Summer: Marcovaldo at the Seaside

Every morning, Marcovaldo sat waiting for the bus in front of the illuminated advertisement at the bus stop. This morning, the housing development advertisement, which had never had anything to do with him, was gone. In its place was a man surfing down a wave like an enormous, thick wall of blue-green glass, his back reflected in its side. Marcovaldo stared, entranced, until his nose touched the lightbox. He heard the rustle of waves turning to foam as they crossed the sand, and Shenzhen’s damp, musty air took on a faint smell of sea salt. And so a beach that did not exist moved into Marcovaldo’s head. Even the vicious midday glare outside the warehouse, which made everything blurry and sticky and plastered his underpants against his thighs, became Hawaiian sunshine falling on a surfer’s cheeks, accompanied by a sea breeze. When he carried long, flat packages, he would even feel that beneath the dull cardboard lay a brightly colored surfboard. That day he worked overtime until nine. White light shone inside the advertisement, and a brown moth, drawn to it, stood on the surfing man’s nose. Below the moth was a gecko as long as a middle finger, watching it, its soft belly pressed against the glass like a white piece of tofu. When Marcovaldo got home, the children were nearly ready for bed. Michelino was leafing through a book he had borrowed from school. Marcovaldo said excitedly, “Let’s go to the seaside! We can surf there. National Day is almost here, and we’ll have several days off!” The children did not understand. “Dad, what’s surfing?” “Surfing is when you stand on a board, called a surfboard, and slide down a wave really fast…” “How fast? As fast as a roller coaster? Where will we get a surfboard? Are you going to buy us one?” At this, Marcovaldo remembered all the debts he had to repay that month, and felt as though something had gripped his heart tight. Over the next few days, Marcovaldo’s gaze strayed a little from the red-whiskered bulbuls perched in the frangipani trees each morning, and began searching for anything that might serve as a surfboard. That enormous piece of foam probably would not sink, but it would certainly snap. If only it were thicker. This bench might work too, with its legs taken off, but the boss would probably notice a bench missing from the canteen. Marcovaldo thought about this as he walked home. He passed an abandoned building about to be demolished, and stopped to look at it. It reminded him of the ancient castle occupied by a vampire on the cover of Michelino’s book. But the hunger in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten dinner, and he walked on. Before he had taken two more steps, he remembered a half-open door behind one of the building’s broken windows, and an image rose in his mind: a flat piece of driftwood floating quietly on deep blue water that reflected the sun. Marcovaldo rushed into the building and up to the door. It was two heads taller than he was, but only a palm’s width wider than his shoulders, just narrow enough for him to reach his hands around both sides. He stroked the door. The dense flakes of peeling white paint were nothing like the coarse skin of someone with psoriasis. They were more like scales on a water dragon’s back, with the gentle roughness of the tallest old tree in a forest. Before long, he was walking through the night drenched in sweat, a battered wooden door tucked under his right arm, panting like a champion who had just come ashore in a surfing competition. In October, Marcovaldo had just finished an extra spell of overtime. He came home to find the children too excited to sleep. “We’re finally going to see the sea…” Marcovaldo glanced at the wooden door lying beside the bed and fell asleep. The next day, carrying the door under his arm, he walked along a path dappled with sunlight beneath the trees. The children followed one after another, now and then brushing the weeds by the path with their feet. At the stop, they watched the surfer in the beach advertisement together as they waited for the bus. He did not know how much time had passed before the bus, swaying back and forth as it stopped and started, brought Marcovaldo’s thoughts back to the tiny space in front of him. The hard plastic seat was pressing on his tailbone too. He looked ahead. A centipede forged from steel and engine oil lay on the road, breathing hot gas. Every segment had a pair of blinking red eyes, and from its rumbling breath a shrill cry would occasionally escape. Its head was nowhere to be seen. It coiled around the earth. Marcovaldo caught sight of a road sign: they had only just reached Yantian. “Dad, Dad, we’ve been sitting here forever. I need to pee!” “Dad, all this rocking makes my stomach feel funny. Why is that…” “Dad, when will we get there?” “Be patient! Have a little sleep. Think about where we’re going. We’ll be there soon.” Frowning, Marcovaldo leaned against the vibrating glass and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the centipede was gone. Above the horizon was a huge, moss-covered hand gripping the deep blue sky. Below that deep blue sky was a pale blue sea, like water melted from a glacier. The sun made the sea sparkle, but much of it was blocked from view, leaving it narrow and flat. Marcovaldo thought of the clear bands bakeries used to wrap their exquisite cakes. Outside the window, the sea breeze lifted the hem of a pink dress on a roadside clothesline. Marcovaldo pulled the door closer, tight against his calf. The bus doors opened, and a blurring wave of heat struck him. For the first time, Marcovaldo looked at the world below the high bus seats and windows. Children’s chatter and screams, parents calling, and occasional arguments mingled with the smell of sweat, dust, and sand, lingering between the noses and ears of those queuing to buy tickets and those about to join the queue. Everyone walked quickly, scrambling to join while preserving a little dignity. In the queue, each person’s chest and belly pressed against the back of the person ahead, their arms stuck to the arms in front, their eyes clearly taking in the beads of sweat, pores, and hair roots on the neck before them. Marcovaldo stood in the queue, dazed as a jellyfish. Whenever someone behind him pushed, he moved a step forward. His children, bewildered in the gaps between the adults’ buttocks, could only look up at their father in hope and supplication. At the beach, half the people were on the sand and half in the sea. Those on the sand were packed together, and those in the sea were packed together too, like sardines in a can. With the door on his shoulder, Marcovaldo searched for sand between people’s bodies. He stepped onto a small patch of cool, damp sand, and a wave turning to foam touched his ankles. “Children, watch me!” Marcovaldo shouted. Tucking his surfboard under his arm, he rushed toward the sea in what he imagined was the most correct posture. The water covered the tops of his feet, then his calves, his knees, and his thighs. The upper layer of seawater was warm, the lower layer icy cold. Pushing his surfboard, Marcovaldo jogged laboriously through the water to meet his first wave. “Attention, visitors. Attention, visitors. Owing to rough conditions at sea, with forecast waves exceeding two feet, all visitors must come ashore immediately.” The shrill announcement rang out through the loudspeakers. Marcovaldo stopped and looked woodenly toward the beach. Watching the herd of migrating wildebeest in the water move toward shore, he found himself looking for their leader. Marcovaldo stood on the shore. The beach was even more crowded.