Hai Nan

海男

Hai Nan is the penname of Su Lihua, born in 1962. She has received numerous literary prizes for her fiction (her novels include Pattern, Nightlife, Caravan, and Private Life), essays (collected in Garden in the Air, Voice in the Screen, and My Magic Journey), and poetry. Her short story “The Runaway Game” was published in the Summer 2014 issue of Pathlight. Hai Nan received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for her poetry collection Black Deer of Sorrow.

井边

By the well 

My shadow falls into the well even before I peer over its side.

You would not be able to imagine how deep it is.

Not even Kant could fathom its depth. 

This well, with its endless rope, is in the west of Yunnan.

Next to me, a village woman leans on the fence surrounding the well.

She throws a wooden bucket into the shiny black water.

Then by wrapping the tan rope around her wrist—

Draws up a pristine bucket; the cord now a series of bracelets.

Me, sitting against the fence by the well, boundlessly lonely.

The afternoon, saturated with orange, floats away,

Like foregone well-water, like the rope forming circles.

This is me in a speechless summer.

I found in this caged well that no metal

Can bar my freedom. 

曾经以来我是多么喜欢妖娆这个词汇

How much I once loved the word bewitching 

Attached to the word bewitching is a blossoming Spring.

First, the opening of flowers. Let me tell you the secret

Of a banquet. Try using the corner of your mouth to shell the peas.

Then, construct this dream with an afternoon nap.

How much I once loved the word bewitching.

When I felt helpless fighting the odds of the world,

I would return to the center of the word, curl up, nap awhile. And then

push open the windows, until the very end of the night.

Even when I felt the years’ speeding wheels,

I was still obsessed with the word

And waited for the Beginning of Autumn, the Big Cold and all other seasonal changes. I covered my shivering shoulders 

With a rose-coloured shawl as usual, and in the distant wilderness I spotted those great men and small-minded people. 

Once, I used to love the word bewitching so much.

It documents my wayward youth to the present. 

从灰蓝到灰蓝再灰蓝

From grey blue to grey blue to grey blue again

From grey blue to grey blue and again grey blue, then, a notebook

And the secrets it opens. It’s a journey from ravines to river beds

Leading into the ocean. Now, to build a home with shackle wood.

Borrow your immigrant elegance to fertilise the mountainous soil.

Now, I sleep. My sleeping body is shaped

Like a crescent moon, a purple aubergine. I want to forget about you.

Forget about the rising temperature of the entire planet.

Forget about all the reasons that hurt my secrets.

Now, from grey blue to grey blue and again grey blue is a notebook.

It is also the temperature of a kind of poetry. And the temperature of your journey 

To a village in Diannan. Followed by the sweetcorn whose dress

has been peeled off, continuing on the journey of grey blue to grey blue and again grey blue.

Raise your head, please pick the grapes you have planted.

From grey blue to grey blue and grey blue again, and finally, raise your head and look at me.

我想在明晨的紫光下画油画

I want to paint in the purple light of tomorrow morning

Purple light falls into a secret chamber. It’s my first time painting

A labyrinth. Fate summons me and I erect the easel.

First, I will paint what has been growing inside me for a long time:

Plants and flowers. I will paint their forgotten lives.

In my remaining time, apart from writing novels, essays and poetry, 

I will spend the more important days painting away.

I will paint the sleeping sunflowers, the angry cotton by the river.

I will paint the tired pomegranate trees and the tropics beneath the mangoes.

I will paint the colourful side that cannot be reached by poetry.

I will use the remaining purple light that lingers in time.

I will adopt a poet’s perspective to discover angels’ wings that may or may not be present.

I will use a pair of hands that have never painted before to discover 

My dear friends’ aura in the colours. 

I have prepared the secret chamber, prepared to paint the secret of how sunflowers grow from crooked to straight.

I have prepared waves, the last moments of purple light on the palette. 

Translated by Tammy Ho

Li Yuansheng

李元胜

Born in Sichuan in 1963, Li Yuansheng graduated from Chongqing University and subsequently became chief editor of the culture section at Chongqing Daily. He first began writing poetry in 1981, and he has also published a novel, City Joke, in addition to his award-winning collections of poetry. Li Yuansheng received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his poetry collection Limitless.

空气

Air

The one who died 

still occupies a name

occupies the printed things, paper

my bookshelf

occupies the grave, occupies

the most important day in spring 

The one who departed

still occupies the airport and the roads

occupies farewelling, occupies my pain

every rainy night

The others

can only pack close together

since the remaining space isn’t capacious

They crowd together 

on the edge of losing their shapes

Everyday, everyday, white space swarms in before my eyes

I move through them like thin films of air

书房偶记

Random Entry in the Study

The long winter night commences 

This is when we are closest to the ancients, perhaps

Sitting alone in the room like a lamp

that reluctantly illuminates an old book

but is far from bright enough to shine into their seams

All to say, there are some stairs

you cannot see if it is in a book

All that is unspoken is left in pitch dark

Even after a few centuries

they remain in pitch dark, making the jubilation in the garden

all the more symbolic

Might as well walk away, hands behind your back

and practice Zhang Xu’s wild cursive calligraphy in your mind

Its carefree careening says it all:

The first time is always a majestic song

The second time is a hard weeping

一把刀子

A Knife

A knife meticulously scrapes at the night

allowing the horizon to gradually lighten

Yet by high noon

that black powder has not been discarded, has not been carted away

The piles settle  

in our conversations about sunlight

走得太快的人

Men Who Walk Too Fast 

A man who walks too fast

sometimes gets ahead of himself

His cheeks begin to fade

Velocity mixes them with

imaginings and futuristic colours

Likewise, a man who walks too slowly

sometimes falls behind his body

He is nothing but his own shadow

a cracked past

or even, the trash that he always attempted 

to discard discreetly 

A man sitting beneath a tree

may not always be quite himself either

Sometimes he is sitting to his own left

other times to his own right

But in general, most fortunately

he is always sitting near himself

Translated by Karmia Olutade

Da Xie

大解

Da Xie is the penname of Xie Wenge, born in Hebei in 1957. After studying irrigation at Tsinghua University, he became chief editor of a monthly poetry periodical in the eighties. He received acclaim for his early epic-length work Elegy. Da Xie now lives in Shijiazhuang; he received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his poetry collection Personal History.

北风

Northern Wind

After the night grows still, a whistle pierces  

Through the oppression of the rails’ sustained shudder

I know the train will run all night  

All night a child cries and screams in someone’s house

constant crying—insistent noise 

the sound comes from behind two buildings

wavering, a millimeter farther and you wouldn’t hear it

I suppose it’s an echo from a dream 

Inharmonious—the wailing and the train’s roar

but equally penetrating   

I know the sounds are carried on the north wind, always in the same direction

It gusts against my window

and I am sleepless all night—I see ten stars

almost brushing my window, as they move mysteriously toward the west

飘忽不定

Adrift

There are always a few silhouettes that dart past the intersection 

They look like they are drifting, but my vision is poor

I often mistake movements for something imagined

To tell the truth I’ve left my body on several occasions

and observed from afar, finding my former selves

as a series, like a crowd in a queue 

I was born in 1957—in 2059 I will be born again

Like the silhouettes at the intersection

some people pass, some people come back again and again

I sit in the hutong, watching the wind

whirl leaves fallen on the ground beside me

Something yet unseen

gently takes my hand to depart from the crowd

干草车

Haycart

In the river valley, a cart is dwarfed by thunderheads

The wind came before the storm, sweeping the earth over

The fields, just harvested, cannot withstand the gusts

Willow branches lift as if about to take flight

and it seems the haycart is too heavy, firmly drawn into the mud

Three black horses, maybe four

are pulling a haycart in the river valley 

The hay is nothing precious 

not worth the storm’s temper

rising from the north in southern pursuit 

The rains come and the cart driver

steadies himself, beginning to run—his cloak balloons in the wind

like a harpy ensnaring his body

In earlier years, thunder tripped and fell into the valley

it wouldn’t leave without a fight 

The farmers knew to hide

but in the bare valley there is no shelter

The three or four horses are exposed to the sky

hooves pounding as they run, kicking dust into the wind

The clouds grow heavier and lower, the thunder draws near

The lonely, bulky haycart inches through the valley

No one can help it, they are too far

The wind pursues from behind, and the rains appear white

in the late autumn just before the dusk

It is rare—this kind of rain

日暮

Dusk

At the end of the Huabei corridor, a beetle is boring beneath the corner wall

rear out towards the plains, head buried in the earth

pincers scrabbling, the sunset catches on its back

a tiny reflection

An autumnal gust through the corridor

and night descends on the beetle’s back, the black beetle

instinctively excavating, its preoccupation

is perhaps the cold, which deepens its worry

and urges it to build a tiny earthen refuge   

A small hole gradually takes shape amid the traffic

the beetle is now burrowed deep, shifting the dirt with its rear

I envy its nest, but I certainly couldn’t live there

I watch the whole endeavor and admire

the beetle unaware, it doesn’t know

of the gloaming of setting sun filling the sky  

Before long the humans will light their lamps 

Its little home is dark, I’ve always thought its light

if not hidden in its heart, must hang in the heavens  

Translated by Laura Tucker

Yan An

阎安

Yan An (whose full name is Yan Yan’an) was born in Yan’an, Shaanxi in 1965. After graduating from Yan’an University he worked in education, before eventually becoming chief editor of Yan’an Literature magazine. Yan An has also written essays and fiction; he received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his collection Rearranging Stones.

研究自己阴影的人

Studying His Shadow

He steps out of spring in a broad-brimmed hard hat

this outsider who is clearly not all there

working in an empty field beyond the suburbs

He likes hiding his face in the shadow of his hat and shoulders

The one with his back to the sun his prostrate shadow

flitting back and forth like he’s fussing with his lawn

always pulling out objects like knives or sensors

Fiddling muttering even contemplating

as if about to begin some strange excavation

This posturing individual works in the field from spring to summer

The way he squats down, stands up reveals his size and easy pace

Smiling, he shows white, even teeth, shows the

multiplying shadows that shimmer over his face

This posturing individual disappeared when autumn came

like he just vanished

and the totally untouched piece of land proved

he only worked on the grass from spring to summer

never tore anything at or below the surface

Only later did I understand: this man who waited for nightfall to head home

and darted into shadow when seen by streetlights

was a simple man chained to his own shadow

who could take no more so went into the wilderness, to battle stations

in search of a way to rid himself of his shadow

畜生的内心是荒凉的

A Beast’s Heart is Barren

A beast’s heart is barren

There is a washbasin of sanitizing fluid

black blood that won’t wash off 

and a darkness that couldn’t be cleaned

with a tonne of saturated liquid bleach

A beast’s heart is barren

A desolation unlike the earth’s

Merely a thug who has repurposed sex organs as props

tossed overproduced sperm and eggs into an ill-intentioned masquerade

then dropped his giggling wooden gavel to scare

the world barren the Earth barren

the glittering emptiness on the knife

of the eunuch who kills without a trace

A beast’s heart is barren

they don’t feel injustice rejoice feel happiness

once we stopped slaughtering them with blades

using the entire city instead

all the secret underground factories, machines, 

barbituates and poisons

then your heart and mine

will begin to go barren

中年自画像

Self-Portrait at Middle Age

I moved to the ocean and threw away my youth 

drank ten long years (a full decade) of saltwater there

was bitten a few times by an unknown sea monster

tangled a few times in the blue seaweed

(once nearly pulled down to the depths)

I engaged sailors and albatrosses to carry letters to the sea

each one sank into the water a seawater-drunk waiting

a waiting slapped by salt waves before my hair went gray

the back of my head balded left a beautiful gourd-shape

a blue porcelain cup I’d brought from the North

fell as I ran from a tsunami in a dream

smashed into blue smithereens that matched the sea

The dream filled my stomach with salt water

buried me in the ocean floor   where my yellow belly scrubbed with seawater

couldn’t become sea-green at middle age

By the sea I threw away my youth at middle age I moved back North

those high latitudes where resentment and hurt are so easily abandoned

now I live in view of the Qinling Mountains

beside a well where many come for water before dawn

in the floodplain of an anonymous stream (called a river in the south)

near me is a well-guarded airplane factory

and beyond that a secret aerospace testing site

I’ve made friends who make airplanes, and friends

who know aerospace secrets those secrets

are the only thing in my belly besides seawater

my day’s work now is to guard my little secrets witlessly

like a far-off farmer who rarely plows his fields

waiting for nothing sleeping very little

Someone who crossed mountains, tumbled and crawled home from the sea

someone whose youth was swept clean by the sea and its empty blue

snuck home to north of the Qinling Mountains

to a North that no longer cares for the art of farming

belly-full of cerulean seawater and nowhere to puke

days and nights spent in the silence hidden deep in a naked

indolence secrets that are almost absurdities

and no one knows

整理石头

Rearranging Stones

I saw a man who rearranges stones

alone in the quarry back to the crowd

like a crowing cock     thick-throated and loud-voiced

he yells at stones all day

The stones are cut from mountains

shipped from the quarry one at a time

and must be arranged one by one

in a clear and noble presentation

of a stone’s symmetrical, self-standing rhythm

to erase the evidence of injury by iron

This one who seems small because he hunches

is one who arranges stones with all his energy

over and over he touches

stones to be rearranged after they die

I have even seen how he studies

his shadow on the wall of stacked boulders

his demeanor so attentive and satisfied

like he’d run into a friend he hadn’t seen in years

I’ve seen the man who arranges stones

a man who seems diffident like a convict

who can make objects produce strange noises

yet is happy to stay quiet himself

a man who can pile stone on stone

into a grand symphonic rhythm

a man of stubborn will and

delicate gradations like a stone

I have seen the man who arranges stones

I would like to believe you have as well

or even that on some day of some year

you once were that arranger of stones

you must have been that arranger of stones

Translated by Canaan Morse

Zhou Xiaotian

周啸天

Zhou Xiaotian, who also writes under the name Xin Tuo, was born in Sichuan in 1948. He is a professor of literature and journalism at Sichuan University, and has published numerous volumes of literary criticism and award-winning poetry. He received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his poetry collection To Drink Tea.

洗脚歌

The Foot Washing Song

In olden times old nobles of Gaoyang

Soaked their toes and spoke of Qin

Workers of late have turned the tables

But feet still found no water to rest in

Mao moved on the year we opened

Spring wind rushed ten li a night

Silver basins sleek as stone bottom resin

Bathwater rose swirling torrid torrents

Fitness centers shone like pure gold houses 

Jade girls in them clutching at your feet

Sugar daddies signed receipts all laughing

Little misses stacking income in a heap

While wealthy widows kept their dignity in Qin

They taught the young to anchor down and hone their skills  

Travel up and down the sole and do it well

Handle, press, and squeeze like a model son

Money springs flowed on smooth down river 

Washer and washed are fastened to their seats

Seasons pass but should either mount a horse to leave

Thirty years is all glory needs to change hands west to east

Presently I rest my head and charge my chi

Gossip blowing circles around my kicked up feet

Next life what if glory fades up here, up river

Who’s to say it wouldn’t be your heels waiting for my reach

人妖歌

The Transvestite Song

Peking opera standards sung by Mei Lanfang

Canton opera standards set by Fan Xuhong

Cross-dressing cross-cast wonders better creation

Need we speak of gender in the backstage wings 

Coloured lights shine round a tall magnification  

Of feminine charms bejeweled, bedazzling through the fog

He turns, his teeth, his eyes electric shocking every seat

His go-go dancer girls go pale in light of his beauty

Half-man, half-woman painted, he swivels from side to side

Left, right, a duet of baritone and alto seamlessly

His long hair waving like a shampoo feat

Long arms, long legs, every branch a lusty feast

The boy was found by foster parents deep in an alley

They harboured the orphan as their single act of charity

Into their fold he fell as if into the sea

What use had he to offer, what child could he be

It all began with remolding the heart’s tendencies 

Then slowly the body submitted to hormonal agencies

To swallow oneself and learn an art is a cruel thing

A harsher form of deprecation is hard to bring

He injected himself with help for fitness, forfeiting health

Ate and lived small to retain youth beyond his years

When that youth was spent, never once did he relent

Only hoped to bloom bigger, flash his esoteric colours brighter

A career built on stages hinged on vanishing pretty faces

He ran pageant after pageant, vibrant, glorious to the end

Visitors will come from beyond their skies

Wealth will double, triple because of their eyes

Never dismiss the lowly lady boy as a dime a dozen, his sacrifice

I honour with compassion deep in my earnest side

Beauty is but cloud and glass, fissure or fracture any time

A century lived can feel short-lived at its hollow conclusion

Observe and marvel from afar, to preserve that pristine vision

Such joys resist the rough hand’s touch and the rough heart’s toying

I returned from over the seas knowing oh so well

I will never brag of what I saw as deviant strangeness 

I will never tell.

Translated by Karmia Olutade

Xu Zechen

徐则臣

Born in 1978 in Jiangsu, Xu Zechen is currently an editor at People’s Literature magazine. Translations of Xu Zechen’s short stories have previously appeared in Pathlight, The Guardian, Words Without Borders, n+1, and the short story collection Shi Cheng. His novel Running Through Beijing (translated by Eric Abrahamsen, and recipient of a NEA translation grant) was published by Two Lines Press last year. Xu Zechen received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for “If a Snowstorm Seals the Door”.

If a Snowstorm Seals the Door

如果大雪封门

Illustration by Wang Yan

Baolai had his wits beaten out of him and went back to Flower Street, just as winter arrived in Beijing. Icy winds pawed at the doorframe and blew into the house. The plastic sheeting inside the doorway had split down its length, and was now an icy whistle for the slightest toot of air. Xingjian huddled beneath the covers and said, leave it alone, I don’t believe winter in the capital could freeze a goddamn person to death. So I put down the drawing pins and carrier bags, and crawled back into bed. The wind whistled softly inside the house and loudly outside. In my nest of blankets with my eyes shut, I could see the north-west wind as a great black flood over the rooftops. Baolai’s little wooden stool tumbled over and was dragged from one end of the roof to the other. Even in all that gusting wind I could hear the sound the stool made – a fatty in size 41 hard-soled shoes strode above us. The day Baolai was taken back to Flower Street, I handed that pair of Wanli leather shoes to his dad, who took them and gestured at his bag, then flung them with panache into the bin by the door: they’re full of holes anyway. The wooden stool was Baolai’s too, it had been on the roof to be blown this way and that ever since he left. 

The next morning, I climbed up to retrieve the stool. The night’s northerly wind had scoured the roof cleaner than water ever could. Several years’ accumulation of dirt and debris was gone, revealing the tar-coated surface. The stool was wedged into the south-east corner, and it took some energy to pull it out, blow the invisible dust off its surface, and sit down. The sky had been blown clean too, like the calm surface of a lake. My head abruptly started to hurt, and sure enough, a flock of pigeons wheeled in from the south, their cries like distant gongs. I yelled from the rooftop, “They’re here!” 

The pair of them came climbing, rolling down their padded sleeves, slingshots in their mouths. They thought there could be no greater pleasure this deep in the winter than a chicken in the pot, unless it was a pigeon, even tastier. “They’re nourishing,” said Miluo. “Good for both yin and yang. If a pregnant woman ate ninety-nine pigeons, she’d be sure to have a son.” And if a guy did the same thing, he could burrow his way through a heap of women and still emerge in fine fettle. No idea where he got this theory. In less than a month, the two of them had already shot down five birds. 

I didn’t hate pigeons, it was the whistles tied to them that got to me. An ancient, yellowing, gleaming sound, circling my head, faster and faster, tighter and tighter, wrapping round my brain like the Monkey God’s cursed metal band. Weak nerves were a curse too, a ring tightening around my mind. Because their frequency and amplitude were similar, the cries of pigeons made my neurasthenia worse, until my head throbbed so badly I felt like dashing it against a wall. If I’d been a pigeon, unlucky enough to fly around with them, I’d surely have been driven mad. 

“You’ll never be a pigeon,” said Xingjian, “So just count on your fingers and work out when they’ll be flying by. Miluo and I will be in charge of getting them down.” 

There was no working out, it was just a feeling. I’d read that bats could sense ultrasound waves, and in the same way, pigeon noises chimed against my weak nerves from a distance. That morning the pigeons must have been touched in the head too, they circled back and forth over our roof, but in great circles too far away to be within slingshot range, leaving Xingjian and Miluo stamping their feet in frustration. They were barefoot and in long underwear, their lips blue with cold. After expending all their pebbles, they grumbled all the way down, cursing those bastard pigeons. There was no point. It’s not like they paid any attention; they’d fly where they wanted. In my rich experience of neurasthenia, at moments like this, the best way (apart from meds) to get rid of a headache was to go for a jog. So I started running. Beijing air was rarely this clear – a shame to waste it. 

When I reached the ground, I realised my relation to the pigeons had changed. Instead of circling around our roof, they were covering the neighbouring streets. Fuck it, I’ll get rid of the lot of you. This must have been a fairly odd sight: a man jogging through the alleyways in a western suburb of Beijing, his breath coming out in white clouds, screaming at the sky as he ran, a flock of pigeons above him. After at least fifteen minutes of this, I hadn’t chased away a single bird. They soared and plunged, all within that gigantic circuit. They weren’t afraid of me. The more I gestured and waved at them, the higher and faster they flew. So an observer might have thought they were running away from me. Then another morning runner appeared behind me. 

The pale, scrawny guy looked like he was in middle school, definitely younger than me. He kept his head down as he jogged, hair poking up like the kid brother of Lei Zhenzi, the thunder god in those cartoons. This guy kept pace with me, speeding up or slowing down when I did, so the distance of about eight metres between us never varied, His route was also exactly the same as mine. An onlooker might have thought we were chasing pigeons together. On a running track, there could be fifty people around you and it wouldn’t be an issue, but in this chilly alleyway, having this one guy following my arse felt uncomfortable, more than being stuck in a big crowd. This was a strange feeling, like being stalked, or copied, or threatened, even mocked, so I felt somehow unclean. I didn’t like it, anyhow, but his laboured breathing made me feel like this chap wouldn’t be easy to deal with, and there was no need to bother. I’d have said that little frame could manage a run of maybe two thousand metres, but fifty more would wipe him out. However determined he was to stick to me like a shadow, I could easily have shaken him off. Instead, I stopped – a short run was enough to make my head feel right. It would soon start aching anew, though, so even I had no idea when I might suddenly dash off again. 

The next day, I came down from the roof, and once more the pigeons flew in from the south, so I had to shoo them off before they could settle. Xingjian and Miluo, complaining of the cold, had refused to leave the warmth of their beds. I ran towards the birds, howling. They soared away, but then I felt another person’s footsteps on my scalp. When your nerves are weak and you have a headache, every little movement feels like it’s happening directly on your skull. I turned back to see the student from the day before. He was in a ski jacket, his hair as soft as Chang Yu-sheng’s, waving in the breeze. I chased the pigeons south of Seventh Alley before stopping and watching as he ran past me. He followed the pigeons south. 

* 

Xingjian and Miluo shot down another two birds. They tumbled from the sky like broken tridents, knocking their beaks crooked on the icy cement path. Cooked pigeon flesh is truly delicious, and in the deep winter air, clear as glass, the aroma travels more than fifty metres. Nibbling on a slim pigeon neck and sipping its broth, I came to the conclusion that this was at least twice as good as chicken soup. In cold weather, pigeons’ bodies accumulate fat and flesh. 

If I were those pigeons, after the loss of so many comrades, I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere near this rooftop. But the pigeons weren’t me, and continued to fly past once or twice a day. Chasing pigeons became a form of training; I ran and ran, which was good for my weak nerves. I had nothing to do during the day, anyway. The third time I saw the middle school student, he wasn’t behind me, but right before my eyes. I turned down the alleyway with that grilled donkey meat place, but the youngster clenched his fists and drew nearer to me, as close as he could get. 

“Have you seen my pigeons?” He spoke Mandarin with a tongue-tied southern accent. You could tell he’d like to make himself look fiercer. 

”Your pigeons?” I understood, pointing at the sky – the flock of birds killing me with their racket. 

“I’ve lost two more of them!” 

“If my head keeps aching, I’ll chase them all to Vietnam.” 

“I’ve lost two more pigeons.” 

“So you’re following me?” 

“I saw you.” His gaze suddenly turned awkward. “At the entrance of River Blossom Plaza. I saw the fatty getting beaten up.” 

The fatty he was referring to was Baolai, whose head got bashed by some thugs outside a bar for the sake of some girl he didn’t even know. His injury turned him into an idiot, so his dad had to come and take him back to his hometown. River Blossom Plaza was the name of that bar, an establishment into which I plan never to set foot again in this lifetime. 

“I couldn’t help you,” he added. “My bicycle kickstand was broken, and the basket was full of pigeons. I could only shout for help. I called to all the passers-by, there’s a fight, someone’s getting killed, come quick!” 

I had absolutely no recollection of hearing that tongue-tied Mandarin. But I did recall the stench of fresh chicken shit, only it must have been pigeon. He couldn’t have helped us anyway, shrimp that he was. 

“You rear pigeons?” 

“I herd them,” he said. “If you haven’t seen them, then I’ll be off.” 

Just as well he left, otherwise I don’t know how I’d have explained the missing seven pigeons. I recalled the three of us eating and drinking, letting out satisfied belches. Seven was not a small number. 

Over the next few days, when I saw the pigeons fly overhead, I no longer called out to wake Xingjian and Miluo. When I chased them as I jogged, there was no longer a shadow behind me. I knew I’d betrayed his trust, but had no idea if he understood this too. Feeling guilty, I didn’t mind the pigeons cooing as much as before. Walking down the main road, I felt sensitive to anything with feathers that could fly. Even a plastic bag caught on the telephone wire would transfix me for a while. 

One noontime, I had to go to Hong Sanwan’s for some ink. Passing through Zhongguancun High Street, I saw a flock of pigeons scuttling back and forth on the pavement outside Modern Plaza. They looked familiar. Even though it was freezing cold, young parents had brought their children to play with the birds, and a courting couple flashed ruddy cheeks as they took a selfie with them. I knew how this worked – you bought a bag of pigeon feed, and got to pose for photographs with as many of them as you liked. Then I spotted a loner sitting amongst the flocks of birds and humans, his head pulled so far in that practically his whole neck had retreated inside his coat collar. This was an exceptionally cold winter, and even the sunlight was so weak it might have been ill. His hair was soft and biddable, and he had a small head and pale face, clear snot dripping from his nose. I walked up to him and said, “One bag of feed.” 

“It’s you!” He stood, four little sacks of pigeon food falling from their hooks on his coat. 

These were tiny clear bags that held maybe eighty to a hundred grains of wheat, one-fifty each. I helped pick them up. To the side were his bicycle and two pigeon cages. The bicycle was an old Flying Pigeon, covered in birdshit, leaning against the lattice wall. As he said, the kickstand was broken. His flock consisted of “public-square” pigeons. I fed each of them an extra two kernels of food. He gave up his folding stool to me, spreading newspaper over the cage of welded steel bars as a seat for himself. 

“There are fewer and fewer pigeons,” he said, pulling his neck down into his coat collar. 

“You’re cold?” 

“The pigeons are cold too.” 

* 

The southerner was called Lin Huicong, and turned out to be two years older than me. His home was so far away it was practically the southernmost point of China. At the end of last year, he’d finished his final exams, but his essay was off-topic, and he didn’t even get into one of the vocational schools. Of course, where he came from, a vocational school place would be counted as a good result. His exam consisted of a set response and an open-ended essay topic. The prompt was: three trees per person per year, so a hillside requires a hundred thousand trees, each spring day requires 1.3 billion trees, and so forth. Quite poetic. The essay topic was “If…” Not caring about anything else, he wrote on “If a Snowstorm Seals the Door”. To be honest, many of the exam markers down south wouldn’t have seen snow in their whole lives, and certainly couldn’t imagine enough of it to seal a door shut. He wrote voluminously about planting trees and snowstorms, all muddled together. No idea where he got the logical connection. The examiner thought he’d gone too far off piste; he didn’t score even half of the hundred and fifty marks on offer. 

His father asked him, “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

He replied, “I’m going to Beijing.” 

In China, if you ask any given person where they’re going, the majority would tell you Beijing. Lin Huicong was heading there too, but not to see Tiananmen Square, rather he wanted to know what snow looked like. Also, his uncle lived in Beijing. Many years ago, the Lin family’s second son had stabbed someone and, thinking the victim was dead, was terrified into hopping on the Beijing train that very night. He’d been a livestock worker, and losing his temper over a cockfight, had pulled out his knife. He never returned, and would occasionally send some money home, giving the impression he’d made it big. Lin Huicong’s dad proudly declared, That’s fine, go stay with your second uncle, you can live a good life in Beijing too. Huicong bought a standing train ticket to the capital, and when he took off his shoes after the journey, his feet had swollen into two huge misshapen loaves. 

Second Uncle didn’t, as he’d imagined, greet him in an impeccable suit – in fact, his clothes, speckled with dubious grey-white spots like stars, were even sloppier than what folks back home wore. With his nose streaming, Lin Huicong asked, “Still covered in chicken shit?” 

“No, pigeon!” The uncle spat onto his fingers and carefully rubbed a speck of the stuff off his old-man’s shirt. “This stuff is clean!” 

After taking on quite a few odd jobs in Beijing, the Lin family’s second son had decided after all that his old line of work was more reliable, only he’d rear pigeons instead of fowl. Who knows how he’d been goddamn lucky enough to acquire this job of tending plaza pigeons. He was in charge of taking care of them, disbursing them to various public spots and landmarks at particular times for the pleasure of residents and tourists. This might not seem like a particularly impressive post, but it paid quite well, and being a public service, was funded from above. In addition, you had an income from the feed at one-fifty per bag, all of which you got to keep, no matter how many you sold. There were getting to be more pigeons than he could manage, so his nephew arrived at just the right time. He handed over two cages of birds, and charged nothing but a commission of fifty cents per bag of feed, so Huicong got to keep the rest, and would fend for himself out of that. 

“Is it enough?” I asked, knowing most people in Beijing who fend for themselves don’t quite manage it. 

“I get by,” he said. “Only, it’s a little cold.” 

The winter sun set quickly, and as soon as the light started to slacken, everyone ran for home. It was indeed cold, and there were fewer and fewer people, making the pigeons look more numerous. Huicong decided to close shop for the day, blowing a peculiar whistle so the birds waddled up to the cage, their necks shrunken too. 

Huicong lived south of Seventh Alley. To call his place passable would elevate it – the heating didn’t work. It was also a single-storey house, his landlady was a stingy old woman who kept a coal stove in her own room, practically wrapping herself around it all day long. As long as she was warm, she didn’t care about her tenant, only tossing a piece of coal into the boiler when she thought of it, and if she forgot, so be it. Huicong would often blearily brush against the radiator during the night, only to be shocked awake by its icy coldness. When he complained about this, the old lady said, you should know very well that I haven’t charged you a cent in rent for your pigeons! Huicong said, the pigeons don’t live in the house. The courtyard is mine too, she retorted, and if we went by headcount, you’d owe me more than ten thousand a month. Huicong shut up at once. With his flock, even if each bird cooed just a couple of times, that added up to what sounded like a group of unbearably noisy people whispering to each other all night long. He was lucky the old woman hadn’t yet picked a fight with him about that. 

“I’m scared of the cold.” Huicong sounded ashamed of being a frost-fearing southerner. “But I was hoping to see a proper snowstorm.” 

The storm would come. The weather report had said that a cold front from Siberia was entering the city, although forecasts weren’t always accurate, and half the time you didn’t know where on earth they were talking about. But still I told him with certainty that the storm would definitely arrive. If it didn’t snow, what kind of winter would that be? 

Purely out of pity, I told Xingjian and Miluo about Huicong when I got home, asking how they’d feel about him coming to live with us. Our heating was good – the landlord, a bicycle repairman, was partial to strong spirits, so every few days we’d send him a small bottle of sorghum wine, until he started treating us like relatives, and the heating blazed unsparingly. At times, when we were too lazy to go out for food, he’d even lend us his charcoal stove – on which we’d roasted the seven late pigeons. 

“That’s all very well,” said Miluo, “But what if he finds out we ate seven of his birds?” 

“So what!” snapped Xingjian. “Let him come, and when he’s paid his rent we can buy beer. And he’ll have to bring a gift, won’t he? A couple of pigeons or something.” 

I skipped along to south of Seventh Alley. Huicong wanted very much to come live with us, but he wouldn’t give up any of his pigeons, though he’d happily buy us an old mother hen instead. I told him, all three of us put up small ads. Had he seen these? A phone number on papers, walls, curbstones, telephone poles. If you needed a forged school certificate, driving licence, press card, parking permit, identity card, marriage licence, passport, or any other document that could possibly exist in the world, you’d just call this number, and Hong Sanwan would sort you out. The number belonged to Hong Sanwan, my uncle the forger. I’d carve his number onto a radish or sweet potato, then set forth with the vegetable in one hand and an ink-soaked sponge in the other, stamping it on all available surfaces. If you need help, call Hong Sanwan. Before he had his senses knocked out of his head, Baolai worked for my uncle too. Xingjian and Miluo were in the same line; their boss was Chen Xingduo. 

“I knew that must be what you did, going out at night and sleeping all day.” Huicong didn’t appear to see anything wrong with this job. “And I know you’re always climbing up the roof to play cards.” 

That was true – for safety’s sake, we went out at night to put up our ads, sleeping all day, so bored the rest of the time we were reduced to playing cards. I helped Huicong move his bedding to our house – he could have Baolai’s old bed. Along with his luggage, he brought a plucked chicken with him. At noontime, Xingjian and Miluo huddled around the stove, drooling as they watched the simmering chicken soup. Huicong and I were outside, building a new coop for the pigeons. It was very simple – a row of wooden boxes filled with dried grass and cotton wool. When the door was opened, they’d go in, and when it was shut, they’d sleep soundly. Like us, the birds lived in communal quarters, three or four per slot. We found some asbestos tiles, torn cardboard cartons and cloth scraps to wrap up the birdhouse, to block the wind and preserve warmth. If it were open to the elements, this coop might as well be a refrigerator. 

That chicken was delicious, especially with the two bottles of sorghum wine I got from the convenience store. After all that soup, I felt a bit dizzy, Xingjian and Miluo were parched, and Huicong was overheated. I needed to sleep, Xingjian and Miluo wanted to go out to find some women, and Huicong felt like heading to the roof for some air. He’d seen us there many times playing cards. 

The wind had blown open the sky above the house, and in the distance a few furnace chimneys let out smoke. The smoke looked like brooms after being pulled apart by the wind... Waving goodbye to the roof, Xingjian and Miluo crept out. They were sure to spend the little money they’d put aside on some pale and plump female flesh. 

“I’ve always wanted to climb up your roof,” said Huicong, standing on Baolai’s stool for a little extra height, gazing into the distance all around. “You could put down a card, then look up and there’d be Beijing.” 

I told him that actually there was nothing much to see, just skyscrapers behind tower blocks, fuck all to do with us. And also, when I walked amongst that forest of buildings, I felt I was in the canal back home, plunging straight to the bottom, not breaking the surface, treading water and unsteadily pressing ahead. 

“I want to see a blanket of snow cover this city. Can you imagine how magnificent that’d be?” Huicong’s words were accompanied by grand gestures, pulling all of history into a flash, all of earth into a point. 

He was back to his “snowstorm sealing the door”. This prodded my imagination – if a blizzard were to wrap itself around Beijing, what would I see, here on the roof? How clean that pure white world would look, pale silver with no beginning or end, levelling the difference between rich and poor, such that the skyscrapers were no longer tall, the humble dwellings not low, height showing only the unequal levels of snow accumulated. Beijing would be like the fairy tales I’d once read, untainted, peaceful, replete, harmonious. The people who wandered out wrapped in layers of padded clothes would all be part of the same family. 

“What would you do if a storm came?” he asked. 

I didn’t know. I’d seen snow, and I’d seen snowstorms. On days of heavy snowfall in the past, I’d been listless, not knowing what to do. 

“I’d stamp my way through thick snowdrifts, crunching across the whole of Beijing.” 

A few pigeons flew up from the courtyard, and the rest followed, an avalanche of flapping as they soared. The noise like ultrasonic waves rose again. “Could you take those whistles off them?” I said, clutching my head. 

“I’ll do it now.” Huicong started climbing down from the roof. “They’re only there so the chicks can find their way home.” 

* 

Training the pigeons to get used to their new home took Huicong quite a few days. He managed it all with his off-pitch whistle. Now they no longer had little pan-pipes attached to them, I began to like the birds, taking pleasure in watching them soar and dip each day, as if I’d acquired a new group of friends. But every few days, more of them would vanish. I couldn’t work out why – there were no other flocks nearby, so it wasn’t like they could have been stolen. And I hadn’t seen Xingjian or Miluo being so bold as to shoot any – I knew very well where they kept their slings. But that’s not quite right – they and I worked for different bosses, so we operated on different schedules, and I had no way of knowing what they did behind my back. Besides, ever since that time they’d crept out in search of female companionship, they seemed to have formed an even firmer alliance, and got in the habit of defending each other whenever we spoke. Huicong said he understood this – men who’d borne arms together, studied together or gone whoring together, would always end up firm friends. Fine, then – let’s say they were pilfering pigeons. Where could they have gone to cook them? 

Huicong didn’t want to guess blindly. Living under the same roof, making wild accusations might lead to bad feeling. Anyway, Xingjian and Miluo swore with utmost sincerity that they’d not killed any pigeons after those first seven. 

Huicong and I went back to running after the pigeons. It was good exercise, and we could protect the little creatures at the same time. A couple of eco-warriors. We ran through pretty much every street and alleyway in the west Beijing suburbs, and still the birds kept vanishing and the snow refused to fall. Each day he let them loose in various squares and scenic spots, and by night I posted small ads in the streets and residential estates. Each time we left or came back we’d do a headcount, and if the number was right we’d be overjoyed, as if we’d escaped a burglary; if one had gone missing, we’d sink into unhappy silence, as if mourning the missing bird. After a while, Huicong would say out of the blue, “It’s all because pigeons are so damn nutritious. When I started in the business, my uncle warned me people always have their eyes on our birds.” 

But there was nothing we could do, even knowing this. There are only so many precautions possible – it’s not like you can take pigeons to bed with you. 

On the night the Siberian cold front came, the wind reached gale force seven. Xingjian, Miluo and I were stuck indoors, unable to work, so we decided to have a little party, using scissors-paper-stone to decide which of us would be in charge of getting booze, snacks, or roasted donkey meat. We stewed a pot of cabbage and beef, all four of us huddled round the stove drinking till one in the morning, trying to work out from the whistling wind behind the door just how cold it had got outside. Beijing went through a night of gusts and rumbling, interspersed with the sounds of countless objects colliding. We got quite drunk and felt the world had fallen into chaos. 

The next day, Huicong was up first. He stepped outside and quickly came back in, standing at the foot of our beds holding up four stiff pigeons, his little face ready to burst into tears. The birds had been lying frozen in front of their coop. No idea how they could have got out, nor how the wooden door slammed shut behind them. Before we’d started drinking, we’d checked every one of those boxes, making quite sure that even if they were to be moved wholesale to Siberia itself, the pigeons would remain warm and alive. But here they were, incontrovertibly icy and dead. They’d pecked at that door for ages, before finally burrowing their beaks into the soft down of their wings and waiting for death. 

“Did you hear those two get up during the night?” I asked Huicong. 

“I drank too much. I slept like a corpse.” 

Me too. But I could guarantee Xingjian and Miluo had also been dead to the world, they couldn’t hold their liquor at all. We could only say those four pigeons had been fated to be short-lived. It would be a shame to throw them away, so Miluo offered cook them up. I hastily waved that suggestion away – I knew those birds personally, and if they had names, I’d have called them. How could I eat them? And that went double for Huicong. He handed the bodies over to Xingjian and Miluo, saying it’s up to you, but don’t let me see it. Then he walked out into the courtyard and squatted in front of the coop, staring intently at it, and then up at the sky. 

By the time we’d procrastinated our way through breakfast, it was after ten-thirty. Huicong hefted his two cagefuls of pigeons to Xizhimen. Xingjian and Miluo glanced sidelong at each other, stuffing the dead birds into a plastic bag and taking them out. I followed them at a distance. The western suburbs were huge, and I’d thought I’d been through most of their streets, but after tailing those two, I realised I’d only ever seen a tiny fraction of the whole. Beijing is vast, and its suburbs just as enormous. 

After many winding turns, Xingjian knocked on a little door on an alleyway I didn’t know. This was the side entrance to a dilapidated residential courtyard. A young woman leaned half her body out, her hair all a mess, curls half-obscuring her pale face. Her bright red jumper hugged her body and pushed her breasts firmly out front. She took the plastic bag and set it on the ground, then wrapped her left arm around Xing-jian and her right one around Miluo, pulling them to her chest, and after pressing them there a while, patting their faces. Then she rubbed her arms a couple of times from the cold, and shut the door. I hid behind the public lavatory wall, waiting for Xingjian and Miluo to pass by before I stepped out. They were debating, and finally high-fived each other. 

My impression of their pigeon drop was of high walls, a narrow door, a glimpse of roof, black tiles with a couple of clumps of shrivelled grass huddled together and swaying in the wind. No sounds apart from the natural world. That’s all. 

* 

No one knew how the pigeons kept dwindling. We counted them first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and between those two times, they went missing one after another. I couldn’t be certain that Xingjian and Miluo were doing anything underhand, the disappearances seemed to have nothing to do with them. They even made sure to leave the slings out where we could all keep an eye on them. When Baolai was here, they never liked to hang out with the two of us, and now it was the same. They’d go out together, talking about their ideals, making a fortune, women – lofty topics. From my rooftop perch, I’d occasionally see them wander from one alleyway to another, twisting their way to somewhere far off. Of course, I couldn’t tell whether they were knocking on that little door again. You can’t make wild guesses about what you can’t see. 

There was nothing Huicong could do about the vanishing birds. “If only I could stuff them in my pockets, he lamented as we sat on the roof. “Then I’d know they were there, wherever I went.” Between the thieves and poachers, it was inevitable their numbers would keep dwindling, filling him with anxiety. If his second uncle were to learn what was going on, he’d put on a stern face and warn his nephew that even if he were to give up and hand the birds back, there’d need to be roughly the same number. How roughly? Huicong felt the current flock was approaching that danger point. “I don’t ask for much,” he said, “As long as I can see a snowstorm before I go.” The sky above our heads was blue, the clouds white. The Siberian cold front had blown away everything dirty, and new pollution hadn’t yet filled the air. 

Why wouldn’t the weather forecast mention another blizzard? They’d got it wrong the first time round, but a few more predictions ought to fix that. 

Yet the pigeons kept going missing, and the snow continued to stay away. This was rare in the history of Beijing, a winter with no proper snow. Huicong had practically given up food and sleep in order to keep watch over his birds. When he let them loose during the day, he often asked me to keep him company on a run until they came home again. He usually woke twice during the night, once at half-past-one and once at five, heading outside to make sure his flock was secure. Despite all his efforts, they continued going astray and the danger point drew closer. Even Xingjian and Miluo couldn’t bear to watch, and kept an eye out for him when they got up in the night to pee. They urged Huicong to cheer up, it’s only a few pigeons, let your uncle take them back and if all else fails, you can come work with us. They’ll bury you when you’re dead no matter where you are, and as long as you stay in Beijing, opportunity will find its way to you sooner or later. 

Huicong protested, “You’re not me, and I’m not you. I’m from the deep south.” 

In the end, one morning in January, as I got back to the house after a jog, Xingjian yelled at me, his headphones still plugged into the radio, “Tell that Lin Huicong, if he wants a snowstorm, he’ll have one this evening.” 

“For real? That’s the forecast?” 

