by Mo Yan
6
On our way home after eating the twelfth-month gruel, our sense of hunger was greater than ever. No one had the strength to bury the corpses lining the path through the wilderness, nor could anyone muster the energy to even go up and take a look at them. The body of Third Master Fan was the sole exception. During the height of our crisis, a man people normally steered clear of had taken off his goatskin jacket, turned it into a torch, and, with its light and his shouts, brought us to our senses. That sort of kindness, the gift of life, can never be forgotten. So, with Mother taking the lead, the people dragged the old man’s sticklike figure over to the side of the road and covered it with dirt.
When we got back home, the first thing we saw was the Bird Fairy pacing back and forth in the yard, holding something bundled in a purple marten overcoat. Mother had to hold on to the doorframe to keep from falling. Third Sister walked up and handed her the bundle. “What’s this?” Mother asked. In an almost completely human voice, Third Sister said, “A child.” “Whose?” Mother asked, although I think she already knew. “Whose do you think?” Third Sister said.
Obviously, Laidi’s purple marten coat would only be used to bundle Laidi’s child.
It was a baby girl, dark as a lump of coal, with black eyes like those of a fighting cock, thin lips, and big pale ears that seemed out of place on her face. These characteristics were all the proof we needed of her origins: This was the Shangguan family’s first niece, presented to us by Eldest Sister and Sha Yueliang.
Mother’s disgust was written all over her face, to which the baby responded with a kittenish smile. Nearly passing out from anger, Mother forgot all about the Bird Fairy’s mystical powers and kicked Third Sister in the leg.
With a yelp of pain, Third Sister stumbled forward several steps, and when she turned her head back, there was no mistaking the look of bird rage on her face. Her hardened mouth pointed upward, ready to peck someone. She raised her arms, as if to fly. Not caring if she was bird or human, Mother cursed, “Damn you, who told you to accept her child?” Third Sister’s head darted this way and that, as if she were feeding on insects on a tree. “Laidi, you’re a shameless little slut!” Mother cursed. “Sha Yueliang, you’re a heartless thug and a bandit! All you know how to do is make a baby, not how to take care of one. You think that by sending her to me, everything will be just fine, don’t you? Well, stop dreaming! I’ll fling your little bastard into the river to feed the turtles, or toss her into the street to feed the dogs, or toss her into the marsh to feed the crows! Just you wait and see!”
Mother took the baby and ran up and down the lanes, repeating her threats to feed the turtles or dogs or crows. When she reached the river’s edge, she turned and ran out onto the street, then turned and ran back to the river. Gradually her pace slowed and her voice softened, like a tractor running out of gas. Finally, she plopped down on the spot where Pastor Malory had leaped to his death, looked up at the ruined bell tower, and muttered, “Some are dead and others have run off, leaving me all alone. How am I supposed to survive with a brood of hungry chicks needing to be fed … Dear Lord, Old Man Heaven, why don’t you say something? How am I supposed to survive?”
I began to cry, my tears falling on Mother’s neck. Then the baby girl began to cry, her tears running into her ears. “Jintong,” Mother said tenderly, “my pride and joy, please don’t cry.” She next turned her tenderness to the baby girl: “You poor thing, you should not have come. Grandma doesn’t even have enough milk for your little uncle. If I tried to feed you too, you’d both starve to death. I’m not hard-hearted, there’s just nothing I can do …”
Mother laid the baby girl, still wrapped in the purple marten coat, on the steps in front of the church door, then turned and started running for home as if her life depended on it. But she hadn’t gone ten steps when her legs stopjped moving. The baby was bawling like a pig under the knife, her cries an invisible rope that had stopped Mother in her tracks …
Three days later, our family now numbering nine, we were standing in the human trade section of the county seat marketplace. Mother carried me on her back and Sha Yueliang’s little bastard in her arms. Fourth Sister carried the little Sima brat. Eighth Sister was carried by Fifth Sister, while Sixth Sister and Seventh Sister walked alone.
In the city dump, we scrounged up some rotten greens to eat, steeling ourselves to go over to the human trade section, where Mother hung straw tallies around the necks of my fifth, sixth, and seventh sisters, then waited for a buyer to come along.
