TO TRAIN A TIGER

TO TRAIN A TIGER

A man, his family, and a ferocious beast in a tale of wonder and loss

在他看似塵埃落定的生活里，沒(méi)有什么力量會(huì)真的被馴服

1

The newcomer was a Bengal tiger.

He took the liberty of naming her Bangladesh. After a tiresome day of training, he led her back to the cage. He took the bus home, had dinner, checked his daughter's homework, andwatched the news on TV. The arrival of a tiger hadn't really affected his routine.

Turning off the TV, he crept quietly to bed, expecting Meiyun to have fallen asleep.

“If she and I were both drowning, which one would you save?”

What was this persistent calcified thorn in her heart? It usually happened when the midnight deep sleep began to dawn on them. She began to ramble like a drunk. Her broad skeleton grew fragile with age in the day, but when the night fell, she became like a fish experiencing a growth spurt, stretching rapidly, sharply, and rebelliously. He was astonished at her energetic inquiries, but he knew that it was due to an overtly prolific imagination. This time, the question caught him off guard, like an arrow in the dark flying through his spine. He often faced away from her, afraid that if he turned he would get a glimpse of that eerie white skeleton.

He wanted to divert his mind and began to picture a piece of raw meat the Bengal tiger ate that day. It was a palm-sized slab of meat with veins all over it. He wondered if, when the Bengal tiger was devouring it, she would try to pick out the non-existent bone with her sharp spine-covered tongue. He told himself: “Remember to do a physical check up on Bangladesh tomorrow.”

But who on earth did Meiyun's “if” question refer to? Is it his daughter who almost drowned in her mother's amniotic fluid many years ago? Is it his estranged mother or the lover he had five years into their marriage? As a matter of fact, he was not even sure the person she spoke of was a “she”. Unclear. He wanted to turn around, but he decided to lay on his back. He stroked his forehead along the wide frontal bone to the top, where his hair grew thinner and softer; it wasn't really something to complain about; after all, he still had his hair in his late 30s, albeit mixed with early an gray. He was tempted to knock on his forehead, just to hear the sound. How is it now? Ah, at least there's an echo. However, afraid of producing an empty thud and waking her—the dormant fish now still and firm like a church—he decided to keep resting against her leg, listening to her peaceful snoring, a noise that resembled the sound of a broken bell.

The next day, after the check-up, he led the Bengal tiger out of the iron cage. The day's objective was to swim. He went in the water and started to train her in a swimming routine. This tiger could dive. He guided her movements with a piece of meat tied on a rope and led it through the water on curved path with carefully controlled pace and rhythm. She showed a great talent for swimming and moved like a sea monster. Bangladesh looked every bit the tiger she was despite being in water. The entire process was recorded on the pool camera.

WU CHUN

吳純

Wu Chun was fresh out of college when she won one of the most prestigious Chinese literary awards, the 34th Taiwan United Daily Literary Prize “Judges' Choice” with “To Train a Tiger”. Literary critics praised the story for its variation on stream of consciousness and its creative structure and narrative. Wu Chun is currently a journalist at Cultural Weekend, a newspaper in Dongguan, Guangdong Province, and is preparing upcoming works.

WlTH EVERY RlSE AND FAll OF HER CHEST, HER MUSClES TWlTCHED AND HER EVERY HEAVY BREATH lET OUT A SPlTTlE OF SAllVA

At lunch, he didn't send the tiger to the visiting area. Instead, he brought a bag of meat to where the creature was resting bythe pool licking its fur. Catching a whiff of the meat, the tiger suddenly turned, staring at him with her sharp eyes. With every rise and fall of her chest, her muscles twitched and her every heavy breath let out a spittle of saliva.

This was a tiger in heat. Having no partner added to her endless anxiety. Heat radiated from her pores and sweat poured off of her body. Captured by those turquoise blue eyes, the trainer felt his heart was being strangled. He couldn't help admiring her tense muscles and tendons, as well as the symmetrical, triangle-shaped, striped head. It's a beauty that has to be expressed by roaring. He didn't dare move too quickly. He was well aware that, in the blink of an eye, the tiger could jump at him and tear him to pieces. He grabbed a piece of meat from the plastic bag, tossed it 10 meters away and stood witness at the incredible pounce: a jump frozen in time, with her body elegantly stretching its stunning stripes.

The tiger's attention was entirely focused on food. He watched as she tore the pork fillet apart ruthlessly, its primal instincts and intuition to hunt unleashed on piece after piece of dead meat. They eat, sleep, and mate—all brutal but reasonable. Are not men animals as well?

