{"id":1231,"date":"2012-01-23T02:07:12","date_gmt":"2012-01-23T09:07:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ata-divisions.org\/GLD\/?p=1231"},"modified":"2016-10-27T13:20:57","modified_gmt":"2016-10-27T13:20:57","slug":"a-bilingual-reading","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ata-divisions.org\/GLD\/a-bilingual-reading\/","title":{"rendered":"A Bilingual Reading"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Drachen<\/a>
Jan-Philipp Sendker is a German novelist and former journalist currently living in Potsdam. He is the author of three novels and a non-fiction book on China. As a former reporter and foreign correspondent for STERN magazine, he was based in New York and Hong Kong for many years. In 2005, he left STERN to become a full-time novelist. His books are best-sellers and have been translated into a dozen languages. Sendker’s novel, The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, will be published in English by Other Press in early 2012.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Novelist Jan-Philipp Sendker and literary translator Linda Marianiello presented a captivating reading at the 2011 ATA conference in Boston. It was a moving session that also allowed attendees to get a first-hand look at how an author and translator can interact to come up with just the right translation to match the author’s unique use of the German language.<\/p>\n

Dragon Games<\/em> (2009) is the second book in Jan-Philipp\u2019s \u201cChina Trilogy\u201d that began with Whispering Shadows<\/em> (2007). Jan-Philipp and Linda read passages from both books.<\/p>\n

The Prologue<\/strong><\/p>\n

Setting up the mood for the entire book: the challenge was how to match style of the source language in the target language so that the same impression is created. What were the author\u2019s intentions in setting it up this way, and how do we preserve them?<\/p>\n

Ich bin in die H\u00f6lle geraten. Ohne mein Zutun. Ohne Schuld. Ich muss mich verlaufen haben, eine andere Erkl\u00e4rung gibt es nicht. Im Irrgarten des Lebens versehentlich an einer Stelle den falschen Weg genommen, ohne es zu bemerken. Einmal nicht acht gegeben. An einer Gabelung links statt rechts gegangen. Oder umgekehrt. Ich habe kein Schild gesehen, nichts, das mir Warnung h\u00e4tte sein k\u00f6nnen. Ich bin einfach gelaufen, ohne innezuhalten. So wie immer in meinem Leben. Weiter. Immer weiter.
\nViele Menschen haben diesen Weg vor mir genommen, ich h\u00e4tte ihre Spuren sehen m\u00fcssen auf diesen langen, ausgetrampelten Pfaden Richtung Inferno. Ich h\u00e4tte ihre Rufe h\u00f6ren k\u00f6nnen. Ich h\u00e4tte den Gestank riechen k\u00f6nnen. H\u00e4tte. H\u00e4tte. Was sehen, h\u00f6ren, riechen wir schon? Nur das, was wir wollen.
\nIch bin nicht allein hier. Die H\u00f6lle ist ein dicht besiedelter Ort. Ein Trost ist das nicht…<\/span>
\n<\/em><\/span>
\nI\u2019ve landed in hell. I had no hand in it. Am not to blame. I must have lost my way; there\u2019s no other explanation. Inadvertently taken a wrong path while meandering through life. Didn\u2019t pay attention at some point. Went left at a fork instead of right. Or the other way round. I saw no sign, nothing that could have served to warn me. I simply walked without stopping to think. Just as I always did. Kept going. Kept on going.
\nBut I mustn\u2019t complain. Many people have gone this route before me, so I must have seen traces of them on the long, well-beaten road to hell. I should have been able to hear their cries. I should have been able to smell the stench. Should have.\u00a0 Could have. Would have. Yet what do we see, hear, smell? Only what we want to.
\nI\u2019m not alone here. Hell is a densely populated place. Not that this is any comfort\u2026<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Sie wollen dir einreden, ich sei nur noch eine leere H\u00fclle. Eine alte, faltige, seelenlose Puppe. Sie lassen sich vom \u00e4u\u00dferen Erscheinen der Dinge blenden. Wie so oft. Wie so viele. Sie tragen Uniformen, wei\u00dfe Kittel, ich wei\u00df es, auch wenn ich sie nicht sehe. Ich erkenne sie an ihren Stimmen. Die Stimmen von Uniformtr\u00e4gern, egal welcher Couleur, klingen immer gleich. Sie wissen. Sie sind sich sicher. Alle Tests beweisen. Hoffnungslos. Sie haben keine Ahnung, wovon sie reden. Ich h\u00f6re kein Beben in ihren Stimmen. Hoffnungslos. Kein Mensch, der dieses Wort gelassen ausspricht, wei\u00df, was er sagt. Ein Los ohne Hoffnung. Das gibt es nur im Reich der Toten, und das ist uns verschlossen. Was mussten wir uns in unserem Leben schon alles von M\u00e4nnern und Frauen in Uniformen anh\u00f6ren. Glaube ihnen kein Wort. Sie wissen nichts. Sie sehen nur ein schwarzes Loch, wenn sie die Augen schlie\u00dfen. Sie haben keine Musik im Kopf.
\nNiemand soll mich bemitleiden. Ich will keine Tr\u00e4nen an meinem Bett. Ich will mich nicht beklagen. Nicht, so lange du bei mir bist. Wenn ich es recht bedenke, bin ich nur in einen Vorhof der H\u00f6lle geraten. Die H\u00f6lle der Lebenden ist einsamen Menschen vorbehalten. Zu denen z\u00e4hle ich nicht.
\nNicht, solange ich am Abend deinen Atem sp\u00fcre.<\/em><\/p>\n

They want to convince you that I am nothing more than an empty shell. An old, wrinkled, soulless doll. They allow themselves to be fooled by superficial appearances. As so often. Like so many. They wear uniforms, white coats. I know it, even if I can\u2019t see them. I can hear it in their voices. The voices of those in uniform, regardless of the color, always sound the same. They know. They are so sure of themselves. All the tests prove it. Hopeless. They have no idea what they\u2019re talking about. I can’t hear any tremor in their voices. Hopeless. No one who coolly utters these words knows what he is saying. Less than no hope. That only exists in the realm of the dead, which is closed to us. Just think of what we’ve had to listen to all our lives from men and women in uniforms. Don\u2019t believe a word they say. They don\u2019t know anything. When they close their eyes, all they see is a black hole. They have no music in their heads.
\nNo one should pity me. I don\u2019t want any tears falling on my bed. I have no reason to complain. Not as long as you are with me. When I really think about it, I only landed at the gates of hell. Living hell is reserved for lonely people. And I am not among them.
\nNot as long as I can feel your breath at night.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter 1: Relationships – Paul and Christine<\/strong><\/p>\n

A significant aspect of Dragon Games involves a web of relationships, including Paul and Christine, Christine and her brother, Da Long Wu. Paul is the main character in the trilogy, and his internal dialogues are a very important means of telling his story. Jan-Philipp uses turns of phrase in German that are not conventional, and so we needed to preserve this same unconventional use in the English (see phrases in color).<\/p>\n

