Chagang Flood

I arrived home late last evening to find the Earth at play again, launching a new attempt to swallow my apartment building. Ganbei! roared drunken Earth. Bottom’s up! It took me an hour to wade through the muck and swamp to reach the front door.

An old couple on the first floor were scrambling around in the broken light of the building’s entrance. Their apartment had nearly surrendered to the deluge. As we worked to make certain their electricity wouldn’t be affected, the old man showed me his underwater library. It was a large and attractive library and the Chinese characters on the book-spines looked grand swaying delicately underwater. I wasn’t yet fully informed with regards characters but I could make out one or two titles from a few nuggets of filed familiarity in backseat of brain. I could see the Gu Wen Guan Zhi, a famous book of classical Chinese essays. I knew this because I had an edited copy in my arid apartment upstairs. The old man had an enormous edition however, obviously complete, fat with knowledge and history, and now bloating fatter in its submersion.

I invited the old couple up to my apartment on the fifth floor for some tea to wait for the flood to pass. I felt somewhat of a hero for doing this, and resolved to reward myself with a fast food meal the next day. As we entered my apartment, the old woman pointed to the pair of heeled sandals which belonged to my ex-girlfriend that were lying upturned and unemployed at the doorway. I couldn’t understand what she said to her husband about the sandals. But the incorporated disappointment in her comment was certainly not of my imagination.

I made some tea and the old couple appeared very happy about that. I showed the old man my copy of Gu Wen Guan Zhi. He laughed at it, perhaps because of how slim it was compared to his copy, and perhaps also because it was in English.

The rain started again. Very heavy. It thrashed down against the windows mercilessly and I could see a gloom swab at the old couple’s faces.

I decided to play some music to take their minds off the rain, but I found myself struck with frustration trying to choose something appropriate. Rarely does a DJ find himself with only an elderly Chinese couple to entertain. I thought to search for Chinese music I had on my computer, but all I had in that respect was limited to underground rock bands from the recent era of Chinese punk, post-punk, and post-rock. I couldn’t be sure how they would respond to the reactionary sounds of modern youth in the People’s Republic on this evening of great stress, so I just discarded the whole idea.

I sat down beside them in the sitting room as the old woman began to fall asleep. I took a pillow from the cupboard and her husband thanked me and gently tucked it under her head.

The old man and I sat for a while without talking. I took out some cigarettes and offered him one, but he declined. As I put the cigarettes to one side, he surprised me suddenly by asking if I had any wine. As he asked, he checked that his wife was soundly out for the count. Luckily I had a full bottle of baijiu in the kitchen which I’d nearly forgotten all about. The old man beamed giddily upon the revelation. I carefully poured two glasses of baijiu as he once more checked on his wife’s slumber.

The rain kept beating outside.

Ganbei! cried the old man.
Ganbei! cried I.

Earth rose up around us, but we continued into the night together, flooding our bodies and souls in rather wonderful defiance.