by Mo Yan
I sobbed the whole time I was squatting in front of the basin washing my face, turning the water black. Mother stood behind me, cursing under her breath, but I knew I was no longer the target of those curses. When I was finished, she ladled out some clean water and poured it over my head as she began to cry. The water ran down my nose and chin and into the basin on the floor, slowly turning the water clear again. While she dried my hair, Mother said: “Back then there was nothing I could do, son. You are what you are, so stand up straight and act like a man. You’re eighteen years old, no longer a child. Sima Ku had his faults, plenty of them, but he lived his life like a man, and that’s worth emulating.”
I nodded obediently, but suddenly remembered the gold ring. Just as I was about to tell her what I’d done, Laidi ran breathlessly into the house. She’d begun working at the district match factory, and was wearing a white apron stenciled with the words: Dalan Starlight Match Factory.
“He’s back, Mother!” she announced nervously. “Who?” Mother asked.
“The mute,” First Sister said.
Mother dried her hands and looked into First Sister’s haggard face. “I’m afraid it’s your fate, Daughter.”
The mute, Speechless Sun, “walked” into our front yard. He had aged since the last time we’d seen him; flecks of gray poked out from under his army cap. His rheumy eyes were more clouded than ever, and his jaw looked like a rusty plow. He was dressed in a new yellow uniform with a high-collar tunic, buttoned at the throat, a row of glittering medals on his chest. His long, powerful arms ended in a pair of gleaming white gloves, his hands resting on squat, leather-trimmed stools. He was sitting on a red Naugahyde pad that was attached to him. His wide trouser legs were tied together at his waist, below which were two stumps. That was the image the mute, whom we had not seen for years, presented to us now. Stretching the squat stools out in front with his powerful arms, he heaved his body forward and moved closer, the pad strapped to his hips glistening red in the light.
With five lurching movements, he brought himself up to within about ten feet of us, far enough that he didn’t have to strain to look up at us. Dirty water splashed as I rinsed my hair and flowed to the ground in front of him. Putting his hands behind him, he lurched backward, and at that moment it dawned on me that a person’s height depends mainly on his legs. The upper half of Speechless Sun’s body looked thicker, bulkier, and more menacing than ever. Even though he’d been reduced to a torso, he retained an awesome fearfulness. He looked us in the eye, a welter of mixed emotions showing on his dark face. His jaw quivered, much as it had years ago, as he grunted over and over the same word: “Strip, strip, strip …” Two lines of diamondlike tears slipped down his cheeks from gold-tinged eyes.
Raising his hands in the air, he made a series of gestures to the accompaniment of “Strip strip strip,” and I realized we hadn’t seen him since he’d traveled to the Northeast to inquire into the whereabouts of his sons, Big and Little Mute. Covering her face with a towel, Mother ran tearfully into the house. Understanding her meaning at once, the mute let his head sag down on his chest.
She returned with two bloodstained caps, which she handed to me and signaled me to give him. Forgetting all about the gold ring I’d swallowed, I walked up to him. Gazing up at my rail-thin body as I stood before him, he just shook his head sadly. I bent over, but quickly changed my mind and squatted down in front of him, handed him the caps, and pointed to the northeast. Images of that sad journey rushed into my head, with the mute carrying the wounded soldier on his back away from the front lines and, far worse, the horrifying sight of the two little mutes lying dead and abandoned in the artillery shell crater. He took one of the caps from me, raised it to his face, and smelled deeply, the way a hunting dog might sniff out the odors of a killer on the run or a corpse. He placed the cap between his stumps and grabbed the other one out of my hand, smelling it the same way before tucking it away with its mate. Then, without bothering to see if it was all right, he lurched into the house and examined every corner of every room, from the living spaces to the milling room and the storeroom. He then went back outside to look over the outhouse in the southeast corner of the compound. He even stuck his head inside the chicken coop. I followed him everywhere he went, captivated by how nimbly and uniquely he moved from place to place. In the room where First Sister and Sha Zaohua slept, he sat on the floor beside the kang, gripping the edge with both hands, a sight that saddened me. But what happened next proved how wrong I was to feel sorry for him. Still gripping the edge of the kang, he pushed himself up until he was hovering above the ground, displaying the kind of strength I'd only seen in sideshow performances. As his head rose above the edge, his arms flexed noisily, and he flung himself up onto the kang, landing awkwardly, although it took only a moment for him to seat himself properly.
