The Remote Country of Women

by Hua Bai

  Xie Li said quite generously, “No matter, a fingerprint

  will do.” The man seized old Gui’s forefinger and pressed it on the inkpad. Just like Yang Bailao being forced to sell his daughter while he was drunk, old Gui appeared miserable

  and lost, his eyeballs quivering in their sockets. He was forced to press a small, blurred fingerprint on the certificate.

  Xie Li gave him a noisy kiss on the tip of his nose.

  “For a revolutionary wedding, everything must be sim-

  plified. Let’s break out the beer, mao-tai, and brandy from the cabinet, and the stewed pork, roast chicken, and ham from the icebox and celebrate!” She had a marvelous memory, hardly forgetting anything she had inspected.

  Old Gui stood up and waved her off. “That won’t do. My

  foreign guest is coming in three days.”

  “I know,” Xie Li said, “for a two-hour visit. One bottle of wine will be enough.”

  The three men acted at once, taking out a case of beer,

  three bottles of mao-tai, two bottles of brandy, two roast chickens, two plates of ham, and three plates of stewed pork.

  When they started unscrewing the bottles, I patted old Gui’s shoulder and said in a low voice, “I have to go now.”

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  “You – you’re leaving?” Old Gui stared at me in horror.

  He was afraid of being left alone. What would he do if I left? I stood up to leave.

  “Young fellow,” Xie Li said, “Why not drink a glass of

  wedding wine?”

  “No, thanks.” I walked outside. Old Gui followed me

  and picked up the shoe box he had put in the vegetable garden. With a look of fright, confusion, and loss, the kind of look one might wear after a catastrophic earthquake, he

  asked in a low voice, “They must be actors and actresses from a show company. They’re merely playing games with

  me, aren’t they?”

  I laughed quietly and patted his shoulder. A show com-

  pany? Actors and actresses? Playing games? But the fact was they did not come from a show company. They were not

  actors and actresses. They accurately represented certain groups of people on the rampage in China. They were not

  playing games. If they had merely been actors and actresses from a show company, things would not have been so terrible. But I avoided Gui’s question. Putting on my large face mask, I went into the vastness of dusk. I heard one of the men old Gui took to be actors singing (doubtless with his wine glass raised on high): “I drink a bowl of wine and bid Mother good-bye.…”

  Holding the shoe box containing Jane’s ashes, old Gui

  stood at the gate. His shadow blurred gradually, merging into the darkness of the night.

  I gaze at her window. In the past it was pasted over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.

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  Longbu of the Kazhima family was a rich

  caravan man. He had been to Dali in the south, Lhasa in the west, the ferry in the east, and Tibet in the north. He fell in love with Sunamei, for little Sunamei was far more bewitching than all the women he had been with before. Not only her tender cheeks and her eyes cool like stars in the sky but her entire disposition – whether revealed through a frown or a smile, a lifting hand, or a kicking toe – every part of her body, and every one of her movements stirred his

  heart. The pouty little mouth must be the fountainhead

  of honey. Longbu alone discovered Sunamei as a red jewel encased in a layer of green moss. Turned out of the moss, she would be red like a drop of fresh blood. Only Longbu had detected Sunamei, a wondrous flower hidden in budding

  clothes, which a ray of sunshine would make bloom like a flaming sun.

  That night Longbu, carrying a heavy leather sack, walked up to the gate of Sunamei’s family. It was tightly bolted. He attempted to find footholds for climbing on the earthen

  wall, but it was solid and smooth. He picked up a sharp

  flint and started chiseling. Hearing the noise, the big black dog, dragging a long chain inside the yard, ran about barking. Longbu took a handful of pork from the sack and threw it over the wall. The dog shut up. Longbu went on digging.

  Soon there was a shallow indentation the size of his big toe.

  He tied one end of a rope to the sack and the other to his waist. He leaped up and hung from the top of the wall by 1 4 8

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  his hands. He saw the black dog gnawing on the piece of

  skinned pork. Longbu hauled the sack to the wall by the

  rope and then let it down into the yard. He followed, but now that he was inside the yard he didn’t know the way to Sunamei’s huagu. He couldn’t go ask the yimei, nor did he dare knock on the door of just any huagu. Then he saw a figure emerge from the shadow of a column: it was an older

  woman. Obviously, she had watched Longbu jump in. He

  walked over to her, carrying two bottles of fruit wine and six lumps of tea. He was overjoyed to see that she was none

  other than Sunamei’s mother, Cai’er. He gave her the presents and said in a low, reverent voice, “I am Longbu of the Kazhima family. These little things are inadequate to

  express my respect, but please accept them for the sake of Sunamei.”

