by Mo Yan
“Go into town and have some nice clothes made, Daughter-in-law. That’s the least I can do considering how you’ve looked after me these past few days.”
The next morning, Xiaojia woke me out of a sound sleep. “What are you doing?” I snapped.
“Get up,” he said with uncharacteristic boldness. “My dieh is waiting for you to comb his hair.”
This unexpected news made me very uncomfortable. The door to goodness is easy to open, they say, and hard to close. What did he expect of me? You are not the Empress Dowager, old wretch, and I am not Li Lianying. For the favor of having those few scraggly strands of washed-out, smelly dog hair combed out one time, you can thank eight generations of your pious ancestors. But like a cat that’s had a taste of fish, an old bachelor who’s had a taste of the good life, you can’t get enough. Did you really think that a five-ounce silver certificate was all you needed to buy my favors? Hah! Ponder for a moment who you are and who I am. I climbed down off the kang, boiling mad and of a mind to say exactly what I thought and teach him a lesson. But before I could open my mouth, the old wretch looked up and, as if talking to himself, said to the wall:
“I wonder who combs the County Magistrate’s hair for him.”
I shuddered. The old wretch was not human, I felt, but an invisible, all-knowing ghost. How else would he know that I combed Magistrate Qian’s hair? Having said what he wanted to say, he turned back around, sat up in his chair, and fixed his gloomy eyes on me. My anger suddenly gone, I meekly walked around and began combing his dog hair. And as I was doing that, I unconsciously thought about my gandieh’s nice black hair—sleek, glossy, fragrant. And when I grabbed hold of a queue that resembled nothing so much as a shedding donkey’s tail, my thoughts drifted to my gandieh’s heavy, fleshy queue, which seemed capable of moving all by itself. He could brush my body with that queue, from the top of my head down to my heels, gentle claws that burrowed into my heart and squeezed waves of seduction out of every pore.
I had no choice but to work the comb. It was time to drink the bitter brew of my own creation. Whenever I combed my gandieh’s hair, he began touching me, and before I had a chance to finish, our bodies were intertwined. I found it hard to believe that this old wretch was unmoved by my ministrations, and I was waiting for him to start climbing the pole. Old wretch, if you even try, I’ll make sure you can’t climb down once you’re up there. Yes, when that happens, you’ll start doing my bidding, and I’ll be damned if I’ll ever comb your hair again! Rumors swirled that the old wretch was in possession of a hundred thousand in silver certificates; sooner or later, he would have to bring it out for me to see. So I looked forward to the day when he would try to make the climb; but that day had yet to come. Still, I was not prepared to believe that there is a cat anywhere that does not like fish. Old wretch, we’ll see how long you can hold out. I loosened his queue and ran my comb through those soft, scraggly hairs. I was especially gentle that day, though it was a struggle not to vomit as my fingers touched the base of his ears and I pressed my breasts against the nape of his neck. “My dieh has been arrested,” I said, “and thrown in jail. With all the time you spent in the capital, and the reputation you enjoyed there, you can get him out.” He made no sound in response. He sat like a deaf mute, so with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder I repeated myself. Still no response. As the sun’s rays drifted by, they made the brass buttons on his brown silk Mandarin jacket shine, and then moved on to his hands, with which he unhurriedly fingered his sandalwood Buddhist beads. Pale and soft, those delicate hands seemed not to belong to someone of his sex and age. You could put a knife to my throat, and I still could not believe that they wielded an executioner’s sword. At least that is what I thought at the time; now I wasn’t so sure. I pressed myself even harder against him and said coyly, “Gongdieh, my dieh did something bad, but you, after all you’ve seen and done in the capital, you can do or say something to help him.” I squeezed his bony shoulder a second time and rested my full breasts on the nape of his neck as my lips formed a series of provocative sounds. When I used tricks like that on Qian Ding, Eminence Ding went limp and was ready to do whatever I asked. But the balding old wretch in front of me now was like an egg that could never be cooked; I could bounce my soft, supple breasts up and down in front of him or send enough seductive waves his way to submerge Gold Mountain Temple without getting a rise out of him. But then he abruptly stopped fingering the beads; I thought I saw those small, meaty hands begin to shake, and I was ecstatic. Have I finally gotten to you, you old wretch? A toad can hold up a bedpost only so long. I don’t believe you can keep those silver certificates hidden forever, and I don’t believe you will use my relationship with the County Magistrate to force me to comb your dog hair. Dieh, help me think of something. So I kept up the seductive act behind him, until, that is, I heard a contemptuous laugh, like the chilling hoot of an owl emerging from a graveyard deep in a dark woods on a moonless night. I froze. It felt as if ice ran through my veins, and all my thoughts and wishes flew off to I don’t know where. The old wretch, was he even human? Could a human being produce a laugh like that? No, he was not human; he was a demon. And so he must not be my gongdieh. In more than a dozen years with Xiaojia, I had never heard him say he had a dieh who lived in the capital. And he was not alone: our neighbors, too, who had seen much of the world and knew a thing or two, had never mentioned him. He could be a lot of things, but not my gongdieh. He and my husband looked nothing alike. Old baldy, you must be a beast in human form. Others might fear demons and spirits, but not the people in this family. I’ll have Xiaojia butcher the black dog out in the pen and keep its blood in a basin. Then, when you’re not looking, I’ll dump it over your bald pate to reveal your true form.
