This month we are turning to fiction with “Loose Thread” “线头”, a short story by Chen Si’an 陈思安 featured in Issue 3 of SLM, translated by yours truly. Working through this haunting story made me reflect deeply on language, a writer’s voice and how to best render its subtleties in translation.
“Loose Thread” is an eerie and distant account of a woman’s quite literal unravelling, not without a dose of wry, odd humour. I knew early on that I needed to preserve these traits in the translation. To this purpose, I deliberately opted for a formal tone at certain points of the story. This choice, in my opinion, reinforces the feeling of the original text:
The loose thread was simultaneously white and thin—if one did not take a close look, it would be perfectly unnoticeable. 那根线头又白又细，不仔细看绝对看不清晰。
Feigning normalcy was not too difficult of a matter . . . 伪装不是一件非常困难的事情……
When it comes to those lines that are arguably the main character’s thoughts, the Chinese narrative eludes explicitly stating so, building a sense of ambiguity that adds to the story. I ultimately decided to maintain this indirect speech, refusing to add quotation marks.
How could it possibly have just grown in there, without any cause or reason? Just what kind of feelings did her friend the mole want to express by this? What kind of thing was the loose thread keeping fastened there? 痦子朋友这到底是有什么心情想向自己表达呢。线头那边儿，是拴着什么东西呢。
The sweetest joys in translation often come with its most marked challenges—words that hide valuable intricacies or sentences that seem insurmountable and aren’t that easy to convey in the target language. An instance of the former would be:
A big, round, tangled heap of thread gradually changing in colour lay numb by her feet on the floor. 脚下地板上瘫着一大团渐变色的坚韧乱线。
In this excerpt, my translation of 瘫 (tān) as numb is meant to convey that this thread was, in fact, a part of the main character’s body, and it is now lifeless. The Chinese character 瘫 otherwise means “paralysis” or “palsy”.
As for the latter:
How very careless that would be. 多部研究呢。
This is not a particularly difficult sentence. It is, however, fairly interesting! Think of when you’re learning a foreign language, Chinese or any other. Textbooks can only teach you so much until you start struggling to convey very simple sayings and thoughts in an idiomatic way. To me this is an example of that. What is careless to us in the English language has not been duly researched (研究) in Chinese. Ah, the fun of language learning! Idiomatic expressions are charged with cultural meaning that you can’t really match with the same image that you would use in your mother tongue.
Most importantly, this was the excerpt that truly posed a challenge for me:
As she did so, she felt as if a faint yet consistent pain was seething in her right arm, as though she were being slowly dismembered. 她拉着线头，一边向外拉着更多的线，一边感觉自己的右胳膊里翻滚着抽筋剥骨般的微弱痛感。
The appearance of the verb 抽筋 here initially misled me to understand that her arm was cramping and that the pain was exposing (pulling out) the nerves and tendons, both of which are meanings of this verb. In the end, however, the right way to read this sentence is to understand the pain as seething 翻滚着 in her arm, akin to this dismemberment to which 抽筋剥骨般的 alludes as a whole. One of so many instances of how, when it comes to Chinese, it’s best to advance slowly through the text. On the subject of dismemberment, also, did you know that it was a form of torture and execution used in China from 900 CE until 1905, no less? Known as 凌迟 or “death by a thousand cuts” among other reassuring names, it involved a sophisticated method of using a knife to slice away portions of the body, eventually but not immediately resulting in death. This capital punishment was meant to continue into a very unlucky afterlife, as altering or cutting the body clashes with the quintessential Confucian principle of filial piety. Victims of death by a thousand cuts ended their life in pieces, and they were to remain as such in their spiritual life upon their nightmarish departure from this realm.
If you had already enjoyed “Loose Thread”, I hope that this column serves you as a useful reading companion. If you hadn’t, hopefully this leaves you intrigued to do so. See you next month!
