Translated by Thiago Chang from the Chinese version of Shi Xiaowei

1

It is the 17th day since I had slept.

I am not talking about insomnia. If it was insomnia, more or less I would know it. When I was in college, I had an experience similar to insomnia. It is “similar” because I cannot make sure that my symptoms are identical to those spoken by other people. In fact, if I would go to a hospital, I could clearly find out whether it is or not. But I didn’t. Even if I did so, it would be of no help, I suppose. I was not on any basis, but I’d got an intuition: I am afraid that going to the hospital will leave me in vain. As a result, I didn’t tell my situation to any of my friends, nor of my family, for I knew that in the end they would advise me to see a doctor if I did so.

This “similar to insomnia” symptom lasted for about a month, in which I hadn’t caught a sleep even for a little while. When I climbed onto the bed at night, I thought: “Alright, I’ll catch some sleep.” Then immediately, like a conditioned reflex, the brain got hyper. The more I wanted to fall asleep, the more I couldn’t. I had tried alcohol and pills of no use, which only made my body uncomfortable.

Till the first new light of tomorrow, at long last, a bit of drowsiness came to me. Lightly, my fingertips seemed to be touching the edge of sleep. But in another room, on the other side of the wall, my consciousness could not be more awake with her eyes staring at me. My body was wandering in the twilight, as I felt the eyes and breath of my consciousness beside me. I was a body looking forward to falling asleep; also was I a consciousness at the door of waking up.

In the daytime, I was often muddleheaded as if my brain had been covered with a thin film, and I could not correctly tell the distance, weight and texture of any object. Nevertheless, at set intervals, soft gaps flew to me like slow waves. On the bench of a tram, in the chair of a classroom, or at the seat of dinner, I would fall into hazy sleep before I knew it. My consciousness drifted away from my body shortly afterwards. The world was trembling silently, shaking all sorts of things off onto the ground. I truly wanted to lie flat on the stomach there, and then sink into the depth of dreamland. But I can’t. Sobriety coveting nearby, I could feel the cold shadow of it. That was the shadow of my own. It was strange. I wondered as I nearly fall asleep. I am on the inner side of my shadow. I am walking, eating and talking with people in the unseen world that is blunt and has no feeling. Incredibly, no one around me perceived that I was left in this kind of strange situation. I lost 6 kilograms that month. Even so, none of my families and friends detected this mutation that I was living in a state of sleepiness.

It is true, that I am surely living in my sleep. Around me, inside of me, everything is stagnated and heavy, gloomy and turbid. Even the status that I am living in this world is like an illusion that has no fundament. It seems that if a wind rises, my body would be blown away, to the end of the world, to a foreign land where nobody has ever heard of or seen. There, my body will depart from my consciousness for eternity. So I really want to hold fast to something. But as I turn my eyes in all directions, I see nothing to hold tight around me.

Every time when the night came, the fierce sobriety struck me. Facing it, I had no idea of what to do. I was fixed on the core of sobriety by a powerful strength. The strength was so powerful that I had no choice but to stay sober till daybreak. In the dark of the night, I was as awake as the day. I could not even think. Listening to the sound of the clock that engraves time, I could only gaze into the darkness when it got darker little by little, and then got lighter bit by bit.

Yet one day, all disappeared suddenly. Without any sign, nor any reason, it just disappeared straight away. At the breakfast, sleepiness swept me abruptly, leaving me in a trance. I stepped away from the table, and it seemed as though something had fallen onto the ground, as if somebody had been talking to me. But I remembered nothing. I stumbled to my own room, and wormed my way under the quilt without taking off the clothes, then I fell into deep sleep. Then it was the continuous sleep time of 27 hours. My mother started to worry, trying to shake me awake, and she even tried to slap me in the face. But I didn’t wake up. Not for one time during the 27 hours. I think that I did not even have a dream. So when I woke up, I regained the previous me. Maybe.

On what reason was the “similar-to-insomnia” brought to me, and for what cause did it disappear suddenly, are hard for me to explain. It was like a thick black cloud blown here from a distant place. Inside of that cloud was filled up with ominous staff of which I knew nothing. No one knew where it did come from, nor where it was going. Anyway, it floated here, hanging heavily over my head, and it drifted away afterwards.

But this time when I cannot fall asleep, it feels totally different. Different from root to branch. The only problem is that I cannot fall asleep. Sleepless all through the night. However, apart from the fact that I cannot fall asleep, I am in a status that is very normal. I am not sleepy at all, and I am clear in my head as usual. I can even say that I am even clearer than usual. Nothing wrong with the body. The same with the appetite. No feeling of tiredness. From a practical point of view, there’s no problem at all. Nothing but sleepless.

Neither my husband nor my child knows that I am sleepless at night. On this, I am keeping it unrevealed. If I have said something, I’m afraid they would suggest me go to the hospital for sure. But I know fairly well that going to the hospital helps nothing. On this, I must solve it myself.

My life is the same as before. Nothing has changed on the surface. Very smooth, and very routine. After saying goodbye to my husband and child in the morning, I’ll drive to the market to make some purchases as always. My husband is a dentist, owning a clinic ten minutes’ ride to the apartment where we live. He runs it with his classmate of his dental university days. In this way could they hire technicians and the girl who takes charge of registration. When one of them is fully reserved, another could receive patients still. Both of my husband and his classmate are excellent in skills. They started the business there when they had no connections at all, and it wasn’t five years before the clinic became prosperous. You might as well say it’s much too busy.

“Actually I wanted to take it slow. But of course, I should not have anything to complain of.”

Yup, I say. Surely should not have anything to complain of. In order to open this clinic, we had to take a mounting bank loan that was beyond expectation. A huge amount of money investment was needed for the facilities in the clinic. Moreover, the competition was so fierce and you couldn’t get the floods of patients the day after you opened up. There are so many dental parlours that has failed on account of few patients.

When it was just opened, we were so young with nothing redundant financially, and we’d got a baby that was newly born. No one knew whether we could get through in this cold world. However, five years passed, and we survived anyhow. Should not have anything to complain of. Two thirds of the loans remain to be repaid.

“The patients are coming not for you are handsome, are they?” I say. A tease that’s nothing new. I say so, for he is not handsome at all. Or rather say that he is with a strange face. Till today, I still murmur to myself: Why would I marry a man with such strange face? Obviously I’d had some boyfriends who were much more handsome.