Now seated on First Sister’s bed, he looked like the head of the family, or a true leader, and as I stood at the head of the bed, I felt like an uninvited visitor in someone else’s room.
First Sister was in Mother’s room, and I could hear her crying. “Get him out of there, Mother,” she said through her tears. UI didn’t want him when he had legs. Now that he’s only half a man, I want him even less.”
“It’s easy to invite a deity into one’s life, child, but hard to get one to leave.”
“Who invited him in?”
“I was wrong to do that,” Mother said. “I gave you to him sixteen years ago, and now our nemesis is here to stay.”
Mother handed a bowl of hot water to the mute, who showed a bit of emotion as he took it and gulped it down.
“I was sure you were dead,” Mother said. “I’m surprised to see you’re still alive. I failed in my attempt to look after the children, and my grief is greater than yours because of it. You were their parents, but I was their guardian. It looks like you served the government well, and I hope you’re being well taken care of. Sixteen years ago, I followed our feudal customs in arranging your marriage. That is no longer how people get married in the new society. You are an enlightened representative of the government, while we are a family of widows and orphans, and you should leave us to live as best we can. Besides, Laidi didn’t really marry you. That was my third daughter’s doing. I beg you, leave us alone. Go let the government take care of you the way you deserve.”
Ignoring Mother completely, the mute poked his finger through the paper window and looked into the yard through the hole. Meanwhile, First Sister had found a pair of tongs dating back to her grandmother’s days and burst into the room holding them in two hands. “You mute bastard!” she growled. “You stump of a man, get the hell out of our house!” She went after him with her tongs, but he merely reached out and grabbed them in the air. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get them out of his grasp, and in the midst of this desperately unequal contest of strength, a smug grin spread across the mute’s face. Weakly, First Sister let go of the tongs and covered her face with her hands. “Mute,” she said tearfully, “whatever it is you’re thinking, forget it. I’d marry a pig before I’d marry you.”
A crashing of cymbals erupted out in the lane, followed by the shouts of a mob, led by the district chief, as they walked through our gate. He was followed by a dozen or more party cadres and a bunch of schoolchildren carrying bouquets of flowers. The district chief walked into the house, bent at the waist, and loudly congratulated Mother.
“For what?” Mother asked coldly.
“For heaven’s blessings, aunty,” he said. “Let me explain.”
Out in the yard, the children waved their flowers in the air and shouted, “Congratulations! Great honor and hearty congratulations!”
“Aunty,” the district chief said, “we have reviewed land reform material and have concluded that you were wrongly categorized as upper middle peasants. The decline in your family situation in the wake of all your troubles makes you poor peasants, and so we have reclassified you. That is the first piece of joyful news. We have also s
tudied documents from the 1939 Japanese massacre, and have concluded that your mother-in-law and your husband had a record of resisting the Japanese invaders, and should be honored with the title of martyrs. They deserve to recoup their original status, and your family deserves to enjoy the benefits of revolutionary descendants. That is the second piece of joyful news. In line with these redressings and rehabilitations, the local middle school has decided to accept Shangguan Jintong as a student. In order to make up for the time he lost, he will be assigned a tutor, and your granddaughter, Sha Zaohua, will also be given the opportunity for an education. The county theatrical company is now taking students, and we will do everything within our power to see that she is among them. That is the third piece of joyful news. The fourth piece of joyful news, of course, is that the first-class hero of the volunteer resistance movement, your son-in-law, Speechless Sun, has returned home covered in glory. The fifth piece of joyful news is that the veteran’s convalescent hospital has taken the unprecedented step of recruiting your daughter, Shangguan Laidi, as a top-ranked nurse. She will be given a monthly salary but will not have to actually show up at the hospital. The sixth piece of joyful news is truly joyful. And that is a celebration of the reunion of the resistance hero and the wife from whom he was separated. The district government will arrange the ceremony. Aunty, as a revolutionary grandmother, you are about to be rewarded with six joyful events!”
