Big Breasts and Wide Hips

by Mo Yan

  The mastiff pressed toward him on paws as big as human fists, its fangs glinting between upturned lips, growls emerging from deep in its throat. A pair of wolfhounds that could have been twins were right behind it, one on each side as a protective escort, sinister looks on their long, thin faces. A ragtag assortment of mutts brought up the rear.

  They were about to attack; the fur on their backs was standing straight up. Slowly Jintong retreated, after bending down and picking up two black rocks. His first impulse had been to turn and run; but then he recalled the advice Birdman Han had once given him: When you’re face-to-face with a wild animal, the worst thing you can do is run. No two-legged animal can outrun a four-legged one. Your only hope is to stare it down.

  The dogs pressed forward, confident that this big piece of tender meat in front of them was on the verge of cracking up, getting closer and closer to total paralysis. His steps began to falter as his legs turned increasingly rubbery and his body swayed from side to side; the rocks were about to slip from his hands, and the foul sweat of fear oozed from his pores.

  Jintong’s eyes were glazing over; the rocks fell to the ground. He knew that the moment of his liberation from worldly concerns had arrived. But how could he end his days on earth in the stomachs of a pack of dogs? Wearily, he thought of his mother, and he thought of Old Jin, who, with her single breast, would take on any man alive and never come out second best. He didn’t have the energy to let his thoughts continue. Once he was seated on the steps, his sole wish was that the dogs would finish him off quickly. He hated the thought of leaving behind a leg, or something like that. Gobble up every scrap, lick up every drop of blood, and let Shangguan Jintong’s disappearance be a complete mystery.

  A wayward calf came to Jintong’s rescue, a miraculous scapegoat. The calf, fat and oily, its hide like fine satin, had broken free from a nearby butcher shop. Its flesh obviously surpassed that of Jintong, for the dogs abandoned their assault on Jintong the instant they laid eyes on the fat little calf. He watched as the calf, frightened out of its wits, ran right in amid the pack of dogs. With a single leap, the mastiff sank its fangs into the calf’s neck. With a mournful lowing, it was thrown onto its side, and the wolfhounds went for its belly, ripping it open in a flash. The rest of the dogs joined in the kill, nearly picking the calf up off the ground as they tore it limb from limb.

  Jintong took off running, avoiding dark lanes. This time, by god, if I run into those dogs, there won’t be a calf to come to my rescue. It’s out in the open for me. I’m bound to have better luck if I go where people are and try to scare up some rags to cover my body. If all else fails, I’ll go home to Mother. If necessary, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a scavenger, since I’ve had my share of the good life these past few years with Old Jin and Geng Lianlian. If I die now, at the age of forty-two, so what?

  No place was more “out in the open” than the town’s market square, with its movie theater, bordered by a museum on one side and a library on the other. All three buildings were fronted by tall steps, with blue glass walls that rose up into the sky and rotating electric lights. He’d often driven past this theater in Lianlian’s car, but had never realized how big it was. Now, as Prince Jintong, down on his luck, strolled alone through the square, it seemed enormous, taking up the entire vista. The square was laid with octagonal concrete tiles. His feet were killing him. He took a look at one of the soles; there were at least ten blisters the size of grapes, some of which had already popped and were oozing a clear liquid. The blood blisters hurt the worst. When he spotted several piles of animal droppings, the thought that they might be dog shit filled him with dread.

  A gust of wind carried several white plastic bags tumbling through the air around him; he ran after them in spite of his aching feet, catching one and racing after another, leaving bloody footprints all the way to the edge of the square. The second bag was snagged on the branch of a holly tree, so he sat down, and remained sitting even though the cold wind and tiles sent stabbing pains up his rectum. As he wrapped the plastic bags around his feet, he noticed that many others were caught in the tree, and in a mad but joyous frenzy he took them all down and wrapped them around his feet. He stood up and started walking again, happy to see that his soles were springier and more comfortable, and that the shooting pains were hardly noticeable. The scraping sound of his plastic feet traveled into the distance.

  The rumble of heavy machinery came to him from the bank of the Flood Dragon River. Here in the renamed Osmanthus District residents were home in bed sleeping peacefully. All the lights in the district were off, except for a few lighted windows in the newly built Osmanthus Mansions southeast of where he stood, the most luxurious building in town. Finally, he decided to head over to the pagoda and be with his mother. This time he wouldn’t leave her side again, no matter what. If that made him a hopeless case, so be it. He might not be able to dine on ostrich eggs, or bathe in a sauna, but he wouldn’t have to worry again about sinking so low that he walked the streets alone, half naked, plastic bags for shoes.

  As he passed shop after shop along the way, he was drawn to a brilliant window display; he stopped — though he shouldn’t have — in front of six fashionably dressed mannequins, three male and three female, standing in the window. What caught his attention, besides the golden or jet black hair, the sleek and intelligent foreheads, the high noses, the curled lashes, the expressions of tenderness in the eyes, and the soft, red lips of the female mannequins, were, of course, the high, arching breasts. The more he looked, the more the mannequins seemed to come alive; the sweet smell of women’s breasts seeped through the window glass and warmed his heart. He didn’t return to his senses until his head bumped up against the cold glass. Fearing that his madness was upon him again, and that this time it would not go away, he forced himself to turn and walk off while he remained clearheaded. But he did not get far before circling back and raising his hands in supplication. “Please, Lord, let me touch them! I need to touch them. I’ll never ask for anything again, as long as I live.”