The strange characteristics in his face are hard to describe within words. Definitely not handsome, not ugly neither. But it’s just not a face that’s flavourous. To be honest, the only expression you can use is “strange”. Or you may say “intangible”, which might be more precise. But it’s more than that. The most important thing is certain factors that are making his face so intangible. I think that by seizing these factors, I could possibly comprehend that “strange” face. Yet I couldn’t. Once, I tried to portray his face out of necessity, but laying open the paper, holding the pencil in my hand, I could not recall the outline of my husband’s face no matter how hard I tried. This startled me. Having been living with him for such a long time, I couldn’t even recollect what a face he was wearing. But of course I’ll get to comprehend it immediately I see him, and his face will show up in my mind. However, once I try to portray it, I know that I have seized nothing of his appearance at all. It’s like hitting into an invisible wall when walking, leaving me empty-minded. The only thing I know is that it’s a strange face.

This scares me.

However, most people have a good impression of him, which apparently is very critical for his job. Even if he were not a dentist, supposedly he will succeed in most similar careers. It seems that many people will be at ease after a short while of talking with him. His speech is deep in voice, and gentle in style. Before encountering my husband, I saw few men of this type. Every single one of my female friends is pleased with him. I like him, of course. I even think I love him. But to be accurate, I think that probably, I am not “pleased”.

Furthermore, he can smile very naturally like a child. Generally, an adult will not smile like that. And maybe it is in the nature of things: he has a mouthful of beautiful teeth.

“Being so handsome is not my fault.” He smiled slightly after replying to me. Time after time, we cracked boring jokes that was only appropriate for us two. You might rather say that we were doing this ritually in order that we could make sure of a fact—the fact that we had survived.

He departed from the parking lot of our apartment in the creamy white Bluebird sedan at eight fifteen, sitting the kid beside him. The school of our kid is on the way to the clinic. “Take care.” I said. “It’s fine.” He replied. The lines repeating forever. But that’s what I have to say. Take care, I say. And my husband has to reply so: It’s fine. He pushed the tapes of Haydn or Mozart into the car audio, humming with the melody, and then started the engine. Both of them waved me goodbye, their postures so parallel that it astonished me: their head at the same angle, their palms lightly waving together toward this side. It seemd as if someone had arranged a rehearsal for them.

I’ve got a second-hand Honda City for myself. The colour is blue. It was transferred to me by one of my female friends at a price nearly free of charge. The bumper is sunken, and the style is very old, rust creeping over the bodywork. This car has run over 150,000 kilometers. At times, perhaps once or twice a month, the engine would go wrong. Regardless of how much you’ve tried to turn the key, it just wouldn’t start. But it’s not so bad that you have to send the car into the repair shop. Placate it for ten minutes or so, and the engine would fire up good or bad, rumbling merrily. Alas, there is no solution to this, I think. No matter what people have or who they are, there are always times in a month when they don’t work right, or they wouldn’t be going on well. My husband calls my car “your donkey”. But whatever others say, it is a car of my own.

I drive this City to the supermarket. Having finished purchasing, I start cleaning, doing the laundry and preparing for lunch. I try my best to stay active in the morning, and try to make it ready for supper. In this way, the whole afternoon will be mine.

My husband comes back to have lunch around twelve. He doesn’t like eating out, for “it is crowded, unpalatable and you get a smell of cigarettes all over.” Even if he has to pay for the time of the round trip, he would love to come back and eat at home. But no matter what, I wouldn’t make the meal so complex. If I’ve got some leftovers from yesterday, I would heat them with the microwave oven. If not, I would deal it with the buckwheat noodles. Thus, cooking doesn’t take much of my time. What’s same for me is that I would be happier having meals with my husband compared with eating alone.

Much longer ago, when the clinic had not been opened for very long which means no customers reserved at one o’clock, we used to go to bed after lunch. Those sex we had are unparalleled. All around was silent, and the gentle sunlight of the afternoons filled the room. We were much younger than we are now, and much fulfilling.

I think that now we are still fulfilling. There’s no domestic dispute. I like my husband, and I trust him. And I think that he feels the same way. But inevitably, with the elapse of time, the quality of our life is changing in dribs and drabs. Things are no longer as easy as they are before, going much more intricate with the limitations of ourselves. At present, the whole afternoon would be fully reserved. Having finished lunch, he would go to the washroom to brush his teeth, and then rush to the clinic in his car hastily. Millions of ill teeth are waiting for him.

When he is back in the clinic, I would drive to the fitness club with my swimsuit and towel, and there I would swim for about thirty minutes. I don’t really like the action of swimming. I swim only for that I want to keep off the fat. I always like my body line, but hardly do I like the face of mine. I think that my face is not bad, but it is impossible that I’ll like it. Anyway, I like my body. I enjoy standing in front of a mirror, gazing at its elegant outlines and its appropriate vigor, feeling something inside of it which seems very important for me. I don’t know why it is important, but I don’t want to lose it.

I am 30 years old now. When you reach the age of 30, you come to understand that the world doesn’t stop running for that you are 30. I don’t think it fortunate to grow old, but there are certain occasions when things would get easier with the growing of your age. But it also depends on how you think about it. Anyway, one thing is for sure: aged 30, if a woman is still satisfied with her body, and hopes to remain satisfied all the way, she has to make appropriate efforts. This is what I learned from my mother. She used to be a gorgeous woman with a slender figure. But regrettably, the glory is gone by now.

After the swimming time, I’ve got various ways to kill the afternoon time every day. Sometimes I go for a walk in front of the bus station, or I sit in the sofa back in the house, reading books, listening to the FM broadcast, and sometimes I fall asleep in this faintness. Before long, the kid comes back. I change clothes for him and then bring him snacks. Having finished eating, he goes out and play with his companies. He is in Grade Two yet, and he does not attend a tutorial school or an interest class. Might as well let him play, said my husband. He says that the boy will grow up naturally by playing. When he goes out, I say: be careful. And the kid answers: it’s fine. Exactly identical to my husband.

Approaching dusk, I start to prepare for supper. The boy comes back before 6 o’clock, and he turns on the TV to watch a cartoon. If there’s no extra work in the clinic, my husband would be home before 7. He never touches a drop of wine, nor is he interested in socializing with people. After work, he goes straight back home.

