by A. Yi
Afterward, Junfeng, as if he was being enslaved or ruled over, refused to talk, eyes calm, dull, and thoughtless as an animal’s. He always woke up with no idea where he was, but then was unusually at ease with this confusion. He let shamans wave burning charms before him, let Mother put a jade pendant to expel evil on him, hang bells to expel evil on the windows, let two or three people feed him medicinal liquids from thunder god vines, then let it trickle down from the corners of his mouth. “Coughing is hard for him, hard as the work we do,” sometimes Widow said. At that time she was unusually calm. But very quickly she was startled by her carelessness, hurried over to grip his hand, like he would die soon or had already died. When he strained to cough – it took a full 15 minutes, like a middle-aged man standing hunched in the cold field, gripping the cold handles, trying to make the stupid, stubborn walk-behind tractor rattle – and almost burst his windpipe, boundless hatred arose in her heart. Who on earth has he offended, has he harmed, he coughed out a mouthful of blood the size of a ping-pong ball, a thread of blood drooled from the corners of his mouth. She reached her shaking hands out to catch the blood that was like black juice. Who has my son offended, who on earth has our Chen Zonghuo family offended? The more she thought, the angrier she got, walked toward Chen Zonggong’s house at the village entrance. She walked fast, as if she wasn’t walking herself, but carried by the flying bird of hatred.
“There is something I have to say today,” she said.
“Go ahead,” Chen Zonggong who could hardly rise said.
“When burying Zonghuo, digging the grave, why did your son-in-law throw an iron spade into the grave?”
The grave was reserved for me, never thought Zonghuo would die first, Chen Zonggong responded with silence. My son-in-law was afraid I would die without a place to rest.
“How can you be so unreasonable.”
“I have no idea about what happened back then, I wasn’t well either, didn’t go.”
“You just tell me if it is true.”
“It is.”
“Wasn’t Zonghuo your younger brother?”
“He was, not the closest by blood, but very close.”
“The younger brother from the first wife, but still. Be clear today, what’s your intention?”
“No intention.”
“You harmed my Junfeng so that he was about to die you know.”
“I know, Aunt,” Chen Zonggong’s tears poured down. “I regret it.”
“What’s the use of regret, my Junfeng is already like this.”
“My son-in-law is at work, hasn’t gotten home yet, if you want to get back, get back at me.”
“Fine, I will.”
“I’m going to die soon too.”
“Dying soon won’t do any good.”
“What do you want me to do now, Aunt? If you want to curse, curse me. If you don’t, I won’t have peace.”
After saying this, Chen Zonggong gripped Widow’s hands, wiped the blood covering her hands on his white hair and face. “Punish me, I didn’t mean to be difficult with Junfeng. If I could trade, I’d trade my life for Junfeng’s life now.” He started crying with no restraint. “Hurry and find someone to beat me to death.”
“Can’t beat you to death.”
Widow swung her arms, headed back. Cried out loud the whole way. You tell me who he has offended, who he could offend. Every time she saw a person she sobbed complaints. One day later, she carried the same hatred to the supermarket in town. She figured it was the supermarket’s damp and bacterial work environment that made her son’s lungs defenseless, but she gained nothing there. The ground was much cleaner and drier than she imagined, no dirty blood in the seams between the floor tiles, not even a strand of hair in sight. Imagine, in the height of summer, no mosquitos or flies. Little Qi wasn’t around. At the exit there were two cash registers. The proprietress, looking ferocious, wearing a red vest, with dark circles around her eyes from anxiety, stood outside the exit, glancing down at every customer’s bag. To keep them from losing their tempers, she wore a smile for everyone. Take care, mind the steps. At times even made a gesture to help. Those irritated people would deliberately swap the bag back and forth between their two hands, then gave it to whoever was with them, her gaze always following anxiously, until she raised her head, saw they had been watching her, and started to feel embarrassed. You’d better fucking go back running the corner shop. People shook their bags and walked out, hated her for being despicable, and hated themselves for being despicable. One stolen, 10 fined said a notice pasted on the wall. It was because there were more and more thefts in the supermarket, or the proprietress thought there would be more and more thefts otherwise. That day, when she heard a poorly dressed country woman had been standing on tiptoe, looking behind the meat counter for a long time – the staff used looks like relay beacons to relay the information to their only master – she walked up briskly, turned the other’s shoulders. They looked at each other maliciously, one suspected the other was a thief (otherwise why so sneaky), one suspected that the other wanted to shirk all responsibility.
“You want to buy something?” the proprietress asked.
