Just past six in the morning, there were hardly any pedestrians on the road that led to the swimming pool by the sea. Who’d go swimming so early? Though it would be scorching by the afternoon, it was gradually getting cooler now. I got into a taxi and told the driver to take me to Tai Wan Shan Swimming Pool.
Going swimming so early? the driver asked. No, I said, I’m just going to do some exercises in the athletic field next to the swimming pool. The taxi traveled down a desolate road, newly constructed factory buildings on either side, a deserted scene of dust and debris devoid of human activity.
The road hadn’t been paved yet, and its muddy edges were overrun with weeds and wildflowers. It was a road I knew all too well. Just two months ago, I’d walked it two or three times a week, carrying a backpack with a swimsuit inside.
But now I was empty-handed, without a bag, only a wallet and keys stuffed in my pockets. I hadn’t been swimming since September. I kept thinking about the steps leading down into the pool and the lifeguard’s large umbrella, but now I couldn’t swim—I even had to be careful while taking a shower.
I had left the hospital with my chest still bandaged, the back part of my side swollen like a giant gummy candy. After the surgery, the doctor instructed me to move my arm. Even lying in bed, I swung my arm back and forth like a pendulum; I had asked the nurse for an extra pillow, propping it under my arm to elevate it.
The man in “Guan Guan Cry .