Page 16<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sie rief jeden Sonntagabend an, bevor sie ins Bett ging, sagte, dass sie gut zu Hause angekommen sei, wie sehr sie die Stunden mit ihm genossen habe, dass sie ihn bereits jetzt vermisse, und er erkl\u00e4rte, dass es ihm genauso gehe. Ihr Sonntagabend-Ritual. F\u00fcr andere Paare vielleicht nichts als eine simple Gewohnheit im Zusammenleben, wie die gemeinsamen Fr\u00fchst\u00fccke und Abendessen, Abschiede, Wiedersehen, Gute-Nacht-W\u00fcnsche, die immer gleichen Ich-liebe-dich-Versicherungen. F\u00fcr Paul Leibovitz, bedeutete das viel mehr.<\/em><\/p>\n

Es waren die kleinen Dinge, denen er jetzt Beachtung schenkte.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er hatte begonnen, der Sch\u00f6nheit in ihr Versteck zu folgen.<\/span> <\/span>Zum ersten Mal in seinem Leben.<\/em><\/p>\n

Der Tod seines Sohnes war sein Lehrmeister gewesen. Ein grausamer, unbarmherziger Lehrmeister. Einer, der keinen Fehler verzieh und keinen Widerspruch duldete. Als sein Sch\u00fcler hatte Paul eine der wichtigsten Lektionen gelernt: niemals wieder etwas f\u00fcr selbstverst\u00e4ndlich zu halten.<\/em><\/p>\n

Fr\u00fcher hatte er geglaubt, es sei selbstverst\u00e4ndlich, dass aus S\u00e4uglingen Kinder, aus Kindern Jugendliche und aus Jugendlichen Erwachsene werden.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er hatte geglaubt, dass blaue Flecken auf kleinen K\u00f6rpern auf nichts anderes hinweisen, als auf einen Sturz oder Sto\u00df.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er hatte geglaubt, dass Kinder, die krank werden, auch wieder zu Kr\u00e4ften kommen.<\/em><\/p>\n

Die Zerbrechlichkeit des Gl\u00fccks.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Die Willk\u00fcr des Ungl\u00fccks.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

She would call every Sunday night before she went to bed, say she got home safely, how much she enjoyed their time together, that she already missed him, and he would tell her he felt the same way. Their Sunday evening ritual. For other couples, perhaps, just a simple habit of coexistence like eating breakfast and dinner together, goodbyes, hellos, good night wishes, always the same I-love-you assurances. To Paul Leibovitz, they meant much more.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

He paid attention to the small things nowadays.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

He began to search for beauty where it hides.<\/span> For the first time in his life.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

His son\u2019s death had taught him that. A cruel, unsparing taskmaster. Death pardoned no mistakes and tolerated no dissent. In witnessing it, Paul learned one of life\u2019s most important lessons: Never take anything for granted.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

In the past, he believed it was a given that infants grew into children, children into adolescents, and adolescents into adults.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

He thought that bruises on little bodies were merely signs of a fall or bump.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

He believed that children who were sick would get well again.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

How fragile … happiness.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

How arbitrary … misfortune.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Nichts war selbstverst\u00e4ndlich. Wer das einmal begriffen, nein, dachte Paul, wer diesen banalen, oft so unbedacht dahingesagten Satz als existenzielle Wahrheit erfahren und nicht wieder vergessen hatte, der war f\u00fcr immer zu einem Grenzg\u00e4nger geworden. Der konnte Pl\u00e4ne schmieden, Kinder zeugen, H\u00e4user kaufen, Entscheidungen f\u00fcr die Zukunft treffen, und wusste doch zur selben Zeit, dass er sich einer Illusion hingab; dass Zukunft lediglich ein Versprechen war, auf das man sich niemals verlassen durfte, dass Sicherheit nie von Dauer sein konnte, sondern nur f\u00fcr kurze, unendlich kostbare Momente existierte.<\/em><\/p>\n

Als hinge nicht alles Gl\u00fcck dieser Welt an einem zum Zerreisen gespannten Faden. So d\u00fcnn, dass die meisten Menschen ihn nicht einmal bemerkten.<\/em><\/p>\n

Es tut mir leid, Ihnen sagen zu m\u00fcssen.<\/span> Mit diesen Worten hatte der Arzt Pauls Faden zerschnitten. F\u00fcr immer und ewig, wie sein Sohn es ausgedr\u00fcckt h\u00e4tte.<\/span> Es gab kein Zur\u00fcck. In diesem Glauben hatte Paul sich eingerichtet. Bis er Christine traf.<\/em><\/p>\n

Als w\u00e4re Vertrauen etwas f\u00fcr Dumme.<\/span><\/span> Als h\u00e4tten wir eine Wahl.<\/span> Das waren die ersten S\u00e4tze von ihr, die ihm in Erinnerung blieben. Er hatte sie zun\u00e4chst nicht ernst genommen. Er hatte sich insgeheim ein wenig gewundert \u00fcber so viel Naivit\u00e4t bei einer erwachsenen Frau. Bis dahin war er \u00fcberzeugt gewesen, dass Misstrauen etwas sehr N\u00fctzliches war, etwas, das uns sch\u00fctzte und, war es in ausreichendem Ma\u00dfe vorhanden, vor allzu gro\u00dfen Entt\u00e4uschungen bewahrte. Sie kamen, so dachte er, aus zwei sehr unterschiedlichen Welten, Christine Wu, die Tr\u00e4umerin und Paul Leibovitz, der Realist.<\/em><\/p>\n

Wie soll ein Mensch vertrauen k\u00f6nnen, dem das Wichtigste auf der Welt genommen worden war. \u00dcber Nacht. Schuldlos und ohne Grund. Der mit ansehen musste, wie rote Blutk\u00f6rperchen einfach nicht aufh\u00f6ren wollten, sich zu vermehren, wie ihre Zahl stieg und stieg, und es kein Medikament auf der Welt gab, das sie daran hindern konnte? Auf was sollte er sich noch verlassen k\u00f6nnen? Auf was, Christine? Sag es mir.<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie hatte ihm diese Frage nicht mit Worten beantwortet. Sie hatte zu ihm gehalten, auch als er sie wegstie\u00df. Sie hatte ihm vertraut, mehr, als er sich selbst. Vertrauen kann ansteckend sein, hatte sie ihn gewarnt. Und Recht behalten.<\/em><\/p>\n

Nothing could be taken for granted. Anyone who grasped it \u2013 no, thought Paul – anyone who experienced the reality of this frequently glib, offhand statement and never forgot it would always be crossing the line. He could make plans, raise kids, buy homes, make decisions about the future. At the same time, he knew he was deluding himself, that the future was merely a promise he could never count on, that security couldn’t last forever, but existed only for short, infinitely precious moments.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

As if all the happiness in the world hung by a thread about to unravel. So fine a thread that most people never even noticed it.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

I am sorry to have to tell you.<\/span> With these words, the doctor had torn Paul\u2019s happiness to shreds. Forever and ever, as his son would have put it.<\/span> There was no going back. Paul had been at home with that belief \u2212 until he met Christine.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

