by Jack Livings
At the Xuanhua Station, they got off and found a bus going to Yulin. They had been in transit two hours already, and it was another hour before they reached Yulin, where they boarded a van traveling into the countryside. The driver’s crony tried to gouge them once they were on the road, saying the baby counted as a person and needed a ticket, but the other passengers shouted him down.
One old woman called him a wolf and shook her fist at him.
“I’ve known him a long time,” she said. “He’d screw his own mother.”
As thanks, Li Yan let her hold the baby until they disembarked at the dirt road leading to the village where Chen Wei had grown up. Hot, their clothes stained with dust and sweat, they arrived at his cousin’s house just before noon. Zheng met them at the door and embraced them both. He was a barrel-chested man who looked something like a frog—bulbous eyes and wide lips that seemed barely able to contain his tongue. A cluster of dark hair sprouted from his chin.
“She’s really getting fat,” he said, pinching the baby’s legs. “She’ll make a good side dish.” He spat out a sharp laugh.
Chen Wei laughed, too, but Li Yan could hear the discomfort in his voice. He would never come right out and say it, but she knew he was ashamed of his family’s rough manners, their rugged faces and wide brown feet. She looked at his dust-creased face and saw a refugee. In the country, he drank heavily to disguise his shame, but she never chastised him when he was hungover the next day. She leaned close to her husband while Zheng was rounding up the rest of the family and said, “You are a good cousin. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in Beijing tomorrow night.” He looked puzzled.
Chen Wei spent the afternoon drinking and talking with the men. Aunties floated in and out of the house, an interchangeable cast of thickset women clad in blue cotton who ferried away the baby and left their own children with Li Yan. The children wouldn’t stop talking about the dog, acting out great victories they’d heard about from Zheng, scampering in and out of the house on their hands and knees, barking and licking each other on the face. They pestered her to follow them into the backyard to see the dog, but she refused. She wanted to ask the children if they understood the dog would be killed, but couldn’t bring herself to ruin their fun. As the afternoon wore on, she felt a dreadful unease set in, misgiving mixed with disdain for her husband’s run-down village. Meanwhile, her husband matched Zheng drink for drink, told bawdy jokes he’d heard at work, toasted his uncles, made a spectacle of himself. She could see that he was trying to liquor himself up for the slaughter. Zheng was a hardhearted man whose only goal in life was to become wealthy, but her husband wasn’t so naturally equipped for the bloody work that lay ahead.
Late in the afternoon, Zheng rose stiffly and raised his glass in an official toast. “To the Beijing municipal government, which has brought the family together again!” All the men raised their glasses and shouted, “Ganbei.” One of the uncles fell out of his chair. Outside, the aunties had dug a fire pit and assembled a tripod for the cauldron. Everyone moved into the walled yard where the dog was caged. Zheng held out a butcher knife to Chen Wei, who grasped it like a sword, with two hands, stiff-armed. Zheng produced a long carving knife from his belt and swung it overhead.
There was no breeze, and it was the hour before birds and bats come out for insects. The golden grass in the hills around them stood still. Everything was quiet.
“Release the beast,” Zheng shouted. A little cousin rattled the dog’s cage, then unfastened the latch. The door swung open and the dog trotted out. It stood outside its cage and wagged its tail. The little cousin slapped the dog’s rump and yelled, “Run!”
Either out of shock or compliance, the dog’s claws scrabbled over the hard earth, and it was off. The dog ran directly at Chen Wei but at the last second broke left and charged along the wall.
The children made chase, but the dog was too fast for them, cutting a jagged path through several of the older girls and boys who tried to intercept it at the corner. Zheng waited with Chen Wei, still gripping his butcher knife with two hands. Li Yan watched from the doorway. Beside her an auntie rocked the baby in her ropy arms.