“Not buying anything,” Junfeng’s mom said seriously. “Just looking.”
She didn’t reveal her identity. She thought she’d better go back and discuss this matter with the young people, perhaps Zhifeng could see something in it later. You just wait. She headed for the Laoyangshu Town street. After she was gone, the supermarket staff told the proprietress it was Junfeng’s mom. That day, the smog very heavy like a bunch of fairies kept blowing smoke from the distance. The ground still had snow on it, a strong smell of chemicals used to make smoked chicken hovered over the entire street. Junfeng’s mom parked the bike outside the lottery shop the local villager Reai opened. Reai smoked, had already smoked so much her teeth were black, but was still a trustworthy girl. Reai asked: “Is Junfeng better now?”
“Still the same,” she said.
“Is there something to be done?”
“Nothing to be done.”
“I mean, when it rained, Junfeng never took an umbrella, just walked out and got wet.”
After getting directions, Junfeng’s mom walked down Hongguang Lane in the north. There was a line of red-brick, single-story houses and asbestos-roofed woodsheds that filled every bit of available space and occasional pigeon cages and chicken coops. The urine spilling from the public toilet flowed in the middle of the street. Right on this quiet lane (after the lane bent to the east) hid a huge, fantastic, underground market which she, living five or six kilometers away, had never heard of before. When Junfeng’s mom walked into the beautiful world made of formal hats, felt hats, Korean-style knit hats, shawls, scarves, silk scarves, wool coats, down jackets, V-neck sweaters, Erdos wool sweaters, shirts, vests, pajamas, thermal underwear, bras, panties, sexy lingerie, lace lingerie, shoulder bags, cross-body bags, handbags, genie pants, sagging pants, leather pants, jeans, skinny pants, casual pants, corduroy pants, leggings, dresses, wool skirts, sweater dresses, stockings, lace stockings, booties, snow boots, round-toed leather shoes, high heels, embroidered shoes, sneakers, walking shoes, lipstick, masks, deep hydration kits, skin cream, perfume, toner, Olay, car stereos, MP3s, MP4s, phones that play music, smartphones, touch screen phones, table lamps, gas stoves, range hoods, induction cookers, microwave ovens, rice cookers, stainless-steel pots, folding tables and chairs, brooms, mops, swabs, aprons, tablecloths, towels, bowls, plates, chopsticks, knives and forks, spoons, thermos flasks, glass bottles, dishwashing liquid, detergent, 84-brand disinfectant, tea-smoked duck, roast duck, tea seed oil duck, duck necks, duck tongues, Laizi’s smoked chicken, Dezhou-style braised chicken, spring chicken, chicken wings, chicken feet, pig head meat, pig ears, pig liver, pig stomach, trotters, pig tails, chicken eggs, duck eggs, preserved eggs, dried tofu, five-spice tofu, brined tofu, cakes, pumpkin cakes, honey cakes, steam
ed buns, dry-flour buns, steamed twisted rolls, steamed stuffed buns, meat patties, sunflower seeds, ‘toothpick’ sunflower seeds, watermelon seeds, pumpkin seeds, boiled peanuts, pan-fried peanuts, salt-roasted peanuts, pistachios, pine nuts, chestnuts, easy-peel walnuts, pecans, Xinjiang walnuts, Hetian dates, raisins, hazelnuts, almonds, wood ear, meatballs, ribbon fish, frozen shrimp, baby shrimp, Wuchang fish, Wujiang fish, goldfish, carp, catfish, lifeless crabs, squid, cuttlefish, kelp, radishes, carrots, scallions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, onions, bean sprouts, taros, sweet potatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, red chilies, green peppers, mushrooms, spinach, celtuce, cabbage, bok choy, choy sum, lettuce, cinnamon-vine, strawberries, hawthorn berries, white pears, Asian pears, bananas, baby bananas, red grapes, kiwis, kumquats, tangerines, tangerines, navel oranges, blood oranges, pomelos, Fujis, Red Fujis, and Qixia Fujis she was dazzled.
(Once I talked with a man who wanted to be a woman. The lonely middle-aged man had been tense and restrained, until talking about the market. Then light started to flicker in his eyes. “You know what, once you go in, all your worries are gone, the feeling is fantastic you know, fantastic.” He talked extremely fast, as if I would argue with him. He was so eager to persuade me. I told him I understood – the sacred light, the climax, the warm, electrifying feeling, the friendly and cohesive atmosphere, the everything-within-reach abundance, the ambition for a beautiful life and the joy of creativity, vividly in mind – I said I could totally sense God’s arrangement and compensation.)