He lay by the pool, head resting on the light green square mica stairs, hair wet. Bangladesh finished chewing and began to pace along the pool. When she quietly passed by him, he stared into her ice-blue eyes in the shining sunlight. This time, his heart was empty of terror. The tiger crouched on the ground just a meter away. She leisurely faced the pool, but her heavy breath, undulating spine, and pheromones mixed with hot air alarmed him. He stretched his limbs. Seen from a distance, he looked like brown-skinned prey that had been crudely torn apart. He traced Bangladesh's shadow on the glazed tile, which remained cold and quiet despite a gust of wind. The combined shadows intertwined in the water—the tiger seemed to walk right into his body.

He slept calmly as if he was nestling beside a domesticated cat. A breeze swiftly skimmed the water to his cheeks. His bulging eardrum was struck with a buzzing. The smell of chlorine in the pool rose along the glazed tile, inducing dreams of hospitals, balconies, and medical powders to treat animal ailments. He also dreamt about an afternoon fit for a football game when he was a student. Freshly washed by his girlfriend and hung on the balcony to dry, his football shirt flapped in the wind. It was a piece of white cloth printed with a number for a strong, young body. He shivered; the pool's cool wind was icy.

He learned to train animals from an uncle who used to visit his family on the weekend. The uncle trained monkeys in a village circus and used to bring writing brushes made of a lock of monkey hair, shuttlecocks, and various other toys. It was magical. Of all his classmates, he alone had toys made of monkey hair. His uncle was a thick man with what seemed at the time like tens of thousands of monkeys under his command, much like the Monkey King he as a boy so admired. He loved his uncle's monkeys, giving up inheriting the family business, a store, to follow his uncle to the village.

The “Monkey King” passed away two years ago. He learned everything he knew about training monkeys from him. However, the monkeys in the zoo were not up for any performances. He had to start as a zookeeper for large animals. Bangladesh woke up, hovered over him, suddenly slashing out with a deadly strike at his belly. She then set her teeth deep into his throat; its spiky tongue coarsely cutting open his face. The tiger leisurely torn off a piece of brown skin, smelling the blood while the intestines tumbled out like a pile of plastic bubbles.

The dream woke him. The tiger rumbled and threw herself into the water. The splash hit his forehead and eyes. He cried out loudly and jumped to his feet.

2

He was watching a video in front of the computer when his daughter came by.

“Is it a swimming tiger?”

“She's a newcomer named Bangladesh.”

“You guys are so cruel.”

“Why?” he said, looking at his daughter.

“Tigers can't swim,” she stared at him and said. “You taught it swimming and let it perform alone. It won't be happy like that.”

His daughter was only 10, a carefree and airy age. Even her strides seemed to foolishly match her childish arm movements. “When can I see the performance?”She changed the subject, forgetting her earlier sympathy. They sat together in front of the computer screen, watching the tiger swim.

From time to time, she threw out questions like “Is its mommy a tiger who can swim?” “Do their bellies look like balloons when they hold their breath?” “If themommy tiger gave birth to 10 tigers, only one of them could swim, how many tigers can't swim?”

He held her on his lap and slowed down the play speed. The Bengal tiger on the screen became a striped butterfly in slow motion. She watched her feeding without any sign of fear. The last frame froze at a close-up shot of the tiger's fierce stare.

“The mommy tiger gave birth to a little tiger that can swim, and there are nine other little tigers that can't swim. Of course, she will give birth to more tigers in the future.”

“What about the daddy tiger? Can he swim?”

“I have no idea.”

“Dad, what is a secret birth?”

His chin was against her soft brown hair. The slow motion allowed the tiger's moves be broken down, which was even more terrifying than real time. But it wasn't the tiger that shocked him. Her innocent question gave him chills down his spine, a horrifying feeling with this warm, soft little thing in his embrace. It felt like that afternoon, when the chlorine infused football shirt flapped in the wind, was always doomed.

“Some bad kid said it. You don't know what that is, do you?” She reached out to turn off the video, “Why don't you take us to the live show? I can't see you in the video.”

