Autoren aus China

Dan Yu: Am Ufer

Am Ufer ("Water Shore"), der Geniestreich der jungen Nanjinger Autorin Dan Yu, ist ein ambitionierter Künstler-Roman, der Reminiszenzen an die romantische Beziehung zwischen George Sand und Frédéric Chopin verknüpft mit einer bittersüßen Liebesgeschichte im China der Gegenwart. Für die geplante englischsprachige Ausgabe wurde eine stark raffende Nacherzählung angefertigt, die wir hier ungekürzt veröffentlichen. Außerdem ist Dan Yu die Autorin einer chinesischen Weihnachtsgeschichte, angesiedelt im modernen Großstadtmilieu der Volksrepublik. Der Text erschien 2013 in der Anthologie Auf den Schwingen der Morgenröte.

In this city, Nanjing, Mo Yuchen has lived for 26 years. Having a career, having a husband, she has begun to live a mechanical life. However, in deep nights of falling snow, the hazy scene of snow outside the window and the cold sobering air inside would lure her mind into a different world, a world neither her parents nor her husband could understand. One day in the bookstore, she spotted incidentally a new book by an author named Shui Ye. As if by a magical word, the dust-sealed memories were opened up, and with them a different self of her, as if from a previous life, an ingénue with secretive passion, so pure, so exuberant, a more spirited, more genuine her…... “What I have aspired to become, is a true musician, a concert pianist touring the world. Now that I cannot become one with him who lives solely in music, I want to become him, a person just like him.” However, like her dream from six years ago, all is futile…… Often in gloomy days of drizzle or “lonely” nights unable to sleep, those things and that person wou. ld rise in her mind like a siren emerged from the depth of water. She would try hard to hold them and control herself; but sometimes she would allow them to pass through the gate of time and pour in the aridity of her heart.

