Free The Good Women of China: Hidden Voices by Xinran Page B

sorry, I just wanted to listen to you singing, you sing really well!’
    ‘Really? Xinran, do you like that song?’
    ‘Yes, yes! I like it a lot. I’m very fond of both the words and the tune, especially late at night. It’s like a perfectly composed picture.’
    ‘Can you sing it?’
    ‘A little, not well. I can’t seem to convey its flavour.’
    ‘You radio people are funny. You make words live, but can’t sing. What’s the flavour of a song then? Sweet? Sharp? Bitter?’
    ‘Excuse me, but how should I address you?’
    ‘You all call us scavenger women, don’t you? I think that’s a good way to address us, so just call me Scavenger Woman. Scavenger Woman is just right for me.’
    ‘Isn’t that a little inappropriate?’
    ‘Don’t worry about it, Xinran. Just call me Scavenger Woman “A”, “B” or “C”. It doesn’t matter. So you were just listening to me singing to myself. Was there nothing else you wanted?’
    ‘No, I was just passing on my way home after the programme. When I heard you singing that Russian folk song, I thought it was a bit out of the ordinary. Excuse me, but may I ask you how it is that you know it?’
    ‘My husband taught me the song; he studied in Russia.’
    The Scavenger Woman did not say much more, or invite me inside her castle, but I did not mind, for the Russian song had given me a small key to her memories.
    After our conversation that night, the Scavenger Woman did not show any particular warmth when she saw me again. My mind was buzzing with questions: Her husband had been a student abroad, so how had she drifted into this life as a scavenger? Her speech and gestures were so refined – what sort of family did she come from? What kind of education had she had? Did she have children? If so, where were they?
    Not long after that, as New Year was approaching, I went on a reporting trip to Beijing. A friend at Radio Beijing suggested a visit to the Lufthansa Centre, a shopping mall that sold famous foreign branded goods. I spotted a box of Russian liqueur chocolates. It was expensive, but I decided to buy it anyway. My friend tutted at my ignorance: the best liqueur chocolates were Swiss, who had ever heard of Russian liqueur chocolates? But I wanted to buy them for the Scavenger Woman. I felt sure that someone who could sing a Russian folk song so well would appreciate them.
    On my return from Beijing, I could not stop myself from going straight to the scrap castle instead of heading home first. Before I knocked on the Scavenger Woman’s door, I hesitated. The Chinese say, ‘In this world, there is no love without a reason, there is no hate without a cause.’ How could I explain the thought behind my gift to her, when I could not explain it to myself?
    The Scavenger Woman took the box respectfully in both hands, deeply moved. Normally impassive, she was clearly shaken by the sight of the chocolates. She told me that her husband had loved this type of liqueur chocolates – just as I had guessed, people of that generation thought the best things were Soviet – and that she had not seen them for more than thirty years.
    Calm gradually returned to her face, and at last she asked why I had given her such an expensive gift.
    ‘Because we are both women, and I want to hear your story,’ I said with a frankness that surprised myself.
    ‘. . . All right then!’ The Scavenger Woman seemed to have come to a momentous decision. ‘But not here, there are no walls here. Nobody, least of all a woman, would allow everyone to see the scars on their breast.’
    We walked to a small hill in the botanical gardens, where only the trees and I could hear the Scavenger Woman’s tale.
    Her story was fragmented. She did not expand on causes or consequences, and I got the strong impression that she was still unwilling to put her experiences fully on display. Her words only opened the box that she enclosed herself in, but did not lift the veil from her face.
    As a young man, the