As if trust were only for fools. As if we had a choice.<\/span> Those were the first things she said that stuck in his mind. He didn\u2019t take them seriously at first. Secretly, he was a little surprised by such naivete in a grown woman. Until then, he\u2019d been convinced that mistrust was very useful. Something that would protect us and, in sufficient quantity, save us from unbearable disappointment. They came, so he thought, from two very different worlds: Christine Wu, the dreamer, and Paul Leibovitz, the realist.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

How could a person be capable of trust when the most important thing in the world had been taken from him? Overnight. Through no fault of his own and for no reason. Who stood by and watched as the red blood cells simply refused to stop multiplying, as their numbers climbed and climbed, and there was no medicine in the world that could stop them. What could he still count on? On what, Christine? Tell me.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t answer his question in words; she stood by him, even when he pushed her away. She trusted him more than he trusted himself. Trust can be contagious, she warned him. And been proven right.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter 1: Relationships – Christine and her brother, Wu Da Long<\/strong><\/p>\n

How do the shortened sentences affect our perception of the narrative? Should we preserve this same syntax in the target language or make it flow more? We opted to preserve the sentence structure as in the source language, but not inflexibly.<\/p>\n

Meine verehrte Mei-mei,<\/em><\/p>\n

Kleine Schwester. Das Zittern ihrer H\u00e4nde. Sie lie\u00df das Papier sinken.<\/em><\/p>\n

Ihr Bruder war tot. Seit \u00fcber vierzig Jahren. Verhungert. Verdurstet. Oder im Reisfeld verreckt. Weil sein junger K\u00f6rper die Strapazen der Ernte nicht mehr ertrug. Ein Opfer der Kulturrevolution. Eines von Millionen. Als Vierzehnj\u00e4hriger aufs Land geschickt, um von den Bauern zu lernen. Auf Befehl eines paranoiden, wahnsinnig gewordenen Gro\u00dfen Vorsitzenden, dem keiner zu widersprechen wagte. Ein kr\u00e4nkelnder, schw\u00e4chlicher Junge, in die Berge der Provinz Sichuan beordert, weil sein Vater angeblich zur Clique der Intellektuellen geh\u00f6rte. Seither war er verschollen. Er hatte keine Chance. Wie oft hatte Christine als Kind diesen Satz aus dem Mund ihrer Mutter geh\u00f6rt. Long Long ist tot. Er hatte keine Chance.<\/em><\/p>\n

Pl\u00f6tzlich war alles wieder da: der warme, feuchte Herbsttag im Jahr 1967. Die vielen lauten Schritte im Hausflur. Die hysterischen Stimmen. Das Bersten der T\u00fcr unter den Tritten der Rotgardisten. Die Todesangst im Gesicht ihres Vaters. Ihr Bruder, wo war ihr Bruder gewesen? Warum war er nicht dabei? Sie sah ihn nicht in diesem Bild. Sie sah ihre Mutter, die hagere Frau in ihrem ausgewaschenen Maoanzug. Die Furcht in ihrem Gesicht. Sie sah sich selbst. Unter dem Tisch kauernd. Das kleine M\u00e4dchen, das die Augen schloss, Angst und Neugierde \u00f6ffneten sie wieder. Zwei, drei gro\u00dfe schnelle Schritte. Ihr Vater auf dem Fensterbrett hockend. Wie ein fetter schwarzer Rabe, der gleich seine Fl\u00fcgel ausbreiten w\u00fcrde. Er sprang, bevor sie ihn greifen konnten. Die Stille danach.<\/em><\/p>\n

Ein Unfall. Das war die offizielle Version. Bis heute.<\/em><\/p>\n

Bald darauf musste ihr Bruder aufs Land. Wenige Monate sp\u00e4ter floh ihre Mutter mit ihr nach Hongkong. Sie schwammen, bis sie die Kr\u00e4fte verlie\u00dfen. Drei aus ihrer kleinen Gruppe ertranken. Der Zufall rettete sie. Oder das Schicksal, die Sterne. Ihre Zeit war noch nicht gekommen, behauptete die Mutter sp\u00e4ter. Im Wasser hatte sie sie beten h\u00f6ren. Seitdem hatten sie nichts mehr von ihrem Bruder geh\u00f6rt.<\/em><\/p>\n

Wer wagte es, sie als kleine Schwester anzureden? Sie drehte das Blatt. Auf der R\u00fcckseite stand sein Name: Wu Da Long. Gro\u00dfer Drache.<\/em><\/p>\n

My Dearest Mei-mei,<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Little sister. Her hands trembled. She dropped the letter.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Her brother had been dead. For more than forty years. Starved. Died of thirst. Or carked in the rice fields. Because his young body could no longer stand the hard labor of harvesting. A victim of the Cultural Revolution. One of millions. Sent into the countryside at age fourteen to learn from the peasants. By order of a demented, paranoid Chairman who no one dared to contradict. A sickly, weak youth, summoned to the mountains of Sichuan Province because his father supposedly belonged to a clique of intellectuals. He\u2019d been missing ever since. He never had a chance. How often Christine had heard her mother utter these words as a child. Long Long is dead. He never had a chance.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Suddenly, it all came back: that warm, humid fall day in 1968. Scores of loud footsteps in the hallway. The panicked voices. The door bursting open, kicked in by Red Guards. The mortal fear in her father\u2019s face. Her brother \u2013 where was her brother? Why wasn\u2019t he with them? She did not see him in this picture. She saw her mother, a gaunt woman, in her washed-out Mao suit. The fear on her face. She saw herself. Crouching under the table. The little girl who closed her eyes; curiosity and fear made her open them again. Two, three quick strides. Her father sitting on the window sill. Like a fat black raven about to spread its wings. He jumped before they could grab him. The silence afterwards.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

An accident. That was the official version. To this day.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Shortly thereafter, her brother had to leave for the countryside. A few months later, her mother fled with her to Hong Kong. They swam until their strength gave out. Three members of their little group drowned. She and her mother were saved by chance. Or fate, the stars. Their time was not up yet, her mother claimed later on. Christine heard them praying in the water. Since then, they\u2019d heard nothing more from her brother.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Who dared to call her little sister? She turned the page over. His name was on the reverse side: Da Long Wu. Great Dragon.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter 3: making conversation sound natural in the target language. <\/strong><\/p>\n

Christine has decided to visit her brother near Shanghai, and Paul is going to accompany her. She is visiting Paul at his house on Lama Island near Hong Kong, and they discuss the decision. She makes decisions by writing out plus-and-minus columns, and he thinks the heart doesn\u2019t calculate in this way:<\/p>\n