— Ana Padilla Fornieles
线头
三个月前，她发现自己右侧腋下那颗已经长在那里二十几年的痦子上，冒出来一根线头。这颗痦子打她记事起就一直长在那里，小时候她还给这颗痦子起过名字，经常跟它一起做游戏。比起其他小朋友那些只存在于他们自己脑子里的“看不见的朋友”，她觉得自己跟腋下的痦子做朋友已经算是非常健康了。她对这颗痦子的熟悉程度远远大过于身边不定期置换的男友和其他所有人类朋友。这颗痦子上从来没有长过线头。
那根线头又白又细，不仔细看绝对看不清晰。线头自圆形痦子的正中央冒出来，大概有半厘米那么长。尽管细，但摸起来硬度还挺高，甚至有点刺手。怎么会无缘无故就长出根线头来呢。痦子朋友这到底是有什么心情想向自己表达呢。线头那边儿，是拴着什么东西呢。
她忍了一个礼拜，终于是忍不住了。她把自己关在房间里（就像小时候把自己关起来跟痦子朋友一起单独做游戏时一样），拉住了那根线头。她小心翼翼地用食指和大拇指捏着那根线头，向外扯了一下。线头异常坚韧，完全没有要断开的意思。被扯出来的线有十几厘米长了，看起来还远远没有完事儿。线的颜色也随着扯出来的长度发生着变化，从白色，到红色，到乳白色，再到白色，周而复始。
她拉着线头，一边向外扯着更多的线，一边感觉自己的右胳膊里翻滚着抽筋剥骨般的微弱痛感。那种随着自己拉扯动作一点一点震荡着的痛感，让她产生了某种怪异的激情。她简直停不下来。扯啊，扯啊，扯啊，扯啊。一晚上的时间，她就把自己从腋下到右肩的肉和脂肪都扯成线抽光了。脚下地板上瘫着一大团渐变色的坚韧乱线。这些线可以用来干嘛呢。她发起愁来。用来织衣服的话，未免有点太费工了，这线实在好细。那可以用来干嘛呢。她决定不着急，慢慢想。
伪装不是一件非常困难的事情。像她这样的女人，伪装几乎是一种天性，不需要别人特意来教。宽松款式的衣服，发泡棉，手套，稍重一些的妆容，信手拈来。每日照常上班，坐在工位上跟同事们谈笑风生，下班跟朋友们走进饭店酒吧里痛快吃喝。没有任何人能感觉到任何异样。毕竟，她可是跟自己的痦子做过六年好朋友的人。如今这点小事又算得上什么。
唯一算得上不方便的，也就是她不得不走到哪儿都得背着一个跟自己身材比例不搭配的硕大的手提包。包包总是很不雅致的鼓鼓囊囊的。闺蜜已经说了她好几次了，没有人会把包包塞得那么鼓的，你又不是个扛包赶火车的农民工。她总是笑着打马虎眼糊弄过去。包包里面塞满了她扯下来的线头，不随身带着，难道要它们拖在地上吗，多不讲究呢。
偶尔冷静下来时她会想，怎么就是克制不住想要去扯那根线头的欲望呢。那欲望竟然大过自己能产生、甚至是大过自己能想象的任何欲望。非得把自己搞成个只剩下一副骨头架子才肯罢手吗。自己到底是出了什么问题。怎么没有人来阻止一下自己。想这些问题，想到头都痛了。然后又条件反射般地把左手伸向右侧腋下，扯了起来。扯啊扯啊扯啊扯啊，一切问题都消失了。随着身体一点一点地抽空，那些困惑和疑虑也都一并抽空了。真的好舒服。
她身上的血肉日渐减少，每日提着的，从硕大的手提袋，逐渐变成更不体面的宽阔双肩包，然后是登山包。吃再多的饭食，长肉的速度也赶不上她扯出线来的速度。当夜晚她骨头硌着皮肤躺在再软绵也嫌硬的床上，会不时被一种恐惧攥住：难道自己就是想要看看被自己完全抽空了以后会发生什么吗。
现在全身上下，只剩下脸上的肉了。她每日全副武装，大风衣，长脚裤，高筒靴，白手套，大围巾一直围到下巴上。伪装正在接近失效。不管她走到哪里，都会引起人们的格外注意。公司里的长舌妇和毒舌男们三三两两聚在一起，替她编织各种背景故事。她索性去经理那里请了长假。经理一口答应下来，一副如释重负的口气，只说这样一来年终奖要打些折扣了。她笑了笑，没能成功伪装出自己很在意的样子。
回到家后，丢下重得跟灌了铅似的登山包，对着家里的穿衣镜，她畅快淋漓地大扯特扯了一通。好久没有扯得这么爽了，之前一段没做好决定的时间里她不得不降低扯线的速度和频率。她看着镜子里的自己，脸上像发生了极其缓慢的地震一样，逐渐裂开，崩塌，凹陷。
终于。线扯完了。
她反复拉动线头，另一端都没法再多扯出来一丁点来了。她深深地吸了一口气，两只手一起抓紧线，用尽身体里最后一丝气力，狠命地一扯。强烈的惯性加上她没有肌肉支撑作为缓冲，让她一下子向身后堆了满地的线堆上倒去。她挣扎着坐起身，看着自己手里紧攥着的最后一截线头。
痦子先生端坐在那最后一截线头的末端。吊在线上左右摇晃的样子仿佛在对着她笑。还真是一段漫长的告别呢，痦子先生。她也回给了对方一个笑容。
Loose Thread
Three months ago, sprouting from the mole that had been on her right underarm for some twenty years, she had noticed a loose thread.
To the best of her recollection, this mole had been there forever. As a child, she named it and would often play games with it. She considered this friendship with the mole on her underarm to be quite a healthy relationship when compared to those ‘invisible friends’ that were confined to her little friends’ minds. The degree of familiarity with this mole exceeded by far any that she had ever experienced with fleeting boyfriends and other acquaintances.
Never before had a loose thread grown out of this mole.
