Buying a Fishing Rod for my Grandfather Read online

  He happens to stop in front of a glass advertising display on the street and then becomes absorbed with reading what is inside. The street is fairly deserted and only one or two pedestrians are out.

  She is standing at the end of the street but there is an endless stream of cars. She is too impatient for the red light to change and starts weaving across the road. Another car speeds by and she quickly stops, retreating to the white line in the middle of the road. She looks in the direction of the approaching cars and runs across just after a small sedan has passed. On the footpath she goes up some steps, appears to stop to think for a while, then presses some numbers at the door. There's a buzz and she opens the door and goes inside. Before the door slowly closes, she turns around, but on that overcast day it is even more difficult to see her face clearly.

  There is no chair in the water, only foam. The long-drawn-out sound is intermittent, yet remains suspended in the air, never completely cut off – there is only that bit of sound.

  A fine drizzle is falling on the glass advertising display and he moves aside. The display is full of advertisements for houses on sale with prices attached, some with photographs, most are private residences in the country. Some of the houses are for rent, with already rented written prominently in red on the cheaper ones.

  Another man comes along to pull the rope. He is dressed immaculately, wearing a tie, and he greets the old man wearing trousers with suspenders. Taking the rope and talking and laughing, he steadily sets about this chore. When a heavy thud comes from somewhere not far away, the second man scowls.

  An empty mineral water bottle is floating on the sea, bobbing up and down upon the waves. All this time, the sunlight remains splendid and the sky is so clean, it looks unreal. Maybe because it is too clean, too bright, and too empty, and with the waves sparkling with sunlight, that the empty plastic bottle moving into the distance suddenly turns gray-black and looks like an aquatic bird or some other floating object. At some unknown time the intermittent, long-drawn-out sound has stopped and, like a thread of gossamer blown by the wind, has vanished without trace.

  "A pair of swans came to this seaside, then only one of them was to be seen, the other must have been killed for a trophy. The one left behind flew away soon afterward." It is a woman's voice, and clearly for a man to hear. As she speaks, the floating object moving into the distance really looks like an aquatic bird.

  A man wearing glasses comes along to watch the two men pulling the rope. He scrutinizes them with his glasses on, then, taking them off, he wipes them but doesn't seem to be able to see any more clearly. He can't tell if he is seeing clearly or if he is seeing, but not clearly. Nevertheless, unfazed about whether or not he's seeing clearly, he puts the glasses into his breast pocket and joins the ranks of the rope-pulling men.

  He is standing in the middle of a deserted little street, a cobblestone road that crawls toward the main street. On both sides are old stone buildings and the shops downstairs either have their doors shut tight or have metal grilles in place. He looks up. On both sides, the curtains of all the windows upstairs are drawn. Everything is gloomy, except for a long narrow sliver of green-blue sky. At the place where the road and the sky meet, it is hard not to think that it is the sea.

  Seagulls are circling in the sky, screeching noisily. Whether they have to screech like this to look for food or if it's out of sheer joy isn't clear, because they use a language not understood by humans. However, understanding or not is unimportant, what is important is that in the blue sky on this island they can soar as they will and can call out noisily.

  Facing the long strip of clear blue sky carved out by the houses on both sides, his back view becomes a silhouette and his tie starts to flap. On the gloomy street this is the only thing moving.

  She says she doesn't know what to do! Her voice is agitated. But he says coldly that he knows what he wants to do, but he can't. Sprawled on the bed in the dark, she sticks up her legs and kicks her feet against one another. He is sitting by the desk lamp typing on the keyboard, and on the screen appears:

  From behind, the only thing that can be seen moving is his tie. Going to the front to have a look, he sees that it is the faceless head of a jacket on a coat hanger, the hem of which is also moving in the wind. The stand for the coat hanger is on the footpath. No one is on the street, there are no vehicles, and all the shops are shut.

  Screeching, a seagull swoops down and dives into the water. However, most of the seagulls are just sitting there, floating on the waves. Far out at sea, lines of white foam surge up. The sound of the waves is muffled, transmitted slowly, apparently traveling more slowly than the tide.

