With a dramatic gesture, the ticket-collector punched Father's ticket and then stuffed it into his hand. Out on the platform, passengers were disembarking from the train, like beetles rolling their precious dung, threading their way past lines of people impatient to board. With a barely concealed smirk, the ticket-collector looked at Mother, then at me and then finally at Father. Only she could see his face. The canvas bag, to which his enamel mug was attached, slipped off his shoulder, forcing him to reach out and grab the strap. Mother chose that moment to fire a lethal salvo: ‘Go, then, just go! What kind of man are you? If you had an ounce of pride, you'd walk off holding your head high and not slink away like a dog to that bitch of yours! You obviously don't have an ounce of pride, or you wouldn't have come back this time. And not just come back, but laden with excuses and apologies. A few unkind words and you crumple, is that it? Did you give a single thought over the past few years to how your wife and child were getting along? Do you even care that they've suffered things no human being should be put through? Luo Tong, you are a heartless bastard, and any woman who falls into your hands is fated to wind up just like me—’
‘That's enough!’ Father spun round. His face was the colour of clay tiles that never see the sun; his scraggly beard like frost on those tiles. But he'd no sooner spun round than his body, displaying some momentary vigour, shrank back in on itself, and he said again—‘That's enough’—but this time in a shaky voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his throat.
Out on the platform, a whistle jogged the ticket-collector back to life.
‘The train's departing,’ she shouted, ‘it's about to leave the station. Are you going or aren't you? What's your problem?’
Father turned back, again with difficulty, and stumbled forward. The bag slipped off his shoulder but this time he didn't care if it dragged along the floor like a cow's stomach stuffed with rotting grass.
‘Hurry!’ the ticket-collector urged.
‘Wait!’ Mother shouted. ‘Just wait until the divorce papers are signed. I'm not going to be a straw widow any longer.’ Then, to emphasize her contempt, she said: ‘I'll pay for the ticket.’
Mother grabbed me by the hand and bravely headed towards the exit. I could hear her crying, though she tried to stifle the sobs. When she let go of my hand to open the door, I looked back, and there was Father, sliding to the floor, his back up against the gate, which the ticket-collector, anger and disappointment writ large on her face, was trying to shut. Through the gaps in the gate I watched the train make its way out of the station and, amid the rumble of the iron wheels and the low swirling smoke from the engine, my eyes filled with tears.
I dry my eyes with the back of my hand. A couple of teardrops stick to the skin. I'm moved by my own tale of woe, but the monk reacts with what seems to be a sardonic smile. ‘What do I have to do to get a little sympathy from you?’ I grumble. I don't know, but I'll find a way to touch your heart. Whether I become a monk or not makes no difference at this point. All I care about is using the sharp point of my story to break through the crust of ice that shrouds your heart. Outside, the sun is strong, and I can tell its location by the tree's shadow: it's off in the southeast, about two pole-lengths from the horizon, by the measuring standard we use back home. A big chunk of the water-soaked compound wall, which has blocked our field of vision, even with its cracks and holes, crumbles after being pounded by a night of rain. All it will take to topple what remains is a strong gust of wind. The two cats that hardly ever leave the comfort and protection of the tree are taking a leisurely stroll atop the teetering portion of the wall. When they head east, the female is in front; when they head west, the male takes the lead. There's also a young roan stallion, a fine animal with a satiny coat rubbing against what's left of the wall. Wanting to lie down, but