Yuchen was only 20 years old then, a girl between her maiden years and mature age. She had given up the dream of becoming a concert pianist, merely “revolving” at the edge of the arts, even though she still played her old piano every night, just for the sake of playing……
One day, at a talk on piano music held at her college, she saw for the first time the young pianist Tang Yinzhong, who was about 30 years of age and just returned from abroad to teach in the Music Department. He was refined in his manners, with an air of elegance and austerity. Also on that occasion, Yuchen ran into a pretty novelist Shui Ye. Tang was playing and analyzing Chopin’s nocturnes, while the composer, his work, and the kind of passionate, romantic entwinement between him and the female author George Sand had actually been Yuchen’s earnest love and longing since a young age.
Tang was abroad for seven years, devoted to his music studies, yet his beautiful wife, his classmate in college, betrayed him. In that new environment, she said, he had lost his glow; he was not the best in her eyes any more. Tang, in his sorrow of being divorced, decided to come back to teach at his alma mater, Jinling College of Arts.
Right in the same bookstore then, there was also a book by Shui Ye. The cover was fluorescent in white and blue. A glimpse at it made Tang feel as if he was in Paris again, walking along the Seine. He bought the book. And Yuchen, who noticed him and his choice from nearby, bought the book, too.
In a practice room of the Music Department, Yuchen was playing Chopin’s Waltz in b minor. Tang happened to go back to the room to get his stuff. As if drawn by an unexplainable force, he went to stand at the back of the beautiful girl, helping her, and then finished the whole piece by himself from the place where Yuchen couldn’t control her finger well and had an abrupt pause. Almost encircled by Tang, Yuchen was too excited to do anything but shivering. She stared at Tang’s hands, the hands of a pianist, the hands capable of representing the melody so perfectly and so accurately with all its nuance and complexity!
Yuchen told Tang that she wanted to transfer from the Department of Design to that of Music. Tang affirmed her rare talent in music, but he thought she would need more practice. Besides, she had to go through the tough bureaucratic procedure. Nonetheless, Yuchen made up her mind.
Yuchen made an appointment with Shui Ye, to talk about her new book over some tea. The primitive simplicity of Shui Ye’s home and her air of gloom and decadence struck Yuchen with an indescribable familiarity and a powerful appeal.
Yuchen looked up on Shui Ye, as she did on Tang, considering them true artists. When Shui Ye learned Yuchen also wrote essays and music reviews, she suggested taking her to meet some of the greatest artists in China.
In order to promote her book, Shui Ye made a point to get introduced to Chen Ling, a heavy weight critic from Beijing. What happened after their meeting seemed to have been implicitly assumed and anticipated by both. In the midst of their wild and bewildering sex, Shui Ye was puzzled to hear a mystical melody of piano, with a transcendental beauty, from the building across from her own.
Shui Ye and Chen Ling made a deal; Shui Ye agreed to be Chen Ling’s secret lover, while Chen Ling would write reviews to help promote Shui Ye’s books. Although Shui Ye was willing to give anything for her ambition in literature, deep down in her heart, the price that she had to pay left her profoundly painful.
It suddenly occurred to her that Yuchen had told her that Tang sometimes liked to get up in midnight and play his piano like mad. Slowly an immeasurable desire arose in her heart; that face of Tang, elegant, pure, noble, sculpture-like and heart-breaking, in the flame of her burning pain, began to shine brilliantly.
Yuchen and Shui Ye were getting close. Shui Ye thought Yuchen was much different from other females she had known, so innocent, pure, noble, and kind. She trusted her immensely. She told Yuchen that she held literature very high, sometimes even higher than her own life. “No matter how dark the literary circle is, no matter how many men I have slept with, even a hundred, I am still pure, just as you are.” The shine from her eyes at speaking these words made Yuchen shivering and chilly.
Finally, Yuchen overcame all the difficulties and made up her mind to switch to the piano major. In the three months before the exam, she spent all her time after class to practice; only keys, melodies, notes, and dreams were there in her world……
Three months have passed. In a mid-summer afternoon, on the luxurious grand piano, Yuchen played three pieces by Chopin, the Revolution Etude, the Waltz in b minor, and a nocturne. The Revolution Etude, from depression, agony, to the burst of passion, the Waltz in b minor, extremely aesthetic, presenting delicate emotion and mystical experience, and the thoroughly melancholy, soulful nocturne, Yuchen played all of them much better than she would have imagined she could! She forgot how significant this exam meant to her, forgot Tang, who had, from the first time she saw him, meant art, music, aestheticism, and mystery to her, a symbol, a representation - she forgot even the very existence of herself.
Yuchen was accepted; her life turned a whole new page, a page full of passion and excitement, a page closest to the dream of her life. To thank Tang for his inspiration and help, Yuchen invited him for a tea. In the tea shop, she sat quietly across from Tang, looking at him, hardly able to hold the strong and mysterious longing that had long occupied her mind……
In their conversation, Yuchen talked enthusiastically about the romance between Chopin and George Sand, “George Sand said to Chopin that he was an angel, he had an aura……If I had lived in that time, that country, I would also have desperately looked for him, loved him, tried to have him, just like George Sand, even though I might have been nobody.”
“Yet, she betrayed him in the end without any pity, mercilessly leaving him to die in uttermost despair. As for you, unfortunately, ours is not a classical period nor a romantic one.”
v“But there are still genuine artists, real power and beauty… and you.” She looked at him, speaking in a quivering voice.
Tang Yinzhong, however, withdrew. Looking at his emotionless back until it disappeared in the dark and heavy raining night, Yuchen felt a sharp pain in her heart, as never did before……
Another book by Shui Ye has been published. After appearing at the autograph signing, she came to the Jasmine Music Hall for Tang’s concert. In the midst of the performance, she suddenly recognized a melody, the melody from that night, from the window across from hers ……
In the reception afterwards, Shui Ye gave a copy of her new book to Tang as a gift. On the title page, she wrote: “To Mr. Tang Yinzhong, the most extraordinary musician and artist in China that I have ever met: You are an angel, you have an aura. From your admirer Shui Ye.” Tang thought of the book that he had run into and bought before, thought of his talk on piano music, thought of Yuchen and their conversation and lots of details, and he sensed something familiar yet mysterious, puzzled.
Another deep night, Shui Ye and Yuchen just left another literary party. Shui Ye suggested that Yuchen come to stay with her in her apartment, to which Yuchen agreed. There Yuchen finally brought herself to tell Shui Ye that she had fallen head over heels in love with Tang, yet she couldn’t find a way to get close to him. Whenever thinking of this, she would feel a suffocating agony.
Shui Ye let out an enchanting smile, with an indescribably seductive tenderness that only belongs to the truly wicked. She said: “A woman, a beautiful woman, could it be easier for her to get a man?”
Her words made Yuchen unbearably embarrassed. In her heart, Yuchen felt an ardent admiration and reverence for Tang’s spiritual beauty, and certainly she had gratitude and maybe infatuation too, but nothing else.
Step by step, Shui Ye actually began to allure and provoke the trusting Yuchen to devote everything to her love. Reveal your beautiful virgin body in front of him, without any reservation, what a grand moment and selfless devotion that would be! Fulfill your love in his ecstasy, and make your devotion part of his creation, his everlasting artworks.
But for the maiden Yuchen, this only sounded too thrilling, too unimaginable, and maybe too Bohemian. Greatly shocked, she couldn’t fall asleep. Just then, Shui Ye stretched out a hand and began to touch her, caress her, slowly and gently, and kiss her, whispering that she just wanted to let her taste the pleasure of a woman. In the mixed feelings of shame and pleasure, in her trust and affections toward Shui Ye, Yuchen crossed an almost impossible line……
Shui Ye told Yuchen to wear a long white dress, with at least two layers, date Tang in a piano room, and make love with him. “You would be able to make him fall desperately in love with you, just as you’re in love with this pleasure. You are the purest, and you have tasted the pleasure of a real woman, and yet you are still a virgin. When you offer your body to love, the pain in your body would be your ultimate meaning.”
In a weekend evening, the peaceful and soulful piano melody, the flickering and warm candle light, and a girl’s beautiful and shadowy figure were combined to cast an unbreakable spell on the usually sober-minded Tang. He pushed open the closed door of limit, and saw Yuchen wearing a snow-white dress, a white candle burning alongside the grand piano. Basked in the candle light and the mesmerizing melody, Yuchen looked like an angel, or a nymph. In his speechless stare, the girl turned around and slowly took off her outer dress, the transparent gown left on her body as thin as the wings of a dragonfly. The candle was flickering and casted a deep shadow; the girl Yuchen disappeared, dissolved in a love that she would give her whole life for……
Days have passed and life seemed to have resumed its routine. One day, Tang happened to find a story in Shui Ye’s book: a girl student of piano, wearing a two-layered white dress, lighting a candle, and playing piano in a late-night classroom, waiting for the teacher in her dream…… He couldn’t bear any more and called Yuchen for a date. This time, in their blissful love-making accompanied by broken music of piano, Yuchen, for the first time, stared at Tang with a woman’s awe, wildness, intoxication, and seductiveness, as if her self had completely melted. Only her unconfined love for him was sustaining her. For the love, she would do anything, even giving up her life if necessary. What she tasted was exactly the great love that Shui Ye had told her about the other night; it was also the ultimate, aesthetic love that she had been dreaming of since a young age. She desired to be burning like this, irrationally, infinitely.
Unexpectedly, all the happenings were videoed by a graduate student from Photography Department who was taking exterior shots in the backyard of the piano room. Yuchen’s world turned upside down overnight. She was expelled from the school, and Tang could nowhere be found. She crazily searched for him everywhere in vain, completely unaware that he had taken Shui Ye to leave this city for abroad.
Yuchen committed suicide but was saved. With an ax, she battered her piano to pieces, and all her books on piano or Chopin were burned to ashes……

