Big Breasts and Wide Hips

by Mo Yan

  “It’s nearly time, elder brother,” the man applying the badger oil to Sima Ku’s injured backside said. “The train is due just before dawn.” A dozen or more randomly located steel bridge supports had been cut with the torch, which was still spewing blue and white flames under the bridge. “Those fuckers are getting off easy!” Sima Ku cursed. “Are you sure the bridge will collapse under the weight of the train?” “If I cut any more, I’m afraid the bridge might collapse of its own weight before the train even reaches it.” “All right, you can come down now. As for you men,” he said to the others, “help those two hardy fellows down and reward them each with a bottle of our liquor.” The blue sparks died out. The brigade members helped Technician Jiang and his apprentice down off the stanchion and onto one of the sleds. In the darkness just before dawn, the winds died out, turning the air bone-chilling cold. The Mongol ponies pulled the sleds tentatively through the darkness across the ice. Before they’d gone a mile, Sima Ku called them to a halt. “After a hard night’s work,” he said, “it’s time to sit back and watch the show.”

  The sun had barely turned the edge of the sky red when the cargo train steamed up. The river glistened, the trees on both banks were glazed with gold and silver, the steel bridge sprawled silently across the river. Sima Ku rubbed his hands nervously as curses dripped from his mouth. The train clanged menacingly as it pressed down on them; when it neared the bridge, a loud whistle resounded between heaven and earth. Black smoke spewed from the engine, white mist flew from its wheels, the grinding of steel on steel made the men shudder in fear as the icy surface of the river trembled. The brigade members watched the train fitfully, the horses’ ears pressed back against the mane on their necks. The loutish, vulgar train rushed up onto the bridge, which seemed to stand there loftish and unyielding. In a matter of seconds, the faces of Sima Ku and his men turned ashen, but seconds later, they were jumping up and down on the ice, whooping it up. Sima Ku’s joyous shouts were the loudest of all, his jumps the highest, even given the seriousness of the injuries to his backside. The bridge collapsed in a matter of seconds, sending the engine and the load of railroad ties, steel rails, sand, and mud straight down. The engine hit one of the pilings, which also collapsed. The sound was deafening as chunks of ice bathed in the morning light, along with huge rocks, twisted metal, and shattered ties, flew high into the sky. Dozens of loaded rail cars accordioned up behind the engine with a roar; some fell into the river below, others sprawled across the tracks at rakish angles. Explosions began to erupt, starting from a car carrying high explosives and followed by detonated ammunition. The icy surface of the river split open, sending the water beneath gushing upward. Mixed with the water were fish, shrimp, even some green-shelled turtles. A booted human leg landed on the head of one of the Mongol ponies, nearly knocking it senseless and causing its front legs to crumple. A wheel from the train, which weighed hundreds of pounds, crashed into the ice, raising a geyser of water that fell muddily back to the surface. Powerful waves of sound turned Sima Ku deaf as he watched the Mongol ponies run crazily across the ice, dragging their sleds behind them. The brigade troops stood or sat in a daze, dark blood seeping out of some of their ears. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, but he couldn’t hear himself; his men’s mouths were open, as if they too were shouting, but he couldn’t hear them either …

  Somehow Sima Ku managed to lead his troops back to the spot on the river where they had cut holes in the ice with their blue and white flames the morning before. My second, third, and fourth sisters had come out to fetch more water and catch some fish, but the holes had frozen over during the night, as thick as a hand. Second Sister had hacked them open again with her hammer. When Sima Ku and his men reached the spot, their horses rushed up to drink from the river. In a manner of minutes, after they’d drunk their fill, they began to shudder, their legs started to twitch, and they crumpled to the ice, every one of them suddenly dead. The freezing water had ripped their expanded lungs apart.

  On that early morning, every living creature in Northeast Gaomi Township — humans, horses, donkeys, cows, chickens, dogs, geese, ducks — felt the power of the explosions off to the southwest. Hibernating snakes, thinking it was thunder announcing the Insect Waking season, slithered out of their caves and immediately froze to death.

