“How do I know you’re real?”
Farah turns and raises an eyebrow. “Do I look real?”
“You know what I mean,” Chiu says.
Farah touches each book in turn as if reassured by their feel. “There’s something we studied in philosophy once,” she says at last. “A Chinese poem.” She quotes: “Once, Zhuang Zhou dreamed that he was a butterfly: a butterfly flitting and fluttering about, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn’t know that he was Zhuang Zhou.
“Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakably Zhuang Zhou. But he didn’t know if he was Zhuang Zhou who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming that he was Zhuang Zhou.”
“What does that mean?” Chiu says.
“It means we have no way of knowing what’s real,” Farah answers. “But that’s the same in the ordinary world too. So … maybe it doesn’t matter.” She smiles a little. “You’re a weird kid, Kyle … and Chiu’s a clumsy idiot. But I choose this world if that’s OK with you. For as long as I’m here, I choose this.”
NINE
We drag two more mattresses from the ward next to the library and set up camp. We could easily have each had a room to ourselves, but we agree, without the need for much discussion, that we’d prefer to stay close.
The mattresses are heavy, so it takes a long time to slide them along the corridor. We lift them one at a time at an angle so they fit through the door and then shuffle them on their ends between the stacks.
“How did you do this on your own?” Farah gasps.
“I had … a lot of time,” Chiu responds, groaning with strain as he struggles with the squishy material.
I’m bone-tired again but I won’t sleep. The mission of setting up our camp and claiming our little corner of the hospital feels too important.
Farah evicts Chiu from his corner spot and strings up a blanket between two of the stacks, making a private section for herself. Chiu objects at first but he quickly realizes that he doesn’t stand a chance against Farah. At least she has the decency to make amends by carefully taking down each of his makeshift posters and relocating them next to his mattress. I catch a glimpse of some of the posters as they come down: an intricate drawing of the brain and its connections into the central nervous system, a picture of the top of someone’s head, a window cut into the skull and the pinkish brain tissue exposed.
A couple of Chiu’s pages are different, I notice. Not brain tissue or medical drawings, but close-ups of … anatomy. Farah and I realize at the same moment what they are.
“Chiu?” Farah exclaims, holding a page at arm’s length. “You dirty little—”
Chiu looks shame-faced and quickly whips the pages down and stuffs them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Like I said,” he mutters. “I was alone for a long time.”
After we’re all set up, we sit in awkward silence on our mattresses.
Then Chiu says, “Tell me a story!”
“Farah is the one with stories,” I say.
Farah casts me a doubtful look but Chiu continues to stare at her with such child-like urgency that at last she relents. “Um … I don’t know… Wait, I got one.” She settles herself more comfortably, sitting cross-legged, her hands draped loosely over her knees.
“There’s a farmer,” she says, “in ancient Greece. Renowned for owning a beautiful horse. But one day the horse escapes and his neighbours, seeing his misfortune, rush to comfort him. They say, ‘Oh, man, that’s really bad luck, we’re so sorry.’”
“Was it them who stole it?” Chiu asks.
Farah looks irritated. “No. They’re just trying to be nice. But the farmer shrugs and says: ‘Perhaps.’”
“He doesn’t mind that he lost his horse?” Chiu says.
“The following week, the horse that escaped finds its way back. And it brings with it four beautiful wild horses.”
“Awesome!” Chiu says.
“The neighbours come over and they congratulate the farmer. ‘Wow,’ they say. ‘That’s really good fortune you got all those horses.’”
“I bet they’re secretly jealous,” Chiu says. “Are they going to steal them?”
“No,” Farah responds dryly. “It’s not that kind of a story.”
“Go on,” I say.
“The farmer shrugs and responds: ‘Perhaps.’ The next week, the farmer’s son tries to tame one of the wild horses, but it throws him and he breaks his leg. The neighbours come over and they say—”
“I know! I know!” Chiu says. “They say, ‘Sucks to be you!’”
“Close enough,” Farah answers. “Anyway… The farmer shrugs and says only—”
“Perhaps,” I chime in.
“But then a war breaks out,” Farah continues, smiling inwardly. “And all the young men in the village are drafted to fight, except for the farmer’s son who can’t go to war on account of his broken leg. And the neighbours come over and they say: ‘That’s such good fortune that you won’t lose your son to war.’ And the farmer responds…”
“Perhaps,” Chiu and I say obediently.
There’s a silence, then Chiu says, “I don’t get it.”
Farah sighs. “The moral is: it’s not about what happens to you, it’s about how you respond to it. I guess we’re here so we should make the most of it.”
