Now the bus rolls to a stop in the town.
The woman gets off first, followed by a large trunk handed down by several men. Look! A beautiful face invites many helping hands.
“Thanks!” she says in a standard Beijing dialect as the bus pulls away.
She moves toward the town, struggling to manage her cumbersome luggage.
Hillock Zhang is sitting on the terrace, reading Reference News. Literate Li, his assistant, who has nothing to do, takes an afternoon sunbath.
“Uncle Zhang,” says Li, “some woman is approaching, and she’s so beautiful!”
Roused from his paper, Hillock Zhang glances at the woman, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Why bother?” scoffs Zhang. “A woman like that looks good from afar, but when she’s closer—a pig! From a distance that woman looks good simply because of her dress and manner, but a closer examination will reveal her true nature. She may be unfortunate in her nose or eyes or even in a woeful facial expression. But a pig is different. Close up, it looms quite large, while from afar it seemed merely a small figure, even delicate.”
“Ahem.” Li the Literate warns his boss by clearing his throat, for the woman is close enough now to be seen clearly. She’s wearing a pink dress and high-heeled shoes, walking on long, slim legs. Her face is lightly powdered. A pair of sunglasses balances on her nose.
“How well dressed she is!” whispers Zhang as the woman approaches.
“Are there any hotels available here in town, sir?”
“No.”
“Any place to stay the night?”
“There is a guesthouse, you see, over there—those three stories. The ground floor is for dining, and the other two above are for living. Just over there. Lift your foot, and it’s yours.”
“Thank you, sir!”
And off she goes.
Literate Li steps forward. His face reflects a growing concern for the woman, as her luggage is too large to be balanced by legs so long and slim. But Li is too shy to offer his help, so he merely watches her move away.
With his eyes still on the figure of the woman disappearing, Li asks Zhang, “How old is she? Can you guess, Uncle?”
“Never ask the age of a city woman.” More experienced in life, Zhang advises, “Her face may be worth a look in the broad daylight. But night will reveal a face covered with pumpkin and cucumber pulp—watermelon rind and the like, which makes her face that of a ghost’s. A woman will be cared for if her face is good; she has no concerns in the world, just good drink and good food her whole life through. Everything is just good for her! But a countrywoman, my goodness, must use her hands to dig up food from the land, and her face is, well, quite secondary. And so when you ask me about this woman’s age, you give me a challenge. Twenty? Right. Thirty? Right. And even forty, I dare say, could be right for her.”
“Nonsense. That makes no sense at all!” Li answers back, unsatisfied. “Uncle Zhang, you are experienced. Tell me, do you believe this woman is still pure, or not?”
“That, I can answer for you,” Zhang says, brimming with pride. “My experience says to look at her hips and legs first, and then her waist and lips. Mr. Zhang is no whistle-blower, but judging from how she walks, I’d bet that city woman is no maiden!”
Literate Li watches the woman move away, entranced.
The woman approaches the guesthouse and checks in. For her name, she fills in “Nan, Duckweed.” (“Nan,” her surname, literally means “from the South.”) She enters “Manager” for her profession, and pauses awhile for her age, finally writing in “adult.” For place of residence, she writes “Beijing.” She identifies this little town as her final destination. Under “Reason for Traveling,” she enters “Personal.”
“Hello,” the attendant greets her. “What kind of room would you like?”
“The best one you have,” the woman replies, and the arrangements are made.
She goes upstairs. “We also serve food here!” a voice shouts from behind her.
Half an hour later, the woman comes back downstairs. She has put on a jacket because of the cool mountain air. She inspects the tables to see which is the best, the cleanest. Once seated, she picks up a pair of chopsticks from a bamboo box and cleans them with a piece of napkin, holding the chopsticks in her right hand.
The wait for her food is long and makes her anxious—but this is the pace of things in a small town. The woman feels tired after her long bus journey and keeps dozing off, one elbow propped on the table and her hand on her forehead.
