Wu Jia Jia is abruptly widowed in her early thirties when her husband inexplicably drowns in the bath. Cast adrift with little money and even less sense of direction, she is haunted by the sketch her husband left behind of a half-man, half-fish he saw in a dream before he died. What is the significance of the fish–man? Why can’t Jia Jia manage to capture the creature in her own paintings?

This story unfolds with a strange but beautiful melancholy as Jia Jia tries to establish an independent life in Beijing. There is a quiet desperation to her days as she meets new people, takes on a commissioned mural, shops for New Year’s gifts. Eventually her yearning for understanding drives her to visit Tibet, where the story begins to flicker between the mundane and the fantastic. As Jia Jia travels further in her search, her own carefully unexamined past and family turmoils become increasingly oppressive and relevant.

This is a story full of loneliness, repression, avoidance; and human connection in spite of these pitfalls. The cast of mercurial supporting characters are a delight: the suave and cerebral bartender Leo, Jia Jia’s incautious aunt and disapproving grandmother, the mouthy and impulsive young writer Ren Qi, the man known only as ‘Grandpa’ who plants tulip bulbs and never speaks.

There is an exquisite simplicity and energy to An Yu’s writing, which often flits fish-like from mournfulness to humour. This story will not suit anyone who demands that all loose ends are tied off and that plot points click neatly into place. By the end of Braised Pork, the questions that linger are the most interesting ones.

Ele Jenkins works as a bookseller at Readings Carlton.