by Yan Lianke
This was how things stood.
The sky was high, and the clouds were sparse, and there were no geese flying south. The setting sun was the color of blood and cast red light in all directions. Her first two buttons had been unfastened by the opera songs she had heard, while the remaining three were unfastened by the ones I had heard. After all five of her buttons had been unfastened, her shiny pink blouse hung down on either side of her chest like an open curtain, and between those two pink curtains, her pert breasts summoned me like a pair of lively, enormous, snowy-white rabbits.
The warm, beautiful sunlight began to congeal, as did the air around us. Heaven, oh heaven! Earth, oh earth! We stared at each other, neither of us saying a word. She removed her synthetic shirt and placed it on the railroad tracks beside her. As she did so, she remained seated on a patch of green grass between the tracks, her unclothed upper body held erect like a naked deity. On a very fine day, the land, clad in white and adorned in red, grows even more enchanting! … All are past and gone, for truly great men, look to this age alone! Shocked, I stared at her silently. The blood coursed through my body, and my qi blew like the wind. At that instant, my gaze landed on her body, as though I had already caressed her with my hands. Who could have expected that after she removed her clothes, her beauty would be so clearly visible? Initially I hadn’t noticed that her hair was as black as a sheet of silk hanging down onto her shoulders. But once I was able to appreciate her white skin and the thin, beautiful body that previously had lain concealed under clothing, the blackness of her hair was revealed, standing in stark contrast to the whiteness of her skin. Her jet-black hair glimmered in the light of the setting sun as it draped down over her shoulders, and some strands fell into the crevice of her neck. Her neck was very beautiful—round and white with a hint of red, like a piece of jade that had been kneaded by the weather and by human hand. She seemed slightly embarrassed, while her increasingly animated face was held up, as though someone were using a jade column to support a full moon that was about to rise just as the sun was setting. However, as I moved my eyes down her body, I noticed that her hair, face, and jade-like neck could not compare to her snow-white breasts. I was instantly seized by the softness and stiffness of her pert breasts, and it was as if I had no desire to continue moving my gaze downward. Moreover, on those full and round breasts, her purple nipples resembled a pair of Chinese dates, each with a tiny opening. I knew that this was where breast milk came out, something sweet and moist, capable of intoxicating a man. As I was looking at her breasts, I noticed that there was an array of indentations on her nipples, and that each was surrounded by an areola that went from dark red to light pink—and they were like a pair of tiny red umbrellas opened toward me. At the border of the areola and the breast skin, the juncture of red and white formed a peculiarly beautiful gear-shaped pattern. Beyond this was her cleavage, which was deep and narrow. I slid down from the railroad track and tried to place her feet on my legs, and to my surprise she didn’t refuse. She let me hold her feet, caressing those red toenails as I stared at her snow-white chest. We were separated by only a leg’s length. The distance between the two railroad tracks happened to be just wide enough for us to sit down and stretch out our legs. I’m not sure at what point a crow and an oriole landed next to us, nor do I know when some others joined, as well as several sparrows and swallows. From several meters away, the birds stared at her naked upper body. They didn’t hop or jump, nor did they sing or eat. Instead, they carefully took a step or two toward her. The crows and the sparrows had black, white, and gray plumage, while the orioles had red and gold plumage that sparkled in the light of the setting sun. Apart from the oily green scent of wheat sprouts, the tender yellow scent of green grass, the hard black scent of the railroad tracks, and the soft red scent of the setting sun, there was only the faint scent of her body. Not every woman’s body has this sort of delicate fragrance. I had never smelled such a scent on the body of my wife, Guizhi. Even in our nuptial chamber, even when my feelings for Guizhi were still as deep as the sea, I hadn’t ever noticed that fragrance. But sitting on the railroad tracks under the setting sun, the woman before me smelled like a fresh peach or pear blossom. I stared at her, keeping my gaze fixed on her body. My eyeballs were painfully stiff, as though someone had stuffed marbles into my eye sockets. I felt light-headed, and my vision was blurred, but I could nonetheless see the peaks and crevices of her breasts and the snowy-white skin of her abdomen. Her grayish-white body hair was as soft as a baby’s—short and as fine as the point of a needle—and as it swayed in the breeze it produced a tiny glow. The gentle feather-like rustling of her body hair seemed to quiet down, but then I heard another swaying sound. She appeared exhausted, and as she leaned toward me, two parallel creases appeared in her abdomen. I heard rapid footsteps next to us, time scurrying by. At that point the setting sun was about to dip below the mountains, and the mountaintops to the east of the county seat were glowing red, as if they were pools of water. The sky was high, and the clouds were sparse, and there were no geese flying south. The clouds shifted formation, leaving behind a beautiful scene … The pre-dusk coolness was already drifting over to us from the fields. Her shirt on the railroad tie was fluttering in the wind. She was surely soon going to get cold. By that point she had been sitting topless in front of me for what seemed like centuries. I should have felt her skin to see if she was chilly, should have used my clothing to cover her bun-like shoulders, and should have shared my body heat with her. Poetry came to me:
The sound of the wind, the cry of a crane, startled by the clanking of weaponry;
Ambushed from all sides, who wouldn’t be frightened out of their senses?
