JUST YIN

 

The shadow constitutes, in essence, the immaterial projection of an illuminated body, a kind of Yin of Yang, the cold and dark side which, if it sometimes feels like it, is blackness where ghosts live. Hence blindness is connoted with shadows, where everything will appear gray to those who physically see. However, the eye only sees the illusory visible, the world of images that today, in cascades, populates the minds of almost everyone.

Hui Ming Yao doesn't see it because he has seen too much. I met him sitting, staring at me in Largo de São Domingos. His gaze was not ashamed to fix itself on me. I only realized he was blind because, when I left his line of sight, his gaze remained fixed. It was the first lesson in humility that Hui gave me that day without us even meeting.

Hui Ming Yao was born in Nanjing, in 1925, shortly before his hometown was transformed into the capital at the will of the nationalists, who were losing control of the country across the board. Hui would later comment separately that Chiang and his were a bunch of pompous cowards who ran away from the Japanese most of the time, looking out for themselves and dragging with them everything they could. Little love for the country, a lot for life, a comment that history records, leaving the revelations that inevitably come to light to the interpretation of the future.

By mid-1937, from the two hundred and fifty thousand souls that inhabited the city ten years earlier, the population had increased to one million, most of them having fled since 1931, from the Japanese armies.

On November 11, 1937, after the occupation of Shanghai, Japanese troops advanced on Nanjing from different directions. On December 9th of that year, the Japanese launched a massive attack on the city, and on the 12th, nationalist Chinese troops decided to withdraw to the other bank of the Yangtze, leaving the then capital unprotected. The following day, terror began to settle among the inhabitants, with the entry of two divisions of the invading army, one through the Guang Hua gate and the other through the Tai Ping gate.

Hui Min Yao commented on what I already knew: that Japanese militarism had returned to its origins, to the caste of arrogant samurai 武士who mistreated their own people, engaged in wars, conspiracies and power games, while the peasant or the merchants were killed at the discretionary whim of these people.

In the afternoon of December 13, 1937, two flotillas, going up and down the Yangtze, completed the occupation of the city. Over the next six weeks, a barbaric procession would begin, which little Yao would attend. From shootings to all types of executions. His father had also been rounded up, suspected of being resistant. After the young man found out about his mother, who was raped to death, he witnessed his father's beheading. One last look of concern for his son, and the saber cuts the head from the body, which falls with a dull thud, the blood from the aortas gushing out, the soldiers with bayonets celebrating yet another feat of their leader. Many more would follow, some from children his age, but what he had seen was too much and, like a blessing from heaven, Yao's eyes stopped seeing, just like that without warning.

Suddenly, at the age of 13, Hui Ming Yao went blind without being touched, his brain refusing to see more horrors than those he had seen. The smell of blood invaded the square, until a friendly hand gently guided him out of the circle of forced spectators, and sneakily led him to an unknown place.

He tells me that his benefactor carried him on his lap or crawled on the floor, giving him what he had to eat. He was a man who appeared strong and whom he later called father. Perhaps he was a peasant or a manual laborer. They spoke in whispers. He remembers traveling in a cart under straw and among sacks of rice. He heard the swaying of the train and the sound of the sea, in a reed. He remembers finally arriving in Macau, where he never left again, and where he learned the profession of herbalist and masseur, while his rescuer and adoptive father worked as a tricycle driver, then in a firecrackers factory, and finally in a tea house. He spoke Cantonese fluently, although, here and there, a certain tone still betrayed his origin.

Hui Ming Yao's face, despite the Macau humidity, is heavily lined. Each wrinkle is a page, the face is a story. The look, vague outward, almost innocent, resembles the lid of a box made for storage, which others are made for showing off. He speaks softly, in a certain cadence, that the words know from the world to which his testimony had sent him, certainly populated by repeated ghosts, shadows of terrible images. He clearly remembers the hard times in Macau, the famine of the years when the invaders were close by.

He told me no, that he never saw anything again, that what he saw was neither black nor white, it just stopped having that meaning. He saw it another way: they were ideas, memories, marks that were read in another part of the brain. However, the profession he had embraced - massages without vision are like secrets without mouths - had allowed him to get to know men. Each contracted muscle had a reason, it was like a mouth speaking to your fingers. Sometimes he found nodules that told him different stories, and in the meantime, his fingers began to gain ears and everything was clear to him, Yao, whose eyes refused to see. Many times he had heard gossip from customers that his fingers contradicted, lies from a bedroom or boasting. After what he had seen before his blindness, nothing surprised him about the human condition. The collected voice, the ears and fingers listening to unequal stories, that the mouth can always lie, but only the mouth. He listened and remained silent like the box he had become, cleaning his hands of the clients' imperfections, after finishing the massage, wondering how he could bear to know so much and remain silent. But if his vision had been definitively closed to the world, he understood that it was up to him to give his mouth and ears the same fate. After all, he just watched, he didn't participate.