A row of simple wooden shacks with ugly whitewashed walls and roofs stood opposite us. Tinplate chimneys sticking up over the walls sent black smoke into the air, where it was carried to us on wind currents, changing shape as it came. From time to time, prostitutes, their hair undone and hanging straight down, showing plenty of cleavage, lips painted bright red, and sleepy eyes, emerged from the shacks, some carrying basins, others with buckets. They went to a nearby well to draw water. Steam rose from the mouth of the well. As they cranked the awkward pulley with soft, white hands not used to working, the rope gave off a dull twang. When the oversized bucket appeared at the mouth of the well, they stuck out a foot to hook the rim and drag it smoothly over to the lip, where a layer of ice had formed, with bumps like steamed buns or nipples. The girls ran to their shacks with the water, then ran back for more, wooden clogs clacking noisily on the ground, their freezing, partially exposed breasts emitting a sulfurlike odor. I tried looking over Mother’s shoulder, but all I could see were their dancing breasts, like opium flowers or valleys of butterflies.
We were standing on a wide street in front of a high wall that effectively kept the northwest wind away and afforded us a bit of warmth. Cowering on both sides were more people just like us — gaunt and jaundiced-looking, shivering, hungry, and cold. Men and women. Mothers and children. The men were well along in years and as shriveled as rotting wood; those who weren’t blind — and many of them were — had red, puffy, suppurating eyes. A child stood or squatted on the ground beside each of them — some boys, some girls. Actually, it was nearly impossible to tell the boys from the girls, since they all looked as if they’d just climbed out of one of the chimneys across the street — human soot. All had straws sticking up out of their collars, mostly rice straw, with dry, yellow leaves; you couldn’t help but think of autumn, of horses and the comforting fragrance and happy sounds as they chewed rice straw in the dead of night. Some were less choosy, using bristlegrass they’d picked up somewhere. Most of the women were like Mother, surrounded by a brood of children, although none had as many as she. With some, all the children had straw sticking up out of their collars; with others, only some had it. Again, it was mostly rice straw, with dry, yellow leaves that gave off the fragrance of cut grass and the aura of autumn. Above the children with the straw tallies, the heavy, drooping heads of horses, donkeys, and mules, their eyes as big as brass cymbals, their teeth straight and white, their thick, sensous, and bristly lips revealing glistening teeth, swayed back and forth.
At about noon, a horse-drawn wagon came down the official road from the southeast. The horse, large and white, proceeded with its head held high, threads of silvery mane covering its forehead. It had gentle eyes, a pink streak running down its nose, and purple lips. A red velvet knot hung down from its neck, on which a brass bell had been tied. The bell rang out crisply as the horse drew the wagon toward us, rocking back and forth. We saw a tall saddle on the horse as well as the brass fittings of the shafts. The wheels were decorated with white spokes. The canopy was made of white material that had been treated with many coats of tung oil to protect it from the elements. We’d never seen such a luxurious wagon before, and were confident that the passenger was far nobler than the woman who’d come to see the Bird Fairy in her Chevrolet sedan, confident too that the man sitting in front, in a top hat and sporting a handlebar mustache, was not your ordinary driver. His face was taut, glaring lights shot out of both eyes. He was more reserved than Sha Yu
eliang, more somber than Sima Ku; and maybe only Birdman Han could have been his equal, if he wore the man’s hat and clothes.
The wagon came to a slow stop, and the handsome white horse pawed the ground in a rhythmic accompaniment to the brass bell. The driver pulled back a curtain, and the person inside emerged. She wore a purple marten overcoat and a red fox stole around her neck. How I wished it had been my oldest sister, Laidi, but it wasn’t. It was a foreign woman, with a high nose, blue eyes, and a headful of golden hair. Her age? I’m afraid only her parents would know that. Following her off the wagon was a strikingly handsome, black-haired little boy in a blue student uniform and blue woolen overcoat. Everything about him said he was the foreign woman’s son. Everything except for his external appearance, which was nothing like hers.
The people around us stirred and surged toward her, like a gang of robbers. But they came to a timid halt before they reached her. “Madam, honorable lady, please buy my granddaughter. Madam, grand lady, just look at this son of mine. He’s tougher than any dog, there’s no job he can’t handle …” Men and women meekly attempted to sell their sons and daughters to the foreign woman. Mother alone remained where she was, mesmerized by the sight of the purple marten coat and the red fox stole. There was no doubt that she longed for Laidi. Holding Laidi’s child in her arms, her heart spun and tears clouded her eyes.