  By the time the roar of the waves can be heard, the seagull can be seen flying up from the water, neck extended and wings flapping, its eyes round and beady, its wings thrusting.

  A round red apple with green streaks shines as if it has been waxed. Slowly and with precision it turns in the delicate hand of the woman examining it and is then put down.

  Red wine, dark red like blood, in cut-crystal goblets on a table with a white tablecloth, the quiet sound of knives and forks. Behind the wine goblets is a phantomlike man in a suit and tie, and the bare shoulders and neck of an equally phantomlike woman wearing a necklace. The man is saying something but it can't be made out. He is apparently relaxed and happy.

  The woman starts turning the apple again in her hand, and gradually the conversation at the table can be heard. Enthusiastic… Barbara… very interesting… won't you have some dessert… Lily, you're not eating much… thanks… really funny… what did he say… sorry… summer… an antique dealer… quite talented… went to Hong Kong… can't understand war… homosexuality… has a certain elasticity… indeed… is cute… news headlines… specializes in foot massages… sauna… doesn't possess his poise… why… best not to say… try telling… yesterday afternoon… she went crazy… is no longer usable… the kitten I have at home… too painful… maybe it's true… government… what surname… a variety of stout… discover… an absolute oaf…

  The open bright red cassock on the statue of Buddha is painted with gold lines and decorated with reverse swastikas, the sign of myriad benevolence and good fortune. With his many-layered chin and his hands holding up his huge, round belly, he sits securely and sedately on the black marble altar above the incense burner on the wall. He is happy and contented, and his lips part in endless laughter. However, if one looks closer, he seems to be yawning, and if one looks again, his narrowed eyes make him seem to be dozing off. On further scrutiny he is glaring horribly.

  He goes into a bar and sits on a tall stool. The waiter brings two big glasses of beer and puts them on the counter in front of him. Quite a few are in the bar but it's not too crowded, and in the bright blue light, people's faces can't be seen clearly. They are all drinking and keep to themselves. A piano stands in the light on a small platform, and a black woman is playing. It is jazz blues and very melancholy. Old and ugly like a toad, from time to time she touches the keys, solicitously, fondly, as if caressing her lover. The black man nearby with a wreath of gray crinkled hair on his head is old like her, but he hasn't aged too badly. He is playing on several drums as he sings a sentence or a half into the microphone.

  A good fire is burning and the wood crackles quietly; close up, the sound of the wind drawn down into the chimney can be heard. The black marble fireplace is spotless and the shag carpet goes right up to it.

  At this point a fourth person arrives. He is wearing a leather jacket. Without a word he too proceeds to pull the rope. The men are all conscientious, unflustered, and the rope is pulled taut. They move forward, one upturned hand after the other, and keep persevering, but it is very strenuous.

  "A Chinese guy…" the old black man is singing in English, but doesn't look at him. The old black woman runs her fingers rapidly over a set of keys, bending over the piano and swaying drunkenly, totally absorbed in the music, and also not looking at him. He keeps to himself and goes on drinkin
g his beer. In the dark blue light no one looks at anyone else, entranced as they are by the music, like a crowd of nodding puppets.

  The horse rears its hairy hooves. "Wandering all over the world…" sings the old black man.

  The hands of the old black woman come down hard on the keys and there's a boom as the ground shakes under the horse's hooves. "Wandering all over the world, wandering all over the world…" As the old man sings, he plays the drums, and people nod to the beat.

  The rope edges forward as the men pull on it, one hand after the other, straining their feet inside their shoes against the green grassy ground.

  The spray splashes high as waves crash against the seawall. The waves under the seawall surge up and the beach can no longer be seen. The sunlight has the same intense brilliance, but the sky and the sea appear bluer.

  One end of the rope finally appears. The fishhook, painted a bright red, has a huge dead fish hooked to it, and it is dragged onto the green grass. The fish on the hook has its mouth wide open and seems to be gasping futilely for air. The fish's wide-open eyes have lost their shine and have a dazed look.