“The national weather bureau, the Beijing weather bureau, plus a bunch of meteorologists all said so.” 

I stepped back out and felt the sky instantly darken, lead-grey clouds fermenting above. Everything felt like a blizzard was on its way. I found Huicong at the entrance to Modern Plaza. His uncle was there too, a beer-bellied man with some kind of animal fur around his coat collar. “If you can’t hack it, go home!” The uncle’s hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, and he sounded like a village cadre. “Life in the capital isn’t like back home, it’s all about survival of the fittest.” Huicong lowered his head. He hadn’t had time to comb his hair that morning, and once again it stood up in clumps like Lei Zhenzi’s. He was close to tears. 

“All the experts say a snowstorm is on its way,” I called as I drew up to them. “It’s a sure thing. Two bags of birdfeed, please.” 

Huicong looked up, then at his uncle. “Just give me two more days. That’s all.” 

* 

On the way home, I bought some sorghum wine and duck necks for when we were sitting and watching the snow falling over Beijing. Huicong ran outdoors five times before midnight and didn’t see a single snowflake, the night sky desolate and full of sadness. Then we fell asleep, and it was past ten in the morning when we were wakened by something scrabbling at the door. I tried to push it open but it wouldn’t budge. Pushed harder. Nothing. Then a burst of energy, and the earth and sky were white, the snow before the door up to my knees. I yelled at the others, “Quick, come see, the snowstorm sealed the door!” 

Huicong darted out from beneath the covers in just his shorts, and ran out into the snowdrifts barefoot, shrieking senselessly in his out-of-tune dialect. Birds flapped over the courtyard and rooftops. On a day like this, sparrows and pigeons ought to stay in their nests instead of venturing out. Yet this flock of pigeons refused to stay still for a second, landing and picking at the ground wherever they could, which was what caused the scratching noise that roused us. 

Two pigeons stood by the coop with their heads to one side. Snow had covered the wooden boxes. They were both dead, but didn’t look frozen, or starved, or suffocated. Xingjian said if he could take them, he’d provide the food and drink that night – we ought to celebrate Beijing’s biggest snowfall in thirty years. That’s what the radio said, the clumps and flurries of the night were a three-decade record. 

After a quick meal, Huicong and I climbed up onto the roof. Post-blizzard Beijing wasn’t quite the way I’d imagined – it turned out the snow couldn’t actually cover everything, and the glassy skyscrapers still twinkled murkily. Still, Huicong was very satisfied. He felt Beijing was more solemn when blanketed in white, a sort of monochrome seriousness, the dark buildings like rocks near the shoreline protruding above the white foam of ocean waves. He made a snowball and nibbled at it, muttering as he gnawed, “This is snow. This is snow.” 

Xingjian and Miluo emerged, turning this way and that as they meandered through the snow into the distance. Pigeons flew in circles over our heads. I counted them for Huicong – still just enough that he could hand the remainder to his uncle, though any fewer would be unacceptable. We walked back and forth on the roof, the new snow springy and loose beneath our feet. I told Huicong how Baolai used to say he wanted to play cards on the roof until snow covered the ground. But he hadn’t been able to wait that long, and who knew if he’d ever play cards again. 

I’m not sure how long we stayed on the roof, at any rate until our bellies started rumbling. That’s when Xingjian and Miluo reappeared. We came off the roof and saw Xingjian still holding the plastic bag with the dead pigeons. 

“Fuck it, she’s gone back home.” He gave the wall a sharp kick, rattling the plastic bag. “Damn it all, she’s gone back to her hometown to wait for death.” 

Miluo prised the bag from his hand and lit a cigarette. He said, “I’ll find a place to bury these birds.” 

Translated by Jeremy Tiang

Ma Xiaoli

马晓丽

Ma Xiaoli was born in Shenyang, Liaoning. After a career in the army spanning three decades, she turned to writing in 1995; her fiction (including the award-winning novel The River Between Chu and Han) focuses on military life. As an academic, she specialises in ethnic minorities and political theory. Ma Xiaoli received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for “Russian Army Belt”.

Russian Army Belt

俄罗斯陆军腰带

Illustration by Xiao Bao

Boris. Now there was a surprise, especially this far from the border. Qin Chong let his eyes slide quickly down to the epaulettes on Boris' shoulder. Dammit. He’d made colonel already. 

Qin was a lieutenant colonel, which was nominally only one rank below colonel. But the Russian army had fewer rungs to climb than the Chinese, so Boris was now just one rank away from being a one star general. Qin still had to make his way through colonel and brigadier before he was a general, and in reality his progress would be harder than the distance of three ranks suggested. Qin’s shoulders immediately started to itch. This would definitely set off his hives. 

“Qin, hello there!” Boris started shouting at him when they were still a long way apart. Qin quickly calculated his response, calling, “Old Bo! How nice to see you!” as he watched Boris’ arm, taking care to time a perfectly simultaneous salute. It defused the embarrassment of acknowledging his junior rank by saluting first, but without appearing impolite or stand-offish. 

Only when the men’s hands finally touched did Qin let himself enjoy the moment. Boris’ hand was still distinctly unmilitary: pudgy, warm and damp. It had always given Qin an odd sensation every time he shook it, as though it belonged to quite another person. Perhaps Qin felt that Boris’ hand should not be so fleshy and warm because he had, in the past, felt what it was like as a fist. But today Boris’ hot, hairy hand was a familiar and friendly connection. They had known each other a long time, after all. Qin might have caused poor Boris a bit of trouble back in the day, but to see each other after all these years – in a camp set up for a joint Sino-Russian exercise – was still an unexpected pleasure. 

Boris and Qin were old rivals. Back then, they each commanded a company of troops, and kept watch over the same stretch of border. The only difference was that Qin was on this side, working for his country; Boris stood on that side, working for the other. Most parallel border units never got the chance to meet, because there was a certain distance between the sentry posts, and patrols would each keep to their own side, never crossing paths. But Qin and Boris had care of a stretch of the Heilong River which would freeze over in winter and thaw in the summer. Their sentry posts and patrol routes were constantly moving. In the summer, things were fairly straightforward. The wide river lay between them, and the two companies would eye each other from their respective banks. Occasionally a vessel would slip out of midstream and wander into the territory of one country or another, but they would generally return to their course without any need for intervention, so they were not a serious problem. The problems came with winter. In winter the Heilong froze right over, thick enough it wasn’t just people who could walk across: cars could drive all the way from one side to the other. So as the winter set in, there was activity all along the border. Those who wanted to make illegal crossings would try to take advantage of the ice to slip across. Smugglers would try to haul their goods over. And if you didn’t keep a sharp eye on the ice fishermen, they could easily wander right into the territory of the other country and start a border dispute without even trying. So when the winter started, the sentries on each side of the river advanced their posts along with the leading edge of the ice, moving gradually towards the centre of the river. At about this time, Qin’s hives would start to play up. As the sentry posts got closer and closer to the border down the middle of the Heilong, the skin on the inside of Qin’s elbows would break out red and become itchier and itchier. Eventually, they would reach the middle; the sentries would find themselves nose to nose with their counterparts; and Qin and Boris would look each other dead in the eye. At this point, Qin’s nervous hives would erupt in a full-blown attack, driving him frantic. Sometimes he could not stop himself taking a knife to whole patches of his own skin. 

Boris had not been much perturbed by Qin Chong at first. He had learned Mandarin at Moscow University, and spoke it well, so communication was not an issue. But that was not his most important advantage. Though Boris was not an academy graduate, though he didn’t have the political credentials of a Mikhail Frunze, in Qin’s eyes he had the bearing of a military officer. His posture was erect, his uniform always immaculate. The Russian uniform at that time was rather more elaborate than ours, and even when Boris had his camouflage jacket on to keep out the cold, he would still have it smartly belted, a conservative tie knot showing the collar. And whatever time of day it was, Boris’ boots were always shined to a mirror finish. Qin later found out that Boris did not actually polish his own boots, but he still thought that he cut a terrific figure. “A military man,” Qin said, “should look the part.” Qin was very concerned with looking the part himself. Unfortunately, our uniform did not help him in this endeavour. When it was cold, the only option was to pack in the extra layers until you looked like a ball of cotton. Qin despised cotton, so faced with the choice between looking like a puffball and looking like a soldier, he chose to look like a soldier. Which is to say, he chose to freeze in the winter. So Qin became a heroic, if somewhat tragic, figure. Inspecting his sentries, dealing with border issues, whenever he might be seen by the Russian soldiers – and especially when he might appear in front of Captain Boris – he would make sure to dress just as smartly as he could. The cold did not cow him. His teeth might be chattering, but he would never admit it. “I’m a frost-resistant crop,” he would announce. In fact, it was obvious to even the greenest of new grunts that Captain Qin was showing off to Captain Boris, trying to prove that he could look just as much the military officer. 

The first time Qin managed to wrong-foot Boris was during the vegetable plot incident. Qin’s company kept a famous vegetable plot. Famous, because keeping vegetables alive at those latitudes was no easy task. Where they were posted, there were only three frost-free months in every year, so the vegetables had to be planted and harvested in a short window. And it wasn’t every vegetable that would grow in that ground, let alone grow well. Qin’s company not only managed to grow vegetables, they grew fat, juicy, presentation-grade vegetables, the pride of the unit. Qin naturally took a close interest in the vegetable plot. Almost anyone who visited the company barracks would be taken to view the marvel. 

As relations at the border grew more relaxed, the companies on either side had more contact with one another, and would occasionally hold parties for both the Russians and the Chinese. At one of these events, Qin, playing the gracious host, led the Russian contingent down to see the famous vegetable patch. Of course, he also wanted to show off a little to Boris. At the allotment, he issued every Russian man with a plastic bag, and told them to pick some cucumbers and tomatoes for themselves. The Russian soldiers went crazy for it, and scrambled to be first down into the tomato patch. Before long, every one of them had a bulging bagful. Qin noticed that Boris himself had not set foot in the vegetable garden, but didn’t think too much of it. Boris was the leader of these men, after all. Perhaps he just didn’t want to get his boots dirty. 

A little while later there was another meeting between the Russian and Chinese companies, and once again Qin ended it with another visit to the allotment. But just as he was about to issue the plastic bags, each Russian man produced a sack from his belt pack. They had come prepared! Qin saw at once that trouble was brewing. There was no way they could fill all of those sacks. The allotment would be emptied. But he could hardly turn them away now that he had brought them all down here. Qin looked over at Boris, and was surprised to see him standing with arms folded, eyes twinkling at the confusion. Qin felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, but quickly recovered his composure. He ordered his men to go ahead and cut the big marrows to fill up the Russian soldiers’ bags and minimize the devastation to our patch. 

As he saw the Russians off at the end of the day, he asked Boris pointedly, “It seems that you Russians like our vegetable patch very much, Old Bo.” He used the friendlier form of address to soften the directness of his tone. 

“We do!” Boris said. “Your vegetable patch is very amusing.” 

“You could make one of your own,” Qin shot back. 

But Boris shook his head vigorously. “No, no.” 

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to look after it,” Qin continued. “We can provide technical support.” 

“No, no.” Boris’ head was still shaking. 

“Don’t worry about seeds and seedlings,” Qin said again. “We can bring you some over before we do our transplanting.” 

“No, no,” Boris said more firmly. “That’s not the issue.” 

“So what is the issue?” Qin asked. 

“The issue,” Boris said, “is that we are the army, not a farm.” 

No answer rose to Qin’s lips. 

It had never crossed Qin’s mind that Boris might clobber him with a remark so clearly designed to stick in his craw. Qin chewed on this remark for a long time, in private. He was never sure whether he had reached a real conclusion, but his interest in the vegetable plot was noticeably reduced from that day on. And it was from that day on that Qin began to find ways to needle Boris, though at that point it was still within fairly conventional boundaries. It was not yet the frenzied battle that would come later. 

Boris was still as erect as ever, his boots still mirror-bright. All these years, and Old Bo did not seem to have changed at all, with the exception of his rank. Even his expressions were the same. Seeing Boris’ eyes look him up and down, Qin subconsciously thrust his chest a little forward. 

Qin was wearing his training uniform today, with high combat boots. His trousers were tucked loosely into the tops of his boots. On his head was a special forces beret, pulled down low over his temple. He was the image of the toughened soldier ready for battle, and he knew it. Moreover, he knew that the image suited him. Look all you like, he thought, with a certain satisfaction. Things have changed. This time it’s Old Bo’s turn to be jealous of me. 

And Qin saw the expected gleam of approval and envy in Boris' eyes.

Qin’s respect for Boris' army dropped a couple of notches. 

The special forces brigade began tidying and setting up their space as soon as they got into camp. Qin made a tour of inspection, and found nothing amiss, even by his strict standards. On Boris' side, the Russian soldiers were just dumping their kit on the ground, backpacks left open, spilling out their contents. Enough equipment was piled up there to cover seven basketball courts. Qin went over to have a look, and it was a mess. Bare shoulders rubbed, beach shorts flapped, the whole area twittered with a confusion of voices. Before long, someone had broken an arm. 

If this sort of thing had happened in our ranks, there would be hell to pay. Injuring ourselves before we even got out onto the battlefield? Disciplinary action would be inevitable for everyone from the lowest private to the commander of the entire unit. Qin imagined Boris must be feeling pretty uncomfortable, being embarrassed like this in front of soldiers from another country. This was the worst kind of humiliation. So he got hold of a couple of bottles of decent Chinese spirit and went over to see Boris that afternoon. Boris had always liked Chinese spirit. Most Russian men like their hard liquor, Chinese spirit best of all. Every time they had drunk together in the past, Boris had always finished the night roaring drunk. Qin himself never showed the effects. There were very few people who could match Qin drink for drink. Boris, in fact, was no mean drinker, he just loved the spirit a little too much. He drank like he was angling for a volume discount. Qin rather looked down on the way Boris conducted himself when the spirits were flowing. But that didn’t stop him from sending Boris home with an extra couple of bottles every time they finished a session. It’s always worth banking a favour, Qin would say. Boris and me, we’re engaging in international relations. And one must never be a cheapskate in international relations. 

Through the middle of the camp there was a track which was doing double duty as an international border. Qin crossed it and threaded his way through the Russian tents. Outside every one there was a little footstool that the men used when shining their boots. The old Soviet army habits die hard, Qin thought. Qin had once heard that back in the fifties, when the Red Army first went for training with the Soviets, the very first lesson was on boot polishing. Remembering Boris' permanently gleaming feet, Qin couldn’t suppress a smile. 

The Russian officers’ quarters were in portacabins put up specially for this exercise, some way behind the tents. The Russians were very different to us in that respect: they had no interest in equality between officers and men. For them, officers were officers, enlisted were enlisted, and never the twain shall meet. Qin may have been commander of the brigade, but he was quite happy dossing with the men in a tent. But even the lowliest Russian captain had to stay in the officers’ quarters. 

Qin strode into the Russian flats with a slight sneer on his face. They really had set themselves up nicely, he saw. Bathrooms, showers, even a snooker room. Qin stood in an alley between the rows of cabins, and for a moment was at a loss as to how he should find Boris. A sound came from the line of cabins to his left, so he turned in that direction, but drew up short as he came face to face with a fat Russian woman. The woman was wearing only knickers and a bra, and was towelling her dripping hair. The intrusion of a Chinese soldier made her scream and run back into her cabin, but the slam of the door was followed by a burst of laughter from inside. 

Qin was extremely embarrassed. He realised that he had stumbled into the quarters of the kitchen staff, and quickly retreated in the direction from which he had come. Russian soldiers did not cook their own meals, Qin knew. Wherever the army went, it transported a complement of cooks along with it. Earlier that day, Qin had sent the lieutenant who oversaw their unit’s mess arrangements over to the Russian mess hall to learn how meals were taken care of in other armies. He returned snorting with laughter. “Those kitchen girls measure out the food like they’re doing a science project,” he said, miming to Qin how they weighed their ingredients. “First they peel the potatoes, then they weigh them. I’ll tell you what’s really ridiculous: they’ll tip a good few stones’ worth of potatoes into the pot, and if they’re over by just one, they have to hoick it down off the scale again…” 

“What’s so funny about that?” Qin asked, giving his lieutenant a hard stare. “That is precision rationing. Do you not understand? That is controlling intake to match energy demands. If you are unable to grasp these concepts, then go and study up with our Russian colleagues!” 

There was a reason Qin sent the lieutenant to learn about Russian mess practices. On the day that the Russians arrived, their support staff had not yet got themselves up and running, so their first meal had been arranged by Joint Command. We like to look after our guests in this country, and the most important thing you can do for a guest is give them plenty to eat. The amount a visitor eats reflects how good a host we are, and the depth of our friendship. Qin didn’t know who had given the order, but the soldiers doling out the rations were ladling it on thick. Every plate was heaped high. Qin, observing from one side of the hall, saw that many of the Russian men looked quite disgusted at the mounds of food in front of them. Qin couldn’t help but share their discomfort. He had spent some time with the Russians, and he knew very well that meals in the Russian army were measured out precisely, in exact proportions. It wasn’t like our army, where you could just scrape away anything you didn’t want to eat. Russian men were not permitted to leave any of their rations: they had to eat exactly what they were given. Faced with these steaming heaps of food, unable to finish them, not allowed leftovers, Qin could see that something would have to give. After a while, it gave. One private, unable to force down any more food, tried to sneak the remains of his meal into the bins, but was caught red-handed by Boris. Boris stood him up against the wall and harangued him for half an hour. Then he forced the private to consume every scrap of his remaining half a plate of rations. Qin knew perfectly well that Boris was making a deliberate example of the man, and that the half-hour lecture was to some extent for the benefit of the Chinese. It was a successful demonstration of Russian discipline. Qin saw that every Chinese soldier in the hall was stunned by the sight of the Russian private forcing the food down his own throat. He also saw every Chinese soldier there take an instant disliking to Boris, but Qin himself was not perturbed by the incident. He had always harboured an appreciation for the more scientific approach that other armies took to feeding their soldiers. Indeed, when he went through that hellish training in Turkey, the Turkish provisioning system had been one of the few bright spots. At the SAT special forces training camp, the trainees had to eat what they were given, in the quantities they were given it. Qin had been so hungry, he had eaten raw beef. But thinking back on it, the training had been so tough that if it wasn’t for that strict diet control, he would have been physically incapable of making it through to the end. 

In the end, he found Boris. Boris was sunbathing in a little yard surrounded by portacabins. He seemed to be in a good mood, lying back in a deckchair with his eyes closed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, his whole body soaking up the bright rays. The afternoon sun poured down his hairy form like liquid gold, spilling over the grass and the bushes, creating a pool of gilded quiet around him. 

Qin was just about to say something when his eye was caught by the clothes which Boris had dumped next to him. In particular, he stared at the belt, sitting coiled on top of the pile. It was a high quality leather Russian army belt. The leather was brown, and it had a diamond pattern sewn into it. The brass buckle was glossy in the sunlight. Qin knew this belt well. It was set apart by its buckle: most belts have only one prong, but this type of belt had two. To accommodate them, it had two rows of holes along its length. Qin had once tried this sort of belt on, and he was rather taken with it, to tell the truth. The double prongs made it feel more secure around his waist than a single prong belt. The worst belts of all, he felt, were the ones issued in our army. The buckles were just too civilian. They looked good, but they were hardly reliable. 

He stood silently, eyeing the Russian belt, and suddenly he lost his appetite for the visit. Without saying a word to Boris, he turned and hurried away.

The joint drills before the exercise officially began were going well. The objective of this exercise was to practice having the two armies work together on joint anti-terrorist missions. It involved coordinating multiple different units and different mission parameters. Qin’s special forces unit naturally played a starring role. They appeared out of the sky, parachuting down to land on their targets; they jumped out of ultra-low flying helicopters; they climbed vertical rock faces. The Russians performed well, too. They adapted very well to the unfamiliar environment, and quickly integrated themselves into their missions. Their paratroopers did particularly well. They didn’t get a chance to show off their airborne armoured transports, but their parachutes would materialise in sudden, tight formations, flowers strewn by a goddess. When they landed, they would quickly reform, and could be engaged in the fighting in the blink of an eye. It was a very creditable performance. 

Everything was going without a hitch. There was just one more drill to do, then the exercise would begin in earnest. But for some reason, Qin’s hives chose this moment to flare up. For a while, Qin had felt that something was amiss, though he could not put his finger on what. He had gone over the preparations for the exercise countless times. Every necessary instruction had been given countless times. So what was the problem? 

The atmosphere in the camp had become much more relaxed over the last couple of days. The Northern Region song and dance troupe had come to put on a show, and the Russian Far Eastern entertainment corps had performed as well. The pre-exercise tension had melted away, and been replaced with a new-year-like, celebratory atmosphere. None of these were the problem, Qin thought, scratching his shoulders. In fact, we’d normally expect a positive atmosphere to inspire the men to fight harder on the battlefield. So that can’t be it. 

It turned out that Qin’s breakout was not pure chance, though. He quickly sniffed out what was rotten in the camp. Some of the men had started secretly trading with the Russian soldiers, and the practice was becoming more and more widespread. This was the one problem that worried Qin most of all. 

You would think that if soldiers from two different countries worked together, developed a relationship, and decided to present each other with some small gifts, then it shouldn’t be a problem. But Qin’s experience at the border had taught him that there is no such thing as a minor diplomatic incident. Any issue even tangentially related to international relations has the potential to mushroom from an episode to a debacle. That was why, from the moment they had entered camp, Qin had repeatedly stressed to his troops that they must not enter into any private relationships with their foreign counterparts, and must not exchange things with foreign soldiers. But Qin’s special forces were not the only brigade in the camp, and they saw the other men around them engaging in brisker and brisker trade with the Russians. It was only natural that they should feel the urge as well. And it was often the Russians who started it. At any time they might fish one of their collar insignia, beret badges or unit patches out of their pockets and insist on swapping them for something of ours. Every soldier loves these military collectables. Dangled in front of Qin’s men, these trinkets were objects of desire. Anyone who touched one was loath to return it. If it was just one or two instances, then there would have been no problem. The occasional exchange could be ignored. But a soldier doesn’t have much on him that can be traded, so if the exchanges continue, then before long they start swapping their equipment. And that was a problem. Qin Chong believed that military equipment is a part of a soldier’s body. It is a part of his military readiness. And it was unthinkable that a man should trade away his own body and his readiness for battle. You might say that you like keepsakes from other armies (and in fact, Qin liked them more than most). But liking is one thing, and military discipline is quite another. Liking is never a reason to break discipline. 

Qin decided that he would stake out the camp that night and find out exactly what was going on. 

The moon hung milky white above his head, never blinking even once. It was not a good night for hiding; but the conditions for observation were excellent. For Qin, of course, the conditions did not make much difference at all. He was able to conceal himself under any circumstances. Qin found a location where he could remain unseen, and could clearly see the joint sentry positions, where the Russian and Chinese soldiers were on duty together. With his infra-red night scope, he could see most of the activity around their temporary international border. 

His first discovery was that most of the people who came and went were officers, not enlisted men. He saw a few Chinese and Russian officers gesturing their way through a conversation about something. It seemed to be that one of our officers was talking to a Russian major about swapping something for insignia. When our man reached into his pocket and handed over two silk scarves which he had apparently brought along specifically for the deal, the Russian major happily handed over the badge. The Chinese officer immediately took out one of the joint exercise flags and pinned the insignia onto it. The two officers both studied the flag intently, making gleeful comments as they did. Curious, Qin focused his night scope on the flag, and saw that it was covered with rank badges of every type. Someone’s put a lot of work into that, Qin marvelled. Jealousy welled up inside him, and for a moment he felt nothing but pure envy for ownership of that flag. But in the end he swallowed his feelings down once again. It’s no use, he thought. Jealousy doesn’t make it alright. I don’t know about them, but our officers are not permitted to engage in this sort of thing. We have men to set an example for, after all. 

The men came out a little later. The men were not quite so brazen as the officers, but they seemed to have some well-grooved systems. The two sentry posts were opposite each other on either side of the camp’s borderline. They were separated by just a few metres of ground. When two sentries were relieved, Qin saw them exchange a smile, then stroll over to meet at the line and begin their gesticulated conversation. 

The moon painted the ground with a layer of white light. Something plucked at Qin’s mind. The scene was somehow very familiar. It was that ice-covered river, with moonlight playing on the snowy expanse, on the international border along its middle, and on the sentry boxes looming on both sides of the line. Qin was in cover behind a snowdrift. He saw the tall Russian sentry making signals like drinking. He saw the Chinese man understand and smile, and pull a bottle of spirits out of his coat pocket. The Russian soldier’s eyes flashed, and without even a cursory glance around, he came hustling over to the Chinese side. But the Chinese sentry, still smiling, pulled the bottle back into his chest. An imploring Russian hand was outstretched, but the Chinese sentry pointed at his belt. You give me the belt, I’ll give you a drink. The tall Russian understood, and removed his belt without a moment’s hesitation. 

No, Qin shook his head. He snapped his wandering mind back from the snowy river to the present. And here he saw the Russian soldier pointing at the Chinese man’s waist, requesting his belt. The Chinese man took out some other object and showed him, but the Russian was clearly not satisfied with it, and demanded the belt again. The Chinese soldier gestured some more, and the Russian man seemed to become more agitated. With a flourish he drew his own belt out of his beltloops… 

At this moment Qin Chong suddenly appeared out of the darkness. Even more unexpectedly, Boris arrived at almost exactly the same moment. 

Qin and Boris looked at one another in surprise. The scene was identical to that moment, years ago. 

What was the next step in this scene? The next step was for both of them, simultaneously, to roar like mountain lions, terrifying the two sentries. The Chinese man remained upright, but his face sank down into his chest. The tall Russian began to shiver uncontrollably, his face blanched, like an animal caught by its neck. 

What next? Next was that Russian army belt. Boris had seized it and began thrashing the Russian sentry with it, then tore the man’s coat off and continued the thrashing. Then he turned the belt around and beat him with the two-pronged brass buckle, until the tall Russian was rolling in the snow and wailing in agony. 

At that point, it was Qin’s turn. Qin had originally meant to simply walk away in disgust. For god’s sake, if you’re going to disgrace yourself, do you have to do it over a belt? What’s so special about this guy’s belt? Is it really worth this pathetic mummery and a bottle of spirits? If you’re going to act in ways unbefitting a soldier, then just you wait till we get back to base and see how I deal with you! Qin was extremely unimpressed by Boris' immediate violence. You don’t beat your child in public, he thought. That’s not for outsiders to see. In fact, Qin had been known to strike his soldiers. At that moment he would have been quite happy to give his man a good kick up the arse. But he wouldn’t have laid into him the way Boris did. Your first duty is to love your men. You have to be their parent. Once that relationship has been properly recognised by both you and them, then even if you do strike them, there is still a closeness. It will be understood, by both parties. There was no closeness in the way Boris was beating his man. It was vicious. But this was nothing to with Qin. Qin’s only thought was to get his own man back to base and deal with this incident properly. 

However, just as Qin was turning to go, the blood started to flow. Boris had split the man’s scalp. The red liquid streamed from the man’s head, round his eyes, over his lips, and pitter-pattered from the point of his adolescent chin onto the hard surface of the ice. Boris should not have let the blood flow in front of Qin. Once he saw it, in the same instant as the first drop hit the ice, Qin abandoned all other thoughts and launched himself at Boris. He snatched the belt out of the Russian officer’s hand. Boris spun, and without a moment’s hesitation, punched Qin square in the chest. Immediately, the two began brawling. 

As Qin would tell it later, this brawl was the most internationally significant fight of his life; it was also the least warranted; the least honourable; and the most lacking in military dignity. It was barely even fighting, Qin would say. We were slithering around on the ice wrestling. Would you call it a fight? 

Qin and Boris exchanged looks. This time, neither of them roared at their soldiers. The moonlight shone in their eyes, silently editing that old script… 

Boris did not lose his temper. He even smiled a little. “Qin,” he said, “your belts are very good. Our men like them a lot.” 

Qin stared at him in some surprise, not sure what to say. 

“They just want to swap something as a memento,” Boris went on. “OK?” 

Qin said nothing, watching Boris with suspicion. 

“Fine,” Boris shrugged. “Never mind.” 

After Boris' back disappeared back into the darkness, Qin remained standing under the pale moonlight for a long time.

In the afternoon there was a sudden rainstorm. It came without any warning. At midday the skies were clear, but then the winds picked up and the heavens opened. It was a rare storm, like a dam bursting in the sky. A flood of water descended like a sheet, and within minutes every drain in the camp was overflowing. It was in the tents in less time than it took to shout a warning, and every officer and man in the camp charged out to try to drain the place dry. Emergencies are the best test of the quality of any team. Qin barely had to begin speaking before his unit was in action: the trench diggers were digging, others were piling earth banks, and some bailed water. Urgently, systematically, they got to work. 

On the other side, the Russian tents were also waterlogged. Qin went over to have a look, and snorted with laughter. Basins were floating out of the Russian tents on the rising flood, but the Russian soldiers were taking not the slightest bit of notice. They were absorbed in polishing their boots. Standing barefoot in the water, they held the boots up high, as though getting those boots gleaming would solve everything. Qin quickly sent a team over to help them with drainage, and only then did they seem to wake up and start bailing the water out of their tents like our men. 

The rain stopped just as suddenly as it had started. Qin conducted an inspection of every single Russian tent to assure himself that no permanent damage had been done. During the inspection, Qin made an unexpected discovery. He found that the Russians were secretly copying our procedures. They had started to arrange things in rows: a line of tooth mugs, each with a toothbrush leaning over to the same side. But they hadn’t quite got it right. The new toothbrushes were still in their wrappers, and it was obviously more for show than anything else. Qin chuckled quietly to himself. When army life is just a series of rituals, it is exhausting. The Russkies are suffocating themselves trying to keep up appearances. Qin was a big supporter of one country’s armed forces learning from another, but when you come from different backgrounds, some things learn easier than others. If you force it, you end up with empty gestures. You didn’t have to look any further than the Russian habit of stripping off their shirts. They went bare-chested when they were relaxing, when they played sport, even during PT. At first Qin had been rather impressed. They looked good, he thought. Very cool. And they were protecting the environment by saving on washing costs – just a shower and all that training sweat was gone. But after thinking about it further, he realised that it was not a habit which our men could pick up. If there was one word to describe Russian culture, it was wild. But that was not the Chinese way. We are all about control. Everything we do must be controlled, restrained. If he did actually start running a troop of topless men around the place, he’d be fielding complaints from the public all day. In fact, forget the public. It would embarrass Qin as much as anyone. 

A Russian soldier caught Qin’s attention. The man was very young, with a layer of golden down on his face, yet to be fully replaced by a man’s beard. As Qin passed him, he knocked a towel out of the boy’s hand. He bent to pick it up, passed it back to its owner, and gave him an affectionate pat on the back of the head, just as he did with his own men. From that point on, as Qin continued inspecting the tents, the young Russian followed him wherever he went. For some reason which he could not quite put his finger on, this Russian boy reminded Qin of the tall sentry all those years ago. Qin stopped, turned and looked the young man up and down. He didn’t look anything like that tall man. But there was something in the way he looked at Qin that felt intensely familiar. Suddenly Qin realised that it was his gaze that had brought the tall sentry to mind in the first place. He was an unwelcome memory, a point of pain for Qin Chong. 

After the fight with Boris, Qin had been disciplined, as expected. Not long after, the tall Russian had slipped over the border. When the sentries caught him and brought him in front of Qin, he launched himself at an incredulous Qin and tried to hug him. Qin didn’t have time to dodge the hug, but there was no way he was getting mixed up any further with this man. He quickly organised someone to take him to be dealt with by the border agent. 

Later, the border agent came and told Qin that the man had fled to China because he could no longer take the physical punishments meted out in the Russian military. He said he would be beaten to death if he didn’t escape. And he said that he loved China, and wanted to come and live here. He said he would do business to support himself. When they told him they would be extraditing him back to Russia, he burst into tears, and begged to see Qin. 

Qin put his arms out and waved his hands as if to ward the man off. “I’m not seeing him. No.” 

The border agent stared at him, silent, but his face full of meaning. “Don’t look at me like that,” Qin said resignedly. “It’s not like he’s anything to me! I’ve got nothing to do with the man. I’ve already been disciplined once on his account, and that was dumb enough.” 

“The tall Russian man,” the border agent said, “says that if Qin Chong won’t see him, then he will go on hunger strike. He hasn’t eaten his last few meals already.” 

Qin had no option but to go and see him. On the way there, Qin was thinking that he would give the man a piece of his mind. But when he saw the tall figure, and the expression in his eyes, he didn’t have the heart to even begin to reprimand him. It was such a simple expression. So helpless. At the moment he caught sight of Qin Chong, his eyes lit up like flames, as if Qin was someone he loved dearly. Those eyes were full of hope. Qin told him to sit, and he immediately sat. Qin told him to eat, and without another word he picked up his spoon and ate. His face, with its look of unconditional trust, left Qin an emotional mess. Qin knew that he could not justify that level of dependence. There was nothing Qin could do to help the man remain in China, and no way to ensure that he would not be returned to the army which terrified him. Now he had to try to reason with the man. 

More painful still, he would be escorted back over the border in Qin’s custody. 

Qin would never forget the winter’s day, wind cutting like a knife, when he personally delivered the tall Russian back to Boris. 

The man’s face filled with fear the moment he saw Boris. He turned his head to look dumbly at Qin, as if begging for his protection. But Qin could not protect him. All he could do was harden his heart, and fix his face in a cold mask. As the tall Russian was led away by Boris, he looked like a helpless child, his eyes disappointed, uncomprehending, hurt. That expression pierced Qin. It felt like sending his own child into a den of wolves. He dug his fingernails into his palms as he watched Boris take his prisoner away. Before they crossed the line into Russia, the tall man stumbled once, then stood suddenly still, turned and gave Qin one look. That look jolted Qin: a tender young face gone suddenly slack and old. The light in his eyes seemed to be snuffed out. It was a look as barren as a moonless night. All that was left in that face was the despair of a condemned man. 

Suddenly Qin could stand it no longer. His boot kicked up a flurry of snow, and he stalked away without a backward glance. 

Qin’s premonition had not been wrong. Not long afterwards, he received word that the tall Russian had killed himself. 

The guilt had remained with him since the moment he heard that news. Qin had made many efforts to throw off the shadow that the incident cast on him. He told himself innumerable times that the death of the Russian had nothing to do with him. That there was nothing else he could have done. He told himself that it was Boris who had caused the suicide. Of course, there was no chance that Boris would take it easy on a deserter. No doubt he had thrashed the man, and the soldier couldn’t take it. It didn’t matter what argument Qin made to himself, the thought of the man’s face left him unable to still the twisting in his heart. He could not escape the thought that he and Boris had conspired to kill this man. 

Qin refused to meet the eye of the Russian boy. He did not want to remember. He did not want to feel that contamination again. 

When Qin had completed his inspection and was on his way back to his own tent, Boris appeared some way off. As he saw Boris striding smartly towards him, Qin suddenly felt a chill and a startling tickle in his nostril. He could not hold down a loud sneeze.

The exercise was a success. Qin’s special forces were outstanding in their roles. During the final rescue of hostages from the terrorists, the special forces team appeared exactly where they were least expected, quickly overcame the enemy forces, and freed the prisoners. They demonstrated outstanding technical skills and excellent in-the-field flexibility and planning, for which they were highly commended by the Joint Command. Everything had gone like clockwork, with only one minor incident in our support units: a field ambulance had flipped on a night driving drill, going fast without lights. The driver had died at the scene. 

Qin received notice of the incident from the Joint Command. The notice required every unit to repeat its safety checks to make sure that our troops returned safe at the end of the exercise. Qin was not unduly perturbed by the death. In such a large exercise, Qin thought, deploying all of those aircraft, tanks, weapons, ammunition, vehicles and personnel, it was only ever luck that stopped something going wrong. A small incident like this was normal. So Qin simply passed on the message as it was given to him. He told his unit leaders to do their safety checks once again, and he assumed that the accident would be put behind them. 

But he soon found that it was not behind them. 

Early in the morning, when the Russians marched out, Qin was struck by the feeling that something was off. He cast around for what it might be, and suddenly realised: there was not a bare torso among them. This was new. Since the day they had arrived in camp, it was the first time he had seen every Russian man fully dressed for morning PT. In fact, they were not only all dressed, they were dressed particularly neatly. I guess the Russians aren’t marching out for PT, Qin thought. 

And so it turned out. Qin watched Boris lead the Russian contingent to camp’s little square. In the middle of the square were two flagpoles, side by side, flying the Chinese and Russian flags. Boris stopped and lined his men up under the flags, as if for some kind of ceremony. Qin’s curiosity was pricked, and he decided to stay and watch. 

Standing in front of his troops, Boris began to speak. Qin did not understand, but could see that Boris was extremely serious, and the faces of every Russian officer and man shared his frown. At the end of the speech, Boris gave a stream of orders, and every man removed his headgear and stood with bowed head in mourning silence. At the same time, the Russian flag was slowly lowered to half mast. 

Qin realised with a shock that the Russians were holding a memorial service for the Chinese soldier killed in the exercise. 

His chest tightened, just as sharply as when Boris had punched him there all those years ago. For a long moment, his breath would not come. Some things which had been dormant in his mind for a long time seemed have been hammered into life by the sight of this ceremony. They jabbed savagely at nerves long numbed, and Qin felt a pain that ripped to the centre of his heart. Qin recalled dimly that it had been a long time since he had experienced this kind of true pain. 

Every Chinese soldier in the camp seemed quieter after that morning. No-one went to the little square. Even those who were passing through gave the flagpoles a wide berth, and studiously avoided looking at the two flags that hung above, one raised, one lowered. An unspoken expectation spread through the camp that the senior officers would order a similar memorial for our men. We had never stood a minute’s silence for deaths in the past, but today was different. In the past, we had always maintained that these were “accidents.” Only today were our eyes suddenly opened to the fact that these were soldiers’ deaths, every bit as much a brave sacrifice as a death on the battlefield. Another expectation spread, that the flag should be lowered to half mast. Soldiers suddenly seemed to find this gesture very important. Now that another country’s flag had been pulled down to half mast for one of our own, they hoped that our flag, too, could be lowered in honour of the life sacrificed for this exercise. 

Qin knew all too well that neither of these expectations would come to pass. For one thing, there was no precedent in our army for holding a memorial ceremony in the middle of an exercise. For another, lowering the flag depended on the rank of the dead officer, and had to be approved by the relevant bureaucratic command. Despite his clarity on these two points, Qin’s shoulders began itching so much that he felt like he was on fire. There was no notification about the flag or any service during that day. 

Just before dinnertime, Qin once again picked up the two bottles of spirit he had failed to deliver last time, and set off in search of Boris. The exercise was over. The Russians would begin leaving the next day. This evening he must find Boris and drink with him, to see him off. This time, Qin was actually looking forward to pressing the spirit on him. He reserved a small side room in the Chinese mess hall, and ordered some Chinese dishes which he remembered Boris liking. 

At first, Boris' attention was focused squarely on the spirits. He started on his shots before he was even properly sat down. Two glasses were downed by the time he picked up his chopsticks. He was still the same greedy drinker; there had been no improvement in that aspect over the years. But today Qin was happy to see it. He kept the glasses full, and before long, Boris was drunk. 

He raised his glass. “Qin, drink a glass with me.” 

“Why?” Qin asked. 

“No reason,” Boris said. “Let’s just drink.” 

“No, no,” Qin said. “You have to say something. I don’t just drink for no reason.” 

“Say something? What do I say?” Boris asked. 

“Just say what we’re drinking this glass for,” Qin said. 

Boris thought for a moment. “We are drinking because I love you. Is that reason enough?” 

Qin doubled up with laughter. “We can’t drink to that! I’m not a woman!” 

“So what should I say?” Boris asked. 

“For men, you just say something like ‘like’ or ‘respect’,” Qin said. 

“Then I respect you,” Boris said. 

“You must be confused, Old Bo,” said Qin, pointing to his own epaulettes, then to Boris'. “Why would you respect me?” 

“No,” Boris shook his head. “You’re a good soldier.” 

Qin looked levelly at Boris. “Do you really think that, Old Bo?” 

Boris placed his hand over his heart and said, “Yes. You are a good soldier. Always have been, then and now.” 

“Alright,” Qin said. “On the basis of that, I will drink three glasses with you!” 

They drank their three shots, then Boris suddenly asked, “Qin, do you think I’m a good soldier?” 

Qin hesitated a moment. “Let me think,” he said. “You know, I never used to like you…” 

“Why?” Boris asked in surprise. “I didn’t know.” 

Now it was Qin’s turn to be surprised. “You didn’t know?” 

“I didn’t know,” Boris said. “Wait a minute. I’ve got it. Is it because of that time we fought? But that was your fault. You hit me first.” 

“Tell me this. That soldier – the one I gave back to you – did he die?” Qin asked. 

Boris nodded, “Yes.” 

Qin got to his feet and peered at Boris. “How did he die?” 

“In Chechnya, when we were fighting there,” said Boris, shrugging and spreading his hands wide. “He was unlucky.” 

Qin slumped back down into his chair and said nothing for a long while. 

“Don’t feel bad,” Boris said, giving Qin a comforting pat on the arm. “He fought very bravely. He got a medal for courage under fire. The president signed it.” 

It suddenly felt incredibly claustrophobic in that little room. Qin’s shoulders began prickling. He stood up and said, “Old Bo, let’s go for a walk.” 

Boris looked at him incredulously. “No, no, we are drinking,” he said anxiously. 

Qin swept up the bottle and stuffed it into Boris' hand, saying, “Let’s go. We can drink out there.”

The two of them, each carrying half a bottle of spirits, cut across the little square and headed for the copse behind the camp. 

“Old Bo – ” Qin started, but Boris interrupted him. “Qin,” he asked earnestly, “why do you always call me ‘Old Bo’?” 

Qin was taken aback. “No reason,” he said. “It’s just a habit in Chinese.” 

Boris shook his head. “It’s not good.” 

“Why not?” Qin asked. “Doesn’t it show respect to call you ‘old’?” 

“No, no,” Boris said. “My name is Boris, not Old Bo. Do you know what Boris means, Qin?” 

“What does it mean?” 

“Fights for honour.” 

“Fights for honour…” Qin mulled it for a moment. “That name, Old Bo -” 

“Not Old Bo. Boris.” Boris insisted. 

Qin smiled. “Sorry, Boris. Your name, Boris, is a good name for a soldier.” He saw Boris smile in pleasure, then tapped his epaulette once again, and said with a measure of envy in his voice, “Boris, you must be about due for your star.” 

“No,” Boris said. “This is my last exercise. When I get back, my unit is going to be disbanded.” 

Qin was stunned. “So are you leaving the army?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do they know?” Qin asked. 

“The orders have been published,” Boris said. 

“You came on exercise even though you’ve had orders to disband?” Qin asked. 

“Yes,” Boris said. “That’s why everyone worked so hard. This is the last time.” “Qin,” Boris asked, “did we do OK in the exercise?” 

“Of course,” Qin said with respect. “Not just OK, you did great. You did really, really great.” 

“Thank you, Qin,” Boris said, happily. “But you didn’t answer me. Am I a good soldier?” 

“You’re a good soldier, Boris,” Qin replied without a pause. “Always have been, then and now.” 

There was a cool breeze blowing in the copse. It was very refreshing, and Qin felt much better. The two of them sat together on the grass, raised their bottles and clashed them sharply together, then gulped down several swallows of the spirits. 

“You were in Chechnya, Boris?” Qin asked. 

“Two years,” Boris raised his fingers to count them. “I fought for two years in Chechnya.” 

“I envy you,” said Qin. “I’ve been a soldier for many years, but I have never been on a real battlefield.” 

Boris regarded him. “Qin, I thought the same way before I saw a battlefield.” 

