by Ge Fei
“The district magistrate in Meicheng just lost a concubine, so you might as well take her spot. ‘New shoes pinch the feet,’ as the saying goes, so I’m here today to open you up and stretch you out a little, just to make sure you don’t make the magistrate unhappy once you get there.”
The old man’s speech drained all the color and warmth from Xiumi’s face and limbs; her teeth chattered. She even forgot to curse her mother.
“Don’t be afraid,” the old man coaxed. His voice came out raspy and hollow, like a sound traveling from afar. “Compared to my brothers, I’m the civilized one.” He suddenly started coughing so hard he had to bend over. After hacking up a wad of phlegm, he was about to spit it out before turning to look at Xiumi and forcing himself to swallow. This was proof of his “civility.”
Xiumi had already jumped out of bed and was running around with her feet half in her shoes and the pillow still at her chest, looking for her comb. Remembering that the old man had it in his hand, she started dressing herself in a hurry. The old man watched her tranquilly and laughed.
“Don’t put that on. I’ll have to take it all off again in a minute, why waste your time?”
Xiumi was conscious of a strong salty taste in her mouth. She realized she had bitten through her lip. She huddled at one corner of the bed, tears glimmering in her eyes, and said in a measured voice, “I will kill you.”
The old man seemed stunned for a second, then burst out laughing. He stood up from the chair and started to undress in front of her. Naked, he walked toward her.
“Don’t come any closer! You can’t come any closer, you can’t!” she screamed.
“And what if I needed to get closer?”
“Then you’ll die!” Xiumi yelled, the hatred shining in her eyes.
“All right. Then let me die of pleasure in your arms.” The old man walked over and almost effortlessly held both her arms behind her back, before bending over to suck on her earlobe and whisper, “They say heroes are buried in flowered fields, so please, kill me now.”
She leaned as far back as she could to avoid his face and ended up falling backward onto the bed. It seemed like she had done it voluntarily. A deep sense of shame washed over her, and her body resisted violently. What a humiliation! I can’t make him stop! What is going on? The harder she fought, the quicker she breathed, which was just what the old man wanted. My God, he’s taking off my clothes! Xiumi’s body stiffened as her understanding of what was happening intensified. The old man was as energetic as a bull. “Your skin is whiter than I thought. Only when the white parts are white, do the black parts really look black.”
God, he . . . how could he say something like that?!
The old man forcefully pried her legs apart.
He’s pulling my legs apart, is he really going to . . .
She heard the old man say, “Look at that, I haven’t even done anything and you’re already fucking wet.” Now even more embarrassed and furious, Xiumi spit on his face; the old man smiled and licked it off.
“You . . . you . . . you really are . . .” Xiumi wanted to curse at him, but she had never cursed at anyone before. Her head rolled vainly on the pillow.
“Really are what?”
“You really are . . . a bad man!” Xiumi shrieked.
“A bad man?” The old man guffawed. “A bad man? Ha ha ha, a bad man, that’s cute. Sure, sure why not, that’s what I am.”
He tied a brass bell onto her ankle. “A guy like me really doesn’t have any strange kinks, but I do like to hear that bell ring.”
Any movement of her leg and the bell clanged pleasantly. The harder she resisted, the louder it rang, like some kind of inducement or exhortation to the other. She was helpless, absolutely helpless. In the end, she stopped trying to fight.
•
Xiumi spent the second half of the night lying on her bed, open eyed and motionless, staring up at the canopy. The rain had long since stopped, and the frogs outside her window were singing. The sharp pain she had felt had already begun to dull. Han Liu sat beside the bed and talked to her; Xiumi didn’t give any response. “Every woman has to endure this same trial,” Han Liu told her. “No matter if it’s your husband or someone else, you have to go through it eventually. Learn to accept it. At this point, it’s the only thing left to do. When things like this happen, it’s natural to think about death, but that’s not what you want. Just grin and bear it, and you’ll be fine.”