Six years have passed. In this early spring of falling snow, Yuchen received an unexpected short letter from Shui Ye in London. She told her that Tang was in fatal illness and his days were numbered. Could Yuchen come to London to keep him company?
After an intense debating in her mind, Yuchen decided to go to England to meet with Shui Ye and Tang.
In London, Shui Ye explained what happened years ago. She said she found herself attracted to Tang, too, after a few encounters with him. But she was also curious how he and Yuchen would start a relationship. “At that time, I said something to you that I’m now regretful that I did. But well, I was just in that mood. I hope you could forgive me.” As she got to know further about Tang, Shui Ye said, she saw in his experience a reflection of her own past……
In the hospital, Yuchen met a Tang totally defeated by illness. All her grievances were dissolved the moment she set her eyes on him. Gazing at his pale lips, she felt boundless tenderness, beauteousness, and uncontrollable desire that she wanted to kiss him. On the second day, while they could carry on some conversation, Yuchen sensed that deadly attraction again in Tang’s weak voice, just like years ago. She told Tang that it had not passed that happened in the past, “Even now, at this moment, in my heart, I’m making love with you!”
How could he leave Yuchen like that six years ago? Did he not care about her at all?! To this, Tang answered: “Yuchen, what could I do? You idolized me, which became a burden to me. The biggest difference between you and Shui Ye is that your obsession is beyond realistic, beyond what the one in your fantasy could possibly bear. I couldn’t trust this kind of affection; even though it did exist, I couldn’t withstand it nonetheless.” His words stabbed Yuchen’s heart like a sharp dagger.
As for Shui Ye, Tang said, they were all practical persons, holding similar ambitions and desire, knowing the ugliness and rules of this world, and having suffered similar oppressions and mishaps. In Shui Ye, he found a part of himself. “When she told me that day that she had told you about the details in that novel of hers, I became very excited. I felt her craziness was very appealing to me too, even her wickedness was charming. So I decided to take her away, leaving you by yourself…… Yuchen, you don’t have to look after me. You’re a good girl, and your care, I’m not worth ……”
“But I’m happy to! Just like six years ago, I was happy to become your woman. Even if you might not be serious, even if it might be degrading, I was still happy to. If you would be treating me like that now, I would be doing just as then. That is me, always so low in front of you! I’m going to stay, come to see you everyday, until you depart from this world that you think is ugly. Shui Ye is leaving next week. She has left you to me.” Yuchen cried.
Looking at Tang who had been distorted by illness, Yuchen wished to hold him and die with him! That would be the same as holding her music, her past, her love and her own life; what a joyful farewell to the world that would be!
Finally, Yuchen bid farewell to Tang Yinzhong for the last time, tearing. Before leaving, Tang’s friend, a teacher from a theological seminary said to her: “My child, if you would feel despair one day, no matter where you are, I hope you will be able to hear this sacred music, the sound of salvation from the heaven.”
Back to Nanjing, Yuchen traveled lonely to a coastal area in the south. When she walked further and further into the ice-cold sea and the waves were about to swallow her, suddenly, she heard the melody of the beautiful sacred music that she had heard in London’s church. She felt as if she was lifted, on the cloud, and she saw a bright beam of light, unmistakably.
After that instant, Yuchen walked out of the drowning sea. Along the coastline she walked, looking for the legendary reposing place for souls, the cathedral in her heart. Along the endless coastline, with Bach’s sacred music in her mind……

