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The fates of a Chinese girl and a young Japanese officer during World War II become intertwined by their passion for the game of go. A historical psychodrama imagined with violent emotional intensity and intimacy. |
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GOLDSEA | ASIAN BOOKVIEW | FICTION
The Girl Who Played Go
a novel by Shan Sa
Alfred A Knopf, New York, 2003, 312 pp, $22.95
EXCERPT:
n the Square of a Thousand Winds the frost-covered players look like snowmen. White vapour billows from their mouths and noses, and icicles growing along the underside of their fur hats point sharply downwards. The sky is pearly and the crimson sun is sinking, dying. Where does the sun go to die?
When did this square become a meeting place for go players? I don't know. After so many thousands of games, the chequerboards engraved on the granite tables have turned into faces, thoughts, prayers.
[CONTINUED BELOW]
Clutching a bronze hand-warmer in my muff, I stamp my feet to thaw out my blood. My opponent is a foreigner who came here straight from the station. As the battle intensifies, a gentle warmth washes through me. Daylight is dwindling and the stones are almost indistinguishable. Suddenly someone lights a match and a candle appears in my opponent's left hand. The other players have all left and I know that Mother will be sick with worry to see her daughter come home so late. The night has crept down from the sky and the wind has stirred. The man shields the flame with his gloved hand. From my pocket I take a flask of clear spirit which burns my throat. When I put it under the stranger's nose, he looks at it incredulously. He is bearded and it's hard to tell his age; a long scar runs from the top of his eyebrow and down through his right eye, which he keeps closed. He empties the flask with a grimace.
There is no moon tonight, and the wind wails like a new-born baby. Up above us, a god confronts a goddess, scattering the stars.
The man counts the stones once and then twice. He has been beaten by eighteen points; he heaves a sigh and hands me his candle. Then he stands up, unfolding a giant's frame, gathers his belongings and leaves without a backward glance.
I stow the stones in their wooden pots. They are crisp with frost in my fingers. I am alone with my soldiers, my pride gratified. Today, I celebrate my one hundredth victory.