Qin looked at him in some surprise. “And now? What do you think now?” 

“Now?” Boris hesitated and his eyes cut away. Then he flashed a cunning smile. “Now I think that it’s your turn to be in a battle.” 

Qin gave Boris a hard look. “Boris, you’re not telling the truth.” 

Boris patted Qin’s shoulder. “Qin, I’ll tell you the truth. You’re a good soldier, you’re a good army. Get out into battle,” Boris swung his hand forcefully, “and you’ll have no problems.” 

Qin laughed, and wordlessly touched his bottle against Boris'. The two men tipped back their heads and took long swallows. 

Under the trees, they could not see the moon, but there was still moonlight. The moonbeams were cut to confetti as they fell to the ground, creating a pattern of light. Everything before them was crisp and still. Qin and Boris looked off into the distance, where two flags flew, weirdly sharp in the moonlit night. 

“Qin,” Boris asked, pointing to the flags, one at full mast, one lower. “Why is that?” 

“It’s complicated.” Qin thought for a while. “I guess it’s like this. When I was in Turkey, training, I experienced this. Two armies are like two completely different families. Each family has its own way of life, and when you’re used to one way, you think that that is the only good way. Even if you can see that the other family has a good way, too, you still wouldn’t necessarily switch to their way. You’re not used to it. And you can’t learn new things just like that. Do you understand?” 

“No,” Boris said. “I don’t understand.” 

“I didn’t understand either,” Qin said. “But in Turkey I really felt it. And when I came back, I wanted to take all the things I had learned abroad and apply them in our army. I felt it even more deeply then.” 

“I understand,” said Boris. “Like, our belts are good, your belts are good, but we can’t swap them?” 

Qin laughed out loud. “What are you talking about? It’s not the same thing at all! Why shouldn’t we swap belts?” 

At this Boris jumped to his feet, and yelled, “OK! Then I will swap belts with you.” 

“Fine, let’s swap.” Qin jumped up as well. Qin had always wanted a Russian army belt, but he had never had the opportunity before. When he was a captain on border duty, he had to do everything absolutely by the book, to set an example to his men. And after he left the border, there was nowhere he might get one. Now Boris was volunteering to present him with this belt. It was a good feeling. 

Qin pulled off his belt and fingered it for a moment. It was a satisfying piece of work. The leather was thick and strong, the buckle shiny. Just at the moment he was giving it away, Qin finally realised that it really was a good belt. No wonder the Russians were so keen to trade for them. So why had he never appreciated it before? Was it because it was so familiar? Sitting round his waist every day, he had overlooked its qualities? 

Qin took Boris' belt, and examined it. It was the Russian army belt he had always liked. The brass buckle had two prongs; the brown leather had two rows of holes. A diamond pattern had been sewn along the whole length of the belt. As he slid it round his waist, Qin fumbled a little. The two prongs did not line up immediately with their holes, and the leather was rather stiff. But the belt felt snug on him. Very secure, very bracing. 

With their new belts, the two men smiled at each other. 

“Down that bottle,” Qin called, raising his bottle high. 

“No problem!” Boris raised his as well. 

“What are we drinking to?” Qin asked. 

“To…” Boris patted his waist. “To belts!” 

“Right. We’re drinking for belts,” Qin said. 

The two bottles smacked together with a musical clink, and the two men tipped back their heads and emptied them. 

“That feels good,” Qin said. “Boris, I have another couple of bottles back at there. I’ll give them to you to take back tomorrow…” He had hardly finished speaking when Boris' legs gave under him, and he started slumping towards the ground. Qin stuck an arm out to steady him, but couldn’t stop the momentum, and was dragged down to the ground along with Boris. 

The drunken Russian hugged Qin tightly to him, and the pair of them started to roll, just as they had on the icy river so many years ago. After some struggle, Qin managed to heave Boris off him, and the two of them lay on the grass, immobile. 

The moonlight confetti drifted downward, covering their bodies with hypnotic light. 

By the light of the moon, Qin suddenly discovered that his arms were smooth and soft. His hives had vanished, as if by a miracle.

Translated by Philip Hand

Ye Zhou

叶舟

Ye Zhou was born in Gansu in 1966. After graduating from the Northwest Normal University in Lanzhou he worked as a professor and a journalist. His fiction, essays and poetry have been published in numerous literary periodicals, and three of his poems were translated in the Spring 2015 issue of Pathlight. Ye Zhou received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for “There Will Be Peace Within My Tent”.

There Will Be Peace in My Tent

我的帐篷里有平安

Illustration by Wang Yan

There’s only half a door. No top, no bottom, just a flap hanging there in the middle of the doorframe at waist height. 

It’s because of the drunks. There used to be a whole door, but the drunks never knocked when they came in, they’d just kick the door open with their big, clumsy feet, and they kicked the bottom of it to pieces. Instead of sawing off their legs, the owner decided to saw off the top and bottom of the door, leaving it like it is now, hanging there shakily, looking like it’ll fall off its hinges at the first hint of a breeze. He knew what he was doing, though – amiability begets riches, as the saying goes – because there was certainly no point in making enemies out of his best customers. In the evenings, the lanterns come on along Barkhor Street, and the smell of roasting mutton skewers catches in the air, stirred up by the flow of worshippers circling the temple. The drunks line their stomachs with meat and butter tea, then head over to the tavern, each one with his pouch full of coins, ready to drink. I’ve heard that getting drunk is the only way for a man to receive the light of Dharma, that it’s even more powerful than reciting the Avalokiteshvara mantra ten thousand times. 

It’s the most prosperous tavern in Lhasa. In just one night, the horses tied up outside can produce seventeen or eighteen carts of dung, which the owner picks up for free and takes over to the other side of the Lhasa river, to sell off as manure. That alone can’t be a bad income, so he must be feeling pretty pleased with himself. 

There’s a little copper bell attached to the door, which alerts the waiters when people come in. They rush over to present guests with a ceremonial khata scarf, then usher them over to a free seat. The owner’s also nailed a piece of carpet to the door, and every day he writes out the details of the drinks on a piece of paper, with a bamboo brush, and pins it onto the carpet with a knife. It’s a very serious matter! You can see that the drink tonight is “Phyed Ba”, for example, which it says means it’s fifty-percent alcohol, brewed from highland barley in Amdo county. That’s near the Labrang Monastery. And the price, of course, is certainly hard to miss. 

For the last few weeks, I’ve had to stand guard by this door every evening. I stand here so long I get dizzy. 

Autumn’s here, which means it’s starting to get really cold. Even the stars look like they’re shivering. And crows might be the earthly manifestations of the Great Protector Mahakala but they’re long gone, scared off by the weather ages ago. There’s no trace of them now. Out by the door, I have to just pull my kasaya a little closer and hunch up my shoulders. Admittedly, I can always run over to the Jokhang temple to warm up, because the monks there keep the smoke offerings burning all the time and you can’t catch cold standing by a fire like the one they have going. They can’t risk you alarming the deities with an untimely sneeze! There’s quite a competition going on over there, for who can prostrate themselves in prayer the longest, who’s the most dedicated worshipper, who can recite the sweetest mantras. These past weeks, all of Lhasa’s been caught up in the Shotun festival, and it feels like we have the whole 130,000 population of Tibet here for the occasion. People come to make their offerings at the temple, but also to celebrate – to give thanks for the harvest, to pray for good weather and healthy livestock in the year to come. 

In the evenings, I go to eat in the Potala. We don’t have butter tea at the moment, though, we have fresh yoghurt – Shotun is the festival of yoghurt, after all. It makes my stomach gurgle, like I’m hiding a little bleating lamb under my kasaya, one which never shuts up. One night, I’d just set aside my bowl when I saw His Holiness getting up to leave the hall, turning to signal to me with a wave of his hand and a secret twist of his lips. I knew straightaway what he meant. I put on an act for the other lamas, clutching my stomach and saying I had to be excused, then hurried out behind him. I followed him on a winding route through the palace, arriving at a hidden door in the back wall. We slipped quietly through, into the crowds packed along Barkhor Street. 

There were so many people pressed up against one another! It was like being in a pot of stewing porridge. 

His Holiness sneaks into the tavern every night at the moment. Heaven knows what he’s doing in there, because he keeps to the rules about eating and drinking, and never touches alcohol. But he’s the true reincarnation of the Boddhisatva Avalokiteshvara and I’m just a lowly attendant monk, so of course I can’t go round asking questions. I wouldn’t want to offend his majesty! My job is to be like a pole for prayer flags, standing to attention beside the tavern door, my mind blank, counting the stars in the sky. From time to time, His Holiness will have a burst of sympathy for me, popping his head up behind the door flap, telling me to come in and thaw out with some milk tea. But this makes me uncomfortable and I always decline, keeping my feet planted firmly where they are. After all, how could a humble servant like me possibly go to sit at the same table as our Lord? 

Every so often, he rushes through the door to ask me for money. I open my purse right away, and pass him a few pieces of silver. I’ve been his attendant for long enough that I know His Holiness has no idea about money. Once, he happily exchanged a whole heap of silver for a bamboo pen; another time, he bought a blank notebook for two gold coins, talking delightedly of how it was from India, or else Nepal, and bound with coco-grass, and he could use it to copy sutras. Seeing him so delighted, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d been swindled. I didn’t want to ruin it. 

On this night I’m telling you about, a travelling storyteller appeared on Barkhor Street. He was playing an old lute, singing of King Gesar leading the Tibetans into battle, forcing the demons into submission. I’ve seen him quite a few times before. People say he’s between 78 and 162 years old, so he’s very old, and he looks it, he looks as old as a worn-out pair of boots. I’ve also heard that he used to be a wool trader, and that he couldn’t read a word, he didn’t even know all thirty signs of the Tibetan alphabet. But then, he was crossing the Chokpori mountain when there was a sudden hail storm, so he took cover in a cave and fell asleep. And when he woke up, there was an old lute lying by his side, and he found he suddenly knew all the old folktales by heart. 

He must have accumulated good karma in a former life. I think he was definitely touched on the forehead by Buddha. 

Just as I was inching forward a little to hear the storyteller better, His Holiness burst out of the tavern, shouting my name. 

“Rinchen! Where’s the Vajra dagger I gave you to look after? Quickly, I need it!” 

I bowed respectfully. “Your Holiness, the Vajra dagger is hanging around my neck. However, I cannot give it to you, for it is pure gold. It is very valuable.” 

I was the guardian, so I couldn’t hand it over just like that. It was my duty to protect it, and I had to be true to my responsibilities. 

His Holiness grabbed me by the nose. “You stingy little miser! Give it to me! I’m not throwing it away, I need to give it to someone.” 

I bowed even more deeply, not daring to meet his eyes. 

“Oh! But if it’s to give to someone, then I really cannot let you have it. The Vajra dagger was been passed down from the previous true reincarnation. It is sacred to the Potala. It cannot leave!” 

His Holiness started to laugh. He laughed as though he were sharing enlightenment with me, and it made my head spin. 

“It’s true!” he said, “It has passed down from the previous true reincarnation. And it has passed down to me! Not to you, Rinchen, so who are you to tell me what to do with it?” 

He was telling me off. I panicked, hurriedly taking off the dagger and holding it out to him with both hands. 

People passing by the tavern were stopping to stare at us. It must have looked like I was a servant who’d made some mistake, being scolded by my master. I kept on pleading with His Holiness, over and over again. 

“Please, if it’s at all possible not to give it away, don’t give it away! Your Holiness, this is a treasure bestowed upon you by the heavens!” 

He clapped his hands together, a sign that I should shut up. 

“Quiet yourself! There’s no ‘Your Holiness’ here. My name is Dvangs bzang dBang po, remember!” 

“Yes, I remember! Yes, Sir!” 

“My, I’ve had some good luck today! I’ve met a young man from Lhokha who can recite countless tales of Guru Rinpoche, all his good deeds and clever teachings. They’re such a joy to hear!” 

His Holiness held up the dagger, radiant with delight. 

“It must be so late, but I can’t hear enough! If it’s too late for you, go back to the palace. Look at you, you’re already yawning.” 

It was obvious that the dagger was going to be a gift. It would soon be hanging round the neck of this young man from Lhokha. I felt a pang of jealousy at the thought, but there was nothing I could do. 

“I’m fine! I’ll wait out here.” 

“I can find the way back by myself, don’t worry about it.” His Holiness answered. 

“But I cannot! I need your noble feet ahead of me, to guide the way. Otherwise, I’ll get lost.” 

I stuck stubbornly to the rules. 

“Oh you, so young and so full of yourself! Now you’re trying to sweet talk me?” 

I kept my mouth shut, trying not to show I was upset, feeling angry at myself the whole time. 

His Holiness turned to leave, smiling at the bystanders as though they were old friends, even calling out a few greetings. With a light push of the tavern door, he sauntered cheerfully back inside. It was then I realised that my back was soaked in sweat. Not from nerves, from more than that – from worrying about that precious Vajra dagger. I soon had to snap out of it though, because the crowd of bystanders started to close in, surrounding me, looking me up and down as though I were some kind of long-haired mountain gorilla. 

I loosened my kasaya to try to cool off, letting in a blast of icy air. 

Somebody called out, “Hey! Little lama, who was that splendid young man out here just now? Someone that handsome, with those long earlobes and his arms swinging past his knees… he really looked like Avalokiteshvara!” 

I didn’t want to answer their silly questions, so I mumbled back the answer I had prepared for these occasions: “He’s a young nobleman. He spent a while as a lama, but he decided to leave the temple. I’m a friend of his from back then, here to keep him company.” 

I could hear their jaws dropping in the darkness. They started to exclaim all at once, tongues wagging, praising, admiring, piling on the flattery. 

“He’s a nobleman, all right!” another one of them piped up. “From the way he talks, you can tell he’s from Mon, and that’s a sacred place, for sure. It’s already provided us with one Dharma King.” 

At this, I had to stifle a smile, thinking, well, don’t you have a sharp pair of eyes on you! For His Holiness is, indeed, from Mon, where he was identified as the true incarnation of Avalokiteshvara, and now he sits upon the lion throne of the Potala as His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. 

Out loud, however, I simply said, “Actually, my master’s name is Dvangs bzang dBang po, and he’s here in Lhasa on a pilgrimage.” 

“How many cattle has he brought?” 

I didn’t say anything, just pointed at the sky. Meaning: he has more cattle than all the stars in heaven. 

“How many sheep?” 

I ran my hands over my head. 

Ha! That impressed them. They scrunched up their mouths and made strange, appreciative smacking sounds, as though they were eating yoghurt. They were still praising him non-stop. I busied myself with my kasaya, pulling it out theatrically and wrapping it more tightly round my body. I pointed my chin in the air. Sensing that I wasn’t going to answer any more of their questions, the group lost interest, and people started to wander off. I scanned around for the old storyteller, but couldn’t make out any sign of him. All I could hear was the racket of the crowds along Barkhor Street – the porridge pot was back at boiling point, bubbling furiously. 

To the right of the tavern, there’s an outdoor enclosure where guests can tie up their horses, and have them fed for free. You see all kinds of horses in there, all of them mighty fine, showing off the status of their owners. On this night, there was a coal black racehorse in there, almost ten feet tall, so majestic that the ground shook for miles around when he so much as snorted. You could tell he was from Kham, and he must have been worth at least a hundred srang in gold. 

To the left of the tavern, squashed up against the outside wall, there’s a little store that sells thangka scroll paintings. It was getting late that night, but the lamps were still burning inside the store, making it quite a dazzling sight. I could see the painters sitting serenely on their rugs, carefully drawing Boddhisattvas onto their canvases. I’ve heard that if they manage to get through even one eyebrow before the night is over, that’s considered quite an achievement. 

I let my thoughts drift for a while, then wandered over to have a closer look at the thangkas, to see if some of their luck would rub off on me. 

All of a sudden, a big gang of men forced their way out of Barkhor Street, making a huge din, and stopped outside the store. Taking advantage of the light coming through the windows, they started to play a game. 

They were playing “stick in the knife,” which is a game I got tired of a long time ago. The Shotun festival marks the start of the rainy season in the Lhasa valley, and the rain comes every night, stopping with the sunrise; the night before this one had been no exception – the rain hadn’t been heavy, but was enough to make the ground soft. The men spread themselves out, etching out a board in the damp earth. Next, they stood a long way back and started to make bets on who could throw his knife with enough distance and accuracy to hit the targets. To start with, it was quite boring, to be honest. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and looked on without much interest, just to pass the time until His Holiness was finished and we could go back to the palace. As an attendant monk, I must never forget my duties. I cannot neglect His Holiness, the Dharma King. 

The problem was, I watched and watched, and the more I watched, the harder it was not to laugh. A group of tough young guys like that, and they had no idea what they were doing, it was like watching a new wife with no idea how to thread an embroidery needle! The knives were landing all over the place – one of the guys even managed to throw his so that it ended up behind him. It made me think of that saying from Shigatse: I’m pointing at the tower over the Western Gate, but you’re the stupid monkey on the Eastern Gate. 

Eventually, I couldn’t hold it in any longer: I laughed so hard that I was bent double; I laughed until my stomach hurt, and tears were running from my eyes. The players stopped what they were doing and looked at one another, wondering whether I was crazy, or whether I’d been possessed by some evil spell. A guy with a dark, leathery face stepped out from the group and strolled over to me. 

“Hey, little lama, you laughing at us? Let’s see you do better.” 

“Sure! Pick a square,” I replied, enthusiastically.

“Ha! Your hands are only good for flipping over pages in a prayer book and clicking through prayer beads! If you hit the target, I’ll worship you as my guru, and so will everyone else.” 

He passed me a knife and pointed to a square. 

“If you miss it, you’ll have to show us a somersault before we’ll let you go.” 

I gave a snort of contempt, pushed back my sleeves and, fast as lightning, hit the target dead on. Of course, this wasn’t convincing enough for them. They all started talking at once, saying that it was a fluke, nothing but a stroke of luck, that it wasn’t that impressive, after all. Someone handed me another knife. I hit the target. More and more of them came up and passed me knives, and I accepted all of them; it was really like some kind of test. By the end, I had a stack of a dozen or so knives piled up around my feet, the colourful tassels on their handles calling out at me to pick them up. Seriously! I’m not exaggerating. I’m a monk, I’m not allowed to lie. Before I joined the temple, I spent my whole life tending cattle. And, while the cattle were out grazing, I used to amuse myself by playing “stick in the knife.” I was unbeatable, pretty much a child prodigy, I’d say. So that night, I threw all those knives without ever missing a target, not even once. The guys were stunned. I know humans can be jealous creatures, so that leather-faced one didn’t react too badly, considering. 

“It’s too cramped here, there’s not enough space,” he said. “How about we go down to the river, where we can spread things out?” 

“With pleasure!” 

“Then please, be my guest!” Leather Face bowed deeply. 

The gang escorted me out of Barkhor Street, singing my praises, taking me by the arm and leading me into a side alley. The alley was chaotic, full of overflowing sewage and the rank stench of decomposing animals. Every year, pilgrims flock to Lhasa from all over Tibet, circling round and round the Jokhang temple, their numbers growing and growing, and this alley was crammed full of their makeshift living quarters. They build rough mud huts or put up their yak hair tents and live here, cramped and disorderly, worshipping from morning until evening, year after year. Really, you have to admire them! Some of them have sick family members, and they come here to pray for better karma, prostrating themselves for five or six years; some come to escape from enemies, hiding out here so long that even their skin colour starts to change; others are just layabouts and drunks – they’ve heard that life in Lhasa is pretty good and they’ve got wives and children to support, so they head out every day to beg. You see, everyone can benefit from Buddha’s grace! The children stuff themselves with butter, and they fatten up like thousand-year turtles in a monastery pond, each one a little chubbier than the last. 

The gang protected me, folding me into their ranks as we made our way through the alley. 

In places it was so narrow that we had to go through sideways, in single file. Most of the time, though, I had people on either side of me, offering me their support, afraid I would slip on the slimy ground and fall face first into the mud. Ha! Some of the guys went up ahead to clear our path, pushing people out of our way. At one point, a pack of mastiffs suddenly leapt out from the shadows. They had thick red yak-hair collars splayed out round their necks, and they bared their teeth at me, growling ominously. Leather Face came to speak to them, reciting something that sounded halfway between a mantra and a curse. They backed off instantly, sprinting away with their tails between their legs – faster than a flock of ravens! 

Right at the end of the alley, a yak stood up to face us. He stood there, chewing, his testicles and penis dangling heavily between his hind legs, bigger than a millstone. I was too scared to meet his gaze, but I could feel his eyes boring into me. 

Leather Face approached him slowly and then, quick as a flash, grabbed him by his horns. The yak tried to charge, coming very close to piercing him right through the stomach. But Leather Face acted as though all he was doing was brushing some dust off his sleeves! Steeling his arms, he lifted that yak right off the ground, right over his head! He wasn’t a big yak, he was medium-sized, but he still must have weighed more than one hundred thousand mani prayer stones. Holding him aloft, Leather Face glanced around and saw there was a haystack not too far off, put aside for the winter. He took a deep breath, then hurled the yak through the air into the haystack. That showed him! He didn’t dare emerge from underneath the hay; we didn’t even hear so much as an apologetic cough. 

As we carried on walking, I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. 

The river wasn’t far away. I could smell the water, and my nose had started to run. There was a soft moon, and the stars were bright overhead, marking out a path in the sky for the Bodhisattvas. Every so often, we’d disturb night birds hiding in the undergrowth. They’d fly up, startling us, and I could hear some of the guys calling out as they slipped, although I couldn’t see well enough to tell whether they’d fallen over. I could hear the water rushing over rocks on the river bed. There must be such rich scriptures carved into those rocks, I thought, because the sound of the water was like a mantra. In this season the Lhasa river is often in a bad temper, surging up to swallow trees and livestock, not caring who it claims in its rampage. But on this particular evening, it was calm, as calm as burning incense, smooth as a piece of Sichuan porcelain, a long way from the clamour of the world of men. 

I showed off to the others as we walked, telling them how to hold their knives, how to throw, how much force they needed to use, if they wanted to get the hang of hitting the targets. I’ve watched His Holiness teaching in the Potala several times before, and I’ve studied how he does it – his tone of voice, how he moves his hands, even the solemnity of his facial expressions. I was just pretending, copying all these things without any real clue what I was doing, but the group had no idea – they kept piling on the compliments, making my head grow bigger and bigger. Afterwards, a few guys came up to ask me more questions. I stopped, picked up a stick, and started to show them the moves. I had just brought my hands to my side, the closing stance, and was even a little out of breath, when everything suddenly went black. A yak hair sack was forced over my head and my arms and legs were bound, so that I couldn’t move a single step. 

Good heavens! I was being kidnapped. 

I’d been tricked, and I’d fallen into the trap as easily as a piece of butter slides into a mouth. I suddenly realised that it had all been an act, and I’d played right into their hands, every step of the way. 

I was such a fool! 

I thrashed my legs around, brandishing my fists, struggling my hardest to free myself. Thinking: I’ve lived only seventeen years in this world of mortals, I’ve not yet seen enough of it, my body is not yet fully-grown, and my fists are not tough enough. I’m not greedy, or quick to anger, or ignorant, and I observe monastic discipline. It’s true! I like being a monk. I enjoy studying the five branches of knowledge and, even more, I enjoy serving His Holiness in the meditation hall of the Potala, sweeping out the statue niches, steeping his tea and lighting his lamps, making the offerings of three meals a day. There may be only one wall separating the Potala from Lhasa city but, while I know the 999 rooms of the palace like the back of my hand, I know nothing of the cruel ways of the vulgar world outside. I have never been one to make enemies. I was sure they had the wrong guy. 

From inside the hood, I could feel myself being hoisted into the air as the gang started to run, silently carrying me off into the distance. 

My kasaya was tugged open by the wind, my sleeves fluttering in the draft. I braced myself against the cold. 

I kept on kicking, and each time I felt my feet hitting some kind of soft cotton padding, which didn’t respond in the slightest. My fists were punching thin air. Once in a while, they smacked into something that felt like a nose, and I thought I picked up the acrid smell of blood mingling with the chilly night air. It smelt like vengeance. But still they kept me up there, as effortlessly as though I were a kite, sailing into the depths of the night, cruising along the mudflats of the Lhasa river. The hood threw me into a darkness as black and unyielding as cast iron. I thought of His Holiness. I thought of his sunny, carefree face, more splendid than a full moon, shining on me, filling me strength and conviction. I remembered a verse I’d seen him writing in the palace, the day before: 

So calm,

calmer than the sound

of chanting the sutras.

…back from catching dreams

in the distant mountains,

it’s you,

you awaken.

I fell silent and focused on my breathing, turning my attention inwards. 

In this way, my body became heavier. They started to huff and puff beneath my weight, panting like oxen, and their steps began to drag. I chuckled to myself. This lump of flesh that I call my body had never been treated with such respect! There I was, being paraded around by this gang of vagabonds as though I were some precious Buddha statue being returned to my niche. I couldn’t see a thing, but my ears and my nose were sharper than ever: I could smell the river, and the mist hanging over the water, and a fishy tang mixed in with the rotting scent of old twigs and dead leaves. I don’t know why, but the sound of the river stirred something in me. The scriptures say that a man’s lifetime is a flowing river, washing away your childhood, your youth, your latter years, so that all that remains are specious thoughts, some lingering attachments, that’s all. I never used to understand these words, they were too profound, and I would go to the His Holiness to seek clarification. He would say, “Rinchen, there will come a day when the river water will wet your ankles. Then, you will understand.” 

That night, my feet might have been dry, but it suddenly became clear. I understood. 

We kept going for a long time, following the twists and turns of the path, until the group suddenly burst into noise. They were yelling instructions at one another and carefully passing me forwards, slowly, steadily, almost without a single jolt. From the sound of it there were a lot people out there. More people than all the prayer tablets on top of the Gephel mountain, behind the Drepung monastery. More people than all the grains of wheat harvested from an autumn field, more than all the raindrops hiding in a rain cloud! They were keeping their voices low, and I could hear their whispers coming from all directions – someone said, “Be careful!” Someone said, “Look out! Don’t trip!” Then another one said, “Lift him higher! Quickly, open the curtain!” At long last, I felt a blast of warmth pummelling against my skin, and I stopped shivering. I could smell the wood and cow dung inside the fire and the fragrant scent of butter tea and roasted barley, mingled with burning incense and the smoke offering. 

Clearly, I had arrived at my destination. 

I heard Leather Face saying, “We’re here! Put him down gently. Give the lama the seat of honour.” Like a pole for prayer flags, I was dropped through the air and planted in the ground. Leather Face hurried things along, “Quickly, arrange the cushions, take off the lama’s boots!” I was grabbed by the arms and led forward a couple of paces, then made to sit down. They lifted the sack off my head and the light bore into my eyeballs, blinding me for a second. 

I couldn’t believe it! I was inside a palatial tent, sitting on a thick felt rug, in the place of honour. 

Hundreds of people were packed in before me. There were men and women, old and young, all mixed up together, all of them wearing their best festive outfits, weighed down with jewels, their faces wreathed in smiles. They were sitting cross-legged in a circle, pressed up all around me. They must have spent a day scrubbing their faces, hours braiding their hair, a whole evening smearing butter on their skin! They smelt delicious, like they’d been scooped out of a pot of stewing mutton. The men’s woollen neckbands were snowy white and the spaces in between the women’s eyebrows were marked with dots of bright red cinnabar. Snotty-nosed little children were sucking on dried yoghurt balls, the fronts of their jackets gleaming with grease marks. When the crowd saw me looking at them, they put their palms together and recited a mantra. For a few moments, the tent was buzzing, as though it had suddenly filled with a swarm of bees delivering nectar. I was stunned. Anxious, filled with a sense of unease. Leather Face, who seemed to be the leader, came over to me and bowed, holding out a spotlessly white khata scarf. 

“Lama Rinchen, please forgive the boorishness of my tribe.” 

I stayed silent. 

“Oh, we’ve offended the lama! But we had no choice.” He glanced around for a moment and then, with a voice full of smiles, he continued, “We were afraid we’d delayed too long, we had no option but to bring you here by force. It was really an ill-mannered thing to do.” 

My heart was beating like a drum, but I carried on listening. 

“All of my kinsmen are gathered here in this tent. We have travelled to Lhasa from far away, crossing mountains and rivers, to make our offerings to the Buddha. We set up our tent here by the Lhasa river for the Shotun festival, and we have been here for quite some time. However, before we leave, there’s still one, small, petty wish that we have yet to fulfill. Without it, our hearts are empty.” 

He blushed as he spoke, a crimson cloud slowly creeping up his cheeks, and finished, stammering, “Honourable Rinchen, you are the attendant to His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, your reputation is known throughout the land. Tonight, we beg you, recite for us. Help us realise enlightenment.” 

“I am just a lowly attendant,” I said. 

“No! You are known to all the 130,000 people in Tibet! Everyone has heard of Rinchen, the brilliant young assistant to His Holiness Tsangyang Gyatso, the sixth Dalai Lama.” 

He looked around triumphantly, introducing me to the tent in a loud, clear voice: “Everyone, listen up! This is the preeminent Lama Rinchen, it is our honour to receive him as our guest.” 

“I am just a servant. I do not have Dharma powers,” I mumbled, deeply embarrassed. 

“But, in the whole of Tibet, it is said that you, Rinchen, have all the poems of Tsangyang Gyatso imprinted on your memory, that you know them so well you can recite them backwards!” 

As he talked, he made a five-coloured offering to the Three Precious Treasures. 

He continued, gaily, “Oh, this is a blessed night! From now on, there will be peace in my tent. There will be the peace of the Buddha!” 

“So, you kidnapped me, in order to force me to recite for you?” I asked. 

“Lama Rinchen, I ask you to be merciful, take pity on my tribe, take pity on our lowly tent!” 

Leather Face brought his hands together and bowed with them in front of his head. “Oh! I have to confess, I have been following you for quite some time. I know His Holiness is merciful, that every evening he goes out to lighten his heart, that he gathers popular ballads, and that he retreats to study the sutras and practise Dharma. On Barkhor Street, I wouldn’t dare to bother His Holiness and I wouldn’t want to interrupt you in your service of him. But tonight I heard His Holiness speaking to you, saying that it was late, and you should go home. I thought, this is a sign from the heavens!” 

I stretched out my hand, fiddling with some of the five grain offerings on the altar, sprinkling them into the air. “What do you want me to recite?” I asked. 

“Oh, cloud of benevolence and rain of Dharma! Release us from our suffering! May His Highness’ poems yield positive karma!” 

His voice was choked with emotion. He threw himself to the floor, prostrating himself in the direction of the Potala, knocking his head onto the ground. 

“We are parched with thirst for our Lord’s Dharma songs! We yearn so hard we cry blood, our hearts have been extinguished for so long! What a blessed night! From now on, there will be peace in my tent. Now, I see Dakini fluttering through the air, and now, now, I see her settling on our heads.” 

I held out my hand: “Quick! Pass me a three-stringed lute, let me sing you one of the Dharma songs of His Holiness, Tsangyang Gyatso!” 

I took the lute and hugged it close to my chest. 

The second I did so, it hit me: I had seen this old lute before. It had been in the hands of that old musician on Barkhor Street, when he was playing the ballad of King Gesar, and yet now, somehow, here it was in my mine. I thought, I really must have been touched on the forehead by Buddha. Then my eyes closed and, as though in a trance, I started to play one of the ballads of the sixth Dalai Lama, His Holiness, Tsangyang Gyatso. 

I could hear rain starting to fall outside the tent, on that most merciful evening on the banks of the Lhasa river.

Translated by Natascha Bruce

Ye Mi

叶弥

Born in Suzhou in 1964, Ye Mi was six years old when her parents were sent down to the countryside.  She first started writing fiction in 1994. Ye Mi received the Lun Xun Literature Prize for her short story “Incense Burner Mountain”; Jiang Wen’s 2007 film The Sun Also Rises was loosely based on “Velvet”.

Velvet

天鹅绒

Illustration by Guo Xun

1 

There was once a village woman who was very poor. Her happiest memories were not the day of her wedding or the birth of her son, but the rare occasions when she ate braised pork in soy sauce. 

The village woman was truly poor. At home on her kang, she slept under a threadbare cover, and used a woven reed mattress, even in winter. She had one pair of clean, decent cloth shoes, which she wore at New Year and festivals, and for visiting family and friends. She wore them on her bare feet, because she had no socks. Nor a toothbrush, or toothpaste, or nail clippers, or anything like that. 

That was China in 1967, not so long ago, but impossible to forget, even for those who wish to. The problem was not that she was poor, but that another woman was talking behind her back: “She doesn’t even own a pair of socks. Who does she think she is, some kind of barefoot immortal?” These words had spread till they reached the village woman’s ears. She was a self-respecting woman, who had learnt a few things in literacy class. She’d learned, for example, that Planet Earth was oval and rolled through the universe like an egg; that Chairman Mao was the Great Saviour of the people; and that the Communist Party would save China, and so on. But there were many other things that couldn’t be learnt at literacy classes, such as how to get along with others. She couldn’t laugh off the insult any more than she could pick a fight with the gossip who’d started this talk. Her problem was that she didn’t have the money to buy socks. 

She thought it over, and came up with an idea. It was winter, already past New Year. Her son was eighteen, about to start his final year in school. His schoolwork was good, so good that one of the girls in his class had given him a fountain pen. The village woman called her son over and told him straight to his face, “What’s the use in graduating? You’re eighteen, time to start helping the family earn workpoints. What’s-his-name’s schoolwork was better than yours, and he left school last year. He’s already out earning workpoints for his family, and has even got himself engaged.” 

She tucked her son’s school fees inside her top, and without thinking twice, headed off to market. There was a store at the market, the only one for ten miles around. Its full name was the Supply and Marketing Co-operative, but everyone called it the “Co-op”. A sales person in the Co-op was considered as powerful as a party cadre. 

The woman asked for a pair of dark grey acrylic socks, but while she was inspecting them, she did the sums in her head: even if she had a pair of socks like everyone else, but she’d only wear them at New Year and festivals. It didn’t seem a very good use of her money. She put the socks down and starting looking around the store. Then she went to look around the market. She didn’t notice it was getting dark, and when she noticed the vendors packing up their stalls, she started to panic. Her heart pounded like a drum, its rhythms growing louder and more chaotic with each beat… She thought she ought to go back and fix some food for her son and her husband. She thought she wasn’t doing enough for her son. How was it that a poor, silly woman like herself had produced such an intelligent and obedient child? All of a sudden, the woman did something rash: she bought two jin of pork. 

The tragedy unfolded like this: when she reached the village, she went to the latrines. She tied the meat to a wooden pole outside the latrine, and when she came out, the meat was gone. Yet she was still there, and from that moment, she had an enormous responsibility to shoulder: she had to fight for justice over the lost two jin of pork. She didn’t go to work, and she didn’t cook, she barely ate or drank. Every day she stood by the door of her house, swearing streams of abuse, using the filthiest words she knew, at the thief who had stolen her pork. 

The women in the village tried to calm her. They told her they believed she had bought some pork, but perhaps a hungry dog had run off with it. Then she started swearing about the dogs, which was much the same as her swearing about the thief, only worse. This time the women didn’t try to calm her, because there was now every sign that she was mentally ill. 

The son had more luck than his mother. He left school to be an agricultural worker, then became the production brigade’s bookkeeper, the girl who had given him the fountain pen being the third daughter of the production brigade’s Party secretary. She had a little heart trouble, and a little asthma, and she was a bit cross-eyed, but he married her all the same. And so it was that while still in his twenties he became the head of a production brigade, in charge of more than forty households, over 200 people in all. 

2 

At the end of my novel, Sima’s Rope, I wrote that the masses of people who’d been sent down to the countryside returned to the city. My whole family left the village right away, while Uncle Tang’s wife waited for the tribunal to finish before leaving with their child. 

Uncle Tang had killed the poor country woman’s son. This is the story that went around: the head of the production brigade and Tang’s wife had an affair, and Tang shot the man with his hunting rifle. 

Uncle Tang’s real name was Tang Yulin, and the rifle had been left to him by his grandfather who had lived abroad in Indonesia. Tang Yulin’s wife was Yao Meimei. She had five elder siblings, all brothers. When she came along, her parents, delighted and disappointed in equal measure, called her Yao Meimei, “Little Sister Yao”.

Even at forty, Yao Meimei was still Little Sister Yao: she sulked, and flirted and behaved badly. You could see that she was always on the look-out for any excuse to laugh out loud. She married late. When she was thirty-nine, her daughter was nine. The little girl liked to wear two blue bows in her little plaits. Yao Meimei also liked to wear blue bows in her plaits, so she tried to cut a deal with her daughter: “Darling! Bows are for grown-ups. Let Mama tie a big red band around your hair.” 

The daughter wasn’t having it, and appealed to her father. Tang Yulin tried to work things out with his wife: “Good little Meimei, do it the other way round, so that she has the blue bows, and you have the red band.” Now, Yao Meimei wasn’t having it. Tang Yulin spent hours trying to persuade her, until his mouth was dry and his tongue was sore, then he raised his hand and slapped her hard, twice, across the face. Before Yao Meimei’s tears had dried, her parents came hobbling over, supporting each other by the arm. “It’s not easy raising a daughter! She’s never been easy, not since the day she was born! We could never bring ourselves to beat her. But now she’s married, she’s got someone to box her ears.” The five brothers turned up soon after. 

When guests came to the door, Tang Yulin always introduced his wife and daughter like so: “This is my big girl, and this is my little girl.” 

Tang Yulin, Sima and my father were three inseparable gamblers, three heroic players at the table. Each had his strong point: Sima was the wise one, my father was the kind one, and Tang Yulin was the righteous one. Tang Yulin had an explosive temper, and feared no one, except his wife. Sometimes he brought his hunting rifle to the table, and the lesser gamblers, not daring to go into debt or cheat, would beat a hasty retreat. 

In 1969, the year they were sent down to the countryside, they made a pact to always meet on New Year’s Day and gamble through the night, not going their separate ways until eight o’clock the next morning. Tang Yulin would cycle for an hour and a half, braving winter winds to attend their annual reunion. 

The hour-and-a-half journey did not include the time he spent hunting on the way. It is easy to recall what he looked like back then: his hunting rifle on his back, face bright red, eyes gleaming, sideburns wet with sweat. Strapped to the back of his bike were all the New Year accoutrements, as well as whatever he had shot on the way. We’d watch him in the distance, see the big grin on his face. He always had a pocket full of gingko nuts, and he showed us how to bury them in the ash in the stove until they burst, then we’d eat them. Once he told us in all seriousness that the bursting gingko nuts sounded just like his farts. So we dropped the gingko nuts, and clambered on top of him, until he begged for mercy. To cut a long story short, he didn’t look anything like a murderer. 

Yao Meimei turned forty the year she went down to the countryside with her husband. She was not resentful, figuring there’d be ways to seek some advantage from their situation. But Tang Yulin’s mood was heavier. He resented being sent someplace so impoverished. Destitute places were always deathly quiet, and he hated the empty silence. 

He followed behind their guide, coolly sizing up the locals they met on the way, just as he did his opponents at the gambling table. He realised he had entered a completely unfamiliar world. 

They walked and walked until they came across the poor country woman’s son. The poor woman was called Li Yangshi, and her son was called Li Dongfang. Li Yangshi had been ranting and raving for years, and it just happened that on the day that Tang Yulin’s family arrived, she came to her senses. She didn’t know how long she could hold it together, so she quickly brushed her hair, had a wash, put on her shoes, and threw herself into the river while her senses and dignity were still intact. 

The riverbank where she threw herself in was soon thronged with people crowding around and crying, “She’s dead. She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.” The guide left Tang Yulin’s family to go see what was happening, and after a while he came back, saying, “The mother of the production brigade leader drowned. She lost two jin of pork and went mad. Apparently she came to her senses today, brushed her hair, had a wash, put on her shoes, then threw herself into the river – a real waste of effort if you’re just going to drown yourself.” 

And that was when Tang Yulin first saw Li Dongfang, and Li Dongfang first saw Tang Yulin’s hunting rifle. Li Dongfang froze. There was a disconsolate look in his eyes, and he was momentarily lost for words. He had never seen a real hunting rifle before. It was quite different from the Type 38s the local militia trained with. It was magnificent, and had an air of the city, an unfamiliar richness, about it. And an air of menace. He simply didn’t know what to say. 

3 

Li Dongfang was dark and thin. His trouser legs and sleeves hung off him, his buttocks were non-existent, and with his broad shoulders he looked like the letter T – hard, cold and impenetrable. But his expression couldn’t have been more open, his long thin eyes revealing an attention to everything – an attentiveness without any intention to ask questions. His bright pupils and the slight upturn at the corners of his eyes reminded people of a docile herd animal. What’s more, his expression changed easily with circumstances, and this habit gave the impression of a child who didn’t think much. 

Such was the scene when Tang Yulin’s family met Li Dongfang for the first time. To be honest, Tang Yulin did not think much of his immediate superior, but he knew he couldn’t let his feelings show. Tang Yulin read people easily, and Tang Yulin was never wrong. Moreover, Tang Yulin never insulted a good man. 

But that’s exactly what Yao Meimei did. Yao Meimei screwed up her nose, and said: “Is he wrong in the head? My ma always said that: ‘They’re wrong in the head!’ Look, it was two jin… two jin… not two hundred jin.” 

Her daughter asked: “Two jin? How much is two jin?” 

Yao Meimei said: “Two jin? That’s one jin more than one jin.” 

She burst out laughing. Two jin was one jin more than one jin – it sounded so funny she just had to laugh. Tang Yulin had no choice but to put on a serious face and say, “Yao Meimei, you mustn’t laugh out loud at other people’s misfortune. If people hear you, it’ll be bad news. We’ve come to the countryside for re-education.”

What’s the most beautiful thing you can do in winter? Sit in the sun, when there’s no wind, and your belly’s full after a good meal, and you’re wrapped up in warm clothes, eating Yao Meimei’s toasted sunflower seeds, sipping fragrant gunpowder tea brought from Suzhou, listening to your daughter sing a simple song. Tang Yulin had almost got used to the great loss that had come with the changes in his life. But he knew that relaxing like this would bring trouble. When Li Dongfang went to work, he would often go out of his way to walk past Tang Yulin’s door. He didn’t utter a sound, or look back. He just let Tang Yulin have a look at his hard ramrod-straight back. He was the production brigade leader, and Tang Yulin knew there would be trouble. He had to come to some kind of an arrangement with this Li Dongfang. 

The day Li Dongfang’s mother was buried, Tang Yulin went to pay his condolences. Wearing his hunting rifle on his back, he sat down to the side facing the table like a knight returning from a conquest. There was a great commotion as mourners stood to leave, throwing backward glances. Like a flood receding, the room emptied, leaving Li Dongfang stranded. Li Dongfang and Tang Yulin sat face to face in this newly deserted place. The two men smiled at each other, each for his own reasons, and that sudden awkward moment allowed them their first friendly exchange. 

That day Tang Yulin took home a fine haul: Li Dongfang’s unaccustomed but nonetheless friendly smile, a wild rabbit and a brightly coloured pheasant. He tossed the catch to Yao Meimei’s feet, and said, “Go on! Cover it in salt and hang it to dry in the wind. Then, one day we’ll invite Brigade Leader Li to come have lunch.” 

It’s worth mentioning the precise manner of Brigade Leader Li’s arrival on the day he came to eat. He arrived at the Tangs’ door wearing a new jacket and clean Liberation shoes, his hands behind his back, his head bowed, presenting a pair of thin, pencil-straight shoulders. He cautiously called out, “Mr Tang.” 

Mr Tang and his wife and daughter were busy in the kitchen, and didn’t hear. He stood there, slowly turning his head, carefully looking all round, then for no apparent reason he started and ran to the back of the house. After a moment, he appeared to relax, and his body started to loosen up, starting with his neck, and gradually he sank into a squatting position, his eyes on a few reed stalks by the river that hadn’t been cut. 