Huang Fan: Nation Jin and His Compass

Huang Fan, Jahrgang 1963, ist im Hauptberuf Hochschullehrer an einer Technischen Universität in Ostchina und hat sich einen Namen gemacht durch zumeist satirische Kurzgeschichten. Zwei davon, Qimao und Schulmädchen (die Links führen zur jeweiligen Anthologie), sind bereits in deutscher Sprache erschienen. Sein jüngster Roman, den man mit "Verschwimmende Farben" übersetzen könnte, ist eine experimentelle Verarbeitung der chinesischen Geschichte und setzt sich auch mit den Wirren der Kulturrevolution auseinander. Eine Kostprobe seines Talents, schräge Gestalten witzig zu porträtieren, liefert der nachfolgende Auszug aus Nation Jin und sein Kompass, einer Kurzgeschichte, die noch nicht in deutscher Sprache vorliegt. Zu Huang Fans Blog geht es hier.

Nation Jin was a confirmed bachelor. Even in the blistering summer, he would wear an eight-cornered beanie and a fake collar. He was never seen in public with his top button undone, even in the sweltering heat. If he met with puzzled looks or derisive chuckles, Nation Jin simply took this as an encouragement: “Look at me, I am the most well-bred person in this city. I don’t bare my neck in public or let my shirt-tail flap about like some people …” In his junior middle school years a mange epidemic had swept the city and he had been infected. After the illness had run its course, his classmates would double over laughing at the sight of him: “Did your hair get lost in dreamland?” “Don’t you know you’re a baldie now?” It got to the point that classmates would jeer in unison: “Baldie Jin, Baldie Jin…” He always remembered what his mother had said, “When you are dealing with people, the main thing is to be polite.” Since his hair had vanished into dreamland, or maybe onto the dark side of the moon, he felt it would be polite to wear a cap to school. From then on he had to put up with the shenanigans of his classmates several times a day. At any moment his beanie might be flicked off his head, to be tossed from hand to hand amid gales of laughter. Indeed, his classmates laughed themselves silly at his expense, but oddly enough he did not feel embarrassed. He thought to himself: if people are happy because of me, it must be a good thing. Anyway, they’re much happier at the sight of me than when they see the teacher.
For a while he wanted to leave our city and go south to Shenzhen, where a man could make his fortune. But his mother told him he could not go anywhere until she had found him a wife. At first he did not see any point in taking a wife, nor what this had to do with going to Shenzhen. Later something happened that made the matter perfectly clear to him. His mother had always managed to keep his father in good humor, but the time came for her to leave this world, whereupon their household was suddenly thrown off-kilter. His father, who had always talked like a tough guy, became for a long time subject to attacks of sobbing. His nose would run as he pounded his ribs and let off his grief in meek, despairing tones. Helplessly watching his father sink to such a state made Nation Jin realize how important a woman could be to a man.
Ordinarily, his father had complained of married life being a quagmire, but now he kept dwelling on the warmth he had found in that quagmire. Nation Jin took a lesson from this, namely that warmth can be hidden in things one dislikes. He had never liked people knocking his beanie off when he was young, but their elation had made him feel warm inside. He did not like the idea of taking a wife, but he knew his mother would not have lied to him. It did not matter to him what kind of treasure was supposedly hidden in marriage. Nation Jin understood that his mother had had her heart set on him taking a treasure with him to Shenzhen. In fact, since then the difficulty of finding a bride had only convinced him even more that great happiness would be concealed in marriage. But he found that after only a short exchange of remarks with a prospective bride, she would know what kind of person he was. “Isn’t he a bit slow-witted?” Whenever he heard that a prospective bride had made such a remark, he was delighted. Only a bodhisattva could be perfect and flawless; any human being is going to have shortcomings. Some people lack normal limbs; some are afflicted with abnormal facial features. He felt that his physique was much like anyone else’s; it was inevitable that he would be afflicted in some other respect. If heaven above had seen fit to shortchange him on brainpower, of course there was nothing he could do about it. Still, heaven above deserved all his gratitude, because he had a marvelous gift for making people laugh loud and long. He remembered the times his mother had thrown him into a state of confusion. In order to roust him out of bed early, she would say that the block committee chairman was coming to see him. For the sake of politeness, he would quickly put on his neatest clothes, then stand at the doorway, his heart pounding, not saying a word. Naturally the block chairman would never show up. It was clear to him that his mother had tricked him again. Even so, the next time she rousted him up early by shouting “Nation, the block chairman will be here soon,” this would slip from his mind. He could not be sure if her words were true or not: the moment her voice rang out, he would be gripped by an impulse to get out of bed and see.