Those colorful products which came from all over the country, or at least all over the county, and needed to be sold promptly, were like the New World, shocking Widow’s barren soul (many years ago, she had bent over the fields, familiar only with the regular grocery store which was converted into a small supermarket later – to her, the piece of paper pasted on the shopfront, New Arrival: Dumplings and Rice Balls, was incredible information). She felt the market was too long, no matter how far she walked, she couldn’t reach the end. So she complained, like a girl about to lose her virginity, but also like a queen. All the shopkeepers, like slaves, called out to her. I’ll just have a look, women warned themselves as they walked to the market. Then, after they went in, they sighed, Just looking is enough, just looking. Junfeng’s mom grabbed a handful of wormwood, weighed it in her hand. This thing costs 6.98 a jin, that is, 7 yuan a jin, she was going to tell this incredible finding to Reai. Then, she eventually couldn’t resist the constant temptation of the goods. In front of a brown scarf with a picture of the Taj Mahal printed on it, she swallowed.
“Try it on, you won’t know what it’s like if you don’t try it on.” The shopkeeper walked up, pulled it from her fingers, shook it open, draped it over her shoulders, then turned the mirror toward her. “Look.” She seemed to be under the other’s control. The feeling was very uncomfortable, but then she saw the self she had imagined. The shopkeeper, in her silence, found orange, red, blue, and other styles of silk scarves, which she politely rejected. This might increase what she had to pay. She couldn’t bargain, so just mumbled throughout, looking clumsy and embarrassed.
“But what,” the shopkeeper asked. “You tell me but what.”
“But a bit too expensive,” she said. “That’s all I have, but that doesn’t mean it’s worth all I have.” She was very sorry about it, and willing to bear the other’s scorn. While she waited she said: “That’s really all I have.”
They parted on bad terms. With more or less the same disappointment.
When she was about to wander out of the lane, she remembered the purpose of the trip. Behind her was the sound of the skilled confession of a woman 20, 30 years younger than her. She paused but then walked on. At the end of this winding market, opposite a poplar tree, sat a white-haired woman, who wore an apron converted from a urea sack. She was shaving radishes nonstop. Whenever people came and asked, she would turn the knob lock, call the fortune-reader inside who was famous for his accuracy. Mr. Dong wasn’t really blind, only had night blindness. Later when Widow gave him money, he almost stuck it on his eyes to look. That day, he seemed to profoundly sense the querent’s sorrow. He said she walked in heavily as if carrying several corpses on her back.
After seriously singing a passage, he held the erhu, said:
“Really want me to say?”
“Please.”
“The truth?”
“The truth.”
“Then I will.”
“Please, begging you.”
“Your family will wear mourning clothes this year.”
“Wore it last year, wear it again this year?”
“Wear it again.”
This sentence was like a candy which Junfeng’s mom chewed for a long time, before digesting it clearly. She gave a long sigh, remembered a curse put on her, also by a fortune-teller. “Sir, here’s the money for you.” After settling up, she went back the way she had come, but just couldn’t find the shop, like a flower it had disappeared into the sea of flowers. She asked the price in another shop, which charged 20 yuan, so she didn’t even have any interest in bargaining for a lower price. Then the previous shopkeeper, gripping poker cards, hurried over.
“Ten yuan, it’s yours, can’t do less.”
“No.”
“Look—”
“I only have seven yuan.”
The shopkeeper folded the silk scarf. She said: “The brown one, orange doesn’t suit me.” So the shopkeeper got her the brown one. She went back to the lottery shop, examined the silk scarf for a long time with Reai. Reai said it wasn’t even worth seven yuan, but it wasn’t much of a loss. “Look at the texture, the texture is real good,” Reai said.
“I also saw the texture is real good,” she said.
When she rode off the paved road, rode onto the village road, feeling hungry, she went into Qiuchen’s restaurant to have a solid meal. “There’s no way,” she said when Qiuchen didn’t ask, while pulling down the hem of her hip-length shirt. She got on the bike, used her forefeet, or that is, her toes to pedal the pedals, advancing meter by meter, like a crow carrying a sword on its back slowly disappearing into that five-day, frighteningly quiet, seemingly ominous fog. Back home, she carried the bike in, put down the kickstand, locked the bike, then took down the half a watermelon wrapped in Saran wrap (it cost fifteen yuan and four jiao total – in town she had carefully kept Reai from seeing it), and went into the new house. “Hey Junfeng, never thought there’d be watermelon this time of year, huh? Shame it got beat up on the way, broke.” She scooped a piece with a spoon, fed the other. “Mouth open.”