The dog outwitted the children at every turn, doubling back and twisting through their small hands, running with a hint of terror, as though it could smell menace on the air. The children wore down, moving now like a school of fish, unable to block the dog’s unpredictable path, parting when it doubled back and ran directly at them, going down in a tangle of legs but quickly forming up again. The dog ran a circuit around the yard, its paws whipping up eddies of dust. Once, it appeared to be readying itself to leap clear of the fence altogether, but Zheng bellowed a command and the dog stopped dead in its tracks. Then he shouted, “Go,” and the dog was off again.
Li Yan saw that even though the dog’s eyes were wild with terror, it obeyed. It was clear that Zheng took a sporting pride in his control of the animal, but Li Yan watched her husband’s face as the dog ran, and knew he was unprepared for this. She knew her husband, and she knew what he was feeling.
Eventually the animal got tired. Its jukes became predictable, its speed was sapped, and it cowered against a corner of the wall, fangs bared, sleek hair spiked the length of its spine. The band of children closed in.
“Don’t go any closer,” Zheng said. “We’ll take over.” He punctuated this declaration with a slap to Chen Wei’s back, and walked toward the children, who scattered, squealing in mock horror as he swung the knife above their heads. “Come on,” he said to Chen Wei. They bore down upon the dog together, their knives raised. The dog snarled. Spittle dripped from its muzzle.
“Sit,” Zheng said. The dog sat.
Li Yan couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She leapt from the doorway and forced her way through the children.
“Stop,” she shouted. “Stop.” She was waving her arms over her head.
Zheng turned toward her, his butcher knife still raised, and to someone watching from beyond the fence it might have appeared that he meant to threaten Li Yan’s life. But she moved forward, unafraid, until she stood between the two men and the dog. Her husband lowered his knife and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. He tried to slouch like a gunfighter.
“I should have known,” Zheng said.
Li Yan said nothing.
“Move over,” Zheng said.
“I’m sorry, Chen Wei,” she said, but she did not move.
“Chen Wei, tell your wife to stand aside,” Zheng said. The aunties gathered at the edge of the house looked amused. They pinched at each other’s sides, and some chuckled under their breath.
Chen Wei shook his head, but he was unable to affect his detached pose while looking his cousin in the eye, so he found a point in the distance and focused.
Zheng scanned the faces ringing the yard. The children were watching him. The aunties were watching him. The uncles were watching him.
He made a fist. “Don’t make me use this,” Zheng said to Li Yan. She closed her eyes and presented her chin.
Chen Wei dropped his knife. He drew up his shoulders and moved between his wife and Zheng.
Though Chen Wei wasn’t steady on his feet, his palm fell on Zheng’s cheek with all the delicacy of a lover’s touch. He patted his cousin’s rough face. The aunties all got very quiet. There wasn’t much they hadn’t seen before, and when Chen Wei drew his hand away, they each tensed imperceptibly. Chen Wei turned his slight shoulders to the side, coiling, and brought the back of his hand across Zheng’s face with such force that Zheng, twice his size, staggered back a step.
Chen Wei’s hand hovered in the dead air between them.
“Ha,” Zheng said. “Ha!” A wide smile split his face. “Good one,” he said.
If there were terrestrial sounds in the world at that moment, a swallow crying for its mate or a breeze pushing through the grass, they were absorbed into the wake of silence radiating from his voice. For a moment it seemed to Li Yan that the rotation of the earth had locked, that the natur
al world was pinned like a butterfly to a cardboard frame. She felt the silence enveloping her, the two men, the family, the village, and extending outward like a shadow until it seemed that the entire world was somehow flattened against itself, dark. It was this oppressive airlessness, the locus of suffocation within her own body, that caused Li Yan, desperate to set the world once again in motion, to speak.
“You idiot,” she said to her husband. She may as well have clubbed him with a length of pipe. His chin dropped to his chest.
He sighed.
It would take years for him to leave her, but after he had moved out and their daughter had left for America and Li Yan was left alone to pass from the subway to the tailor’s shop and home again, where she sat in silence with a cup of tea and tried to rest, to drop the hulking weariness that had sunk itself in her chest, she returned to the yard again and again. Of course she wished that she’d held her tongue. But in her old age, she reasoned it out: standing there in Zheng’s barren yard, before his family, the words had risen up out of an unavoidable instinct.