The tea Han Liu had made for her had gone cold on the bedside table. Xiumi gave Han Liu a piercing look as she thought, How is it that I have contemplated almost everything except death? In Puji, it seemed that any woman who faced this kind of crime had no other choice but suicide. Yet I have never wanted that, not even now. Truly, she did not want to die. Besides, Zhang Jiyuan was long dead, and time could not run backward. She felt an inexplicable resentment toward Zhang Jiyuan. What an idiot! Idiot! She bit her lip hard, and tears filled her eyes.
Han Liu said, “I’m going to go heat some water for you, so you can wash off.” She gave Xiumi one more searching look, then went to the kitchen. Soon Xiumi could smell burning straw. The old bastard got off easy, she thought.
By the time Xiumi had bathed and changed her clothes, dawn was nearly breaking. Han Liu advised her to jump up and down vigorously several times. She said that would keep her from getting pregnant. Xiumi ignored her. Han Liu brewed another pot of tea, and the two sat down across from each other at the table.
“I can see from your clothing that your family isn’t poor,” Han Liu observed again. “Why wouldn’t your mother pay a measly ransom?” Xiumi cried silently and didn’t reply. After a long pause, she hissed, “God only knows.”
“Still, I can’t help but feel like something about this evening was unusual,” Han Liu mused. “My guess is that something happened over in Huajiashe.”
Xiumi said she couldn’t give a damn about anything.
Han Liu continued, “The Boss is sick, and neither Two nor Four is interested in women. Even if your mother really did refuse to pay, then the first night should have been Number Three, Qingfu; why did Qingde come to the island first? Especially through such a heavy rain. None of his people carried lanterns, and they all left before daybreak. They were obviously sticking their noses in without permission. Qingde used to be one of Wang Guancheng’s lieutenants when he was in Fujian. He may look like a dried-up old man, but they say he’s an accomplished rider, archer, and swordsman. Even though Wang Guancheng put him at number five, he’s closer to the Boss than any of the others.
“Ever since Wang Guancheng started pissing blood two years ago, he’s rarely shown himself in public, and Qingde has used their relationship to issue ‘decrees’ in his name and order people around. He knows that no matter what, the day Wang Guancheng dies, he won’t be the next person on top. Before you even got here, there were rumors that Wang Guancheng had already bled to death last winter, and Qingde had concealed the news and was hiding the body, all while sitting in for the chief and quietly bribing people for support. And once his opportunity arrives, he’ll certainly burn the whole place down.”
“So let them kill each other. What does it have to do with us? I think burning the whole place down would be the best thing for it.”
“Silly girl, that doesn’t make sense at all. There could be a bloodbath over there and it would make no difference to us. No matter how hectic things get, there will always be winners and losers, and no matter who ends up where, nothing good will ever come of it for us women. Outside of Wang Guancheng himself, the rest don’t have a human bone in their body. Number Two keeps a whole harem of little boys in his house, and spends his days doing unspeakable things with them. He acts unconcerned about everything, and even goes out fishing on the lake like he has nothing better to do, but really he’s just biding his time, waiting for his opportunity. He’s as clever as they come—doesn’t say much, but
he’s cunning.
“Number Three is a bookworm, and he’s the worst of the lot. He has the airs of a useless, supercilious scholar. Even when he’s on top of you, biting and snuffling, he’ll still be reciting poetry. It’s hard to imagine people like that really exist. If you spend a night with him, I guarantee you’ll have to throw up two or three times afterward. You’ve already met Number Five, so I won’t say more. Qingsheng, Listen, is the junior member of the group, but you have to be careful with him. He has no guile about him at all, and he may be kind of a simpleton, but he’s immensely strong. They say he can lift a millstone over his head and spin it like a top. He has no problem killing people, and he acts on whim. Even Number Two is a little afraid of him. He’s exhausting to serve because he won’t rest until he’s popped every one of your bones out of joint.
“Number Four is the only one I’ve never seen since I’ve been here. He’s a loner, and rarely shows himself in the open. He does things his own way, and doesn’t leave a trail. They say he keeps a parrot in his house . . .”