Tang Yulin and Yao Meimei took it in turns to go to the door and look around. It was already past lunchtime and Tang Yulin was anxious. Yao Meimei said, “He won’t have fallen in the river, will he?” Tang Yulin was just about to tell her off, when he heard his daughter shriek with delight: “Found him!” She had found Brigade Leader Li behind the house, and was dragging him in by the sleeve. Tang Yulin and Yao Meimei burst out laughing. 

While they were eating, Tang Yulin and Li Dongfang came to an agreement. He could stop going out to work if he would discipline some of the louts in Li Dongfang’s brigade. These hooligans were always hanging around the market, drinking and gambling, and disturbing the peace. 

That lunchtime, Yao Meimei drank more than the other two put together. Fully tanked, she broke into the conversation with a tirade: “No matter what, I have to get out of this place. I’m serious, I don’t just say things. Why? Because I was the youngest child in the family, and my parents and brothers indulged me. So I say whatever I want. I’m not afraid of offending anyone. I was born lucky, I’ve never suffered. You’re peasant class, I’m working class. And peasant class and working class should tell the truth. So you want to know the truth? Even a wild cat wouldn’t take a crap in this place. There’s nothing here. I bet you’ve never even seen a xiaolong dumpling or a prawn shaomai.” 

Li Dongfang was captivated: “What’s prawn shaomai?” 

Tang Yulin had never been able to control Yao Meimei. He stood up and said to Brigade Leader Li, who appeared to be in a good mood: “She should be shot for saying things like that. I’ll let you re-educate her, I need to slip out and try my luck.” 

Tang Yulin took his gun and went hunting. In the evening, he returned to the house empty-handed. Yao Meimei was asleep in the bedroom, her round face all pink with sleep. In the kitchen was Li Dongfang, sitting there quietly. He saw Tang Yulin come in, and without a flicker of expression, he got up and left. Tang Yulin went outside to question his daughter who was playing kicky uppy with a shuttlecock: “What happened to your Ma this afternoon?”

“Nothing happened,” his daughter said. 

4 

Of the three of them – Tang Yulin, Sima and my father – my father was the kind one, Sima was the wise one, and Tang Yulin was the righteous one. Of these three types of people, only the righteous one has to play two roles simultaneously: to inspire fear with guts of steel, while still caring about the world and the people in it. 

Tang Yulin respected the arrangement with Li Dongfang, and every day went to hang around the market. The rogues were indeed hard to keep in line, but Tang Yulin was more than a match for them. After a few days of cajoling mixed with outright threats, he’d persuaded them to stop causing trouble. Once, when he lost his patience with them, he put down the hunting rifle, grabbed a willow branch and thrashed them on the buttocks till they ran off in all directions. Afterwards, he demonstrated his gun skills for them while casually chatting about life in the city – the clothes, the food, the mannerisms. He even made them a red-cooked pheasant and a special watermelon and pheasant dish, and goodness knows what else. 

Within half a year, he was a regular guest at the hooligans’ homes. There were plenty of things they could do together, like hunting, gambling, and shooting the breeze. They all agreed that fate had brought them together. 

Tang Yulin told the rogues: “Sometimes, I am your friend…” and the rogues would echo, “Our friend!” 

Tang Yulin also said, “And sometimes, I am your father.” And the rogues would echo again, “Our father!” 

This richly layered relationship must have brought Tang Yulin great happiness, or he wouldn’t have stayed out so often, nor returned home so late. He even found he didn’t miss Yao Meimei’s toasted sunflower seeds, or the fragrant gunpowder tea brought from Suzhou. 

But he was neglecting Yao Meimei. 

In fact, Yao Meimei was at that time getting on very well indeed with Li Dongfang, which led to something that seemed highly improbable and irration-
al. It was a test of human intelligence to understand it, and it was not simply the one time. Every time it happened, we struggled to understand this affront to common sense, but in the end, we could only conclude that some things are so strange as to defy all reason. 

One day in early summer, Tang Yulin went, as usual, with his gun on his back, to the house of one of the young rogues. They sat outside the house, under the spreading melia tree, playing drinking games until the early hours, when, feeling the dew settling, Tang said to them, “Time to go home.” The rogues came over and grabbed him. “Didn’t you say we were staying the night, Old Man?” they said. Tang Yulin was surprised, “Did I say that?” They answered as one, “Yes, you did!” Tang Yulin’s head was muddled. He pulled on his ear and rubbed his face, gave it some thought, then stood up, and, as might have been expected, said, “No, I didn’t. I’m going home.” And as he said it, off he went. 

The rogues followed, and kept on at him, “Stay here, Old Man. Stay the night! It’ll soon be light. There’s no point rushing home.” Tang Yulin ignored them, his mind set on getting home. He suddenly realised how vast the world was, and it made him think about unsettling things. 

He walked quickly for a while, sensing something strange behind his back. He looked round and saw the rogues following him, silent as ghosts. It was no wonder he hadn’t heard their voices. Angry, he grabbed the gun from his shoulder, and took aim. He expected the rogues to scarper, but they didn’t move. 

“We’ll be heading back then,” they said. “Be careful walking in the dark.” Then they added, “Make sure you have a drink with us tomorrow, Old Man, no matter what.” 

The mist gradually fell, crept over the road and buried Tang Yulin’s feet. All around him were damp wheat fields, alive in the deep night, giving off an unusual smell. There was a light breeze blowing, not strong enough to move the mist along, but icy cold on Tang Yulin’s face. 

He arrived outside his home. The three-roomed thatched house was warm in winter and cool in summer. The room to the west was where they ate, the room in the middle had his daughter’s little bed, and the room to the east had his and Yao Meimei’s big bed; it was his paradise. Yet there were unfamiliar noises in paradise, and these were the reason the rogues had made such efforts to prevent him from leaving. 

Tang Yulin froze by the window. 

He heard two sentences. The first was Yao Meimei saying: “My old Tang says my skin’s like velvet.” The second was Mr Li Dongfang saying: “What’s velvet?” 

Tang Yulin leant his gun against the wall below the window, walked to the back of his neighbour’s house, where there was a pile of old straw, and curled up on the straw. He wished he had stayed over instead of coming home, as he usually did when it was past midnight. 

Tang Yulin slept until morning, then dragged his heavy feet home. Yao Meimei was in the kitchen making rice porridge. Tang Yulin walked in and sat down. He leant the gun against the wall. He said: “Come here.” Yao Meimei looked at him and replied with a firm “No.” Tang Yulin gave an order, “Come here!” and Yao Meimei refused again: “No.” At which Tang Yulin asked, “Do you have some reason more important than mine?” And Yao Meimei, without even looking at him, said, “I don’t want to burn the porridge.” 

Tang Yulin had little choice, and said, “All right, we’ll wait until you’ve finished the porridge, then I’ll give you a good hiding.” Yao Meimei said, “You do that.” Yao Meimei finished making the rice porridge. She took the pickles and chopsticks and placed them in front of Tang Yulin, then brought a bowl filled to the top with rice porridge, and then knelt down in front of Tang Yulin. She knelt very properly and, holding the bowl in two hands, placed it on his table, then leaned her face towards him, and said, “Go on, beat me, then everyone will feel better again.” 

Tang Yulin thought, the moment I wanted a woman like this, I had to abandon all desire for a normal life. Good-looking women can kill a man. Simple-minded women can do the same, and this particular simple-minded woman could kill two. He put out his hand, stroked her messy hair, and with a heavy heart he told her, “What you’re doing is killing me.” 

The righteous Tang Yulin pulled Yao Meimei on to his lap with one hand, and with the other hand picked up the bowl of rice porridge and glugged it down in one go. Then he pushed the bowl away while shoving her off his lap, picked up his hunting rifle and went out. 

5 

He waited for three days on the dirt road for Li Dongfang to show up. On the fourth day, Li Dongfang appeared, his hands empty, his face thin and pale, his trouser legs and sleeves even looser than before. The T-shaped person seemed to have shrunk. The strange thing was that when he came face to face with the hunting rifle, his expression was completely calm, and his pupils were bright, though it was a different gleam from before. Then it had been an attentive gleam, now it seemed more like malnutrition. Tang Yulin knew that three days had been enough for this son of a madwoman to find a way to survive out there. He was more determined than his mother. 

Tang Yulin put down the gun to let him speak, and he spoke. His tone of voice was neither modest nor excessive, neither warm nor heated, there was nothing that Tang Yulin could find fault with. “I should be shot,” said Li Dongfang, as though it had nothing to do with him. “But there’s something I don’t understand, that I’d like to know before I die.” Tang Yulin nodded. 

Li Dongfang’s face did not change as he continued, “What’s velvet?” Tang Yulin grabbed the gun again: “It’s a kind of fabric.” Li Dongfang looked inanely at Tang Yulin’s gun. Tang Yulin was certain this was some kind of plot. He was playing for time. 

“It’s a soft kind of fabric, it looks a bit like fine grass, a bit like flour.” 

Now Li Dongfang’s face had that perplexed look that Tang Yulin was familiar with, that genuine perplexity, that undisguised perplexity that was part of his everyday life. Tang Yulin thought, this is definitely a plot, and a strange one. But this plot contained hopes that couldn’t be ignored. You can’t send someone to his death with an unfulfilled wish. Moreover, he’d had a difficult mother. 

Tang Yulin put down the gun and nodded. Li Dongfang slowly walked away. 

Now Tang Yulin had a new problem: he had to show Li Dongfang what velvet was. If Li Dongfang refused to understand, Tang Yulin would have to defer his plan to some undetermined date in the future. Tang Yulin slung the gun over his shoulder and went home. He had no regrets. 

Over the next few weeks, the villagers frequently saw the two men moping around with their heads hanging low. When people asked Li Dongfang what he was doing, he would mutter, “I’m thinking.” When people asked Tang Yulin what he was doing, he would snarl, “I’m thinking!” Thus many concluded they were both thinking about Yao Meimei. 

A month went by. Tang Yulin knew that Li Dongfang truly had no way of understanding what velvet was. This man named Li Dongfang had transcended the fear of death, so focused was he on the puzzle of this unfathomable fabric. In this characteristic he was like his mother, treading a fine line between fragility and resilience. For them, self-protection and self-destruction went hand in hand. Tang Yulin understood this much. He felt compassion for Li Dongfang, who had no choice but to give in to his obsessions. 

Another month went by, and it was already very hot. One evening Tang Yulin was lying in front of his house, gazing at the setting sun. The colours in the western sky were constantly changing: from orange-red to orange-yellow took no longer than a sigh; from orange-yellow it went rose-pink, then purple, then bluish-grey, then charcoal, in a series of autumnal waves that were gone in the blink of an eye. Then the mist rose like an expression of the most basic impulses of life. Every crop that was growing, every tree, every patch of grass, gave off the scent of life. Their vitality was so straightforward, and so moving. Tang Yulin felt his heart softening. If he didn’t act soon, he might let Li Dongfang off. 

That evening Tang Yulin left for Suzhou, but none of the shops there had what he wanted. Then he went to Shanghai, where he had some relatives who had once been well off. He’d visited when he was little and had seen some of his female relatives wearing velvet. When he found nothing in Shanghai, he went to Beijing, where his good friend was a mid-ranking official. The friend told him velvet had become extremely rare, and even an official of his rank needed a permit to buy it. 

He came home empty-handed, except for the silk ribbon he brought back for Yao Meimei to tie round her plaits, a little cloth doll for his daughter, and some bottles of liquor for the band of rogues. He returned in the evening, just as he’d left, at that moment when the day hovers between light and dark. He saw that Li Dongfang had finished work, and was digging in the vegetable patch behind his house. 

Tang Yulin picked up his rifle and left. Yao Meimei followed him for a while, until she daren’t go any further. 

Soon after that, Tang Yulin met Li Dongfang. Li Dongfang was squatting in the vegetable patch. Apparently startled, he looked Tang Yulin over from top to bottom, then front to back and left to right. All around him were tall, dense reeds, and green jungle. “I have travelled the length and breadth of China, and have not been able to find any. What do you suggest we do?” Tang Yulin asked sternly. 

Li Dongfang slowly got up from the ground, and in his usual voice, said to Tang Yulin, “There’s no need to search any more, I’ve been thinking it over, and I already know what velvet is like.” He continued, “It’s like Yao Meimei’s skin.” 

Tang Yulin picked up his gun, and, fast as lightening, shot Li Dongfang dead. His opportunity had finally come, and he knew that if he let it pass, he might never have another one. 

It’s all over now. Tang Yulin went to prison, where he still passes the slow nights. Every year, on New Year’s Day, my father thinks of his old friend Tang Yulin, and cries like an inconsolable wife. 

The most puzzling thing about this murder is this: if Li Dongfang had refused to understand what velvet was, would Tang Yulin still be holding Li Dongfang’s life at gunpoint? 

The answer is yes. Everyone agrees that Tang Yulin had firm principles and a soft heart. If he had truly wanted to kill Li Dongfang, there was ample opportunity to do so – no need to wait. In this sense, it was Li Dongfang who chose his moment to die. 

Translated by Helen Wang

Zhang Chu

张楚

Born in Hebei in 1974, Zhang Chu has published several volumes of short stories, and his works have appeared in various literary journals including People’s Literature and Harvest magazine. His short story “Camel” was translated into English by Brendan O’Kane in issue 9 of Chutzpah! magazine. Zhang Chu received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for “The Good Dinners”.

The Good Dinners

良宵

Illustration by Xiao Bao

1 

The villagers of Mawan didn’t notice anything odd about her at first. Perhaps all they saw was an old lady: clean and plainly dressed, face all wrinkles, hair in a neat bun, standing under a cherry tree with her hands and feet tucked neatly away and a timidity somehow not matching her age. The neighbour women wandered over now and then for a look and a chat. This was, they learned, a distant aunt of Wang Jingsheng’s, and she had for some reason decided she wanted to spend some time in a village and so prevailed upon her nephew to rent her this three-roomed house. She hadn’t much luggage to speak of: some bedding, a yellowing leather suitcase. And there was a goose accompanying her. The goose was old too, with feathers greying and beak dull, and it lay listless under the eaves. On receiving visitors the old lady smiled and took some nuts – hazelnuts, chestnuts, so on – from a bag to press upon them. Eat, eat, she gently urged. Her teeth looked to be false: white as corn and no sign of the gums when she smiled. 

The following day she was up early and halfway round the village before the roosters had even crowed. This was an early April, the village livening up after the cold of winter. The blossom lay like snow on the cherry trees, of course, and was attracting wasps. And the purple milk vetch was in flower, shaken by the wind into a single sheet of crystal, dripping with sunlight and nectar. When she tired she found a rock to sit on and allow her feet to rest. Villagers leading oxen and mules out to the fields passed by, naturally taking a look at her as they did so. And when they looked she smiled, her lips rose-petals under the sun. 

She wasn’t one to go calling. But village women have spinning tops for buttocks, they say – if there’s no work to be done in the fields they might sit down for a moment here, but soon be spinning off over there. And even more so here in Mawan – the local women were known to have tongues two inches longer than usual, all the better to gossip with. And so they would kindly drop by for a few of the old lady’s nuts and some of the jasmine tea she brewed, and ask whatever they thought they might get away with, in hope of some titbit to pass on. But the old lady stayed quiet as a cat, never interrupting their back-and-forth as they sat there on the edge of the heated bed. What did you do, before you retired? I was a teacher, she said. How many children? Two boys and a girl, she said. How old are you? Oh, I forget, she said. Is your husband still with us? Passed away twenty years since, she said. They gawped as they quizzed her, but she just squinted at the wall, as if she was looking for something lost in its nooks and crannies, responding absent-mindedly to their questions. Sometimes the goose would waddle in, its plump rear swaying, and she’d haul it by the neck up onto the heated bed, taking it into her arms so she could caress it with hands rough as bark. The goose didn’t complain – it closed its eyes and lay there, corpselike. 

The gossips gradually lost interest and stopped visiting. Apart from the one they called Third Liu – she would visit quite often. More often than Wang Jingsheng did, anyway. She’d bring over dumplings stuffed with wild vegetables, stews of spare ribs, all still steaming-hot, just like a daughter would. The old lady would politely refuse a few times then accept, though never with the usual thankyous. Third Liu didn’t seem to mind though – she’d always been a bit odd, they said, a tomboy. And what village doesn’t have a couple of those? Over in Xiazhuang the best-known was Zhou Suying, who gambled and cheated right alongside the men. In Mazhuang it was Liu Meilan, who stomped about all day in her big leather boots, leading the horn-blowers at funeral and wedding processions. And if Mawan had one… well, it was Third Liu. She was actually fairly pretty - but she had a fierce temper, talked straight and coarse, and was given to breaking out into rough and tuneless song. 

2 

Over the next five or six days the old lady familiarised herself with Mawan and its immediate surroundings. The village lay on the eastern plains of Hebei: one hundred li to the west, the Yan Mountains; one hundred li to the east, the Bohai Sea. Oddly enough the village had never depended on mountain or sea, but was instead known for its cotton. The old folks said the cotton grown here had been shipped along the Grand Canal into the capital to be used in the Imperial Palace. That heritage was lost now though: the young folk all working on city building sites; only a few old farmers still planting cotton. As for the village itself, it was as flat as could be, bar one hillock at the western edge, maybe one hundred metres in circumference. You could stand out in the fields and the horizon would sketch a perfect circle around you. It was still early in the year then, just past Tomb-Sweeping Day. The wheat had just turned green, while the winter crops were already in the barns. Apart from the wild flowers there was nothing but the buds on the willow and a few dark brown ladybirds flying back and forth. 

She walked past the hillock that morning. Despite her slow pace she was wheezing and panting, so she chose a cleaner bit of ground to rest on. But before the chill of the earth had even reached her buttocks she heard the sound of children jeering. She levered herself up for a look and saw a young boy fleeing a pursuing pack of other children. He blew past her fast as a rabbit and bolted up the side of the hillock. The rest of them gave up pursuit, but continued to hurl abuse from the bottom of the slope. It was interesting, the local dialect. Normal conversation was all digressions and asides, like the lyrics to Northern Opera. Start arguing though and it was all crisp and concise, like the dialogue in Peking Opera. The brats yelled for a while longer then skulked off. 

The old lady peered at them as they walked off, then squinted up at the hillock. Shortly a little head poked out and surveyed the scene below. Seeing the other children had left the boy straightened up a little and waited there, shivering. His battered knee-length jacket hung loosely around his skinny frame, holey and long-sleeved with nautical stripes. He noticed the old lady watching him and scooped up a clump of earth to throw at her. It flew straight and true, catching her square on the forehead. She didn’t make a sound, just wiped her forehead and looked back up the slope. The child was gone. 

She made steamed buns that evening, eating half of one plain before slipping on her down coat and taking the stool out to the courtyard. The village fell quiet early, just the rats scuttling in the haystacks and the chickens squabbling in their coop to be heard. And what sounded like a stray cat somewhere. She sat there a while taking it all in before returning inside and turning the television to the opera channel. It was Mulan, performed by Bai Yushuang. She found herself pulling the sleeping goose up onto the bed and into her lap, stroking its warm wings and cold beak, then closing her eyes to hear better. All of a sudden she heard footsteps from the outer room. She listened out for more, but none came. Some moments later though she heard them again, just faintly. “Who’s there?” she called out. There was only silence. These ears, she thought… not getting any better… 

Arising at dawn, she found several of her steamed buns missing from the pot. Could a stray cat have taken them? She stepped out of the yard to take her walk and stood there for a moment, unsure of where to go. Then she remembered that stray boy from yesterday, and with him in mind she summoned the goose and made her slow way to the hillock. She lived at the west end of the village, so it wasn’t far. But when you had to measure out those three or four hundred meters step by step by step – it never ended. Back in her day, though… she could have somersaulted there. 

The hillock rising up in front of her, she stopped with hands on hips and breath coming in great gulps. It wasn’t that it was too high; she was just too small. Nor was it that the path was too long, her breath was just too short. A few young elms were scattered around the hillock, but mostly it was dandelions, dandelions growing so densely that from afar they formed a plain of quiet gold, from up close a forest of miniature sunflowers. She stood there as the scent gathered in her nostrils, pulling a few hazelnuts from a pocket and crunching and cracking away. I don’t think I’ll ever give up the nuts, she thought. I’m old and my teeth are gone, but the hunger’s still there. And then: why not go up for a look? She walked round to a gentler slope and took the measure of it – and knew she was beaten. It wasn’t long, but still steep. A lad of sixteen would run out of puff, never mind her. Plan abandoned, she made her way home, thumping the small of her back with her fists as she went. 

She made noodles in a fried bean sauce for dinner that night. After eating she watched the television, as usual. Well, listened to it, at least. Her eyelids drooped and rose, but her ears stayed alert as she savoured the squeal of the two-string fiddles. And she came awake soon enough when she heard something slurping away in the outer room. She gave a quiet cough and the sound shrank back into the endless dark outside. She turned up the volume on the television, slipped on her shoes, slid off the bed, and swept the curtain covering the doorway aside. In the moonless night all she could make out was a shadow sitting astride the wall then dropping out of sight. She turned on the light and, sure enough, the leftover noodles were gone, only a few dried-up fragments on the edge of the bowl remaining. Now things made more sense. And who else could it be, if not that boy from the hillock. And she couldn’t help but wonder what the story was. Why wasn’t he getting fed? Where had his parents gone? Hadn’t he any relatives in the village? She’d ask Third Liu next chance she got, she decided. 

And so of course there was no sign of Third Liu for days. The village public address system was broadcasting something about new contracts everyone had to sign – nothing for her to worry about, as she was renting, so she didn’t pay much mind. But as she sat on the bed she kept drifting off into thoughts of that boy and his little face. She couldn’t help but worry for him, and she started to hope a little that he would visit again. The next day, even before lunch, she started to plan what she’d cook for his dinner. He’d had steamed buns and thin noodles the last couple of nights – hardly enough to fill a boy hungry enough to steal food. She mulled it over and then decided what she’d make: pineapple carp. 

The carp was no problem, they had that at the village shop. No pineapple though, so she bought some celery instead. Celery has a strong flavour, she thought, and a powerful smell. Might not be as nice as pineapple, but it wouldn’t be far off. She went home to clean the fish, feeding the guts to the goose. Then she stuffed the fish full of slices of ginger, lengths of spring onion and spicy broad bean sauce, before stewing it over a low flame. It was a hushed afternoon, as usual nothing to hear but the wind in the eaves, the leaves pushing out from the bark, and the tired grunts of the neighbour’s pigs. She sat there and listened for a long while, only then turning off the flame under the fish. The night crept in inch by inch, the daylight shrinking back as it came. She made a quick bowl of congee for herself, turned on the light in the outer room and tucked herself up in bed early, turning the television on as always. 

The boy was back. First the metallic clink as the lid came off the pan. Then the hiss as he opened the electric rice cooker. Then the “ouch” he didn’t quite stifle as the steam caught his hand. Then the gulping as he wolfed down his meal. And finally, his clothes brushing against the curtain at the door. Just five or six minutes and the noises had faded, the night again still. She pulled on some clothes and tiptoed out to the yard. In the bright yellow moonlight she saw the boy climbing the wall again. For some reason he couldn’t reach the top this time and after several attempts he brought a stone over from by the pig pen and stood on it, stretching up on tiptoe and making it up onto the wall. But oddly he didn’t immediately clamber down the other side – he sat there for a while, one leg either side of the wall. The old lady watched him there, his shoulders shivering under the moonlight. 

She didn’t want to scare him, so she watched a while longer then went inside to lean against the door, deep in thought. 

3 

She set out early the following morning, the old goose waddling along behind her. There was a shop in the village which sold fresh meat. It was busy when she got there, with people buying rolls of white funeral cloth. Someone must have died, she thought. She put on her spectacles and had a good long look at the meat before calling the shopkeeper over to carve a jin from the back leg of a pig. Then she went home, taking the goose with her. At noon she couldn’t resist taking a walk over to the hillock and resting there a long while. The wind was warmer than the day before, ticklish on her skin, the purple milk vetch a cloud of colour under the sun. But no sign of the boy. She sat for a while, staring at the elms, before leaving. In the afternoon she sliced the ginger and added chilies, longan, star anise, aniseed and thirteen-spice to the meat before placing it in the pressure cooker. Soon the scent of cooking pork filled the room. 

And it just so happened that several of the village gossips came by as it was cooking. They hadn’t visited for a while, but all came in with noses raised and asking “what’s that lovely smell?” Hearing what she was making they all praised her culinary skills and set about bewailing those of their precious daughters-in-law. All growing food out in the fields, yet somehow useless in the kitchen. They couldn’t even make dumplings, was one complaint – a pot’s worth put on the boil for New Year’s fell apart, turning to pork soup. But the old lady just huddled up at the foot of the bed and listened in silence. Then they said something about people from the county government coming, and that it was now certain the villagers were to be moved. She broke her silence then: “Where are you moving to? And why?” That got them all excited and chattering. Scientists, it seemed, had found big deposits of iron ore below Mawan and the nearby villages of Zhouzhuang and Xiazhuang. And how big is big? Third biggest deposit in the country! No mere trifle. The survey had been four or five years ago, but it had taken this long for a decision to be made: mining would start next year. And so the township government was hassling them to sign relocation agreements. It wouldn’t be long before Mawan was no more, replaced by a huge iron mine. “Then, where will you move to?” she asked. “How will you manage without the fields?” They all laughed at that. “We can’t wait to move,” they said. “We’ll be city folk. And as for money, we get compensation. No need to worry about anything else these days, if you’ve got money…” 

They finally left. She pummelled the small of her back and allowed herself a peek into the pressure cooker. She’d meant to ask the village women about the boy, but she hadn’t quite got the words out. Such a bunch of busybodies, they’d all be curious as to why she was enquiring. And anyway, what need did she have to know? They’d seen each other around, that was all. Never even spoken. And if he was hungry, he was welcome to have a bite or two here, just to fill himself up. And then if he found a home and stopped thieving, she’d not bring it up again. She lay down on the bed for a nap. When she opened her eyes again the sky was dark. She hobbled into the outer room to check on the meat – nothing but leftovers. He’d eaten plenty, she saw, it must have been to his liking. She went back to sleep feeling quietly pleased with herself. 

Early the next day Wang Jingsheng paid a visit, bringing a bundle of chives for planting out and a bucket of pig dung. He wasn’t close to her, this distant nephew. Just the opposite, if anything. But she didn’t mind. She gave him a pair of embroidered slippers she’d made in return. He took them, then smoked a pipe in silence before shuffling off. Once she was alone she planted the chives out in two neat rows, then sat out under the eaves to enjoy the sun. But as she sat there she started to feel queasy. Must have caught a chill from the winds of the last few days, she thought. She took some medicine and lay down on the bed. She slept fitfully, often waking with a sore throat and feeling weak, then drifting back off after a sip of hot water. At some point in the night she heard the goose honking – it would be wanting to be fed, but she didn’t have the strength. When she woke the next morning the sun was over the eaves. She snapped a few brussels off the stalk, went out to feed the goose, and found it gone. 

It’d been with her thirteen years, the goose. She’d found it one day on the street, no doubt abandoned by some child who brought it home from the pet market and found it too much trouble to look after. City kids never had any patience. She’d carried it home carefully wrapped up in her clothes. It had just been a little ball of down then, wide-eyed and petrified, who’d have thought it’d grow so big? Her children hardly ever visited, so it was often just the two of them: morning walks in the park, munching away at lunch together, listening to the old operas on the radio, then in the evening falling asleep on the sofa, waking up in the middle of the night to turn the television off. Day after day, year after year. If she needed a moan she’d moan to the goose; if she got angry, she’d give the goose a kick. It wasn’t one to bear grudges and would still stick to her like a shadow. Staying close. Needing her. 

She couldn’t help but fret as she hobbled around the yard in search of it. But there was no trace. Then she remembered the boy and her heart stuttered. She hadn’t made anything for him last night. Could he have just taken the goose and cooked it? 

The stove and lights stayed dark that night as she stood guard in the outer room, almost scared to breathe. As expected, the boy came back. He started to rummage around the stove and she grabbed hold of his arm – it was as thin as straw, and he was too weak to break free. She snapped on the light. “My goose?” she asked, voice steady. 

It was the first time she’d seen him up close. He seemed to have got even skinnier, and for a second she wanted to hold on tighter, in case a draught blew him away. His eyes were red and swollen and he had blisters at the corners of his mouth. But he didn’t reply. “I said, did you steal my goose?” He nodded. Instinctively she reached out and slapped him across the back of the head. “Did you eat it?” she asked, voice trembling. He nodded again. With a gasp of dismay she took hold of a handy pot-scrubber and started beating him. And as the blows fell, she saw the red marks on his arm, each the size of a silver dollar, all running into each other. And seeing that she lost the appetite for it and let him go, sitting on the side of the stove with a thump. She stared at him quietly for a while before waving her hand. “Off you go then. And don’t come back.” The boy just stood there, then started to mumble. “My gran died… I had to make an offering… so I took the goose…” She ignored him, returning to her room and lying down in her clothes. 

And she lay there for two days. While awake she wondered if this was her time. And thinking about it, this village of Mawan might not be a bad place to die in. Cotton above, iron below – it was blessed. And as she hovered between sleep and wakefulness she saw herself all made-up, making her entrance onto the stage. But where were the musicians? And the audience? She looked about, but there was no sign of them. She laughed at her own disappointment. This age and I’m still scared nobody will come to hear me sing… 

The next time she opened her eyes the light had been turned on. She looked out through the door and saw a bowl and chopsticks sitting on the edge of the stove, the bowl giving off clouds of steam. She went out for a better look – dough-drop soup. Pools of sesame oil floating on the surface, an egg lying at the bottom, cloves of young garlic by its side. Feeling the warmth already she started to slurp away in delicate mouthfuls. She must have been starving – the soup was bland, but seemed particularly delicious. Who could it have been? Third Liu or Wang Jingsheng wouldn’t have been so quiet, nor would they just have left without waking her. It must have been the boy. He’d have come looking for food, seen she was ill, and made the soup. Then, not wanting to wake her, put it where it would keep warm and she’d see it when she woke. So thoughtful, for such a young lad. She still hated him for killing the goose, of course, but we all do silly things sometimes. Especially a starving young slip of a lad like that. Maybe she’d go and visit him, she thought. She’d lived here a fortnight and not properly visited anyone. She picked up her torch and made her way out of the yard. 

The village had a different smell at night-time. In the daylight the village belonged to the animals: the oxen by the trough, the pigs in the pen, the goats in the pasture, the chickens in the coop, the stray cats on the wall, the civets in the straw, the snakes in the field. It was the smell of the stove, of children’s snot and men’s piss, strong and thick, of meat and smoke. But night belonged to the plants. To chives and to cherries, to elms and all the quiet-growing spirits. And that smell was sweet and thin, sneaking cold and clear into the lungs. As she walked through the night her bones seemed to move easier, her journey to the hillock shortening by a few minutes. But when she got there she remembered how steep it was. She’d struggle to get up there in the daylight with these stiff old legs, never mind by starlight. Disheartened, she stood there at the base of a slope for a while, the sweet scent of the dandelions making its way into her nostrils once more. 

But she felt better after another night’s rest, at least. And in the morning her eldest son phoned. She hadn’t expected him to. He came to the point, as always. “Mum,” he told her, “it’s your birthday soon, remember? There’s a bigshot company boss from Hong Kong who’s been fan of yours since he was a kid. He’s flying up to throw you a party – twenty grand, he’s paying for it. Stay there a few more days, but then you’ll have to pack up and come home.” 

He was in his fifties now, her eldest. He took after his father in everything: the temper, the drinking, and the wife-beating. He’d sponged off her until she had nothing left, just this old body she stood up in. Every payday he’d turn up with his friends, then there’d be no sign of him for a month. He wouldn’t believe she had nothing saved. She’d taken a fall last year and been bedridden; her children hadn’t even taken her to hospital. Thankfully some of her old drama school students had come up with the hospital fees. She’d be living out her last days in bed if it wasn’t for that operation. She hadn’t told him she was coming to the village, never thinking he’d bother to track her down. Quietly, she told him she wasn’t returning. She liked it here, in Mawan. She was going to die here. 

“Die there then,” he shouted down the phone. “Don’t come back. There’s no point in you being alive anyway! You don’t know how to enjoy it!” 

No point in being alive? No point in being alive? She started to well up. 

“What’s the matter?” 

She looked up to see Third Liu coming in, a bowl of tofu stew in her hands. 

“I added some veg to the tofu,” Third Liu said. “Smell it, better than pork.” Third Liu licked her lips as she spoke. “Eat it while it’s hot, my tofu stew’s the best in the world…” 

4 

She made spare ribs in a clear broth that evening. She had a bowl of the broth for herself, the sky darkening as she finished it. Feeling warm, she slipped off her down jacket and went out to the yard to water the chives. As she did so she caught the sound of a radio playing somewhere – the opera Spring Dream, the part where the newly-weds are reunited. That was either Wang Queyue or Zhao Hengqiu singing – she was a veteran, after all, she still knew her singers. As she listened she lowered the bucket to the ground and sang quietly along: 

A brocade of blossoms lined the path the day you left.

Now, willow limbs above the eaves again put forth their green.

I watched from chambers deep, forlorn,

Till apple blossoms heralded return.

Knocking at the door: my heart but hoped to see a letter by your hand.

Rumours at the market, and it sank in fears that you were lost at war.

How could you leave and never write,

No thought for me, your lovesick one at home?

She seemed once more to stand on that vast stage, the golden curtains parting in front of her. The drums beat out their rhythms, the fiddles sounded, then all fell silent. And suddenly she became the young bride, complaining to her husband. And even while complaining, she remained ladylike and charming. She hid her mouth as she smiled; she nodded coquettishly; she turned her face away; she approached and retreated with delicate steps… and as the song ended and she folded her hands back into her sleeves she heard the thunder of cheers from the audience below… 

A thump from over by the wall brought her back from her reverie. She looked over in surprise and couldn’t help but laugh to see the boy, seemingly unhurt, picking himself up from the ground at the base of the wall. He dusted himself off as he scrambled to his feet then looked nervously back at her. 

“What are you doing back here?” she asked, her face stern. “You’ve eaten my goose, what you planning to steal this time?” 

“I… I… I just came to see if you were better,” he stammered. “You were so hot that evening, like boiling water.” 

She narrowed her eyes and waited for him to continue. “I was listening to you on the wall… but I fell off. I didn’t scare you, did I?” 

At that she walked over and ruffled his hair. “No more climbing walls. Just knock and I’ll open the gate for you.” 

She took him inside and fed him spare ribs and rice, piling the bowl to a peak. As he shovelled it in by the mouthful she quizzed him. “Your parents?” – “Both dead.” – “How so?” – “Got sick.” – “Any grandparents?” – “My grandad died ages ago, my gran… she…” – he started to sob – “she died a week ago, her heart… that goose of yours, I killed it as an offering…” – “Any other relatives?” – “There’s my uncle… but he’s lame.” 

He put down his bowl and chopsticks and stared up at the beams in the roof. “Eat up,” she told him. “Food is fuel, get it down you; skip a feed, hunger’ll hound you. Finish off the ribs first.” He glanced at her then bent over his bowl again. His appetite was just fine, she saw: three bowls of rice, and the ribs gnawed clean. 

“So who will you live with,” she asked, both to herself and to the boy. “You’re just a lad, knee-high to a grasshopper.” 

The boy put down his bowl again and walked out towards the yard, but allowed her to grab his arm and stop him as he passed. “Do you like sweets?” she asked. “There’s some in the box on the cabinet – White Rabbits and Golden Monkeys.” 

“I never eat sweets,” the boy said. 

She raised an eyebrow at that. “Since when have kids not liked sweets?” 

“When my mum and dad were alive they never got me any,” he said, glum. 

She sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you sweets…” 

He glanced at her and ran off. A moment later she heard the clang of the gate swinging shut. At least he wasn’t climbing over the wall now. 

He joined her for dinner the following few nights. The house felt livelier than ever and she had Wang Jingsheng fetch a table from the market. Upon it there was usually one hot dish and one cold. The hot dishes were old Beijing classics – pork and tomatoes; fried wheat sausage; clay-pot meatballs – all her specialities. The cold dish would be radish leaves, shallots, chives, or maybe baby spinach, all tossed in soy sauce and vinegar. The two of them would sit face-to-face on the bed, the boy head down in his bowl, shoving the rice in and rarely reaching over for the actual dishes. Now and then he’d raise his head and she’d nip in and place a chopstick-load of meat or vegetables in his bowl. “You might be a wee lad, but you’re out-eating me. Keep it up, keep it up.” The boy would then take a piece of meat or sausage and hesitantly reach over to place it in her bowl. And she’d smile at that. If neither of them spoke the room was silent but for the sound of eating – although they both made different noises. She chewed her food carefully, her jaw moving slowly like a cow with the cud; the boy was more like a piglet fighting at the trough, bowls of rice disappearing in seconds. “Slow down,” she told him once. “You’re eating too quickly, you’ll make yourself sick. You want to be careful – when you’re young you have to make yourself sick, at my age the sickness comes looking.” But the boy kept on going, mouthful after mouthful, as if he hadn’t ears to hear with. But it was that night he suddenly put down his bowl and looked up at her: 

“I… there’s a favour I want to ask you.” 

She teased him: “Oh, I don’t think so. What would be in it for me?” 

He looked so sad she softened. “Ok, nothing in it for me, but you’ll have to become my student. I’ll teach you to sing ‘The Bandit Queen Elopes’.” 

He didn’t look up and didn’t speak for a while. “I don’t think I’ll live to the end of next year. If I die, will you bury me with mum and dad?” 

And for a moment she had no idea how to respond. Who’d expect a child to say such a thing? Then he went on, slowly: “Our family plot is up on the hillock. I like eating meat, so maybe you can bury me with… Just some pig’s head meat will be enough. But burn plenty of paper money, so I can buy mum and dad new clothes when I get there…” And finished, he bent over his bowl and resumed eating. She forced a smile. 

“You little rascal, what are you doing thinking about these things at your age? If anyone’s going to die soon it’ll be me.” 

She kept a smile on her face, but this didn’t feel right. Why would the boy say these things? It didn’t seem like he was making it up. Maybe he actually had some disease? And anyway, what was to be done with an orphan like him. He said he had an uncle, but it had to be a pretty uncaring uncle or the boy wouldn’t be living alone. He wasn’t much more than ten – he should have been curled up with his mother at nights, keeping warm. Maybe she should speak to the village cadres? At the least they could find someone to take him in. Or even an orphanage would be better than spending his nights alone up on the hillock and his days bullied by the other kids. Maybe then he wouldn’t be too scared to come out during the day. 

He came again the next night, and she cooked half a chicken. Just as she’d torn off the thigh and put it into the boy’s bowl, Third Liu came in holding a big bundle of cotton. She was all smiles as she walked in but stopped dead on seeing the boy, staring at him a moment before yelping in shock. The boy took fright and fled, leaving Third Liu stood there, hand on her chest and panting, scared seemingly out of her wits. The old lady glared at her. “Are you having a fit or something?” 

“Heavens,” Third Liu exclaimed. “What are you doing letting that boy in the house?” 

“Well he’s hardly some kind of pariah. Why wouldn’t I let him in?” 

Third Liu stamped her foot and began to shout: “He’s a walking disease! His parents left to find work and got tricked into selling their blood. They got AIDS! Both died last year! AIDS, you know what that is? And you’re eating with him! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

The old lady looked at her in confusion: “What on earth has it got to do with the boy if his parents were sick?” 

Face now a patchwork of red and white, Third Liu kept going: “What’s it got to do with him? His mother was already sick when she had him! He was born with it!” 

The old lady ignored her jabberings and picked up the dishes. Third Liu snatched them away and threw them in the bin before picking up the bin itself and rushing outside. Mawan’s only tomboy was clearly terrified. And if Mawan’s only tomboy was terrified, everyone else in the village was too. 

5 

The following day she got up later than usual. She might even have had a lie-in, if it hadn’t been for the ever-louder banging at her gate. She went out and opened it, surprised to see seven or eight women stood there: some she knew, some she didn’t, some she’d seen about. She stepped out and in unison they each took several steps backwards. She reached up to fix her bun and they shuffled uneasily. It was obvious they knew about the boy. Third Liu’s tongue, it seemed, was as long as any gossip’s. 

The women spent the morning surrounding her, talking over each other as they questioned her. When had she started to give the boy food? Was she boiling the dishes and chopsticks he used? Had he asked her for money or anything else? Would she still be letting him in to eat? It was clearly the last of these questions which was of the most concern. 

The old lady gazed past them, looking at a pear tree nearby. The pear tree was in blossom too, and more lustrous than even the cherry trees. The women kept on chattering, as if they were interrogating her for her own good, as some kind of favour. When she simply couldn’t stand it any longer she claimed the wind was getting into her joints and that she was going in to rest a while. “I’m sure you’ve all got plenty to be getting on with!” 

They just stared. She turned without a word and shut the gate behind her. As she stood in the outer room the sound of their discussion drifted in over the wall. 

When the sun was high in the sky she set out for the hillock again. Willow catkins and dandelion fluff blew about in the wind and she sneezed constantly. She made it to the foot of the hillock and stopped to catch her breath before embarking on her way up, step by step. But she’d barely gone a few yards before her back stiffened and her legs started to ache. She stood there pondering for a while, then turned and went back down. At the bottom she looked back up. 

The boy was up at the top, looking down at her. He was still clad in that holey striped top, his skinny arms poking out of it. He looked at her, she looked at him, but neither spoke. She sighed, then looked back up at him. He was still there, skinny and straight as a beansprout. She could make out the whites of his eyes, clear as you like. 

She beckoned him. “Come down. You don’t have to live here, you can stay with me.” 

He shook his head vigorously from side to side. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of! Seventy and three, eighty and four; nowt to fear, not no more. I’m too old to be frightened of anything. And if I’m not scared, why should you be?” 

He shook his head again. 

“What do you want for dinner? How about I make clay-pot pork?” 

He turned and ran off. Emptiness returned to the top of the hillock. 

It seemed the boy didn’t want to cause her any trouble. Maybe this would be the last time she saw him. She walked home with head low, then lay down under her blankets. Just past noon Wang Jingsheng paid a call. He didn’t speak at first – just sat there on the edge of the bed rolling a cigarette, then coughing his way through it before finally turning to look at his aunt. His aunt wriggled out of her blankets and sat cross-legged on the bed. He’d heard, he said, what they were saying about her and the boy. And they weren’t just being cruel. Before, when the boy had been living with his parents, they didn’t have much to do with the villagers. And last year after his parents died and it was just the boy, his gran took him food and water. But now his gran had gone too, so there was only the uncle. And the uncle wasn’t actually a blood relative, the boy’s gran had taken him in when he was young and he’d never got on with the boy’s father. Plus he was a cripple. So you couldn’t expect anything there. If it wasn’t for the disease people would help him, but AIDS is no small matter. You can’t blame them. She shouldn’t get mixed up with them, or the gossips would talk about how she was cursed too. “Auntie,” he said after a pause, “you must know how gossips can be…” 

This was the most she’d ever heard him say since she’d arrived here in Mawan. Speech over, he started to roll another cigarette, but she turned to him: “You go home, Jingsheng. I know what I’m doing.” 

And so Wang Jingsheng shuffled off home. 

She made dinner again that evening, but the boy didn’t come. She sat there staring at the soy-sauce stew and the fried dough-sticks, not eating a single bite. She left the table out and went to sleep. She woke up during the night and opened her eyes hoping to see the boy had been and emptied the bowls. But the dough-sticks stood there in the basket, hardening; a layer of oil was forming on the stew. She sighed and couldn’t get back to sleep. 