Mother stood there, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as if she’d been struck by lightning. The bowl in her hand crashed to the floor.
Meanwhile, the district chief signaled one of the officials, who separated himself from the crowd of schoolchildren and walked up, followed by a young woman carrying a bouquet of flowers. The official handed the district chief a white envelope. “The martyr’s descendant certificate,” he whispered. The district chief took it from him and presented it to Mother with both hands. “Aunty, this is the martyr’s certificate.” Mother’s hands shook as she took it from him. The young woman stepped forward and laid her bouquet of white flowers in the crook of Mother’s arm. Then the cadre handed the district chief a red envelope. “Certificate of employment,” he said. The district chief took the envelope and handed it to First Sister. “This is your certificate of employment,” he said. First Sister stood there with her sooty hands clasped behind her back, so the district chief reached out, took one of her arms, and placed the red envelope in her hand. “You deserve this,” he said. The young woman placed a bouquet of purple flowers under First Sister’s arm. The official then handed the district chief a yellow envelope. “School enrollment notice,” he said. The district chief handed me the envelope. “Little brother,” he said, “your future looks bright, so study hard.” As the young woman handed me a bouquet of yellow flowers, her eyes were filled with extraordinary affection. The gentle fragrance of the golden flowers reminded me of the gold ring that still rested in my stomach. I wouldn’t have swallowed the damned thing if I’d known all this was going to happen! The official handed a purple envelope to the district chief. “The theatrical company.” The district chief held out the purple envelope and looked around for Sha Zaohua, who popped out from behind the door and took it from him. He shook her hand. “Study hard, girl,” he said, “and become a great actress.” The young woman handed Zaohua a bouquet of purple flowers. As she took the flowers, a shiny medal fell to the floor. The district chief bent down to pick it up. After reading what was written on it, he handed it to the mute, who was seated on the kang. I felt a surge of happy excitement as the mute pinned it to his own chest. Obviously, our family could now boast a master thief. Finally, the district chief took the last envelope — a blue one — from the official and said, “Comrade Speechless Sun, this is a wedding certificate for you and Shangguan Laidi. The district has already taken care of the details. All you two have to do is put your fingerprints on it sometime in the next few days.” The young woman reached out and placed a bouquet of blue flowers in the mute’s hand.
“Aunty,” the district chief said, “do you have anything to say? Don’t be shy. We’re all one big, happy family!”
Mother cast a troubled look at First Sister, who stood there holding her bouquet of red flowers, the side of her mouth twitching all the way over to her right ear. A few glistening tears leaped from the corners of her eyes and landed on her flowers, like dew covering their petals.
“In the new society,” Mother said tentatively, “we should listen to our children …”
“Shangguan Laidi,” the district chief, “do you have anything to say?”
First Sister looked at us and sighed. “It’s my fate, I guess.”
“Wonderful!” the district chief said. “I’ll send some people over to put the house in order so we can hold the ceremony tomorrow!”
The night before Shangguan Laidi was formally married to the mute, I passed the gold ring.