“Give him a break, he’s drunk,” Zheng said. “We did worse when we were kids, that’s for sure.”
Chen Wei nodded.
“Well, send her to the market,” Zheng said.
“Go to the market,” Chen Wei whispered.
“Right!” Zheng said. “You’re going to cook for us, right? You saved a dog’s life. We’ll celebrate life, right? Go to the market, and we’ll get the fire going while you’re gone. Come on, don’t look so ashamed. It’s time to make up.” He took the couple’s hands in his and joined them. Their fingers mashed together. “See? No problem,” Zheng said.
* * *
Li Yan was lucky to find anyone still selling in the market. Most of the vendors had already gone home, but she found a woman with two buckets of limp carp.
“I want both,” she said.
“You’re from Tianjin, right?” the woman said.
Li Yan didn’t have time to banter. She was sure Zheng would kill the dog while she was gone. “Beijing. How much for both buckets?”
“Beijing! I could tell from your clothes. Why do you want both buckets? Hungry?”
“I’m cooking for my husband’s family. How much?”
“Who’s your husband? I’ve never seen you before. Wedding feast?”
“Please tell me how much.”
“No need to be rude. What’s the rush? If you’re cooking, they’ll wait for you. They can’t eat air.”
“I’ll give you twenty kuai for them.”
“Twenty kuai,” the woman said, as though divining a greater truth from the words. “One hundred.”
“One hundred,” Li Yan said. She looked around the empty market.
“They’re worth twice that much right now. Don’t try to put one over on me just because I’m a simple country girl.” Her teeth made an eerie whistling sound when she spoke.
“Your house isn’t worth one hundred kuai,” Li Yan said.
“Good thing it’s not for sale,” the woman said. “One hundred kuai.”
Li Yan didn’t know what else to do. She held out the money. She’d stuffed her wallet that morning in case of emergency, but this was half a week’s salary.
“Who’s your husband?” the woman said as Li Yan reached for the buckets.
“Chen Wei,” she said.
The woman said, “I remember a Chen Wei who moved to Beijing.” But she didn’t say any more.
Li Yan started to leave. “Where are you going with my buckets?” the woman said.
“I gave you one hundred kuai.”
“But you didn’t bring any newspaper. I’ll need a deposit for the buckets. Fifty kuai.”
Li Yan didn’t see the point of arguing. She gave the woman her last note. If Chen Wei didn’t have enough for tickets home, they’d borrow from Zheng.
“May your family choke on it,” the woman said, but Li Yan was already sloshing down the dirt road to Zheng’s house.
The sun had disappeared behind the hills by the time she got there, and her legs were soaked with smelly water. At the gate, she set the buckets down. The fire pit was piled with sticks, dark, just as when she’d left. Through the window she saw the men playing cards at the table. She crept around the side of the house and walked along the wall. The cage was open, and the dog was lying in the far corner of the wall. She patted her leg and said, “Come here.” The dog caught the scent of fish on her and trotted halfway across the yard, but stalled, unsure of her motives. She looked at it staring dumbly back at her, its tongue drooping from the side of its mouth. It looked happy. Animals have no memory, Li Yan thought.
She left the dog there. Back around front she lifted the buckets and walked to the door.
“Hey, the chef’s back,” Zheng said.
The room was packed solid with bodies. Chen Wei didn’t look up from his cards when she entered. The children rushed over to see what she’d brought. “Rice fish,” one said.
“What’d you expect from a Beijinger?” Zheng said. “They eat like this every day.”