The village head came around noon. He was a middle-aged man, a bit stooped, red in eye and face, wearing a pair of battered leather shoes. You could smell the drink as soon as he opened his mouth. He explained who he was, and then plonked himself down on the side of the bed. He should have come to pay his respects earlier, he said. But he was just so busy. The world’s busiest village head, perhaps. It was more than he could manage, he said, but he had to do it anyway. It wasn’t his fault they’d found iron under his village. Such an ordinary looking village, and under it piles and piles of money. The county government wanted them all gone by the end of the year, but persuading a bunch of farmers to leave the family fields – a thankless task, that’s what it was. Busy? He was busier than Obama himself, otherwise he’d have done something about the boy. Anyway, the boy’s contagious, best stayed away from. “And don’t you worry about him,” he said at the end, yawning. “The Party secretary and I will work something out. And if we can’t – well, it’s just a matter of time.” 

The old lady gave a brief “Oh” and the village head seemed happy with that. “And if you have any problems yourself, just come and find me! I’m no hero on horseback, but us village heads have our uses!” 

She smiled. 

The old lady followed on the village head’s heels as he left, carrying a bowl of steamed buns. He turned in the gate to block her way, glaring first at her then at the buns. “You old fool, are you deaf? Did you not hear what I just said? Did you?” 

The old lady said nothing and slipped past him. The village head stood there for a moment in shock before shouting after her. “Stop! I said stop!” And she kept going. He scurried after her and pulled her to a halt. “Get back inside. Now! Didn’t I tell you this is none of your business?” 

The old lady stood there in silence, looking up at the hillock. 

6 

Her son arrived in Mawan the following morning. 

He came on the night bus. It was only 1,400 li to the city, but he had to take the train and then three buses. He trotted down the road like something wicked was on his tail, a leather bag clutched under his arm. He asked here and there to find his way to Wang Jingsheng, and then asked Wang Jingsheng to take him to the old lady. Wang Jingsheng suggested his cousin might like a glass of water, only to be curtly refused. It seemed he had very urgent business. So Wang Jingsheng led him through the streets and down the alleys to where the old lady was living. The gate was open when they got there, in the yard the chives, spinach and radishes growing, the wasps buzzing in the sun. And the cherry trees as well, blossom now fallen, flowers drying up amongst the foliage. They walked quietly in. The old lady was packing a leather suitcase and on seeing her son just nodded and continued folding her clothes, placing them into the case and its odour of mothballs. 

Seeing this her son relaxed and wiped the sweat from his forehead: “Looks like I was worried over nothing. You’re all ready to come back?” 

She glanced over at him before zipping the suitcase shut. Her son started to complain: “And why you don’t turn your mobile on? What’s the point of having the thing if you don’t turn it on? I was trying to reach you all day yesterday.” And then to Wang Jingsheng: “And you’re no better, you should at least have a phone, in case we need to get in touch about something. Don’t you think?” Wang Jingsheng just nodded and smiled, then went on to apologise for having failed to have looked after the old lady as well as he might have during her stay. The two men talked for a moment until the old lady’s son turned to her again: “How have you been? It’s your birthday on Sunday, but Boss Li is flying up on Saturday. It’ll be at the Caesar Hotel. And because Li’s there the TV station is coming to film it all. Anyway, let’s get a move on, no point in hanging around this place. A rabbit wouldn’t shit here.” 

The old lady tried to pull the suitcase down off the bed to the floor. After a few failed attempts Wang Jingsheng hurried over to help. Her son continued grumbling. “What do you want those old things for anyway? Leave them for Wang Jingsheng’s wife. They’ve spent enough time looking after you.” Wang Jingsheng politely declined, explaining his wife was fat, fatter than a mother bear, and wouldn’t fit the clothes. “Fine,” her son said, “fine, but let’s get going. The taxi’s waiting at the top of the village. We’ll take it straight into town, that way we should be able to get the afternoon train.” 

They walked out of the room, Wang Jingsheng still carrying the suitcase. As they left the yard the old lady took it from him, pulled out the handle, patted him on the shoulder, and pulled it off in the direction of the hillock. “Eh?” said Wang Jingsheng, turning to look at his cousin. His cousin had already left him well behind, so he turned back to look warily after his aunt. “Auntie! Auntie! It’s this way!” The old lady kept going, so he shouted for his cousin: “Yanchun! Yanchun! Yanchun!” 

Her son turned and grimaced. “Mum! Are you daft? The taxi’s this way.” Getting no response from his mother he cranked up the volume – a loud man to start with, he was now approaching megaphone levels. “Come back. Over here! Come back! Over here!” The old lady must have gone deaf: she just focused on leaning forward and hauling the brown leather suitcase step by tiny step onwards. Perhaps angry to be ignored in front of his cousin, her son ran over and put one hand on the suitcase, the other taking hold of his mother’s coat. He shook her as he yelled. “Mother! Have you gone daft? Where are you going? Do you not even know which way you’re going?!” 

At this she turned slowly around and looked at her son. Sweat was pouring down his puffy face. Behind him stood Wang Jingsheng, and behind Wang Jingsheng stood the neighbours. Third Liu was hiding among the crowd, but craning her neck for a better view. A few times it looked like she was going to walk up to join them, but each time she changed her mind. And the others milled back and forth too, only there for the spectacle. The old lady brushed her son’s hand away and carried on pulling her suitcase. Not daring to anger her, her son had no choice but to follow behind. “He’s sponsored the whole thing! I’ll be honest: I told you he was paying twenty thousand, but it’s actually fifty! All for what? Just the chance to meet you and hear you sing a few lines from Spring Dream and The Unicorn Purse. He idolises you, but that doesn’t mean you can idolise yourself. Being proud won’t make any money!” 

Anyone looking down from the top of the hillock would have seen a line of people making an odd and difficult journey. At the front, a wrinkled old lady pulling a leather suitcase. Behind her, two harried middle-aged men. And last a scattered line of onlookers, some with arms folded, some snacking on sunflower seeds. Finally the old lady reached the base of the hillock. She turned again to look at her son for a moment then sighed: “Go back, you. Do what you’re told.” Dismayed, her son yelled at her: “So what about you? Where are you going?” She reached up to wipe the sweat from her brow, let the suitcase fall to the ground, and struck out for the top of the hillock. 

It wasn’t a long slope, just steep and covered with dandelions and cornflowers. The old lady had often walked back and forth at the bottom of the hillock, but this would be her first trip up it. She took a deep breath, bent carefully from the waist, and wobbled her way upwards. A few steps later she was gasping for air and stumbling, almost tumbling back down. Gasps came from the crowd, as well as her son’s screams: “Mum! Come down! Come down now! What on earth do you think you’re doing!?” She pretended not to hear and bent over a little more, her chest now almost touching the ground, hands grasping clumps of grass as leverage, her body undulating up the slope like some desiccated caterpillar. A small hand suddenly appeared in front of her and she looked upwards to see the boy standing just upslope of her. He was still wearing that stripy shirt, his face grubby and unwashed. “I’m fine,” she said, the words coming one by one. “Don’t worry about me.” But despite her words she reached out one trembling hand. His ice-cold hand grasped her bark-rough one, and her strength returned, warmth flowing to her arms and legs. For that moment her legs were treading on clouds of pure white cotton, each tiny step upwards taking her closer to the sky and the stars. 

Translated by Roddy Flagg

Ge Fei

格非

Ge Fei is the pen name of Liu Yong, born in Jiangsu in 1964. His short stories have previously appeared in Pathlight’s Summer 2012 (“Mona Lisa Smile”) and Autumn 2014 (“Song of Liangzhou”) issues. He received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his novel The Invisibility Cloak; its English translation (for which Canaan Morse was awarded the 2014 Susan Sontag Prize for Translation) will be released next year. Ge Fei also received this year’s Mao Dun Literature Prize.

Ma Yulan’s Birthday Present

马玉兰的生日礼物

Illustration by Guo Xun

The initial cause of the affair was not especially complicated; still, it managed to precipitate an entire series of horrific revenge killings. Ma Yulan, a woman who would faint at the mere sight of a cockroach, would eventually become leader of the bandits on Phoenix Mountain. It was incredible. When her husband died in 1891, all her past advantages – her three sons, her youth, her beauty – turned into burdens. She forged a mortal enmity with her husband’s brother, a man named Zhu Dajun. If we accept that Zhu Dajun’s illicit lust for his sister-in-law was not in itself a mistake, then his error lay in the rashness of his advances and his inability to understand both a woman’s desire and sense of shame. The last interrogation report produced by the county police department the night before Ma Yulan’s execution in 1932 makes this abundantly clear. Reading it led me to conclude quite quickly that the notion of hatred was much more complicated than its definition alone might suggest. Moreover, there was no reason one couldn’t interpret it from the opposite perspective. 

Golden Tooth 

Ma Yulan’s eldest son was Zhu Shangjin, later known as “Golden Tooth.” The facts of the case make it evident that his actions constituted the critical link in this chain of family murders. The year his father died he was not yet fourteen. He had come to his own understanding of what transpired between his mother and uncle, partly through his adolescent imagination, and partly through the reprehensible instigation of the blacksmith who lived next door. Having nowhere to expend his unlimited reserves of youthful energy, he often went to the smith’s shop of his own accord to work the bellows and hammer iron. The smith rewarded him by telling him dirty stories. They were always brilliantly embellished with innovative details, but the main characters were always the same (Shangjin’s mother and his uncle), as were the endings (wild sex). Zhu Shangjin listened eagerly, but was never grateful. And it appeared that the blacksmith’s stories were more than just reckless invention, since Zhu Shangjin found plenty of evidence in his mother’s endless cursing. 

“If you had the stones, you’d go kill that dirty fuck Zhu Dajun for me.” 

By that time, Zhu Shangjin was already planning to join the outlaws on Phoenix Mountain, and he was sick to death of the blacksmith’s reworked story. He would sit on the anvil and push the bellows, watching the blacksmith wink and snigger like a fool, and chuckle to himself: after he became an outlaw, he would take out the smith first. He never did it, though, because life drew him in an entirely unexpected direction. 

It took him less than three years on Phoenix Mountain to be promoted from a rank-and-file horseman to second-in-command. Not long after, he pushed the leader over a ledge the leader was pissing off of, and freed up the position for himself. 

He did not rush to put his plan into action. 

He knew his uncle was not to be trifled with. Were he unable to cripple his enemy completely in a single stroke, the situation might get out of hand. He spent a full six months meticulously planning the revenge he’d envisioned for years (which was really just a confused desire to get what he wanted). He enacted it step by step with the utmost care in order to prevent mistakes. Hesitation and absolute caution produced the inevitable result: the plan was leaked. 

The attack was set for December 1st, his mother’s birthday. She was astonished to discover that he was sending her the best possible gift she could possibly hope for. But Zhu Dajun had been tipped off, and on the day Zhu Shangjin led forty men through a driving snowstorm into the village, he found Zhu Dajun had left him nothing more than an empty courtyard house. 

The only bounty acquired by the raid was Zhu Dajun’s married daughter, who was just coming home to visit her parents when she ran into Zhu Shangjin. Before passing her off for his men to enjoy, Zhu Shangjin ordered her stripped naked, then tortured and humiliated her himself. He tied little bronze bells to her nipples and sent her naked into the kitchen to make noodles. Sitting in his wooden chair by the fire, he listened to the bells tinkle and forced her to talk dirty to him. He was very pleased with himself. 

In the end, the poor girl was tormented nearly to death. As she was nearing her last breath, Zhu Shangjin deliberated for quite a long time (his mother, on hearing the news, pleaded with him to spare her niece’s life) before giving the order to execute her. He didn’t want to feel like he’d wasted a trip. 

Seeing their cousin’s corpse scared Zhu Shangjin’s two younger brothers out of their wits. This was Zhu Shangjin’s first murder, also his last. 

He and his men were ambushed on both sides by the county regiment while moving along a dry riverbed on the way back to camp. Hail after hail of bullets threshed the gully for nearly an hour, leaving none in Zhu Shangjin’s band alive. Shangjin’s face was completely destroyed. If it hadn’t been for his gold tooth, Zhu Dajun would never have recognized him. 

All that night, Ma Yulan had nightmares. All she knew was that something had gone wrong. Fear did her no good, and it was too late for regret. It was as if she’d been waiting for this day to come ever since Zhu Shangjin left her house for the mountain. What was this horrible thing he had done? 

The howling wind and snow outside her window made her fear for her son’s safety. She knew things wouldn’t stop there, that this was only the beginning. 

The following morning, Zhu Dajun sent his head steward over. The steward was just as friendly and polite as he’d always been, giving Ma Yulan even more reason to suspect that everything from the day before had been a dream. On his master’s instruction, the steward presented Ma Yulan with a jewelry box covered in blue velvet. Ma Yulan opened it, and found a single gold tooth seated inside. 

Zhu Shangyin 

Ma Yulan’s second son grew up tall and strong, a beautiful specimen of manhood. While his eyes reflected a trace of immeasurable sadness, his will was strong and his actions decisive. He and his mother were accustomed to silence. All it took was a single glance between the two for each to know the other’s intentions. They had their own wordless chemistry: the gold tooth kept their hatred from fading. 

With the help of a few of his father’s late friends and the mortgage of half the family land, Zhu Shang-
yin was finally made captain of the local public security force at the age of twenty-five. Late one night, Zhu Shangyin and a group of armed orderlies snuck quietly into his house, then left before daybreak. Ma Yulan only offered one criticism of her son’s plan, namely that the first of December was not a very lucky day to act. Zhu Shangyin replied that it was the only day that would allow his big brother to rest in peace. Ma Yulan knew her son’s personality too well; nothing could change his mind once it had been made up. She kept stroking his broad, heavy shoulders, and warning him: “This time, you can’t make any mistakes. Your little brother’s already a hopeless case.” 

Ma Yulan’s youngest son, Zhu Shangxi, had by this time been away for years. He had a sensitive, delicate personality, like a girl’s, and blushed whenever he spoke. He had followed an itinerant monk up Phoenix Mountain to study the Buddhist scriptures and abandon earthly life. 

Zhu Shangyin learned from his brother’s mistakes. He picked only eight men to go with him. They slipped out of town under cover of night. After only a few miles, only four of them were left. Another mile, and there were two. When Zhu Shangyin finally got to the poplar trees at the head of the village, his last man fell to the ground, kicked wildly a couple of times, and lay still. Of course, Zhu Shangyin knew perfectly well what had happened, but he didn’t panic. He was conscious of an incredible thirst and a dull ache in his stomach. His iron will kept him upright all the way to Zhu Dajun’s front door. 

The steward opened the door for him. His hands in his sleeves, he bowed to Zhu Shangyin with calm deference. 

“The master awaits you in his study.” 

By the time he’d crawled from the guest room to the study, Zhu Shangyin had nearly expended the last of his energy. Zhu Dajun was lying on a couch, smoking opium. He couldn’t help laughing at his nephew’s condition. He ordered his servants to help Zhu Shang-
yin to a chair, then asked him if he had anything he needed to say. Zhu Shangyin calmly replied that he wanted to know who had put the poison into his wine. Zhu Dajun obliged him with the cook’s name. Zhu Shangyin asked his uncle for some cold water, then made his final demand: that nothing be said to his mother about the way he died. Zhu Dajun agreed. 

Zhu Shangyin’s body slid to the ground like he was made of water. His legs began a hideous, convulsive dance. Blood poured from his nostrils and mouth. His handsome face turned pallid, and the deep, sad eyes finally closed. 

Ma Yulan never heard the promised gunshot, nor even the whinny of horses. She waited by her lamp alone. The night was long and quiet. 

The next morning, Zhu Dajun himself came to visit. He had his subordinates carry in a lacquer box. He said he’d come to wish his sister-in-law a happy birthday, in the hope that the blood feud between them might be resolved for good. Ma Yulan already knew what had happened, but not the whole story. She opened the box: inside was Zhu Shangyin’s head. Rage and humiliation temporarily pushed aside any feeling of sorrow. Slowly, she said to Zhu Dajun: “Don’t run your victory lap just yet. Remember that I have one more son.” 

“Really?” Zhu Dajun said coolly. “Then I would suggest you look in this other box. Just to keep him from causing you further pain in the future, I took the opportunity of killing Shangxi as well.” 

Fighting With Fate 

By that time, Ma Yulan was already over fifty. Her face had aged with surprising rapidity, yet she had stayed young in mind and body. She rarely left the house anymore. The blacksmith next door became her sole support. When she was free she helped him work the bellows and hammer iron. Eventually, the smith knocked a hole in the wall between their houses, so that she could go in and out as she pleased without inviting suspicious conjecture from the villagers. 

Having been a bachelor his whole life, the blacksmith felt he had every reason to brag about his new good fortune. He told people that Ma Yulan had the body of a young woman, and that even having sent three sons to the grave for the sake of some inexplicable sense of chastity, she was still a fiend in bed. He said he was so exhausted he could barely lift his hammer. 

He thought he knew everything, when in fact he knew very little. 

Zhu Dajun had a nasty shock when his steward passed on this piece of gossip. “You know why she’s doing this?” he asked. 

“She’s old, no children, wants support.” 

“We’ve known her for all these years, and you still don’t understand her,” Zhu Dajun sighed. “She’s trying to get pregnant. She still wants revenge.” 

Ma Yulan endured the blacksmith for a full six years without conceiving a child. Finally, she made the most difficult decision of her life: she would become an outlaw. 

In a den of bandits like the one on Phoenix Mountain, an epic tale of hatred was the best resumé anyone could hope for. She became leader in 1928, and gathered a band of seventy or eighty men under her. In the two years that followed she launched no fewer than seventeen attacks of varying sizes, all of which fell short of success. 

She was captured for the first time in 1930, ambushed by soldiers from the local garrison while she slept. Zhu Dajun didn’t have her executed, but sent her two hundred miles away to a prison in Tongzhou. He didn’t want to kill the suspense too soon. Ma Yulan attempted to escape four times, and on her final try succeeded. The first thing she did after breaking out was to buy a dagger. 

By this time, Ma Yulan’s teeth had fallen out. Her hair was white and sparse, and she shuffled when she walked. She made her way home leaning on a cane, begging as she went. After a year and three months on the road, she finally reached the south gate of county seat. Her mind was clearer than it had ever been before. To escape detection, she disguised herself as an old trash picker before entering the village. In truth, there was no need – the villagers wouldn’t have taken her for anything else. As she passed her sons’ graves outside the village, she paused for half a moment. 

As she came to the gate, she immediately spotted a decrepit Zhu Dajun, sitting by the wall sunning himself. Of course, the latter recognized her as well. Concern for her had become the sole diversion of his later years. Supposedly, the two sat under the setting sun and talked for a long while. The contents of their conversation are unknown. In the end, Zhu Dajun looked on this woman so old that even breathing was hard for her, and decided enough was enough. He gave a friendly order for her to be arrested. In the spirit of compassion, he magnanimously suggested in a letter to the county police that she should be executed on her birthday. 

The Cause 

The transcript of Ma Yulan’s last interrogation at the county police department is archived in Jiyuan City, in Henan. It provides a crucial lead in our attempt to explain this curious series of family murders. Zhu Dajun had long been infatuated with his sister-in-law; that much was no secret. But what Zhu Dajun didn’t know was that Ma Yulan’s affection for him was much deeper. She rebuffed his first exploratory molestations because she figured there would be plenty of time in the future. Yet the rejected Zhu Dajun never came back (largely out of fear of incest and its prohibitions). Long years of waiting gradually gave rise to a feeling of abandonment, and she began reinforcing her own resentment until it finally spilled out as an endless stream of curses. This, however, is attributable to a woman’s nature or habits, and is of no use as an explanation. 

Translated by Canaan Morse

Hu Xuewen

胡学文

Hu Xuewen was born in a small Hebei village in 1967. After graduating from teacher training college in
Zhangjiakou, he returned to his hometown to work in a middle school. He published his first work in 1995, but it was only in the subsequent decade that his fiction began to gain him attention. His most recent novel, Red Moon, was released earlier this year. Hu Xuewen received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his novella “A Midday Dusk”.

The Bicycle

自行车

Illustration by Wang Yan

Old Zhang walked under the awning of the open-air garage by his building, eyes widening involuntarily. It was gone! Craning his neck, he stared into the corner, as if his bicycle had turned into a spider or an ant and was playing hide and seek with him. There was no hole for it to hide in, just an old sketch of a male sex organ some kid had chalked on the wall. Zhang couldn’t be bothered to rub it off; it was a public garage. He clutched the key, sure that he had locked it up the night before. There was a grimy piece of colored paper on the ground, and some fallen leaves, but no sign of a picked lock. The garage was over forty meters from end to end. Zhang trudged along, scanning the scooters, mopeds, and bicycles… Sure enough, it was really gone. 

Only now did Zhang curse the thief. He was entitled to. But cursing him didn’t make any difference. The thief couldn’t hear, and even if he could he wouldn’t bring the bicycle back. This was the third bicycle Zhang had lost. He had ridden it for six years. Serves him right for bragging to his wife a few days ago that he had taken such good care of it he could ride it until retirement, easy. But the thief must be blind! Of all vehicles in the garage, why steal Zhang’s beat up old bike? Not that Zhang would ever have described it as “beat up”. It was old, that’s all, not beat up. But so what? Now it was gone. What could he do? Zhang did not report it missing, because the last two times he had filed a report, made a dozen trips to the station, pestered the officers so much they grew sick of the sight of him, without getting his bicycle back. What was a stolen bicycle to a cop? The roads were clogged with cars nowadays, like constipation. Zhang did not tell his colleague, either. Stolen? Go buy a new one! That’s what he’d say. What else could you say? Get some perspective! Every day, there are plane crashes and ferry disasters, earthquakes and tsunamis, murders and burglaries, even terrorist attacks. What’s a case of petty theft, in the grand scheme of things? Especially the theft of a beat up old bicycle. The only person Zhang told was his wife. Who promptly burst out laughing. There was no stopping her, just like there was no stopping the prices of goods from rising. When she calmed down she tried to comfort him. Your old bike had just about had it. Just buy a new one. She sounded like his colleague. Zhang did not plan on buying a new one, because there was no guarantee it wouldn’t get stolen. His danwei – his work unit – wasn’t too far from the house, about a forty minute walk. It’d be a way for him to get some exercise. 

A few days later, Zhang had just arrived at the entrance of the danwei, and there was his colleague: Old Song. Song greeted him and asked why he hadn’t ridden to work. Zhang hesitated and said his knees were giving him trouble. Song said: That’s funny! You stop riding and I start. It’s so convenient. Song used to cycle to work, just like Zhang. But after his bicycle had gotten stolen, he’d switched to public transportation instead. He wondered when his colleague had started riding again. They were colleagues, but who would bother mentioning something so trivial? Zhang knew what Song meant about the convenience, though. Song headed down to the market whenever he could, hence the different odors that emanated from under his desk every day. Zhang’s nose always knew whether his colleague had bought leafy greens or garlic stalks. 

Song got off and walked in with Zhang, who took a glance at the bicycle. Well, when he did his eyelids started twitching and he almost gasped. It was his bicycle! What was going on? Fortunately Zhang was mostly able to keep a straight face, except that his mouth was a bit crooked. Zhang took another gander. No mistake, it was his. Everything was the same, except the lock. He knew that bike as well as he knew his wife’s body, every part. Song walked into the garage, leaving Zhang standing there. Zhang watched him park it, lock it up, and get his shopping bag out of the basket. Song looked over, and Zhang smiled a hasty smile – like nothing was out of the ordinary. Zhang let Song go upstairs first so he could look for clues. Song’s voice tumbled down the stairs: Beans’re up nine yuan! But greens’re two tenths of a yuan cheaper. In the past, Zhang would have sighed at the dizzying fluctuations in the world of beans and greens and replied: The only thing that doesn’t move is our monthly wage. But Zhang was out of it today. All he could manage was a mechanical “uh huh”. 

Including Zhang and Song, there were four people on staff at the Editorial Department. The other two colleagues were girls. Next door was the Chief Editor’s Office. It was a union publication with a middling distribution. Not that they had to worry about sales. All they had to do was edit. The articles? Well, they were easy to edit. They printed policies, pieces of legislation and success stories. Other than that, letters to the editor. And works of literature. Of course, bonuses were out of the question. And as a result, they had no incentive to exert themselves, and the whole operation had gone slack. The two girls had never arrived, or left, on time. Only extraordinary circumstances could prevent Zhang and Song from arriving on time. This was a habit they had cultivated over many years, and old habits die hard. Not that they wanted to change. Why would they? They weren’t like the girls, playing the stock market, going on dates, getting facials, doing whatever was waiting for them after work. Nothing was waiting for Zhang and Song. Well, Song had his vegetables. Zhang didn’t have anything. He had gone to the market before. Once. His wife had asked him if the ladies had flirted with him, because everything he’d brought home was worm-eaten or over-ripe. Zhang hadn’t gone grocery shopping since. 

Zhang and Song had a pastime in common, and that was black tea. They drank it morning and afternoon, and brewed it strong as liquor. The difference was that Zhang drank Anhui Keemun, while Song drank Lapsang Souchong. The girls never went out to fill up the vacuum flask with hot water, not that Zhang and Song expected them to. Zhang and Song had no formal arrangement about whose job it was on any given day. Whoever got there first went to fetch the water. If they got there at the same time, then it fell to whoever made it to the flask first. That was their tacit understanding. Still thinking about his bike, Zhang thought he could have another look at the bike on the way to the hot water dispenser, but wouldn’t you know it? Song got his hands on the flask first. Song smiled at Zhang, and all Zhang could do was yield. The office was on the fifth floor. All Zhang could see from up there was the dingy asbestos tiles on the roof of the garage. Of course, with his eyes, he couldn’t have made out the bicycle even with a clear line of sight. Maybe he was mistaken? Could he have imagined it? How could his bicycle possibly have ended up in Song’s possession? Zhang started to doubt himself. 

Zhang managed to sneak downstairs while Song was sipping his Lapsang Souchong. There were four other bureaus in the building: Women’s Federation, Youth Corps, Civil Reform, Writer’s Association. None of them influential. So naturally there were a lot of bicycles. The garage was a lot bigger than the one by Zhang’s building; but people here parked haphazardly, as if to tell the world: We don’t belong to the same organization, so don’t try to tell us what to do. 

Zhang checked the bike again. No mistake, it was his. He recognized every scratch, and remembered how it had happened. The basket was quite new. He had bought it about a year before, and mounted it the screw with two nuts. Actually, the mechanic had put one on, but Zhang had added another, just to be safe. There were a lot of light green chips on the black paint, like a skin a snake had not completely sloughed. Those chips were remnants of the layer of paint Zhang had applied only to watch it peel away. That’s why it looked the way it did. The rear mudguard had gotten bent in a crash. He had tried to straighten it out, and had been planning to take a monkey wrench to it to fix it for once and for all. Ah! He hadn’t gotten around to it in time! 

How had the bicycle ended up in Song’s hands? Zhang thought of a few possibilities. Maybe Song bought it from the thief. Maybe the thief left it somewhere for Song to find. Or maybe Song bought a used bicycle exactly the same as his. But… that was just too much of a coincidence. Regardless, the bicycle was now Song’s, that was for sure. Zhang had actually forgotten about the bicycle, but now that it had appeared again, and in his colleague’s possession, forgetting it had become impossible. 

Zhang was out of it the whole day. Losing the bicycle hadn’t had such a big effect on him, because he’d soon lost hope of getting it back. But now that he knew where the bicycle had ended up, how could he just shut his eyes and pretend not to see? Right before they got off work, Zhang asked Song: Are you riding home? Song looked at him a bit strangely. Yes, I don’t have a car. Then remember to ride slow, Zhang said. At your age… Song smiled and said he couldn’t ride fast even if he wanted to: Those days are past. Zhang coughed, thought of asking him, but then held his tongue. He wondered how Song would react. If he didn’t admit it, what then? Song might say: What are you talking about? I’ve ridden this bike for years, how could it be yours? If so, how would Zhang respond? Get into a fight with Song until both were red in the face? It wasn’t worth it. Of course, there was another possibility: Song would just return it to him, no excuses. Either way it’d be better not to ask. But he couldn’t leave it at that, now could he? To ask or not to ask? Zhang was between a rock and a hard place. He did not know what to do. 

That’s when Zhang told his wife. Whose eyes widened even wider than his had: Song stole your bicycle? Zhang corrected her: I did not say Song stole my bicycle, just that he has possession of it now. His wife asked him if he was seeing things. Zhang said: I’ve checked it over a hundred times. His wife said: If you don’t think he stole it then report it to the police. Zhang’s eyes flashed, and he shook his head. If he wasn’t going to tell them where the bicycle had ended up, he may as well not bother reporting it missing. And if he told them where the bicycle was, the cops would come for Song, and he’d have more than a simple shouting match on his hands. If something happened to Song, how could Zhang continue at the danwei? His wife said: Then just forget about it. It’s not worth much. If you want to ride, then buy a new one. Zhang sighed again, helplessly. She was right. What else could he do? 

But as he’d already realized, forgetting was impossible. Every day when he got to work, his gaze hurried into the garage, like he was looking for an old friend. Seeing the bicycle there, he would nod. If it were not, then Zhang would loiter, waiting for Song to swing in. Sometimes Song didn’t park it right, and Zhang would straighten it out. If, later in the day, Zhang saw Song sitting at his desk, unmoved by rainy weather, he would make some excuse to go down and wheel the bicycle somewhere dry. The bicycle was Song’s, as he had reminded himself more than a few times. But his repeated reminders couldn’t stop him from showing heartfelt concern. Zhang loved that bicycle. When it still belonged to him he would shine the rims every week. Now that the bicycle was Song’s, it looked shabby. One day Zhang discovered the wheels covered in mud. Who knows where Song had been riding? Zhang said he would take it out for a spin, and Song tossed him the key without looking up. Zhang rode it out, and got the fellow at the wash to rinse it off. Then he squatted down and wiped it clean. He told Song: I noticed the bicycle was a bit dirty, so I… Song smiled and said: What a guy. No, Zhang didn’t forget about the bicycle. On the contrary, he found himself revisiting many memories in which it had played a part, like when he rode his wife to the Wang family farm to pick peaches. The farm was too far out in the suburbs for public transportation, and he didn’t want to part with taxi fare. He had just hit fifty, but was still strong enough to ride there and back, a distance of over seventy kilometers. On the way there, he was alright, but on the way back his legs went a bit soft. His wife asked him if he was able to keep going, and he made a show of strength, saying no problem. She pressed her cheek against his back like a teenage girl, and his heart started pounding like he was in love for the first time. It was really a strange feeling. They had gotten married late, and were in their thirties before their son was born. So they doted upon him more than younger parents would have. One winter day, Zhang had gotten up before dawn to buy his son a train ticket. Not having any connections, he had to line up with everyone else. But before he made it to the station he got a flat tire. He ran the last four hundred meters with the bicycle on his shoulder. That he could’ve just parked it by the road only occurred to him after he had purchased the ticket. By which point it didn’t matter anymore. 

One memory led to another. The bicycle had witnessed his first love. The two of them had been together for several years, but she ended up leaving him due to her parents’ opposition. Zhang was so sad he vowed never to marry, while she married out of town. A few years ago, Zhang ran into her on the street. His ex told him she had gotten a divorce. Seeing how tired and thin she looked, he didn’t know what to say. They had a meal together, and Zhang gave her a ride home. Zhang had never kept anything from his wife, but he didn’t tell her about meeting his ex. He never saw her again. A few times the thought of going to her house would bubble up, but he ended up deciding against it. The past was past, impossible to reclaim. But Zhang had not completely forgotten, and her image would flit through his memory now and again. 

Oh the memories! Once Zhang got started he couldn’t stop. 

The more he thought about it, the more important the bicycle seemed to him. Song arrived and left on it every day, and Zhang started to find it difficult to watch. No, he had found it difficult right from the start. He had just tried to suppress the feeling, but now he couldn’t any longer. The bicycle was not just any bike. It was like his wife or an old flame that Song was holding in his arms right in front of him. How could he not see what was going on? How could he stand it? He had to get the bicycle back… He had to! 

One day, Zhang and Song went down together. Song wheeled the bike out, and Zhang commented: This bicycle has been through a lot. Song patted it and said it still rode well. Zhang thought: Yeah, that’s because I took such good care of it. Zhang said: You used to have another one, didn’t you? Song smiled and said: You’ve got a good memory. I lost my old one; I bought this one second hand. Zhang said: Oh really? Where did you buy it? Song sensed the urgency in Zhang’s voice, so he asked: Oh? You want to buy one, too? Zhang nodded. Song said that he had bought it at a bike repair stand for fifty yuan, and that the bike must have been offloaded by some thief. That’s the bicycle I lost! Zhang almost yelled, but then a sedan honked behind them, forcing them to dodge and startling Zhang’s yell back into his head. Zhang looked troubled. He asked: Doesn’t that make it stolen goods? Aren’t you worried about getting caught? Song chortled. It’s a beat up old bicycle, not some antique. The mechanic didn’t say anything, and I feigned ignorance. Zhang asked the location. Aren’t you worried about getting caught? asked Song derisively. Then he said: I’ll ask on your behalf. If there’s another one, I’ll buy it for you. Zhang was still displeased. Even if you bought it, how could you not recognize that it was mine? We see each other every day! Then again, he could not blame his colleague. Bicycles all looked the same. Could he remember what Song’s old bicycle looked like? 

The next day, Song said he had told the mechanic, who would reserve one if anything turned up. But a month went past, and Song hadn’t mentioned it again. He must have forgotten, and Zhang did not remind him. Buying a bicycle wasn’t the issue for Zhang. He wanted his own bicycle back. He wanted to buy a new one so he could exchange it for Song’s. Or just buy it from him directly. Song had spent fifty, so Zhang would offer a hundred; they could haggle. Either an exchange or a purchase – both approaches seemed straightforward, but neither was feasible. He wouldn’t be able to explain why; he wanted his bicycle back, but didn’t want to let Song know he had lost it. He had missed many opportunities to tell him, and now it was too late. 

One evening, when his wife was online with their son, Zhang butted in to ask his son’s advice. His son was a college philosophy instructor, but to Zhang he was still a kid. Zhang said he was at his wit’s end, and wondered whether his son had any good ideas. His son said he didn’t have to even think about it. He should just come out and tell him. Zhang shot him down. If it were that simple, why would he be asking? His son said: That’s the trouble with Chinese culture: simplifying complicated problems, and complicating simple ones. Putting personal relationships ahead of principles. The bicycle, it turned out, touched on profound philosophical issues. His son recommended that Zhang read some Western philosophers to wipe the slate clean. Wasn’t it just a bicycle? What did it have to do with philosophy? His son was the one who had complicated a simple problem. He had sat across from Song for twenty years because he knew how to manage personal relationships. What was wrong with that? Wasn’t the point of life just to try to get along? But Zhang could not type as fast as his son. His son attacked, and Zhang was beaten back. In the end he just went off-line. 

One day, Zhang was out and about on Song’s bicycle when he had an audacious idea. He slapped himself on the forehead and asked: Why didn’t I think of it before? Ecstatic, he raced home and locked the bicycle in the garage by his building. Then he took the bus back to the danwei, where he appeared out of breath, with a frantic expression on his face. Song stared at him, on the verge of a smile. Which made Zhang all the more frantic. He was truly frantic. I really… lost it. Song finally smiled. If you lost it, you lost it. It’s just a beat up old bicycle. No need to get so upset about it. Realizing he had managed to carry it off, Zhang relaxed, and started telling Song what had happened. Song waved his hand to stop him, and said: I’m just glad you didn’t go missing. Zhang cursed emphatically. Song just said: What can you do? Thieves need to make a living, too. Zhang agreed. Yes, everyone has it tough, but you shouldn’t go around stealing our bicycle. Song said: What else do you expect a two-bit thief to steal? Zhang got out a hundred yuan bill and pushed it towards his colleague. Song’s eyes widened. He asked: What do you take me for? Zhang said: Let’s keep our eyes open for another second hand bicycle. Not a new one, don’t worry. Song stood up, and pushed the bill back towards Zhang. What do you think you’re doing? It was just a beat up old bicycle. Zhang said: You need a bicycle! Song called out, red-faced: Zhang, don’t make me lose my respect for you! Another word and I won’t speak to you! Zhang could only leave it at that. 

After work, Zhang insisted on taking Song out somewhere. Song chided him, but ended up going along. They didn’t talk about the bicycle, just about sundry matters at the danwei, their impending retirements and news they had heard, some of which they had talked about at work and were repeating with gusto now. The meal cost less than a hundred yuan, but a lot more than Song had paid. Treating Song had taken a weight off Zhang’s mind. 

Only the next morning did Zhang realize he had a problem. He had gotten the bicycle back, but could not ride it to work anymore. Not only that, he could never let Song see it again. No matter what, the bicycle was his. Even if it just sat there it was his. Zhang kept walking to work, feeling the added strength in his legs. Song took the bus to work, but went to the market on foot. It delayed him just a bit, but Zhang would cover for him on the afternoon’s editing. 

A couple of days went by and Zhang was itching for a ride. When Song had the bike, Zhang could still take it out it every once in a while, but now that it was his he couldn’t. Zhang decided to disguise the bicycle. He bought a roll of colored tape and wrapped it around the frame, adding a cover for the seat. He switched the lock and the bell. Just like an old lady who has a facelift: it wasn’t any prettier, but it did look different. Song would never recognize it; Zhang felt proud of himself. The first time he rode it, though, he had just left his building when a woman said: Wow! Look at that! Then a child said: Ooo, a bridal palanquin! Zhang slammed on the brakes, jumped off, and looked at it doubtfully. Gosh! They were right: too showy. It didn’t look like a bicycle anymore. It was like a flamboyant cock among crows. It’d be hard not to notice. Zhang was not afraid of other people noticing, just Song. If Song asked, he had a response ready, but couldn’t guarantee that Song would not have his doubts. And if Song saw underneath the tape, it’d be all over. Despondent, Zhang wheeled the bicycle back in and stripped the tape. 

Zhang was still walking to work. But on the weekends he took his bicycle out on the road. In the past he’d stay home unless something came up. But now he went out every chance he got, except that now he would look around, worried he might run into Song. The bicycle was clearly his, but it was like it was stolen. But then again it was stolen, wasn’t it? Sometimes, Zhang would lose it and think: So what if Song saw me? But the impulse passed. Avoiding Song was the right thing to do. Zhang was avoiding him, not afraid of him. 

One Sunday, Zhang was riding his wife to the supermarket when he got to the three-way intersection and saw Song at the bus stop, about thirty meters away. He slammed on the brakes and got rear-ended. Zhang got rear-ended, but the other guy, who looked like a hoodlum, got angry: Who taught you to ride like that, pops? Zhang said sorry, sorry, and turned and rode off, leaving his scowling wife behind. He had been in such a rush he hadn’t managed to get his leg over the bar on the first try. Afraid Song was chasing him, he rode desperately, turning at random, until he turned into a dead-end alleyway. On the way out he bumped into a stroller. He didn’t knock it over, but the lady pushing it started yelling at him, and wouldn’t let him leave. Soon the woman’s husband arrived, and Zhang apologized profusely for the second time in a few minutes. The husband wouldn’t let him off, saying he’d given the baby a bad scare. To make them go away Zhang ended up giving them two hundred yuan, almost enough to buy a brand new bicycle. Zhang scooted home, heart still pounding. His wife came up with the noodles and chewed him out. How could you just leave me there? How could he just leave her there? Zhang wondered. 

Another Sunday, Song called and asked if he was home. Song said he’d just left the Fourth Hospital, and asked if he could stop by. Zhang said: Sure, I’m home; just come over. Hanging up, he suddenly remembered the bicycle. He tore downstairs and wheeled it down to the basement. The Fourth Hospital was only a couple of hundred meters away! Zhang made it back into his flat the moment before Song knocked. That was a close call! Zhang gave his friend a warm welcome, but couldn’t stop a voice in his head from nagging: Did Song suspect? Song had only come to the house once before, a couple of years ago. His colleague had called in advance this time, but who was to say he wouldn’t show up unannounced next time? At the thought that he might, Zhang felt his heart tighten again. He couldn’t rest easy with the bicycle in the open-air garage. He’d better leave it locked up underground. The bicycle would be safe, even though it was inconvenient to wheel it up and down. No, even with the bicycle in the basement, Zhang could not guarantee Song would not see it. 

The bicycle became Zhang’s obsession. It was like winning his wife back and finding out she still belonged to somebody else. No, it was worse: with his wife, he could give her an ultimatum: him or me? But with the bike… Oh! 

Zhang no longer rode the bicycle on the weekend whenever he had the chance. It was too risky. Occasionally he rode it, like a thief, or like he was keeping a mistress in an expensive apartment. Zhang sometimes thought: What if he were to just give it back to Song? But he always decided against it. First, he could not bear to part with it. Second, how on earth would he give it back? How would he explain? What if he said that he ran into the thief and got it back from him? That was preposterous. 

One day, Song sprained his ankle on the way to the market, and limped all the way back to the bureau. Zhang was thinking: Song would never have twisted his ankle if he’d had the bike to ride. How could he look his colleague in the eye? Zhang said: It’d really be better for you to get another bicycle. Song had said as much himself. But now he said: Forget it; it’ll just get stolen. Zhang was finally ready to tell him the truth, right then and there, and he would have, had not the telephone rang. Zhang swallowed the words before they had a chance to escape, realizing his presumption just in time: What was the truth? On the other hand, it was getting harder and harder for him to keep the truth – whatever it was – to himself. It was like a sprouted seed swelling in his heart. 

At the year-end danwei banquet, a red envelope was given out to each colleague, as usual. It wasn’t much money, just a token. Someone nudged him before he noticed they’d called his name. He had never been so nervous before. He almost twisted his ankle like Song had done. Seeing as how Zhang was an old comrade, the MC asked him to say a few words. Zhang hesitated, then said: I’m a thief. Everyone burst out laughing as soon as the word left his mouth. Zhang was flabbergasted. What a slip of the tongue! He was angry. What’s so funny? he yelled. I’m a frigging thief, what about it? But nobody heard: the sound of his voice was drowned out by even louder laughter. 

Translated by Darryl Sterk

Teng Xiaolan

滕肖澜

Teng Xiaolan was born in Shanghai in 1976. She began writing in 2001, and her first short story collection (Ten Roses) was published in 2005. She has had pieces featured in People’s Literature magazine and various other literary journals. Teng Xiaolan received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for her novella “A Beautiful Day”.

Year After Year

年年岁岁

Illustration by Wang Yan

The New Year’s firecrackers were not as festive as one might imagine. They went off fitfully, just a pitter-patter here and a boom there as they shot into the sky. Little by little the quiet returned; the sounds grew fainter and fainter and then disappeared altogether. It was not until the stroke of midnight that they suddenly clattered back to life. The earth shook; the building trembled; the light shone in through the parted window curtains, bright as day. Those who had gone to sleep early were startled awake. They covered their ears, buried their heads beneath their quilts, and muttered to themselves before falling back asleep. 

Ma Zhenbei had already eaten dinner and set his alarm clock when he went to bed. When midnight came and the alarm sounded, he climbed out of bed, threw on some clothes, and hurried to the balcony carrying a long bamboo pole over his shoulder. A string of small firecrackers hung over his head. He used the end of his cigarette to light them and the bamboo pole to push them away. It did not take long for the firecrackers to start crackling. This close, the sound rang inside him and set his heart racing inside his tense body. After they had all gone off he still stood outside smoking. 

Zhang Ying smelled the smoke inside the apartment and shouted, “You smoking?” 

He grunted in affirmation, “I used a cigarette to light the firecrackers; be done in a minute.” 