“Will you?” she lifted her head and rubbed her tired eyes with her hand. Her little eyes, which once were filled with clown balloons and goldfish, was full of the images of Bangladesh. She had never seen a real tiger before. For her, a tiger was probably the same thing as Tigger in the Disney cartoon or the raccoon on the biscuit box. The black screen reflected the cuddling father and daughter. A few years ago, when they went out together, people commented on how much she looked like her father. But lately, everyone believes her to look more and more like Meiyun. He tapped her nose and forehead—a carbon copy of his own bone structure. His skin was gradually loosening, like it was falling off. There would be a day when he would wear his brown skin like that loose football shirt, wandering the street. A woman would come up and recognize him as her father. All the bystanders would turn around and confirm—indeed, it is her father. They'd stand comparing appearances: the same facial features with his body curling up like an autumn leaf and her fuzzy young cheeks shining with faint traces of sweat. Even though his skin would grow coarse and weak, he wanted this image of father and daughter together; he didn't want anything else.

She fell into a deep sleep and snored softly. He carried her to her little bed as always. Growing up, she became very attached to the bed and couldn't sleep well anywhere else. That bed had been holding her thin and small body ever since, as if it was a tree that had grown into her body, but the relationship was probably more like a soothing cradle to an infant.

“May the tiger stay out of your dreams,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.

MONKEY PERFORMANCES WERE OUTDATED, SO ONE MORNlNG, WlTH A lONG CRY FROM THE AlPHA MAlE, All THE MONKEYS WERE SET FREE TO WANDER THE THlCK FOREST

3

He once again recalled his monkey-training uncle in the country.

He opened a drawer and dug out an old photo album at the bottom. Inside, there was a photo of them together. His uncle was a hairy man with dark skin and high cheek bones—much like a huge monkey himself. In the photo, his uncle rested one hand on his shoulders—an intimate gesture between father and son. In his other hand, he held a monkey leash. The background was an artificial hill garden, the kingdom of tens of thousands of monkeys. Uncle's face darkened in his final years. He looked more like a respectable Monkey King, but after his hand was broken by a monkey, he gave up managing them, just strolling among the phony hills. Some of the monkeys shied away from him, some threw fruit peels directly at him. He stood among them in silence, witnessing the monkeys growing into alphas, breeding, and aging. With the ghostly shadow of the Monkey King, uncle walked among them, assuming the role of a guardian-at-leisure until the day he died.

“Monkeys understand human nature,” his uncle once said; he thought his uncle was defending the monkeys.“You have to remember, when you are in society, youhave to learn about tolerance; everyone has their ups and downs, and they will have endless offspring that will change their luck one day. The same goes for both beasts and humans.” He pointed to a new alpha monkey on the rock with a youthful zeal. But it angrily snarled at him and spit in his face.

When his uncle died, the village held the play“Monkey King's Uproar in Heaven”. He would have liked to believe that, when all the monkeys are well cared for, in their free time, they would face the west, chattering about their dead Monkey King.

He turned the page. Monkey performances were outdated, so one morning, with a long cry from the alpha male, all the monkeys were set free to wander the thick forest. He hadn't seen them since, and they became irrelevant to him. Then, his memory wandered.

As he flipped through the album from back to front, his uncle seemed to undergo a magical rejuvenation. Sixty, 40, then 35—he thought about how it was a journey through time. When his uncle was 28, he was just a newborn, wrapped in swaddling and being examined. “Hm, his bone structure is not bad; he can be a tall leading man, definitely leading man material.” He looked up into uncle's eyes and saw a monkey shadow play.

There was a photo of him and Meiyun at the back of the album. She was already three months pregnant at the time. They stood against a pristine background of white clouds and blue ocean with people wandering and fish swimming, coconut trees on the beach.

It was his uncle who dragged him from his peaceful life in the city. “Come, come with me to the village.”Uncle's tall, heavy back was an authority he couldn't disobey. At the time, he thought it was the right decision, too. It was a troubled time for the family: his elder brother and sister-in-law had a second child, violating the one-child policy. The couple fled and hid in the in-laws' house to avoid the familyplanning workers.

With a reputation for being “diligent”, the workers threatened his family; his child-to-be would be born illegal. The words “scapegoat” could induce terror and nightmares in him even now.

Back then, the circus was still open, so he inherited his uncle's duties to make a living. By that time, family planning had made its way to their hidden village. But, because of his uncle's connections, the seniors in the village didn't report him, instead providing him with extra care. The pregnant Meiyun, on the other hand, hated the rural life with a passion. She knew very well that she wasn't meant for it. She sat by the dark kerosene lamp, constantly complaining. The morning sickness and night sweats almost pushed her over the edge.

