Frontier. Can Xue

Back then, pigeons were everywhere in the poplar grove—wild pigeons. Now the pigeons are all pets. When she was young, the director was a workaholic and paid no attention to her son.”

      As if realizing that he shouldn’t have said these things, he stopped talking, picked up his bowl, and moved to another table.

      Nancy merely sniffed at what he said. The whole time they were in the canteen, no one else approached them. José wondered secretly how Nancy would feel if it was like this every day when they came to eat. The people in Smoke City had been much friendlier than the ones here. Acting as if she didn’t care, Nancy urged him to finish eating. She said she wanted to look for the tropical garden and that she felt sort of sure about its location. She’d gotten the idea from the pigeons they’d seen just now. “Some things hide right under your nose.” She pretended to be relaxed as she forced a smile. “I think the garden isn’t in the residential area, but outside.”

      The moment they walked out of the residential area, they were outside the city. Scattered ahead of them were some small farm homes, but the land was desolate: a large area of wasteland overrun with weeds stretched into the distance. Nancy was in a good mood as she walked through the wasteland. She said she had already “smelled” the tropical garden. All of a sudden, José saw the institute director drinking tea in a farm home at the side of the road. What was going on? Did the Design Institute’s work consist of drinking tea? The director saw them, too, but evidently didn’t want to invite them to enter. Many chickens were in the courtyard. As she drank tea, she fed the chickens. They passed by reluctantly. The woman never called them over. Nancy continued to believe they were near the tropical garden because she smelled the flowers. “And otherwise, why would the institute director be sitting here?” she asked. José was deeply impressed by Nancy’s great faith. But at any rate, he couldn’t figure out why the garden they saw in front of their window (that close!) could be located two or three miles away in the wasteland in the outskirts. A flock of crows wobbled toward them; like the pigeons, they weren’t afraid of people. Maybe all of Pebble Town’s birds acted the same.

      “José, did you see the gardener?” Nancy asked.

      “Where?”

      “In the small courtyard of the farmhouse. He flashed past the window and then went in. I think he and the director created the garden together. They chose this neglected open country for experiments so they’d be away from prying eyes. Look, look!”

      Nancy blushed. She was pointing at the distant horizon, her index finger in constant motion, as though pursuing a mirage. José thought his wife was really out of her mind. A wind picked up, bringing rain with it. It was bare all around, with no place to take cover. Their only option was to make a run for the small farmhouse.

      The door was unlocked. No one was home. They checked every room, including the kitchen and even the pigpen in back. Nancy said the institute director was watching the rain from the arbor in the garden; she had earlier figured out that the director wasn’t interested in the Design Institute. As Nancy was speaking, she picked up a coconut shell from the table, placed it on top of her fist, and spun it. José thought the coconut shell was very much like a human head.

      “So, what’s the director interested in?”

      “I don’t know; I’m mulling that over.”

      As they talked, the sky darkened all of a sudden. It seemed a storm was blowing in. José was quite dejected; he had no desire to stay here in the farmhouse, for he wasn’t accustomed to the smell of the pigpen. Nancy apparently felt differently: she looked around. She even opened the kitchen cupboard and took out a bottle of rice wine. She sipped a little of it and passed the bottle to José, too, but after two swallows, a fire leapt up inside him. They were both a little dizzy. Thunder roared. Nancy dashed to the window and shouted, “Come, look. Quick!”

      José saw the institute director’s snow-white hair blowing in the wind. She and the gardener were rushing around crazily. But their silhouettes flashed by for only a moment and then disappeared. Where had they gone? Nancy was distracted. After a long while, she said faintly, “I want to find that garden.”

      “Wait for me here, José, okay? I’ll look for it.”

      “It’s so dark outside—a big storm must be on the way.”

      “No, it’s stopped raining. And we’re already here. I have to do it.”

      With that, she went to the courtyard. She was a determined woman. When she vanished outside the courtyard gate, José heard an enormous noise coming from the east; it wasn’t thunder. The quilt was in a heap on the bed, as if someone had just gotten up. Maybe the director and the gardener were actually a married couple. One had lived in the north and one in the south, and they had built this tropical garden here . . . Did the garden really exist, or did it exist only in everyone’s imagination? José sat down on a wooden chair, but the chair that had looked so strong all of a sudden became extremely soft. As he sank into it slowly, he ended up sitting on the floor. Sticks and boards lay scattered all around him. He scrambled up awkwardly from the floor and flicked the dust off his clothes. All at once, he sensed that nothing in this house was real. Even the chickens had weird, gloomy expressions. Avoiding the chair, he chose to sit on the bed. The bed was strong and probably wouldn’t collapse. But a buzzing sound came from it, as though someone sleeping there was talking. The sound annoyed him, so he went outside.

      The dark clouds had dispersed, and the courtyard had brightened. Someone outside was playing the flute. The music reminded him of the open country and mountaintops where flowers bloomed. José was enthralled. For no reason, he assumed it was the gardener playing the flute. He stood at the courtyard gate and looked out. What he saw, instead, was the institute director. Leaning her plump body against a large locust tree, she had stopped playing and had tossed the flute onto the ground. Her head drooping, she looked melancholy in profile. José walked over quietly.

      “Ma’am!”

      “What do you want, Mr. José? You came to Pebble Town from far away, but this place has changed. The thing you want to find no longer exists. Look—even I am looking for it!”

      Her dolorous eyes turned gray and lifeless; her mouth—once resolute—was now drooping.

      “But what Nancy and I want to find isn’t the same as what you want to find. We only want to find the tropical garden. We saw it once from our apartment—the place you arranged for us to live . . .”

      He was speaking a little incoherently and didn’t go on. The institute director didn’t answer him. She was gazing toward the sky. José sensed that her thoughts were no longer in this world. Her lips were trembling, maybe silently reciting some words. The gardener’s sinister face appeared from a spot five or six meters behind her. Bending over, he was picking something up from the shrubs. As José was about to greet the gardener, the geezer turned his back and ignored him. José realized abruptly that this person wasn’t very much like the gardener: the gardener was a little older than this man, and his air was like that of an outsider. He was definitely a local. He stood up, a small lizard in his hand, and headed toward the farmhouse. José was about to follow him when the director spoke from behind.

      “Don’t go, Mr. José. He appears and disappears mysteriously; you can’t catch up with him. He catches these critters in this wasteland all the time, so he can transport some fresh blood to his garden.

      “Where on earth is that garden?”

      “You can see it everywhere. But I—I’m feeling ill.”

      Sliding down along the tree trunk, she sat on the ground. Scratching her chest, she repeated, “I’m really feeling sick.” When José asked if she wanted help, she shook her head and wheezed. José picked up the bamboo flute. He was puzzled that such a crude thing could produce such a lovely sound; she was really talented. She stretched out her hands, asking José to help her up. Her hands were so cold that he shivered. They returned together to the small farmhouse. José was thinking of Nancy, so he kept looking in all directions, but he didn’t see her. She was nowhere nearby.

      “I’d really like to