He did not grieve a great deal over his mother’s death, because he believed what people said—his mother had gone to heaven. Since his mother was now cavorting with the likes of Lady Wangmu and Zhong Kui the Ghost-catcher, she deserved his envy more than his grief. Even when the sound of mourners wailing filled the parlor, he could take it in stride. He had seen wedding parties sprinkling scented water in the alley, where young brides would sometimes weep themselves senseless over being separated from their parents. He liked seeing the young brides act that way. He knew that when elation reaches an extreme, people’s moods tend to swing the other way. He remembered the three-day vigil for his mother. His relatives had gotten together for animated games of mahjong, exchanging jokes with droll looks on their faces, in the room designated for mourning. Some of them would switch from expressions of hilarity to bouts of weeping when they burned joss money for his mother’s use. After they were done weeping, smiles would soon twitch at the corners of their lips. Right beside the rented crystal coffin, his relatives were caught up in their mahjong-playing merriment. Now and then one of them would make a flippant remark about blessings enjoyed by the deceased. “With all the money we’ve been offering her, she won’t have to worry about being poor anymore.” “She is going to be the wealthiest soul in heaven.” He felt happy hearing them speak of such things. He wondered what use she would make of the money. All her life his mother had looked forward to owning a home. She had gotten fed up of moving from one rented apartment to another; she had been sick of feeling uprooted. Had he presumed to choose for her, he would have bought a modest flat instead of some kind of villa. He knew his mother would never agree to wasteful lavishness, and if such things were forced upon her, she would probably sit up in her grave and let loose a few choice expletives.
Of course Nation’s greatest cause for rejoicing was still to come. His father relayed to him the wishes of his departed mother: with care and patience worthy of a poultry farmer, she had scraped together small sums of money, and on her deathbed, she had instructed Nation’s father to buy the imported bicycle that Nation had been longing for. On the day he took possession of the bicycle, he clucked and fussed over it like a hen that has laid an egg. All day long he could not hold back his smile or his bubbling stream of words. He had large eyes under bushy brows, and as soon as he caught sight of someone approaching he started to grin ear-to-ear. He wanted to make sure this person knew about his prized possession: “I’ve got new wheels—imported…heh heh heh…It’s a really nice machine. I’d be proud to ride it down any street in this city.” Around that time there was a surge of interest in private cars in our city, so people wanted to get to the bottom of this. “Why are you so happy—what make is it? Is it a Hummer?” Nation Jin had learned how to whet people’s curiosity, and he did not want to let the truth out right away. “Heh heh heh, anyway, I’ve got the shiniest set of wheels in the garage.” With a curving motion of his hand he pointed to the covered parking lot behind his apartment building. By this time the listener’s heart would be fluttering, expecting to be treated to the sight of a Benz or Cadillac. But when the two of them entered the sheet-metal parking shelter, there was no car in sight. The listener would frown with puzzlement and say, “What are we looking at? Where is it?” Nation Jin would be there standing beside his imported bike. Oblivious to the fact that his bike was not a human being, he would stroke it lovingly all over, saying: “Here it is. Seeing is believing.” Any person of sound mind would have found this exasperating. If the person were a tolerant type, he would stare into Nation Jin’s radiant eyes and say, “Is there something wrong with you?” If Nation Jin tried this on a hot-tempered person, the air would resound with a string of expletives: “Mother ****er, are you looking for trouble? Stupid shit!”
Nation Jin did not find the ridicule or the curses unbearable. For him they were no more than a dark cloud floating by—a cloud that naturally passes, leaving the sky clear again. What really disconcerted him was that no one could appreciate his bicycle from the bottom of their hearts, like him. He thought of how all the smart people had shifted their love to cars, leaving only one numbskull named Nation Jin still infatuated with his bike. He could never figure out why. He supposed that there had to be some labyrinthine rationale behind it all, but it was probably beyond the intellect of a numbskull like him. One night he was woken, apparently by a gust of wind, and upon getting out of bed he reeled dizzily, as if the room around him were rocking. He thought to himself that perhaps there had been an earthquake. Then he hurried downstairs, and in half a minute made it to the ground-level parking shelter. In the moonlight he made out a woman squatting in front of his bike. On the ground beside her lay pliers of various sizes. He recognized her: she had an outsider’s accent and sold scrap further up the alley. Seeing that her way was blocked, she flashed him a bright smile and said, “This is such a pretty bike. I like it so much. Just now I was passing by and I couldn’t help coming in for a look.” Her words touched him. Well, what do you know! He had thought he would never meet a kindred soul who loved his bike as he did, or that such a person would appear in the middle of the night. Of course, the pliers on the ground confused him somewhat. “Why did you bring those pliers along to look at my bike?” “Don’t get the wrong idea. Just now I was helping a fellow finish a job, so I was on my way home with these pliers.” Her words made him feel terribly embarrassed, and he thought to himself, “I’m really not very intelligent. What could I have been thinking?” At that moment the moon seemed to conspire with Nation Jin in the matter of taste, as it beamed appreciatively on this wonderful encounter between two earthlings. She was no longer the scrap-seller he had seen before; she looked as beautiful as a bride. In his eyes, her lingering smile had a lovely coyness. In no time at all, his heart conceived affection for her.
His father, hearing sounds in the night, came down in time to see a shape slipping from the parking shelter. Nation Jin stood alone with a rapt look on his face, still savoring the novel impression the woman had made. His worried father asked if he were still dreaming. He shook his head vigorously: “We are downstairs now. I don’t have dreams here; I have them upstairs.” His father suspected the person who had just snuck off was a burglar, but this prompted Nation Jin to exclaim sharply: “I can testify that she’s no burglar. She was admiring my bike!” With a rueful smile, his father asked who she was.
“I didn’t recognize her. I often forget faces I have seen.”
“I thought I could hear you two talking from the stairway.”
“I like to chat with anyone I meet. For me, there are no strangers in this world.”

