The Playful Ducks

After the Russian poet, Mr. Elroy Shanko, who was blind, arrived in Beijing with his six-stringed lyre, he soon complained to me,

“Lonely, so lonely, a loneliness akin to that of a desert!”

His words likely reflect a profound truth, yet I, having grown accustomed to the city, have not felt this solitude. Instead, I find Beijing to be quite bustling. However, the very noise I perceive might be the loneliness he speaks of.

It seems to me that in Beijing, spring and autumn are but a fleeting moment. The old-timers say that the climate has shifted northward, making it warmer than before. But I still feel that there is no spring or autumn here; winter and summer are a seamless transition, with one ending just as the other begins.

One evening, at the cusp of spring and summer, I found myself with some free time and decided to visit Mr. Elroy Shanko. He was staying with the Zhongmi family, and at that hour, the household was fast asleep, the world around us quiet. He was leaning on his couch, his prominent eyebrows slightly furrowed, lost in thought about his homeland, reminiscing about the enchanting nights of Burma.

“On nights like these,” he said, “Burma is filled with music. In the rooms, among the grass, on the trees, insects sing, creating a symphony of sounds, utterly magical. The occasional hiss of a snake weaves through the melody: ‘Hiss!’ yet it blends seamlessly with the chorus of insects…” He was lost in thought, yearning for those memories.

I was at a loss for words. Such enchanting melodies are foreign to Beijing’s soundscape, and despite my patriotism, I couldn’t justify their absence. His vision may be impaired, but his hearing is not.

“But not even the croak of a frog graces Beijing’s nights…” he sighed wistfully.

“There is the croaking of frogs!” His lament stirred my courage to retort, “After heavy summer rains, you’ll hear the chorus of toads, echoing from the city’s numerous ditches.”

“Oh…”

A few days later, my assertion was validated when Mr. Elroy Shanko acquired over a dozen tadpoles, which he released into a small pond in the courtyard outside his window. The pond, measuring three feet by two, was excavated by Zhongmi with the intention of cultivating lotus flowers. Though no lotus blossoms have ever emerged, it serves as an ideal habitat for toads.

The tadpoles swam in unison, and Mr. Elroy Shanko often strolled over to observe them. Occasionally, a child would inform him, “Mr. Elroy Shanko, they’ve sprouted legs!” His face would light up with a joyful smile, exclaiming, “Oh!”

Yet, fostering the pond’s musicians was but one of Mr. Elroy Shanko’s endeavors. A proponent of self-sufficiency, he frequently advocated that while women could engage in animal husbandry, men ought to till the soil. Thus, he would persuade close friends to cultivate cabbages in their courtyards and often advised Mrs. Zhongmi to raise bees, chickens, pigs, cows, and camels. Consequently, the Zhongmi household soon teemed with chicks, darting about the yard and pecking at the tender leaves of the ground cover, likely a direct result of his counsel.

The vendor of chicks began to frequent the house, bringing a few more with each visit, as chicks are prone to digestive issues and have a short life expectancy. Tragically, one chick became the protagonist in Mr. Elroy Shanko’s sole Beijing novel, “The Tragedy of the Chick.” One morning, the vendor unexpectedly brought ducklings, which quacked softly, but Mrs. Zhongmi declined to purchase them. Mr. Elroy Shanko emerged from his residence, and the vendor placed one in his hands. The duckling quacked endearingly, prompting Mr. Elroy Shanko to buy four, each costing eighty coins.

The ducklings were indeed adorable, their bodies a fluffy yellow, waddling about and calling to each other, always staying together. Everyone agreed they were delightful, and it was suggested to buy loaches to feed them the next day. Mr. Elroy Shanko offered to cover the expense, saying, “This money can also be mine.”

He then left to teach, and the others dispersed. Shortly after, when Mrs. Zhongmi came to feed them with leftover rice, she heard splashing from a distance. Upon investigation, she discovered that the four ducklings were frolicking in the lotus pond, somersaulting and feeding, turning the water murky. Once they were guided back to shore, the pond, after settling, revealed several thin lotus roots, but not a single tadpole with legs was to be found.

“Yi and Xi Ke are gone, the son of the toad,” the youngest child reported to Mr. Elroy Shanko upon his return in the evening.

“Ah, the toad?”

Mrs. Zhongmi also emerged to recount the tale of the ducklings consuming the tadpoles.

“Alas, alas…”

As the ducklings shed their yellow down, Mr. Elroy Shanko suddenly yearned for his “Russian Motherland” and hastened to Chita.

When the chorus of frogs resounded, the ducklings had grown, two white and two speckled, no longer quacking softly but proclaiming their presence with a “Quack Quack.” The lotus pond was no longer sufficient for their activities, but fortunately, the Zhongmi residence was situated in a low-lying area. When the summer rains fell, the courtyard would accumulate water, providing the ducks with a delightful place to swim, dive, flap their wings, and quack.

Now, transitioning from late summer to early winter, there is still no word from Mr. Elroy Shanko, and his whereabouts remain unknown.

Only the four ducks remain, their “Quack Quack” echoing in the desert-like expanse.

(October 1922.)