  Sima Ku led his troops into the village to rest and reorganize, and was greeted by a string of the vilest curses from Sima Ting. But since everyone’s hearing had been so badly affected by the explosion, they all thought he was singing their praises — Sima Ting always had a smug, complacent look on his face when he cursed. Sima Ku’s three wives had pooled every folk remedy and type of medication they had to treat the burned and frostbitten backside of the man they shared. The first wife would apply a plaster, which the second wife would remove to wash the area with a lotion prepared with a dozen rare medicinal herbs, after which the third wife would cover it with a powder composed of crushed pine and cypress leaves, ilex root, egg whites, and seared mouse whiskers. Back and forth it went, the skin on his backside wet one minute and dry the next, until the old injuries were now joined by new ones. It reached the point where Sima Ku wrapped himself in a lined jacket with two leather belts, and the moment he saw his three wives coming his way, he raised his hatchet or cocked his rifle. But while his backside injuries remained, his hearing returned.

  The first thing he heard were the angry curses of his brother: “You fucking idiot, you’ll kill every last soul in this village, you wait and see!” Reaching out with a hand that was as soft and as ruddy as his brother’s, with fleshy fingers and thin skin, he grabbed his brother by the chin. Seeing the scraggly, yellow, ratlike whiskers above his chapped upper lip, which was normally shaved clean, he shook his head sadly and said, “You and I are from the same father’s seed, so cursing me is the same as cursing yourself. Go ahead, curse, curse all you like!” He dropped his hand.

  Sima Ting stood there, mouth agape, and stared at his brother’s broad back. All he could do was shake his head. Picking up his gong, he walked outside, climbed clumsily up the steps of his watchtower, and gazed off to the northwest.

  Some time later, Sima Ku led his men back to the bridge, where they scavenged sections of twisted track, a train wheel, painted bright red, and a bunch of nondescript chunks of brass and iron, all of which they put on display outside the gate of the church as proof of their glorious military victory. With saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth, Sima boasted to the gathered crowd, over and over, how he had destroyed the bridge and derailed the Japanese cargo train. As he recounted the event, he spiced it up with new details, his tale growing richer and more interesting with each telling, until it had all the excitement and adventure of a popular romance. My second sister, Zhaodi, was his most ardent listener. At first just a member of the crowd, before long she bore witness to the new weapon that had been used; eventually, in her mind, she became a participant in the destruction of the bridge, as if she’d been one of Sima Ku’s followers from the very beginning, climbing onto the piling with him and falling to the icy surface of the river right beside him. She grimaced each time the pain in his backside erupted, as if they shared the same wounds.

  Mother had always said that the Sima men were all lunatics. By this time she had figured out what Zhaodi was thinking, and had a premonition that the drama involving Laidi was about to be replayed, and soon. With growing anxiety, she looked into her daughter’s dark eyes and saw the frightful passion burning inside. How could those eyes and those thick, bright red, shameless lips belong to a seventeen-year-old girl? She was like a bovine creature in heat. “Zhaodi, my daughter,” Mother said, “do you realize how old you are?” Second Sister glared at Mother. “Weren’t you already married to my father when you were my age? And you said your aunt had twins when she was only sixteen, both plump as little piglets!” All Mother could do at this point was sigh. But Second Sister was not through. “I know you want to say he already has three wives. So I’ll be his fourth. And
I know you want to say that he’s a generation older than me. Well, we don’t have the same surname and we’re not related, so I’m not breaking any rules.”

  Mother relinquished her authority over Second Sister, letting her do as she pleased. She seemed calm enough, but I could tell that it was tearing her up inside by the changed taste of her milk. During those days, when Second Sister was chasing after Sima Ku, Mother took my other six sisters down to the cellar to dig a secret path among the turnips to the stockpile of sorghum stalks out by the southern wall. Part of the dirt we dug up we dumped in the latrine and part we carried out to the donkey pen, but most of it went down the well next to the stockpile.