The loose thread was simultaneously white and thin – if one did not take a close look, it would be perfectly unnoticeable. It sprouted right from the middle of the round mole and was about half a centimetre in length. Although thin, it was rather hard to the touch — even prickly. How could it possibly have just grown in there, without any cause or reason? Just what kind of feelings did her friend the mole want to express by this? What kind of thing was the loose thread keeping fastened there?
She restrained herself for a week until she could no longer help it. She locked herself in her room, just like she did as a child to play solitary games with her friend the mole, and started tugging at the loose thread. Pinching that loose thread very cautiously between her thumb and index finger, she tugged at it. The loose thread was unusually tough and tensile, and didn’t feel breakable at all. She had already tugged some ten centimetres of thread out of her arm and it looked like it was nowhere near the end. Its colour, too, changed as she tugged – from white to red to a creamy colour, then back to white, as if in cycles.
She kept pulling the loose thread. As she did so, she felt as if a faint yet consistent pain was seething in her right arm, as though she were being slowly dismembered. This painful feeling made her jolt as she pulled away, little by little, causing her to feel an unusual, intense emotion.
She just could not stop. She pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and then some more. Over the course of a night, she unraveled the entirety of the flesh and fat from her underarm to her right shoulder. A big, round, tangled heap of thread gradually changing in colour lay numb by her feet on the floor. What to do with it? She grew worried. If she were to weave some clothing with it, the task would surely be too strenuous, since the thread was actually rather thin. So what to do with it then? She decided not to hurry and to take her time.
Feigning normalcy was not too difficult of a matter. Pretense came almost like an inborn talent for a woman like her, an ability that she did not need others to teach her about specially. Elegantly loose and comfortable items of clothing, foamed cotton, gloves, and a little more make-up than usual – she had the materials at her fingertips. She would set out for work every day as she always would, sit at her post, talk and laugh cheerfully among her colleagues. She would then get off work and meet with friends for a pleasant meal and a drink at a restaurant or a bar. Nobody could spot any difference. After all, she was the kind of person who had a six-year-long friendship with her own mole. What could such a trifle amount to now?