At mealtime, we would talk as we eat. Talking about the day we had respectively. The boy speaks most. Of course, everything that happens around him would be new and questionable. The boy speaks and we express our opinions. After meals, he plays alone, doing anything he likes. Watching TV, reading books, or playing games with my husband or so. When he’s got homework, he gets into his room to deal with it. At half past 8, he goes to bed. I tuck him in, stroke his hair, say good night to him, and turn off the light.

Then it is time for the couple. My husband sits in the sofa, talking with me for a little while, reading newspapers. Then he listens to Haydn or Mozart. I don’t hate listening to music. But no matter how long I listen to them, I could not tell the difference between Haydn and Mozart. To my ears, they are almost totally the same. When I say this, my husband would reply that it doesn’t matter if you cannot tell the difference. Because the beauty is beautiful anyway, and that’s that.

“The same as your handsomeness.” I say.

“Yup, the same as my handsomeness.” He says, and gives a soft smile. He seems to be at ease.

This is my life. This is my life before I am turned sleepless. Every day is a kind of similar repeating. I write very simple diary, and when I stop for two or three days, I couldn’t tell what happened on which day. There’s no inconvenience inverting the order of yesterday and the day before yesterday. Sometimes I think: What a life this is! But I don’t feel that I have l loafed away my time. I am only so astonished, for there’s no difference between yesterday and the day before yesterday, for I am programmed into this kind of life, for the footprints would have gone with the wind in a flash before I could recognize them. At this kind of moment, I would stand in front of the mirror in the washroom, gazing at my own face. Within about 15 minutes, my thoughts are cleared out from the mind, and I would observe my face only as an object. Then my face would separate from my body gradually, becoming another object that co-exists occasionally in another place. That’s it. This is the real reality. I then realized this. Things like footprints are nothing but groundless statements. Sustaining this co-existence as before is the supreme request to me.

But now, I cannot sleep. Since the day I could not fall asleep, I hadn’t written a diary any longer.

2

I can remember clearly the first night when I could not sleep. I was having a hideous dream. It was a gloomy and sticky dream. No memory of the content. The only thing left in mind is that ominous feeling. But at the climax of the dream, I woke up from it. If I continued immersing myself in the dreamland, it would be unstoppable. At this crucial moment, as if I had been dragged out by the collar toughly, I woke up suddenly. In the next long period of time, I was grasping for breath deeply. Hands and feet numb, unable to move. It was like lying in an empty hole that has nothing, as I heard the echo of my breathing that was so loud.

It’s a dream, I thought. Then not moving, I was lying there, waiting for my gasps to calm down. In order to make the heart beat furiously so it could pump the blood out, the lungs were now inflating and then deflating as though they had been bellows. But the amplitude declined as time passed. What time is it now? I wondered. When I was trying to have a look of the clock over my pillow, I found my neck unable to make a turn. At this moment, I saw something standing near my feet. It was a blur black silhouette. I drew a cold breath with my mouth in terror. Regardless of my heart and lungs, it seemed that all my viscera were frozen instantly, all having ceased functioning.

I kept close watch on it, as the black silhouette went clear as though it couldn’t wait. To begin with, the outline appeared to be clear, then the inside was filled with an entity and details just like it was injected with mucus. That was an old woman in a well-fitting black gown, who was quite slim. The hair was white and short, and the face was fleshless. She stood by my feet, staring at me, speechless. The eyes were so large, and the red vessels in the white of the eyes were clear to be seen. But that face showed no expressions. Though equipped with eyes, a nose and a mouth, they indicated nothing, and showed no meanings.

This is not a dream, I thought. I have already woken up from the dream. Moreover, I was not waking up faintly, but I was like being bounced up. So this can’t be a dream. I tried to get up, wake up my husband, or turn on the lights. But against my utmost trial, I could not make a slightest move. I couldn’t even move a fingertip, as you’d say. Realizing that I became incapable of moving, I felt scared suddenly. It was a kind of scare that was like the cold air rising up from the bottomless well of memories. And that air penetrated the root of my life all the way. I tried to shout, but no sound made, the tongue out of control. What I could do is to stare back.

In her hand there was something long and thin, plump in a shade of shining light. Taking a good look at it, that thing gradually revealed its clear outline. It was a kettle. The old woman was carrying a ceramic kettle that would appear in Chinese ancient paintings. Lifting up the kettle, she began pouring water onto my feet. But I could not feel the existence of water. I could see the water on my feet, and I could hear the sound of water running. But my feet felt nothing.

She kept pouring water onto my feet without a break. The strange thing was that no matter how long she had been keeping pouring, the amount of water in the kettle was constant. Then I began wondering if my feet would spoil and dissolve. She has been doing that for such a long time that it is no strange if my feet spoil. Thinking of the possibility that my feet might spoil, I could not put up with it any longer.

I closed my eyes, making a scream that could be no louder.

But the scream did not get out of my body. My tongue failed to vibrate the air. The scream only went through all of my body. That silent scream ran wild inside of me, my heart not beating, my mind empty. It visited every corner of my cells. In my body, there was something killed, something dissolved. Like the flash of an explosion, that vacuum vibration burned down many things that had connections with me.

Opening the eyes, the old woman vanished. Nor could I see the kettle. I had a glimpse around my feet. No signs of water poured. The bedspread was still dry. However, I was drenched in sweat. The amount of sweat was astonishing. It’s incredible that a person could produce such huge amount. But certainly, that was my sweat.

I tried to move my fingers one by one, and twisted my wrist, then activated my legs. Writhed the ankles, bent my knees. Though these moves were no satisfying, the parts began to move, anyway. I roughly decided that my body could move, so I got up carefully, scrutinized the room that was lightened up by the dim street lamps behind the curtains. Nowhere was the old woman.

The clock beside my bed points to 12:30. When I went to bed, it was no more than 11:00, so, I had slept for about an hour and a half. My husband in the bed next to mine was still sleeping like a log, as if he had been deprived of consciousness. He didn’t give a sound of snoring. Once he falls asleep, nothing can wake him up unless worse comes to worst.

I walked out of the bedroom to the bath, where I took off my sweaty clothes, dropped them into the washing machine and then took a shower. Then I wiped myself dry and got myself covered with another pair of pajamas from the wardrobe. Opening the floor lamp in the living room, drinking a glass of Brandy in the sofa. I hardly touched any alcohols. But the reason why I hardly touched them is different from my husband’s reason in his body. I used to drink quite a lot for fun when young, but ever since I got married, I never drunk again. However, in those nights, to calm my strained and hyper nerve, my body needs alcohols.