Comrade, tell me, is it not somewhat inappropriate to use these two lines here? But how else could I express what I felt at that moment? I was about to take action, was about to cross over that barrier. Heaven, oh heaven! Earth, oh earth! The broadcast from the speakers around us suddenly paused, and the river of opera music suddenly dried up. It was as if a sky lit brightly by the sun became filled with clouds that quenched its heat.
Looking as though she were awakening from a dream, she grabbed my hands, which were touching her feet, and tossed them aside.
I felt as though I had stepped into a nuptial chamber and then been unceremoniously pushed out again.
I said, “Sunflower blossoms open toward the sun, and countless blooming flowers cannot be defeated.”
She ignored me, and instead turned and began putting on her clothes.
I said, “If today we plant the seeds of friendship, revolutionary sentiment will continue to develop over the next millennium.”
She kept ignoring me, finished putting on her clothes, and quickly walked away. As she followed the railroad tracks into the blood-red light of the setting sun, her body resembled a shadow, quickly disappearing from sight.
4. The Mighty Current of Revolution Is Exhausted
When I returned to the county seat, night had fallen and the streetlamps had just been lit. To my surprise, just as the sun was setting, I saw that an astonishing event had unfolded. The streets of the county seat were virtually empty, and there was barely anyone to be seen on the thoroughfare that I was walking down. The big-character posters with red Xs that had been placed along the street had all been torn down and were fluttering desolately in the wind. The brick-paved streets were covered in an array of crushed rocks and shattered tiles, looking as though the world had been turned upside down. The mighty current of revolution had been exhausted, as the river flowed eastward and dust blew in the wind. A shattered hoe or shovel handle had been tossed into the sewer opening, and a broken electrical pole was leaning against a courtyard wall, though somehow the nearby streetlamp was still lit. Very few of the other streetlamps that were still standing were illuminated, and some didn’t even have bulbs. There were bright red drops on the side of the street, and I could smell the stench of blood. Realizing that the revolution had already been unleashed here, I felt a sense
of terror, as though I were in a dream, one with many layers. I truly didn’t understand what had unfolded. She—that beautiful twenty-something-year-old—what was her name? And how old was she, really? Was she from the city or from the suburbs? Where did she work? And why was she sitting on the railroad tracks outside of town? I found myself in a state of utter confusion. Shocked by how the county seat’s streets now resembled a war zone, my memory of that woman became more indistinct. Who could say with certainty how black her hair was, how white her skin, how exquisite her face, and how beautiful her bare breasts? My memory of her was hazy and confused. The entire scene unfolded between the moment the sun first reached the western mountains and when it set, as red as blood. She and I barely said anything to each other during that span of time. Could it even be real? And who would ever believe it? But even as she and I were engaged in that degenerate and decadent anti-revolutionary encounter, a different revolutionary scene had been unfolding here, which left half of the county seat’s streets destroyed.