(Übersetzung: Denis Mair)

Lu Min: Auf der Landkarte

Lu Min ist derzeit eine der angesagtesten Erzählerinnen in der Volksrepublik China und Trägerin des begehrten Lu-Xun-Preises. In deutscher Sprache erschienen sind von ihr bereits zwei kürzere Texte in Anthologien, Tod an der Kreuzung und Flieg, Taube, flieg (die Links führen zur jeweiligen Sammelband). Wie ihr Kollege Huang Fan hat auch sie auf der Grundlage eines Künstler-Stipendiums des Goethe-Instituts einige Wochen in Deutschland verbracht. Die Autorin stellt mit großem Vergnügen monomanische Protagonisten ins Zentrum ihrer Handlung, Menschen mit einem Tick oder Spleen. Der hier im Auszug vorgestellte Text ist die Geschichte einer ungewöhnlichen Reise, einer Reise auf einer Landkarte. Der Protagonist ist verrückt nach Karten und versucht mit ihrer Hilfe dem Nichts, den Beschränkungen und dem Scheitern des Lebens zu entkommen. Eine kleine Geschichte - mit Symbolcharakter - über den seelischen Zustand ganz normaler Leute.

Anfangs war ihm nicht klar, dass er Karten mochte, so wie junge Leute noch nicht wissen, dass sie gern trinken oder Frauen mögen, bis sie dann schließlich eines Tages eine treffen. Als der Lehrer im Erdkundeunterricht eine Wandkarte entrollte, befiel ihn ein Schock wie nach einem starken Blutverlust. Die Vielzahl der Umrisslinien, ihre regellose, komplizierte Anordnung ließen ihn seinen Blick abwenden, sein Körper schien sich in Wellen zusammenzuziehen.

Einmal hatte der Lehrer im hinteren Teil des Klassenzimmers die Fragebögen eines Tests ausgehängt um sie einen nach dem anderen mit der Klasse zu besprechen. Die Aufgabe war, eine Karte des chinesischen Schienennetzes zu zeichnen. Er war überrascht zu sehen, dass seine Zeichnung die beste der ganzen Klasse war. Das Schienennetz mit den sich windenden und kreuzenden Linien, exakt und wunderschön, schien aus dem Blatt hervorzuragen.

Der Lehrer lobte ihn. Er selbst lobte sich auch und dieses Lob war, als hätte er eine Prägung durch einen Stempel bekommen, sodass er meinte, von diesem Moment seien er und Landkarten für immer untrennbar verbunden.