“How did you end up at Huajiashe in the first place? Where was your home?” Xiumi asked.
The question silenced Han Liu. Day had fully broken. She blew out the lamp, stood up, and said, “Plenty of time left for you to hear my story.”
5
XIUMI slept the whole next day. Han Liu entered her room sometime around noon to speak to her briefly before leaving again. Xiumi could tell she was talking quickly and with urgency, as if informing her of something important, but Xiumi was just too exhausted to do more than look up at her, murmur a few words in reply, and roll back over.
But sleep returned lightly. She observed the color of the sky through the window: a rich yellow ochre, like a ripe apricot. A strong wind howled outside, tossing around a hail of sand from who knew where onto the roof, making a continuous hissing sound. Xiumi hated the wind. Every year in late spring, Puji would be visited by a torrential rain immediately followed by sandstorms. The wind whistled all day long, and the sand would get between your teeth. Now caught in the center of the storm, she felt her chest tighten and the sense of exile intensify. She remembered being a young child when Baoshen, Lilypad, Magpie, and Mother had all gone out, leaving her home alone and huddled in bed, listening to the sand spatter against the window paper as she drifted between sleep and wakefulness. She thought herself lonely back then.
Now she felt as if she had become two people: The first was in faraway Puji, where night was falling, and Mother floated like a shadow up to her room to sit by her bed and ask softly, “Xiuxiu, why are you crying?” The second was imprisoned on a desolate island, her mother refusing to pay her ransom, giving her little chance of ever returning home again. As she often felt when standing before a mirror, it was hard for her to tell if the body or the image was more real.
Amid her delirium she heard someone open her door and walk in. A figure stood before her, stained head to toe in fresh blood. He walked noiselessly up to her bedside and regarded her, a look of extreme anguish on his face. She didn’t know him. She saw he had a knife wound in his neck: it was deep and long, and blood still poured from it, down his neck and onto his clothes.
“My name is Wang Guancheng,” the visitor said. “No need to be afraid, I’ve come to say goodbye.”
“But I don’t know you,” Xiumi said suspiciously.
“That’s true, we have never met before, however—”
“Did someone kill you?” Xiumi asked.
“Yes; by now I am already dead. The stroke cut deep, and almost took my head clean off. Honestly, you don’t need that much force to deal with an eighty-year-old man like me. You have no idea how much it hurts.”
“Who killed you?”
“I didn’t see him clearly; he approached from behind me. I woke up this morning feeling stronger than usual, so I got up to wash my face. He stepped out from behind the standing screen and struck me down. I didn’t even have time to turn and get a look at him.”
“But you know who it was, right?”
“I can guess”—the visitor nodded—“but it’s not important now. I honestly couldn’t care less about it, because I’m already dead. May I have some of your corn? I’m starving.”
Only then did Xiumi notice the ear of boiled corn on her nightstand. Tendrils of steam still rose from it. The figure didn’t wait for Xiumi’s permission before grabbing the ear and taking a hungry bite.
“But why are you here? I don’t know you, nor have we ever met.”
“Yes,” the figure mumbled as he chewed the corn, “but the fact that I’ve never met you doesn’t matter. I know that you and I are the same kind of person, or perhaps I should say we are one and the same person, because you are fated to carry on my labor.”
“I don’t know what I will do, except die,” Xiumi replied.
“That’s because your mind has been imprisoned by your body. Like a wild animal in a cage, it is by no means tame. Every person’s heart is an island, trapped by water, sequestered from the world. Just like this island where you are now.”
“You want me to become a robber?”