Fate had thrown him into violent orphanhood and given him a vision of the darkest part of humanity. He realized that in the face of such a life all that was left for him was acceptance of his destiny. At night he would light incense there in a whisper on Volong Street and on the modest canvas donkey where he slept, he would take his time reciting the amidhaba 阿弥陀佛, trying to ensure that nothing from his past remained attached to the present. The rest, the rest is just Yin.

IN MACAU, BACK IN THE 1940s

Colonel Aniceto Ferreira walked out onto Central Street, breathing the humid air. It was already night. It had been a tiring day at the Command post, but he decided not to go straight home. He had moved into the office and was now wearing a gray linen suit that the laundry man had handed over to the orderly. He dismissed the car, and went down the section that led to Almeida Ribeiro, the main street, looking in passing at the street that led to the Court House.

He bowed his head in a shortt greeting when the Moorish policeman saluted him. At that hour, still not too late, silence was already hovering in that area, illuminated by mercury lamps, with a raw bluish light. The steps, attached to the Post Office building, were empty. The only thing that could be seen, in the distance, were some figures next to the big house on the corner of Travessa de S. Domingos. "More refugees dying of hunger," he thought, as he lit a Lucky Strike, a supply provided by a shadow and which on the black market cost forty patacas.

Putting thoughts and scruples aside, he turned left and entered Almeida Ribeiro. Arriving at the Senate, he looked at the Square and the few parked cars. From a nearby window, an erhu 二胡(1) groaned old stories, while a black car turned right from S. Domingos. Ferreira bit his lip, annoyed at having dismissed the driver.

He quickened his pace by instinct, passed "Soi Cheong" store that was still open. At the door, a young man with bulging eyes greeted him: "Goo night mista." Ferreira greeted him with a wave. There, a stone's throw away, on the other side of the avenue, stood the tallest building in Macau, the Hotel Central owned by Comemanders Kou Ho Neng and Foo Tak Iam, gambling concessionaires through their Tai Heng & Co. 

The Hotel Central 新中央酒店

The Hotel had been built a short distance from the jetty where the "Tai Loi", the "Takshing" and the "Fatshan" docked. Passengers, on the three hours of pleasant journey from Hong Kong, played "pai kao" 牌九 in the main lounges, a kind of Chinese dominoes, indifferent to the historic sea, islands and jellyfish that were visible to those who stayed on deck.

The colonel stopped in front of the entrance to the Hotel Central 新中央酒店. He took a deep breath and solemnly crossed Almeida Ribeiro into the fairytale Art Deco lobby, painted in cream. He got into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. He went up and the opening of the door coincided with the untimely noise of excited people, voices, laughter and other sounds of different emotions. The men at the fan tan 番攤 or tai siu 大小 and gu sek  tables wore wide Chinese trousers and comfortable black felt-soled shoes. Some of them were busy taking from the little baskets, which were suspended from the upstairs balconies, the money for the bets shouted from above. He walked around, saw few acquaintances, everything was in order. He watched the security guards in their tunics, pistols carefully concealed, fanning themselves on wide brown paper fans and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

Traditional Chinese gaming at the Hotel Central tables

Aniceto Ferreira was in the heart of Macau's nightlife, which, despite the surrounding war, did not stop.

Among the various refugees nestled here, from Hong Kong, Shanghai, Zhong Shan 鐘山 and Foshan 佛山, who entered through the Border Gates before they were closed by the Japanese. There were also Russians and White Russians, who had fled the far North for a long time, on unspeakable trajectories of survival. How all these people lived was, in most cases, unknown. The Government welcomed those it could. Women of war, in order to survive, converged on nightlife venues, be they beauties from Shanghai or Vladivostok. Others dedicated themselves to tasks of respectable professions. The anonymous of the anonymous were starving to death in corners, giving up the fight, exhausted from so much running away.

The city was a silent swarm of suffering people. The local population, compassionate but impotent, tried to help as much as they could, sharing the expendable.

Ferreira went back to the elevator, waited, and this time, pressed the button for the fifth floor. He stepped out into another atmosphere. A brass orchestra played the songs in vogue. He was approached by a young woman who offered him tickets, cards that allowed the buyer to partner with the dancers who could be seen sitting or dancing on the floor. The rest was adjusted during the dance.

He looked from the small foyer to the hall. It wasn't too late, but Japanese officers were already there drinking mao tai 茅台, accompanied by ladies who filled their glasses. Farther off to the right, he glimpsed two tables with Chinese people, some wearing traditional clothes, others, their black hair shiny with brilliantine, dressed in Western style. Ferreira regretted being alone, without any of his most knowledgeable agents in the field. It seemed that all the conflicting factions had converged there, in the oasis of truces, even so fragile, that was Macao. He couldn't tell the difference between the Kuomintang 國民黨 and the Communists 共產. Those of the triads he already knew that they wore short traditional chinese jackets and wide pants. All this crossed his mind in a few seconds. Now he couldn't back out, he had to go in.

