Beside the rock is a leafless tree. Even with some effort, Jia cannot identify it. Suddenly he feels that this tree reminds him of something in his inner heart, but he can’t say what it is. He stares at the tree for a while, and then it comes to him: the tree is like him in that it is also alone here. Jia has been a bachelor all his life; his only son was brought to him from outside the mountains. He never wanted to be alone but he is doomed to be, for just like the tree left here on the rock, he was born in the remote mountains . . .
Jia grumbles to himself—several words but nothing meaningful. Mountain people have the habit of talking to themselves. The words don’t matter so much as the act of talking to somebody, your voice reaching two ears. Just as, if you were hit on the head with a stick, you would certainly utter something—it’s our instinct.
He draws out his steel, ready to strike it on the flint. Considering for a moment, he puts it back and takes out something else. It’s a delicate lighter that he asked someone to buy for him from outside the mountains. It’s so much more convenient than the flint. In fact, the flint is outdated and should have been discarded, but he is loath to part with his flint.
One time, years ago, he shot a bear but refused to sell the gallbladder to a merchant who offered one hundred yuan. When another man asked to buy the gallbladder for five yuan, Jia gave it to him for nothing; he knew that the guy needed the gallbladder to cure his old mother of her eye disease. How strange a person he is! And yet, many things in the world are just as strange as Old Jia!
He lights up a cigarette, inhales heavily, and blows out the smoke until he can feel it throughout his body. As he exhales he looks at another leafless tree. Without a second glance, Jia recognizes it as sumac. Sumac is a strange tree: it excretes a poisonous sap that makes people itchy and swollen all over their body. There’s an old saying that goes, sumac is mad; it kisses you nowhere but the balls. That year, prospectors touched a sumac and later had swollen eyes and were found scratching all day long with their hands in their trousers.
His foster son was once kissed by the sumac. Jia smeared egg white and leek juice to cure his son. His foster son had been brought to him from outside the mountains. That winter, a group of displaced people begged all the way here from Gansu Province and sold the boy to him for three leopard skins. Outsiders teased him about exchanging such a skinny kid for three precious hides, saying that was paying for doing the favor of bringing the kid back and raising him. Jia didn’t think of it that way. He had insisted on offering the kid’s father three skins. He himself had never been a father, but he felt that this trade gave him a better understanding of what being a father meant. Of what value are these skins, these fortunes? All these things count for nothing compared to a child; a child is the most precious thing in the world. A child is the core of one’s life, the very basis for a harmonious family.
After being hurt by the bear, San Wa was paralyzed. So when those prospectors came here, Old Jia tried his best to persuade a prospector to sleep with San Wa’s wife. Before long, San Wa’s wife was pregnant. The prospector was handsome and open-minded; his seed shouldn’t be too bad! After the child was born, San Wa was pleased and gave his best offerings to his guest. The prospector, however, was bitterly punished by his team leader. The punishment was so severe that the prospector shed tears of humiliation. Jia could not stand by and watch; he came out to give the leader a good scolding. How on earth could this man understand? He had never lived in the remote mountains and didn’t know what it was like. Didn’t he understand the difficulty of just surviving here, generation to generation? It was perfectly justified for a woman to sleep with a man. If not this man, then it would be some other; there was nothing curious about that. It is true that, in sleeping with a local woman, the prospector had violated the rules of his team, but shouldn’t the leader take into account that, as a result, a lively little life had come to earth?
Jia straightens himself. He feels a surge of confidence and pride rising inside him whenever he thinks of that baby. He’d never had such a feeling before: he feels that the profound and huge mountains are everlasting and that many sturdy things in the mountains are also everlasting. These things show great tenacity and indomitable perseverance, almost more beautiful and powerful than the mountain itself.
Jia hears a rustling sound once again, this time with greater force. He looks up and sees that the red sun has disappeared. Up the slopes, darkness is gathering its forces. Back in the shady area a dense mist is already collecting. Dusk will fall in a while; the little bear will surely show itself soon.
Jia takes his gun and begins to probe his way through the long grasses.