In the cupboard there was a bottle of Remy Martin Cognac. This is the only name in the house for alcohol. It was given as a present by someone. And as it has been a long time, I could not recall who it was. A film of dust covered the bottle. I didn’t find a glass properly for Brandy, so I poured it into a common glass, and began sipping slowly.

My body was still trembling, but the terror was fading away.

Maybe it was a nightmare, I thought. This was the first time I have experienced a nightmare, but I had heard of it from my college classmate. She said that it had been so clear and vivid that it would never occur to you that it had been a dream. “In that moment I didn’t think it was a dream, even now I still couldn’t make sure of what it is.” Truly you cannot firmly believe that it was a dream, I suppose. But all in all, it was a dream. It was a dream that is not a dream.

Although the terror was dying down, the tremor of the body refused to go away. The surface of my skin was like the ripple after an earthquake, shivering for a long time. That subtle shiver was clear visible to naked eyes. It was due to the scream, I thought. The scream which failed to make a sound was suppressed inside of my body, and with that, my body is still trembling.

I closed my eyes and had another sip of the Brandy as I felt the warm liquid streaming into the stomach through my throat, as if it had been a living creature.

Then the child began to make me worry. The moment my child occurred to me, my heart rate became rapid and stiff again. I got up from the sofa and burst towards my kid’s room. He was just like my husband, sleeping like a log, a hand by his mouth, another stretching sideward. On that face I saw not a slightest bit of unease. I tidied up the messy quilt for him. No matter what it is that was torturing me mercilessly, it seemed as if it struck me only. Neither was my husband involved nor my child.

I got back to the living room, and walked around aimlessly. Wide-awake.

I thought of having another glass of Brandy, to warm up my body and calm my nerve down, to have a taste of that brisk and intense aroma again. Yet, with another moment of hesitation, I decided that I should not do so. I hadn’t drunk for a long time, and I wouldn’t keep this tipsy feeling to tomorrow. I stored away the Brandy into the cupboard and washed the glass under the tap, then I took out the strawberries from the fridge and began eating.

Bringing myself down to earth, the tremor had subsided.

Who is that woman in black at all? I wondered. It was an old person I had never seen. And her black gown was also strange, like a suit of well-fitting sportswear, but also looking very old-fashioned. Like a mask, expressions were lacking in her face. And those unblinkingly bloodshot eyes. Moreover, what was the reason that she poured water onto my feet?

All is unintelligible. Of that old woman and the water, I can give no explanations.

My friend encountered nightmare when she was staying overnight at the house of her fiancé. No sooner had she fall asleep than a man aged about fifty wearing an unhappy face appeared, telling her: get the fuck out of the house! During that process she was literally frozen, sweating as profusely as I did. At that time, she thought it must be the ghost of his fiancé’s father who had passed away, and it was surely that man who was ordering her to get out. However, when she asked for a photo of his fiancé’s father, she found that they had totally different faces. She said she must had been too nervous; thus she would have a nightmare.

However, I was not nervous at all. This is my house, so nothing shall be here to threaten me. What is the reason that I had to have a nightmare right here, right now?

I shook my head. Please get rid of that bee in your head. That was just a vivid dream. Maybe it was on account of the fatigue that has been unconsciously stored inside my body. No doubt it was for the tennis game the day before yesterday. After swimming, I was invited by a friend to play tennis, and then I played for too long a time. Later my limbs were lacking in strength for quite a while.

to be continued.

Having done eating strawberries, I lay myself down on the sofa, trying to catch some sleep.

Wide awake.

What shall I do now? I thought. There’s really no sense of drowsiness at all.
I thought, I might read some to hypnotize myself. Into the bedroom, I picked up a novel from the bookcase. I lit up the light while I was looking for a book, while my husband remained absolutely still. What I’ve chosen is Anna Karenina. I wanted to read a long volume of Russian novel then. I have read Anna Karenina once a long time ago, which seemed to be in my Senior High years. None of its plots have I remembered. The only episode left in memory is the opening paragraphs and the fact that the heroine put an end to her life lying on the railway. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” This is the first sentence of the beginning. I remembered that there’s a scenario at the very beginning indicating her suicide at the climax of the story. And there’s a horse racing scene. Ah, is that a scene from another novel?
I went back to the sofa and opened the book. How many years has it been since I absorbed myself in a book like this? I thought. Of course when there was spare time I would read from 30 minutes to an hour. But properly speaking, I wouldn’t call it reading. Although I was staring at a book, I would turn my thoughts to other things right away. The child, shopping, or the problem in the fridge; what I shall be putting on to attend the wedding of a relative, otherwise that my father has a gastrectomy performed. Things like those kept floating on my mind, all their branches and leaves spreading towards all directions. When I came back to earth, the only thing gone is time, pages remaining unturned.

In this way I got myself used to a life without reading. Dwelling on it, I felt that this was so incredible. From my childhood, reading had always been the center of my life. I finished reading all the books in the library when I was in primary school, and nearly all my pocket money was spent on buying books. Pinching and screwing, I bought myself the books I wanted to read with money saved up. No matter in my Junior High or Senior High years, nowhere could one find a person who read so much with insanity. My age is the middle in the five of my siblings, and both our parents had their works to do. Everyone was busy, so that no one would really take care of me, which is why I could read books as much as I wanted. Whenever there was book reviews solicited with awards, I would contribute in order to win the book coupon which was the prize, and I would basically win every time. In college, I was enrolled in English Department, and did well in exams. My undergraduate thesis was on Katherine Mansfield, and I got the highest score. My professor asked me whether I would stay and continue postgraduate study, but at bottom I am not so academic, which is something I was well aware of. I merely loved reading while logical analysis academic discussion is not for me. Even if I wanted to pursue a Master’s Degree, my family wouldn’t have enough to spare economically. Not because that my family was really badly off, but that I still have two younger sisters. Once I left college, I also had to leave home and earn my own living.

When was the last time that I had read a book from cover to cover? And what was it that I was reading? I mused, but I cannot even recall the title of it. How could one’s life change so dramatically fast? I puzzled over that. Where has she gone, the girl who was so voracious for books as if she had been possessed by demon? And for those years, for that abnormal enthusiasm, what do they all mean on earth to me?