Pages 63-67<\/strong><\/p>\n

Es braucht keinen Mathematiker, um das auszurechnen. Du f\u00e4hrst nicht.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eMeinst du das ernst?\u201c Es gelang ihm oft m\u00fchelos, sie zu verwirren, sie war in solchen Situationen nicht sicher, ob er etwas ernst meinte oder nicht.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch habe nur deine Technik angewandt. Geht in der Tat schnell. Beeindruckend.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eAber ich kann doch seine Bitte nicht ignorieren. Wie stellst du dir das vor?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWarum nicht? Habe ich auf der Plus-Seite etwas vergessen? Wollen wir nachrechnen?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Nein, aber…\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDas\u201d, unterbrach er sie, \u201eversuche ich dir immer zu erkl\u00e4ren: Das Herz kennt kein Haben oder Soll.\u201c Nach einer Pause f\u00fcgte er hinzu: \u201cOder zumindest entscheidet es nicht nach diesen Kriterien. Es hat seine eigenen.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Leider, dachte Christine. Das Herz war ihr kein kluger Ratgeber. Sie hatte schlechte Erfahrungen damit gemacht. Es war wankelm\u00fctig und unzuverl\u00e4ssig, leicht zu beeindrucken. Hatte sie zu oft in die Irre gef\u00fchrt, Soll- und Haben-Bilanzen ignorieren lassen. Nur bei Paul hatte es sich nicht geirrt. Sie war sich vom ersten Moment an sicher gewesen, dass Geben und Nehmen in Einklang stehen w\u00fcrden. Es hatte sich nicht beirren lassen, auch als der Verstand in den ersten Monaten sagte, dieser sonderbare Einzelg\u00e4nger w\u00fcrde sie entt\u00e4uschen, w\u00e4re nicht mehr in der Lage zu lieben. Das Herz wusste es besser und hatte Recht behalten.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er riss sie aus ihren Gedanken. \u201eNat\u00fcrlich f\u00e4hrst du nach Shanghai. Ich werde dich sogar begleiten.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDu wei\u00dft, dass ich das nicht zulassen w\u00fcrde.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eUnd wenn ich dir versichere, dass das v\u00f6llig ungef\u00e4hrlich f\u00fcr mich ist?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eNicht schon wieder diese Diskussion.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Paul schwieg und atmete schwer. Sie sah seine Konturen in der Dunkelheit, sein Brustkorb hob und senkte sich, als w\u00e4re er au\u00dfer Atem. Sie hatte das Gef\u00fchl, auch zwischen ihnen t\u00fcrmten sich ungesagte S\u00e4tze.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er nahm die Taschenlampe und leuchtete sich ins Gesicht. \u201eSchau mich an: Auch ich habe dir etwas zu erz\u00e4hlen.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sein Ton sollte heiter klingen, gelassen, so gut kannte sie ihn. Doch die Spannung und Anstrengung darin waren nicht zu \u00fcberh\u00f6ren.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch h\u00f6re\u201d, antwortete sie, so neugierig wie skeptisch.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch war bei Meister Wong.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDas glaube ich nicht. Wann?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eGestern Abend. Nach unserem Gespr\u00e4ch\u201d, sagte er und l\u00f6schte die Lampe wieder.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWie hast du so schnell einen Termin bekommen?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eAlles eine Frage des Honorars.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWas hat er gesagt?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDass der Tiger den Hund frisst. Und die Eule bald vom Baum f\u00e4llt.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eH\u00f6r auf\u201d, sagte sie w\u00fctend. \u201eEs gibt keine Eule unter den chinesischen Tierzeichen. Und wir sind weder Tiger noch Hund.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eEntschuldige, ich wollte dich nicht ver\u00e4rgern. Er hat erkl\u00e4rt, dass ich mir keine Sorgen machen muss. Das Jahr des Schweins wird kein schlechtes f\u00fcr mich.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie nahm die Taschenlampe und leuchtete sein Gesicht aus. Sie musterte ihn. Seine Augen wirkten noch blauer als sonst. Sie zuckten im Schein der Lampe. Sein Blick ging an ihr vorbei in die Dunkelheit. Zitterten seine Lippen, oder bildete sie sich das ein? \u201eDas denkst du dir aus.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eNein.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch dachte, du glaubst nicht an Astrologie?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eTue ich auch nicht.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWarum bist du dann bei ihm gewesen?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eZu deiner Beruhigung. Und zu meiner. Den Gedanken, dich neun Monate nicht zu sehen, habe ich nicht ertragen.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie hatte gehofft, in seinen Augen, in seinen Z\u00fcgen um den Mund eine Antwort zu finden. Sie misstraute ihm, ohne zu wissen, warum. \u201eHast du die Kassette? Ich m\u00f6chte genau h\u00f6ren, was er gesagt hat.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eChristine. Seit wann verh\u00f6rst du mich? Er hat unmissverst\u00e4ndlich gesagt, dass mir keine Gefahr droht, egal, mit wem ich die n\u00e4chsten Monate verbringe. Gen\u00fcgt das nicht?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie \u00fcberlegte. \u201eWas hat er dir \u00fcber deine Vergangenheit gesagt?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDass ich verheiratet war und geschieden bin. Dass meine Eltern nicht mehr leben. Dass ich einen Sohn hatte.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Seine Stimme klang belegt und ersch\u00f6pft. Er schluckte mehrfach und r\u00e4usperte sich. Die lange Nase wirkte noch spitzer als sonst.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch wei\u00df nicht, ob ich dir glauben soll.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eRuf ihn an.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eEr w\u00fcrde mir kein Wort sagen.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eAls w\u00e4re Vertrauen etwas f\u00fcr Dumme. Von wem stammt dieser Satz?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201ePaul! Mir ist es ernst.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eMir auch.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie hatte keine Wahl, als ihm zu glauben, sie wusste es. Glauben schenken und hoffen, dass man nicht missbraucht wird. Es gab keine Alternative. Trotzdem str\u00e4ubte sich etwas in ihr.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWas bedeutet eigentlich das rote Band um dein Handgelenk?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eEine Idee von Meister Wong. Immer etwas Rotes am K\u00f6rper tragen. Das soll mir noch mehr Gl\u00fcck in diesem Jahr bringen, und ich dachte, schaden wird es nicht.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eNoch irgendwelche Ratschl\u00e4ge?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eEr empfahl mir, Wasser zu meiden, was schwierig ist, wenn man auf einer Insel wohnt. Jade hilft mir. Rot besch\u00fctzt mich. Die 3 bedroht mich. Reich werde ich im Jahr des Schweins nicht. Mehr ist meine Gl\u00fcckszahl.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eMehr?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eMehr. Wie: viel. Oft. Nicht genug. Nimmersatt.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Er brachte sie h\u00e4ufiger zum Lachen als alle M\u00e4nner vor ihm zusammen. Auch daf\u00fcr liebte sie ihn.<\/em><\/p>\n

Sein Bein wippte so heftig auf und ab, als g\u00e4be es einen Morsecode durch.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eGeht es dir nicht gut?\u201c, fragte sie.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDoch, warum?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eDein Bein.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Er legte eine Hand aufs Knie und hielt es still. \u201eBesser so?\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie sahen die letzte F\u00e4hre aus Hongkong um die Inselspitze biegen.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eWenn wir uns jetzt beeilen, bekommst du sie noch\u201d, sagte er und stand auf.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eIch dachte, du rennst nicht, um Schiffe oder Busse zu kriegen.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201eF\u00fcr dich mache ich heute eine Ausnahme.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

Sie lauschte dem Fl\u00fcstern des Meeres. \u201eIch m\u00f6chte bei dir bleiben.\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n