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4
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A light rain fell on Tomb-Sweeping Day; dirty gray clouds rolled lazily low in the sky as I walked out of town through South Gate, along with colorfully dressed young men and women. I was carrying an umbrella decorated with a copy of the painting Xu Xian Encounters a White Snake at West Lake, and I had oiled my hair and pinned it with a butterfly clip. I had lightly powdered my face and dabbed rouge on each cheek, had added a beauty mark at a spot between my eyebrows, and had painted my lips red. I was wearing a cerise jacket over green slacks, both of imported fabric. However terrible foreigners might be, their fabrics are first-rate. On my feet I wore full-sized cloth shoes whose green silk tops were embroidered with yellow Mandarin ducks floating amid pink lotus flowers. You people laugh at me because of my unbound feet, don’t you? Well, I’ll give you something to look at. I stole a glance at the quicksilver mirror, and there I saw a radiant, amorous beauty. That was someone even I could love, to say nothing of all those young men. Of course I was griefstricken over my dieh’s situation, but my gandieh once said that the deeper the sadness, the more important it was to put on a happy face and not give the impression of being a slave to your emotions. All right all right all right, take a look. Today this old madam is going to see how she stacks up against Gaomi’s city girls. I don’t care if it’s the daughter of the provincial licentiate or the apple of the Hanlin scholar’s eye, they cannot compete with one of my big toes. Big feet are the only things holding me back. When my niang died so young, there was no one at home to bind my feet, and it hurts me even to hear feet mentioned. But my gandieh says he loves big, natural feet, loves the natural feel of them, and whenever he is on top of me, he has me pummel his bare bottom with my heels.
“Big feet are best!” he shouts when I do that. “Big feet are best! Golden ingots, better than bound feet, those goat hooves . . .”
Back then, even though my dieh was playing with magical powers and had erected a spirit altar in Northeast Gaomi as part of his plan to engage the Germans in mortal combat, and even though his activities drove my gandieh to distraction, and even though he was depressed over the deaths of twenty-seven citizens, peace reigned in the town. The bloody events that had occurred in N
ortheast Township had had no effect on the big city. My gandieh, Eminence Qian, had built a swing set out of China fir on the grounds of the military academy outside South Gate, attracting boys and girls from all over town. The girls dressed in their finest; the boys combed and oiled their queues until they shone. Shrieks of joy and whoops of laughter filled the sky and were joined by the shouts of peddlers:
Candied——crabapples——!
Melon seeds——peanuts——!
