Testament 5 - 15
Hong Kong Type #26
15.
I told my father that if I were to go to the Netherlands for two years to help recreate the Hong Kong Type, would he be willing to support my expenses. He thought I was joking and countered by asking if it was even possible given the severity of the pandemic. I handed him a cost estimate sheet that detailed the required funds, which were not small in amount. Seeing that I was serious, he asked if the printing studio would provide any subsidies. I explained that they would have to wait for fundraising to begin, so they were temporarily unable to bear the costs. However, I could finance the project myself to begin with, and consider recouping the expenses after successful fundraising. Dad hesitated and asked:
“Why the rush?”
“There’s not much time,” I replied.
“Why is there not much time?”
“Trust me, dad,” I assured him.
He frowned, rubbing his chin, and said, “If we sell our old house in Sheung Wan, and give part of the money to your brother for a down payment, the remainder should be enough.”
I wanted to hug Dad, but that was not our usual way of expressing feelings, so all I could do was return his kindness with a grateful smile.
The expectation for the future was beautiful, but the relentless chase of fear didn’t let up. I was tormented by nightmares almost every night, leaving me exhausted during the day. Automatic writing was also physically demanding. Sometimes, after rushing out a few thousand words, I would have to lie in bed all day unable to get up. Dai Fuk’s story transitioned from his teenage years filled with passion and imagination, gradually entering a period of confusion and pain. His secret crush for Heng Yi had turned from initial sweet uncertainties into a bitter longing. His faith was also impacted. When I was in Dai Fuk’s shoes, I was dragged into the abyss by his helpless mood, unable to help or disentangle myself. When I was in Heng Yi’s shoes, I was at the mercy of others and unable to reciprocate the hopeless love. Even though times were different and circumstances varied, for some reason, there seemed to be some kind of spiritual resonance between us.
Printing is merely a tool, but it is also an expression of desire. Metal and machines are apparent embodiment of instincts to conquer, possess, dominate, and disseminate. The flesh is either crushed, submits to the machine, or merges with it. The only thing that can resist this is the soul. The soul can turn machines into flesh, and materials into life. That’s what I believe. But what if the soul is just a product of machines and materials? Then, in front of the materialistic devil, what do we have left that can’t be violated and stripped away?
One night, I dreamed again of the scene with my grandfather and mother together. This time, my mother was a seventeen or eighteen-year-old girl. She was completely naked, legs spread, mounted on a printing press. It was a dangerous, reckless pose. I realized something was about to happen. My grandfather stood by her side, holding a typeset plate, inserting it into the machine, and then pressing the start key. The printing plate pressed onto the girl’s lean, flat chest and abdomen, imprinting blood-red Chinese characters onto her skin. The girl moaned in pain, but her hands and feet seemed to be fixed and unable to break free. The plate pressed down repeatedly, the color of the characters getting darker, even sinking into her flesh, gradually it became indistinguishable whether the red liquid was ink or blood. The machine eventually came to a halt. Effortlessly, my grandfather picked the girl up from the machine as if she was a piece of paper. He laid her down on the workbench, like spreading out a printed page, admiring his handcrafted artwork. He touched the surface of the human skin printing with his fingertips and nodded satisfactorily. I caught a glimpse of the printed characters and somehow understood that they were about love. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not make out the specific content of the text. Those words on my mother, or that girl’s body, emanated signs of life with every rise and fall of her breath and trembling of her skin.
I woke up in a cold sweat, panting heavily, my heart pounding, with a foul taste in my mouth. I sat up in bed, took off my pajamas, and felt my wet chest and abdomen, but in the darkness, I couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood.
Another night, I had that dream again of falling from a high place. This time, during the fall, I saw across to the windows of the public housing building. The girl who often screamed at the window late at night, was there, holding the window frame with one hand and reaching out to me with the other. I tried to grasp the outstretched hand. My fingers just grazed hers; we were only a fraction away from holding each other. But the speed and force of the fall created a distance between us. As I continued my descent, head thrown back, I watched the slender, outspread hand framed against the cloud-dotted sky, gradually shrinking, receding. Then I turned over to face downwards, looking towards the bottom of the tube of vision, only to see a person sprawled out in the shape of the Chinese character “big”. The figure became larger and clearer. It was that girl, lying naked on the ground, her body contorted unnaturally, like a puppet discarded there. I quickly closed my eyes, preparing to withstand the impact of the imminent collision with her.
I woke up startled again, thankful that it was just a dream, but immediately began to doubt, wondering if I was still trapped in a dream. It seemed like all past experiences were one dream after another, layer upon layer, without an origin or an end.