A child’s face suddenly appears from under the table.
Startled at the motion, Duckweed Nan opens her eyes.
The child gazes at her and mumbles, “Legs in flood, lips in blood!”
“What did you say? Hey!” She senses something funny in the child’s speech.
“Legs in flood, lips in blood!” the child repeats loudly.
A waitress arrives with a plate of dumplings. Beet-red, she yells at the child: “Naughty, Qiong Qiong! Be careful, or you’re going to get it!”
Making faces, the child escapes from under the table and runs into the street, looking for a new way to amuse herself.
The waitress places the plate on the table.
“What did she say?” asks Duckweed.
“She is cursing you, saying that your legs are bare like a fisherman’s and your lips so red, like a vampire’s.”
“Oh, is that so?” Duckweed finds herself offended, instinctively tugging at her skirt and neckline as if to cover herself up.
She secures a dumpling with the chopsticks, takes a bite, and then puts it down. Her eyebrows pucker at the bad taste.
To the waitress nearby, she says, “I saw a tall old fellow standing on the terrace, reading a newspaper. Is that Zhang, the party secretary of the town?”
“Yes, that’s right. He is Hillock Zhang. We call him Uncle Zhang. He’s not a party secretary anymore, you know. He’s just a mediator in the town, playing the part of peacemaker in conflicts. Helping people in trouble get out of trouble.”
“Yes, I noticed the sign on the wall when I passed by. And what is your name?”
“Asiatic Plantain,” the other answers.
“Then, Plantain, I need your help. Would you go and ask Hillock Zhang to come over to my room in the evening? Just tell him that my name is Duckweed Nan and that I’m an educated young woman from Beijing, settling down in this military outpost.”
“All right.”
Night falls in the small town. Dim streetlights extinguish, one after another, from the insufficient power. The moon hangs brightly in the sky, casting the mountain’s large shadow over half the town, the mountain looming faintly in outline. All is silent except for the barking of someone’s dog nearby. In the distance, a stream murmurs along the ravine. Closer, dripping water can be heard.
Plantain leads the way, and Hillock Zhang and Literate Li follow.
“Yes,” Zhang is saying, “at that time, educated young people came from Beijing to settle down in northern Shaanxi by the tens of thousands—at least twenty-six or twenty-seven thousand. Now, you see, only a few hundred remain. But through hard life experience, these cubs have grown into tigers. Some are in America, some in Japan, others in Australia and other countries. Some have become writers, some journalists, and still others managers of some kind. Rough times can temper a personality! Can you imagine what our society would be like if that generation had grown up differently?”
Literate Li asks, “What about Duckweed Nan? Do you know her?”
“No. She was not in my brigade. But I remember seeing her name on the list of education activists from Dazhai in the people’s commune.”
“But her visit here is a mystery. She didn’t go to the town hall, nor to the village head, but merely to you. Why?”
They come upon the guesthouse, and Zhang steps forward and knocks on the door.
Duckweed appears at the open door.
Hers is the best room in the guesthouse of such a
small town. Furnished with a TV, a pair of sofas, a desk, a double bed, and, most importantly, a bathroom, it is just like a room in a city house.
“Ha, ha!” Zhang enters the room and launches into his opening speech. Nan turns off the TV, instantly attentive.
“Cadres from Beijing—excellent!” Zhang declares. “Whether they be soldiers in the army or students at college or workers in a factory, they no longer visit their parents but us folks, in Spring Festivals or the like, saying ‘our brigade’ this and ‘our family’ that. Nowadays they have their own families and work even harder, but they keep on writing to us, sending their good wishes to every house and home.”
“Party Secretary Zhang, your speech moves me deeply!” Nan says. “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Tea for me,” Zhang says.
“Coffee? I’ve seen it only in movies. Is it tasty?” Li asks shyly, glancing at the hostess and then ducking his head down again.
“It’s pretty good. Why not try it?”