… Christine, you don\u2019t have to be a mathematician in order to calculate this. You\u2019re not going.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you serious?\u201d He could often confuse her with very little effort. In situations like this, she was not sure if he was serious or not.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI just used your method. Certainly goes fast. Impressive.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut I can\u2019t ignore his request. How could you think that?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not? Did I forget something on the plus side? Should we recalculate?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but…\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s,\u201d he interrupted, \u201cwhat I am always trying to tell you: The heart does not keep score.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

After pausing briefly, he added, \u201cAt least, it doesn\u2019t decide on that basis \u2212 it has its own criteria.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Unfortunately, Christine thought. Her heart was not a wise counselor. She\u2019d had bad experiences with it. It was fickle and unreliable, easily swayed. Led her astray too often, let her ignore the plus-and-minus sides. Was only unerring when it came to Paul. From the very first, she had been certain there would be a harmonious give-and-take. It had not misled her, not even during those first months when her mind told her that this strange loner would disappoint her, no longer be able to love her. Her heart knew better and had been right all along.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He roused her from her thoughts.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOf course you\u2019re going to Shanghai. I\u2019ll even go with you.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know I wouldn\u2019t allow it.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd if I were to assure you that it\u2019s entirely safe for me?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, not this discussion again.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Paul was silent and sighed heavily. She saw the contours of his body in the darkness. His ribcage rose and fell as if he were out of breath. She felt that unsaid thoughts were piling up between them as well.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He took the flashlight and shined it on his face.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPlease look at me. I also have something to tell you.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She knew full well that his tone was meant to sound cheerful, serene, but the tension and strain in it were unmistakable.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m listening,\u201d she answered, as curious as she was skeptical.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI went to Master Wong.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t believe it. When?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYesterday evening. After our talk,\u201d he said and turned off the flashlight again.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you get an appointment so quickly?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll a matter of the fee.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did he say?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat the tiger will eat the dog. And the owl will fall out of the tree.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCut it out!\u201d she said, livid. \u201cThere are no owls among the Chinese animal signs. And we are neither a tiger nor a dog.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSorry. I didn\u2019t mean to make you angry. He said I don\u2019t need to worry about a thing; the Year of the Pig will not be bad for me.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She took the flashlight and shined it on his face. She scrutinized him. His eyes looked more blue than usual. They twitched in the beam of the flashlight. His gaze went past her into the darkness. Were his lips trembling, or was it her imagination?<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re making it up.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you didn\u2019t believe in astrology.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThen why did you go to him?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTo reassure you. And myself. I couldn\u2019t stand the idea of not seeing you for nine months.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She had hoped to find an answer in his eyes, in the features around his mouth. She doubted him without knowing why. \u201cDo you have the cassette? I would like to hear exactly what he said.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChristine. Since when do you interrogate me? He said unequivocally that I am in no danger, regardless of who I spend time with in the coming months. Isn’t that enough for you?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She thought about it.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did he tell you about your past?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat I was married and am divorced. That my parents are no longer alive. That I had a son.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

His voice sounded husky and weary. He swallowed several times and cleared his throat. His long nose looked more pointed than usual.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know whether to believe you.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCall him up.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe wouldn\u2019t tell me a thing.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAs if trust were only for fools. Who came up with that idea?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPaul! I am serious.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo am I.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She had no choice but to believe him, and she knew it. To believe he was telling the truth and hope that her trust was not misplaced. There was no other choice. Nevertheless, something in her resisted.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is the meaning of the red band around your wrist?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaster Wong\u2019s idea. Always wear something red. It\u2019s supposed to bring me even greater luck this year, and I thought it couldn\u2019t hurt.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAny other pieces of advice?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe advised me to avoid water, which is difficult when you live on an island. Jade helps me. Red protects me. The number 3 is dangerous for me. I won\u2019t get rich in the Year of the Pig. More is my lucky number.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMore?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMore. How: much. Often. Not enough. Never enough.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He made her laugh more often than all of the men before him put together. And she loved him for that as well.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

His leg swung vigorously back and forth, as though he were transmitting a message in Morse code.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs something wrong?” she asked.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Why?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour leg.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He put a hand on his knee and held it still.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that better?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

They saw the last ferry from Hong Kong turn around the tip of the island.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf we hurry, you can still catch it,\u201d he said and stood up.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you didn\u2019t run to catch boats or buses.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTonight I\u2019ll make an exception for you.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She listened to the whispering of the sea. \u201cI\u2019d like to stay with you.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The China-Paul Leibovitz Trilogy<\/strong><\/p>\n

The China Trilogy seeks to describe a number of underlying causes and emerging problems that are the inevitable result of rapid change in modern-day China.<\/p>\n

The books can be experienced on two levels. First of all, they tell the story of fifty-three-year-old Paul Leibovitz, son of a German Catholic and an American Jew, born in Munich and raised in New York City. But Hong Kong has been his home for the past thirty-plus years. Paul speaks fluent Cantonese and Mandarin, the result of his extensive travels as a journalist and business consultant. In short, Paul knows China like the back of his hand.<\/p>\n

After the tragic loss of their nine-year-old son to cancer, he and his wife separate, and Paul withdraws completely from life. He begins a new existence on Lamma, a remote island off the coast of Hong Kong. Is there a force stronger than sadness and pain that can pull him out of his self-imposed isolation?<\/p>\n

And so we follow Paul’s struggle to come to terms with his loss. In Whispering Shadows, he reluctantly gets involved with a Hong Kong businesswoman, Christine Wu. He slowly opens up and falls in love with her. Part Two, Dragon Games, is about their struggle to build a relationship. Book two closes with the birth of their son. Christine moves in with Paul, accompanied by her son from a previous marriage, her mother and their newborn child in Part Three. He now has to build a family in the Chinese tradition. Life has new meaning for him.<\/p>\n

The second level of the Trilogy is based on various aspects of modern Chinese life. Each book features a separate plot that deals with a different topic. In Whispering Shadows, for example, Paul gets involved in an unresolved murder case. An American investor is killed in the southern Chinese city of Shenzhen. Who killed him and why? The story evokes China’s past, the Cultural Revolution and the long shadow that it casts over Chinese society to this day.<\/p>\n

The plot of Dragon Games centers around two of the most important issues in today’s China: environmental pollution and justice. Christine Wu’s sister-in-law suffers from mercury poisoning. When Paul discovers that a chemical factory is responsible for her illness, Christine’s brother, Da Long, wants to initiate legal proceedings. Dragon Games shows how individuals and society as a whole are paying for the rapid growth of the past thirty years.<\/p>\n

The last, as yet untitled, book of the China Trilogy tells the story of Paul\u2019s dangerous search for Christine’s niece and his best friend, Zhang, both of whom have gone missing in Tibet. The search for meaning and the spiritual emptiness of present-day China are issues that will not go away easily. What are the core values upon which to build the foundation of a new China?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

Whispering Shadows<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

Paul\u2019s best friend is David Zhang. They talk about why Paul hardly ever leaves the island. There are reasons why Paul moved to a remote island and why he has established a daily routine that is quite invariable. And they relate to the death of his son, Justin:<\/p>\n