He caught her in his harms as if comforting a child, telling her his childhood tales of catching fireflies and stealing watermelons. He told her about the Herd-boy Star and the Weaving-girl Star in the lightless village night sky and the monkeys who tried to rescue the moon. “Monkeys, don't you mention monkeys to me!” She pushed him away sharply.“Don't you know how annoying they are? They sneak into the room, climbing up and down and yelling all the time. They are demons! Why on earth did you breed so many demons?” She screamed with her hands tightly covering her ears. He covered his ears as well, to block out the world.

“The train, you haven't been on a train before,” he said to her one morning. “If you don't want to stay here, let's take the train and leave.”

“I don't want to go anywhere. I just want to go home.”

They got on the train to move back to the city. But on the way, tales of the seriousness of the familyplanning movement shattered his hopes of returning to their real home. Meiyun refused to turn back with a devilish determination.

“Even if I die, I need to get home. I don't care about the child. I won't have it.”

At the transfer station, he realized that her first trip on a train didn't bring her any joy; quite the opposite, it was full of endless arguments and vomiting, as well as fear and terror. He went across the platform to buy her a steamed corn on the cob. When he turned around, Meiyun, who was sitting on a bench, had disappeared.

TROOP AFTER TROOP OF MONKEYS PASSED THROUGH THE HlllSlDE. THEY PAUSED AND GAZED AT HlM WlTH THElR SHARP EYES.

In front of him was the giant steam train, under which railroads extended into a corridor of steel and coal dust. Pathless mountain forests surrounded the area. Did Meiyun run into the forests? He sunk into the bench feeling weak and limp, listening to the whistle of the train hastening him to his doom. The sound resembled the screech of monkeys. Troop after troop of monkeys passed through the hillside. They paused and gazed at him with their sharp eyes. He asked the monkeys in tears: “Did Meiyun follow you into the mountains, or has she already been devoured by a tiger?”

4

Eventually, she gave birth—a baby girl. Meiyun loved her deeply.

5

It was the day of the live show. The stadium was decorated with balloons and colorful stripes. He wore his ordinary blue uniform and his daughter wore a brightly-colored dress, which allowed him to spot her in the audience at a glance. Come, wave to father. She waved her lotus root-like little arms. The Bengal tiger was let out of the iron cage, triggering exclamations. They did a warm-up performance first: fetching a ball, jumping through a hoop. He guided the tiger through a variety of difficult tricks, feeling his blood burn with excitement. The king of all animals was kneeling in front of him. Indeed, he was the real king, forcing the beasts to bow their heads. Though the tiger seemed to still carry the scent and fury of the mountain forest; he grabbed its head, and the tiger didn't resist. It seemed he had crushed the darkness of the mountain forest out of the beast to fill the valley with a pure, bright light. But that was only the reflection of the tiles, he told himself. Finally, there was the grand finale: water. He jumped into the pool with the tiger while the LED screen in the middle of the stadium projected their every move. Everything went really well. The tiger remembered the whole routine and carried it out with perfection. Unlike the absolute control one feels on land, water requires balance and coordination. With the emotional background music, the human-tiger interaction underwater even made some of the viewers cry.

A final move ended the performance: the tiger lunged at him in the water. On land, the audience screamed with surprise, but he only saw his little girl. He wept joyfully in the water and embraced the Bengal tiger.

He climbed out of the pool to receive flowers and applause. His daughter cheerfully pursed her lips as if to keep pronouncing the word “tiger”.

Yes, I showed you the tiger. He waved to her happily. In the next moment, he felt himself collapse, as if from heat stroke—feeling an inexplicable, sharp pain.

In the bleachers, she shouted at him: “Dad, the tiger!”

6

His family was afraid, but he made it through the most critical period. The tiger remained in captivity to await its punishment. However, later he learned that the Bengal tiger received a successful artificial insemination and was secretly sent to another zoo to rest.

“I just don't want you dead,” Meiyun sat at his bedside and passed him a peeled apple.

But he knew her true meaning. When Meiyun was leaning over his hospital bed, dreamily, she said: “So you would save me, right? But you would jump back just to be with her.”

He had no idea what would happen after that jump.- TRANSlATED BY llU JUE (劉玨)

Author's Note:“To Train a Tiger” is a story of a middleaged man reviewing the hidden moments of his past life. For me, it's an attempt to write from an otherwise alien perspective and an opportunity to study the construct of a short story, which is likely to trigger invisible explosions, one after another, in a limited space. To me, writing is the closest thing to absolute freedom.