  The seawater spills over the seawall and trickles down the other side. The sky turns dark blue and the sunlight seems to be even more strangely transparent.

  A big cockroach with shiny wings and trembling feelers runs onto the milk white shag carpet and crawls over the twisted threads of wool. The hanging lamp casts a circle of light on the rear of a beautifully carved mahogany horse: its glossy round rump, its hind legs, and its hooves shod with little red brass nails.

  "Wandering… all over the world! Wandering… all over… the world!" The piano keys sing in response to the wrinkled old black hands. The man moves his head to the music. On the counter in front of him are three empty beer glasses, and in his hand he has another half-empty glass. A white woman sits on the tall stool next to him. Her bottom, wrapped in a tight, short leather skirt, is round and shiny, like the horse's rump.

  Seawater like black satin is spilling over the seawall; at the foot of the wall in the spreading seawater lies a dead fish. There is an absence of sound. The tide and wind have suddenly stopped. Time seems to have frozen. Only the sea, like a length of spreading black satin, is flowing and yet not spilling. Maybe it isn't moving and only seems to be flowing, merely offering the sensation that it is flowing and only sensed as a visual image.

  His hand squashes a fleeing cockroach on top of the electric stove. He turns on the tap but doesn't flush it away. Instead he just looks at the splashing water.

  "Want marijuana?" The voice is low, so low that it is mistaken for breathing because the music is very loud. As wrinkled black hands fly across the keys, they seem to be the words of the song softly repeated. But the old black man is not singing; head down, he sways as he continues to play the drums.

  The shiny brass bomb hanging on a fleshy earlobe of the white woman swings gently.

  Cockroaches are crawling on the patterned tiles over the sink, crawling on the lid of the enamel saucepan, crawling on the leather cover of the radio, crawling on the cupboard, crawling along the kitchen door. He puts on a rubber glove.

  A big hand with blue veins is on the woman's thigh, under the black leather skirt. Who does it belong to, and where is he? Is the old black man still playing the drums, is the piano still playing? Where is that pinging noise coming from? Anyway, everything seems to be swaying.

  An eye, the dazed, cold gray eye of a fish, round and staring, dull and lusterless.

  A pair of pointy pliers pulls out a tooth, the pale blood still clinging to the roots. He sniffs at it, it stinks a bit, and with a swing of his arm he tosses it away.

  People are mountain climbing. Everyone is trying to outdo the other and it seems to be a race up the mountain. There are men and women, some wearing shorts, some carrying backpacks. There are also old and young people, some have walking sticks and some have small children, and pairs of boys and girls are holding hands, so it doesn't seem to be a race. Everyone has been mobilized. Is it a holiday camp or are they the residents of the whole county town? It suits everyone, men and women, old and young; is it a trendy form of exercise?

  Cockroaches are crawling everywhere. Wearing a glove covered with dead cockroaches, he is on his haunches, frantically swiping at them.

  Two feet in pointed leather shoes are stepping about in midair. On the stage, a white-nosed clown is walking on his hands to the tune of a leaky accordion soundlessly oozing air.

  Everyone is puffing and panting, sweating from their foreheads. All of them take out identical bottles labeled with the same brand of mineral water and, one by one, their broad, contorted faces produce similar smiles of well-being.

  A hat spins silently on the end of a walking stick.

  The wind is taking a break, and on the boundless sea the layers of white crests keep pushing closer and closer. The sunlight is wonderful, the sky remains azure blue, and the seagulls are screeching.

  People are marching in file along the mountain ridge. The person in the lead is holding a tattered old flag that billows in the strong wind. They are off in the distance, but the flapping of the tattered flag can still be heard.

  The sea swells up to the stone steps beyond the doors, majestically, turbulently.

  The ground is thick with cockroaches. He stands still, and bends his head to look around. He is utterly frustrated and can do nothing but take off the glove that is covered with dead cockroaches.