Another important aspect of this part of the story is understanding Paul\u2019s psyche \u2013 Paul was born in America, but is partly German-Jewish. Getting the right feeling for the way he thinks means capturing just the right tone from the source language:<\/p>\n

Page 23<\/strong><\/p>\n

Au\u00dferdem hatte er Angst, dass Justin ihn im betrunkenen Zustand finde k\u00f6nnte, falls er zur\u00fcckkehrte. Diese Furcht war schwer zu erkl\u00e4ren, das wusste er. Einmal hatte er versucht, sie David Zhang zu beschreiben, und selbst der, sein engster Vertrauter, der einzige Freund, den er je besessen hatte, konnte ihm nicht folgen.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00bbJustin ist tot, Paul.\u00ab<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00bbIch wei\u00df, dass er tot ist, das brauchst du mir nicht zu sagen.\u00ab<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00bbWenn er zur\u00fcckkehrt, wird es nicht der Justin sein, den du kennst, er wird eine andere Form haben\u00ab, erkl\u00e4rte David, der als Buddhist an den ewigen Kreislauf von Tod und Geburt glaubte.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00bbIch sitze nicht zu Hause und warte, dass Justin jeden Moment durch die T\u00fcr kommt, aber…\u00ab Paul suchte nach Worten. \u00bbIch m\u00f6chte darauf vorbereitet sein.\u00ab<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00bbWorauf?\u00ab \u00bbAuf seine R\u00fcckkehr.\u00ab \u00bbVon der du wei\u00dft, dass es sie nicht geben wird.\u00ab Paul seufzte. \u00bbVon der ich wei\u00df, dass es sie nicht geben<\/em><\/p>\n

wird\u00ab, wiederholte er. \u00bbAber ich will sie nicht ausschlie\u00dfen.\u00ab<\/em><\/p>\n

In addition, Paul feared that if Justin came back, he might find him in a drunken state. This fear was difficult to explain, and he knew that. He once tried to describe it to David Zhang. And even he, Paul’s closest confidant, the only friend he’d ever had, couldn’t follow him.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“Justin is dead, Paul.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“I know he’s dead. You don’t need to tell me that.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“If he did return, he wouldn’t be the Justin you knew, but would have taken on a new form ,” explained David, who was a Buddhist and believed in the eternal cycle of birth and death.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“I don’t sit at home and wait for Justin to walk through the door at any moment, but…” Paul searched for the right words. “I’d like to be prepared for it.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“For what?”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“For his return.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

“Which you know will never happen.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Paul sighed. “Which I know will never happen,” he repeated. “But I don’t want to rule it out.”<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The flow of the prose is very different from conversational sections, the shorter sentence structures that convey a more stilted, disjointed flow of thought:<\/p>\n

Pages 25-27<\/strong><\/p>\n

Damals hatte er geglaubt, er w\u00fcrde es niemals vergessen und schon ein paar Jahre sp\u00e4ter war er im Zweifel. Dieser Verlust war nur ertr\u00e4glich, weil t\u00e4glich neue Erinnerungen mit Justin hinzukamen und die alten abl\u00f6sten. Aber jetzt? Er war angewiesen auf die, die er besa\u00df und ertappte sich schon manchmal dabei, wie er in sich hineinhorchte und f\u00fcr Momente nach Justins Stimme suchte, wie er die Augen schloss und sich konzentrieren musste, bis Justin vor ihm auftauchte.<\/em><\/p>\n

Um das Erl\u00f6schen zu verhindern, wollte er sich, soweit es irgend ging, vor allem Neuen sch\u00fctzen. Vergessen w\u00e4re Verrat. Vergessen ist ein Verwandter des Todes. Deshalb war er nach Lamma gezogen und deshalb bewegte er sich auch nur in Ausnahmef\u00e4llen und sehr unwillig von der Insel fort. Lamma war ruhig. Es gab keine Autos, weniger Menschen als sonstwo in Hongkong und kaum jemanden, den er kannte. Sein Haus lag in Tai Peng, einer Siedlung auf einem H\u00fcgel \u00fcber Yung Shue Wan, zehn Minuten vom F\u00e4hranleger entfernt. Es versteckte sich hinter einem m\u00e4chtigen Wall aus gr\u00fcnem Buschwerk und einem dichten Bambushain, am Ende eines schmalen Pfades.<\/em><\/p>\n

Er hatte sich einen festen Tagesablauf verordnet. Er stand in der Morgend\u00e4mmerung auf, trank unter der Markise auf der Terrasse genau eine Kanne Jasmintee, nie mehr aber auch nie weniger, machte auf dem Dach eine Stunde lang seine Tai-Chi-\u00dcbungen, ging ins Dorf, kaufte ein, a\u00df immer im selben Restaurant am Hafen immer dieselbe Mischung aus Gem\u00fcse- und Shrimp-Dim Sum, dazu zwei ged\u00e4mpfte, mit Schweinefleisch gef\u00fcllte chinesische Br\u00f6tchen, truganschlie\u00dfend die Eink\u00e4ufe nach Hause und brach dann zu einer drei bis vierst\u00fcndigen Wanderung auf. Sein Weg f\u00fchrte ihn Tag f\u00fcr Tag an den kleinen Feldern vorbei, auf denen alte M\u00e4nner und Frauen Unkraut j\u00e4teten, Erdkrummen zerhackten oder ihre Salate und Tomatenpflanzen mit Sch\u00e4dlingsbek\u00e4mpfungsmitteln bespr\u00fchten. Sie gr\u00fc\u00dften ihn mit einem Kopfnicken, er gr\u00fc\u00dfte mit einem Kopfnicken zur\u00fcck. Vor ihnen war er sicher. Nie w\u00fcrden sie auf die Idee verfallen, ihn anzusprechen oder ihn gar in ein Gespr\u00e4ch zu verwickeln. Er wanderte weiter nach Pak Kok, am Wasser in einem weiten Bogen zur\u00fcck nach Yung Shue Wan, von da \u00fcber die halbe Insel zum Lo-So-Shing Strand. Der war, abgesehen von manchen Wochenenden im Sommer, fast immer menschenleer. Paul schwamm exakt zwanzig Minuten. Anschlie\u00dfend setzte er sich eine halbe Stunde, an sch\u00f6nen Tagen auch l\u00e4nger, in den Schatten und schaute aufs Meer, jedes Mal erleichtert \u00fcber die Vertrautheit des Anblicks. Oder er schloss die Augen und meditierte. Hier war nichts Unvorhersehbares zu bef\u00fcrchten.<\/em><\/p>\n

At the time, he believed he would never forget. Yet, just a couple of years later, he was in doubt. He could only bear the old losses because new memories of Justin had come along every day to replace them. Nowadays, he had nothing but past memories to rely on. He sometimes caught himself searching his soul, trying to listen for Justin’s voice for a moment, or closing his eyes and concentrating hard before Justin would appear.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