Later, I heard that just as I had been caressing her red toenails, someone had seized control of the county’s loudspeakers, such that the propaganda tools were once again returned to the hands of the revolutionaries.
Chapter 2
Preliminary Report on Winds and Clouds
1. The Atmosphere of Chenggang
It was three days later that I returned to my hometown of Chenggang.
My return marked the explosive beginning of a drama of crazed love. Love and corruption, class difference and family ties, hatred and struggle, the Cheng Brothers and Neo-Confucianism, law and revolution, revolution and production, loyalty and foolishness, men and women, cocks and breasts, beauty and ugliness, food and hunger, fathers and sons, mothers and children, husbands and wives, branch secretaries and Party secretaries, handcuffs and ropes, straw and gold—all these things, in the end, are but insecticide. The four oceans were boiling in fury, and the five continents were buffeted by thunderstorms—I truly wanted to stomp on them so that they would never get up again and even wished I could piss on their heads.
If you permit me to leave this place alive, the first thing I’ll do when I return to Chenggang will be to piss all over those things and shit all over the head of Chenggang’s revolution.
But first I should say a word or two about our radiant town of Chenggang, in the Balou Mountains. The Balou Mountains are a range in the Funiu mountain system, stretching from the Cheng Clan Hillock in the east to Baiguo Mountain in the west. They are a winding eighty-li-long range, consisting mostly of hills and small mountains. In this range, peaks and valleys dissolve into one another, ridges abutting streams. The territory is located between 250 and 500 meters above sea level, and includes hills, fields, plateaus, and ravines, totaling 34,000 mu. This territory includes Luhun Ridge, which during the Spring and Autumn period was known as the Luhun Rong territory, and during the Han dynasty was known as Luhun county. All of this is recorded in the local gazetteers. Of course, the most celebrated site in the Balou Mountains is not Luhun Ridge but the town of Chenggang, which is located on an adjacent plateau. The town of Chenggang was originally called Cheng Village, though it was never an ordinary village. Similarly, now that it was recognized as a town, it was no ordinary market town but rather was celebrated as the former residence of the Song dynasty philosophers Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi. During the reign of the Yuan dynasty’s Emperor Renzong, a temple was built in Cheng Village to commemorate these two ancestral sages. Later, beginning in the sixth year of the Ming dynasty’s Jingtai reign, the temple was repeatedly repaired and expanded, with good feudal subjects adding bricks and tiles. The temple grew to a three-section courtyard. The front courtyard had the Lattice House Gate and the Bearing Respect Gate, the Spring Breeze Arbor and the Standing Snow Pavilion; the middle courtyard had the Taoist Hall and two wing rooms: the Gentle Wind and Sweet Rain Room and the Scorching Sun and Autumn Frost Room; and the rear courtyard had the Qixian Great Hall, on either side of which there were a pair of lecture halls. Each of the three sections of the courtyard was ten mu in size, with carved beams and painted rafters, dragon and phoenix carvings, steles and cypresses that touched the sky—making this a living incarnation of feudalism.
During the reign of the Ming dynasty’s Emperor Tianshun, Cheng Village was designated a Cheng Brothers Historic Site. A stone memorial arch was built one li to the east of the village and was engraved with the words IMPERIAL EDICT, below which appeared the words CHENG BROTHERS HISTORIC SITE. Because this inscription had been fucking written by the emperor himself and was taking pride of place on that arch in the middle of the road, everyone had to see it on their way in and out of the village. When civil officials passed by, they were obliged to get down from their sedans, while military officials had to dismount their horses. As a result, Cheng Village became famous far and wide, becoming the Tiananmen Gate of western Henan’s Balou Mountains. The loess hillock behind Cheng Village that marked the eastern end of the Balou mountain range came to be known as the Cheng Clan Hillock. Later, the population of Cheng Village expanded and became intermixed with the community living on the hillock. Eventually the two communities were formally combined, resulting in what was known as Cheng Hillock Town, which is to say, the town of Chenggang.
