Chapter 17

A sharp knock rings out through the apartment, arresting the glinting knife. The woman has frozen, only her eyes move—spinning more and more slowly until they stop altogether, like the rotating wheels of an upturned car after a collision. Another knock. Slowly her eyes move down to the mass of overripe cucumber falling from the chopping board. Then, with her eyes firmly back under her control, she looks over her shoulder, through the open kitchen door.

She is back in the present. She puts down the knife and walks through the flat to the door, where she demands to know who has just knocked.

‘Mei? It’s me, Gin, I have come to fix the window. You called me, remember?’

Her head bobs at the recognition of the smooth and charming voice. ‘Of course, Mr. Gin,’ she says, opening the door for her landlord.

As soon as Gin comes into view through the opening door, she feels his eyes: first they look into her own, holding them much longer than it takes to exchange their verbal greetings; then they slide down her body as he pushes off his shoes. The woman reacts by hastily pulling a pair of slippers from a cupboard and placing them at the man’s feet. He slips them on.

As he bends to move his shoes onto the shoe-rack, she notices the coarse scars that run along his forehead and remembers what else he does besides being a landlord. She also notices that he is carrying a big box of tools. ‘Through here,’ she says, leading off into a big living room.

‘You have made it so nice since you moved in, Mei.’ He says, looking around the room. ‘You haven’t wasted any time.’

She notices his eyes lingering on the altar she has erected in the corner, with its large black-and-white photograph of her deceased husband, its incense wafting from a bronze burner. Quickly she says, ‘Yes, I have tried my best,’ before changing direction. ‘Here; this is the window that’s broken.’ She waves her hand towards the balcony.

Gin walks over the polished floor to inspect the problem. But he finds no broken glass, just a mangled sliding-door that is stuck half open in a set of runners.

‘Oh, it’s not a serious problem, Mei; won’t take me long to fix it.’

Her landlord squeezes through the gap, out onto the small balcony. He puts his head over the railings and looks down the six-story drop to the road below. It is a long way down; he shudders and quickly lifts his head, bringing up his eyes to look out over the grounds of the temple opposite. ‘How did it happen?’ he calls back into the room.

‘I . . . I’m not really sure. I suppose it just came out like that as I was opening it. I thought I had ruined it.’

Mei’s memory of the incident is hazy and she cannot remember exactly how she broke it. She remembers the restless night with its hauntings and nightmares; she remembers the panic of her early morning, that jumpy feeling of dread which pushes in at the beginning of each long day—days that are full of pain and guilt, with nowhere to escape. She remembers going to the altar as she usually does when feeling so tormented, praying for forgiveness, praying to be left alone, for peace. The voice came again, clacking through her head like clogs on a wooden staircase, scolding her for neglecting her wife’s duties and demanding retribution. She remembers the numbness of blind terror inflating her mind, pushing out everything besides that one last thought, that simple way to end it all . . .

The next thing she remembers is the coo of a pigeon. She opened her eyes and found herself slumped through the half-open metal frame, half inside half out, blood trickling from a gash in her forehead.

Gin busies himself with the fixing of the door, which merely needs to be freed and realigned with its runners in the frame. But, working in the narrow space of the balcony, he takes his time, concentrating, wary of pulling too hard on the stuck door.

‘I didn’t realise how small this damn balcony was,’ he calls in, trying to wrestle the jammed door from its runners without putting too much of his weight into it. ‘And this,’ he continues, reaching behind himself and tapping the low railing, ‘wouldn’t stop a baby from going over . . .’

Eventually the door squeaks back into its runner and he steps back into the living room, sliding the panel closed behind him. ‘Finished,’ he says. ‘But I have no idea how it could have got jammed like that. We didn’t have an earthquake, did we?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Mei replies, ‘Thank you so much for your help; I was worried that it had been destroyed. Here drink this.’ She hands him a tall glass of iced green tea, within which floats a dried plumb.

Gin thanks her and moves to a mahogany armchair; he sits down on its hard, flat, shiny wood, sipping his drink.

Mei notices him staring at her again and she suddenly becomes aware of herself, wishing she had changed into something less revealing. She feels his sharp eyes picking at her loose clothes. As Gin’s eyes unbutton her blouse, her mind flashes over to the temple, the sessions with her master, the same way . . .

‘Assistant Ma tells me that you have been over at the temple quite a lot recently.’ Gin says, as if he were reading her mind.

Mei looks away at once and moves towards the repaired door.

‘Oh, I’m sorry . . . if you would rather not talk about it . . .’

She turns back and says: ‘No it’s alright; I don’t mind talking about it with you; I know you work over there.’

‘But I am not involved with anything of that nature,’ Gin says quickly. ‘My line is a little different.’ He runs his fingers along his rutted forehead as if to show her what he does, then he draws some of the cold, green liquid up through the translucent straw, watching her carefully.

She looks out through the window and is silent for a moment. Turning back to Gin she says, ‘Yes, I am trying to contact my dead husband.’ She nods over to the altar.

‘I heard,’ Gin says, following her gaze over to the monochrome picture. ‘Is everything going ok?’

Mei walks back into the room and sits on a sofa near the mahogany chair. ‘How would I know? I have never done anything like this before.’ She pauses wondering whether or not to mention her misgivings about what is taking place over at the temple. ‘I understood that the Abbot never participates in such a contact with the spirit,’ she says, not really knowing how to begin.

‘Well . . . yes . . .’ Gin says, ‘usually old Jang makes the contact; him or one of the other old monks. But that doesn’t mean that the Abbot doesn’t have the gift. I know that he has become involved in your case; Assistant Ma has told me.’

Mei stays on the edge of the sofa. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Mister Gin, I have loved the Abbot for a very long time, even during those long years when my husband refused to let me come down here. I have donated much money to the temple. But I can feel that something is wrong. If this weren’t so important to me I would let it go; but I can’t; I have to do it right.’

Gin sips then uses the straw to play with the dried plum, chasing it around the side of the glass.

Mei seems to lose her concentration for a moment, wandering; her knee starts to wobble, up and down. ‘When I first went to Ma,’ she is back with the conversation, ‘he told me that Jang would help me to find my dead husband. And I am certain that we contacted him once or twice. But then the Abbot started to take over from the old monk and it no longer feels right. He even throws the old man out of the room, claiming to make contact by himself; but it just doesn’t seem right.’

Gin has managed to get the plum up the side of the glass. He puckers his lips and in it goes.

Mei’s knee continues its movement up and down—half the sofa moves in sympathy, shivering; she blinks as if to keep her mind in focus. Jumpy. She starts her next sentence two or three times. ‘He … He touches me,’ she finally blurts out. Her knee suddenly stops and she eases back into the sofa having unburdened herself.

Gin, chewing on the sharp fruit, catches the heavy words and adjusts his backside on the hard surface of the chair, his turn to be uncomfortable.

Mei senses her landlord’s unease and realises that he would be reluctant to say anything against the Abbot, his patron. She waits, however, for his response.

‘You know,’ Gin begins after much deliberation, ‘during the contact, the Abbot is not actually there—it is your husband who is touching you.’ He hasn’t committed himself either way.

‘Yes,’ she replies emphatically. ‘That is what he always says.’