After folding my umbrella, I made my way into the crowd and looked around. My eyes fell first on the young mistress of the Qi family, who was attended by a pair of maidservants. Renowned as someone who wrote especially well—verse and prose—she was splendidly dressed and resplendently jeweled. Too bad she had a long, horse-like face, pale as a salt flat, on which lay two anemic grassy clumps—her eyebrows. I also saw the daughter of Hanlin Scholar Ji, who was attended by four maidservants; she was reputed to be peerless in the art of embroidery and was a talented musician, proficient in instruments from the zither to the lute and balloon guitar. Sadly, she had a small nose and undersized ears that combined to make her look like a little bitch with tiny, toad-like eyes. The whores who walked out of Rouge Alley, on the other hand, laughed and wiggled like chimps and had a lively good time. After taking in everything around me, I held my head up proudly and threw out my chest, drawing approving stares from all the young scamps, who looked me over admiringly. Their mouths hung open like dark caves; slobber wetted their chins. I smiled and struck a pose. My dear boys, my little darlings, go home and enjoy your erotic dreams. Take a long look—this is my good deed for the day. Well, they stood there besotted for a while, and when they finally regained their senses, they let out a roar that made the ground tremble. Then came the lusty shouts:
“Dog-Meat Xishi, the best in Gaomi!”
“Look look look at that peach-blossom face and willow waist. The graceful neck of a mantis and the shapely legs of a white crane!”
“The top part is to die for; the bottom part will petrify you! Only Eminence Qian, with his strange obsession, can appreciate the big feet of a living fairy!”
Watch your tongues, boys. What you say by the roadside is heard in the grass. If someone reports you, you’ll be whisked inside the yamen to have your backsides turned to mush by forty swats of the paddle.
Go on, little monkeys, say what you want. I’m in no mood today to take offense. Who cares what you imps think as long as His Eminence likes what he sees? I’m here for the swings, not to listen to your silly talk. I know you’d just love to lap up my pee.
At the moment no one was using the swings, their thick, wet ropes swaying in the drizzle, waiting for me. I tossed away my umbrella, which was caught by a little monkey that ran up as I jumped forward, like a carp leaping out of the water. I grabbed the ropes, jumped a second time, and landed on the swing seat with both feet. Now you children will see the advantage of having big feet. “Hey, boys and girls,” I shouted, “open your eyes and take a lesson on the art of swinging. Coal looks clean compared to the face of the fat, clumsy girl who sat on the swing before me. A millstone is tiny compared to her backside, and water chestnuts are bigger than her feet. What was someone like that doing on a swing set? How mortifying! She looked like a lizard. What is a swing set, after all? It’s a moving stage for an actor to display her skills and show off her face; she’s a sampan riding the waves, she’s the wind of desire, the surge of seduction, the rage of passion, the epitome of lust. This is a chance for a woman to act the siren. Why do you think my gandieh chose this spot to build a swing set? Because of his devotion to the people? Hah! You think too highly of yourselves. I’ll tell you why. He built it for me, as my Qingming gift. Go ask him if you don’t believe me. I took dog meat to him last night, and after our frolic in bed, he put his arms around me and said, ‘Tomorrow is Qingming, my pet, my precious, and I have built you a swing set on the Southern Academy parade ground. I know you once played the sword-and-horse role, so go out there and put your feet to work. You might not make a splash for all of Shandong, but for my sake make one for all of Gaomi County. Let those commoners know that Qian’s little pet is special, another Hua Mulan! Let them know that big feet are better than bound ones, and that Qian will change prevailing customs by prohibiting the practice of binding women’s feet.’
“I said, ‘Gandieh, you have been so sad about what happened to my dieh. You are taking a risk by protecting him. And when you are unhappy, I am in no mood for entertainments.’ Well, he kissed my foot and said with an emotional sigh:
“’Meiniang, my dearest, I want to use Qingming to sweep all gloomy, inauspicious signs out of the county. The dead cannot be brought back to life, but the living have a right to a little gaiety. No one sympathizes with a grumbler, who winds up being the butt of jokes. But if you square your shoulders and get tough, tougher than everyone else, ready to take them on, you’ll have them where you want them. Writers will put you in their books; playwrights will write plays about you. So climb onto those swings and show them what you’re made of. Ten years from now, the repertoire of that Maoqiang opera of yours might well include a play called Sun Meiniang Raises Eyebrows on a Swing!’
“’I may not be able to do much, Gandieh,’ I said as I lifted his beard with my feet, ‘but I will not cause you embarrassment when I am on the swing.’”