Eighty-nine percent of the residents of Chenggang were surnamed Cheng and were direct descendants of the Cheng Brothers. Ours was the only family surnamed Gao in the area, and therefore it was remarkable that I had managed to carve out a space for myself and enjoy such a brilliant career these past years. For all this I had the bright red revolution to thank. People who are exploited and oppressed can find escape only in revolution, and without revolution they have no choice but to live in darkness. The strong pass of the enemy is like a wall of iron, yet with firm strides we are conquering its summit. You mustn’t interrupt me, because otherwise I won’t be able to finish tracing my tale from the eastern to the western mountains.
Because the director of the county’s military affairs office was attending a meeting in the military sub-command area, I had to wait three full days at the county seat for my demobilization papers to be processed. During those three days, I observed the fiery development of the revolution in the county seat and felt that throughout the nation an enormous wave of revolutionary fervor was surging forth with the strength of ten thousand horses.
In the county seat, I felt restless.
In Chenggang, both revolution and love had been waiting for me for a long time. After completing my demobilization, I returned home. I rode the bus for seventy-nine li, and as I was passing under the Cheng Brothers memorial arch, my blood began to boil, my palms grew sweaty, and I felt a sense of excitement that was just like the crazed infatuation I had felt three days earlier by the railroad tracks outside of town. I decided that the first thing I would do as soon as I returned home would be to tear down this memorial arch. The arch had been built under feudalism, but even now, several centuries later, when the residents of Chenggang have wedding or funeral processions, they always have to dismount and pause their music upon reaching the arch. Even long-distance buses must honk their horns when passing beneath it, in order to express their respect for the Cheng brothers. I was surprised to discover that although the revolution was spreading throughout the nation, even the driver of this bus from the city of Jiudu still stopped under the arch and honked his fucking horn. I didn’t say anything to him. I knew that as soon as I could tear down that arch, everything would be over, and the curtains would be raised on the great revolution.
I disembarked at the Chenggang stop, and the first thing I smelled was the town’s stench and dirt. The town’s commune members were carrying night soil out to the wheat fields to serve as fertilizer. There was a large group of them, young and old, and their faces all had a relaxed expression. After they passed by, there was a sense of idleness in the town streets, as chickens pecked around for food and ducks wandered over waddling their fat butts. In the sunlight at the base of the gable wall
of my classmate Cheng Qingdong’s house, a sow was sleeping and a dog was lying next to it, its head resting on the sow’s hind leg. What was even more extraordinary, there was a sparrow perched on the sow’s belly, pecking for lice. This scene made you feel that you were as far from the revolution as Yan’an is from Hainan Island. I felt oddly disoriented, as though I had just stepped directly from a sweltering summer into a bitterly cold winter. Of course, I also felt warmly affectionate, since everything in the countryside was as familiar to me as the back of my hand.
I hoped I’d see something fresh and new, such as some big-character posters along my street or people with red armbands hurrying along.
But I didn’t see any of these things. Instead, everything was just as I had left it. Flowing water doesn’t become stagnant, and stagnant water doesn’t flow. This was truly a pool of stagnant water.
I stepped into this stagnant pool; I returned to Chenggang. The town consisted of four streets: Front Cheng Street, Center Cheng Street, and Rear Cheng Street, together with a mixed-surname street behind Cheng Temple for other families, which is of course where we lived. On the west end of the street there were three tile-roofed houses, with a bare-ground courtyard and a gate opening to the south. This was the simple, ordinary Gao home. Just as I was about to reach the entranceway, a child from a neighboring house saw me and smiled, then suddenly shouted toward my house, announcing, “Auntie Guizhi, your husband has returned,” before running off toward Center Cheng Street.
My wife, Guizhi, didn’t come out to greet me. Instead, as I was pushing open the unlatched door, I saw that she was out in the courtyard rinsing wheat. Our son, Hongsheng, was standing next to her using a willow branch to shoo away the chickens and sparrows that had gathered around the wheat basket. Our daughter, Honghua, who was about a year and a half old, was lying on Guizhi’s lap, apparently asleep. This scene was exactly like the one with the chickens, ducks, pigs, and dogs that I had seen in the road. The mountain sky and the rural land both appeared stagnant and lifeless.