“Outsiders think of Huajiashe as a den of thieves, but to me it is the Peach Blossom Spring come to life. I have labored patiently here for almost twenty years, surrounded by mulberry and bamboo groves, clear ponds, every step opening out with nature’s wonders. Here I found ease and amusement as my white hair grew past my temples. The spring sun called to me with visions of mist, while the autumn frost left me chrysanthemums and fresh crabs. My boat lolled in a breeze that tugged at my jacket; heaven and earth were one and together, and the seasons followed each other without incident. No one locked their doors, and lost purses were left on the road. Each home receives equal measures of sunshine. When spring opened its full richness, soft rains fell, and the peach and pear trees competed to be the most beautiful; even bees would lose their way. And yet still I became tired of it. As every day I watched the clouds emerge from the mountains and birds fly back to their nest, a sorrow arose and turned into a grief that would not dissipate. In those moments, I would think to myself, ‘Wang Guancheng, Wang Guancheng, what are you doing?’ I built Huajiashe with my own hands, and now with my own hands I must destroy it.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You will eventually,” the visitor replied. “Eventually, Huajiashe will be reduced to rubble. But someone will come to rebuild it and retrace my footsteps, and sixty years later, it will be a paradise again. Night and day will continue their succession, and the mirage will reappear. The second wave rises before the first has died. Pitiable and painful, but what can we do . . . what can we do . . .”
The figure sighed, and its form flickered and vanished completely. Xiumi opened her eyes and looked around; it had been a dream. An ear of corn, half-eaten, sat on her nightstand. The room had darkened. Outside, the wind still wailed, rattling the leaves of the trees in a chorus of noise like a crowd of bickering people.
Xiumi got out of bed, slipped her toes into her shoes, and padded over to the kitchen, where she filled the basin ladle with cold water, tipping it into her mouth. Wiping her lips, she headed to Han Liu’s room. The bed was very neatly made, and Xiumi saw a pair of embroidered shoes atop a wooden stool below the bed, yet Han Liu was nowhere to be seen. Xiumi walked the borders of the island looking for her, to no avail. Finally, she looked toward the lake into the impenetrable chaos of rolling waves and hanging thunderheads, but there wasn’t even a boat in sight.
•
Xiumi sat on a stone on the shore and stared at the line of old bridge posts sticking up awkwardly out of the water. No birds rested on them now. As darkness fell, her vision of the posts grew blurry, until they faded into curved shadows above the water, and eventually into nothing at all. She felt her arms grow cold and the weight of the moist air that gradually dampened her hair. Quiet had reclaimed the world after the s
torm’s passing. The evening sky was utterly cloudless and a deep green, glowing with the faint light of new stars. Reeds along the bank swayed slowly against each other. Huajiashe was a silent twinkling of lights.
The moon had risen high. She noticed a boat moving out on the lake, like a lonely traveler on a journey. Yet its light appeared to stay still for so long that Xiumi assumed it must be someone fishing for shrimp. Only after a long while could she see it make its way toward her. The wooden rudder creaked as it sculled, and a wake rushed past the sides. The boat slid onto the shore, and a narrow gangplank was lowered. Han Liu emerged from the low cabin, a bamboo basket in her hand. Xiumi had been worried she would never see her again.
It turned out that she had been taken to Huajiashe that afternoon to recite sutras.
Back in the house, Xiumi asked her what sutras they had asked her to read. “The Book of the Dead,” she replied. Xiumi asked why she had to read that one and if someone had died. Han Liu reacted with surprise and looked at her quizzically. “That’s weird. Didn’t I come to your room before I left and tell you what had happened?”
“I remember you coming in and talking to me, but I was just so tired I couldn’t understand what you said,” Xiumi said, laughing.
Han Liu told her that at noon that day, she noticed the corn she had hung in the kitchen was getting wormy and wouldn’t be edible much longer, so she put the ears in a pot to boil. “Just as I took out the corn to have some, people from Huajiashe arrived to say that Boss Wang Guancheng had passed away, and they were burying him that evening. They knew I was a nun and wanted me to recite a sutra or prayer for him. The news shocked me; I asked them how the Boss could die so suddenly. The man said that there was an agitator in the village, and he almost cut the Boss’s head off. He didn’t say anything more, just pushed me to leave. I figured it was such a major event, I had to tell you, but you were so tired I had to shake you forever before you opened your eyes. I told you that the Boss had been murdered, and you nodded several times. And the man was still urging me to go, so I left you the corn and boarded the boat with him.”