A Different Kind of Loneliness

A Different Kind of Loneliness
Originally written in Chinese by Chris Harry
(Translated into English by Chris Harry)


As he left his flat to walk out onto the clamorous street, he seemed to see tiny ripples forming in the sea of pedestrians flowing around him.

A pair of eyes from the surrounding crowd turned to fix their gaze upon him, and then another, and another... The harmony that had once filled the bustling, prosperous street now began to slowly dissipate, along with his blithesome mood.

In spite of a conscious effort to disregard them, and even as he quickened his pace as he walked past them, those countless eyeballs continued to follow him. Their glare gradually seeped through his back into his very consciousness, like so many beads of water collecting in his brain. Still he pretended not to notice; yet the looks being cast toward him were like keen barbs piercing holes through him, weighing down on him like great stones.

Now he could see that many in the crowd were engaged in furtive whisper. The whishing sound of their whispers swirled round his ears. Their hushed tones conjured up an image of scattered leaves rustling and flitting in an autumn wind.

Even he could not tell whether it was those collective stares, which had produced a chain reaction, or if it were he, this stranger, suddenly appearing on that busy street, which had led to the tension in the air. Then, very soon he discovered that his own disquiet was not shared. He could see smiles on the faces of many different figures in the crowd. And though he was unable to read what was behind those smiles, they merely heightened his unease.

As he walked, he thought to himself; no matter which corner of the frame he rested in, it seemed he could never blend into this painting. “Why would such a natural and ordinary thing as going for a walk become so painfully awkward?” It was a fact beyond comprehension for him, and one which he found rather hard to bear.

Nothing other than that cold blast of wind, which had just sheared through his consciousness, could accurately describe his feelings. That bleak, indifferent autumn wind of his imaginings had blown away every single leaf, sending them to drift and scatter apart. Only the desolation of this image in his mind’s eye could capture, in a real way, the feeling of loneliness and isolation he felt at that precise moment.

As he walked passed the intersection further up ahead and then across the street, a mother and her young son came into his field of vision. After seeing the two carefree figures strolling toward him, an exuberant, nimble little boy alongside his gentle and fair young mother, the world was suddenly suffused in warmer, gentler tones. He looked down toward the boy; the boy stared back up at him. At last, he could feel some sort of human bond. He believed that the little boy could understand him, even sympathise with him. Immediately his heavy mood lifted as a smile spread across his face.

The boy’s reaction was different, however. The clever-looking little sprite pulled excitedly on his mother’s arm as he shouted loudly and pointed straight at him, “Look! Look! Foreigner! Foreigner!”

He shook his head and bore on with a twinge of despair as he continued to walk alone, along which seemed to have become an even longer road ahead.

The Beggars' Gang

 The Beggars’ Gang

Written by Lao Le

(Translated by Chris Harry)

        I came to know of the beggars’ gang through Chinese martial arts novels and that they, among all of the various types of charlatans, drifters, and vagabonds, were the most powerful school to be reckoned with. And what's more, I am really beginning to suspect that such a beggars’ gang truly exists.

         The first time I came across them was just after I started attending university. While walking along the street at Qianmen, a middle-aged woman with a young girl confronted me asking for money. The excuse was none other than to "give the little girl some money to buy some candy". Unable to disentangle myself from them, I dug out a little less than one yuan in change when unexpectedly, another middle-aged woman accompanied by yet another young girl suddenly appeared from the left and she too started clamouring for me to "give the little girl some money for candy". Determined to be a decent fellow to the end, I once again reached into my pocket to take out some money. But to my surprise and bewilderment, a third middle-aged woman and young girl twosome started coming at me from behind. Not to be tricked a third time, I made a break for it. Besides, I could see a fourth pair off in the distance; the same middle-aged woman and young girl combination bearing down on me.

        From that time on, I set a rule for myself: only give money to buskers or street-side artists. But once again, this principle I had set for myself very quickly faced a serious challenge. While walking through the underground tunnel next to the Zoo, I came across a blind man playing an erhu (two-stringed fiddle). The tune he was playing, Moonlight on Erquan Lake, was just as bleak and solemnly melancholy as the pitiful mood I happened to be in at the time. Of course I should have given him some money, but I didn't have any change on me, and I thought it was a hassle at any rate. Instead, I seemingly unabashedly—yet all the while so unbearably shamefully—kept walking straight on past him.

        I've seen some truly professional beggars in my day. There are four beggars on a pedestrian overpass just outside the front door of the building where I live. They always split up according to the same configuration: one old man on the west stairs, one old lady at the west exit, another old man at the east exit, and another old lady on the east stairs. Every day without fail, come rain or shine, they're always there. Prostrating themselves, they press their bodies close to the ground and kowtow. Although I've never given them any money, I nevertheless have become accustomed to counting out their number silently to myself, "one… two…three… four…". And if, perchance, one of them happened to be absent on any given day, I would always feel a queer sense of loss. 

        One day, to my dismay, I discovered that all four of them had actually failed to ‘show up for work’. For the longest time I was in shock. Then it dawned on me—the Spring Festival holiday was fast approaching.

        There are also some beggars who are just complete bores. From the time I entered high school all the way up until just last week, every time I walked along one street nearby Zhongguancun (a district in Beijing), I would always meet up with an elderly lady, middle-aged man beggar duo of the type that would start out asking for directions. Despite personnel changes, their roles always remained consistent, and the line they used to beg for money was invariably the same, "Ah, excuse me, could you tell me…?" Not once have I ever paid them the slightest heed. Each time I walked past them I would curse them silently: Can't you try to be a bit more professional? Don't you have any sense of originality?

        Even though I've already learned how to deal with the most persistent of beggars in the coolest possible manner, I still managed to run into another spot of bad luck. This time it was a tactfully dressed woman, around thirty years old, who stopped me in front of the China Grain Tower. From the outset she said, "Don't misunderstand me, I don't mean to bother you." Then she proceeded to tell me she was a Middle School Teacher from Gansu province who had lost her purse and was unable to find her friend and could she borrow some money to make a long-distance call home. At the time my head was throbbing and my brain was already fried senseless by the sweltering sun. So I gritted my teeth as I listened to her finish her story and then I asked her plainly and directly how much money she wanted. She simply said, "Just a few yuan." and then repeatedly chimed, "Don't misunderstand me. Don't misunderstand me." By this time the sun had baked me so badly that I felt like a shrivelled up piece of dried fish. As I was fading fast, I struggled to ask her in a moaning voice: "Look! Just tell me how much you want!" "Three or four kuai (yuan)", came the reply. I handed her a fiver, lowered my head and left.

        There is one old beggar I've come across who looks to me to be every inch a classic member of the beggars’ gang. Last winter, an old man jostled his way on to the streetcar. With swarthy skin and a coat made of newspapers and thick, multi-coloured plastic bags, he looked like a stubborn old child. A kind of sweaty must emanated off of him which smelt like a mixture of leftover food and dust. Everyone quickly made way for him and he stood straight and unswervingly in front of where I was sitting. I dared not show the slightest reaction, as this old-timer was truly just too bizarre. More importantly, I noticed that he had seven or eight cotton bags around his waist, of the kind so famous in Chinese martial arts novels. But I honestly did not expect to cross paths with him again this summer on the streetcar - still the same stubborn old child-like visage, still the same odour … And once again, he sat down in the seat in front of me. An insidious smile spread across his face as he continually turned his head back and forth. And at that moment, I suddenly had this sense of being a wandering vagabond and of drifting aimlessly from place to place.

(This short story was originally published in the monthly Chinese literary periodical Duzhe[Readers])