  Flinging himself toward the mannequins, he felt the glass shatter, but there was no sound. When he reached out to touch the breasts, the mannequins tumbled to the floor. He landed on top of them, his hand cupped around a rigid breast, and a horrifying realization came to him. My god, there’s no nipple!

  A salty, acrid liquid washed into his eyes and his mouth as he fell into a bottomless abyss.

  6

  Toward the end of the 1980s, the Cultural Affairs Office of the Municipal Bureau of Culture decided to build an amusement park on the high ground currently occupied by the pagoda. The director led a red bulldozer, a dozen or more reassigned policemen armed with billy clubs, an official witness from the Municipal Notary Office, and TV and newspaper reporters to surround the house in front of the pagoda. There he read aloud the government’s proclamation for the benefit of Jintong and his mother: “After careful study, it has been determined that the house in front of the pagoda is public property belonging to Northeast Gaomi Township, not the private property of the Shangguan family. Their house has been sold at fair value, the money given to their kin, Parrot Han. The Shangguan family is in violation of the law by occupying said house, and must vacate the premises within six hours. If they do not, they will be guilty of squatting on public property. Do you understand what I have just read?” the director asked truculently.

  Seated calmly on her bed, Mother replied, “Your tractors will have to go through me.”

  “Shangguan Jintong,” the director said, “your aged mother has lost her mind, I’m afraid. Go talk to her. A wise individual submits to circumstances. You do not want to make an enemy of the government.”

  Jintong, who had spent three years in a mental institution for crashing through the shop window and destroying a mannequin, wood-enly shook his head. A scar stood out on his forehead, and his glassy eyes showed the depth of his mental defect. When the director took out his mobile phone, Jintong fell to his knees, ho
lding his head in his hands and pleading, “Please, no electric shocks … no shocks … I’m a mental defect…” “The old one’s losing her mind,” the director said, “and the young one’s already lost his. What now?”

  “We have this on tape,” the government witness said, “so if they won’t move on their own, we’ll just have to move them!”

  The director signaled the police, who dragged Jintong and his mother out of the house. With her white hair flying, she fought like an old lion, but all Jintong did was beg, “Please don’t shock me … no shock … I’m a mental defect…”

  When his mother tried to fight her way over to the straw huts, the police bound her hand and foot. She was so enraged she foamed at the mouth before finally passing out.

  The police tossed the few pieces of broken furniture and tattered bedding out into the yard. Then the red bulldozer raised its enormous scoop, with its row of steel teeth, and rumbled up to the little house; smoke belching from its smokestack. In Jintong’s mind, it was coming for him, and he pressed himself up against the damp base of the pagoda to await death.

  At this critical moment, Sima Liang, who had not been seen in years, dropped from heaven into their midst.

  7

  In fact, ten or fifteen minutes earlier, I had spotted the olive green helicopter circling in the air above Dalan. Like a gigantic dragonfly, it skimmed across the sky, dropping lower and lower, at times nearly scraping the pointed dome of the pagoda with its drooping belly. Swirls of wind from the rotors created a buzzing in my ears as the helicopter swooped down, tail high in the air. A large head peeked out through the brightly lit cockpit window and looked down at the ground. The person moved out of sight before I got a good look at his face. The bulldozer roared, its tracks clanking as it raised its toothed scoop and moved up to the house like a bizarre dinosaur. The old Taoist, Men Shengwu, dressed in his customary black robe, appeared like an apparition in front of the pagoda, and just as quickly vanished. All I could think to do was shout, “Don’t shock me, I’m a mental defect, isn’t that enough?”

  The helicopter returned, this time leaning to one side and spitting yellow smoke. A woman’s figure leaned out of the cockpit and shouted, her voice barely audible over the earsplitting thunk-thunk-thunk of the rotors, “Stop … can’t raze that… historic buildings … Qin Wujin …”

  Qin Wujin was the grandson of Mr. Qin Er, who had taught Sima Ku and me. He was in charge of the Cultural Relics Office, but was more interested in development than preservation, and was at that moment examining a large celadon bowl belonging to our family. How bright his eyes were. His jowls twitched; the shout from the helicopter overhead had obviously given him a start. As he looked up into the sky, the helicopter circled back and shrouded him in a blast of yellow smoke.

  Eventually, it landed in front of the pagoda. Even after it was safely on the ground, the flat blades of its rotor continued their witless revolutions — thunk-thunk-thunk — each turn slower than the one before, until they finally shuddered to a stop, and the beast sat there staring wide-eyed. A hatch opened in its belly, framed by light from the cockpit, and down the ladder came a man in a leather coat, followed by a woman in a bright orange windbreaker over a muted orange woolen skirt. Her calf muscles tensed at each step. She had a dignified, rectangular face under a dense swirl of shiny black hair. I recognized her at once: it was the daughter of Lu Liren and my sister Pandi — Lu Shengli, the former manager of the city’s Bank of Industry and Commerce. She had just been elevated to the position of mayor, following the death of the incumbent mayor, Ji Qiongzhi, who had died of a cerebral hemorrhage — from rage, according to some people. Shengli had inherited my fifth sister’s physique, but was more dignified than her mother, proving that each generation surpasses the former. She walked with her head held high, her chest thrust forward, like a thoroughbred racehorse. A middle-aged, big-headed man followed her down the ladder. He wore a designer suit and a wide tie.

