storefront of an electronics shop. It was almost midnight and the TVs were showing the late-night news. A pavilion and a terrace by a pond of water with long, curvy, swaying willow trees that sent tiny ripples across the surface appeared on all thirty-six screens. The multiple display of identical exquisite terraces gave the impression of a continuous, endless row of pavilions, water, and willows, creating a sense of unmatched prosperity, as though, for thousands of years and over hundreds of generations, the willow tips never stopped touching the water and the terrace and pavilion would go on forever. After a while, the rippling water and terrace began to change from screen to screen, becoming dreamlike phantasms, thirty-six separate views running contiguously and endlessly. One pond followed another; each pavilion merged into the next. For a brief moment, the thirty-six screens appeared to morph into an enormous garden crisscrossed with endless terraces, pavilions, and towers.

  The voice-over narration was by a female newscaster in a clearly enunciated, professional, and yet emotionless voice:

  Ms. Zhu Yinghong, descendant of Taiwan’s famed gentry family from Lucheng, followed an original design in completing the renovation of Lotus Garden, built by her ancestors two hundred years ago. It was once a private residence, but Ms. Zhu recently established the Lotus Garden Foundation and opened the garden to the public. Now more people will have a chance to visit one of Taiwan’s rare natural beauties. A ceremony held earlier today was attended by both government officials and members of Lucheng’s gentry.

  The camera shifted and the buildings disappeared, replaced by a shot of a crowd, before moving to a medium shot of a woman. For a moment, the thirty-six screens were filled with the face of a woman in her late thirties.

  On that face was a pair of large, beautiful eyes, more sunken than those on most Asian faces, giving the face a clearly defined outline, though the nose bridge was not particularly high. Her thick lower lip contrasted with a much thinner upper lip, lending an unquestioned sensuality to her face. For some reason, she looked anxious, perhaps because the slightly gaunt face displayed an agitation more commonly seen on older women. She was wearing a simply cut, lacy white dress with a V-neck; the sleeves, made of tightly woven, soft lace, barely covered her shoulders. A long white scarf of the same material was wrapped over her head; curls of black hair peeked out from one end of a scarf that dangled across her chest. Strands of hair quivered under an early summer morning breeze, as dazzling sunlight shone down on her scarf and dress from treetops; the V-neck opening was highlighted by a diamond clearly weighing more than ten carats.