  “It’s you, Longbu. Sunamei has never been touched by a

  man. Please be careful.”

  “I will, Cai’er. Thank you for telling me.”

  “A man like you won’t really love Sunamei as she is now.”

  “Cai’er, I love the present Sunamei as well as the future Sunamei.”

  “Go to her, then. The first door by the staircase leads to her huagu. Has she left the door unlocked for you?”

  “I believe she has.” As Cai’er retreated to the yimei with the presents, Longbu went upstairs with his sack. Sunamei had been waiting for him anxiously for a long time. More than once she thought maybe Longbu had merely toyed

  with her and forgotten his promise by that evening. If he remembered a former path, a former family, a former door, and a former girlfriend, he might not come to her anymore.

  Just then, she heard footsteps on the stairs. She hastily put on the skirt she had just taken off and sat with her legs dangling over the side of the bed. Her huagu was so quiet she could hear her heart beating. Was it Longbu, or Amiji

  Zhima’s axiao? Or Amiji Ama’s axiao? But Ama’s axiao had already arrived, and Zhima’s had gone out on business. It 1 4 9

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  must be Longbu. It must be he. Covering her jumping heart with her hands, she walked to the tenth step, a thinner

  board. Its squeak under her tread stopped her. Then it

  dawned on her: how could he know where my huagu is?

  What if he steals into a wrong door? Shall I go out to meet him? No, that would cheapen me. Sunamei did not dare

  move. Then she heard someone’s voice right outside her

  door. It was Zhima. “Is that you, Longbu? Are you looking for me?” Sunamei’s heart almost stopped. Longbu did not

  answer. “Come in. This is my door.”

  Longbu said, “This little object cannot express all my

  respect for you, but please keep it for Sunamei’s sake.” Sunamei’s heart fell back in place from her throat. She crawled to the door and softly unbolted it.

  Amiji Zhima was giggling. “I know. I saw everything at

  the swings. Your eyes, kindled by Sunamei, did not burn

  blindly, did they? Later, you chased after her on your horse.

  See, I saw everything. Longbu, you really have a good eye.

  But tonight you must be careful. Sunamei might think it

  great fun, knowing nothing about the fierce love
of a man.

  She could jump up and bite off your nose.”

  “She – really has no – am I her first axiao? ”

  “Yes. All right, I’ll accept this bottle of wine.” Zhima went into her own huagu. Longbu stood outside Sunamei’s door, for a long while, without trying to push it open. He was amusing himself by imagining how he could possibly

  avoid Sunamei’s teeth. He touched his nose absentmindedly.

  The door opened with a slight touch. He saw Sunamei

  shrink back into a corner of her bed, like a little girl before the age of wearing a skirt. Taking a box of matches from his breast pocket, he struck one and lit the oil lamp on her dresser. Like a naughty child on awakening, the lamp light slowly stretched and lit up the whole room. Longbu poked the dying fire in the fireplace and rearranged its logs. Soon the little fire grew big. Big flames led small flames, flames 1 5 0

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  linked with flames. He filled the small teapot with water and took out a lump of tea from his sack. He then broke off a piece and tossed it into the pot. Then he fetched dried beef, melon seeds, popcorn, and candies wrapped in colorful paper. He did all this while his eyes were glued to Sunamei. When the water was boiling, he curled his legs before the flames and smoked a cigarette. He passed one to Sunamei, but she shook her head with a smile. Only then did

  Longbu break the silence: “Sunamei, I’m not being a bad

  host, am I?”