  Without a sound, the sea spills over the doorsill into the room, and the cockroaches scramble to escape by crawling up the walls. Those not quick enough are caught in the swirling current and float up with it or lie on their backs pretending to be dead. He can't help bending to look at them. He pokes at them with the glove, then throws it into the water, straightens up, and doesn't bother with them anymore. The legs of the table and chair are underwater and some of the cockroaches in the water start crawling up them.

  The people with the flag are marching in file along the gentle ridge. As they draw near, the man in the lead raises his walking stick high. The flag flapping noisily in the wind is in fact a string of bras – white silk, dark red brocade, flesh-colored netting – all tied together with black nylon stockings. A small black leather bra shakes up and down from time to time and looks like a small bird trying to break free.

  A large part of the concrete ceiling is wet, and the pooling water forms droplets that begin to fall.

  In the underground cellar, someone is lying faceup on a mattress so old that it should be thrown away. His face is covered with a black hat, and his body is covered with a white sheet; the mattress is right in the middle of four wet concrete walls. Drops of water plop noisily onto the sheet and part of it gradually becomes wet.

  His fat belly is exposed, covered only with bamboo medical suction cups; the part below his lower abdomen is covered with the white sheet.

  Sitting on a small wooden stool, a cobbler wearing a felt hat takes the nail from between his teeth and presses it into the high heel of the shoe clamped between his knees. With one blow of the hammer, it is in.

  The murky black seawater flows down from the stone steps, soundlessly, flowing down, one step at a time.

  He looks up to the ruins of the fortress at the top of the cliff and goes up the broken stone steps that are in the shadows. The fortress, however, is in the sunlight and the outline and texture of each stone are quite distinct.

  He enters the pitch black doorway of the fortress wall, then suddenly hears the sound of an iron chisel being hammered into rock. He stands still and the sound stops. As soon as he resumes walking the sound follows his footsteps. He stops and the sound stops again. He then deliberately stamps his feet and the iron chisel clangs noisily. Finally, when he starts running hard, the sound vanishes.

  It is a long, dark tunnel. He moves slowly ahead, groping. At the other end is a ray of light and the exit gradually appears – a doorway. Outside, the sunlight is brilliant, and the sound of the chisel can be he
ard clearly. Moving stealthily to the doorway, hiding in the shadows, he sees someone hammering at some rocks. He walks over and stops behind the man. The man turns around. He has a dry, sunken, old face creased with deep wrinkles, yellow and tanned, and his sparse front teeth are completely covered with tobacco stains. He is an old Chinese peasant from a mountain village and as he squints in the sunlight, his eyes are vacant in the slits, staring somewhere else. The vague sound of the sea vanishes just as it starts.

  The murky black seawater surges in from the stone steps above on the left, soundlessly. A little light comes in only from outside the half-open doors above the stone steps, and the reflected light indicates that the force of the water is quite strong.

  He is pedaling on a bicycle and the wheels are turning at a medium pace. He is riding an ancient bicycle with wide handlebars, traveling along a narrow village highway. In the distance on the left is a big stretch of grassland on a slight incline where there is a line of four people, backs bent, who seem to be pulling hard on something. What they are pulling isn't clear, but it is something very heavy that looks like a wooden boat yet could be a coffin, and leaves a track in the grass wherever they pass. Their every step is slow and strained. Wafting through the air is a woman's wail, like song and lament, like the wailing of a Chinese peasant woman at a funeral.

  The sun reflecting off the bell on the bicycle handlebars hurts his eyes, and the wailing seems more and more like the songs or hauling chants of coolie workers. The wheels of the bicycle turn along the straight asphalt road.

  Four gaunt men with purplish bronze faces, sweating backs, and bare upper torsos are wearing wide cloth waistbands and straw sandals. As he looks at the rope, which appears to be taut, there is a sudden loud snap.

  A motor car overtakes the bicycle, and speeds off. As he turns his head to look back, the sun directly over the left side of the field is blinding. No one is around and the lingering sound seems to be either the cry of insects or his ears ringing.