Old Man Ma also climbed out of bed. He coughed, spat in the toilet, and walked onto the balcony, where he made Ma Zhenbei give him a cigarette too. 

Ma Zhenbei said, “Don’t you try to get in on the action with such a bad cough.”

“Hey, it’s the New Year,” said Old Man Ma as he reached out his hand. 

Ma Zhenbei couldn’t dissuade him, so he handed the old man a cigarette. He put another in his own mouth and lit it. Father and son both leaned against the railing, heads tilted upwards, and blew smoke rings skyward. Their surroundings slowly grew quiet. The night was clear; the stars shimmered and thin clouds swirled like gauze around the moon. 

Old Man Ma sighed, “It doesn’t feel like New Year’s.” 

Ma Zhenbei countered, “Not so. You have to find that feeling yourself. Some people can live their lives with enthusiasm and some can’t. Depends on the person.” 

Old Man Ma looked out at the buildings in the distance. Most of the lights were out, with only the occasional window lit faintly. It didn’t look any different than on any other night. Old Man Ma paused a moment and then said, “Actually, all families are alike, just living out their lives. How different can they be?” 

Ma Zhenbei breathed in a mouthful of smoke and chuckled. 

Old Man Ma faced his son, “Hey! I’m not saying that just for your sake! It’s the truth!” 

Ma Zhenbei kept laughing without a word. 

Ma Xiaolei slept on the living room sofa. Eighteen years old, and he still slept like a child, rolled on his side with one leg sticking out from under the quilt. Ma Zhenbei tucked the blanket back into place and walked into his own room, where Zhang Ying sat reading the paper. “Why aren’t you asleep?” Ma Zhenbei asked as he undressed. 

Zhang Ying replied, “I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about tomorrow’s lunch.” 

Ma Zhenbei lay down, “Haven’t you had it all arranged for a while now? You made Xiaolei write down the menu. There’s nothing to worry about.” 

Zhang Ying put down the paper and said, “Your brother-in-law eats out every day. He might not be used to home cooking. And there are the two little squirts with their picky mouths. If the food’s not to their taste, they won’t eat a bite.” 

“It’s just family. If they like it, they can eat a bit more, and if they don’t, then they’ll eat a bit less. So what? And besides, it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had them over.” 

Zhang Ying looked at him, “Now you’re the one who’s relaxed?” 

“Go to sleep,” Ma Zhenbei yawned as he reached to turn out the light. 

Soon Zhang Ying was snoring away, though, and it was Ma Zhenbei, who couldn’t sleep. He was thinking about a few days before when his older sister, Zhenhua, had called to say they might as well go out to eat for New Year’s, and she would foot the bill. 

Ma Zhenbei had refused. “We always eat at my place on New Year’s Day. Why change the custom now?” 

“It’s too much trouble to cook at home; it’s easier just to go out,” she had replied. 

Ma Zhenbei had laughed, “What trouble? It’s not like we’re hosting an imperial banquet.” 

As soon as he had hung up his younger brother, Zhennan, had called. “What do you still need for New Year’s at your place?” 

Ma Zhenbei asked blankly, “Need?” 

“I’ll buy whatever you need, but I don’t wanna waste money.” 

Zhennan worked in the criminal investigation department of the bureau of public security. He spoke to criminals without mercy, and even with his family his bluntness cut to the bone. Ma Zhenbei was upset. “We don’t need anything here.” 

Zhennan laughed into the phone and said, “If you don’t need anything that means you need money, right? Okay, I’ll stuff a big red envelope for you. Bump up your cash flow.” 

Ma Zhenbei couldn’t hold back any more. He spat out, “You better not bring anything, or else I’ll throw it out from the sixth floor!” and hung up. 

He regretted it immediately. He knew how Zhennan could be, but his little brother had a good heart. 

That afternoon, Ma Zhenhua and Ma Zhennan arrived one right after the other, as if they had planned it, and threw down a pile of stuff. Zhennan was all smiles, but Zhenhua got right down to business. “I’m afraid you’ll be bullheaded on New Year’s Day. A new year means a new start, and besides, I don’t want to make a big deal about it in front of everyone, so we might as well give this to you now.” 

Ma Zhenbei sat very still and said, “So you two are making a charitable donation?” 

Zhenhua said, “Don’t talk like that. I don’t have enough energy for you to talk like that. It’s just us. If you’re not happy, we’re not happy.” 

After the two left Ma Zhenbei looked through the stuff. Sandwiched in the middle was an envelope with a 2,000 RMB gift certificate for a super market chain. Ma Zhenbei did not even bat an eye. The next day he would go to store and buy a bunch of stuff, Western ginseng, melatonin supplements, that sort of thing, that he would give back to Zhenhua and Zhennan. Altogether he would end up spending a fifth more than what they had given them. Ma Zhenbei laughed, “Can’t forget to add interest.” There was nothing they could do with him. That was just his temperament, and no one could persuade him otherwise. 

Just before they left he said, “When I really can’t make it anymore, I’ll talk to you.” When he had said that his heart had been filled to the brim, his stomach felt full, and his whole person straightened. But by the time he had walked downstairs, he had already begun to deflate and his limbs grew weak. He knew the feeling of satisfaction was nothing, just a puff of air. It would take very little for it to deflate again. This bravado sometimes helped him put up a good façade, but sometimes it got him in trouble. 

If only he had kept that bravado stopped up and avoided contradicting the director of his workshop, he would never have been laid off, given his performance and qualifications. He had wanted to help Old Wu out of a pinch. Old Wu was over fifty, docile and mild mannered. His wife was sick, and his kid had just started college. He had broken a small piece of equipment, and three months’ bonuses would be deducted from his salary to repay it. Ma Zhenbei could not bear to stand by and watch. He had said to the workshop director, “There’s no need for that. If you leaders would just skip one meal out, that would cover it.” 

Not a month after he had spoken out, he had been laid off. The workshop had to lay off one worker to meet their quota, the workshop director had said with regret. “Before, it was going to be Old Wu, but since you two are so close, it makes no difference which of you I lay off.” 

When Ma Zhenbei left his work unit that day, Old Wu walked him to the factory door, wringing his hands and unable to speak. Finally, after spending what seemed like half a day all choked up, he said, “Really! Just before New Year’s.” 

Ma Zhenbei sighed, “The years fly by.” 

Old Wu walked him to his car, not daring to raise his head. He sounded like he was about to cry. 

In the car Ma Zhenbei could not help thinking, “What a shame! Old Wu will retire in a few years, but I’m still in my forties. Where’s the logic in that?” Then he decided that this kind of thinking was too unkind, not like a true hero. His son Xiaolei was always laughing, “Grandpa picked such weird names. Zhennan, Zhenbei, they sound like they’re from a book of old Chinese opera heroes.” Ma Zhenbei thought, “This time I definitely count as a hero, loyal to my friend even though it caused disaster for me. I even gave up my livelihood.”

In the early morning hours of New Year’s Day Ma Zhenbei biked to the market. He had already prepared the meat dishes the other day, but he still needed some seasonings and fresh vegetables. The chain of his bike was a bit loose, clattering as he rode, in a listless and dispirited song. The market was deserted, with only a few scattered stalls open. The peddlers had all gone home, gladly sacrificing any holiday earnings. Ma Zhenbei circled once and bought some greens and winter bamboo shoots. 

When he returned home, Xiaolei had just gotten up. Old Man Ma was already exercising in the garden, and Zhang Ying was tidying up. Ma Zhenbei went into the kitchen, pulled out the already-cleaned fish from the refrigerator, and began deep-frying it in the pan. His niece Xiaowei liked to eat sweet and sour Mandarin fish, so they couldn’t do without it. Another dish called “Buddha Jumps the Wall” simmered on the other burner. It was actually a simplified version: he had made it from an old hen, and added an abalone, dried scallops, ham, and pork trotters. Real “Buddha Jumps the Wall” was much more complicated, with more than a dozen types of chicken, duck, and seafood. But although Ma Zhenbei’s recipe was simple, it still required precise skill. The old hen was free-range from the north of Jiangsu province. The abalone might have been small, but it was of high quality and had to simmer for several hours over a low flame, until it grew so fragrant and delicious that it made your mouth water. Not like in a restaurant. These were all genuine high quality dishes, with no MSG. At first Ma Zhenbei hadn’t intended to make “Buddha Jumps the Wall.” In previous years he had made duck soup or salty fish soup with fatty pork and bamboo shoots, but this year it was time to get serious. 

Zhang Ying had chided him. “Your sister’s husband is a cadre, but even when we went to their house to eat they didn’t serve such a variety!” 

Ma Zhenbei had replied, “It’s the New Year! So what if we eat a little better? Zhang Ying whispered back, “You’re just showing off, cutting off your nose to spite your face!”

As Ma Zhenbei peeled bamboo shoots, he could not help feeling pleased with himself, but gradually he began to feel a sense of sorrow as he thought to himself, “So what if I do want to cut off my nose, huh?” 

After Xiaolei had eaten breakfast, Ma Zhenbei sent him out to buy flowers. They needed a bunch of white lilies mixed with one or two stems of the more fragrant Casa Blanca lilies. 

Zhang Ying complained from across the room, “New Year’s flowers are so expensive, and you can’t even eat them!” 

“But flowers add atmosphere, set the mood,” Zhang Ying clashed back. 

“Then you might as well buy bush lilies at a few thousand renminbi a bunch, just to be sure.” 

Ma Zhenbei ignored her, digging money to give Xiaolei out of his pocket with one hand, and flipping the Mandarin fish with the other. 

As soon as Xiaolei had left, Old Man Ma returned, excitedly holding two stalks of sugarcane. “Sugarcane for good luck! We can’t have New Year’s without them.” 

Zhang Ying interjected, “Dad, this year Zhenbei wants lilies, so we don’t need sugar cane.” Ma Zhenbei glared at his wife. She responded, “Hey!” as she dusted with her feather duster, pulling cotton slippers from the shoe closet and setting them out on the balcony. 

After a while Xiaolei returned with the lilies and asked his father, “Where should I put them?” 

“Tell your mom to get out a vase.” 

Zhang Ying pulled out a small stool and climbed up to grab a glass vase from atop the cabinet. They had bought it a few years ago on sale at the mall but never used it, so it had been collecting dust on top of the cabinet ever since. Zhang Ying washed the vase and filled it halfway with water. She then used scissors to trim the ends of the stems and placed the flowers in the vase. 

Xiaolei gave his father the change. “They were 180 renminbi, so here’s 20.” Ma Zhenbei remained expressionless as he collected the change and went back into the kitchen. 

Zhang Ying said to Xiaolei, “Look, isn’t your dad foolish? 180 renminbi is enough to buy several chickens!” 

Xiaolei said, “Dad’s overcompensating. He’s asking for trouble.” 

Old Man Ma overheard and sighed, “What a shame!” 

Xiaolei carried the vase into the kitchen and asked Ma Zhenbei, “How does it look?” 

Ma Zhenbei was anxious, so he hastily cried, “Out, out, the air’s all smoky in here. The flowers will turn black!” 

Zhang Ying came in. “You need help?” 

Ma Zhenbei shook his head, “Don’t you worry about anything today. Just go dry your hair, wash your face, and do your makeup. Powder your face, put on some lipstick, fill in your eyebrows, and wear something nice, and that will already be a big help to me.” 

Zhenhua’s family of three was the first to arrive. They had not seen Shi Huaizhi for several months. He had put on some weight, and he had less hair than before, showing off a wider patch of his pale forehead. Shi Wei, on the other hand, had grown taller and thinner, looking quite handsome. 

Zhang Ying handed the three of them house shoes. Ma Zhenbei came out of the kitchen to wish them a happy new year and sent Xiaolei to pour tea and bring out cigarettes. They were Zhonghua brand, and he had set them on top of his five-drawer dresser in preparation. 

Shi Huaizhi also pulled out his own cigarettes and said, “Here, have one of mine.” 

Ma Zhenbei stopped him. “You’re at my place, so smoke my cigarettes.” 

Shi Huaizhi accepted the cigarette. Ma Zhenbei lit it for him, and then passed one to Old Man Ma as well. 

A little later the tea was ready. Ma Zhenbei asked Shi Huaizhi, “You been well lately?” 

Shi Huaizhi answered, “Yeah, very good.” 

“You look well.” 

Shi Huaizhi laughed, “I’ve been crazy busy recently. I wish I could split myself in two. And my blood pressure’s gone up.” 

Ma Zhenbei replied, “Being busy’s a good thing. Now I’m not worried about being too busy, just about not being busy enough. But you have to take care of yourself too. Like Chairman Mao said, ‘Health is the foundation of revolution,’ right?” 

Shi Huaizhi laughed again, about to flick away cigarette ash. 

Zhang Ying hurriedly handed him an ashtray and said, “Brother-in-law, your spirits seem to grow higher and higher.” 

Shi Huaizhi replied, “Everyone is well. I can see that Ma Zhenbei is in high spirits too.” 

Zhang Ying laughed, “That’s just because you all came over today. For the past two days he’s looked as haggard as a shivering cat.” As she spoke she passed some pistachios and dried plums to Shi Wei and then asked, “How’s work?” Shi Wei had just graduated from college this year. He had studied law and found a job at the courts in Shanghai’s Huangpu district. 

“Pretty good.” 

Zhenhua chimed in, “He just started, so he has to stay on his toes.” 

Zhang Ying said, “Your boy’s all grown up already. He definitely has a great future ahead of him.” 

Zhenhua countered, “Your Xiaolei is no slacker either. Zhenbei told me he scored third highest in his whole grade on his last test.” 

Shi Huaizhi drank a sip of tea and put down his cup. Zhang Ying saw and hurriedly said, “Brother-in-law, are you okay with green tea? Would you prefer oolong?” Shi Huaizhi had promised to help Ma Zhenbei find a job, so Zhang Ying was being extra attentive towards him. 

“No need. It’s fine,” said Shi Huaizhi 

Ma Zhenbei grabbed the remote and turned on the heat. 

Zhenhua protested, “It’s not even cold in here.” 

Ma Zhenbei ignored her. “In a little while it will be nice and warm. We usually leave it on anyway, otherwise it gets uncomfortable.” Right as he spoke, Zhennan arrived with his family. 

Lili had a new perm, long waves, blown out stiffly and dyed like a fireball, which actually looked quite festive. Ma Zhenbei could not help but glance at his own wife with her plain old short hair, bangs cut straight and soft against her forehead, her clothes twenty years out of date. There was only about six or seven years’ difference in age between the two sisters-in-law, but now they looked like they could be mother and daughter. Ma Zhenbei put on a smile, though he felt uneasy. Lili had rented a storefront on Shaanxi Road to sell clothes, but had sustained losses over the past two years. This year things were starting to get better, or as she would say, “Doing just well enough to afford a Volkswagen Polo.” 

She had wanted to buy a car for a long time, but Zhennan did not approve. “You barely make a profit, and already you’re so frivolous?” 

Lili had responded, “And why are you so pretentious? We can’t all be the nation’s lapdogs, with cushy government jobs like yours. Don’t bark at me!” Husband and wife had deep affection for one another, but their opinions often clashed and it seemed like they were always quarrelling. 

Xiaowei wore a new plaid coat with a big bow around the middle. With blush rubbed into her cheeks and a red hat on her head, she looked like a doll. Zhenhua teased, “Are you Little Red Riding Hood?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Zhenhua laughed, “Then who’s the wolf in grandmother’s clothing?” 

Xiaowei looked around before pointing at Old Man Ma, “There. Him.” Everyone laughed. 

Old Man Ma laughed and scolded her. “Little girl, you really know how to bully an old man.” 

Zhennan had bought a pair of sneakers for his father. Old Man Ma tried them on, and they fit perfectly and were quite comfortable. Old Man Ma beamed and turned to Zhenhua. “It’s still my son who cares for me the most.” This was a running joke between Old Man Ma and Zhenhua, so she paid him no mind and laughed it away. But Ma Zhenbei overheard and felt awkward. 

Old Man Ma had an old neighbor who made a living by carrying passengers on his motorcycle, but last week he had been caught by the traffic police, and his motorcycle had been confiscated. He had turned to Old Man Ma for help, who had gone in turn to find Ma Zhennan, who had settled it before the day was done. The old neighbor had stopped by to offer his thanks and brought along two dozen packs of cigarettes and a bottle of liquor. Old Man Ma was immensely proud of himself and said, “Zhennan, that boy’s really quick thinking, and he’s a smooth operator!” 

Zhang Ying disapproved. “Look, why’s your father so pleased with himself?” she said to Ma Zhenbei. 

Ma Zhenbei said nothing, but he felt a knot in his stomach. Old Man Ma had originally suggested that Ma Zhenbei ask Zhennan to help him look for a job, but Ma Zhenbei has refused. “I have no love for police work.” 

Old Man Ma had countered, “It wouldn’t necessarily be police work.” 

Ma Zhenbei had said firmly, “I don’t want his help in any case. Even if he found a job, I wouldn’t take it.” 

Old Man Ma knew his older son’s temper, so he had the sense to drop it. 

Last night’s New Year’s special was playing again on TV, and they all agreed that these days the show was too ridiculous to watch. Putting Jay Chou and Song Zuying together in the same act was like asking chickens to speak to ducks. 

Zhang Ying and Xiaolei brought out bowls and chopsticks and called everyone in to sit down. There was a bottle of Shuijingfang baijiu on the table. Zhennan saw it and winked at Zhenhua. Zhenhua shook her head and asked, “Is anyone drinking baijiu? My husband can’t. Not with his high blood pressure.” 

Zhennan said, “I can’t drink either. How about you drink a little, dad?” 

Old Man Ma hadn’t even opened his mouth to respond when Ma Zhenbei came from the kitchen, opened the bottle, and said, “This liquor isn’t too sharp, so there’s no harm in having a drop. Here, I’ll pour some for everyone.” As he spoke he poured for each of the men. Zhang Ying brought out several bottles of coconut milk, but Ma Zhenbei said, “The women might as well drink too. Wife, bring out the bottle of dry red from ninety nine.” 

Zhenhua hurriedly refused. “Forget it, I’m allergic to alcohol anyway. You’d have to hook me up to an IV drip if I drank any.” 

From the other side of the table Lili said, “I’ll have some. It is the New Year, after all.” 

Zhennan kicked her foot. “Since when are you so lively? You weigh more than 150 pounds. If you get drunk I might not have the strength to carry you home!” 

“So what if she gets drunk?” said Ma Zhenbei. “If worst comes to worst we’ll make up a bed for her and she won’t have to go back tonight.” 

Lili turned to her husband with a wry face, grabbed a glass, and accepted the baijiu Ma Zhenbei poured. 

Zhennan scolded, “Hey, you nitwit!” 

Lili turned to Old Man Ma and pouted, “Dad, look, your son is scolding me!”

“My son takes after his father; he’s got a dirty mouth but a good heart.” 

Lili scowled, “I don’t know if his heart is good or not, but he sure does have a dirty mouth.” 

When it was time to eat, everyone praised Ma Zhenbei’s craftsmanship. Shi Huaizhi set the tone. “It’s even better than a restaurant.” 

Ma Zhenbei rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, coming in for a sip of his drink and then scurrying back to the kitchen to cook up another dish. When he brought out “Buddha Jumps the Wall,” Zhang Ying gave Shi Huaizhi the first bowl. “Here, Brother-in-law, have a taste.” 

Shi Huaizhi had a mouthful. “Good,” he said. 

Zhang Ying started to serve Zhenhua, but she refused. “Give some to Dad first.” Old Man Ma declined, “I like my soup after dinner. You all go ahead.” 

Zhang Ying scooped bowls for Zhenhua and Shi Wei. As Zhenhua took a sip she nudged her husband with her knee. Shi Huaizhi got the message, coughed, and said, “So, about Zhenbei’s job…” Zhang Ying’s ears suddenly perked up. “You all know, the world is a rough place these days. Many college graduates struggle to find suitable work. It wouldn’t have been a problem a few years ago. This is family, after all and Zhenbei is honest and willing to work hard, so of course we could have arranged something. But it’s not so easy nowadays…” Shi Huaizhi was the department head of a bank, so he often spoke in this long-winded manner. Zhang Ying’s heart began to fall. “But now that you mention it, coincidentally, Old Liu in the reception room resigned just a few days ago. I hear he’s moving to Wuxi to live with his son, so now we have an opening. So if Zhenbei is interested, I could try and see.” 

Zhang Ying had just regained hope, but as soon as she heard it was in the reception room she could not help feeling disappointed again. When she raised her head, she saw Ma Zhenbei leaning against the wall and listening with an expressionless face, one hand holding a spatula and the other wiping grease on his apron. 

Zhennan said, “Bro, don’t forget to sit down and have a few drinks.” 

Zhenhua was annoyed by her husband’s long-windedness, and especially that he had made such a big fuss over a receptionist position, so she also said, “Zhenbei, have a seat.” Zhenbei smiled and sat down. 

Shi Huaizhi explained that in the reception room three people rotated shifts, working one day out of three. The pay was 1200 RMB, tax exempt. 

Lili said, “Brother, it actually sounds like a pretty good deal. You can work odd jobs the other two days.” 

Zhenhua looked to Ma Zhenbei and said, “How about you try it for now, just until something better comes along.” 

Ma Zhenbei grunted. “Sorry for the trouble, brother-in-law.” He smiled again and went into the kitchen, and the table suddenly grew silent. 

Zhennan asked Shi Huaizhi, “Aren’t you the department head? Couldn’t you find something better than a receptionist?” 

Shi Huaizhi had just been scolded by Zhenhua on the same issue, so he was feeling grumpy. When he heard his wife’s younger brother start in he could not help snapping back. “You know, I’m just the department head, not the National Chairman! If I were Chairman of China I would make Zhenbei mayor of Shanghai tomorrow!” 

Zhennan stared blankly for a moment in embarrassment, but pressed on, “In any case, my older brother is a level-eight mechanic. His workmanship is extremely good. How can he just stand around watching the door all day?” 

Zhang Ying hurriedly interjected, “The economy’s bad these days. He’s lucky to find any kind of job. Our brother-in-law has already done us a big favor.” As she spoke she stood up and went to the kitchen. She saw Ma Zhenbei frying up the sweet and sour Mandarin fish: pouring in a bit more oil, adding sugar, and scooping up the fish with a spatula. Zhang Ying entered wordlessly and stood beside him. Ma Zhenbei added the vinegar, then lifted the fish out and transferred it to the plate. Zhang Ying reached out to take it. Ma Zhenbei looked like he was daydreaming as he asked her, “What time is it?” 

“Almost one, why?” 

He shook his head, “Nothing, I was just asking.” 

Zhang Ying took the plate and saw that his face had grown pale. “Sit down for a while. I’ll cook.” 

Ma Zhenbei refused. “Nearly finished – I just have the vegetables left, and then I need to fry up the spring rolls. I’ll be done soon.” 

By the time the spring rolls were ready everyone was pretty full. Xiaowei was in the other room watching the Pleasant Goat and Big Big Wolf cartoon, and Shi Wei reading the newspaper on the couch. Lili had given Zhang Ying and Zhenhua each a new piece of clothing, so the three were laughing as they tried them on. Only Ma Zhenbei was still hungry, so he sat down and ate. Zhennan poured him a glass of liquor and said, “Bro, you’ve been working too hard in the kitchen.” 

Ma Zhenbei’s eyelids drooped. “What hard work? We’re all family. Stop being so polite.” 

Zhennan burped in satisfaction, looked over at Xiaolei, and said, “Xiaolei, bring out your report card for your uncle to see.” Xiaolei brought it out, and as soon as Zhennan saw it he exaggeratedly clucked his tongue. “Now that’s what I call a scholar. Xiaowei, get over here.” Xiaowei was watching television so intently that she took no notice. Zhennan walked over, picked her up, and sat her on his knee, “Look, your older cousin is in his third year of high school, and his grades are still so good. You’re only in third grade, and you’re only getting sixties. Aren’t you embarrassed?” 

Xiaowei snapped back, “Big cousin Xiaolei is a studying machine, I can’t compete with him!” 

Zhennan said, “Hey, how come you can’t be a studying machine too? You’re a TV-watching machine. You can watch for hours without even blinking.” He turned to Xiaolei. “So what’s your trick? Can you teach your little cousin?” 

Embarrassed, Xiaolei said, “There’s no trick…” 

Zhennan interrupted, “It’s like I’ve always said. People whose hair swirls in two places are the smartest. You see, it’s just you and me who have two whorls here. You’re as smart as your uncle.” 

Lili interjected, “How are you not blushing? Xiaolei, ask your uncle how many tests he failed as a kid.” Everyone laughed. 

Zhenhua asked, “Xiaolei, which college do you want to apply to?” 

Zhen Ying interjected, “He still hasn’t decided anything.” 

“This child is no simpleton,” said Zhenhua. “Just wait ‘til he grows up and you and Zhenbei can enjoy the fruits of your labor.” To Ma Zhenbei she said, “Brother, a good kid is the only thing worth having. Even the treasures of someone as rich as Sir Li Ka-shing aren’t safe from a good-for-nothing offspring – never mind the savings of ordinary folk like us. Just looking at you I can tell that you will prosper later in life.” 

Lili asked, “What do you mean, prosper later in life? Isn’t he prospering now? His stomach is considerably more prosperous than it was last year! It must be filled with good fortune.” 

Zhennan laughed and teased his wife, “Get out, woman. What are you doing staring at my brother’s belly? How are you not embarrassed?” 

“I have nothing to be embarrassed about,” said Lili. “My husband’s skin is as thick as a city wall, so how could I be embarrassed?” 

Zhennan pinched her waist, and she doubled over laughing. 

Zhenhua said, “You two are almost forty, and you’re still acting like children. Our Xiaolei over here is more serious than you two.” As she spoke she gently patted Xiaolei’s head. She pulled out two red envelopes and gave one each to Xiaolei and Xiaowei. Ma Zhenbei noticed immediately that Xiaolei’s was much thicker. Xiaolei accepted his and said, “Thank you.” 

Shi Huaizhi added, “This year if you pass the college exam your uncle will take you to Hong Kong to have some fun.” 

Lili asked Shi Wei, “Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“No.” 

Zhenhua added, “He just started work. When would he have time to date?” 

“If he meets the right person, he should ask her out,” Lili advised. “Otherwise, in two years all the nice young women will already have been snatched up. Only the ugly ones will be left, and wouldn’t that be a shame?” 

Zhennan said, “Our Shi Wei is a good-looking boy. What’s there to worry about?” As he spoke, he handed Shi Wei and Xiaolei red envelopes. 

Zhenhua protested, “Shi Wei is working now. You don’t need to give him anything this year.” 

Zhennan laughed and said, “He’s unmarried, so he’s still a kid. For good luck.” 

Ma Zhenbei sent Xiaolei into the kitchen for some vinegar and then followed him in. Ma Zhenbei counted the money in Xiaolei’s red envelopes: Zhenhua and Zhennan had each given Xiaolei 2,000 RMB. Wordlessly, Ma Zhenbei went into his room to fetch two new red envelopes, stuffed them with the money, and added another 500 RMB to each. Ma Zhenbei went back out, all smiles. “Here, Happy New Year!” he said as he gave Shi Wei and Xiaowei the envelopes. Xiaowei accepted hers without hesitation, but Shi Wei looked to Zhenhua. 

Zhenhua said, “He’s already in his twenties! Why are you still giving him a red envelope?” 

Ma Zhenbei smiled. “Didn’t Zhennan just say? For good luck.” 

Zhenhua glared coldly at Zhennan. He coughed and said, “It’s just a token. It’s New Year’s, after all.” He watched as Xiaowei neatly slipped the red envelope into her pocket without opening it, and he grew irritated. “Girl, get over here!” Xiaowei went to him unwillingly. He snatched the envelope from her. “You’re quick to grab cash, just like your mother!” 

Xiaowei stuck out her lip and turned to Lili, “Mama, he stole my money!” 

“Then go steal it back.” Xiaowei turned back to her father to try. 

Zhennan laughed, “Girl, do you really think you can be stubborn with me?” Father and daughter squabbled on the couch. 

Old Man Ma shook his head. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree there.” 

When they had finished the bottle of Shuijingfang, Ma Zhenbei took out a bottle of Xiao Hutuxian to pour for them. They told him they’d had enough, but he had already poured himself a glass and taken a gulp. He laughed and said, “Actually, baijiu all tastes the same. Shuijingfang is more than 400 renminbi a bottle, but I don’t think it’s any better than this.” 

Zhenhua said, “Precisely. Joke’s on you.” Ma Zhenbei just laughed and laughed. 

Shi Huaizhi was playing chess with Shi Wei, Zhang Ying was in the kitchen cleaning up, and Lili and Xiaowei were watching TV, so only the three siblings still sat at the table. 

Ma Zhenbei asked Zhennan, “Another glass?” 

Zhennan shook his head, “If I drink any more, I’ll be drunk. And it’s not like the government is footing the bill. No need to be as brutal as all that.” 

Ma Zhenbei took another sip, “Time flies! Another year gone by in a flash. Zhenhua concurred. ”It feels like I blink and Xiaowei is already ten years old.“ 

Ma Zhenbei sighed, “I’m already forty-three. I’m getting old.” 

“Forty-three’s not old. I’m almost fifty, and I don’t feel old. 

“That’s because you have the right attitude. Someone like me, I’m old before my time.” He smiled and took another sip of baijiu. 

Zhenhua sighed again. 

Zhennan did not say anything at first, but then said, “Bro, stop dwelling on it.”

“I don’t have anything to dwell on.” 

“Actually, people are all more or less the same. We all have good times and bad times. Do you remember when I was in high school? I used to get into fights. I’d beat people ‘til they were bloody, and I had to spend a week in jail at the police station. They almost didn’t let me graduate. They put a mark on my record. And dad beat me. You know, not like he was hitting his son, but like he was hitting his enemy.” 

Old Man Ma had come out of the bathroom and overheard. He interrupted, “You, I didn’t beat you enough. If I had beaten you hard enough early on, by now, who knows, you might have been another Einstein.” 

Zhennan laughed. “Dad, you’re really knowledgeable. You even know about Einstein.” 

“Hey!” protested Old Man Ma as he bopped Zhennan on the head. “You little devil!” 

Zhenhua said, “Dad, come sit down and chat with us too.” 

Old Man Ma shook his head and waved them away, “No, I’m going to take a nap. You stay up to chat if you want.” He went into the bedroom. 

Zhenhua said to Ma Zhenbei, “Everyone’s good fortune is predetermined, don’t worry. Just wait until Xiaolei starts making money, and you’ll be no worse off than anyone. It’s just a matter of timing.” 

Zhennan said, “That’s right. That’s what they call conservation of energy. Some people get all their luck early, and some late, but in the end it’s all the same. Bro, don’t you worry. These hard times will be over soon, and the best is yet to come.” 

“I’m not worried,” insisted Ma Zhenbei. “I’m extremely relaxed.” 

Zhennan laughed, “Good things happen to good people. It’s not that good won’t come to you, just that the time’s not yet ripe.” 

Ma Zhenbei laughed again. 

Zhenhua said to Zhennan, “You can certainly talk sense, so how is it you’re always acting so stupidly?” 

“What are you talking about?” asked Zhennan. 

“Let me ask you, last week when you and your wife were fighting, did you really almost smash the TV?” 

Zhennan stared blankly. “Says who? The big one or the little one?” 

“Don’t worry about whether it was your wife or your daughter, just answer the question.” 

Ma Zhenbei laughed and shook his head. 

Zhennan raised an eyebrow. “Those two women!” 

Zhenhua said, “Next time you fight, don’t bother smashing the TV. Just go ahead and tear up your money, or throw it off the balcony, why don’t you? That’s the only way you’re really going to convince me.” 

As his older sister chided him, Zhennan struggled to get in a word in edgewise. When he glimpsed Xiaowei looking in their direction, self-satisfied and sticking out her tongue, he could not help scolding her. “That silly goose! When she grows up she’ll definitely be just like her mom.” 

Zhang Ying brought out a pot of sticky rice balls soaked in sweet wine and called everyone in to eat. Zhenhua helped her ladle them out. Zhang Ying was wearing a gold ring that Ma Zhenbei had put on her finger that morning. It had been his grandmother’s, kept in a camphor wood box for more than ten years, so when he took it out it gave off a musty smell. Zhang Ying had said, “So old-fashioned! People will laugh if I wear it.” 

Ma Zhenbei had said, “Why would they laugh? Gold gets more valuable as it ages.” 

Zhenhua saw the ring and said, “That ring on your finger is really pretty.” Zhang Ying smiled. 

Lili said, “Hey, we finally get to see this beautiful ring.” She clucked her tongue. “So this is the Ma family heirloom, passed down through the generations to daughters-in-law. I’ve never even seen it.” Zhang Ying stared at her as she spoke and couldn’t help feeling some embarrassment. Zhenhua looked pointedly at Lili, and she understood and hurriedly said, “I’m just babbling. I won’t try to take it from you. Don’t worry.” 

Zhenhua could not help thinking, with a bitter laugh, that Zhennan was right. His wife really was a nitwit. 

After dessert, Zhenhua said they had to leave. “Don’t go until after dinner,” Zhenbei insisted. 

Zhenhua said, “Tonight we have to go to Huaizhi’s uncle’s house. Our calendar’s really packed.” 

Zhennan stood up and said that they were busy too and would have to be on their way. 

Ma Zhenbei wanted to remind them that in previous years they had always eaten both meals together, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut. Ma Zhenbei and Zhang Ying walked their guests to the doorway. 

Shi Huaizhi asked Ma Zhenbei, “So, about that job, what do you think?” 

Ma Zhenbei stopped and said, “I’ll listen to my sister. I’ll try it out for now and we’ll see what happens.” 

Shi Huaizhi nodded, “That’s right, it’s hard to find a job these days. Try it out for now. It’s better than sitting around at home.” 

As Lili changed her shoes she said, “The restaurant next to us is actually looking for a waiter. It provides room and board and a monthly salary of 1,000 renminbi. It’s actually quite a good deal.” 

Before she could finish speaking, Zhennan interrupted her loudly. “You silly thing! That kind of work’s for out-of-towners.” 

Lili was not convinced. “What does it matter if you’re Shanghainese or an out-of-towner? Do Shanghainese have a horn growing out of their head or something? Out-of-towners blend in so well, and they still get looked down upon by locals.” 

Zhennan said, “Get out now. And stop spewing nonsense.” 

Ma Zhenbei walked them out of the building. A year ago Shi Huaizhi had bought a Passat, but Zhenhua had expressly forbidden him from driving it that day, so they had taken a cab instead. Ma Zhenbei said, “I had hoped to get a look at your new car.” Zhenhua said, “Yesterday someone scratched it, and a big chip of paint fell off. We haven’t had a chance to repair it yet.” 

Zhennan held out his hand to hail two cabs and said to Ma Zhenbei, “Bro, go back inside.” 

When they were in their cabs, Zhenhua rolled down her window and said to Zhenbei, “It’s the Year of the Bull, so bullheadedness will be on the rise. Good luck.” 

Ma Zhenbei laughed and said, “I won’t buy any more stocks.” As he spoke he stepped aside and waved. After a moment the cabs began to drive away slowly and Ma Zhenbei returned to where he had been standing before. He turned and faced the sun. The rays dazzled his eyes, so he held out his hand to block them. For New Year’s Day the weather was actually quite good. The sun shone down on him warmly, and several houses were airing out their blankets. From far away he could see Old Man Ma standing on the balcony waving at him. He looked like Chairman Mao standing on Tiananmen. Ma Zhenbei laughed and waved back. 

When he got upstairs, Zhang Ying was waiting for him in the doorway. “Your footsteps sound heavy. Are you tired?” He shook his head. 

When Ma Zhenbei went inside he saw Xiaolei sweeping and said, “You can’t sweep on New Year’s Day! You’ll sweep away all the good luck!” 

“Dad, you’re really getting more and more superstitious,” said Xiaolei. 

Ma Zhenbei went into the bathroom to wash his face, and when he came out he heard a knock at the door. It was Old Wu. 

Old Wu wrung his hands like he always used to. He could barely get any words out, and squirmed on the sofa for a while before finally managing a “Happy New Year.” 

Ma Zhenbei offered tea and cigarettes, but he did not know what to say either. With a stiff smile on his face Ma Zhenbei asked, “So, how are all our coworkers doing?” 

“Good, they’re good.” 

“And your wife’s health?” 

“Good.” Following this brief exchange of small talk, Old Wu said he had to leave. Ma Zhenbei invited him to stay for dinner, but Old Wu waved him away. “I can’t stay.” 

Ma Zhenbei walked Old Wu to the door. There he spotted two boxes of fruit on the floor. “Really, you shouldn’t have spent the money,” he said. 

Old Wu stuttered, “It’s nothing. It was given to us by the company – we didn’t spend any money.” He still barely could speak. 

Ma Zhenbei said, “Thanks. Take it easy.” After he had walked Old Wu out, he shut the door. A moment later he walked on to the balcony to bring in the dried laundry. From there he saw Old Wu and a woman walking together slowly. Old Wu had brought his wife with him too, but she must have waited downstairs. Ma Zhenbei could not help staring. Last year Old Wu’s wife had had surgery to remove a fibroid tumor in her uterus, and she had gone through chemotherapy and taken medicine. She had seemed as thin as a reed. This year she looked like she had regained some of her strength, and her hair had started to grow out, but she still walked slowly. The two leaned on one another, and Old Wu pulled a hat out of his bag and placed it on his wife’s head. It was probably windy outside. He must have been worried she would catch a cold. She hooked her arm around his. Her legs splayed out to the side a little as she walked; wearing the hat she looked like a man. The two chatted as they walked, gesticulating with their free hands. Ma Zhenbei watched them until their silhouettes faded into the distance, and only then did he go back inside. 

Zhang Ying opened one of the boxes of fruit and discovered that there was a red envelope on top. Startled, she called out, “Ma Zhenbei!” 

He stepped forward, opened the red envelope, and counted the money. 1,000 RMB. There was also a slip of paper with a brief note. “It’s not much, but if you accept it I will feel a little easier.” 

Ma Zhenbei let out an “aiya” and clattered back out to the balcony, but the two figures were long gone. He could not even tell if the note was written in Old Wu’s handwriting. They had been coworkers for such a long time, yet he had never seen Old Wu’s handwriting. He’s really naïve, Ma Zhenbei thought. What if I had re-gifted the fruit without opening it? He really should have said something. 1,000 RMB was not a lot, but it was more than many a year-end bonus. Everyone was tight on money. There was no way to tell from Old Wu’s taciturn nature that he was such a generous person. 

Ma Zhenbei felt so embarrassed that his nose ached, and in a little while his heart began to ache too. What had gotten into him? He could not name the feeling. It was strange, he thought. He usually was not one to cry over something like this. The New Year must be getting to him. 

He heard a burst of firecrackers, rattling like thunder in a clear sky, startling him. They went off one strand after another, as if it had been planned that way. His ears soon grew deaf. It had seemed like just a normal day, and it was only when he heard the pitter-patter of the firecrackers that it really felt like New Year’s Day – not so different from old times after all. The years went by, like he was gently turning the pages of a book. These few days around the New Year were like a bookmark or a seal pressed into the page. Without them, he was afraid he would unwittingly flip to the end and not even notice. 

Downstairs some kids passed by the building, waving sparklers in a joyful commotion. The sound of their laughter had not been drowned out by the sound of the firecrackers, but could be heard quite clearly, resonating through the air. The laughs were continuous, one after another. Listening, he was filled with hope – a hope that, year after year, would never go out.

Translated by Cara Healey

Lü Xin

吕新

Lü Xin, born in 1963 in Shanxi Province, began publishing fiction in 1986. During the late 1980s and early 1990s he mostly wrote short stories, before starting to author novellas and novels in the mid-90s. Much of his fiction is centred around reminiscences of his rural childhood. Lü Xin received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his novella “Spring in the White Poplars”.

The Limekilns

石灰窑

Illustration by Xiao Bao

1 

When the man left, it was already dark, making the early afternoon feel like late evening. Sitting in the house, the woman could hear the leaves rustling in the courtyard. It was impossibly dark inside, and the woman kept wanting to make dinner. She told the man not to go until he had had dinner. But the man stopped her, saying he wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. The woman stood, confused. She didn’t understand why he wouldn’t want dinner. While she was guessing at the reason, she was surprised to find that the thoughts in her mind were gradually changing shape. They were already beyond her control, becoming more and more complicated, everything going black, then white. Her eyes detected brightness and then darkness – suddenly red, then yellow. She heard the man say something and thought he was speaking to her, but he also seemed to be muttering to himself. She walked towards him, then glanced out of the window and saw a shirt fluttering on the line. 

“I should go,” the man said. “It’s only going to get darker; if I don’t leave now I won’t be able to see the road.” 

“But why won’t you have dinner first?” the woman asked. 

“I’m not hungry,” the man replied. “I feel like we just had lunch. How did it get so dark so fast?” 

The woman was somewhat angry at him. He stood there, wearing his clean clothes. She looked out of the window again at the shirt that she washed yesterday; it was swaying but not so much as before. She spent the entire afternoon doing laundry the day before yesterday. She lost count of how many basins of water she had dumped, all as white as mother’s milk. The chickens walked through the water and it turned their legs into white twigs. 

He was supposed to stay for two more days, but the instant he shut his eyes he kept thinking of the accountant who was still at the quarry. So he decided to return to work two days early. The only one keeping guard was the accountant. The accountant was a bit of a coward, and he wasn’t as strong as the others. He had trouble sleeping, and the man was sure that he would be scared out of his wits by now. The man could hardly imagine how the accountant had gotten through two whole days alone. 

The quarry was surrounded by a deep ditch, and the whole area was deserted for miles. The accountant wore thick glasses for nearsightedness. After all these years he still couldn’t tell just how deep the ditch was. The trees and shrubs near the quarry were wet and slippery. A large patch of grass had been flattened, suggesting that a group of people had rested there quite recently. 

Out of all the people, why would they leave the one person with the worst eyesight, the worst health, and the least courage behind to keep guard, the woman wondered. The man told her that the accountant didn’t want to go home and he actually requested to stay at work. Of course, he would have preferred it if someone would stay with him, but no one else was willing to stay – they all wanted to go home for a few days. 

“Why didn’t he want to go home? Doesn’t he have a home to go to?” she asked. 

“He does. He just didn’t want to go. He was afraid to stay at work but he didn’t want to go home so he didn’t have much choice.” 

The woman stared blankly for a minute and then turned and brought the shirt in from the courtyard. She listened to the man talk about the accountant as she folded it. Even though his description was just a rough sketch, she thought she saw his pitiful figure standing outside the window. The man was sucking in air as he spoke, as if he had a toothache. She tutted as she placed the shirt into a satchel, 

“The accountant’s wife is ridiculous! A woman’s duty does not stop at the bedroom; there are plenty of things she has to do.” 

“That’s not what she thinks though,” the man said. “If she did, the accountant wouldn’t be so bothered by it all and he wouldn’t have heart problems. He would go home with a big smile on his face.” 

“If you ever end up like the accountant I promise I won’t hold it against you. I’d let you come home whenever you wanted. If you wanted to stay at work I would let you stay at work.” 

The man gazed at the woman with a look of gratitude. He felt calm, but when he left the house he immediately felt the chill of the early autumn gusts. The skin on his face felt tight. He prayed silently that he would never become as miserable as the accountant. Despite his wife’s assurances, he couldn’t let himself go like that. If he did, he’d have no one to blame but himself. His white mule walked beside him, braying from time to time. No one else was on the road and he walked slowly. The mountains were already pitch black in the distance and the river looked like a painting, a line curving through the land without moving. The water looked steely gray and cold. 

The man was called Wan Fu and the woman was called Hu Xiu. When they first met they called each other by their names but after a few years they stopped. They just said whatever it was they had to say. 

