The Girl Who Played Go (11 page)

“Do you know how to play go?”

He still doesn’t speak.

“Come on, you look like a connoisseur. Sit down, let’s play.”

“May I ask at what level you play?” the lump asks me with a terrible Peking accent.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to play without some knowledge of your handicap.”

“Let’s start a game. I’ll give you a little demonstration!”

He hesitates for a moment and eventually sits down. It’s obvious that this stranger has no idea of my reputation. Like many stupid people, he is deceived by my appearance.

I push the black stones towards him noisily.

“Over to you.”
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He puts his first stone down in the northwest corner. His pretentious behavior earlier is still niggling at me and I decide to play a nasty trick on him. I reply by sticking a white stone alongside it. You never start the battle with such close combat. That is one of the golden rules of the game.

Disconcerted, he looks up at me and sinks into thought for a long time.

The stones fight over the 361 intersections formed by the nineteen horizontal lines and the nineteen vertical lines on the square board. The two players divide up this virgin land and, at the end, compare the extent of their occupied territories. I prefer go to chess because it is so much freer: in chess the two kingdoms with their armored warriors confront each other across the board, but the agile, twirling stones in a game of go spiral round each other, setting traps-daring and imagination are the qualities that lead to victory.

Instead of establishing my frontiers, I attack my opponent head-on. My white number four lures him into a duel. He stops to think again.

My number six is blocking his black number five, and rallies with the others to surround his number one.

In extremis, he parries by placing his number seven.

I smile. The joke is over, now I am constructing my game.

The Stranger’s play is infinitely slow. I am surprised by his convoluted deliberations: each of his moves translates a desire for harmony within the whole. His stones make a subtle, airborne sort of progress like the dance of the cranes. I didn’t know that there was a school in Peking where elegance had the edge over violence. Now it is my turn to be perplexed, and I let myself be carried away by his rhythm.

The Stranger suddenly interrupts the game just when it is becoming really exciting.

“I have a meeting,” he says gruffly.

A little put out and wanting to resume the game as soon as possible, I say, “Come back at ten o’clock on Sunday morning.”

Through his glasses I can see that there still isn’t a glimmer of enthusiasm in his eyes.

“Never mind, then,” I say, standing up.

“All right,” he agrees eventually.

I make a note of the positions of the stones on a piece of paper and gratify the Stranger with a smile. Having used it on Cousin Lu, Min and Jing, I know my weapon well.

And he does indeed look away.

The disguise I have chosen-a linen tunic, a panama hat and a fan embellished with calligraphy-gives me something of the solemnity of an imperial official, and the pair of glasses makes him look like an academic.

The rickshaw boy can tell straightaway that I am not from the area, and he decides to swindle me: instead of going straight to the Square of a Thousand Winds, he sets off on a long detour round the town. His voice shuddering with the physical effort, he tells me some of the history of the region. Four hundred years ago the court nobles discovered the local forest and built sumptuous palaces on its fringes. For many centuries they cherished these lands, which were rich in game and beautiful women. A Thousand Winds, which was originally just a small village, grew into a town where trade and local crafts could flourish. The city is like a miniature copy of Peking, with the same rectangular layout. When the Manchurian Empire disintegrated, some of the Peking aristocracy followed the Emperor to the New Capital; others took refuge here. They can be identified by their elegant brand of poverty: they wear outdated robes, and they oppose any form of modernity by keeping their nails long (a sign of the leisured classes) and their heads shaved with the traditional little plait at the back.

After taking me along the ramparts, rife with beggars, firebreathers and monkey trainers, and after showing me the main square with its large, old-fashioned private houses, he eventually comes to a stop on the edge of a wooded square.

“This is the Square of a Thousand Winds,” he says and then asks mysteriously, “Do you play?”

I do not answer.

All round the park players confront each other in silence across the low tables, and judging by their clothes they come from all levels of society. If I had not come here I would never have believed such a place existed where a passerby could be offered a game of go. I have always thought that go was the exclusive reserve of the elite, each game a ceremony carried out with the greatest of respect.

I do not find this phenomenon altogether surprising, though. According to legend, this extraordinary game was invented by the Chinese 4,000 years ago, but during the course of its over-long history, its traditions have been worn away, and the game has lost its air of refinement and the purity of its origins. Go was introduced to Japan over a thousand years ago and there it has been meditated over and perfected to the point of becoming a divine art. In this too, my country has demonstrated its superiority over China.

In the distance I can see a young woman playing against herself. At home it would be unthinkable for a woman to be alone in a place where there are so many men. Intrigued, I move closer.

She is younger than I thought, and she is wearing a school dress. Sitting with her head resting in the hollow of her hand, she is deep in thought. The stones have been laid out on the board with considerable skill, and I am drawn in to examine them more closely.

She looks up, wide forehead and slanting eyes like two finely drawn willow leaves. It is as if I am looking at Sunlight aged sixteen, but the illusion is short-lived: the apprentice geisha had a shy, closed sort of beauty, but this Chinese girl sits watching me unabashed. At home, elegance is associated with pallor and women avoid the sun; this girl has spent so much time playing outside that her face glows with a strange charm. Her eyes meet mine before I can look away.

She invites me to a game of go, and I pretend to hesitate to make my character more believable. Before I left the Chidori restaurant, Captain Nakamura’s collaborator told me that over the last ten years my country has become a window on the Western world for the whole of Asia. If I claim to be one of those Chinese students who has spent a long time in Tokyo, that will justify my manner, my accent and my ignorance of some topical issues.

The Chinese girl doesn’t much like talking; without asking me a single question, she urges me to start. Her very first move establishes a perverse and extravagant strategy. I have never played go with a woman; I have never been so close to one except for my mother, my sister, Akiko, geishas and prostitutes. Even though the checkered tabletop lies between me and my opponent, her young-girl smell makes me uncomfortable.