However, that night, I triumphantly focused myself on Anne Karenina. There were no distractions in my mind, and I just kept reading page by page. I read at a stretch till the plot where Anne and Volynskiy met at Moscow Railway Station, then I put a bookmark in the page and took out the Brandy bottle again, pouring myself another glass.

Before, I did not notice, but now pondering on it, I thought: how strange a novel it is. The heroine, Anna Karenina, never actually did show up until page 116. Can it be that it wasn’t something unnatural to the readers of that time? Even though all the perpetual description goes for the boring daily life of a character named Volynskiy, they would wait patiently and well-behaved for the appearance of the gorgeous heroine? Perhaps. Probably the people of that time have plenty of free time. At least for the class who read novels.

Abruptly I came back to myself as I caught a glimpse of the clock which pointed at three o’clock. Three? Nevertheless, I felt no sleepiness at all.

I bit my lip, staring at the second hand of the clock for quite a while.

As if I could keep reading ceaselessly like this. How would the story go on? I really wanted to find out. But anyway I shall go to sleep.

I recalled my past incidents of being troubled by insomnia, a time when I was wrapped inside the thick apathetic cloud. Then I was still a student, so it wasn’t a huge problem. Now circumstances have changed with the passage of time. I am the wife of a husband, and the mother of a child, with unescapable responsibilities. I have to make lunch for my husband and attend to my child.

Even if I climb into bed now, I couldn’t fall asleep, which I knew fairly well. I shook my head. Is there any way? It seemed that I couldn’t fall asleep at all. Besides, what happened afterwards in the novel was still intriguing me. I sighed as I cast my eyes to the book on the table.
Eventually, till daybreak, I had been reading Anna Karenina attentively. Anna and Volynskiy gazed at each other at the ball, falling into the romance of foreordination. At the horse racecourse (the racecourse appeared finally), Anna went delirious on seeing Volynskiy falling off the horse, confessing her disloyalty to her husband. I flew over the barriers on the horse with Volynskiy, hearing spectators hailing in person. In the mean time I was in the spectator seats, watching as he got unseated. I put down the book, turned off the light, heated the coffee and then drunk. With the images in the novel remained in my head, a drastic sense of hunger sweep over me, disabling me from thinking over my business. There seemed to be a malposition somewhere between my consciousness and my body, and it settled itself before resetting. I sliced the bread, then spread butter and mustard sauce on them, making a cheese and lettuce sandwich. Then I swallowed it by the tap. It’s hard for me to encounter such an intense hunger. That was a hunger ruthless and tyrannical, almost suffocating. Having eaten this one, I still felt hungry, so I made myself another one. And I drunk a second cup of coffee.

3

I did not tell my husband the fact that I have encountered nightmare, nor that I never did sleep a wink till dawn. I did not conceal it deliberately, but I thought that I didn't have to report things one by one. Even if I told all this to him, it would still be of no use. Thinking over it, perhaps it is no big deal being sleepless for one night. Everyone gets into this situation sometimes.

As always, I served coffee for my husband, and poured a glass of hot milk for my child. My husband ate the toast, my child enjoyed the corn flakes. The husband read a newspaper, and made a few comments on some news. The child hummed a new song he just learned. Then the two went out in the creamy white Bluebird. Take care, I said. It's fine, replied the husband. Both of them waved me goodbye. As always.

After their departure, I sat down on the sofa, thinking about what to do next. What shall I do? What is it that I have to do? I pulled the fridge open and checked the stuff inside it, confirming that it would be OK that I didn't buy things today. There were bread, milk and eggs. Meat frozen there, in perfectly good condition. Vegetables plenty, too. All kinds of ingredients kept in stock, enough to hold up till tomorrow's lunch.

I should go to handle things at the bank, but it wasn't something I had to deal with today. It'll do if I pull off till tomorrow.

I sat on the sofa and started to read Anna Karenina again. Reading it again made me know that I have barely remembered its content. All the characters and scenarios in the book were almost buried in oblivion. I even felt that I was reading another book. So strange, I thought. I had been touched deeply while reading, but to my surprise, nothing stayed in my head. The trembling emotions and the hyper memories all vanished in no time.

That being the case, what is the point that I spent so much time on reading?

I stopped reading for a while, pondering over this. I could not figure it out, though. Very soon, I could not even figure out what I was trying to figure out. When I regained my presence of mind, I was aimlessly staring at the tree through the window. The beech tree with luxuriant foliage. I shook my head, then continued to read.

Just after the middle of the volume were some chocolate crumbs. The chocolate was parched, scattering on the pages. I must have been eating chocolate while reading this novel when in high school. I loved eating while I read. However, I never ate chocolate again after marriage. My husband hates sweets, and we hardly gave them to the kid. Things like those were never around the house.

Staring at those whitened crumblings from a long time ago, I felt a tremendous eager to try another chocolate. So much did I want to eat a bar of chocolate and read Anne Karenina as I did before. I felt that every cell of me was holding its breath, huddled, eagering for chocolate.

I put on the cardigan, and went downstairs via elevator. Entering the convenience store I bought two bars of milk chocolate, which with the first sight you would know they are overly sweet. One step out of the store, I opened the wrapping paper, and put one in my mouth while walking. The flavour of the milk chocolate dispersed in my mouth. I could clearly feel its sweetness penetrating into every corner of my body without reservation. In the elevator, I put another bar into my mouth, and the flavour floated all around the elevator room.

I sat on the sofa, ate chocolate and continued reading Anne, not sleepy at all, and neither fatigued. I concentrated my attention on the book. A large piece of chocolate has been consumed, so I teared open another and finished a half of it. When I completed two third of the book, I looked at the clock. It was twenty to twelve.

Twenty to twelve?

My husband shall be home soon. I closed the book,and rushed into the kitchen. Pouring water into the wok, I lit the fire and prepared the buckwheat noodles. Before the water boiled, I rehydrated the sea mustard, making a vinegar cold dish. Taking the Doufu out of the fridge, I copied the scallions and ground the ginger, and it's a plate of Cold Bean Curd. Then I ran into the washroom, brushing my teeth carefully, and wiped off the chocolate smell.

My husband got into the house immediately when the water boiled. Treatment today ended before their preconception, said the husband.

