Taiwan Stories
| Chen Yingzhen (1937-) Graduated from Tamkang College in Taiwan and started publishing short stories in 1959. From 1968 to 1975 he was imprisoned for his leftist convictions which the Nationalist government then saw as a threat. Chen has published a dozen collections of short stories and his Collected Works runs to fifteen volumes. |
By Chen Yingzhen "You aren't all well yet, that's all. But you'll get better, no question of that." ONE DAY half a month ago, that young doctor—but he is balding—sought me out for a chat. It's part of regular hospital procedure. As we spoke, he was dashing everything down in sweeping strokes on a set of note cards. At the end of the session, he said: "OK, that's it." I stood up. He groped for a cigarette in his slightly soiled white lab-coat, thrust it in the corner of his mouth, and at the same time, put in order the card stack and locked it away. I stared at his long white filter-tipped cigarette, and began to feel disgruntled. As soon as you are admitted into the hospital, you're told: "Quit smoking." Right away I concluded this: any doctor who smokes in front of a patient who has been forbidden to smoke plainly has no integrity at all. Yet all he did was say: "OK, that's it. That's it." His face had a kind of pleased expression. It was a look that is seldom seen on the cold disinterested faces of the professionals around here. Just then Mr. Guo, a seminary student, entered the office. He looked as if he were already dead beat, but the moment he saw me, he broke into a smile—I won't say there was any malicious intent, but it was manifestly hypocritical. He patted my shoulder as though he were coaxing a child. In times like that all I can manage is a benign smile. The doctor stood watching us with his hands stuck in his lab-coat pockets. With that I walked out. He'd consistently been one to think he was right, just like most young doctors. I hadn't gone but a few steps out of the office when I heard the doctor saying to Mr. Guo, in Japanese: 1 "That guy—it's obvious he's getting better." I stood there dumbly for a few seconds. After a while I realized I simply wasn't up to attending my afternoon piano lesson, so I returned to my room to lie down for a rest. For the first time I figured out that I had already been in this mental hospital for a year and a half. Not long after this conversation with the doctor, I was actually granted permission to take afternoon walks outside the hospital. I SAT UP in bed and smoothed out the wrinkles in my clothes, then stuck my hair into place with my fingers and walked to the duty desk. I didn't expect Miss Gao to be there. She was sitting reading a very fat Japanese magazine. I stood in the doorway looking from a distance at magazine's illustrations. She raised her head. Our glances met one another in our images reflected in the glass window. I flashed a smile. She, however, clearly did not. It was a bit awkward having to wipe off my grin. She is a stout person, no beauty it's true, but she is not an ugly woman either. She tore out a pass and filled it in. "For how long?" she asked. "The usual, eh? Same as always." "Be back at 5:00." "Uh-huh." As she was fixing the seal to the pass, I spotted a car coming through the big gate of the hospital. Miss Gao laid the pass on the corner of her desk. "Miss Gao," I addressed her. She turned her head and gazed at me. I gave her another smile. "Here's a patient." She opened the window. A man was being carried in who was shaking all over. His family trailed behind bringing bedding, a wash basin, and a hot water bottle.2 The scene made me sick, but Miss Gao just put on her uniform cloak indolently, affixed a marker at the page she was reading, and shut her magazine. She leaned back against the wall and turned to me: "What are you doing still hanging around?" ... Back to Renditions CD-ROM & PDA |
Research Centre for Translation, The Chinese University of Hong Kong.