He stopped by the Japanese officers' table. He lit a cigarette, but he burned himself with the match and grimaced. One of the Japanese officers smiled, opened his gunto 軍刀(2) with his left hand and, showing a piece of the blade, ran his finger, smiling all the time. Without looking away from Ferreira, he dripped the blood on the mao tai 茅台 and drank. He raised his glass and, amid the laughter of the others, shouted kampai 乾杯 (3). The colonel felt the blood rise in his face, he averted his eyes and walked away towards the tables on the right, where the occupants had become tense looking at the Japanese. Ferreira swallowed the provocation, knowing that any response would be a short fuse to a confrontation. There were Japanese collaborators, there were triads, everyone was there. That was a powder keg packed to the sound of an orchestra. In 1941 the Americans entered the war, in 1943 the Japanese had broken the neutrality of Macao, crossing the Border Gate, in an attempt to seize a British merchant ship. The Portuguese police confronted them, but they caused 20 casualties and Macao was forced to become a Japanese protectorate, with officers seconded as advisers. Ferreira hated them to the core.

He sat at an empty table. He downed the Portuguese brandy he'd ordered in one gulp and thought it wise not to take extreme positions. Restraint had taken a toll on his ego, but at least he wouldn't regret it. He was certain that the allies would win. Pearl Harbor had been in 1941 and it was now 1944.

Silva's sudden appearance in the salon interrupted Aniceto Ferreira's thoughts. He seemed to be looking for someone, but having found the boss, he walked towards him, always with the same expression. Silva was born and raised in Macao and, in the police, he was one of his most trusted men. Silva knew all the intricacies, knew how to distinguish the factions, recognised the hierarchies of the sects, understood the night where everything happened.

Silva, asking for permission, sat down. There weren't too many formalities required. Ferreira asked if there was any news.

"If you'll excuse me, I suggest we get out of here right now. There was a small incident..." said Silva, offering a cigarette, his silver cigarette box open. "What happened?” asked Ferreira, annoyed that he hadn't brought his revolver. Over his shoulder he saw two more of his men enter and take a seat at a table near the entrance, one of them calling out to the waiter. The latter bowed, listened, nodded and left with the empty tray.
Silva replied that he would explain later. They got up and left the room without incident. They waited for the elevator and the ticket seller greeted Silva with a traditional "Leaving so soon, Si Sing Sang 先生 (4)? 

His two other men followed silently. With the doors closed, saluted the commander, Silva confided: "My commander, a man fell from up there and killed a tricycle driver. It's not good to be here". Ferreira listened, imagining yet another wretch throwing himself into the street after losing everything gambling. Death was not lacking. Every day corpses were found in the streets or alleys, starving or murdered. The factions warred silently in the shadows of the fragile truce.

On the way out, one of the companions in front and Silva and a colleague flanking Aniceto, turned right, heading towards Rua dos Mercadores. On the other street that flanked the Hotel, West Street to S. Domingos Market , an ambulance collected the remains of the tragedy that had become almost commonplace.

They walked in silence to the market. At that hour and with rationing, few figures could be seen. Arriving at the corner of Travessa do Soriano, Silva said to the others: "You can go, I'll accompany the commander". Silva knew that by protecting the commander he would gain leverage over him. The military community was small and the incident could have created unnecessary embarrassment. "Sir, don't worry, we'll take care of it. Go rest." He had everything prepared and, as soon as they arrived at the entrance to the market, an unsuspecting car welcomed Aniceto Ferreira. "Good night commander" said Silva. Inside, he recognised his driver. Silva was competent as hell, and he had the skills to always catch him on the wrong foot and be useful to him. How had he known of his whereabouts, he wondered. He felt watched.

The car was now heading along Praia Grande 南灣, towards Av. of the Republic. A-Leong, the driver, drove without a word. Aniceto looked into the pitch black where some tanka(5) and sampans 三潘(6) were waiting for the ebb tide. He felt an emptiness and questioned himself about the meaning of his role there. He didn't master Chinese, the shadows weren't as familiar to him as they were to his subordinates, who knew the faces and masks of the different factions. He felt entangled in a web of war where he really needed his men to act.

He sighed, crossed his arms and let himself be led, willing not to fight what was overtaking him. As a military man, he had information about the world and the way the Pacific War was unfolding. He had learned that Japanese troops were suffering heavy casualties and had begun kamikaze 神風flights (7) against American ships in the region. It was the last resort. However, that didn't invalidate his feeling of powerlessness and the way he had to force himself to ignore what he saw around the city. The night swallowed him up in the comfort of the house and, with the help of a bottle, he sank into the sleep of oblivion.

In the center of the city, and because it wasn't just the commander who had information, the night was marked by the death of Japanese collaborators. The day of the end of the conflict was slowly beginning to dawn...

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(1) Chinese violin

(2) Japanese military saber

(3) Toast in Japanese, meaning "dry cup".

(4) Mister

(5) Tanka, a very agile boat with an oar at the stern.

(6) Sampan comes from the Chinese sam pan, three boards, three boards wide.

(7) Divine wind, from “kami” shinto gods and “kaze” wind in Japanese.