We ate the buckwheat noodles. My husband talked about purchasing a medical facility while we ate. It's the facility used to clear away teeth tartar, which shall be much more efficient than the current one. Same as always, it's not cheap of course. "However, I thought that it might be a good investment", said the husband. "These days many patients came to the clinic only for clearing away tartar. What do you think?" I didn't want to listen to a man talking about tartar in meal time, and I was not willing to trouble myself to think about it. I'd rather rack my brain considering the steeplechase. But things go contrary to one's wishes. The husband was serious about what he'd said. I asked the price of the facilities, and pretended to be thinking over it. "If it is really necessary, you shall just buy it anyhow", I said with a hearty tone. About money, there will always be a solution, and you are not idling it away in seeking pleasure.

That's very true, said the husband. Not idling it away in seeking pleasure. He repeated my lines, and then ate the buckwheat noodles in silence.

A pair of big birds were twittering on a beech tree out side the window. I caught sight of them carelessly. I felt no drowsiness at all. What on earth is happening?

When I was clearing away the tablewares, my husband sat in the sofa, reading newspapers. He had read all the newspapers in the corner. Beside lay Anne Karenina，which he did not take notice of very much. About what books I read, he was never interested.

When I finished washing all the dishes, my husband said, "Good news for today. Make a guess?"

"I give up," I said.

"The patients cancelled the reservation at one o'clock, so I'll be free till half one." He gave a soft smile while speaking.

I thought for a while, not understanding why this could be good news. Why?

I got to know that it is a signal for making love when he stood up and enticed me into bed. Yet I had no desire then. I don't understand why shall people do that at this time of a day. I wanted to get back to the study as soon as possible. I wanted to lie alone in the sofa, eating chocolate, following the chapters in Anne Karenina. When I was washing the dishes, I was thinking over the character of Volynskiy. How could Tolstoy handle all the roles on stage so brilliantly? His narrative is so precise. Even about the good and the evil-- before they became the good and the evil, they were an integration……

I closed my eyes, and knead my temples. Then I told him that I actually had been suffering headache from this morning. Sorry, awfully sorry. I had been troubled by severe headache quite often, so my husband accepted my evasive words. "Don't keep holding out. Lie down and have some rest." He said. "It's not that grievous." I said. He sad in the sofa till one, listening to classical music in low volume, reading newspapers. Then he started to talk about the medical facility again. Even if they bought high-end and expensive machines, they would go obsolete after two or three years. Then they would have to renew them incessantly, making the medical apparatus factories the biggest winner. That's roughly what he talked. I echoed now and then, while I hardly took in anything.

After my husband went out to work, I folded away the newspapers, and patted the slipcover to get it back into shape. Then I leaned by the window, looking around into the house. I was confused. Why wouldn't I get tired? I had had several experiences of staying up all night, but this length of not sleeping is unprecedented. Were everything normal, I would have already been sleeping soundly with my head under the quilt. I would have been so weary even if I was not asleep. Now everything is even clearer than usual, though.

I got into the kitchen, heated coffee, and drunk. Then I tried to figure out what to do next. Of course I want to continue reading Anne Karenina, but I also want to visit the pool and swim. After a long period of hesitaition, I decided to go swimming in the end. I cannot be sure about this, but I wanted to drive away something out of my body with some fierce physical shaking. Drive away. But what on earth is it that I am trying to drive away? I dwelled.

What on earth is it that I am trying to drive away?

I have no idea.

But that thing is in my body, like the clouds seen from a distant place, tiny and firm, floating around. I wanted to give it a name, but that vocabulary fail to arise in my mind. It could only be certain thing. I always fail in looking for a vocabulary. Were I Tolstoy, I would definitely come up with a word that is both precise and incomparable.

Anyway, I packed the swimsuit into the handbag, then drove to the fitness club in my Civic. There were no acquaintance in the pool, but only a student-like man and a plump middle-aged woman. The life guard was looking into the water, bored stiff.

I put on the swimsuit and goggles, and swam for thirty minutes as usual. Thirty minutes wouldn't be enough, though. In the end I did another to and fro, freestyle, with all my strength. Although I felt out of breath, the body was still full with power. I got out of the pool, others looking at me unbridledly.

There was still some time to three o'clock, so I went to the bank to handle affairs. I also wanted to buy something at the supermarket, but gave up eventually, and went straight home. Continuing on Anne Karenina, I finished the ramaining chocolate. Then I visited a convenience store nearby and bought another two bars. My son got home at four. I had him drink the vegetable juice and eat the self-made jelly. Then I prepared dinner. Took the meat out of the freezing room for unfreezing, then cut the vegetables ready for a fired dish. A bowl of miso soup, rice cooked. I finished all this smoothly like a machine.

Then carry on reading Anne Karenina.

I am not tired.

4

Approaching 10 o'clock, I went to bed with my husband as I pretended to fall asleep with him. Turning off the bedside lamp, almost in a wink, he fell into dreamland, as if somewhere there had been a linkage between his consciousness and the lamp switch.

That's really something, I thought. You don't see this kind of people very often. Much more of us would be troubled by sleeplessness, my father one of them. He had always been grumbling about his failures to fall asleep. Worse still, any slight disturbance would wake him up.

That is not the case of my husband, though. Once asleep, despite anything grave happening, he wouldn't wake up till daybreak. Not long after marriage, I felt strange, and wondered what could be done to wake this guy up. I did several experienments. I dropped water onto his face with a dropper. I stroked his nose with a hairbrush. He would never wake up. Even with ceaseless molestation, it would only end up with an unhappy groan. He do not even have dreams. Anyway, he did never remember any dream at all. You bet he never encountered a nightmare. Like a turtle in the mud, light of heart, nothing to worry about.

Having lain down for ten minutes, I get out of bed quietly. Into the living room, I turned on the floor lamp, then poured a glass of Brandy. Later, I sat in the sofa，continued with the book while sipping the drink. Suddenly, seized by a whim, I pulled out the chocolate hidden in the cupboard to eat. At last, new morning had come. As soon as it was light, I closed the book, then made coffee and a sandwich to enjoy.

Every day is so, round and round.

