Little Black Book

Every day, Jiaming writes with precision. Columns of hanzi characters create a tapestry on the ivory paper. It is this part of the day, when he records his thoughts and memories, that he treasures most.

It was not always so. His preoccupation used to be performing bodyweight exercises in his small bachelor apartment and he took pride in how his body once rippled with muscularity. Until the back pain became unbearable. Until he was told that he had cancer in his lung and spine.

Now, Jiaming laments that he is but a shadow of himself. He looks at his thin limbs and he tells the hospice nurses that he used to have 15-inch biceps back when he was an amateur bodybuilder in Miami. But that was many years ago.

He records these details in his black book.

On the first page of the book is an inscription from Jiaming’s son:

Dad: I am giving you this book so that you can write about your days. We have not always been the closest and for a long time, we were not part of each other’s lives. But I want you to know that I love you and I want to thank you for giving me life and good values. Ben

Jiaming reads and re-reads this page before he sets about the task of recording the events of the day. Most times, the days are similar. The nurses come to give him painkillers. They help wash him. They assist him to the washroom. They bring him a cycle of meals – fish, chicken, beef stew, fish, chicken, fish yet again. Occasionally his friend, Mr. Chan – an acquaintance, really, from the Chinese Alliance Church – delivers pork dumplings along with rice and egg cake. Periodically, the doctor arrives to tell him that the cancer is getting worse.

When Ben arrives unannounced from Florida, Jiaming knows that the doctor has spoken to him and that Ben has come to help prepare him for death. His apartment needs to be vacated, his will finalized, funeral arrangements made. Yet despite the instrumental nature of Ben’s visit, Jiaming cannot help but be pleased. His son has come for a visit. Jiaming enjoys looking at photographs of his three-year old granddaughter — whom he has never met. He displays on his overbed table the picture of crayon people that she has drawn for him.

Jiaming allows Ben to sift through the piles of papers and books and myriad of random objects like old binoculars, a broken clock, and a trumpet silencer that are strewn about his apartment. Ben is interested in finding photographs, new or old. He discovers a dated portrait of Jiaming and thinks it suitable for display at the funeral.

Amongst the papers stacked inside the roll top desk, Ben unearths some stocks and bonds that amount to $20,000. This is a surprise to him, as Jiaming was living in a subsidized apartment with little of true value. Ben rationalizes that Jiaming must not have remembered the nest egg long set aside. At any rate, the money will cover funeral expenses and sundries.

Once practical issues are dealt with, Ben returns to sit at Jiaming’s bedside. The two of them do not speak much. Jiaming spends the time writing in his black notebook. When he cannot think of what to write, he pauses and plays with the book’s elastic closure or the bookmark ribbon. Usually, though, Jiaming has no shortage of things to write. He fills page upon page with carefully drawn characters.

If there is one thing that Jiaming is grateful for, it is that the cancer has not yet paralyzed him. He worries that one day it will reach his spinal cord and he will lose the ability to hold his pen. In the meantime, he writes in his little black book.

It does not concern him what will happen to the book after he is gone. His son Ben is of the younger generation – he can speak some Mandarin but cannot write or read the language. Jiaming’s friend, Mr. Chan, says that Ben will want to read the book and will need to find a translator but Jiaming does not ruminate about this. He simply writes in his book each day.

Jiaming has come to the penultimate page. He has filled 399 pages with orderly characters that somehow have created order out of, and within, his life. He flips through the pages and smiles at his creation, or perhaps, his re-creation. On the final page he sketches in large hanzi characters: “end of life.” That night, Jiaming dies in his sleep without warning or fanfare.

~ ~ ~

Many months have passed since his death. A clear plastic bag waits in the hospice storage closet. In it are Jiaming’s possessions: a plaid shirt, a pair of sneakers, a Timex watch, a crayon drawing, and a man’s sense of purpose inside a little black book.