Sure enough, the little cub is looking around on the opposite slope, seeming to realize that it’s in danger. Its round eyes glance about, showing a trace of childishness as well as worry and fear. The little bear hesitates for a while and then can’t help but extend one paw and scurry over a rock. A moment later, it peers out from the grasses and hurtles downward into the depth of the hollow. Its rump twists clumsily from side to side all the way down the slope.
Seeing its awkward way of moving, Jia can’t hold his laughter. He is aiming at the cub the whole time; his finger has never left the trigger for even a second. He could pull the trigger at any time and set a crack echoing through the hollow, but instead he waits with great patience, for a good hunter should wait for the best chance to shoot.
Finally the little bear stumbles to the floor of the hollow. Jia can hear its gasps and groans. Why is it groaning? It’s obviously saying something! The cub is pouring out its feelings to its mother in a language Jia cannot understand. At that critical moment, Jia is only waiting for the cub to stand still.
Finally the little bear stands still. Jia aims his gun at the bear’s heart and is ready to pull the trigger. Suddenly the little bear throws itself toward its mother. It is so excited that it’s actually running to the mother bear. Seeing her child, the mother bear throws up her thick paws with the same excitement and utters a strange sound at the same time. It is not a howl, nor is it a painful groan. It must have a special meaning. Is it a warning for the little bear to escape at once? Or a comfort for having found its way back to her? Nobody can say. Old Jia, however, suddenly feels a throb rising up inside himself.
Finally, the little bear throws himself to his mother, desperately pushing with his head against the mother bear. Later, he begins to lick the bloodstains on his mother’s bosom, his mouth uttering a special growl; it sounds like sobbing or wailing. The mother seems to have forgotten her own severe pains and grows tender and soft, making no noise, gently nuzzling the little bear. They seem to have forgotten the danger around them and embrace each other tightly.
Crack!
The gun fires and the whole mountain range shudders. The dense smoke of gunpowder momentarily blocks Jia’s view and then fades. But what has happened? At the pivotal moment, Jia’s hand trembled so violently that his gun shook and the bullet missed its mark!
Jia looks at his gun with surprise, his gun leaning against the rock listlessly with the muzzle pointing downward. Now something wet and soft seems to rise from the bottom of his heart. It shrouds him and leaves him a little at a loss. He doesn’t know what he should do. Eventually he raises his head, realizing dusk is already climbing up around him.
A silence prevails in the woods.
It’s a silence that will last forever.
Translated by Ji Wenkai
Wang Peng
Born in Xi’an City, Shaanxi Province, Wang Peng graduated from the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, Peking University, in 1988. He was a staff member of Hanzhong Mass Art Hall, chairman of the Hanzhong Literary Federation, and chairman of the Writers Association. Wang Peng is vice-chairman of the Shaanxi Provincial Writers Association and a standing committee member of the third Shaanxi Literary Federation.
Wang Peng made his literary debut in 1973 and joined the Chinese Writers Association in 1984. His works include the novel
s Sacrifice of the Mountain and Water Burial; the collections of short stories Night of Rape in Blossom, Secret, and Black Peony and Her Husband; the prose collections Continuous Homesickness, Beijing Records, and Hanzhong Woman; and the biographies Vagrants’ Footprints and Mountains and Rivers.
15
WANG PENG
Sister Yinxiu
This story has to begin ten years ago.
She was thirty years old then, and people called her Sister Yinxiu. Her husband had just died, leaving her with a seven- or eight-year-old son. Her mother-in-law had headed the village cadre of the women’s federation for many years. The older woman was capable and kind, treating Sister Yinxiu like her own daughter. Thanks to her comfort and help, Sister Yinxiu did not plunge into extreme sorrow and loneliness.
By chance, the piggery of the village was in disarray then and the pig keeper was about to be replaced, so Father Qingshun, head of the village, arranged for an offer to be made to Sister Yinxiu for her to be in charge of the piggery.