He walked for another stretch, and then thought of the accountant at the quarry. He imagined the mute cries of the accountant and an indistinct shadow running out of a door. 

2 

“Whatever you do, don’t come near me when I’m cleaning my ears!” 

The accountant sat on a small chair, tilting his head to remove earwax while watching the door. The donkey watched with interest. It had been born less than two weeks ago, and it never left the accountant’s side. The donkey was no bigger than a sheep and was desperate for warmth and protection. But every time it tried to run towards the accountant, it was rebuffed. “No, you can’t come here. You’re just like a little naive child,” the accountant said. The donkey stood at the door and looked about: at the gloomy weather outside, then at the room, and finally at the accountant. 

The room was darker than it was outside but that didn’t stop the accountant from cleaning his ears. But he didn’t need light for that anyway, it was all about feeling around until you finally got the gunk out. He skipped breakfast that morning and did a tour around the quarry. The sediment had already collected in some of the pools. There was a pile of tools lying in the corner of the room. Some of them were long and looked like guns in the semi-darkness.

When the little donkey ran towards him yet again he gave up and put down the cotton swab. 

“Alright, that’s it, I’ll stop cleaning them,” he said. 

He stood at the door and looked outside for a long time, stroking the donkey’s hairy ear with one hand. Then he suddenly spoke in a soft voice: 

“Do you know who can burn lime? The people can burn lime; they are the only ones who know how. Those buffoons who only know how to live in villas, throw parties and hatch schemes… they know how to make a deal but they don’t even know where lime comes from,” he sighed. “You don’t know either,” he told the donkey, patting its muzzle. 

He spent the whole afternoon talking to the donkey. He watched the donkey prancing around with an innocent look on its face and couldn’t help saying, “Enjoy your happy childhood while you can. In a couple of months you’ll be big enough to pull carts filled with lime. They’ll have you pulling them to and fro. What were you put on this earth for, donkey? If I had known I wouldn’t have let you come here. You’ll know when you’re older – you’ll suffer even more than we do.” 

As he spoke, he looked at the mounds of earth in the graveyard. He thought he saw something in the darkness bobbing up and down. He suspected that someone was there kowtowing before a grave. But after a while he didn’t see anyone get up. He wondered if he was starting to see things. 

A plume of smoke curled upwards, coming from a kitchen far away. Looking out from the quarry, you could see smoke lingering around all the nearby houses. They looked peaceful, like little wooden boxes. He couldn’t see any people though. The accountant wondered where everyone was, before he remembered that there were definitely people there, they just weren’t visible at this distance. He imagined them opening their front doors to empty basins outside, going to the corner shop to buy things or taking their ox to the well to drink water. Then they would come back to build a wall around their houses and sweep snow off the roofs. Then if they heard the door creak they would see their friends coming in. The visitors would have travel-worn faces and dark smiles. 

Should he kill the chicken and have it for lunch? Someone had said it was already plump but the accountant thought otherwise. It was skin and bones; he might as well eat “vegetarian chicken” made from tofu. It tasted almost as good as the real thing. The tofu chicken was fine, he told himself. 

When the accountant returned to the little room, the donkey quickly followed him inside. 

“I know you don’t like reading so I’ll read some short stories to you,” he said. 

He pulled out a shockingly worn book from under his pillow. He sat next to the open door to read from the dusky light. He turned the pages with the utmost care, finally stopping at a story entitled “The Story of Liu the Scholar”. It was short, no more than ten vertical lines in total. A few characters in a tiny font were printed underneath the text, but he had no intention of reading them because he could not see clearly enough. The pages were brittle and yellow – they would tear at the slightest provocation. They would look like dried out tobacco leaves if they weren’t bound in a book. 

He read for a while, and then suddenly lifted his head. He heard someone sigh outside. He put down the book and went outside but the quarry was quiet. Nobody had returned and yet he was sure he had heard that long sigh many times before. He looked out the window because he had an impression that someone was sitting right outside the window every time he heard that sigh. He had a sneaking suspicion that he might know the person producing the sigh and the suspicion made his stomach ache. 

He held onto the door frame as he leaned outside for a look. Then he went back to the donkey and said in a low voice, “That’s it, I’m not reading anymore.” 

3 

Lately I’ve noticed that things are going missing, some of which are totally inexplicable. We lost a cart a few days ago, and yesterday Guitou said that the little donkey went missing. He went into the shed to give the donkey more hay, and it was completely empty. The hay that he brought the day before yesterday was still sitting in the trough, untouched. Guitou guessed that someone stole the donkey before it even had a chance to eat it. 

“That poor donkey, it was too young to know how to call for help or kick that thief. Where is it now? Probably dead,” Guitou said to me. 

It looked like we would have to patrol the quarry every night. The primitive space that we called a kitchen needed a helper too; Mao Hou had made many requests for help already. He said two helpers would be better, but one would do. 

On the day that it rained, I went to the accountant who was responsible for security as well as everything related to finances. I told him we needed to find two women to help in the kitchen. Ideally they would be quick and capable. He was cleaning his ears intently. He tilted his head as if contemplating something. His eyes darted towards me and then he acted as if he hadn’t seen me at all. He was always like that, cleaning things out of his ears whenever he had a spare moment. I watched him patiently. The rain-moistened air seeped into the room. A few minutes later, he finished cleaning his ears with a sigh that sounded like he had just escaped a terribly dangerous situation. 

“You’re the only one who knows what to do and what not to do,” he said looking at me. “I’m always afraid of running into someone who doesn’t think before they act. If you touched me or even nudged me gently my hand would have slipped and I would never hear properly again. But you didn’t. Thank you.” 

I looked at the window covered in raindrops and then repeated everything I had just said. 

“You want to find two women to work?” he looked at me. 

“Yes,” I said. 

“An old man would be better,” he said. 

“An old man?” 

“One who’s over sixty but not quite in his seventies would be good,” he said. “My fourth uncle is 61 and when he was younger he practiced martial arts for several years. His cooking is at least as good as Mao Hou’s, if not better. His two finest dishes are chicken with mushrooms and bamboo shoots and grated potatoes fried in oil. He can make a decent rice porridge that’s not too clumpy or too thin, it’s delicious.” 

“He’s not going to have any room to practice martial arts here,” I said. “We don’t come by chicken very often, maybe ten times a year at best. And who wants to eat chicken with mushrooms and bamboo shoots? It’s too much effort when the meat is already good enough as it is. And why would you commend his rice porridge skills, I thought anyone with an ounce of brains in their heads could cook that. Honestly, who can’t cook rice porridge?” 

He massaged his ear and pretended not to hear what I said. “Every time I clean my ears I make sure that the door is firmly locked. Otherwise some fool might come in from outside and bump into me. I must have forgotten today, so it’s a good thing that you came in and not someone else. My own children are the biggest culprits: every time I go to clean my ears they take turns climbing onto me, as if they want their father to be deaf. You have to pay attention to these things, you have to keep your ears for life! My aunt’s sorry excuse for a husband is deaf because their children were playing while he was cleaning his ears.” 

I knew his aunt and her husband. He said everything at top volume, even when you were just a few feet from him. He couldn’t hear himself so he naturally thought that nobody could hear him. But I had never met his fourth uncle. All I knew was that he was probably called Zhao because the accountant’s last name was Zhao and this uncle was on his father’s side. 

Two days later, the 61-year-old man (whose name was Zhao after all) came up from the village, walking along the old and dusty road. He carried a kerosene lantern in one hand and a long, smooth stick in his bag. He said the stick was for scaring people away. I checked up on him a few days later: he was doing a good job. He held his long stick as he walked up and down the perimeter of the quarry. He was especially alert. The old man didn’t change his routine at night except to carry a lantern with him. He walked with a brisk pace, even passing by the graveyard. I told the accountant that I was very pleased with his uncle and that made him proud. He was glad to know that his uncle hadn’t made him lose face. 

The old man looked at it differently. “I didn’t care about making you look bad, I was afraid of making myself look bad!” 

“It’s all the same,” the accountant said smiling. “It’s all about face and we don’t want to lose it.” 

The old man was perfect except for one thing: when he was in the kitchen he would constantly argue with Mao Hou. Nobody knew why they argued so much; even the accountant thought it was strange. But neither the old man nor Mao would say what the problem was. They almost came to blows one afternoon. Mao had a butcher’s knife in his hand and the old man had an axe. Facing off with the kitchen flames flickering in the background, they looked like two animals that were destined to fight each other. 

It was all getting out of hand; if they kept this up someone might get killed. A woman called Misha started helping in the kitchen not long after that. She came up from the village. After Misha started helping Mao Hou, the accountant’s fourth uncle never went into the kitchen. He focused on patrolling the area with his long stick. I often saw him wandering by the graveyard. Sometimes he would sit and smoke, other times he seemed to be looking for something or trying to make something out in the distance. 

It was dark again; the quartzite stones were barely distinguishable. Everything else had melted into the black night. The voices of the other workers seemed to be muffled by a thick fog. 

“Everyone only gets one ration of food. Now that they’re here and working hard, where’s their food going to come from?” 

“They can have my share.” 

“Your share? Your share was squeezed out of our shares to begin with! Besides, they eat like a pack of wolves, your share isn’t enough. Your share, humph. Go to hell.” 

The sound of voices was gradually replaced by the sound of someone sobbing. Then that sound was replaced by the sound of water being dumped onto the ground. A door was pulled shut. Someone walked on the road outside. 

The night sky was filled with bright stars, but the light was faint and the quarry was still dark. I went for a walk around the quarry and as I was going uphill I crossed paths with the accountant’s uncle and his lantern. He raised the lantern to see my face more clearly, then put it down again. 

“You should go back to bed. One person patrolling is enough,” he said. 

“I think it will be a quiet night. You should go to bed soon,” I said. 

“That’s alright, I’ll stay on guard.” 

And with that he lifted his lantern and left. The lantern shone brightly from the end of the stick, and for a moment it was the only bright thing in the quarry. Then the old man turned a corner and the light disappeared. 

I went back to the room and soon fell asleep. 

4 

Two strangers came to visit the woman named Misha. They were two young brothers. One was called Heisan and one was called Heisi. Misha was in her thirties but those two were barely over twenty. Heisi was so young he looked like he could be nineteen. They always went to the kitchen at lunch and dinner because they knew that was when Misha was there. Otherwise they went into Misha’s room. Sometimes the three of them would stay in there for a long time. The two brothers never spoke, not even to each other. Nobody even knew what their voices sounded like. Not only that, they never looked at anyone besides Misha. 

I found Misha in the kitchen one day holding a bucket. She left the kitchen to fill the bucket with water without speaking to me. She had ample breasts, which I presumed was the main reason why Heisan and Heisi looked only at her. Mao Hou saw me and gave me a look. 

“I’ve met a lot of woman in my life, but I’ve never seen one like her before,” he said. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“The way she acts, I would call her a fox spirit if we lived in ancient times. But we live in modern times now and she isn’t a fox. She’s pretty normal I guess.” 

I looked at Mao Hou. He seemed to be trying to tell me something. At that moment, Misha came back with the water. She wasn’t expecting me to still be in the kitchen and she smiled. 

“Don’t make a woman get the water, Mao Hou,” I said. “In the future you should get it yourself.” 

“I can do it, I’m younger than Mr. Mao,” Misha said. 

Mao Hou had already turned to peel the potatoes but he swiveled round and gave her a strange look after she said that. Misha clearly didn’t know Mao Hou’s last name. She thought it was actually Mao, but that was just his nickname. I wanted to tell her but I didn’t know how. Mao wasn’t correcting her. She poured the bucket of water into a vat and then filled a ceramic cup with water. 

“Have something to drink,” she said to me. The cup was clean and had a pink lid. It didn’t look like any of our cups, and I guessed that it belonged to her. 

As I went back to work I saw someone burning paper in front of one of the graves. There were other gifts to the dead placed on a brick: a pear the size of a child’s fist, moon cakes, a tin of luncheon meat and a bottle of spirits. I couldn’t see the fire, only a cloud of smoke. 

The accountant, Guitou and some of the workers who moved rocks around were sitting on the slope. The accountant was saying something to them. When I approached them I heard the accountant say: 

“By summer the flowers will be in bloom but we’ll still be here doing backbreaking work in the sun.” 

“By the way, how’s Li Genche?” someone asked the accountant. “Is he still going around gathering wood? He should go somewhere else.” 

“Every evening he pokes his head out of the window and sees a little old woman walking back and forth in the courtyard of their house,” the accountant said. “Her hair is white and thin like an old broom. Sometimes she squirts water onto the window with her mouth, and sometimes she moves things around in the middle of the night, bustling back and forth. Then, after midnight, she disappears.” 

“She can’t have gotten very far; she’s probably hiding somewhere,” someone said, frowning. 

“One sunny day Li Genche went to the courtyard and used a shovel to dig a hole where the old woman went missing,” the accountant said. “He dug a hole about one foot deep and he saw a few clumps of broom-like hair. He kept digging and he didn’t find anything else.” 

Nobody said anything. They just looked at each other. 

It was quiet. The kiln closest to the slope was emitting dense clouds of smoke, and figures kept disappearing and reappearing. 

“We’re not like them,” Guitou said suddenly. “We burn limestone, and limestone is the stuff that makes all our houses white.” 

“I don’t see a difference between the houses that are white and the houses that are not,” the accountant said. 

“Well of course, you can’t tell anything apart!” Guitou said, laughing. “You think men and women are the same, without any differences at all.” 

“Don’t be so goddam disrespectful. If you contradict me again I’ll reduce your wages!” The accountant’s face was as white as lime. 

The workers went back to moving rocks. Guitou picked up the cart handles and pulled it towards the closest kiln. He and the cart were swallowed up by the smoke. 

The accountant and I walked on the edge of the slope ridge, up and down. We walked and walked until the accountant stopped suddenly. I followed his gaze and looked at the road below the quarry. 

Two people were walking on the old and dusty road. When they got closer I recognized Heisan and Heisi, one walking in front of the other. They didn’t speak or communicate with each other. They were coming to the quarry again. 

I looked over at the accountant. He was shaking his head slowly. 

5 

We had dinner in the kitchen, by the light of a single bare bulb. Heisan and Heisi squatted to one side, each holding his own bowl. They were covered in dust and ate quickly, as if they’d just been released from prison. Misha stood by the pot, filling and refilling their bowls. 

I picked a few chili peppers off a long string hanging on the outside wall. Then I went out behind the house to pull out some onions from the ground. When I returned it was totally dark. 

I heard the sound of sheep bleating with trembling voices. 

When I came back, Misha and the two brothers were gone. The light in the kitchen was still on. 

I saw the accountant’s face through a misty fog. 

Then I heard Mao Hou say, “I’m a chef, I know a thing or two about cooking.” 

Next I heard another voice – the accountant. “A chef? You’re a worker who cooks things! A mess cook at best! Sometimes you even serve half-cooked noodles.” 

I heard Mao laugh at this. “What do you know? Only real chefs cook things that are not fully cooked. That requires temperature control, care and an understanding of the art. What fine dishes have you tasted before, yam with soy sauce?” 

The misty fog enveloped everything. The accountant didn’t have dinner; he left with a gloomy expression. When we reached the slope, the accountant sat down. I sat next to him and looked up at the stars. 

“Did you know those brothers before they came to the quarry?” he asked suddenly. 

“No,” I said. 

“Have you ever heard them speak?” 

“No,” I said. Nobody except for Misha had heard them say anything. We didn’t even know what their voices sounded like. 

“I know of them. But I heard that they died two years ago. One got sick and the other hanged himself.” 

“Which one hanged himself?” 

“Heisi. I heard that they both have something to do with her.” 

“You mean Misha?” 

He looked at me and I saw him nod in the darkness. 

“The reason why they never make a sound is because they speak in a language that people cannot understand,” he said meaningfully. 

At first I thought he was just saying that because he was angry, though his words had left me shocked and incredulous. Suddenly I understood why the accountant refused to eat with Heisan and Heisi. He said that every time they were in the kitchen the odor of death was in the air. Sometimes it was pungent and sometimes it was almost imperceptible, but it was impossible to get rid of. He gave them looks, but they never looked at him. 

I remembered something that Mao Hou told me. He and Misha were cooking in the kitchen on a very rainy day. He felt a chill go up his back; he looked behind him and saw the door was open. Heisan and Heisi appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t sure when they’d come in because they didn’t speak, and he didn’t hear any sound when they did. They stood in the doorway and watched the woman standing by the stove. She didn’t seem to notice them either; she was chopping potatoes. The knife made a rhythmic sound against the chopping block. Mao stared at them but they didn’t even glance at him. It was as if he didn’t exist. 

The thing that really scared Mao was their clothes. It was raining heavily, and they had to walk through the rain to reach the kitchen. They weren’t wearing rain jackets and they didn’t seem to have umbrellas either. But they didn’t have a drop of water on their clothes. They were totally dry. Mao was fixated on their feet, which were also dry. They didn’t track any mud into the kitchen. An onion skin was on the floor, nothing else. He stared at them for what felt like a long time but he couldn’t figure it out. All of a sudden, he grabbed a knife and ran to his room, getting soaked in the process. A while later, he heard the rain let up. He put on a straw hat and walked slowly back to the kitchen. Misha was by herself in the kitchen. She already had a pot of water boiling, and Mao saw the potatoes inside. 

“Have you salted it yet?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” she said. 

“You should salt it. It’s about time,” he said. 

She did as she was told. Then Mao said, “Put some soy sauce in too.” 

“I’ll do it,” she said. “Why don’t you go smoke a cigarette?” 

A few days later I saw Misha sitting outside the kitchen on a rock, knitting a sweater after lunch. I walked towards her to speak with her. She had already been here for many days, and I asked her what she thought of the job. She said she liked it and started giving me suggestions. She said we should have screens on the windows and a curtain for the doorway so the flies wouldn’t get in the kitchen. I looked at her in surprise. Women were like that, thinking about screens and things. It made me think of Mao, who was attacked by countless flies every summer. He never tried to fend them off, he just acted as if they didn’t exist. He never asked for screens or curtains. But now there was a woman in the kitchen. As soon as she arrived she thought of installing screens and curtains. Not only would the kitchen be cleaner, it would also feel more like home. Mao’s lack of hygiene was only highlighted by the arrival of his new helper. His apron seemed to have absorbed several liters of oil and the thin cloth looked like it was made of shiny leather. I was planning on asking Misha something, but seeing her sitting there like that made it hard to broach the subject. 

I looked at the sweater she was knitting and asked her who the sweater was for. Instead of answering she said, “I had a bit of old yarn and I thought I would knit it into something useful.” 

She then asked me a dozen questions: Where did I live? Did I have a wife? Did I have children? Where were my mother and father living? How big was my house? Did we have a courtyard and did it have trees and vegetables in it? Did we own any other land? Did people look down on me for leaving my family in the village and going to work? 

The ball of yarn rolled out of her lap and towards my feet. I picked it up and handed it to her asking, “Who are those two young people who visit you all the time but never speak?” 

Her face darkened. She kept knitting but I could tell that she wasn’t as relaxed or as methodical in her work. She glanced at me, and then looked down at the sweater. She made a mistake and had to stop. She picked out the mistake with an extra needle. 

A little while later she told me that she wanted to go back because she had things to do. I didn’t understand her at first; I thought she wanted to get back to work in the kitchen. Later I realized that she wanted to go back to her home in the village and wanted us to find someone to replace her. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted to ask about the two brothers,” I said. 

“My two children are in school and my husband has to go to work. I shouldn’t leave them home alone,” she said, rolling up the sweater as she spoke. 

There was nothing I could do about it; she was determined to leave. I called the accountant over and he paid her the wages she was owed. I don’t know if she noticed that we gave her an extra 40 yuan. She didn’t say that she didn’t want it, but she didn’t thank us either. I suddenly remembered her ceramic cup with the pink lid. 

“It broke the day that I lent it to you,” she said. 

The accountant and I watched her as she walked out of the quarry and all the way to the village on the old and dusty road. Eventually she was so far away that we couldn’t see her anymore. 

“We should have someone go and make some inquiries, if we have the chance,” the accountant told me. 

“Inquiries about what?” 

“I want to know if those two brothers are alive, or if they died years ago. All we have to do is go and ask around in the village,” he said. 

The last two limekilns stopped burning but the smoke from the kilns spread all over the quarry. Tomorrow would be Mid-Autumn Festival and everyone wanted to go home. Everyone except the accountant of course, who wanted to stay and keep guard. Just before everyone was getting ready to leave, Mao Hou looked at the accountant. “We’re all leaving and you’re going to be by yourself. Are you afraid of ghosts?” 

“I’m only afraid of you,” he retorted. “If you’re not here then I have nothing to be afraid of.” 

At the beginning of that year, Mao found himself a widow who was over fifty. They lived in the same house before they had even gotten their marriage certificates. Apparently the two were stuck together like glue. On the day that everyone left, Mao took off the disgusting apron and put on a clean set of clothes. He walked past the accountant with a smug look on his face. “Don’t be so proud,” the accountant said. “Otherwise I’ll report you two for indecency.” 

6 

It was another gloomy day. The man had left for work two or three days ago. Someone came into the courtyard, someone frail, wearing a pair of glasses and coughing so much it delayed his speech. 

The woman watched him for a while then said, “Are you the accountant from the lime quarry?” 

“Yes, of course I am,” he said. 

He took off his glasses excitedly, then put them right back on when he realized he couldn’t see the woman at all. He seemed to be almost anxious with excitement. 

“How could you tell it was me?” the accountant asked. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” the woman said. 

“Thank you for talking about me,” the accountant said. “It’s nice of you to bother talking about someone like me.” 

The woman invited the accountant to sit, but he kept standing. 

“He’s ill, aren’t you going to go see him?” the accountant asked. 

“But he just left two days ago! How could he be ill already?” 

The woman became very anxious upon hearing the news, and the accountant sat down to talk to her. After a while the woman left the house with the accountant and they walked along the old dusty road. Suddenly she saw the man coming towards her on the same road. The most surprising thing was that a woman was walking next to him – someone she had never met before. 

The woman stopped and asked the accountant, “Who is that woman?” 

She heard the accountant laugh, and then he vanished into thin air. 

The woman was woken up by her own shouting. Her eyes flew open and she saw that it was daylight. She reflected on the scenes in the dream, her heart pounding. She washed and got dressed and left the house. The day seemed to get a little brighter.

She had a feeling of déjà vu as she walked on the old road. The landscape was exactly the same as it was in her dream. The only thing that was missing was the sound of the accountant’s footsteps. Unexpectedly she saw the man coming towards her on the road. He was walking quickly but it took a long time for him to reach her. She stopped and noticed that he looked both tired and anxious. 

The man was surprised to meet the woman on the road at first. He told her that he wanted to see her, he just didn’t expect it to be on the road. He was thinking of telling her something. When he was still at the quarry, he dreamed he was at the house. The courtyard was totally deserted – he didn’t see a single piece of straw or a chicken feather. After that he saw a head craning in through the courtyard door. It was a head without a body. He began to get nervous. He heard a dog barking in the distance and a crashing sound like a bowl breaking. He looked and looked, but the head had disappeared. He looked all around him, then heard someone pumping a bellows. 

The man noticed that the woman was looking intently at him. When he told her he wasn’t sick she visibly relaxed. She told him that she had brought some mooncakes for the accountant because she thought he probably didn’t have a chance to eat mooncakes if he was at the quarry. She also brought their radio, which they didn’t listen to very much. She wanted the man to give it to the accountant along with the mooncakes. She didn’t say anything about her dream and she didn’t plan to. She knew her husband – he could be very touchy at times. 

“Oh he won’t need it,” the man said. 

“What do you mean?” the woman asked. 

The man told the woman that he hadn’t seen the accountant since he’d been back at the quarry. On the first night, he heard someone sigh outside his door, and he thought it was the accountant. He went out to look but nobody was there. It was cold at the quarry at that time of year, especially at night. The quarry was even colder than the village. Guitou came from a different village, and he found a pair of glasses while he was walking along the bottom of a ditch. He thought they belonged to the accountant, and the man agreed. Not all of the workers had arrived at the quarry yet. 

“He’s not dead, is he?” the woman asked, fearing the worst. 

The man did not answer. He looked up and down the winding road; he and his wife were the only ones on it. A while later, someone else approached, coming from the village. Eventually they could tell that it was a child carrying a bundle. The child recognized the man immediately. 

“Where’s my dad? Is he OK?” he asked. He seemed surprised and happy to meet them. 

“He’s fine.” The man said, and then told the woman that the child was one of the accountant’s sons. 

“My mom wants him to come back,” the boy said, looking at the man. “She wants me to ask if he’s worked long enough to retire. If he has then she wants him to come home. I can take his place.” 

“But you’re so young! If you don’t finish your schooling how are you going to work at the quarry?” the man said. 

“I’m not very clever; I have done poorly in all of my classes,” the boy said frankly. “I like the limekilns. There’s always a lot of smoke and it looks like there’s a war going on.” 

“Sounds like you’d be perfect for the job,” the man said. “Welcome aboard. Just one thing, how old are you?” 

“14.” 

“You should wait two more years, you can’t start just yet. If we let you work now then we would all be put inside.” he said. 

“Put inside? Inside where?” the boy asked. 

“Where do you think? In prison.” 

The child was scared and confused. He looked at the man. 

“You can stay with your mother and help her with the chores for the next couple years,” the man told the boy. The two of them were walking ahead and the woman was trailing behind. 

“You’re pretty lucky, you know,” the man continued. “Today we’re going to eat something really delicious.” 

“What is it?” 

“Steamed buns and beef stew,” the man said. 

“Really? I love beef stew!” 

They walked for a while without speaking. Then the man slowed down.

“Your mother never wanted your father to come back home before, why is she changing her mind now?” he asked.

“My dad came home last night, I think,” the boy said, lowering his voice and checking the area around him. He was outside calling ‘Peony, Peony…’”

“Who is Peony?” 

“That’s my mom’s name!” 

“That’s her name? I thought it was Chrysanthemum or Peach Blossom.” 

“No, her name is Peony. It doesn’t matter, she didn’t answer the door. My dad called for her several times, in a soft voice. I finally went to open the door, but no one was there. I waited and waited but nobody came. So I went back inside. When it was finally light, I got up and saw my dad sitting in the chair and holding a book.” 

“And then my dad said, ‘I know you don’t like reading so I’ll read you a short story.’” 

“Well, that’s your fault isn’t it? If you studied harder he would read longer stories.” 

“I’m not that clever. I read and then I get tired and give up.” 

“Alright, alright. What happened next?” 

“When I got up this morning my mom told me to go find my dad. She said if the boss would allow it he should come back home, because he never got time off for Mid-Autumn Festival. So now I’m here.” 

“Do you think you mother is telling the truth?” 

“Yeah I think so. But what about my dad? Is he OK?” 

“He’s fine.” 

They kept walking. Suddenly they heard a woman wailing; the man and the boy were both startled. When they turned to look, they only saw the woman playing with the radio. There was only the three of them on the road, no one else. 

“Off! Turn that thing off!” the man said angrily. 

The woman looked up and saw the man leaving the child’s side, bearing down on her like some fierce and violent stranger. 

Translated by Michelle Deeter

Wang Yuewen

王跃文

Wang Yuewen, born in Hunan in 1962, began his writing career while still in the employ of his local government office. It was only in 2001 that he became a professional writer, quickly becoming a star writer of the popular genre of “officialdom fiction,” which explores the cloak-and-dagger scandals of Chinese government life. Wang Yuewen received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for his novella “Overflow”.

Grandpa Gui

桂爷

Illustration by Wang Yan

1 

No one in the village called Dafa “village head”. Those who ought to call him “uncle” still called him uncle, and those who ought to call him “grandpa” still called him grandpa, and those of his age simply called him Dafa. Dafa was an honest man, and he didn’t like to be called “village head”. Whenever he heard someone call him that, he’d blush. 

The previous village head was over seventy, and no one had ever called him “village head” either. The previous village head had a lot of seniority and he was old, so everyone called him Grandpa Gui. But Grandpa Gui wasn’t actually a grandfather, since his wife hadn’t given him any children. She had died a few years before, and he’d been single ever since. Other elders who believed in fate saw how unlucky Grandpa Gui’s was in his old age, and wondered if there really was a God. Grandpa Gui was clearly a good person. He’d been the village head for a few dozen years, and no one had heard him say a nasty word to anyone. Yet he had no offspring. If God existed, He must be blind! 

Grandpa Gui’s health was in decline, but he still tended to his own little plot of land and didn’t let Dafa help him. “You have your own life to run, and village business as well. I can still work.” He had been a tough man his whole life and wouldn’t admit defeat. 

That winter, Grandpa Gui got so sick that he couldn’t get out of bed. The kindhearted people in the village visited him when they had the chance. Dafa’s wife Hexiang went to see him three times a day to bring him food. When Grandpa Gui saw her, he would try to wave her off so she wouldn’t come around every day. 

Grandpa Gui was so sick that Dafa grew anxious. Old people fear winter, since it seems someone is buried every day. White clothes and white flags and enough crying to shake the heavens. Dafa figured that even if Grandpa Gui recovered this time, he wouldn’t be able to farm his plot of land again. He was a seventy-year-old man, after all. So Dafa decided to go to the township government offices to try to get Grandpa Gui on the welfare roll. Even a little bit would help. 

When he told Grandpa Gui, he shook his head and said: “Dafa, I’m not going to take welfare. I still have two hands.” 

Dafa said: “Grandpa Gui, receiving benefits isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s national policy that someone in your situation should get something to live on.” 

“Sixi’s gotten welfare for twenty-five years, and now he’s just lazy.” Sixi was an old widower who lived in the village. 

Dafa said: “Uncle Sixi wouldn’t have survived without it. Our country’s policies are good!” 

Grandpa Gui said: “I’m not the only one in the village who could get benefits.” 

“I agree with what the other village leaders said: wouldn’t it be great if we could all get on welfare!” Dafa said. 

2 

Dafa’s face was stormy when he came back from the township government offices. He wanted to swear aloud. He’d had an argument with Mayor Li, and even said that he didn’t want to be village head. He said Li was like Chengming, that he only knew how to take from his fellow villagers without giving anything back. Grandpa Gui had been village head for twenty or thirty years, and he still had nothing to depend on, not even welfare! Mayor Li didn’t know who Chengming was. He only chuckled and told Dafa not to lose his temper. 

Dafa didn’t bother to tell the mayor who Chengming was; he just walked out of the offices in a rage. He looked down on the mayor – he didn’t even know the middle school text “The Cricket”. 

Dafa passed Grandpa Gui’s door but didn’t go in. He went straight back home, where Hexiang was feeding the pigs. She glanced at him without noticing his expression. She only asked: “Did the mayor agree?” 

“Agree my ass!” Dafa said, and sat down heavily on a stool. 

Hexiang set down the pigfeed ladle and said: “Someone like Grandpa Gui – a former village leader with no one to take care of him – if he can’t get welfare, who can?” 

Dafa lit a cigarette and took a drag. Then he said: “Mayor Li even laughed at me for not knowing the policy!” 

“What policy?” 

“There’s a quota for welfare recipients. It isn’t that anyone who’s poor or desperate or alone gets welfare. Mayor Li said that according to the quota, only eleven people in our township can get welfare. That isn’t even one per village. Our village is allotted one.” 

Hexiang said: “What kind of stupid regulation is that? As if you can have a quota on how many people get old. 

He said: “It’s no use complaining about it! I’ve done my best. If Mayor Li agrees, we’ll wait until Sixi dies and then we’ll add Grandpa Gui’s name to the roster.” 

“Wishing for someone’s death is just like cursing yourself!” she answered angrily. 

He didn’t answer, just ducked his head to smoke gloomily. In the end, he had to thank Mayor Li, since without him, Grandpa Gui wouldn’t even have a chance to try to get on the roster. There were more than sixty people waiting to get on the welfare rolls. To be a candidate at all was itself a blessing. 

3 

As Dafa and Hexiang sat beside Grandpa Gui’s bed, neither of them mentioned going to the township offices. Suddenly, they heard someone cursing outside: “Fuck you! If I take the government’s money, what the hell does it have to do with you? Whoever manages to get it deserves it! If you’re waiting for me to die, I’m staying put!” 

Grandpa Gui said: “Who’s outside cursing heaven and earth?” 

Dafa pretended to be confused: “I can’t tell. Whoever it is didn’t name any names. Who knows.” 

As he was speaking, he looked at Hexiang, who ducked her head. 

Sixi started to curse again: “I’ll live to a hundred and twenty! That’s two cycles of sixty. You’ll keel over waiting!” 

“It sounds like Sixi. Who wouldn’t want him to live to a hundred and twenty? He’s totally spoiled by being on the dole!” Grandpa Gui didn’t even have the energy to sigh. 

When they got home, Dafa scolded Hexiang soundly for gossiping. She said: “I didn’t do it on purpose. Someone asked me and I was just honest. I said whatever government official came up with the policy is missing his brain.” 

“It’s not that he’s missing his brain, he’s missing his conscience!” Dafu fumed. 

Just then, Sixi shouted into their house: “Dafa, are you hoping Uncle Sixi is going to die soon?” 

Dafa hurried to pull a stool over so Sixi could sit down. “Uncle Sixi, I wish you a long happy life!” 

Sixi sat down and banged his cane on the ground: “Yes, I’m on welfare. It’s thanks to the government’s own regulations, not some Buddhist miracle!” 

Hexiang couldn’t stand his insinuations and almost couldn’t contain herself. Dafa saw that his wife was upset and worried she would cause trouble. He tried to signal to her with his eyes. She could only force a smile and welcome Uncle Sixi. She asked if he wanted some tea and then hid herself in the house. 

Dafa said: “Uncle Sixi, you deserve to be on welfare. You’ve paid your dues and no one says anything different. You have no children, and your health isn’t good.” 

Sixi banged on the floor: “My health is fine! The government regulations are great! I’m healthy as an ox and I still get welfare benefits! Some people are hoping I’m going to kick the bucket soon, but I'm not going anywhere!” 

There was no use reasoning with a person like Sixi. As soon as he’d blown off steam, he would leave on his own. And Dafa was still the village head. Sixi continued his insinuations, and they seemed to be directed against Grandpa Gui. Dafa didn’t want any trouble, so he just pretended not to understand. 

Sixi cursed and complained until he started to cough and leaned on his cane to go home. He kept up his curses the whole way, and everyone could hear him, though they didn’t know who had made him so angry. Everyone knew that Sixi had a terrible temper and they didn’t take him seriously, so no one asked him why he was making such a scene. 

Hexiang came out of the house and shouted: “Uncle Sixi is an ungrateful bastard! He never would have gotten on welfare if it weren’t for Grandpa Gui! Just look at him strutting off with his cane!” 

“Hexiang, don’t make a fuss,” Dafa said. 

She ignored him and continued: “Whenever he sits with another old person, he whips out his red welfare booklet and shows it off! It’s just welfare! It’s not like he was on the Long March!” 

Dafa didn’t respond. Sixi was still an elder, and it wasn’t right to speak ill of him. But Sixi had gotten too big for his britches. Grandpa Gui was right when he said that Sixi had gotten spoiled from being on the dole. Long ago, Sixi had started using a cane so people would feel sorry for him and help him get on welfare. Now that he had benefits, the cane had become part of his style and he was constantly thumping the ground with it. 

4 

Mayor Li stuck his head inside the coffin, fished the red booklet out of Sixi’s pocket and handed it to Grandpa Gui, saying, Comrade Gui, you sacrificed many years to the Party, and now you deserve to have the easy life that welfare can provide. Grandpa Gui flipped through the red booklet and saw that his name had been written over Sixi’s name. He wanted to grab Mayor Li’s hand, but he grabbed Dafa’s hand instead. 

Dafa said: Grandpa Gui, you should thank Mayor Li! Grandpa Gui’s vision was poor and he looked everywhere but couldn’t find the mayor. Suddenly, Sixi climbed out of the coffin and pounced on Grandpa Gui, yelling: I’m not dead yet! 

Grandpa Gui dropped the red booklet. But it had all been a dream. His back was soaked in sweat and his heart was pounding, and he started to repeat a mantra: Namu Amida Buddha. I’ve been steadfast for many years and I’ve never wished ill of anyone before! Sixi might be too big for his britches, but I’ve never wished him dead! 

After that dream, he felt terribly guilty, as though he’d really done Sixi wrong. It was said that people dreamt about what they’d been thinking during the day. Grandpa Gui could solemnly swear that he’d never wanted welfare, and he’d never wished for Sixi’s death. But whom could he swear to? He couldn’t let anyone know that he’d had that kind of dream. 

A rooster crowed. Then all of the roosters in the village crowed back and forth until their calls became a single blast of sound. Grandpa Gui woke up at some point and waited anxiously for dawn. When he was young, he would wait for the rooster to call three times before getting out of bed. Then he would sit in the living room and smoke until daybreak. Back then he wasn’t village head, he was the head of a production team. As soon as dawn came, he would blow the whistle to call the production team members to work. After the whistle sounded, there was the creak of doors opening near and far. The dogs joined in the fun with their barking. 

It was hard to wait until dawn when Hexiang came to bring him breakfast. 

“It’s still awfully early, Hexiang,” Grandpa Gui said, a bit apologetically. 

She said: “The new year is coming, and I’m making tofu today. But I wanted to bring you breakfast first. 

He shook his head and sighed. “I’m a useless old man. I’m just a burden on you and Dafa. And I still need to ask Dafa take me to see Sixi.” 

Hexiang said: “Uncle Sixi doesn’t have your seniority. If you want to see him, he should come to you!” 

He said: “Sixi is still older than I am, so it’s only proper for me to go see him.” 

“Have some breakfast before it gets cold. Since you’ve been so sick, everyone in the village has come to see you except Sixi.” 

He laughed bitterly and said: “Didn’t he come to curse on my doorstep?” 

5 

Sixi was draped in a blanket sunning himself on a lounge chair outside his house. Dafa called cheerfully: “Uncle Sixi, you’re living the good life!” 

Sixi opened his eyes and was just about to sit up to say hello when he saw that Grandpa Gui had come as well. He lay there without moving and said: “Lazy people have lazy pleasures.” 

Grandpa Gui asked: “Sixi, the new year is coming. Have you stocked up on all your presents?” 

Sixi didn’t ask them to sit down. He just lay there and said: “I’m on welfare, do you think I’m going to buy presents? The government is good – in a few days, they’ll send me something.” 

Grandpa Gui could tell Sixi was uneasy, but he pretended not to notice and said: “Sixi, you can’t trust a late winter sun. Be careful lying outside in the wind. You don’t want to catch cold!” 

Sixi laughed. “I’m as healthy as they come.” 

Dafa also heard Sixi’s implication, but he played dumb as well. He laughed and said: “You’re so healthy, you’ll live to a hundred!” 

“The government helps me, and I’m grateful to the government,” Sixi said. 

Dafa knew what he meant: Grandpa Gui had no part in helping him get on welfare. 

Grandpa Gui didn’t want to insist, so he said: “It’s only right that Sixi would get welfare benefits. Of all the needy people that year, Sixi was the most appropriate candidate.” 

Sixi said: “It isn’t enough to be an appropriate candidate. You have to be lucky too!” 

Grandpa Gui said: “You do have good luck. When you were on the production team, you made it out without a scratch.” 

Sixi sat up abruptly and thumped his cane on the ground: “I know what you’re saying. You’re saying I’m lazy!” 

Grandpa Gui said: “Why on earth would I imply that?” 

Sixi said fiercely: “You don’t have to say anything. I know what’s going on. Back in 1975, you already had a grudge against me! You’re trying to get even!” 

Grandpa Gui said: “Sixi, if I had a grudge against you, why would I let you get welfare?” 

Sixi thumped his cane again: “Oh? You got me on welfare? It was the government!” 

Dafa hurried to mediate: “Uncle Sixi, I want to tell you something. Grandpa Gui has been sick, and he’s only gotten out of bed these past two days. But he asked me to bring him to see you…” 

“To see me? He’s just coming to see how long I have to live!” 

Grandpa Gui finally lost his temper: “Sixi, tell the truth! You never would have gotten on welfare without my help. Am I waiting for you to die? It would do me no good for you to die.” 

Sixi laughed coldly. “If I die, you’ll just take over my welfare!” 

6 

Over the next several days, Sixi walked all over the village with his cane, telling everyone he met: China has been liberated for over fifty years, and only two people from the village have ever been on TV, me and Gui. They were on the local TV news the time the county magistrate had come to “warm the people” with his best wishes. 

Of course, Dafa was also there when the magistrate came to the village. The magistrate had even listened to him give a brief report, and said that the villagers had been working hard. But that night, when Dafa’s whole family had gathered around the TV to watch, they didn’t see him appear on screen. 

Hexiang was disappointed and said: “I saw them film you. What happened?” 

“Just because they shoot it doesn’t mean they have to show it. I saw a local Party secretary secretly give the magistrate a red envelope of money, but I didn’t see that on TV either.” 

She said: “The magistrate gave Grandpa Gui and Uncle Sixi two hundred kuai each – could it have been the secretary’s money?” 

“It wasn’t the secretary’s. That was public money.” 

“Well, everyone says that the magistrate is very generous. He donates his own money to the poor.” 

Dafa laughed and said: “There are a lot of poor people in our county, how much does the magistrate make?” 

In fact, Dafa didn’t care about being on TV. He just wanted to know when Grandpa Gui’s welfare benefits would kick in. That day, the magistrate had shaken Grandpa Gui’s hand and said that many former village heads were having a hard time of it, and the country was seriously looking into the issue. Dafa immediately informed the magistrate that the village had sent a report about Grandpa Gui’s application for welfare to the township government office. The magistrate turned and told Mayor Li that he should look into Mr. Gui’s application.

"We’ll consider it carefully," Mayor Li replied in a hurry. After he spoke, he eyed Dafa coldly. Dafa didn’t see the look. He just watched Grandpa Gui in relief, feeling he could finally relax a bit. 

Now everyone in the village said that Grandpa Gui would get welfare and no one objected. There were a few other old people with no families to support them, and although they didn’t receive welfare, they said nothing. Old village head Gui had shaken the hand of the magistrate, and he’d even been on TV. Only Sixi was unpleasant, saying that he couldn’t care less whether Gui got welfare, as long as it didn’t take away from his own benefits. 

When this got back to Grandpa Gui, he was angry. He wanted to say a few words to Sixi, but Dafa stopped him. 

“Dafa, you go and tell the township government that I don’t want any welfare benefits!” Grandpa Gui still believed it was humiliating to be on welfare. 

Dafa said: “Uncle Sixi just says nasty things. Don’t worry about it. It’s totally right for you to get welfare, even the magistrate inquired about it.” 

“Whoever wants welfare can go ahead and get it. But I’d rather starve to death!” 

7 

The canola flowers ripened and withered, the rice paddies turned green and then yellowed, and Grandpa Gui still hadn’t received his welfare benefits. Dafa had been to the township government offices several times, and Mayor Li said that they had to wait for a place to open up on the rolls first. Dafa said that the magistrate had told them to do it, so what was the hold up? Mayor Li said that the magistrate wasn’t bound by any quotas, so why didn’t Dafa go talk to him. 

Gossip shifts as it travels, and by the time the villagers heard the news, it had gone back to the way it had been the year before: as soon as Sixi dies, Grandpa Gui will get his benefits. 

When Sixi heard that, he cursed the heavens and the earth. Not only did he curse on the doorsteps of Grandpa Gui and Dafa, he went through the whole village cursing everyone he met. He wanted everyone young and old to know that Grandpa Gui had wished him an early death, but he wasn’t about to go and die! 

Grandpa Gui lay in bed for six months before his body recovered a bit. He listened to Dafa’s counsel and didn’t pay attention to what Sixi said, pretending he was deaf. But when Dafa told him not to go into the fields to work, he didn’t listen. One day, Grandpa Gui finally took a fall out in the fields. Fortunately someone saw him, otherwise something much worse might have happened. 