The only inconvenience was that of the huge bag that felt disproportionate to her frame and that she necessarily had to carry around wherever she went now. The bag was always bulging in a rather unrefined fashion. Her best friend had already reprimanded her plenty of times. Nobody loads their bag so heavy, you look like a migrant worker carrying their stuff to catch the train. She would always smile, a careless look in her eyes as she left. The insides of the bag were filled with the loose thread that she kept pulling out. Were she not to take the bag with her, was the thread supposed to simply drag on the floor? How very careless that would be.
During occasional moments of calmness she would wonder where that desire to tug at the loose thread without restraint could possibly stem from. It was a desire such that it greatly and unexpectedly surpassed any other wish she felt herself or could even imagine feeling. Would she have to strip herself to her bones before she agreed to give up? Just what on earth was wrong with her? How was it that nobody stepped up to prevent her? She would ponder over such questions until her head ached. Then, as if acting on a conditioned reflex, she would stretch her left hand to her right underarm and resume her pulling. She would pull, and pull, and pull, and then some more, and all of her problems would vanish. As her body grew hollower, so did her feelings of tiredness and doubt, and how nice that felt.
Her flesh and blood grew thinner with each passing day. Her ever-present bag gradually grew into an even more shameful backpack, and then into a mountain rucksack. No matter how much more she ate, her new, growing flesh could not catch up with the pace at which she pulled away at the thread. At night, no matter whether she lay on a soft or hard bed, her bones would press painfully against her skin. This was often the time when she would be crippled by fear. Could it be that she wanted to know what would happen once she had stripped herself bare?
Only the flesh on her face remained, her entire body had been reduced to its bones from head to toe. She would be fully kitted out every day – a wind coat, long trousers, tall boots, white gloves and a big scarf always wrapped around her neck. The pretense, however, was nowadays losing effectiveness. Wherever she went, all eyes were on her. Gossipy colleagues, male and female, would gather in twos and threes, weaving all sorts of stories to explain her strange behaviour. She ended up simply going to the company’s manager to request a period of extended leave. It was immediately agreed upon, prompting a sigh of relief from the manager, with barely a mention that this would somewhat affect her end-of-year bonus. She smiled, unable to bring herself to feign any care.
Once she was back home, she dropped the rucksack that weighed her down as if loaded with lead, faced her full-length mirror and pulled the thread in a carefree, energetic way for some time. It had been a long while since her pulling had felt so pleasurable. Recently she had been forced to reduce the frequency and speed of her thread-pulling sessions. Staring at her own reflection in the mirror, her face seemed to undergo a process akin to an extremely slow earthquake – it gradually cracked open, collapsed and caved in.
Finally. The thread came to an end.
She tugged the thread repeatedly, unable to pull the other end, not even a bit. She heaved a deep sigh, holding tightly the thread with both hands. Using the last ounce of strength in her body, she went all out and pulled one last time. A violent feeling of inertia, added to her lack of muscles either to provide support or serve as a cushion, made her collapse on the thread that was piled profusely behind her body. She struggled to sit up and looked at the last section of thread that she held tightly in her hand.
Mr. Mole sat upright at the end of that last section of thread. Hanging at the thread, swaying from left to right, facing her with a smile. This really has been a drawn-out farewell, hasn’t it, Mr. Mole. She smiled back.
To read more like this, buy a copy of Issue 3 or later of Spittoon Literary Magazine online or in Beijing.
Check out last month’s article on the haunting poetry of Du Lulu 杜绿绿.
Chen Si’an 陈思安 is a novelist, poet, translator, playwright and director. Her publications include the short story collection From Now on, I Ask, You Answer, and she has directed plays such as Following Huang Gongwang to Fuchun Mountain and Eating Fire.
Ana Padilla Fornieles 林诗安 is a Spanish writer and translator currently based in Beijing. Her work in both fields has been featured in Womankind magazine, The Shanghai Literary Review, Spittoon Literary Magazine, 聲韻詩刊 (Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine) and the Spanish website China traducida y por traducir, and her comics have been featured in the Shanghai zine Shaving in the Dark. She is a moderator for the feminist book club Our Shared Shelf and a regular contributor to Spanish cultural magazine Le Miau Noir. You can follow her on Instagram @holdenslake.