In order to prevent them from dying out, Paul wanted to shield himself from everything new to the extent possible. To forget would mean betrayal. Forgetting and death were kindred spirits. That’s why he moved to Lamma. That’s why he only left the island in exceptional cases and very unwillingly. Lamma was peaceful. There were no cars, fewer people than anywhere else in Hong Kong, and he hardly knew anyone. His house was in Tai Peng, a housing estate on a hill above Yung Shue Wan, ten minutes away from the ferry dock. It was hidden behind a mighty wall of green bushes and a thick bamboo grove at the end of a narrow path.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Paul had established a fixed daily routine. He rose at dawn, drank exactly one pot of jasmine tea, never more and never less, under the terrace awning. Did an hour’s worth of Tai Chi exercises on the roof. Went into the village to shop. Always ate at the same harbor restaurant, always the same combination of vegetable and shrimp dim sum, as well as two Chinese buns filled with pork. Took his purchases home, then set out on a three to four hour hike. Day after day, his route led him past little fields where old men and women were pulling out weeds, chopping up clumps of earth, or spraying pesticides on their lettuces and tomato plants. They greeted him with a nod of the head, and he greeted them by nodding in return. He felt sure of them. They would never think of speaking to him or engaging him in conversation. He hiked on to Pak Kok, back to Yung Shue Wan in a wide curve along the water and, from there, across half the island to Lo So Shing Beach. With the exception of a few weekends in the summertime, the beach was almost always deserted. Paul swam for precisely twenty minutes. Afterwards, he sat in the shade for half an hour, even longer on beautiful days, always relieved at the familiarity of the view. Or he closed his eyes and meditated. There was no danger of anything unforeseeable here.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Chinese cooking!<\/strong><\/p>\n

David Zhang is a marvellous cook. Some of my favorite parts of Whispering Shadows<\/em> involve David\u2019s cooking for Paul:<\/p>\n

Pages 84-85<\/strong><\/p>\n

David w\u00fcrfelte mit flinken Bewegungen die Auberginen, f\u00fcllte sie in eine Sch\u00fcssel und streute reichlich Salz dar\u00fcber. Er nahm ein kleineres Messer und hackte frischen Ingwer und Knoblauch in winzige St\u00fcckchen, zerteilte zwei Bund Fr\u00fchlingszwiebeln, entkernte mit ein paar Handgriffen die Melone, schnitt den Tofu klein, holte aus dem Regal mehrere Gl\u00e4ser mit eingelegtem Chilischoten, Chilipaste, und fermentierten schwarzen Bohnen. Nebenbei r\u00f6stete er Sichuanpfeffer in einer Pfanne. Anschlie\u00dfend zermahlte er ihn mit langsamen, rhythmischen Bewegungen in einem M\u00f6rser zu feinem Pulver. Paul stellte in einer Ecke der kleinen K\u00fcche einen Klapptisch und drei Hocker auf, setzte sich und beobachtete jede Bewegung genau. Vor vielen, vielen Jahren hatte er auf einer Liste \u00bbDinge, die das Leben lebenswert machen\u00ab\u201a David beim Kochen zuschauen plus das anschlie\u00dfende Essen\u2039 an eine der ersten Stellen gesetzt. Er hatte noch niemanden gesehen, der mit so viel Liebe und Hingabe Essen zubereitete.<\/em><\/p>\n

David sprach in der K\u00fcche kaum ein Wort. Er beantwortete keine Fragen, er h\u00f6rte sie nicht einmal, ankommende G\u00e4ste w\u00fcrdigte er keines Blickes, er war versunken in einer Welt aus Ger\u00fcchen und Gew\u00fcrzen, aus Kr\u00e4utern, \u00d6len, Pasten, aus D\u00e4mpfen, Messern und Woks. Mei und Paul behaupteten, Kochen sei f\u00fcr ihn nur eine andere Form des Meditierens, und er lie\u00df sie seit \u00fcber zwanzig Jahren in diesem Glauben. Es gab Dinge in seinem Leben, \u00fcber die konnte er nicht reden, auch mehr als drei\u00dfig Jahre sp\u00e4ter nicht. Weder mit seinem besten Freund noch mit seiner Frau. Wie sollten sie verstehen, dass ein Essen niemals nur eine einfache Mahlzeit f\u00fcr ihn war? Dass er jeden beneidete, f\u00fcr den es so einfach war. Dass er sich kein St\u00fcck Tofu, keinen H\u00fchnerfu\u00df, nicht mal ein kleines, winziges Reiskorn in den Mund schieben konnte, ohne an Li, an Wu, an Hong und all die anderen aus seiner Arbeitsbrigade zu denken, die, wie er, als Kinder w\u00e4hrend der Kulturrevolution in die Berge geschickt wurden, um den Bauern bei der Ernte zu helfen und die dort sechs verdammt lange Jahre arbeiten mussten. Sechs Jahre, in denen sie glaubten, von ihren Eltern, vom Rest der Welt, vergessen worden zu sein, in denen sie sich fast ausschlie\u00dflich von Reis ern\u00e4hrten und wenn der nicht reichte, weil die unerfahrenen St\u00e4dter bei der Ernte keine Hilfe, sondern eine Last waren, Gras, Bl\u00e4tter und Borke fra\u00dfen. Sechs Jahre, in denen kein Sommer und kein Winter verging, ohne dass nicht einer von ihnen vor Entkr\u00e4ftung starb, elendig verhungert in einer Natur, in der es doch f\u00fcr alle mehr als genug gab, wenn man sie nur richtig nutzte. Sechs Jahre, in denen er manchmal tagelang an nichts anderes denken konnte, als an die gef\u00fcllten Teigtaschen die seine Mutter zubereitete. Nicht an seine Mutter, an die Teigtaschen dachte David Zhang.<\/em><\/p>\n

F\u00fcr ihn war jedes Essen ein Fest. Ein kleiner, stiller Triumph des Lebens \u00fcber den Tod. Der Liebe \u00fcber den Hass. Der Sch\u00f6nheit \u00fcber das H\u00e4ssliche. Der G\u00fcte \u00fcber die Bosheit. Und je mehr M\u00fche er sich gab, je besser es schmeckte, je mehr der Gaumen gereizt, die Nase verw\u00f6hnt, der Magen gef\u00fcllt wurde, desto s\u00fc\u00dfer war dieser Triumph. Als wenn es bei einer Prise Pfeffer nur auf den Geschmack ank\u00e4me. Als wenn Koriander, Chili, Anis, K\u00fcmmel, Ingwer, Nelken nur Gew\u00fcrze w\u00e4ren. Als wenn das Leben so einfach w\u00e4re. Er hatte gesehen, wie Rotgardisten den alten Hu beschimpften, nur weil er seiner faden Wasserbr\u00fche mit heimlich aufbewahrten Pfeffer etwas Geschmack geben wollte. Die Pfefferk\u00f6rner wa- ren angeblich der Beweis seiner dekadenten, bourgeoisen<\/em><\/p>\n

