Mid-Autumn Festival Sacrifice
There's a man without a face that walks around Shanghai. I've seen him two or three times; he has no ears, no nose, no lips. As he goes, people move sideways to let him walk past them and every single one of them looks away. It's unbelievable, even I have a hard time looking directly at him. I looked away the first two times, I'm sure.
I read a story by Lu Xun about a woman whose first husband died when she was twenty-one years old, and her evil stepmother who, ever since the death of her son, 'owned' her, remarried her to a man with a horrible reputation; she tried to resist the husband but he was 'too strong for her', so nine months later she had her own baby to take care of. The new husband, who turned out to be a fine man, died shortly after. She managed to fight off her previous evil stepmother and she had a little house built for herself and her son by the river.
One day she was washing the rice in the back yard and left her four year old son sitting at the front door, separating the beans from one basket to another; hours went by fast and by the time she realized she hadn't heard one noise from her son she went looking for him... she knew wolves would come down to the village in winter, but she didn't know they would occasionally show during the summer as well. They found the boy deep in the forest, his insides out and half eaten, his little hand still holding on tight to the bean basket.
Years later the woman found work as a servant in some wealthy family's house. The moment she referred her story to the lady of the house, she was forbidden to touch anything that was used for ceremonies and religious offerings, from the tablecloth to the candles, firewood and even chopsticks. Her only task was to clean the rice by the river.
Once word got out of her past sufferings, she was considered a bad omen and henceforth nobody spoke to her, even came close to her, for the rest of her life. She became a beggar a few months after and many, many years later, she died a beggar.
And somehow, in a China that has changed little, there is a man without a face, without a nose, ears and lips. The third time I saw him I stared. He was sitting down, legs crossed, on a little plastic chair just outside Shaanxi Nan Road's subway station, with a magazine on his lap. He was wearing a buttoned up pale blue shirt and grey pants, not a stain on them. It all happened in two seconds but I swear it felt like whole minutes went by as I stared; he was looking down at the magazine scratching his head with his left hand.
And then I realized, he had no hands either. Hmm, I should say fingers. He had no fingers, just the stump of a hand, like his fingers never grew out.
I have thought about it constantly. I cannot imagine a more difficult existence on this planet, I cannot imagine another human being in a worse situation. This man is a Chinese, and he has survived it. He has no hands, but his shirt was buttoned up. He is missing his nose, ears and mouth and yet he was enjoying a magazine in a warm autumn afternoon. He's still alive and I can't stop thinking about what it must have taken to do so. In China.
Is there someone looking after him? There must be, someone who hasn't eaten human flesh yet.
Not even I can say I haven't, that's why I looked away the second he turned his head up. I'm no better than anyone here, we're all terrified still. Nothing has changed for them and now I'm joining in.
So I ask myself, 'Myself, it isn't contagious and you know it, he isn't a bad omen and you know that too. We both know the least you could do is hold your glance when he looks back at you, and that's what's terrifying.
Are you scared of looking at him, or of him looking at you?'
Either way, I still suck.
There's a man without a face that walks around Shanghai. I've seen him two or three times; he has no ears, no nose, no lips. As he goes, people move sideways to let him walk past them and every single one of them looks away. It's unbelievable, even I have a hard time looking directly at him. I looked away the first two times, I'm sure.
I read a story by Lu Xun about a woman whose first husband died when she was twenty-one years old, and her evil stepmother who, ever since the death of her son, 'owned' her, remarried her to a man with a horrible reputation; she tried to resist the husband but he was 'too strong for her', so nine months later she had her own baby to take care of. The new husband, who turned out to be a fine man, died shortly after. She managed to fight off her previous evil stepmother and she had a little house built for herself and her son by the river.One day she was washing the rice in the back yard and left her four year old son sitting at the front door, separating the beans from one basket to another; hours went by fast and by the time she realized she hadn't heard one noise from her son she went looking for him... she knew wolves would come down to the village in winter, but she didn't know they would occasionally show during the summer as well. They found the boy deep in the forest, his insides out and half eaten, his little hand still holding on tight to the bean basket.
Years later the woman found work as a servant in some wealthy family's house. The moment she referred her story to the lady of the house, she was forbidden to touch anything that was used for ceremonies and religious offerings, from the tablecloth to the candles, firewood and even chopsticks. Her only task was to clean the rice by the river.
Once word got out of her past sufferings, she was considered a bad omen and henceforth nobody spoke to her, even came close to her, for the rest of her life. She became a beggar a few months after and many, many years later, she died a beggar.
And somehow, in a China that has changed little, there is a man without a face, without a nose, ears and lips. The third time I saw him I stared. He was sitting down, legs crossed, on a little plastic chair just outside Shaanxi Nan Road's subway station, with a magazine on his lap. He was wearing a buttoned up pale blue shirt and grey pants, not a stain on them. It all happened in two seconds but I swear it felt like whole minutes went by as I stared; he was looking down at the magazine scratching his head with his left hand.
And then I realized, he had no hands either. Hmm, I should say fingers. He had no fingers, just the stump of a hand, like his fingers never grew out.
I have thought about it constantly. I cannot imagine a more difficult existence on this planet, I cannot imagine another human being in a worse situation. This man is a Chinese, and he has survived it. He has no hands, but his shirt was buttoned up. He is missing his nose, ears and mouth and yet he was enjoying a magazine in a warm autumn afternoon. He's still alive and I can't stop thinking about what it must have taken to do so. In China.
Is there someone looking after him? There must be, someone who hasn't eaten human flesh yet.
Not even I can say I haven't, that's why I looked away the second he turned his head up. I'm no better than anyone here, we're all terrified still. Nothing has changed for them and now I'm joining in.
So I ask myself, 'Myself, it isn't contagious and you know it, he isn't a bad omen and you know that too. We both know the least you could do is hold your glance when he looks back at you, and that's what's terrifying.
Are you scared of looking at him, or of him looking at you?'
Either way, I still suck.
Chinese word of the day: Mooncake 月饼 yue4bing3