Mit Karten ist es genauso wie mit Alkohol oder Frauen. Hat man sich erst einmal darauf eingelassen, kann man nicht mehr aufhören. Er hatte sich einen in rotes Leder gebundenen Atlas Chinas gekauft und begann, als wäre es ein großes Bonbon, geduldig und aufmerksam Provinz für Provinz zu lutschen, er hat den Verlauf der Flüsse geprüft, die Form von Seen, die Biegungen und Wendungen der Eisenbahnlinien, er hat den Grad ihrer Perfektion bewundert und dass sie scheinbar so kompliziert, aber dann doch einfach waren und schließlich, dass jede von ihnen einzigartig war… Für das Lila, mit dem die mehr als 5000 Meter über dem Meeresspiegel liegenden Gebiete auf der topografischen Karte gekennzeichnet waren, empfand er aufrichtige Bewunderung, beim Anblick des dunklen Blaus, das Regionen tiefer als 6000 Meter unter dem Meeresspiegel kennzeichnet, musste er an einen Erstickungstod auf dem Meeresgrund denken.

Aus diesem Grund hatte er eine Stelle als Lieferant von Postsendungen bei der Bahn gefunden und fuhr so entlang der auf der Karte als Linien festgehaltenen Gleise hin und her, ratternd, ewig schwankend wie in einem Sketch, durchgeschüttelt und monoton, nicht mal das Gehalt war der Rede wert. Immerhin gab es auf diese Art und Weise zwischen ihm und den Karten, die er so liebte, noch eine Verbindung, oder nicht?

Als ich ihm im Zug begegnet bin, hatte er schon 5 Jahre im Zug gearbeitet. Er hatte abgenommen und wirkte gealtert, aber irgendwie schien er auf eine besondere Art zu leuchten. Wahrscheinlich hat er nicht oft Bekannte getroffen, denn er begann von sich aus in einem interessierten und aufrichtigen Ton ein Gespräch mit mir, in dem er die ganze Zeit über Landkarten sprach.

„Karten“, hat er besorgt gesagt, „damit kann man einfach nicht fertig werden, und wenn, dann vergisst man ziemlich leicht.“ Dann hat er erklärt, dass von Provinzen und Großstädten bis hin zu den Kreisen, Ausflugsorten, Kleinstädten und sogar landwirtschaftliche Betriebe alle eigene Karten hätten. Dann gäbe es noch Weltkarten, Karten jedes Kontinents und jedes Landes sowie Karten von den Regionen der Länder. „Deshalb bin ich wirklich zufrieden, letztendlich wird es immer etwas zum Anschauen geben, das kann man gar nicht schaffen.“ Er hat sich gefreut, als hätte er einen Lebensmittelvorrat für den Rest des gesamten Lebens gehortet. „Und falls du sie doch fertig anschauen kannst? Immerhin bist du erst Mitte 20!“ Außerhalb des Zuges war es finster, die einzigen Zeichen waren hier und da ein Licht in der Ferne. Er unterbrach unser Gespräch immer wieder für die gewissenhaften Ansagen der Namen der Orte, an denen wir vorbeifuhren. Wahrscheinlich musste er dafür nicht mal aus dem Fenster schauen, er wusste einfach, was seine Position auf der Linie war. Er zeigte zufrieden auf seinen Kopf: „ Ich habe hier eine ziemlich große und klare Karte… und vor dem Tag, an dem ich alle gesehen habe, habe ich auch keine Angst. „Er hat dann einen Moment gezögert und etwas verschämt behauptet: „Weil ich selbst Karten entwerfen kann.“

Das wollte ich nicht gelten lassen. „Karten kann man doch nicht einfach so zeichnen. Es geht ja nicht um die Möbel zu Hause oder die Speisekarte im Restaurant beim Abendessen, die man sich einfach so ausdenken kann!“ Er schüttelte den Kopf, suchte hier und da nach einem Stück Papier, kaute, als er es gefunden hatte, für einen Moment auf der Lippe herum und fing an zu zeichnen.

Der Zug stieß einen lauten Seufzer aus, wir hatten irgendeine kleine Stadt erreicht und ich steckte den Kopf aus dem Fenster. Auf dem Boden lagen zwei Haufen Postsendungen, zwei Angestellte auf dem Bahnsteig und zwei im Zug warfen sich die Post zu. In diesem Nachtlicht sahen sie aus wie vier kleine Roboter, wie sie da ohne einen Laut von sich zu geben zusammenarbeiteten. Dick eingemummelte Passagiere drängten sich weiter hinten um die Türen der Waggons. Der Anblick dieser zwei Szenen machte mich ganz melancholisch, ich musste an die vielen Abschiede und Zufälle des Lebens denken.

Ich habe mich wieder neben ihn gesetzt, als das Bild gerade fertig gemalt war. Er starrte es gerade geistesabwesend an. Ich habe einen Blick darauf geworfen, und erstarrte auch: Diese aus dem Nichts geschaffene Karte sah haargenau aus wie eine echte!