The service begins right away, each enjoying his share, and at last the hostess makes a coffee for herself, with her own cup that she brought with her.
Nan produces a pack of 555 brand cigarettes and places them before Zhang.
“I already have some,” says Zhang, pointing to his own pack of cigarettes.
Silence prevails for a moment. Zhang looks at Duckweed, and Duckweed looks at Zhang.
Zhang suspects that the woman has something on her mind, something hidden, and notices how her hands fumble while serving him tea. She’s a person of position with no reason to be nervous before them. Perhaps it’s only the excitement of a cadre returning to her second home. But to Zhang it seems like something personal.
Literate Li takes a sip of his coffee, and the bitterness leaves him with a sour face. He’s about to speak, but the tension in the air overwhelms him.
“I have something to say,” Duckweed announces, “but I’m not sure how to put it.” Turning serious, she walks to the other end of the room and bolts the door. She lights a cigarette and begins to smoke it.
“You can tell me, your uncle Zhang. I’m not a party secretary anymore; I’m a mediator now. I go around Good Luck Town trying to make things work out or smooth things out. Don’t treat me like an outsider; you can come to me for help.”
“But how can I say it to you?” Duckweed begins sobbing.
“Just say it. I’m ready to listen to you,” the mediator encourages. “I’m experienced, and my ears are attuned. The world is a complex bundle of things, and anything queer or crazy might happen. Whatever happens, though, happens for a reason.”
Duckweed stops sobbing and begins to tell her story. “I had a child when I was in the countryside—about twenty years ago.”
“I guessed as much, even before you said anything,” confides Zhang.
“I’m planning to go to my brigade tomorrow. May I tell you the whole story on the way, if you’d be willing to keep me company?” asks Duckweed.
Uncle Zhang nods. “No problem.”
“Uncle, this is a present for you. And your reward is not included.” Duckweed fetches a bag from the cupboard, showing Uncle Zhang a bottle of wine, two cartons of cigarettes, and some high-end tonics. She has come prepared.
“No, that wouldn’t be right.” Zhang waves his hands to reject the offering. “You are looking down upon me. I’m your uncle Zhang!”
“Don’t treat me like an outsider—just like you said,” Duckweed retorts cleverly. “Please accept these gifts as tokens of my respect for you, or else I’ll be horribly upset.”
“Well, then, we’ll take them.” Zhang signals to Literate Li.
Li does what he is told.
Early the next morning, a three-wheeled tractor moves out of the town and enters the road along the valley in the mountains. It zigzags across a stream, making a big noise all the way. The driver is Little Islet, whom everyone knows.
The tractor carries Duckweed Nan, Hillock Zhang, and Literate Li away from the town.
Duckweed holds a video recorder in her hand, its small bag hanging from her shoulder. Against the backdrop of tractor noise, Duckweed is telling her story.
“He was a demobilized soldier, very handsome, a typical native of Suide County. It was during the Spring Festival, and I was on duty while others were off at home. I was alone in the cabin and scared at night. And so I knocked on his door, the door of my landlord, and lay down on the kang, sleeping with the man I loved. Shortly after that, I found out I was pregnant. I was scared. I could do nothing but tighten my waist belt while working in the field. Finally, I told him the secret and asked him for help.
“That night by the river, he said, ‘I can marry you.’
“I told him, ‘No. I’m going back to work in the city.’
“‘You can accuse me of rape, for the sake of your own reputation,’ he offered. ‘I will go to jail for eight years, and then I’ll get out.’”
“That’s true,” Zhang cuts in. “According to the CPC document issued in the fall of 1970, anyone who raped an educated girl would be sentenced to eight years in jail. Every commune member knew those terms. But how did you respond, dear girl?”
“How could I betray him? I shook my head firmly. I reminded him that I was the one who’d knocked on his door. At that, he turned away and left me without a word. He was upset. Before long, news came that he had died at the construction site on the Zhang River, when the dam caved in.”