Holding the ropes with both hands, I squatted down, bent my legs, and stood on the balls of my feet; then, sticking my rear end out and leaning forward, I threw out my chest, raised my head, and, with my midriff as a fulcrum, began to swing. I pulled the ropes back toward me and, feet on the seat, again threw out my chest and raised my head, pushing with my legs, bent at the knees. The metal rings cried out with urgency as my swing gained momentum, higher, faster, steeper, harder, deeper; the taut ropes sang like the wind; the rings made a fearful noise. I was transported to a fairyland; I felt like a bird soaring aloft, my arms transformed into wings, feathers sprouting on my chest. At the summit, the swing and my body hung in the air together, while tides of ocean waves surged through my heart—swelling high, then falling low, one wave hard upon another, foam gathering in the air. Big fish chasing little fish, little fish chasing shrimp. Waa waa waa waa . . . higher higher higher, not yet high enough, just a little higher, a little more . . . my body laid out horizontally, my face bumped into the soft yellow belly of a curious swallow; I felt as if I were lying on a cushiony pad woven of wind and rain, and when I reached the highest possible point, I bit a flower off the tip of the highest branch of the oldest and tallest apricot tree around. Shouts erupted on the ground below. I was carefree, I was relaxed and at ease, I had achieved the Tao, I was an immortal . . . and then, a breach in the dam, the waters retreated, waves returning to sea, taking foam with them; big fish tugged on little fish, little fish dragged shrimps, la la la la, all in retreat. I reached bottom, and then flew up again. My head pitched back between the twin ropes as they grew taut again and trembled in my hands, and I was nearly parallel to the ground. I could see fresh soil where purple sprouts of new grass were beginning to poke through. The apricot blossom was still between my teeth, its subtle fragrance filling my nostrils.
All the while I was having a frisky good time on the swing, my earthbound audience, especially all those sons and grandsons, those little hooligans, were as frenzied as I was. They ooh-ed on my way up and aah-ed on my way back down. “Ooh, there she goes! Aah, here she comes!” My clothes fluttered in the wind, carrying fine drops of rain—damp and cloyingly sweet, like wet cowhide—which filled my heart to overflowing. Sure, my dieh had gotten into a terrible fix, but a married daughter is like water splashed on the ground—it cannot be taken back. You will have to look out for yourself, Dieh, and I will do the same from here on out. I have a kind and simple husband at home, a man who can keep out the wind and the rain for me, and a powerful, affectionate, and entertaining lover outside the home. There is strong drink when I feel like it, meat when I want it, and no one can stop me f
rom crying or laughing or flirting or causing a scene. That is the definition of happiness. It is the happiness that my devout, sutra-chanting, long-suffering niang made possible for me; it is the happiness that fate had in store for me. I thank the heavens for that. I thank the Emperor and Empress for that. I thank His Eminence Magistrate Qian for that. I thank my dull and peculiar husband, Xiaojia, for that. And I thank Magistrate Qian’s supernatural “club” for that. It is a rare treasure seldom found in heaven or on earth; it is the medicine that cures my ills.
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5
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A popular adage has it that “When the moon is full, the decline begins; when the river is high, water flows away. When someone is too happy, bad things happen; and when dogs feel good, they fight over shit.” While I was the center of attention on the swing, a mob from Northeast Gaomi Township, armed with shovels, pickaxes, pitchforks, carrying poles, wooden spears, and rakes, and led by my dieh, Sun Bing, was surrounding a railroad shed that housed German rail workers, killing many of the invaders’ lackeys, and taking three German soldiers hostage. After stripping the soldiers naked and tying them to scholar trees, they sprayed their faces with urine. Then they burned the wooden construction signs, dug up the tracks and dumped them into the river, and carried the railroad ties home to build pigsties. They also burned the shed to the ground.
At the height of my arc, above the public wall, I could see the warren of houses in town; I also saw the cobblestone street in front of the yamen and rows of tiled buildings in my gandieh’s official compound. I saw his four-man palanquin being carried out through the ceremonial gate, led by a black-clad yayi in a red cap who banged a gong to clear the way. He was followed by two rows of yayi dressed the same way, carrying tall poles with banners of his official insignia, sunshades, and fans. Two sword-bearing guards walked directly ahead of the chair, holding the shafts with one hand. The procession behind the chair included the secretaries of the six bureaus and personal servants. Three long and one short clangs of the gong were followed by impressive shouts; the palanquin barriers moved with swift, nimble steps, as if their legs had springs. The chair rose and fell rhythmically, like a boat tossed on ocean swells.