  New Year’s passed peacefully. On the night of the Lantern Festival, Mother strapped me on her back and led my six sisters outside to enjoy the lanterns. Every family in the village hung lanterns outside their doors; they were small lanterns, except for the two red lanterns the size of water vats hung by the gate of Felicity Manor, each lit by a goat tallow candle thicker than my arm. The light they gave off flickered brightly. Where was Zhaodi? Mother didn’t even ask. She had become our family’s guerrilla fighter, one who might stay away for three days, then show up unannounced. We were about to set off firecrackers on the last night of the year to welcome the god of wealth when Zhaodi showed up wearing a black rain cloak. She proudly showed off the leather belt wrapped tightly around her narrow waist and the silver revolver hanging heavily from it. In a sort of mocking tone, Mother said, “Who’d have guessed that the Shangguan family would one day produce another highwayman?” She seemed on the verge of crying, but Second Sister merely laughed, the laugh of a lovestruck girl, which brought a ray of hope to Mother that it was not too late to bring her to her senses. “Zhaodi,” she said, “I can’t let you become another of Sima Ku’s concubines.” But Zhaodi just sneered — this time it was the sneer of a wicked woman — and the hope that had flared briefly in Mother’s heart was extinguished.

  On the first day of the year, Mother went with New Year’s greetings to her aunt. She told her what had happened to Laidi and Zhaodi. This elderly aunt of hers, a woman of vast experience, said, “Where the romantic affairs of sons and daughters are concerned, you must let them take their course. Besides, with sons-in-law like Sha Yueliang and Sima Ku, your worries are over. Both those men are high-flying hawks.” “What worries me is that they won’t die in bed,” Mother said. Her aunt replied, “It’s usually worthless people who die in bed.” Mother tried to keep arguing her case, but her aunt waved her off impatiently, sweeping away Mother’s complaints like shooing a fly. “Let me have a look at your son,” she said. Mother lifted me out of the cloth pouch and laid me on the bed. I was frightened by the tiny, deeply wrinkled face of Mother’s aunt, especially her radiant green eyes, set deep in their sockets. Her sharply jutting brow was completely hairless, while the spots around her eyes were covered by fine yellow hairs. She mussed my hair with a bony hand, then tweaked my ear, pinched my nose, and even reached down between my legs to feel my little pecker. Disgusted by her humiliating groping, I strained to crawl over to the corner of the bed. But she grabbed me and yelled, “Stand up, you little bastard!” Mother said, “Aunty, how can you expect him to stand up? He’s only seven months old.” “When I was seven months old I was already going out to the chicken coop to fetch eggs for your grandma,” the old woman said. “That was you, Aunty. You’re a special person.” The old woman said, “I think this little devil is special too! Too bad about that fellow Malory.” Mother’s face reddened, then paled. I crawled to the back of the bed, grabbed hold of the window ledge, and pulled myself up onto my feet. “See there?” the old woman clapped her hands and said. “I told you he could stand, and he did! Look at me, you little bastard!” “His name is Jintong, Aunty, so why do you keep calling him little bastard?”

  “Whether he’s a bastard or not only his mother knows. Well, is he, my dear niece? Besides, to me that’s a pet name — little bastard. So are little turtle spawn, little bunny rabbit, little beast. Walk over here, little bastard!” I turned around on shaky legs and looked at Mother’s teary eyes. “Jintong, my good little boy!” Mother said as she reached out for me. I threw myself into her waiting arms. I was actually walking. “My son can walk,” Mother muttered as she hugged me tightly. “My son can walk.” “Sons and daughters are like birds,” her aunt said. “When it’s time for them to fly, you can’t hold them back. And what about you? What I mean is, what would you do if they all died?”

  “I’d be fine,” Mother replied.

  “That’s what I want to hear,” the old woman said. “Always let your thoughts rise up to heaven, or go down into the ocean, and if all else fails, let them climb a mountain, but never make things hard on yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “I understand,” Mother said. When they were saying good-bye, the old woman asked, “Is your mother-in-law still alive?” “Yes,” Mother said. “She’s rolling around in donkey shit.” The old woman said, “That old witch was a tower of strength her whole life. I never thought she’d one day fall so low!”

