Original by 老莫, translation by yours truly
It was 11PM when A landed in New York. He found B's apartment following directions from a father's friend, but now felt a slight hesitation upon knocking as he heard the rapid panting penetrating through the door from within. Guilelessly, he decided to grab a drink from a local bar to pass the time. Sip by sip he drained his whiskey, glanced at his watch, and ordered a second round. Drunkards still lingered at the bar when he stood to leave, but the streets outside had already emptied. It was 3AM by this time, and B's window was dark. Inwardly A hoped he wasn't yet asleep, for otherwise that would surely muddle what could potentially be a joyous reunion.
B lived in a shabby complex that may or may not have ever seen better days. The unlit corridor, darker than starless nights, stank of mold and cold cigarettes. He was bleary-eyed as he opened the door, his unbuttoned jeans clearly pulled on only seconds before, loose belt clicking as it swung. A could not make out his brother's face, but the smell of smoke and alcohol wafting out stirred at once his memory of B's hands, a spicy yet arresting scent. He did not laugh at this moment in time. He simply said, "B. It's me."
Farther inside the apartment a yellow lamp seeped into the darkness, followed by a man's voice, slurred yet deep, like ice water on hot stone. That distant voice called, "B, who is it?" Seemingly hadn't heard, B blocked the entrance as he leaned against the doorframe to gaze upon A: "Why did you come." No warmth in his voice, and not a question.
"Father passed," A said.
B lowered his head, silent for a moment. "Let's talk outside," he turned as he finally spoke, tightening his belt as he walked back to the bedroom. A remained at the entrance, gazing inside as the strip of warm light was abruptly cut by the slammed bedroom door. He looked away, his hands in his pockets. A weakly blinking light from the TV stand and his white breath were the only visible things.
All of this felt nostalgic to him. B, standing alone, winter night, and wordless silence.
A heard conversation traversing the walls from within, low hums slowing rising to the pitch of argument, a beast abandoning its den upon awakening from hibernation.
B threw the door shut as he walked out, avoiding the sound of broken glass trailing him by a beat. A fire held close to his face briefly defined his features, albeit no expression worthy of description was worn. Cigarette in mouth and buttoning up his thin flannel shirt, he nodded at A.
A said, "It's cold out."
B gave him a sidelong glance as he cocked his head, exhaling smoke through his smile. He hurried down the stairs ahead of A.
-
The bar was still open, apparently with 24-hour service. It gave off a vibe in tune with its "Old Mariner" store sign.
B was familiar with the barista, yelling a greeting from across the room. A chose a booth close to the window as B asked, "What'd you get?"
"Whiskey," he said as he removed his coat.
B walked toward the bar: "Two whiskeys."
The barista smiled. "That your brother? When he came at first I thought he's you, but you're not alike. I'm talking certain aspects."
B mumbled a vague reply and returned with their drinks.
And thus they now sat, across from each other, less than an arm's length apart - two identical faces, both expressionless, both impressively nonchalant. They had long since grown past the age where such resemblance amused them, so familiar they were with how one's eyelids folded, how many freckles adorned the other's nose, how one's lips contracted when he talked, how the other's eyes betrayed secrets when his mouth was closed. This tacit understanding was not a force that wore down with friction over time; it was a machination that not only stood beyond, but also had the capacity to reverse time's flow by second by second, year by year.
They both resented this feeling.
To see them facing each other thus would provoke curiosity in any onlooker. Never mind the lack of words exchanged - just sitting together, like so, they already were the image of an endless story.
Of all mirrored features, their twin eyes commanded the most attention. Blue like the sheen of glass, callous if held in direct contact, morose if caught looking away. A's eyes were caustic yet indifferent, bland and rational, passionless like mountain peak snow. As if to make up for the dictator's grimness in those eyes, his lips were perpetually locked in a tender smile. In contrast, B's eyes were lax and misted, as if about to break into laughter or tears without warning, as if carried away, as if drunk before the first drop ever touched a lip.
B reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, then raised a wrist to support his chin. His eyes traveled up and down A spontaneously, and crow's feet spread from the corner of his eyes like a fisherman's net. His lips held the cigarette inert as his voice rumbled from his throat: "A. I thought the next time I get to see you would have to be at my own funeral."