I scrambled up, walked to the window, attempting to confirm the reality of the world. The window opposite was indeed lit with a pale light. In that light was the silhouette of a girl. Upon closer inspection, I realized the girl was naked, her body’s curves especially distinct. It seemed she saw me too, but made no significant gesture. Maybe there was some expression on her face, but I couldn’t see clearly. It looked like she put something in front of the window and then stood on it, her whole body from head to knee visible at the window. She pushed open the windowpane, steadying herself on the frame, and put one foot on the ledge. Only then did I realize that the window grille had been taken off. She just needed to lean forward to plunge straight to the ground through the window. I wanted to shout out to her, but my vocal cords were tight, I couldn’t make a sound. I heard Fox issuing a low growl outside my bedroom. He must have sensed the girl’s actions too. I quickly changed my clothes, slipped on my shoes, and rushed down to the street with Fox.
It was late at night, but Fox seemed to know his way, leading me across the road towards the entrance of the public housing building. The surrounding was desolate, without a soul in sight, like an abandoned city. For some reason, one side of the building’s main gate was open, and there was no sign of any guard. Fox walked right in, and I followed behind. He took the stairs, not the elevator.
Fox climbed up the stairs and, knowing that my strength was not good, he would stop and wait for me from time to time. When we reached the 8th floor, he turned into a corridor and came to the front door of one of the units, where he kept sniffing at the iron gate. I trusted Fox’s instinct and knew that this was the right place. To save the girl’s life, I had to overcome my shyness and put all concerns behind me.
I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I pressed it again and again, banging hard on the metal gate, calling out loudly. I was worried that the girl had already jumped, that it was already too late. Suddenly, the door of the opposite unit swung open, and someone cursed from within: “What are you making noise for in the middle of the night? Nobody lives in that unit! You’re barking up the wrong tree!” With that, the door was slammed shut with a loud bang.
I stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. Fox nudged my leg and then headed towards the stairs. I followed his lead once again, climbing the stairs all the way up to the 17th floor.
On the wall beside the railing on the 17th floor, someone had written dozens of lines of characters with a red pen, the font gradually changing from small to large, and from dense to sparse. The membrane of memory was punctured, allowing turbid things to gush out. Had it not been for the wire mesh already installed on the railing, I might have followed the person who wrote the words and jumped down. But I was as helpless as during my first menstruation, covering the intense pain and fluid flowing from the lower body, and sat down on the ground. Fox started barking anxiously.
Ah Loi’s figure appeared at the turn of the upper stairs. He jumped down two steps at a time and rushed forward to help me up. When I asked him why he was here, he simply said:
“I just got off my night shift and saw you enter the building downstairs. I followed you in but I couldn’t find you. I thought you went to my place, so I went back to the 20th floor. After waiting for a while without any signs of you, I guessed you went to the 8th floor. I went to the 8th floor and still couldn’t find you, so I returned to the 20th floor. Then I thought of this place and came down to check again.”
“Did you know there were words written here before?”
“Yes, words were indeed written here before, but they have been erased a long time ago.”
I looked up and sure enough, as he said, the wall was painted with a fresh layer of white paint.
“But I clearly saw the words just now! They were written in red ink!”
“That’s your memory. You must have seen them somewhere else before.”
“So, about the unit on the 8th floor—”
“It was indeed the place where the girl used to live, but it has been vacant for a long time.”
“But I clearly saw her! And I heard her shouting from the window!”
“That may have been a hallucination. I didn’t want to say it when you asked me last time, but actually I didn’t hear any shouting.”
I felt as if I had been swept over by a chilly wind, sending shivers through my whole body. I clung tightly to Ah Loi’s arm, exclaiming:
“Ah Loi! Tell me, you’re not an illusion! You won’t suddenly disappear! This staircase won’t suddenly vanish either!”
He awkwardly put his arm around my shoulder and said:
“Don’t worry! I won’t disappear. Let’s sit on this staircase together, using our body weight to prevent it from disappearing, alright?
“With Fox as well. Even though he looks tiny, he isn’t light!”
“Okay, add him as well. But you let him stand on your side, you know I’m scared of dogs.”
“Don't be afraid! You just rushed down like that, and he didn’t bite you.”
“Just because he didn’t bite just now, doesn’t mean he won’t later.”
“It won’t happen, he knows that you’re not a bad guy. Animals know how to differentiate between good and bad, only humans don’t.”
“Well then he’s not an ordinary animal, but a divine beast.”
“You’re absolutely right, Fox is a divine beast.”
Fox rested his head on my thigh and closed his eyes. I rubbed the back of his neck, letting him fall asleep.
“Ah Loi, I feel that my condition is getting worse.”
“How could that be? It’s just intermittent bouts, right? Aren’t you back to normal now?”
“How would I know if I’m normal now?”
“Do you still lack confidence?”
“Could it be that you’re actually not normal as well? We are both in the abnormal state, so we feel that it’s normal?”