* * *
The dozen or so doctors at the county hospital were organized into a medical group that, under the direction of a specialist from the Soviet Union, finally weaned me from my milk diet and aversion to regular food using the theories of Pavlov. Freed of that burdensome yoke, I entered school. My studies took off, and before much time had passed, I'd become the top first-year student at Dalan Middle School. Those were the most glorious days of my life. I belonged to the most revolutionary family around, I was smarter than anyone, I had an enviable physique and a face that made all the girls lower their eyes in shyness, and I had a voracious appetite. In the school cafeteria, I’d gobble down a huge piece of cornbread impaled on a chopstick and a thick green onion in my other hand while I was talking and laughing with the other kids. By the sixth month at school I’d jumped two grades and become the third-year class representative in my Russian class. I was admitted into the Youth League without having to apply and was quickly selected as a member of the branch propaganda committee, whose major function was to sing Russian folk songs in Russian. I had a strong voice, rich as milk and bold as a thick green onion, and I invariably drowned out all the voices around me. In short, I was the brightest star at Dalan Middle School during the latter half of the 1950s, and the favorite of Teacher Huo, a pretty woman who had once served as interpreter for visiting Russian experts. She often sang my praises in front of the other students, saying I had a gift for languages. In order to raise my proficiency in Russian, she arranged for a pen pal, a ninth-grade girl in a Soviet city, the daughter of a Soviet expert who had worked in China. Her name was Natasha. We exchanged photos. She gazed out at me with a slight look of surprise in her staring eyes, and lush, curling lashes.
2
Shangguan Jintong felt his heart race and the blood rush to his head; the hand holding the photo trembled uncontrollably. Natasha’s full lips turned up slightly to reveal almost blindingly white teeth, and the warm, gentle fragrance of orchids seemed to rise up into his eyes, as a sweet sensation made his nose ache. He gazed at the flaxen hair that spread out over her silky shoulders. A low-cut scoop-collared dress that belonged either to her mother or to an elder sister hung loosely from her pert little breasts. Her long neck and décolletage left nothing to the imagination. For some mysterious reason, tears glistened in his eyes, producing a glazed effect. As he took in the nearly unobstructed view of her breasts, the sweet smell of milk permeated his soul, and he imagined he heard a call from the distant north — grassy steppes as far as the eye could see, a dense forest of melancholy birch, a little cabin deep in the woods, fir trees blanketed with snow and ice … lovely scenes moved past his eyes like a sequence of still images. And in the middle of each image stood the young Natasha, a bouquet of purple flowers cradled in her arms. Jintong covered his eyes with his hands and wept with joy, the tears coursing down through his fingers.
All that night, Jintong hovered between sleep and wakefulness, as Natasha paced back and forth before him, the hem of her dress sweeping across the floor. In fluent Russian, he poured out his heart to her, but her expression went from happiness to anger, w
hich took him from the heights of arousal to the depths of despair. And yet a single tantalizing smile pulled him right back up again.
At daybreak, the boy in the lower bunk, a fellow by the name of Zhao Fengnian, who was the father of two boys, complained, “Shangguan Jintong, I know you speak wonderful Russian, but you’ve got to let others get some sleep.”
Suffering from a splitting headache, after letting go of Natasha’s captivating image, Jintong apologized caustically to Zhao Fengnian, who noticed his ashen face and blistered lips. “Are you sick?”
In agony, he shook his head, suddenly feeling as if his thoughts were like a car negotiating a slippery mountain slope, when it suddenly loses control and tumbles down the mountainside. At the grassy base of the mountain, where purple blossoms bloom all around, the beautiful Natasha scoops up the hem of her dress and runs silently toward him …
He grabbed the bunk bed post and banged his head against it over and over.
Zhao Fengnian summoned the political instructor, Xiao Jingang, the onetime member of an armed working brigade, a man with a true proletarian background. He’d once sworn that he’d put Teacher Huo before a firing squad for wearing short skirts, which he considered morally degenerate. His shadowy eyes, set in a face like hardened steel, threw an instant chill into Jintong’s roiling brain, and he felt as if he was being pulled up out of quicksand.
“What’s going on with you, Shangguan Jintong?” Xiao Jingang asked sternly.
“Xiao Jingang, you flat-faced oaf, mind your own business!” In order to allow the man’s sternness help him break free from Natasha’s grip, all he could think of was to make the man good and angry.