Li Yan slopped the buckets over to the iron stove. The aunties had a strong fire burning, and the stove radiated an intense heat. Sweat dripped from her face and sizzled on the cooktop. She hadn’t cooked over a wood flame since she was little. In Beijing they had gas. But she’d make do. She plunked the buckets down and the aunties crowded around, doling out judgments about the size and color of the fish. Li Yan wrestled the largest wok onto the fire and the aunties swung into motion, chopping scallions, growling orders at one another, pouring oil and vinegar into the wok. The men’s voices were loud and drunk. Each man seemed to be locked in a separate and discursive argument over the rules of English poker, which only Chen Wei knew how to play, but no one was paying attention to him. Wriggling across the floor, under the table, snaking around feet and chair legs, the children did their best to contribute to the chaos.
* * *
Li Yan closed her eyes. Her ill-fated cooking stories had gained her a reputation in English class, and the American teacher had nicknamed her “Chef.” She knew that women in the neighborhood talked about her behind her back because her husband was skinny.
She would have to be extremely careful with the fish. The aunties would take care of the side dishes, but they wouldn’t help with the main dish. She’d brought this on herself, and as she added ingredients to the wok—pepper, sesame oil, coriander, salt—the aunties maintained a loose ring of motion around her without ever coming too close.
Once the oil was popping, she reached into a bucket and pulled out a wriggling carp, wiped it with a cotton rag, and dropped it into the wok. The fish curled tightly, its bony mouth gaping.
“Smells like a five-star restaurant in here,” Zheng called from the table. She couldn’t tell whether he was trying to make amends or whether it was a joke at her expense. Concentrate, she thought. Concentrate and keep your mouth shut.
Li Yan ladled hot oil over the fish and pressed it flat against the wok. There was room for another one, and she quickly plunged her hand into the bucket. Altogether she had ten fish—with side dishes, more than enough for the family—but by the time she would finish cooking the last one, the first fish would be cold. So she dropped yet another in the wok, three altogether. The auntie who had been looking after Li Yan’s daughter peered into the wok and placed her hand on Li Yan’s shoulder. Li Yan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She knew what she was doing. The men were so drunk they’d barely taste the meal. It was just a matter of presentation.
The aunties had completed a platter of scallion cakes and set them out before the men. There was a great clatter of porcelain and wood, and the cakes were gone. When Li Yan took the first three fish out of the wok, an auntie dropped an armload of spinach in and added soy sauce. “Just one minute,” she said, holding Li Yan’s wrist. They waited there by the wok until the spinach was transferred to the bare scallion cake platter. Again the platter was laid before the men and scoured clean.
Then came tomato soup with egg flower. Then sauced cucumber.
“Enough of the small-fry,” Zheng said, and the men all laughed. “Bring the main course!”
Li Yan was nearly done with the fish, but cooking three at a time was depleting the oil at such a rate that she had to add cold oil as she cooked, which killed the boil. She lost track of how many handfuls of scallions she’d added. The fish curled and she smashed them down. They came out of the wok dripping with oil, and more went in. Finally, the last fish looked ready. The aunties had prepared a plate for each fish, a mixed batch of stoneware and porcelain that Li Yan thought hardly worthy of the meal. Each fish was laid on a bed of bok choi, which Li Yan would have said wasn’t the proper presentation if she’d had time or space to argue. No matter, she thought, these peasants don’t know any better.
The aunties took up plates and stood around the table.
“The fish should honor the head of the family,” Li Yan said, laying a plate before Zheng with the glazed eyes facing him.
“No, no,” he said, “to our honored guest,” and slid the plate to Chen Wei’s place. “Now we’ll see how they eat in Beijing.”
The aunties laid plates before each of the men, fish heads pointing at Chen Wei.
“Go ahead, let us know what kind of cook your wife is,” Zheng said. The men leaned in as Chen Wei held his chopsticks aloft. He felt their eyes on him. He felt the presence of his wife behind him.
“Dig in,” Zheng said. “Join the Celebrate Life Movement.”
Chen Wei lowered his chopsticks to the skin and pressed. Oil seeped out from the scales, but the skin didn’t break. He pressed harder and more oil escaped, pooling on the cabbage leaves.