A vivid image flashes across Zhang’s mind: a good man, always with an army cap on his head. He says, “He was found under a frozen block of soil. I was one of the men responsible for the construction, you know.”
Duckweed continues her story. “My friends, kind women, treated me so well that they wouldn’t allow me to work in the field, instead arranging for me to cook at home. I gave birth in October. The dates hanging in the tree were extremely big and red that year; I still remember them.
“But how to deal with the little creature was a problem. I told my friend, ‘Take her from me, and leave her outside the village. If someone kind enough picks her up, she’ll enjoy a full, happy life.’ The baby burst into a loud cry at the door, and I called them back inside and kissed her one last time. Then I wrapped her little body in the army jacket I loved best and handed her over to my friends.”
The tractor booms loudly and shudders hard before it comes to a stop. A narrow path stretches ahead.
“Uncle Zhang, I can’t go any farther,” says Little Islet. “You can walk from here.” Turning off of the main road along the stream, they begin climbing the hillock.
“Wait a moment!” Duckweed shouts. She leads the way down. Before them a date tree stands tall, and Duckweed photographs it for a while. Then she takes a picture of the village between the woods and the hills in the distance. She moves under the date tree and kneels down for a closer look. There is nothing remarkable there except for a kind of spinachlike plant amid the grass.
Hillock Zhang approaches. “Is this where they left her?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m sure it was here.” Duckweed removes her sunglasses for a closer look, as if she might suddenly find the child.
“I can’t have any more children, you know, Uncle, so this child is very important to me.”
Zhang stands there, not knowing what to say.
“Party Secretary,” she asks, “is it possible that she’s already dead?”
“Silly question! Whatever comes into being in this world is supposed to live, for one reason or another. You know what they say: A piglet is born with food for three days.”
“Oh, I do hope she survived somehow,” Duckweed says. “What do you call this grass?”
“Plantain. Asiatic plantain.”
“Plantain?” repeats Duckweed. She takes a picture of the plant.
Duckweed Nan asks Literate Li to shoot a photo of her with the plant and date tree. Li waves his hands and says, “No, no. This is the first time I’ve even seen such a machine.”
> “It’s easy. Just frame the picture you want and shoot. This is on, this is off.” Li listens attentively and masters it immediately.
Nan starts to head for the village. Li holds the camera before his eyes, following her pace. Zhang follows Li, but slowly.
From above, a local housewife looks down into the courtyard. Duckweed stops and shouts to her. “Are you Pillar’s Wife?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Duckweed. I saw you long ago at your wedding ceremony. We were pulling the handcart at the construction site. Remember?”
“I remember that! Here in the mountains we have fewer things to remember, you know. We think of you whenever we have the chance.”
“You were always the most beautiful wife in the village.”
“Not anymore. I’m over forty already! Come and sit for a while in my cabin, please!”
“I’d love to, but not now. First I have to go to the cadres’ cabin in the back valley, and then I’ll come back for visits from door to door.”
“OK, I’ll be waiting.”
Another courtyard echoes with the sound of a huge roller on a millstone. Duckweed climbs up the steep incline to see.
“Aunt, you are still alive?” Duckweed’s hands fly up to cover her mouth in surprise.
Her aunt is pushing the roller around. She stops, drying her eyes with the front of her garment, not knowing who is greeting her.
“I beg your pardon. Sorry. Aunt, it’s Duckweed. We young people mourned sadly because we were told that you had passed away!”
“Yeah, Nan! You still remember your aunt? I fell seriously ill but did not die. The king of hell licked my nose and found it bare—so he spared me!”
Duckweed helps push the roller as her aunt sweeps the millet toward the center of the millstone.
“Why don’t you go in and sit in the cabin, my child?”
“Not now. Dear Aunt, it is so nice to see you well. I promise to come back once I return from the village.”
“I will serve you good food when you come back.”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 14