"How've you been?" A lowered his eyes to focus on a missing button on B's shirt, avoiding his eyes. Separation had made facing his brother exacting.
"First class. I have a place to live, a nice big bed, plenty of beer and weed, and endless men to fuck. You?" B shifted, his finger tapping against his glass, his eyes narrowed as if unconcerned. "I heard you got married."
"I divorced."
"Good news always come last!"
A was not perturbed, as if used to this.
"So, it's been what - ten? eleven? how many years again?" B knotted his eyebrows to think as he pulled out another two cigarettes. "Sixteen! That's right, first we've met in sixteen years. Should we celebrate?" He offered a cigarette to A, but A shook his head. B withdrew with his head down, chuckling: "How did that saying go, back home? 'You can change which way the sun goes up, but you can't change your brother.'"
"I came here because--"
"Of course, how can I forget. For you to come find me, there's always got to be something. Something big. Old man's dead."
"Yes."
"And? He inviting his disowned son here to drink a toast down under?"
"His funeral is in four days. I already have lawyers and pastors taking care of everything, I just want you there in attendance with me. There are also matters concerning the will."
"I don't want anything, it's all completely yours." B leaned back into the chair, talking with open disinterest.
"Listen, A. His damned house, damned car, damned farm, damned floor tiles, bowls, coffee mugs - I don't want a thing. I don't want to even see them, that's my disposition. So you can just go ahead and hop onto your return flight, and I won't even blame you for going bad on your word in coming to see me, accidentally I'm sure." He put out his cigarette on the table and gave a low hack. His voice did not share the agitation of his words, easy and deeply smooth in contrast, if a bit dry. A couldn't help but wonder whether B had had vocal cord surgery done, for in memory he had always had a higher-pitched voice suitable for a belligerent half-pint. But the past was, after all, no longer a fair measure of the present. It had been sixteen years.
"But," B winked with a grin, "if I'm getting paid to show up, I'd be more than happy to go."
"How much do you need?"
"Eight thousand." B's smile turned sweetly vicious. "Cash."
"I don't have that much on hand. You'll have to wait until I get to a bank."
"That means you agreed?"
"Yes."
"It's sometimes not so bad to have a brother you can't stand, right A?"
"I've already purchased the return flight to Denver, 2 PM."
"No, A, I hate flights. I hate the idea of being chucked through airmail, especially along with you."
A sighed. He had never been known for having a good temper, and he would rather believe that the patience he exhibited now was skin-deep only. He composed himself with the thought that this was B's manner of expressing "Good brother, haven't seen you in so long." Handling B had always given him headaches.
"Hey A, are you cursing at me in your head again? I have a better idea. Let's drive."
"I don't have a car here."
"What luck! Me neither." B stood and headed for the exit. "Come on, let's get one. I've my eyes set on this one car for the longest time."
A picked up his coat, left money on the table, and followed out.
At B's door he ran into a short-haired man, whom A guessed was the person inside from earlier. In the dim light A could not make out his features, but he flashed a smile at A and stuffed a paper slip into his hand: "Call me." He slid past A and disappeared down the stairs whilst pulling on his jacket.
A walked in. Lights were out and he could not tell where B was. He heard B's voice lazily drifting out from farther inside: "Hey A, light switch's behind the door. The lamp in here broke."
Light flashed on as if the stage was set.
"Look what that sonofabitch did." B pointed to his floor, the total image of a break-in crime scene. "What a temper, huh. Took my money, my cigs, my clothes, even - and then trashes my entire place before bidding farewell. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. But, guess what? Let's see...let's see whether he was a real genius." B pulled out a cigarette from his shirt. "Looks like this is my last one. Suddenly very meaningful, isn't it?" He took a few drags as he sat on the edge of his bed, then suddenly picked a knife off the floor and stabbed away at a corner of his mattress. He reached his hand in and suddenly laughed, pulling out and waving something in A's direction: "But he couldn't find my weed!"
A stood at the door, frowning at the crumpled paper bits, pillow fluff, broken glass and destroyed guitar splinters littering the floor.
"Let's go, A." B hoisted a grayish corduroy jacket of unknown original color from the floor, stuffing the weed into his pockets. "Let's go," he repeated, kicking up an iron pot along the way.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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