I do the household duties nice and neat, then all the time left in the morning is for reading. Towards midday, I put the novel down and make lunch for my husband. He gets out at one o'clock again. Although I never sleep in the nights, I am bound to swim for one hour each day. Thirty minutes of exercise would definitely be not enough. In the process of swimming, there's no distraction in my mind, and all the attention is fixed to swimming itself. I concentrated on how to move my body efficiently, breathing in and out with accurate beats. Running into an accquaintance, I would not chat so much except for a simple hello. If invited, I'll say, sorry, but I have something urgent back home. I don't want to have any connection with anyone. No spare time to drink tea and have conversations. All-in in swimming, after which I would go back home immediately and read the book.

It is to fulfill my obligations that I do the purchases, cook meals, clean the house and take care of the child. For obligations I make love with my husband. Once adapted to these, it becomes nothing hard. Might as well say that it's pretty simple. The only thing I have to do is to break the connection between the brain and the body. Nothing else. My body seems to be operating automatically, while my brain is floating in another space. Without thinking, I do all the chores, take the snacks to the child, and talk to the husband.

Since the day I couldn't fall asleep, I had always been dwelling on the fact how simple the reality is. To fiddle around with reality is as easy as pie. It's just, anyway, a negligible reality. Nothing more than negligible housework, negligible sexual intercourse, negnigible family. Like operating a machine, once you commit to memory the procedure, what's to come is just oversimplified repetition. Press the button here, and pull the handle there. Tune the scale, close the hood, and set a timer. Simply repeating.

Of course there are still variations. My husband's mother comes, and we dine together. On sunday, the family of three go to the zoo. The kid suffers from severe diarrhea.

But these occurances would not stir the existence of mine. They are like silent winds, skimming over me by the side. The mother-in-law and I talk about those trivial matters, cook the meal for the four, take photos in front of the Bear Mountain, warm the stomach of the child, and apply medecine to him.

No one had noticed my aberrance. No one took care of the fact that I could not sleep at all, or that I was reading a book round the clock, or that my mind was wandering somewhere thousand miles away, hundreds years ago from the reality. No matter how I perfunctorily, mechanically, lovelessly and dispassionately handle the affairs in reality, the husband, the kid and the mother-in-law were just getting along with me as usual. It seems though that their attitude towards me is even more relaxed.

In this way, a week had passed.

When the incessant state of sobriety carried on in the second week, I myself began to get uneasy. At all events, this is abnormal. One has to sleep. No one never sleep. A long time ago I read a passage somewhere, in which a kind of interrogation resorted to keeping people awake. They impound a man in a confined room, kept his eyes open all the time, and shined lights on him, interfered with him using loud noise, making it impossible for him to sleep. As time passed, he goes mad, and then kicked the bucket.

I cannot recall how long it did take for the man to go delirium. It might be three days or four, approximately this short? But I hadn't slept for a week. However, my body didn't fall into decline in the slightest degree. I feel more energetic than usual.

One day after a shower, I stood in front of the mirror, naked, and I realized that the curves on my body was brimming over with vitality that is almost going to burst. I was stunned. From top to toe, I scrutinized all of my body, and there was not a single piece of fat, not a single streak of wrinkle. My figure now is certainly different from that of my girlhood, yet my skin is smoother than before, and tighter. I nipped my abdominal muscles with my fingers. Stiff and tight, with their beautiful elasticity.

Hereupon I realized that I had become more beautiful than I imagined. It seemed that I were younger than the real age, and it might not make people doubt to say that I was only 24. The skin smooth and soft, the lips bright-coloured and juicy, and the shadow made by the protrusion of the cheekbone(the part that I hated most) no longer so conspicuous. I sat in front of the mirror, staring at my face for about 30 minutes, observing from a variey of angles. It was not an illusion. I had truly become more beautiful.

What on earth has happend to me?

I had thought about seeing a doc. I knew a doctor that had been taking care of me since I was very little, who knew me inside and out. But immediately I realized how he would act on hearing me, my mind went heavy-laden. First of all, would he believe what I say? If I tell him that I hadn't take a shortest nap in the past week, supposedly he would suspect the functionalily of my brain in the first place. Or he would handle it as neurasthenia caused by ordinary insomnia. Otherwise he would believe me without a shadow of doubt, and then transfer me to a major hospital.

What then?

Probably they would lock me up, and bring me hither and thether to take all kind of check-up. EEG, ECG, urinalysis, blood test, psychological test and all that.

Lest that I should not bear all that. I wanted to read all alone, and I wanted to go swim for a good hour. Those are what I persued. If I went to the hospital, what could be done? They do nothing but examinations one after another, and propose hypotheses one after another. I don't want to visit that kind of place, and I don't want to have anything to do with that kind of people.

An afternoon, I visited the library to look up some books about sleep. There weren't many books about it, and nothing too marvelous in them. When all is said, there's only one essence they wanted to say: The so-called sleeping is simply resting. Just like the engine shut down. If the engine runs restlessly, it breaks down one day. The revolving of an engine generates heat, and the the gathered heat makes the machine fatigued. In order to dissipate heat, it has to rest, flame out and let itself cool down--which is, sleep. For mankind, that is the rest for the soul as well as for the flesh. Lying down to rest the muscles, in the meantime, you close your eyes and stop thinking. The residual thinking would discharge naturally in the form of dreaming.

One book was quite interesting. That author asserted that people cannot escape from their Personal Orientations, regardless of the mental part or the phisical part. People unconsciously shape up their Bahavior Patterns and Mode of Thinking, and once moulded, those become almost impossible to convert unless in an absolutely compelled case. In other words, people are living in the cage of Orientation. Sleeping is the neutralization-- the author writes, like the wearing of the heel of the sole-- of the partiality to this Orientation. During their sleep, people naturally loosen their overused muscles, alleviate their overused brain circuit, and release the electric energy in their body. This is how people are cooled down. Sleep is a behavior doomed to get coded into the programme of the mankind system, from which no one could run away. If one loses sleep, one loses the foundation of existence. So did the author alleged.

Orientation? I wondered.

The vocabulary Orientation presented, what occurred to me was doing housework. I do all the chore apathetically like a machine with no end in sight. Cooking, purchasing, washing, parenting, all of them exactly Orientations, no other word could describe. I could do all these things with eyes closed, as they are simply fixed routines. Press the specified button, and pull the prescribed handle. In this manner, the reality flows forward unceasingly like the turning of pages. Those identical modes of motion-- are the unexceptional Orientations. Then, like the heel of the sole being wearing constantly, I was constantly consumed by Orientation. For the sake of adjusting and cooling down, daily sleep is indispensable.