  The man was turning bald, but had the face of a mischievous little boy, with spirited eyes that held great mystery. A bulbous nose sat atop a handsome little mouth with full lips, and his large, fair, and fleshy earlobes hung down heavily like turkey wattles. I’d never seen a man with a face like that before, nor a woman, of course. With regal looks like that, such individuals were the type fated to be emperors, to be lucky in love, to enjoy the company of three wives, six consorts, and seventy-two concubines. It could be Sima Liang, but I didn’t dare believe it. At first he didn’t see me, which was fine with me, since he surely could not acknowledge my presence. Shangguan Jintong was a former mental patient, a man with a sexual hang-up. Right behind him came a woman of mixed blood who was both taller and bigger than Lu Shengli. She had deep-set eyes and blood-red lips.

  Lu Shengli kept glancing at the man, a bewitching smile creasing her customary stern expression. Her smile was more precious than diamonds and more terrifying than poison. The Cultural Affairs director waddled over with our celadon bowl. “Mayor Lu,” he said, “how wonderful to have you come observe our work.” “What are you planning to do?” she asked. “We’re going to build a theme park around this ancient pagoda as a tourist attraction for Chinese and foreigners.” “Why wasn’t I informed?” “It was approved by your predecessor, Mayor Ji.” “Since it was her decision, we’ll have to go back to the drawing table. The pagoda is under the city’s protection, and I don’t want you knocking down the house in front. We are going to reinstate the snow market activities. How much amusement do you think you’ll get out of throwing up a few lousy electronic games, crummy bump’em cars, and chintzy game tables? What’s amusing about that? Comrade, vision is required if we’re going to attract foreign visitors and relieve them of their spending money. I’ve called upon the city’s residents to learn from the path-breaking spirit of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, to walk where others have not trod before and to produce something new and different. What do we mean by reforms? What does it mean to open up? It means to think and act boldly. There may be things you cannot think of, but nothing you cannot do. The Eastern Bird Sanctuary is in the process of implementing their ‘Phoenix Plan.’ By crossbreeding ostriches, golden pheasants, and peacocks, they plan to produce a bird that so far exists only in legend — a phoenix.” Having grown addicted to orating, the more she spoke, the more frenzied she grew, like the hooves of a horse that cannot stop running. The government witness and the policemen all stood transfixed. The reporter from the municipal TV station, a man with a well-deserved reputation as subordinate to the head of the Radio and Television Bureau, Unicorn, had his camera trained on Mayor Lu Shengli and the honored guests. Reporters from local newspapers abruptly snapped out of their trance and began running around, kneeling and standing to snap pictures of the dignitaries.

  Finally, Sima Liang spotted Mother, who was lying in front of the pagoda, bound hand and foot. He stumbled backward and his head rocked from side to side. Tears all but spurted from his eyes. Then he fell to his knees, slowly at first, quickly prostrating himself just as his kneecaps touched the ground. “Grandma!” he said with a loud wail. “Grandma …”

  There was nothing contrived about his weeping, as his tear-streaked face proved, that and the snivel running from his nose. With her failing eyesight, Mother tried to focus on him. Her lips quivered. “Is that you, little Liang?”

  “Grandma, dear Grandma, it’s me, Sima Liang, the boy you nursed as an infant.” Mother tried to roll over. “Cousin,” Sima Liang said as he got to his feet, “why have you trussed my grandmother up like that?” “It’s all my fault, cousin,” Lu Shengli said awkwardly. Then she turned to Qin Wujin and hissed through clenched teeth, “You sons of bitches!” Qin’s knees began to knock, but he managed to hold on to our celadon bowl. “Just wait till I’m back in my office — no, I’m not going to wait. You’re fired! Now go back and write a self-criticism.” She bent down and started untying Mother; when she encountered a knot she couldn’t undo, she loosened it with her teeth. It was a touching scene
. After helping Mother to her feet, she said, “I’m sorry I came so late.” Mother had a puzzled look on her face. “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize me, Grandma? I’m Lu Shengli.” Mother shook her head. “You don’t look like her.” She turned back to Sima Liang. “Liang, let me touch you. I want to see if you’ve filled out.” Mother stroked Sima Liang’s head. “You’re my little Liang, all right,” she said. “People may change over the years, but not the shape of their skull. That’s where your fate is determined. You have plenty of meat on your bones, my child. You seem to have done well for yourself. At least you’re eating well.” “Yes, Grandma, I’m eating well,” Sima Liang sobbed. “We’ve risen out of our hardships, and from now on you can relax and enjoy the good life. Where’s my Little Uncle? How is he doing?”