  If not for that private conversation on the first day of the new year, I’d never have been able to walk at seven months, and Mother wouldn’t have been interested in taking us outside to look at the lanterns, which would have meant a very boring Lantern Festival for us; the history of our family might well have been very different. The streets were teeming with people, but none of them looked familiar. An air of stability and unity existed among residents. Children waved sparklers — what we called golden mouse droppings — that sizzled and popped as the children threaded their way through the crowds. We stopped in front of Felicity Manor to gaze at the gigantic red lanterns on either side of the gate, their ambiguous yellow light illuminating the gilded words “Felicity Manor” carved into a hanging signboard. Bursts of noise emerged from the brightly lit courtyard within. A crowd had gathered outside the gate, where they stood silently, their hands tucked up their sleeves, as if waiting for something. My big-mouthed third sister, Lingdi, asked the person next to her, “Are they going to hand out some porridge, uncle?” The man merely shook his head, but someone behind her said, “They don’t do that till the eighth day of the twelfth month, young lady.” “Then why are you all standing around here?” she turned and asked. “Because they’re going to put on a modern play,” he said. “We’re told that a famous actor from Jinan has come to town.” Mother pinched her before she could say any more.

  Finally, four men emerged from the Sima compound, each carrying a black metal object on a tall bamboo pole. Flames licked out of whatever they were, turning the area around the gate from night to day — no, even brighter than daylight. Pigeons roosting in the dilapidated bell tower of the church not far from the compound were startled into flight; they cooed noisily as they flew past us into the dark night. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Gas lamps!” From that moment on, we knew that in this world, in addition to bean-oil lanterns, kerosene lamps, and firefly lanterns, there was such a thing as gas lamps, and that they were blindingly bright. The husky lamp bearers formed a square in front of the Felicity Manor gate, like four black pillars. Some more men walked noisily through the gate carrying a rolled-up straw mat. When they reached the space created by the four men with their gas lamps, they tossed down the mat, undid the ropes around it, and let it spread out on its own. They then bent down, picked up corners of the unrolled mat, and began churning their dark, hairy legs. Because their movements were so quick, and because they were in the light of gas lamps, our eyes were filled with dark blurs that made it seem as if they all had at least four legs, connected seemingly by translucent cobwebs. And that image created the appearance of beetles caught in a spider’s web, struggling to break free. Once the mat was laid out the way they wanted it, they stood up, faced the crowd, and struck a pose. They all had painted faces, like shiny masks made of animal skins: a panther, a spotted deer, a lynx, and one of those raccoons that feeds on temple offerings. They then went back
inside, executing a two-steps-forward, one-step-backward dance.

  Amid the sizzle of four gas lamps, we waited silently; just like the new straw mat. The four men holding the lamp poles were transformed into black stones. But then the crisp sound of a gong energized us, and we turned to gaze at the gateway, though our view inside was blocked by a whitewashed wall on which the gilded word “fortune” was carved. We continued to wait, an eternity, it seemed, until the master of Felicity Manor, the onetime head of Dalan, and the current head of the Peace Preservation Corps, Sima Ting, appeared, looking downcast. He was holding a badly beaten brass gong, which he struck reluctantly as he made a circle of the area. He stopped in the center of the straw mat and announced, “Fellow township residents — grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, boys and girls — my brother has achieved a glorious victory in bringing down the steel bridge. This news has traveled far and wide, and we have been visited by friends and relatives who have presented us with more than twenty congratulatory scrolls. To celebrate this glorious victory, my brother has invited a troop of actors to perform today. He himself will mount the stage in full costume in a new drama intended to educate all township residents. While celebrating the Lantern Festival, we must not forget our heroic war of resistance and cannot allow the Japs to occupy our town. I, Sima Ting, am a son of China, and will no longer serve as head of the puppet Peace Preservation Corps. Fellow residents, as Chinese, we cannot serve those Japanese sons of bitches.” When he finished his rhythmic harrangue, he bowed to the crowd, turned, and ran back to join the musicians — a fiddler, a flutist, and a balloon guitarist — who were just then walking out with their stools.