Is it so?

Reading through that article again, I was completely convinced. That's right, that's what it is.

Then what in the end is the life of mine? I get consumed by Orientaion, I sleep with the purpose of adjusting this partiality, round and round each day. I wake up in the morning, and I go to bed when night comes. What on earth there is at the extremity of the cycle? Will there be something? No, I assume that there's nothing. Probably nothing. Only Orientations and Adjustments, which go on in my body in a see-saw battle.

Things like sleep is not what I need, I thought. It doesn't matter even if I lose my "foundation of existence" on account of not sleeping, even if I go delirious because of it. I don't care. I thought so. I don't want to get consumed orientationally. That's not what I persue. If sleep comes at regular intervals in order to correct the partiality caused by orientational consumption, asking me to pay one third of a day for this, I'd rather give up. I have my own way. I read. I don't sleep.

Having made my resolution this way, I went out of the library.

5

In this way, I was no longer terrified by sleeplessness. No fear of anything. In any case, I expanded my life, I thought. From 10 o'clock at nights to 6 o'clock early in the morning is what belonged to me. That period of time which amount to one third of a day had been previously spent on an activity called sleep (they claim that it's "a curative behaviour aimed at cooling down"). But now it has become something that belonged to my own. Not anybody else, only my own. I could utilize those hours to at my will. Never again disrupted by people, and never again would there be anyone to make requests.

You bet there'd be people saying that this, from a biological point of view, is not normal. That might make sense. Maybe one day it would come when I have to pay back for this loan from a continuous abnormal life. Maybe life would call back the part I was given the privilege to expand-- the part I am using in advance, in seeking for a balance of income and expenses of time. This is only a deduction out of no basis, yet there is no other basis to deny it, so I thought that this makes sense logically.

But to be honest, I don't think this matters to me. If I have to die with a strange combination of circumstances, I wouldn't have any objection. Let the deduction go wherever it wants. At least, my life is expanded for now, which is too wonderful for words to describe. In this, I feel the sense of reality when I enjoyed my life. I am not consumed. At least the part that hasn't been consumed is still there. What you call "alive", is the way this is.

Confirming that my husband has fallen into a deep sleep, I went to sit in the sofa in the living room, to drink Brandy alone, unfolding the books. I spent the first week reading Anne Karenina three times in succession. The more I read, the more was revealed. This magnum opus is full with all sorts of enigmas and implications. Like a box where mystery is hidden, a world in which there is another tiny world, and yet in the tiny world a miniature world. These worlds form a universe intricately, awaiting the readers to discover. Earlier, I could only comprehend a very small part of it. But now I could see clearly and make out what Tolstoy is trying to present and what is it that he wanted the readers to receive, how allegories are organically crystalized into a novel and which things in the novel were put above the writer himself.

Not matter how much I employed my concentration, I did not feel tired. When I thought that I have read Anne enough, I turned to Dostoevsky. The voluminous works from Russia of the 19th century are in which I was obsessed. Worth reading a hundred times. Not matter how long I kept my focus, I would not feel tired. No matter how obscure some parts are, I could understand effortlessly. Like a stylus stroking the groove of a disk, my finger seemed to be stroking the details of the narrative while I was deeply touched.

This is my intrinsic form of being, I thought. It is the attentional control that does matter, so I supposed. Life without concentration is like keeping your eyes wide open while seeing nothing.

Not long before I finished the Brandy. I nearly drained that whole bottle of it. Then I went to a premium grocer and bought a same bottle of Remy Martin Cognac. By the way, I brought a bottle of red wine, and also, chocolate and cookies. As well I went to another shop and bought a crystal glass for Brandy.

Sometimes when I was reading, my emotions would get very hysterical. On that, I would break off from reading and do physical exercises inside the room. Some calisthenics or simply walking around in the house. To calm my mood down, I would also roam around on the streets late at night. I would get changed and drive my Civic out of the parking lot and ride aimlessly in the neighborhood. Sometimes I'd visit the family restaurant that is open all night and have coffee. But in case I shall get into trouble with some people, I stayed in the car most of the time. Pulled up somewhere that looked less dangerous, and then meditated. Or I'd drive to the port to see ships come and go.

On one occasion I was spotted by a police officer, and I was put to inquiry. I had been staying under a street lamp, gazing afar at the lights on the ships, listening to the music on the radio. The officer tap-taped on the window. It was half two at midnight. I rolled down the window. It was a handsome young officer, and his tone was quite polite. I cannot fall asleep, I explained it to him. He asked me to show my driver's license, and so I did. Holding it, he scrutinized it for a while, saying that a homicide case occurred here last month. A young couple was attacked by three men, the man killed and the woman raped. I recalled hearing that case, so I nodded slightly. So you'd better not idle about in this area so late at night, he said. Thank you, I'll leave right away, I said. Taking the license back, I started the engine.

Anyway, this was the only time someone els chated up with me. Never have I encountered anyone's disturbance. Usually, I would wander about on the streets for one or two hours, and stop the car in the parking lot of our apartment beside my husband's creamy white Bluebird which was fast asleep in the darkness. And I would listen to the ticktock of the engine as it cooled down. When that sound disappeared, I got out of the car and went home.

Back to the house, I'd walk to the dorm in the first place to make sure that my husband was still sleeping soundly. Of course he would be sleeping deeply. Then I'd go to the kid's room. As well, in a deep slumber. They were not conscious of anything, believing firmly that nothing in this world had changed. In reality however, it is not quite so. The world is changing in certain places that are unknown to them, to an extent that is irretrievable.

Once late at night, I fixed my gaze at my husband's sleeping face for quite a while. Suddenly there was a "bang" in the room, so I went to check it out, and it turned out to be the bell fallen onto the ground. Perhaps my husband has knocked if off when waving his arm in a dream. However, he kept on sleeping as if nothing had had happened. Dear, what happens on earth would wake him up? I picked the bell up and placed it beside the pillow, and again stared at his face with my arms folded. In retrospect, it's been very long since I had scrutinized his sleeping posture.

callous麻木不仁的框杜，冷酷無情的拥坛，無動于衷的塑陵；
apathetic漠不關(guān)心的傻工，沒有熱情的