A few young men carried Grandpa Gui out, his whole body covered in mud. He had his eyes shut and was as silent as the dead. Hexiang washed his body, her heart thumping loudly, afraid he really was dead. 

So Grandpa Gui was bedridden again. Every villager who came to see him mentioned welfare. It made him uncomfortable to hear. Welfare meant that he was so old he wasn’t good for anything anymore. And he’d have to wait until Sixi was dead to receive it, and even to think that way was a sin. 

Dafa’s father was respected in the village, and he finally shouted at Sixi: “Sixi, what’s wrong with you? Do you and Gui have some sort of feud? He’s so sick that everyone in the village visits him except you. You just run around cursing.” 

“He wished me an early death, and I'm still supposed to go to see him?” Sixi said. 

“You swine! When did he wish your death? Uncle Gui doesn’t even care about welfare!” 

Sixi cursed Dafa’s father, bought a few ounces of rock candy and went to see Grandpa Gui. 

Grandpa Gui was lying in bed. When he saw Sixi, he was overjoyed and said: “Sixi, it’s more than enough for you to come see me. Take the candy back home with you.” 

Sixi said: “Uncle Gui, you know, I’ve got a pretty sharp tongue.” 

Grandpa Gui said: “Sixi, let’s be straight with each other. I don’t want welfare. Dafa wanted to do a nice thing so he went to the township government offices. They said that there’s a quota for welfare, and the only way to receive it is to wait for a current recipient to die. Those are the rules, and we ordinary people can’t do anything about it.” 

When Sixi heard that, he got angry again: “Well, don’t bother waiting for me to die!” 

Grandpa Gui said anxiously: “Sixi, why do you say such things? You’re not going to die until you’re ready. I’m certainly not going to kill you!” 

“I’m not going to die. I just worry you’re going to die of impatience!”

Grandpa Gui slapped the bed and said angrily: “Sixi, you’re over eighty years old and you’ve never said a sincere word in your life!” 

“I’m just telling you that I’m not going to die. I’m going to live to a hundred! I’m going to watch you die waiting!” Sixi grabbed his cane and pounded the ground a few times. Then he grabbed the bag of candy and huffed out the door. 

8 

Grandpa Gui was bedbound for another six months and soon it was winter again. The elderly are afraid of winter. In the countryside, every three days there are two funerals, with the blare of the funereal suona and firecrackers going off. 

Grandpa Gui heard that Sixi had died, but he didn’t dare ask anyone if it was true. He knew that he was old and that his mind wasn’t completely clear. He couldn’t tell what was real and what was a dream anymore. He couldn’t leave his house, he just heard the sound of mourning and funeral processions outside. 

Dafa hadn’t brought up the issue of welfare with him, so perhaps Sixi hadn’t died. He had probably dreamt it. 

Unlike the previous year, Grandpa Gui didn’t feel so guilty when he dreamt that Sixi died. He thought that if Sixi really were to die and he were to receive welfare, at least it would reduce the pressure on Dafa and his wife. Sixi was over eighty, so if he were to die, he still would have had a nice long life. Whenever he thought that way, Grandpa Gui would say a few mantras to avoid any karmic retribution. 

Grandpa Gui woke up early every morning with the vague feeling that someone in the village had died and that someone was Sixi. He would lie in bed mulling it over, wondering if he had dreamt it again. He could only wait for Hexiang to come with his breakfast, and she would tell him if someone had really died. Sometimes she would say that someone had died, but it was never Sixi. 

Grandpa Gui wanted to take his cane and make his way over to Sixi’s house to see for himself, but he couldn’t get out of bed. What was going on? It really seemed like someone had told him Sixi was dead and he could finally start getting welfare. Grandpa Gui heard the sound of the suona and fireworks being set off, and someone said, The government gave old Sixi benefits right up until he died. Grandpa Gui wandered outside and saw some villagers carrying a coffin up the hill. A long funeral procession followed, and everyone was saying how lucky old Sixi was. Grandpa Gui hurriedly asked someone: Did Sixi take his red booklet with him? 

When Grandpa Gui woke up, Dafa was sitting beside his bed. Dafa had heard him muttering something about Sixi. He stroked his head and found it feverish. He said: “Grandpa Gui, you’re burning up. You should go to the hospital.” 

He refused and said: “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just old, like a ripe pear about to fall from the branch.” 

Dafa felt terrible. He went back and told Hexiang: “Grandpa Gui is a tough old man, and he really wants his welfare benefits. I heard him talking in his sleep. It sounded like he was arguing with Sixi, wanting his red booklet.” 

She asked: “How much does welfare provide each year?” 

“Fifty kuai a month, plus fifteen kilos of rice and a half kilo of oil.” 

“That isn’t much. But if he’s careful, he wouldn’t starve.” 

“Hexiang, I want to talk something over with you. It’s no use waiting for the authorities to change the quotas, and, Grandpa Gui can’t just wait for Sixi to die to get his benefits. It’s not that much money, I think we should just give it to him ourselves.” 

“It’s no big deal to feed Grandpa Gui, and I don’t mind going over there a few times a day. But where would we get the money to give to him? That’s six hundred kuai a year, plus more than a hundred and fifty kilos of rice, and more than five kilos of oil.” 

He said: “He’s a good person.” 

She nodded and said: “I know he’s a good person. But there are five or six other good retirees in the village. If you don’t settle things properly, someone will get upset.” 

“They’re not my responsibility. Grandpa Gui is.” 

“Grandpa Gui is a tough old man. He doesn’t want welfare, and if he knew the money was coming from us, he’d want it even less.” 

“We’ll convince him. We’ll tell him it’s the government’s money. Besides, I think he’s willing to go on welfare now.” 

“We don’t have that little red booklet.” 

“That’s not a problem. I heard there’s someone in the village who can make fake credentials like marriage certificates and diplomas, and he’ll do it for less than a hundred kuai. What do you think?” He looked at her. 

She said: “Let’s wait for a while longer. Right now we’re buying his food and medicine anyway.” 

9 

That day when Hexiang came with Grandpa Gui’s lunch, she saw Sixi sitting beside his bed, hollering out old folk songs. Grandpa Gui was lying still, completely silent. 

“Uncle Sixi, you sing those old songs pretty well. I could hear you all the way down the street.” She asked him: “Have you had lunch? I brought plenty if you’d like some.” 

Sixi said: “I just came to see Uncle Gui. I’ll head home soon and make something for myself. After all, it’s just me eating.” 

Hexiang said: “There’s no need for you to be polite, Uncle Sixi. It’s a hassle to cook for yourself.” 

“I can make a meal in lightning time.” Sixi opened the container she had brought and wrinkled his nose. “Oh, chicken soup! This is for sick people, it’s boiled way too soft. I couldn’t eat it. I still have my teeth. Food only tastes good when it has some bite.” 

That made Hexiang uncomfortable, but she said only: “Uncle Sixi, you’ve been here for a while. Grandpa Gui is probably hungry.” 

“Well, I’m going to head home for lunch.” Sixi grabbed his cane and walked off with deliberately long strides, making it to the door in just three steps. 

“I’m never going to survive him!” Grandpa Gui leaned his head toward the door. Sixi had just left, and his shadow still stretched long through the door. 

Hexiang saw what he was thinking, and urged him: “If you keep taking care of yourself, you’ll get your strength back. You’re going to live much longer than Uncle Sixi!” 

He said: “I’ll never make it that long! He’s over eighty, ten years older than I am!” 

“You’re going to recover, Grandpa Gui. Let me help you up, so the soup doesn’t get cold.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” 

“You have to eat something,” she urged. 

He said he wasn’t going to eat anything, that he had no appetite. 

There was nothing she could do, so she sat beside the bed for a while, and then took her basket back home. For the next three days, she brought her basket of food home untouched. Hexing went out into the fields to talk to Dafa. She whispered: “I’m worried about Grandpa Gui. He hasn’t eaten for three days.” 

“Does he not like the food you make?” 

“He told me to stop bringing meals to him. He doesn’t want to touch even a single grain of rice.” She looked anxious. 

Dafa threw down his hoe and went to Grandpa Gui’s house. Hexiang went with him. 

“Grandpa Gui, just tell us what you want to eat and Hexiang will make it for you,” Dafa said. 

Grandpa Gui shook his head and said: “I don’t want to eat anything. I don’t even want water.” 

“Then what do you want? Grandpa Gui, let me take you to the hospital, okay?” 

“There’s no need. I know what I’m doing.” 

When he heard that, Dafa felt even more concerned. He’d heard that when an old person was readying to die, his mind was very clear. Hexiang subtly shook her head and shot a worried look at Dafa. 

“Dafa, Hexiang, you both have been so good to me. It won’t go unrewarded,” Grandpa Gui said. 

Dafa said: “Grandpa Gui, don’t talk like that. You’re like a grandfather to us!” 

Hexiang said: “Dafa tells stories about how you used to play with him when he was little.” 

“Grandpa Gui used to put me up on his shoulders and carry me a long way so we could go see plays that were being put on.” Dafa wanted to talk about happy times, to cheer up Grandpa Gui. 

Grandpa Gui started to laugh and said that Dafa was naughty when he was little. Once he’d cut a hole in a pumpkin from Grandpa Gui’s field, peed into it, and replaced the pumpkin flesh into the hole. Grandpa Gui had seen it all, but said nothing. After a while, when Dafa was sure he’d gotten away with it, Grandpa Gui had picked up the pumpkin and told Dafa to take it home and cook it. Dafa had looked at Grandpa Gui’s smile and blushed, his heart thumping. Grandpa Gui told him, Take it to your mother to feed to the pigs. If Grandma Gui finds out, she’ll tan your hide! 

Dafa laughed and said: “How can kids possibly fool adults with the kinds of tricks they play?” 

Grandpa Gui suddenly sighed and said: “Now you have to take care of me like a child!” 

“Don’t say that, Grandpa Gui!” 

“A man has to grow old with dignity…” He interrupted himself with a long sigh. 

They sat beside Grandpa Gui’s bed until well after dark. Hexiang went home to make dinner, then hurried back. Grandpa Gui could no longer tell the difference between morning and night, and since he didn’t want to eat, it didn’t occur to him to send Dafa back for dinner. So Dafa sat there chatting with him, his stomach grumbling. Grandpa Gui was particularly talkative that night, which Dafa took as a bad sign. When they finally went home, they lay in bed pondering everything Grandpa Gui had said. It all seemed discouraging. 

Dafa said: “He hasn’t eaten or had water for days, but he’s still so lively. It doesn’t make sense!” 

“It doesn’t make sense to me either. Usually Grandpa Gui doesn’t talk about the next life, but today he was strange, raving about how good deeds always go rewarded.” 

“What’s wrong with Uncle Sixi, going to see Grandpa Gui like that? He went in just to taunt him!” 

“You weren’t there to see how satisfied he was with himself! And from that day on, Grandpa Gui’s refused to eat anything.” 

“I think he’s trying to starve himself to death. He knows that he can’t outlast Uncle Sixi, and he’ll never get his welfare benefits.” 

“What can we do about it? Grandpa Gui’s so stubborn.” 

Dafa said: “He is stubborn, and we’re not going to be able to convince him. All we can do is tell him that he’s gotten his welfare benefits.” 

She nodded: “That’s the only way. We’ll just have to tighten our belts a little.” 

10 

Near dawn, firecrackers suddenly went off in the village. Dafa was startled awake and slowly recognized the sound of crying. He shook his wife and said: “Hexiang, Hexiang, who do you think died?” 

She listened, then said: “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about anyone being sick.” 

They started to talk about Grandpa Gui again. “Do you remember that middle school story called ‘The Cricket’?” Dafa asked. 

She thought about it and said: “I kind of remember. There’s a village head in it named Chengming.” 

He said: “Back then it wasn’t called a village head, it was called village elder.” 

Hexiang retorted: “Right now it isn’t called a village head. It’s called chairman of the village committee.” 

“Well, whatever you call it, it’s the same thing. Chengming wanted to present the best cricket to the king, and he sacrificed his son’s life to do it. I’ve got a better cause than that. I’m just sacrificing money to save Grandpa Gui’s life.” 

She said: “Mayor Li told you to go talk to the magistrate, so maybe you should go. And the magistrate told you himself that Grandpa Gui should get welfare.” 

“Do I have any seniority? Enough to go see the county magistrate? It’ll be the new year soon, and the magistrate will go out to give his good wishes, but he can’t come back to our little village every single year.” 

She sighed and said: “You can’t trust anything officials say!” 

They talked for hours and got up late. When Hexiang opened the door she saw that it had snowed heavily. No wonder the night had been so cold. There wasn’t enough time for her to make breakfast. She wanted to go see Grandpa Gui right away. The cold weather was hard on the elderly. 

As she went out, she heard a deafening cannon boom and saw smoke spiraling up from the western corner of the village. She didn’t know who had died, but she saw a lot of people heading in that direction. 

She was about to ask someone who had died when she saw Grandpa Gui leaning on his cane, standing in front of his house in the snow to ask passersby: “Is Sixi really dead?” 

“Who said Sixi died? He’s as healthy as ever!” 

“What kind of man has Grandpa Gui turned into, wishing somebody dead?” 

“He’s been on his sickbed for half a year, but as soon as he thought Sixi was dead, he jumped up like he was fine.” 

At that moment, Sixi came out to see what the fuss was about and heard what people were saying. He started to curse: “Gui, you asshole!” 

Grandpa Gui didn’t say a word. He stood there in the snow, his whole body shivering until he nearly collapsed. Hexiang rushed forward and helped him back into his house. Sixi yelled curses behind them the whole time, and Hexiang turned around to say to the others: “Please get Uncle Sixi to stop yelling!” 

Hexiang got Grandpa Gui back into bed with some difficulty, scolding him for going out, “Grandpa Gui, why did you go outside like that? It’s too cold. Where did you even get the energy?” 

Grandpa Gui shut his eyes tightly and said nothing. He had behaved disgracefully, and he might as well find a hole to hide in. Hexiang knew that he was feeling bad, and she sat beside the bed to chat for a while. But he said nothing. She found random things to talk about. When she paused, she couldn’t even hear him breathing. A cold wind howled outside. 

Hexiang left Grandpa Gui’s house and bumped into some villagers who told her that she and her husband were too good to Grandpa Gui. As soon as they mentioned him, she didn’t want to hear it. She knew that Sixi was going around the village cursing Grandpa Gui. Soon everyone would know that he’d thought Sixi was dead and he’d get his welfare benefits. Hexiang defended him, saying that he was old and was sometimes confused when he woke up. Grandpa Gui had been a good person his whole life, and everyone knew that. 

Dafa heard her talking and he hurried to say: “Hexiang, we’d better give Grandpa Gui the welfare money and rice. Otherwise something really bad is going to happen.” 

She said: “We don’t have to do it right now. Let’s go over tonight. You can say you went to the township offices today to meet with them, and they told you there’s a new quota for the village. Otherwise, Grandpa Gui won’t believe you.” 

He said: “Good idea! And we’ll say that the red booklet hasn’t been issued yet and he won’t have it until next month.” 

That evening, Dafa shouldered a bag of rice while Hexiang carried a bottle of oil and fifty kuai in her pocket over to Grandpa Gui’s house. 

Dafa said: “Grandpa Gui only sort-of knows what’s going on. Don’t say anything, I’ll do all the talking. If we say anything that conflicts, he won’t believe us.” 

“Okay, you do all the talking. And you should take the money. It wouldn’t make sense for me to have it.” She handed the money to Dafa. 

Grandpa Gui’s window was dark. Dafa opened the door and Hexiang turned on the light. They were about to call his name when they stopped, shocked, and took a few steps back. There was Grandpa Gui, hanging straight down from a roof beam.

Translated by Eleanor Goodman

Zhou Xiaofeng

周晓枫

A former editor of both Harvest and People’s Literature magazines, Zhou Xiaofeng was born in Beijing in 1969. In addition to publishing numerous collections of essays, she has also served as a literary advisor to director Zhang Yimou on his novel adaptations, including Under the Hawthorn Tree (2010), The Flowers of War (2011) and
Coming Home (2014). Zhou Xiaofeng received the Lu Xun Literature Prize for her non-fiction work The Great Whale Sings, extracts of which were published in the Spring 2015 issue of Pathlight.

Rear Window

后窗

Illustration by Wang Yan

Everyone is vulnerable to a surprise attack from behind. You have no idea what might be approaching, what sudden changes might be on their way. 

A world can swell from within a window. King Solomon’s genie grew out of the bottle where I believe he could have remained trapped for a thousand years, just as one tear from God (I am certain) could hold all the sorrows in the world. When I was young and inquisitive, I couldn’t resist the urge to turn round and look at that small, mysterious alcove. There is a golden pupil in the dark, and being a spectator in the cinema means getting used to the presence of its fixed gaze behind you. 

The projector turns and turns, with a faintly rank smell of metallic heat. The little man, running on the reel, hurdles one railing after another, traversing twenty-four cells a second. A ray of light shoots out of the little room (I turn my head) and the light, as it advances, becomes a surging torrent, motes of dust roiling within – and when this beam falls upon the screen at last it becomes a phosphorescent flare the size of a manhole cover on the leading lady’s forehead. 

Both dreams and movies have an internal logic that defies reality, but there are differences between the two. Dreams are delicate, vulnerable to the slightest disturbance – but films can be played again and again, making up for our faulty memories, more robust than life itself. A river, flowing constantly from the same source; a leopard, hunting down its prey again with the same precise combination of footsteps and pace. A hundred replays, and the random ripples on the surface of the flag will still be unerringly replicated. 

An aging actor sees himself as a child, preserved upon the screen. A film can contain the past tense while continuing to maintain the progress of the present moment – a clock hand that moves in mysterious ways. I like flashbacks, with their power akin to resurrection. The butterfly can revisit the hardships of the chrysalis, the plucked fruit can rejoin the branch, and departed spirits can return to the church – a clock with a puzzling chime. 

Particularly puzzling for me is the way movies sometimes have one actor playing two characters. Like in a story of twin sisters. I could never understand that when the good sister is talking to her twin, she is actually gazing intently into nothingness. She can’t see the evil sister who will appear only in post-editing (alternatively: she has not yet discovered her alter ego). Why does a person divided in two become a pair of entirely opposite people, like the wicked queen in the fairy tale who looks into the magic mirror and sees Snow White? 

The enchantment of film, the opening up of the subtitles.

How brave those actors are, unperturbed at having their pores magnified ten thousand times over. Eyelashes thick as cudgels, nostrils deep as caves… a frightening sight, or so it sounds when put into words – but perfectly natural in a movie. When the bright, glistening lips of an actress fill the entire frame, we do not see a devouring, bloody maw – she becomes even more alluring. Everything has been expanded in the correct proportion, and the equilibrium between parts is maintained. A teardrop smashed the tiny stage of the Lilliputians – but it is only the discrepancy in scale between Lilliput and Brobdingnag that affects us. The world of the movie seems familiar, but also contains a wonderful sense of strangeness. 

Movies define the limits of my powers of perception: the sights and sounds of an unpredictable fantasyland, plus spectacles and catastrophes in the most violent of hues – these are what movies have taught me to appreciate. Even amidst a crowd of thousands, all experiencing the same terror, I feel no respite from the pressure. The never-ending adventures of those movie heroes: they’ve only just managed to escape from a giant snake or homicidal maniac and in the very next shot they’re cooking dinner by the campfire, or kissing someone (passionately), or sound asleep – even as peril creeps closer once more. In real life, just one brush with fear and I might spend the rest of my life feeling threatened, forever ruminating on the injury. Films make me feel lucky to be alongside the heroes, with their Samson-like ability to replenish strength and courage. 

The digestive process of a movie (if a movie were a giant stomach) lasts two hours. Within those two hours the protagonists are destined to experience tragedy, joy, life, death; within those two hours the varicoloured flowers of spring are destined to fall. Endless love does not require an equivalence in trials and tribulations – an eternity is encapsulated in a hundred and twenty minutes. A palace takes seven thousand and two hundred seconds to turn to ruins. Sometimes, when you see the same leading actor in several different films, you can witness the inherent enchantment and devastation, the corrosive effect of the years. Impatient for the lightning flash of time, the film shows you a man becoming old in an instant – his nose reddened by liquor, his eyes puffy, or swollen, his calmness when he has given up all hope. Two hours of digestion. I feel myself passing through the darkness, passing through a warmish, wriggling gut. Two hours later I am waste matter, excreted into the world beyond.

I still remember the first time anyone proposed to me. C carried his plunder between his fingertips, a gift for me. A locust, legs struggling, green liquid oozing from its mouth like it had been poisoned. Not a gift I appreciated. The hard head of the locust was like a locomotive, especially those two searchlight eyes – and its segmented body, too, like one of those short trains, lacquered in greyish-green. Its fangs repulsed me, those sharp spurs parallel with its legs. C flung it away; a fuzzy sphere appeared on either side of its body, and off it flew. I continued to weave a rabbit out of the bristlegrass: long ears, short body; a hairy green rabbit suspended on so slender a stalk, like barbecued meat on a spit. C said something which I didn’t hear clearly. His voice was very quiet – quieter even than a tattletale’s mutter. I looked up at him. He paused, and then said it again: “why don’t you marry me.” 

C’s skin was covered in a kind of oil – the kind that oozes out of hot food in a paper wrapper. Not the kind of oil that ought to appear on the face of a child, but perhaps C was advanced for his age, already enjoying the sheen of puberty. When he spoke, my heartbeat remained steady. C and I saw each other every day – we shared the same desk at school – but for me, love would have to be accompanied by curiosity. That I did not veto his proposal immediately was due to other considerations. 

I weighed up my own wedding. C’s demand was something that could not be fulfilled for another twenty years, by which time he would have undergone all sorts of changes. But if I accepted him now, I would be able to enjoy an immediate benefit. C’s home was on the fourth floor, opposite the square. Sitting at his rear window, you could get a direct view of the films they showed outdoors at the weekend, without being disturbed by the mosquitoes, the cold, or the person sitting in front of you. Like a private box in the theatre. 

A stalk of bristlegrass is slender and supple, easy to bend into a hoop for your ring finger. The green of this grass ring was very similar to the saliva that came out of the locust’s mouth. I was eight years old and addicted to films, and I was prepared to trade my future for that dancing beam of light in the dark. The love and betrayal I learned from C were artificial – they were nothing more than the stuff of a movie plot. The little bridegroom (who still thought he had won) laughed to reveal tetracycline teeth. 

Tanks, planes, mighty advancing armies, eyes indiscernible beneath steel helmets, the gleam of leather boots – such a depth of violence, plastered across a canvas surface – a miracle, no? Five days later I was sitting in C’s home, elbows propped on the windowsill, watching a war movie. Beneath the huge ray of light the jostling heads of the audience looked like black tiles on a roof.

Though DVDs are more convenient and offer a much greater range of choice, I resent the damage they have done to the ritualistic feeling of movies. I like a silver screen that is countless times bigger than me, so that I maintain the appropriate humility before art. Fellini once said that it was when televisions entered the home that the transmissions lost their religious aspect. Ritual “can only occur within the theatre or the cinema. To put it another way: an ‘assembly point’ becomes a church.” 

Every Thursday, for many years now, whenever I am in Beijing I make sure to go to the China Film Archive. An addict. An abductee, kidnapped by movies, blackmailed by dreams. I feel the continued effect of the enchantment in my own body. The gaps between rows of seats in the Film Archive are fairly steep; I tend to sit in the back row. Looking up: a dizzying black void. Looking down: like standing on the brink of a precipice. I know all the people who work here well, including the ticket scalper outside. Occasionally a lonely old man named Li Shunmin will come, travelling from more than five kilometres away. He’s seventy-five, blind in his left eye. He receives a meagre stipend from the government each month, and because of his disability card he can take the bus for free – but his means are not enough to support his passion for films, so Li Shunmin waits at the entrance for some kind-hearted person to buy him a free ticket. Accordingly, the ticket scalper despises him and is constantly trying to get rid of him. Most people who come to the Film Archive are return customers, so you have a chance to get to know the other members of the audience. I know the scholar who will always sit in the middle, on the right side of the aisle; the young film director who is waiting for a different girl every time; the husband and wife in the second row from the back, who love to talk in whispers. The faces in other cinemas appear temporarily in the brightness, before being swallowed up by darkness and forgetfulness once the show begins – but here, it’s as though we are intimates in the dark, sharing a secret. 

One benefit of the Film Archive is the fact that all the films are screened in the original language, with subtitles. Though I adored the dubbed movies of voice actors like Tong Zirong, Liu Guangning and Qiu Yuefeng when I was younger, I now struggle to put up with foreign faces mouthing Chinese. I prefer to read subtitles, for French, Turkish, or any other language. Following the words can be difficult, but as I pass between two linguistic worlds I feel like I myself am a word undergoing the process of translation, or (perhaps) a slightly perplexed fairy just then coming into existence on the root of a laurel tree.

Strangers gather together and all do the same thing – but what they are “doing” is a demonstration of “not doing”. They all face in the same direction, totally rapt. A gathered crowd usually results in blind conformity or violence, but in the gloom of the cinema the quiet faces of the audience are gilded and gleaming, following the falling light. 

I have a friend who can’t stand the sensation of being in the cinema. Surrounded by darkness, everyone exchanges lungsful of air. Making love involves two people exchanging fluids – he says being in the cinema feels like a mass orgy to him. He’s right: the collision of ideas, the emotion of sex, what we call ’passion’ – these are the destruction of rules (and hygiene). 

He once came with me to see a film, sitting on my right. Before us was an undulation of spectators, facing away from us, and I could sense the warmth of his body. Aware of his resentment for the cinema, I found his presence oppressive. Our breath seemed to be in synch – the exhalation rising up before our eyes, like the pesky genie whom Solomon imprisoned, emerging from the neck of the bottle. My attention was constantly dissolving. I maintained my posture, leaning forwards slightly, both arms resting on my legs. He disappeared in the peripheral light. In the fluctuating intensity of the film’s projection, my face showed my inattentiveness. It was a Spanish movie called Tango  – and the tango they danced was so splendid: the cadence of the curl and spring of their legs; the violent movement of their heads; the calf coiling round to graze the back of the partner’s leg… Their rapport was remarkable, laden with excitement, like two insects copulating in public. 

My friend probably gave up going to the cinema in the same way as one might give up going to public baths. I, on the other hand, found reaffirmation of my habit of going to the cinema by myself. One afternoon, in 2001 or thereabouts, I had a true experience of solitary movie viewing, while watching a Chinese movie called Escort. I was the only person in the audience, for the entire length of the film. All around me was emptiness. It was a very odd environment – the gloom bereft of the outlines of all those spectators. I felt slightly flustered and out of sorts. In the past I had always thought that this was the kind of solitude for which I yearned.

The jealous stepmother asks: “who is the most beautiful of them all?” The face that appears in the mirror is not hers, but Snow White’s. When a mirror no longer presents a simple reflection but instead shows an alternate reality, demonstrating judgment and choice – then it has become a magic mirror. Films, too, are magic in their treatment of reality. Would I prefer that reflection to be closer to real life, or more distant? Is it the fidelity, the ordinary, that appeals, or the lies and the extraordinary? 

When I was young I once found myself in the vicinity of a famous movie star. The top of my head came up to her chest. I looked up at her, and she was no less gloriously radiant than she was on the screen, her beauty the type that defies all comparison. Her hair was in waves, and she wore a georgette blouse with a unique style of collar. But I was nervous, as though made vaguely uneasy by some sense of profanity. I caught a sweet smell from her body, and I felt even more dazed. The biggest difference from her screen incarnation lay in this fragrance: she too had the scent of a physical body. I don’t know whether it was her cosmetics or her body itself (both possibilities were equally revolting). On film she had a shape, a sound, almost a physical presence – but no smell. This was the most indisputable proof that she was in collusion with reality. Up until that point I had been inclined to regard films as something entirely separate from real life, or else as something to rescue you from the mediocrity of the everyday. 

When the film is about to start, the lights go dim, releasing a mass of inky blackness. This is the ruse of the cuttlefish: the film (dream) making its escape, the greedy jaws of reality close behind. Above our heads, taut beams of multicoloured light tie projector to screen. I will no longer describe them using the cliché of my middle-school compositions – “the strumming strings of dreams” – though that is what they have always been. 

Imprisoned in the darkness, a world of the brightest colour unfolds in the window up ahead: this, this is what a film is. Because the prisoner has been kept away from this world, unable to ever slip inside, to him the simulacrum seems more beautiful than the real thing. 

But have films diminished the curiosity I feel towards life itself? I have seen (in films) so many famous scenic spots, so many cunning plots, that the real thing seems ordinary after so many dry runs. Should I be glad, that I am able to feel so calm – or should I blame the unreality of art for making me picky? Enticed and transported by these indirect things, I find films forcing me to prepare for life in advance – or, perhaps we could say, retreat from the front line of experience. I don’t know if all cinema fans feel the same danger: that one’s own life is turning into a translation.

I dreamt I had come to a Chinatown in Germany with a group of tourists. They carried small cameras, endlessly happy. Up ahead there were over a hundred enormous squares, the colour of sandalwood, covered with complex carvings. Inside every square was a girl dressed in the style of the Tang dynasty, playing a traditional instrument. Behind them was a cloisonné screen that looked like the tail feathers of a peacock unfurled, gorgeous and exquisitely crafted, more beautiful than the human eye could even perceive. I dreamt of women in silken cheongsams, passing in single file. Their circular fans were beguiling (and their waistlines – intoxicating). The performance had been put on specially for the tour group. 

I dreamt I left the group, waiting alone for a famous performer to sing. I had heard that this performer seldom appeared onstage, and only when he felt like it, with no advance warning. It could only be a chance encounter. The magnificent surroundings suddenly turned into a village, with a rudimentary harbor at the end of a dirt track. One after another, the tour group boarded the boat. The red of the sunset glow offset the sweat-stained yellow of the old sails; they were gone. 

I dreamt the temperature fell and it was getting dark, barely possible to see and no one to turn on the lights. I didn’t know whether there was some dimly discernible performance still to come at an unspecified time. “Why are you still here?” an old man asked me. He looked to be over sixty, from the countryside, but I had an intuitive sense that he was the character I had been stubbornly waiting to see. Without making me any promises, he pushed open the door of a courtyard and headed in. I had heard his make-up was a secret, never documented and seldom observed. 

I dreamt of all the faces of Peking opera, flickering before my eyes. It was impossible to see behind the make-up, and I couldn’t tell whether the person I sought was somewhere within those colour-laden faces. I dreamt of having an itch on my face, rubbing it with a hand, and finding a thick smear of paint on my fingers.

Roland Barthes said: “In films, no matter what the rhetoric of print media might say, we can see ourselves to be essentially smooth – an unfragmented succession of images. The name, ‘film’ is an apt one: what else are they, but an expanse of unbroken skin?” 

But fragmentation was a common occurrence in the days of the open-air cinema. For a child it can be a frightening experience: the film seethes, and the beautiful features of the leading lady are suddenly steeped in boiling oil, crisped at the edges with a terrifying blister bulging in the middle. A demon, skin on fire, eyes hollow like a skeleton, she opens a toothless mouth – and an instant later her face whirls around and disappears. In that space of time, the otherworldly faces of my nightmares seemed to have reappeared in a malfunction of projection. 

One night, when I was fifteen, I was scalded with boiling water. When I came to I felt an intense burning pain, and I put my hand to my face… and I saw, to my horror, a large patch of my skin had adhered to my fingertips. The pain, spreading fast, made me feel like I was enveloped in fire. The film that was my happy life had been incinerated in a single shot. 

When fragmentation occurs in the cinema, it can be dealt with by peeling the membrane off the film to reveal the cell foundation, and – after scraping off the stubble – sticking it back together with a special kind of glue. For many years I did my best to forget that catastrophe of my youth, trying as hard as I could to erase it from my memory, seamlessly joining “before” and “after”. I avoided looking in mirrors, so that I wouldn’t have to be reminded – so I could imagine I had never been disfigured, was still unfragmented. It’s like the way we must scrape away film membranes, or stubble, so as to maintain our (so-called) wholeness; you must suffer abrasion, until the layer of pain is exposed.

Occasionally I think of that dream I used to have. The Chinatown of the dream, the greasepaint smeared on my finger – like remembering a clip that was directed by somebody else. There is no symmetry between our lives and the manufactured magnificence of films; yet when film and life coincide, it always happens in the sections that are lowly, bitter, not fondly remembered.

I feel impelled to extend the thumb and forefinger of each hand, one palm facing towards me, the other facing out, creating the shape of a viewfinder. I adjust the position of these four digits to widescreen proportions. 

For whose departure do we pull down the heavy velvet curtain? Into whose open box of props do we pack away the glitzy trinkets? Whose make-up has been washed away by tears and stillness? Whose body is freed from the constraints of script? Whose spell is turned by someone else into a soothing lullaby? To whom do you belong, as you bear your orphan’s destiny? As the audience spills out of the cinema, who is granting permission to whom, sneaking aboard Noah’s Ark, carrying some strange creature? Let the camera be the left eye of God, glancing over this world that can only be sustained if it has significance. 

The film has begun. Two hours. Coil up the springs inside your body. Start turning, like a watch, the gyrations making you feel a little faint. Remind yourself: this is heaven.

Translated by Dave Haysom

Novellas

“Invisibility Cloak” by Ge Fei – Harvest 2012 Issue 03

“A Beautiful Day” by Teng Xiaolan – People’s Literature 2010 Issue 5

“Spring in the White Poplars” by Lü Xin – October 2010 Issue 6

“A Midday Dusk” by Hu Xuewen – Zhongshan 2011 Issue 2

“Overflow” by Wang Yuewen – Hunan Literature 2012 Issue 1

Short Stories

“Russian Army Belt” by Ma Xiaoli – Southwest Military Literature 2012 Issue 2

“If a Snowstorm Seals the Door” by Xu Zechen – Harvest 2012 Issue 5

“Incense Burner” by Ye Mi – Harvest 2012 Issue 2

“There Will Be Peace in My Tent” by Ye Zhou – Tianya 2013 Issue 1

“The Good Dinners” by Zhang Chu – Tianya 2012 Issue 6

Reportage Literature

Migrant Workers in China’s New Era by Huang Zhuanhui – People’s Literature Publishing, 2011.07

The Food Route by Ren Linju – Jilin People’s Literature Publishing, 2011.08

The Green Legend of the Mu Us Desert by Xiao Yinong – Distance Publishing, 2012.03

Local Education in China: A Survey by Tie Lu and Xu Jingeng – Chinese Writers: First-Hand, 2012.11

The Bottom by Xu Huaizhong – People’s Literature Publishing, 2013.04

Poetry

Rearranging Stones by Yan An – Taibai Arts and Literature Publishing , 2013.03

Personal History by Da Xie – Changjiang Arts and Literature Publishing, 2012.12

Black Deer of Sorrow by Hai Nan – Yunnan People’s Literature Publishing, 2013.12

To Drink Tea by Zhou Xiaotian – Tiandi Publishing, 2012.03

Limitless by Li Yuansheng – Chongqing University Publishing, 2012.11

Essay Collections

In Xinjiang by Liu Liangcheng – Chunfeng Arts and Literature Publishing, 2012.02

Father’s Tundra, Mother’s Prairie by He Jiesheng – People’s Liberation Army Arts and Literature Publishing, 2013.10

The Mood of Then by Mu Tao – Shaanxi Normal University Publishing, 2013.12

The Great Whale Sings by Zhou Xiaofeng – Oriental Publishing, 2013.12

Return to Deer Mountain by Hou Jianfei – People’s Literature Publishing, 2012.01

Literary Criticism

After the Literary Revolution by Meng Fanhua – Modern Press, 2012.05

The Spectre of Tao Yuanming by Lu Shuyuan – Shanghai Arts and Literature Publishing, 2012.06

None Can Stop a Speaking Mouth by Cheng Depei – Shanghai Arts and Literature Publishing, 2011.07

“Echoes of Shen Congwen in Contemporary Chinese Literature” by Zhang Xinying – Southern Cultural Forum, 2011 Issue 6

Beneath a Constructive Attitude: A Spirit of Reconstruction by He Shaojun – Writers Publishing, 2012.01

Literary Translations

Han Zhaozhen, translation from Spanish of The Wind of the People by Miguel Hernández – Writers Publishing, 2011.01

Han Liufang, translation from French of Brodeck’s Report by Philippe Claudel – Shanghai Translation Publishing, 2012.08

Wang Jiaxiang, translation from English of Colored People: A Memoir by Henry Louis Gates Jr. – Peking University Press

Han Hanrui, translation from German of Shanghai, Somewhere Far Away by Ursula Krechel – People’s Literature Publishing, 2013.09

Natascha Bruce

Natascha Bruce currently lives in Brussels, where she splits her time between translating and writing reports about weapon regulations. Translation-wise, she specialises in scripts and subtitles (mainly for Taiwanese films) but she’s working on bringing more literature into the mix. She’ll be based in Hong Kong starting from early 2016.

Michelle Deeter

Michelle Deeter loves to read. She has been translating and interpreting since 2007 and she handles everything from pesticide patents to frozen food packaging. She holds a BA in International Relations from Carleton College (USA) and an MA in Translation and Interpreting from Newcastle University (UK). She recently translated the novel Beijing Beijing by best-selling author Feng Tang.

Roddy Flagg

Roddy Flagg accidentally moved to China after graduating in something entirely irrelevant, and surprised himself by ending up earning a living translating Chinese and running websites. He left China after ten years and is now living in London, where he continues to surprise himself.

Eleanor Goodman

Eleanor Goodman is a writer and a translator of Chinese literature. She is a Research Associate at the Fairbank Center at Harvard University, and spent a year at Peking University on a Fulbright Fellowship. She has been an artist in residence at the American Academy in Rome and was awarded a Henry Luce Translation Fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center. Her book of translations, Something Crosses My Mind: Selected Poems of Wang Xiaoni (Zephyr Press, 2014) was the recipient of a 2013 PEN/Heim Translation Grant. Her first book of poems, Nine Dragon Island, will be published this year.

Philip Hand

Philip Hand is a translator who lives and works in Xiamen, in the southeast of China. He does mostly academic and commercial translation, but is developing an interest in literature. He studied Chinese and linguistics at university in the UK, then went to China to teach English. He did a spell on a local English language newspaper. Winner of the Harvill Secker Young Translators Prize 2012 for his translation of “The Wig” by Han Dong, the story was published in Granta. Blogs occasionally at buxiebuxing.livejournal.com.

Dave Haysom

Dave Haysom (www.spittingdog.net) has been living and working in Beijing since graduating from Leeds University with a degree in Classical Literature and English in 2007. He has previously translated works by contemporary authors including Shi Tiesheng, Wu Ming-yi and Sun Yisheng.

Cara Healey

Cara Healey is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of East Asian Languages and Cultural Studies at University of California, Santa Barbara, where she studies modern and contemporary Chinese literature and film. Her current research focuses on Chinese science fiction. Cara graduated from Princeton University in 2009 with a degree in East Asian Studies and completed her M.A. at UCSB in 2013. She has also worked as Program Coordinator for Princeton in Beijing and Princeton University’s Chinese Linguistics Project.  

Tammy Ho

Tammy Ho Lai-Ming is a Hong Kong-born poet and editor. She is a founding co-editor of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and the poetry editor of Fleeting Magazine. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Forward Prize. 

Canaan Morse

Canaan Morse was one of the founding editors of Pathlight: New Chinese Writing. He is a literary translator and editor with an M.A. in Classical Chinese Literature from Peking University. His work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Chinese Literature Today, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Words and the World, and elsewhere. His translation of Ge Fei’s novella The Invisibility Cloak, which won the Susan Sontag Prize for Translation, is due for publication in 2016 by New York Review of Books, as part of the NYRB Classics Series. He lives in Maine. 

Karmia Olutade

Karmia Olutade is a Chinese Canadian writer and translator who recently finished her degree in English literature and creative writing with an emphasis in poetry at Stanford University, where she began her dramatic writing career. Her original musicals and plays include Forgetting Tiburon, Nightmouth, Pawn (“Best Original Musical Award” at the 2011 Daegu Int’l Musical Festival; NY Int’l Fringe Festival), Tsangyang Gyatso and a young adult piece, Foundling Hill. Her bilingual poetry collection Ere (Foreign Languages Press) was published in 2007 and her English translation of Wang Wenqin’s poetry collection Good Now (Yunnan Publishing House), was published in 2013. She currently writes and teaches in Beijing.

Darryl Sterk

Darryl Sterk is a scholar of the representation of Taiwan’s aboriginal peoples in film and fiction and a literary translator specializing in Taiwan literature. He has translated short stories for The Taipei Chinese Pen, and a novel, Wu Ming-yi’s The Man With the Compound Eyes, for Harvill Secker (Britain, 2013) and Vintage Pantheon (USA, 2014). He teaches in the Graduate Program in Translation and Interpretation at National Taiwan University.

Jeremy Tiang

As well as Zhang Yueran’s The Promise Bird and Ten Loves, Jeremy has also translated books by Yu Qiuyu, Yan Geling, Yeng Pway Ngon and Su Wei-chen, amongst others. His adaptation of A Dream of Red Pavilions (红楼梦) will be staged in New York in 2016, and other plays have been performed in London and Singapore. Jeremy’s own fiction has appeared in Esquire, Ambit, Meanjin and Best New Singaporean Short Stories; his short story collection It Never Rains on National Day was recently released by Epigram Books.

Laura Tucker

Laura is a translator of art criticism, fiction, and poetry. Her background is in fine art and creative writing, and she has translated for the Ullens Center for Contemporary Art, the Pace Gallery in Beijing, LEAP, Randian, and Poly Auction Hong Kong. After three years in Beijing she recently relocated to Marfa, Texas.

Helen Wang

Helen Wang was born in Yorkshire, UK. She has degrees in Chinese (BA, SOAS) and Archaeology (PhD, UCL), and is currently Curator of East Asian Money at the British Museum. She's a London-based contributor to Paper-Republic.org and co-tweets with translator Nicky Harman on @cfbcuk (China Fiction Book Club UK).

编辑／人民文学杂志社

Editorial Department: People’s Literature Magazine

主编／施战军

Editor-in-Chief: Shi Zhanjun

副主编／宁小龄  徐坤  李东华

Deputy Editors: Ning Xiaoling, Xu Kun, Li Donghua

顾问／张涛  胡开敏

Consultants: Zhang Tao, Hu Kaimin

英文审定／徐明强

English Reader: Xu Mingqiang

编辑总监／李东华  艾瑞克

Editorial Directors: Li Donghua, Eric Abrahamsen

英文执行编辑／大卫  曹禅

English Managing Editors: Dave Haysom, Karmia Olutade

中文执行编辑／马小淘

Chinese Managing Editors: Ma Xiaotao

编辑／杨泥  徐则臣  朱零  李兰玉  曹雪萍  胡晓芳  戴桥西 

Editors: Yang Ni, Xu Zechen, Zhu Ling, Li Lanyu, Cao Xueping, Hu Xiaofang, and Joshua Dyer

协作／翻艺文化资讯有限公司

With Paper Republic Limited

平面设计／北京午夜阳光平面设计公司

Layout Design: Beijing WYYG Graphic Design

设计总监／王焱 85301701

Art Director: Wang Yan  85301701

发行总监／王志山  65030264

Director of Distribution: Wang Zhishan  65030264

《Pathlight》编辑部

Pathlight: New Chinese Writing Editorial Office

地址/北京农展馆南里10号楼7层人民文学杂志社（100125）

Address: 7th Floor, Building 10, Nongzhanguannanli 

 People’s Literature Magazine Beijing 100125 

Telephone: 65030264, 65003876