The aristocratic foreign woman covered her mouth with a handkerchief as she took a turn around the human market. Her heavy perfume made me and the little Sima bastard sneeze. She knelt in front of the blind old man and took a look at his granddaughter. Frightened by the red fox stole around the foreign woman’s neck, the girl wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s legs and hid behind him, staring at me through terror-filled eyes. The blind old man sniffed the air and smelled the arrival of an aristocratic woman. He reached out his hand. “Madam,” he said, “please save this child. If she stays with me, she’ll starve to death. Madam, I don’t have a cent to my name …” The woman stood up and muttered something to the boy in school uniform, who turned to the blind old man and asked loudly, “What is the girl to you?” “I’m her granddad, her useless granddad, a granddad who deserves to die …” “What about her parents?” the boy asked. “Starved, they all starved to death. Those who should have died didn’t and those who shouldn’t have did. Sir, be merciful and take her with you. I don’t want a cent from you, if you’ll only give the girl a chance for life …” The boy turned and muttered something to the foreign woman, who nodded. The boy bent over and tried to pull the girl away from her granddad, but when his hand touched her shoulder, she bit him on the wrist. The boy shrieked and jumped back. With an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders, a grin, and raised eyebrows, the woman took the handkerchief away from her mouth and put it around the boy’s wrist.
With feelings that might have been terror and might have been delight, we waited for what seemed like a thousand years; finally, the richly bejeweled, heavily perfumed woman and the youngster with the injured wrist was standing before us. Meanwhile, off to our right, the blind old man was waving his bamboo staff, trying to hit the little girl who had bitten the boy. But she kept darting out of the way, as if playing hide-and-seek, so all he ever hit was the ground or the wall. “You damned little wretch!” the old man sighed. Greedily, I breathed in the foreign woman’s fragrance; amid the fragrance of locust, I detected a trace of rose petals, and amid that fragrance, I detected the subtle fragrance of chrysanthemum blossoms. But what absolutely intoxicated me was the smell of her breasts, even with the slight but disgusting smell of lamb they exuded; I flared my nostrils and breathed in deeply. Now that the handkerchief with which she’d covered her mouth was being employed elsewhere, her mouth was exposed to view. It was a wide mouth, a Shangguan Laidi mouth, with thick, Shangguan Laidi lips. Those thick lips were covered with heavy, red, greasy paint. With its high bridge, hers somewhat resembled the
Shangguan girls’ noses, but there were differences too: the tips of the Shangguan girls’ noses were like little cloves of garlic, making them look foolish and cute at the same time, while the foreign woman’s nose was slightly hooked, which gave her a predatory look. Her short forehead filled with deep wrinkles each time she glowered at something. I knew that everyone’s eyes were fixed on her, but I can say proudly that no one’s observation of her was more meticulous than mine. And no one could know the measure of my reward. My gaze passed through the thickness of her leather wrap, allowing me to witness the sight of her breasts, which were about the same size as Mother’s. Their loveliness nearly made me forget how cold and hungry I was.
“Why are you selling your children?” the youngster asked as he raised his bandaged hand and pointed to my sisters.
Mother didn’t answer him. Did an idiotic question like that even deserve an answer? The youngster turned and muttered something to the foreign woman, whose attention was caught by the purple marten coat in which the daughter of Laidi, who lay in Mother’s arms, was wrapped. She reached out and rubbed the nap. Then she saw the pantherlike, lazily sinister gaze of the baby girl herself. She had to turn away.
I hoped that Mother would hand Laidi’s baby to the foreign woman. She didn’t have to pay us, we’d even give her Laidi’s purple marten coat. I loathed that baby girl. She was given a share of milk that belonged to me, though she didn’t deserve it. Even my twin sister, Shangguan Yunii, didn’t deserve it. So who gave her the right? What about Laidi, what’s wrong with her breasts?
