1
,
HAN-PING CHIN
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dancing. In the shadows of tall trees, the ragged houses and the
garbage piles were invisible. While mothers chatted in the door–
ways, we children chased each other and played hide-and-seek.
I put the pen in the inclined right pocket of my pants. The pocket
was shallow, and I knew it would be easy to lose the pen when
running and jumping. I checked many times at first to make
sure the pen was still there. As we passed an open field near a
wasted railway station, the natural demeanor of a twelve- year–
old boy returned to me and I forgot everything.
Jumping and shouting, I was the best at simulating a horse's
neigh, and of course I forgot about the pen. When mothers began
calling their sons, we scattered and went home after having
thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. I felt relaxed, until a sudden sick
feeling came over me and I remembered the pen. I was reluctant
to think about what had happened, even as I groped in my pocket.
To my great horror, it was gone. Hopeless, I went back to the
farthest point we had reached. Casting my eyes on the ruts of
wheelbarrows, I scanned every bit and scrap in the moonlight.
Finally, I
r~turned
to the place where I had last checked to make
sure the pen was in my pocket.
The pen was indeed lost! I sneaked dejectedly into our
room, where Mother was snoring after a long day's work. I lay
down on my bed, my mind like a screen, reviewing our games
and wanderings. I tried in vain to figure out where I might have
lost the pen until my drowsy eyes forced me to sleep.
An
image
of my father came into my hazy dream: he was in his usual
gray gown , carrying his sack, walking on a rugged road or sit–
ting on a long wooden bench in a car of the train with the wind
piercing through the fissures and ventilation holes in the walls.
He had wandered along the sidewalk, plucked up his courage to
enter a company building, and then, crestfallen, had walked out
after his job application was turned down . I awoke in a cold
sweat. I imagined him hesitating at the department store counter
and deciding to buy the expensive pen with money scrimped
from his food and lodging allowance. This marked the first ap–
pearance of my insomnia.
The yellowish paper pane of the window blurred the setting
moonlight. I saw the bronze waterpipe standing on the desk.
When Father was at home, he would ask me to polish it with a
piece of cloth and the powder ground from two slates. Sometimes