Er hatte eine abgelegene, kleine Kreisstadt gezeichnet, mit Rathaus, Kindergarten, einer Zahnarztpraxis und einer Tankstelle, einem Wasserwerk, einem Park und einem Stadtgraben mit zwei alten Brücken. Vor der Stadt lagen Hügel, außerdem gab es gewundene Gassen und eine neu gebaute Umgehungsstraße mit Ladeplatz. Das gesamte Gebiet und alle Einrichtungen waren sinnvoll und schön auf der Karte angeordnet, ganz, als ob sie echt gewesen wäre.

Ich habe ihn ein bisschen gelobt, er aber hat auf eine ganz besondere Art traurig gewirkt. Erst nachdem er die Karte lange und genau betrachtet hatte, hat er mir mit Widerwillen das dünne Papier mit einer dringenden Mahnung gegeben: „Aber nicht wegwerfen! Immer wenn ich eine Karte fertig gezeichnet habe, fühle ich, dass irgendwo auf der Welt, an irgendeiner Stelle dieser Ort wirklich existiert. Das hier habe ich mir nicht ausgedacht, ich habe einfach nur aufgezeichnet, wie es dort aussieht.“

Einer seiner Kollegen hat gelacht, als er das gehört hat: „Nimm das nicht für voll! Wann immer wir hier nichts zu tun haben zeichnet er ununterbrochen Karten. Schon ein paar tausend! Und die sollen echt sein? Das soll es alles irgendwo auf der Welt geben? Quatsch!“

Als wir spät in der Nacht noch einen kleinen Happen zusammen gegessen haben, haben sich ein paar seiner Kollegen über die Arbeit beschwert: „Alle zwei Tage mit dem Zug fahren, damit habe ich den Plan wirklich erfüllt, sogar für meine Vorfahren und einige Generationen Kinder und Enkel gleich mit. Wenn ich erst in Rente bin steige ich in keinen Zug mehr ein, dann gehe ich überhaupt nicht mehr aus dem Haus!“

„Am nervigsten ist, dass ich nicht mehr richtig schlafen kann, sogar zu Hause im Bett fühle ich mich wie im Zug, als ob es noch im Schlaf rattern und wackeln würde.“ Er hat kein Wort gesagt, nur ab und zu einen Schluck getrunken. Sein Gesicht war schon rosa wie das von einem Baby, er schüttelte den Kopf, wiegte sein Glas in der Hand und sagte dann langsam, gedehnt: „Im Zug, im Bett, zu Hause, auf der Straße, im Laden, eigentlich ist es doch überall gleich, du bist immer auf einer Karte. Von einem Punkt zum anderen, von dieser zu jener Linie, so ist es nun mal, hin und her, genau wie die Ameisen. So geht es uns doch allen, da kann man nichts schönreden. Genau deshalb bin ich gerne hier, ich will überhaupt nicht raus aus dem Zug, wenn ich wirklich einmal an einen Ort komme, der sich gar nicht bewegt, geht es mir gleich ganz schlecht. Das ist noch schwerer auszuhalten als Sauerstoffmangel! Denkt doch mal an all die langweiligen Sachen: Der Vermieter will die Miete erhöhen, zu Hause ist irgendwas kaputt, Leute wollen mit dir über irgendwelche Angelegenheiten reden, du musst deiner Freundin schmeicheln, die Nachbarn streiten sich um einen Haufen altes Zeitungspapier und im Internet gibt es einfach zu viele Nachrichten…“

Dabei hatte er die ganze Zeit getrunken, wahrscheinlich war er schon ein bisschen beschwipst, in seinen Gesten und seinem Tonfall schwang etwas Traumhaftes mit, er war ganz entrückt, als hätte er mit der Welt schon nichts mehr zu tun, sodass der mit Postsäcken vollgestopfte Waggon wie das Zentrum der Welt schien. Die Zeit war plötzlich angehalten, alle Entfernungen blieben gleich, die vier Jahreszeiten, Hitze und Kälte hatten mit diesem Ort nichts mehr zu tun, was man darstellte und was man hatte, Geburt, Leben, Krankheit und Tod, Gut und Böse waren nach draußen verbannt. Ich war gerührt und spürte gleichzeitig einen bitteren Schmerz, denn ich wusste, dass alles, was er gesagt hatte zwar seine Art war, mit der Welt Kompromisse zu schließen, aber konnte es denn wahr sein? Konnte es ihm wirklich helfen, Ruhe und Frieden zu finden?

Erst 10 Jahre später habe ich wieder etwas von ihm gehört, und es war nichts Gutes. Erst da habe ich verstanden: Dieser Abend und die von ihm gezeichnete Karte waren in dieser Tragödie ein versteckter Hinweis gewesen. Es war genau, wie er gezeichnet hatte: eine kleine, schwache Ameise, die unermüdlich, ohne ihr Ziel zu kennen, auf dem glänzenden Gleis krabbelte, das ganze Leben immer auf einer dünnen Karte.

(Übersetzerin: Barbara Herrmann)

Drei Autoren aus China stellen sich vor...