The foreign woman looked at each of my sisters in turn, starting with Fifth Sister and Sixth Sister, who had straw tags sticking up out of their collars. Then she looked at Fourth Sister, Seventh Sister, and Eighth Sister, who did not have tags. They didn’t so much as glance at the little Sima bastard, but were certainly interested in me. I figured that my greatest asset was the downy yellow hair that covered my head. The way they examined my sisters was certainly peculiar. Here is the order of commands the youngster gave my sisters: Lower your head. Bend over. Kick out your leg. Raise your arms. Now wave them, front and back. Open wide, now give me an Ah — Ah! Let’s hear you laugh. Take a few steps. Now run. My sisters did everything he told them to do, while the foreign woman watched, alternating between nodding and shaking her head. Finally, she pointed to Seventh Sister and muttered something to the youngster.
The youngster told Mother — while pointing to the foreign woman — that she was Countess Rostov, a philanthropist who desired to adopt and raise a pretty Chinese girl. She has settled on this girl of yours. You are a very lucky family.
Tears nearly gushed from Mother’s eyes. She handed Laidi’s daughter to Fourth Sister, freed her arms, and wrapped them around Seventh Sister. “Qiudi, my daughter, fortune has smiled on you …” Her tears fell onto the head of Seventh Sister, who sobbed, “I don’t want to go, Mother. She has a funny smell…” “You foolish little girl,” Mother said, “that’s a wonderful smell.”
“All right, worthy sister,” the youngster interrupted impatiently. “Now we need a figure.”
“Sir,” Mother said, “since we’re giving her to this lady to raise, it’s as if my daughter has fallen into the lap of fortune. I don’t want any money … just hope you’ll take good care of her.”
The youngster translated this for the foreign woman. Then, in stiff Chinese, she said, “No, I must pay you.”
Mother said, “Sir, would you ask the lady if she could take one more, so she’ll have a sister with her?”
Again, he translated for the foreign woman. But Countess Rostov shook her head firmly.
The youngster stuffed a dozen or more pink bills into Mother’s hand and waved to the driver, who was standing beside the wagon. The man ran over and bowed to the youngster.
The driver picked up Seventh Sister and carried her over to the wagon. Not until then did she really start crying, as she reached out to us with one of her pencil-thin arms. Her sisters joined her in crying, and even the wretched little Sima boy opened his mouth and shr
ieked — wah — followed by a brief silence. Then another wah and another brief silence. The driver deposited Seventh Sister inside the wagon. The foreign woman followed. As the youngster was about to board, Mother ran over, grabbed him by the arm, and asked anxiously, “Sir, where does the lady live?” “Harbin,” he replied icily.
The wagon drove onto the road and quickly disappeared beyond the woods. But Seventh Sister’s cries, the ding-dong of the horse’s bell, and the woman’s fragrant breasts remained fresh in my memory.
Holding those few pink bills in her hand, Mother stood like a statue, and I became part of that statue.
That night, rather than sleep out in the open, we took a room at an inn. Mother told Fourth Sister to go out and buy ten sesame cakes. She returned instead with forty steaming boiled buns and a large packet of stewed pork. “Little Four,” Mother said angrily, “that was money earned from selling your sister!” “Mother,” Fourth Sister said through her tears, “my sisters deserve to eat at least one decent meal, and so do you.” “Xiangdi,” Mother said tearfully, “how could I possibly eat these buns and this meat?” “If you don’t,” Fourth Sister said, “just think what that means to Jintong.” This comment had the desired effect; although she was still crying, Mother ate the buns and some of the meat, in order to produce milk for me and Shangguan Laidi and Sha Yueliang’s infant daughter.
Mother fell ill.
Her body was hot as steel pulled from a quenching bucket and gave off the same unpleasant steamy smell. We sat around watching her, wide-eyed. Mother’s eyes were closed and blisters covered her lips, through which all sorts of frightful words emerged. She went from loud shouts to soft whispers, and from a joyful tone to a tragic one. God, Holy Mother, angels, demons, Shangguan Shouxi, Pastor Malory, Third Master Fan, Yu the Fourth, Great Aunt, Second Uncle, Grandfather, Grandmother… Chinese goblins and foreign deities, living people and the dead, stories we knew and some we didn’t, all came pouring nonstop out of Mother’s mouth; it swayed, gathered, performed, and was transformed before our eyes … to comprehend Mother’s afflicted ravings was to have an understanding of the universe itself; to commit Mother’s afflicted ravings to memory was to know the entire history of Northeast Gaomi Township.