Vergangenheit und seiner Unbelehrbarkeit. Die Suppe hatte f\u00fcr alle gleich zu schmecken. Was er glaubte, wer er sei? Er solle das ja nicht noch einmal wagen. Und was machte der irre Alte? Was machte dieser Idiot, der vor der Revolution als Koch in Schanghai in einem franz\u00f6sischen Restaurant gearbeitet hatte? Er w\u00fcrzte! Er w\u00fcrzte wieder, er w\u00fcrzte, ohne Reue zu zeigen. Als w\u00e4re Pfeffer eine Form des Widerstandes gegen Barbarei. Die Rotgardisten hatten ein Auge auf ihn und pr\u00fcgelten auf ihn ein, bis er sich nicht mehr bewegte, und das ganze Dorf schaute zu, die Kinder und die Alten, die M\u00e4nner und die Frauen und niemand kam zur Hilfe, stattdessen br\u00fcllten sie \u00bbBestraft den Konterrevolution\u00e4r Hu!\u00ab \u00bbKeine Gnade f\u00fcr den Verr\u00e4ter Hu!\u00ab, und der 16j\u00e4hrige David stand dabei und schrie mit und wenn sie ihn aufgefordert h\u00e4tten, ihn zu schlagen, h\u00e4tte er es getan. Drei Pfefferk\u00f6rner. Wem sollte er das erkl\u00e4ren? Totgeschlagen wegen drei lausiger schwarzer Pfefferk\u00f6rner. Wer w\u00fcrde das je verstehen?<\/em><\/p>\n

Erst als die Speisen auf dem Tisch standen, konnte er anfangen sich zu entspannen. Die wei\u00dfen Tofuw\u00fcrfel lagen wie kleine Kostbarkeiten im satten, \u00f6ligen Rot der Chiliso\u00dfe. Die Auberginen hatten genau die richtige, cremig-weiche Konsistenz, er sah es sofort, der Pok Choy, leicht mit Knoblauch ged\u00e4mpft, hatte seine Frische behalten, er schmeckte sie mit den Augen, f\u00fchlte sie auf der Zunge, bevor er das Gem\u00fcse \u00fcberhaupt probiert hatte. Und die Melone! Die vielen Schattierungen ihres Gr\u00fcn! An manchen Stellen zart und hell, fast durchsichtig, an anderen dunkel und saftig, wie die Farbe der Reisfelder kurz vor der Ernte. Er liebte ihre Bitterkeit. Er liebte diesen dominanten Geschmack, der sich nicht anbiederte, der sich nicht sofort vom n\u00e4chst besten Aroma vertreiben lie\u00df, der in seinem Mund nachklang, bis die Wucht des Sichuanpfeffers ihn endg\u00fcltig \u00fcberlagerte.<\/em><\/p>\n

David diced the eggplants deftly, put them in a bowl and sprinkled them liberally with salt. He took a smaller knife, chopped fresh ginger and garlic into tiny pieces, cut up two bunches of scallions, removed the seeds from the melon with a flick or two of the wrist, and cut the tofu into little chunks. He took several jars of pickled chili peppers, chili paste, and fermented black beans from the shelves. At the same time, he roasted Sichuan pepper in a pan, then placed it in a mortar and ground it into a fine powder with slow, rhythmic movements. Paul set up a folding table and three stools in a corner of the small kitchen, then sat down and followed his every movement.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Many, many years ago, he had placed “watching David cook and the ensuing meal” near the top of his list of “Things that Make Life Worth Living.” He had never seen anyone prepare a meal with so much love and devotion.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

David hardly said a word in the kitchen. He didn’t answer any questions, didn’t even hear them, didn’t look at guests as they arrived. He was immersed in a world of smells and spices \u2212 herbs, oils, pastes \u2212 steam, knives and woks. Mei and Paul maintained that, to him, cooking was just another form of meditation. And he’d let them go on believing it for the past twenty plus years. There were things in his past that he couldn’t talk about, not even more than thirty years later. Neither with his best friend, nor with his wife. How were they supposed to understand that, to him, no meal would ever be an ordinary meal? That he envied anyone for whom it was that simple? That he couldn’t put a single piece of tofu, a chicken foot, or even a little, tiny grain of rice in his mouth without thinking of Li, Wu, Hong, and all the other children in his labor brigade? Like him, they were sent to the mountains during the Cultural Revolution to help farmers with their crops. And they had to work there for six long, hellish years. Six years in which they believed they’d been forgotten by their parents and the rest of the world. In which they lived on almost nothing but rice. And if there wasn’t enough rice, they ate grass, leaves and bark. The inexperienced city kids were no help with the crops, they were merely a burden. Six years in which no summer or winter went by without one of them dying of exhaustion. They were miserably famished, although the countryside had more than enough for everyone, if they’d only put it to good use. Six years in which he could think of nothing for days on end, other than the pot stickers his mother made. David Zhang thought about pot stickers and not about his mother.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

To him, every meal was a celebration. A little, quiet triumph of life over death. Love over hate. Beauty over ugliness. Good over evil. And the more effort he went to, the better it tasted, the more it tickled the palate, spoiled the nose and filled the stomach, the sweeter the triumph was for him. As if flavor were only about a pinch of pepper. As if coriander, chili, anise, caraway, ginger and cloves were only spices. As if life were that simple. He had seen the Red Guards insult Old Hu, just because he wanted to add a bit of flavor to his tasteless, watery broth by adding pepper he’d stashed away. The peppercorns were apparent proof of his decadent, bourgeois past and incorrigibility. Everybody’s soup had to taste the same. Who did he think he was? He certainly better not try it again. And what did the crazy old man do? What did this idiot who worked as a chef in a French restaurant in Shanghai before the Revolution do? He spiced it up! He spiced it up again, he spiced it up without showing any remorse. As if pepper were a form of resistance against barbarism. The Red Guards had been watching him, and they beat him until he no longer moved. The entire village stood by and watched, young and old, men and women, and no one came to his aid. They only shouted, “Punish the counter-revolutionary, Hu!” “No mercy for the traitor, Hu!” Sixteen year old David stood by and shouted along with them. And if they’d asked him to beat him, he would have done it. Three peppercorns. Who should he tell about it? Beaten to death because of three, lousy black peppercorns. Who would ever understand?<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He could only start to relax when the dishes were on the table. The white cubes of tofu lay like little treasures in the rich, oily red of the chili sauce. He immediately saw that the eggplant had the perfect, rich, creamy-white consistency. The bok choy, lightly steamed with garlic, had kept its freshness. He could taste it with his eyes and feel it on his tongue before he even tasted the vegetables. And the melons! The many shades of green! Tender and bright in some spots, almost transparent; dark and juicy in others, like the color of rice fields shortly before harvest time. He loved their bitterness. He loved this dominant flavor that didn’t ingratiate itself, that didn’t let itself be driven away by the next best aroma, that lingered in his mouth until it was finally displaced by the sheer force of the Sichuan pepper.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Linda Marianiello is a German-to-English translator and interpreter. An active member of ATA, she also serves on the board of her local New Mexico ATA affiliate. She worked as a classical flutist in Munich, Germany, for over a decade. Linda began translating and interpreting in the arts in 1990, and has been a full-time literary and business translator since 2004. She has also studied Spanish, French and Italian at university, and holds a B.A. from Yale and an M.A. from CUNY-Brooklyn College. Linda can be reached at\u00a0beakspeak@q.com<\/a>. Or visit her website at www.alla-breve.us<\/a>.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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