"Your way of thinking a little too complicated, people who read a lot really are different. I don’t quite understand what is normal and what is abnormal. The distinction between the two is not clear, there might even be no distinction at all. Don’t worry about whether it’s normal or not, as long as we both stand on the same side, isn’t that enough?”
“Ah Loi, you always seem to look on the bright side and can handle any situation.”
“It’s not about handling anything, just about accepting what comes.”
“Is it enough to just accept what comes?”
“There’s no good or bad in it. To survive or not to survive, there are only these two options.”
“Ah Loi will always choose to survive.”
“So, I also hope you choose the same as me.”
“But survival is hard!”
“Not surviving is not easy either.”
“That’s true.”
“Since both are equally difficult, then difficulty or ease isn’t the factor in making a choice.”
“Then what is the factor?”
“I don’t know. Asking me this kind of question is the real difficulty!”
“I’m sorry, I’m making you think hard again.”
“It won’t hurt much, my mind is quite simple in the first place.”
“No, you’re actually wise pretending to be simple.”
“You literary people talk big, I don’t understand what you’re saying again.”
I spent the whole night chatting with Ah Loi in the stairwell, only sneaking out just before dawn. I thought I could finally escape from the recurring dreams, at least temporarily. However, Teacher Bei was trapped in his own cycle of dreams, unable to find a way out.
The print collections that Teacher Bei lent me, I read over and over again, especially the works of Käthe Kollwitz, the modern German printmaker highly revered by Mr. Lu Xun. For some reason, I cried every time I saw her paintings. Her self-portrait with a face full of sorrow, the numerous sequential paintings depicting the struggle of weavers and farmers, and her works featuring mothers and children - I believe Teacher Bei also must have felt sadness from them.
I wanted to discuss these prints with Teacher Bei and return his book, but he asked me not to come over for now. He said he needed to concentrate fully on creating and couldn’t afford any distractions. I understood completely what he meant, but still felt a bit upset about being rejected. The teacher was my biggest mental support, without him I wouldn’t be able to stand on my own. But I knew I shouldn’t be selfish, expecting his protection while ignoring his own needs.
I once thought that Teacher Bei was a seasoned, mature, and steady creator, who could wield his engraving knife freely without difficulty. Perhaps, it wasn’t because his skill was inadequate, but because his method of creation was fueled by his life. This made him chop down his own wood to burn each time. And like an old tree, there wasn’t much wood left to chop, growth had slowed considerably, and what had been expended could not be restored. This piece of work seemed to require him to harness all his life’s strength, therefore he was no different than a wood carver using his own body for his composition. However, why stake everything on one work? This is a question I would like to ask him.
One day, I was walking across the footbridge to the railway station when I saw Teacher Bei coming towards me. However, he seemed preoccupied with his thoughts and was completely unaware of my presence. I knew I shouldn’t interrupt him, but I couldn’t help following him. He walked along the road all the way to the park. Once in the park, he stopped in front of several big banyan trees and carefully observed their poses. I hid on the side, secretly watching his actions.
To my knowledge, the teacher had no intention of drawing trees in his new work. At least, trees should not be the main element of a picture of hell. What was the purpose of specifically coming to observe a tree? I had this doubt, but I was unable to run up to ask him directly, which made me even more anxious. I could only try to put myself in the teacher’s shoes and guess what inspiration the old banyan trees could give him. Perhaps because I was standing too far away, I couldn’t observe as closely as him and was unable to make out anything.
Teacher Bei was gazing at one of the Banyan trees, sometimes approaching it, sometimes retreating, and sometimes circling it as he moved. I saw his hand gesturing in the air, as if he was describing or pondering some kind of pattern. This tree was not especially robust, and its canopy was not particularly lush, but its trunk was of a peculiar shape. It tilted slightly, with numerous entwined veins on its body. Some branches, which were originally aerial roots, penetrated the ground, forming new supporting points. The buttress roots and root network at the bottom of the tree were also unusually well-developed.
I thought of Teacher Bei’s human body sketches, and then suddenly understood. Isn’t that tree a representation of the human body, with limbs, bones, tendons, and blood vessels in a state of extreme distortion? In Dante’s depiction of hell, aren’t there also sinners transformed into trees? Using the characteristics of twisted tree trunks to portray people suffering from torture in hell – those postures of being rooted in the ground and unable to move, those eternal torments that have been frozen – isn’t it the epitome of spiritual and physical pain? Thinking of this, even under the scorching sun and its toxic heat, I couldn’t help but feel a chill piecing my entire body.
At this moment, Teacher Bei turned around, and across a small grassy slope, he saw me. I could also see him over that slope, his eyes red and tears streaming down his face, looking exactly like a man who had gone mad.