He opened his mouth.
“Teeth open.”
He opened his teeth.
“Swallow.”
He started to swallow, but the food stayed there, didn’t move at all.
“Swallow hard, son.”
He tried hard, but it was in vain. She mashed that small piece of watermelon, pushed it in with spoon. He choked, started to cough. After that, she pounded the watermelon into juice, fed him with a spoon, but it always spilled out from the corners of his mouth. As usual, she said: “Junfeng, what do you want to eat tonight, whatever you want to eat, I’ll cook it now.” Then went on: “How about we eat fried egg soup. I forget whether it needs chives or not.”
He didn’t say anything.
“My brother doesn’t even have the strength to agree or disagree.” Zhifeng, gripping his mobile phone, walked in and said: “Mom, since you’re back, I can go, I have some stuff to do.”
“Go.”
“I won’t have dinner.”
“I know.”
Widow knew it was in vain but still meticulously made a dinner. Every time a dish was made, she would pick up the kitchen towel, gently wipe her hand, find an empty bowl and cover it. She made some of his all-time favorites: bacon stir-fry, egg and chive stir-fry, spicy shredded potato, and fried egg soup. In the pas
t, whenever he ate in front of her, she would carefully observe his likes and dislikes (what he disliked, she firmly disliked too), but in front of Zhifeng and Dongmei, she needed their constant reminding. After the cover was lifted, the hot steam and the smell specific to chernozem rice wafted out of the rice cooker. She scooped the rice into the egg soup, mixed them. “Eat as much as you can.” She put a pillow at the head of the bed, lifted him up, settled him. He intended to say something, but decided the process of saying it was too complicated, and gave up. He turned his face sideways, fixed his eyes at some point, ignored her. Soon he closed his eyes. Wanted to sleep. She moved him straight, used the hot water in the thermos flask to wet the towel, wipe his face, wipe his back, then carefully tuck in the blanket. Then filled his thermos with a straw with water. Back in the old house, she put the dishes on the table (only the bacon stir-fry went in the rice cooker basket to heat up). Out of pity, she made a good bucket of pig feed, went to the pig shed to reward the two pigs which had gotten thinner since others fed them the past few days. When she struck the ladle, called luo-luo, they tumbled up, leaped up, stood upright against the wooden railing, anxiously twitching their pink noses at her. She also replaced the light bulb with a broken filament in the courtyard. After coming back, she kept tuning the radio, and the unique, bright, weak clamor of the signal came, which created an atmosphere where all the talented people had come, and the house was filled with distinguished guests: (an alto singing): so potent, took a sip, got drunk, got drunk – (a middle-aged woman imitating a child’s voice) so Miss Glass Shoes played on the swing. When Miss Glass Shoes found Curious and Surprised Shoes, she shouted brightly: “Want to come and play?” – (two-person crosstalk) the audience is very enthusiastic, everyone knows you, (oh, familiar) the famous comedian from Tianjin – (a movie soundtrack) he didn’t die. . . Why, why keep it from us, who gave him food – (theater chorus)??? (Peking opera) In the old days the family was too poor to feed. Of four sons two were frozen and starved to death. In the famine year they became horribly indebted to the Diao family. To pay the debt, his third brother worked in the fields. She walked under the dim light, sat at the dining table, poured alcohol, as usual, slowly, in the order of good to bad, picked at the plates, ate what was on them. The dregs went to the chipped, small, white bowl. What she couldn’t throw away went to the small red bowl. She slowly drank the alcohol, slowly chewed. Her mouth, like a grinding machine, ground the food. Until all food was completely gone. In the process of chewing, sometimes she would stop, go into a long trance, then come to, and go on chewing. This is a common thing when one eats alone. The door was open, facing the fields. Night was gathering from all directions. The dark night, like lake water overflowing its banks, poured in front of her. She burped, picked up another bottle from the ground. The bottle was blue, covered with dust. She wiped it clean with her sleeve, shook it, shook it again, unscrewed the cap, sniffed the amber-colored liquid. After making sure that was it, lifted the bottle, drank down in one gulp. Perhaps thinking it was a private business, halfway though, she held the bottle, went to close the door. As she staggered, lurched, almost getting to the fir door panel (ten minutes later it would be taken down by a bunch of people jumping with anxiety) a shot of piercing, twisting pain like the one preceding delivery bent her waist. She crouched, let her head slowly lean on the threshold, clenched her teeth, tried to bear it. Sweat, like rain, dropped to the ground. But the gush of food pulp with its choking stench still violently prized her mouth open, spurted out from it.