Accepting the offer, she said to herself, it’s good—I know how to handle a piggery since I raised pigs when I was young. Besides, once I engage myself in doing something, I may forget unhappy things. Guifang, Sister Yinxiu’s mother-in-law, agreed with her decision; the older woman shared the management of the village and was also concerned about the piggery. Besides, Guifang understood her daughter-in-law very well. For the sake of convenience, Sister Yinxiu brought her son and made their home at the piggery.
Sister Yinxiu was a hardworking and stoic woman who would rather suffer than be a burden on others. There was a saying: food makes a pig fatten. However, at that time, the human beings did not have enough to eat, let alone the pigs! Therefore, though Sister Yinxiu worked very hard, the pigs remained thin. She was so worried that she became preoccupied. She went to Father Qingshun and her mother-in-law several times every day to ask for solutions. Finally, they had an idea. There was a row of newly built factories at the foot of a nearby mountain. Because the factories were on village land, their managers had agreed that villagers could help themselves to the refuse from the workers’ dining hall. Discarded vegetables, rinds of melon and fruit, leftover food and wastewater from washing rice and utensils—all this could make a feast for pigs.
That was how Sister Yinxiu met Old Mo, a cook working in the factory dining hall. He was a jocular Sichuanese with a broad forehead and kind eyes. In the entire dining hall, he had the best cooking skills and also the loudest voice. His loud Sichuan accent could be heard over any din. In addition, he was warmhearted and always ready to help.
When she came there the first time, Sister Yinxiu was impressed by the grandeur and spaciousness of the dining hall. The entire kitchen, from floor to ceiling, was covered with ceramic tiles. Very different from the dirty kitchens of the peasants’ households, it was dazzlingly white; it stunned this simple provincial woman. Afraid to taint the clean floor, Sister Yinxiu was at a loss about where to put down the buckets for pig food that she’d carried on a pole across her shoulders. Fortunately, Old Mo noticed her uneasiness and greeted her in his loud voice, showing her the collecting place and helping her pick up the discarded vegetables and fruit rinds, thus preventing her from making a fool of herself.
Needless to say, the food carried back from the dining hall became delicacies for the pigs, which ate with gusto until they were content. As long as they eat, they will grow and become pregnant and give birth to piglets, Sister Yinxiu thought with satisfaction, as if she could already see big-bellied sows staggering in the pigsty, followed by groups of piglets. This vision made her grateful for the factory dining hall. It also conjured visions of Old Mo with his broad forehead and kind eyes. How I wish I could meet him again . . .
The next time she came to the kitchen, the discarded vegetables and leftover food had already been collected in two metal buckets. She assumed that Old Mo had done it, in a moment of extraordinary kindness. However, he went on to do that every day, collecting the scraps ahead of time for her. No matter whether she arrived early or late, he was perfectly consistent.
Sister Yinxiu could not help feeling grateful to Old Mo.
Maybe his home is in the countryside, Sister Yinxiu speculated. Otherwise, how could he know the hardships of the country folks and the problems of pig raising? But then, feeling somewhat ashamed, she wondered, but does his wife also raise pigs? Does she also carry food for pigs?
Soon Sister Yinxiu learned that Old Mo did not have a wife. He was still single, although he was nearly forty years old. Impossible! How is it that no woman loves such a good man? Why doesn’t he have a family? She didn’t believe it at first. When it proved to be true, she felt pity and sorrow for him. Still later, she realized that she secretly felt somewhat happy that Mo was single. Why? Even she herself could not tell. A light of hope emerged dimly in her heart. But this good mood soon gave way to dejection, melancholy, and disappointment, the familiar and pervasive feelings of a widowed woman.
The workers at the dining hall gradually learned that Sister Yinxiu was also single, and their eyes began to dart between her and Old Mo, as if by just watching the pair, the kitchen help could connect the two of them. Often, as soon as Sister Yinxiu stepped into the dining hall, all the clamor suddenly stopped; the young lads making steamed buns and the young maidens cutting vegetables would wink and make faces behind her back. She was aware of their joking. How embarrassing! How can I show my face in here again? She felt irritated and shy at first, but when she considered the meaning of the jokes, a faint smile appeared on her face, dispelling the lonely expression so common to widows.