She looks as if she is dreaming as she tilts her head to one side, completely absorbed in her thoughts. Her soft face contrasts sharply with her prickly maneuvers-I find her intriguing.

How old is she? Sixteen? Seventeen? Her flat chest and her two plaits suggest all the ambiguity of adolescence, which makes girls look like transvestite boys. And yet the first signs of femininity are just emerging, like snowdrops in early spring: there is an indolent roundness to her forearms.

Night is falling quickly now and I have to get back to the barracks. She invites me to come again, and this invitation from any other woman would be somehow immodest, but this young girl knows how to put her innocence to good use.

I do not answer. She puts the stones away in their pot, clattering them against each other, a racket that is clearly a protest against my indifference. I laugh inwardly: she would be a great player if she could moderate her aggression and apply herself to a more spiritual path.

“Ten o’clock on Sunday morning,” she says.

I like her perseverance: I offer no further resistance, and agree with a nod.

At home, when women laugh they hide their faces behind the sleeves of their kimonos. The Chinese girl smiles without embarrassment or artifice. Her mouth opens with all the irresistible power of a grenade exploding.

I look away.

A group of pilgrims walks along an apparently endless wall and, finding a breach, they step into the enclosed area. Inside there are thousands of trees around a sparkling, rippling lake. A child is playing with a kite inside a ruined pavilion.

He smiles maliciously at the pilgrims and greets them, telling them that his kite can predict the future.

“Does it know where we are going?” asks the oldest in the group.

The kite flies off towards a corner of the ceiling, then changes direction and hurtles towards the opposite corner. Like a bird trapped in a cage, it flaps against the walls, crashes into the windows and suddenly plummets to the ground.

“Into the Darkness!”

I wake up.

This morning Min on his bicycle catches up with my rickshaw and thrusts a book into my hand. I leaf through it and find a note folded into four. He is inviting me over to Jing’s house in the late afternoon to celebrate his friend’s twentieth birthday. I decide to introduce Huong to Jing- their meeting can be my birthday present.

In the garden of Jing ’s house students are smoking, drinking and chatting. The boys, with their white silk scarves round their necks, posture like tragic poets. With their flat shoes and short hair, the girls are more masculine than their male companions. One of the girls is in the center of the gathering, haranguing her fellow students, and Min is leaning up against a tree, listening attentively. From time to time he casts his eye over the crowd, but doesn’t see me.

Jing comes out of the house and puts a tray of tea down on a stool. I introduce him to Huong, who is intrigued by these young revolutionaries, and they launch into an animated conversation.

I flop down onto a chair and, in my boredom, I split open salted sunflower seeds as I watch the student girl talking. I am surprised to find her pretty despite her fierce, indomitable manner. She is only twenty, but she is an orator, she knows how to modulate her voice and to keep her listeners’ attention. With each word I am gripped by a devastating admiration.

“ Japan is in the throes of massive military expansion; it’s not going to be satisfied with colonizing Manchuria; the next step will be Peking, then Shanghai and Guang Dong. The sovereignty of China is at risk! Soon we shall be servants, slaves, stray dogs! The warlords, the provisional governments and the military authorities have carved up our continent. Only patriotism can unite our strength and hope. We must rebel, we must expel these invaders and exterminate the corrupt soldiers who thirst for the blood of our people. We must give the land back to the peasants, we must give the serfs back their dignity. Let us build on the ruins of this semifeudal, semicolonial regime; let us build a new China where democracy reigns, where there is no corruption, no poverty and no violence. Equality, freedom and fraternity-that will be our motto. Every citizen shall work according to his needs. The people will be masters, and the government will be at their service. Only then will we know peace and happiness again!”

People clap and, having waved to her admirers, she turns towards Min. The hard glint in her eye gives way to gentleness, and he responds with a smile. I get up and go over to join Jing and Huong. She is exercising her charms on him, talking about her family and her arranged marriage. She is watching him with unbearable intensity and he is fascinated, he can’t take his eyes off her. His face reflects curiosity and pity in turn. The fact that I am there makes him uncomfortable; he keeps glancing towards me and when he catches my eye he looks away, gives a little cough and resumes his haughty expression.

I wander round the garden, but I can’t shake off the crushing pain inside me. There are red dragonflies alighting on flower stems and flitting away in the last rays of sunlight. Through the bedroom window I can see the bed I lay in just yesterday, covered in that same crimson sheet embroidered with chrysanthemums. The sight of it hurts me.

Min waves to me. At last. In front of his friends he treats me like a little sister and laughs as he tells them how he saved my life. I let him crow; he is ashamed of me.

Jing has just started handing round the birthday biscuits. When it is my turn, instead of offering the plate to me, he stops and takes a leaf that has caught in my hair. Someone taps him on the shoulder and says, “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

I recognize the prophetess from earlier. She doesn’t wait for a response from Jing and addresses me directly.

“Hello, my name is Tang,” she says and goes on to ask me so many questions so quickly that I feel intimidated. She wants to know everything: where I go to school, where I live, how many brothers and sisters I have. Then, without a whisper of embarrassment, she lets me know that she has known my lover all her life-her mother works for Min’s family. She scribbles her address on a piece of paper and invites me to go round and see her.

I tell them that I am expected back at home, entrust Huong to Jing’s tender care and leave the party. Jing catches up with me on the doorstep, puts his hands on the door-jambs to block my way and thanks me for coming. He suddenly flushes scarlet and I realize that he really likes Huong. I feel peculiarly annoyed.

“Go back to the party. They’re waiting for you.”

In my pocket I find the handkerchief he wiped himself with the day he took me home on his bicycle. I take it out. I have cleaned it and embroidered his name on it.