However, the more she thought about it, the more complicated her sentiments became, as if two forces were struggling against each other in her heart. On her way to the dining hall, she’d be thinking of Old Mo’s broad forehead, kind eyes, and tender care; it cast a happy spell on her, making her excited, delighted, and hopeful. But on her way home, seeing the village far ahead wrapped in the smoke of peasants’ cooking fires, the fog, and evening mist, she’d feel herself constrained by rules, customs, moral codes, and some unspeakable forces hidden in them, which, though invisible, could control people’s fates. Then she would deeply regret her indulgence and decide that on her next trip to the dining hall, she would look at nobody. She resolved to ignore the broad forehead and all such things.
But on her next trip, seeing from a long distance the two tall chimneys of the gleaming kitchen puffing smoke into the sky, her heart could not help throbbing. Besides, when she’d enter the dining hall, Old Mo’s kind eyes would be looking toward the door as if welcoming her. Of course, once her eyes met his, he’d look away in a flurry as if he had seen her only by chance. Sister Yinxiu was amused; she clearly detected anxiety and anticipation followed by relief and contentment in his eyes.
How about her? Forgetting her worries, she indulged herself temporarily in a happiness that no one else could know, which filled her heart with hope.
One day in April, as Sister Yinxiu prepared to go to the dining hall, she thought about what to wear. It was late spring, and the change in seasons called for a change in garments. Shall I change my trousers? she asked herself, taking out a pair of blue trousers, her only pants without a patch. She put on her homemade cloth shoes. On top, she wore a thin coat she had not worn for a long time. It had a pastel flower pattern. Before leaving, she looked at herself in her broken half mirror, took loose hair from around her temples and tucked it behind her ears, and fastened a new hairpin. It had been years since she’d been in the mood to dress herself up. She felt a bit coy as she stepped out.
Sister Yinxiu picked up the two buckets for pig food and started her journey. Luckily the village lane was empty, since it was spring and everybody was busy working in the fields. She was in a lighthearted mood, as if she were going to a downtown fair instead of to work. She felt delighted, joyful, expectant. She dimly recalled having felt this kind of feeling before. When? Oh, she remembered: it was when she’d come here for th
e first time, leaving the small village where she’d spent her childhood. But later . . . how about later? She was reluctant to think further, enjoying the broad view of the open country where the air was clean and comfortable to breathe. The dark cloud in her heart, like the dark cloud in the sky, was suddenly dispelled and a colorful world emerged there, one as beautiful as the spring landscape before her eyes.
Stepping into the bright kitchen, Sister Yinxiu tried to control the pounding of her heart. She intended to welcome passionately for the first time that pair of gentle, caring eyes. But they were not there. She turned toward the cooking range, where several pots of food were in various stages of preparation, but she was disappointed. The familiar and welcoming figure of Old Mo was nowhere to be seen.
He must be off doing some other work now. Perhaps he’ll be back here in a moment. She prolonged her stay in the kitchen, drawing out her task as long as she could, but when the other cooks noticed her fresh clothes and started smiling in a knowing way, she decided to leave.
As soon as she left, bitter disappointment seized her, as if something valuable that she’d long anticipated and was confident of winning had suddenly disappeared, leaving her dejected.
As she approached the factory gate, feeling disheartened and oblivious to the movement of the carrying pole on her shoulders, she heard someone call out to her: “Hello? You’re going already?”
Looking up, her eyes brightened: it was Old Mo! His voice was the same—as loud and warm as ever. But the look was different. No longer was he dressed in his grease-spattered chef’s clothing. He had a fresh haircut and wore brand-new khaki pants, which made his forehead seem even more broad and bright. His eyes seemed more gentle and passionate. At first glance, he looked like a young man in his thirties.
“Whom are you going to date, since you’ve dressed yourself up?” Sister Yinxiu couldn’t help joking with him, forgetting that she, too, had on fresh clothes.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 32