  Sunamei flushed with embarrassment. She had reversed

  their positions. She should be the host, not Longbu. Swiftly, she jumped off the bed and sat by the fireplace, serving wine and tea to Longbu. The white cat hopped into Longbu’s lap, receiving him as a member of the family. The bowls, having stood idle in a corner for more than a year, finally found their usage. Longbu served wine and tea to Sunamei. She

  bravely drank one mouthful after another with him. Her

  cheeks burned. Setting the cat by the fire, Longbu gently stroked Sunamei’s soft hands with his large ones, rough as horse-tooth stone. Worried, Sunamei lowered her head. She did not know what would happen next. Longbu looked as if he was not going to do anything. Then, he pulled her

  lightly over to his side, letting the drunken girl lean against his chest. He sniffed again, and again a maiden’s fragrance came from Sunamei’s neck. Without knowing it, Sunamei

  laid her face on Longbu’s hairy chest. She did not know

  when and how he had unbuttoned his shirt, but she was not frightened by the strong heartbeat of a man. Actually, it felt natural to be so close to one, and she experienced none of the shock she had suffered when she saw Amiji Zhima and Geda sleeping nude on the night they went to worship the goddess. She thought to herself, “How did I pass the long narrow bridge I thought I could never cross? How did I get to sleep on the bed? How were my clothes stripped off? How

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  did Longbu’s sleek, bare arms seize me like a lamb?” She was not aware of all this, as if neither she nor Longbu had moved an inch. He did nothing that would make Sunamei

  feel embarrassed or wild. He called her name softly all the time, and every action of his was extremely gentle. There was nothing that would alienate her or shock her with the pleasure of another person. He kissed her gently, and she kissed him gently. She felt the strong smells of tobacco, wine, and hot sweat, pleasant and intoxicating. He kissed her more and more passionately, and she returned his kisses more and more passionately. Then it was no longer he kissing her or she kissing him. They were locked in one mutual kiss, hardly breathing. Every cell in Sunamei’s body was relaxed, and every nerve that could hamper a maiden’s joy was anesthetized. Her eyes lost their luster, and she felt a need for Longbu to hold her tighter and tighter. Longbu

  was already holding her tightly, but not tightly enough.

  Sunamei was pleading with her groans.

  Longbu supported her legs with his arms, whispered into

  her ear, “Sunamei, my dear Sunamei, please bite the lump of muscle on my shoulder. Bite it!”

  Obeying his words, Sunamei bit the protruding hard

  muscle on his left shoulder. At first she merely put it into her mouth, not understanding why she needed to bite it at all. Suddenly, Longbu grasped her waist with one hand and drew her to him. Sunamei’s teeth bit so fiercely that Longbu gave a low groan. He knew his shoulder must be bleeding.

  Sunamei opened her sleepy eyes, let the lump of muscle slip from her mouth, and rubbed her lips over his neck. She held his broad back even tighter. Her tense legs became relaxed, so as not to be in Longbu’s way. She submissively received him – no, not received him, but invited him.

  Zhima seldom had a night all to herself. In fact, she

  didn’t sleep the whole night. But contrary to her expectations, she did not hear Longbu shout for his nose, nor Suna-1 5 2

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  mei scream and weep. She murmured to herself, “Longbu,

  Longbu, what a man you are!”

  Before daybreak, Zhima heard Longbu say to Sunamei

  behind the partition wall, “Tonight I’ll bring my bedroll here. Is that all right with you?”

  Sunamei replied tenderly, “Fine.”

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  I gaze at her window. In the past, it was pasted

  over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.

  May and June should have been the peak of

  the blooming period. I still remember: azaleas bloomed and withered; roses bloomed and withered; tulips bloomed and withered; cherry blossoms bloomed and withered. But now

  China has no flowers to bloom anymore – and thus nothing more to wither, either, of course. Everything looks fantasti-cally bare. All month I have been worried about old Gui.

  This month was his honeymoon with that dragon woman.

  How had the two of them received Thomas Eliot? It must

  have been an improvised farce, impossible to perform. After all, the visit took only two hours, and two sixty-minute sessions are easy enough to get through. Old Gui must have

  suffered through that one-act drama like a senile actor who keeps forgetting his lines. Fortunately, that woman could create her role and her lines and avoid expanding her supporting role so as to become the main character. Old Gui had to serve as her interpreter. It was difficult, impossible, even, to understand things in China, particularly in the China of today. For example, in his own home old Gui was allowed only the floor to sleep on. No matter how much Xie Li invited him with curses, he dared not touch the bed – I understood him perfectly. But could foreigners possibly

  understand his behavior? Another example: Xie Li and her 1 5 4

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  comrades in arms could pocket marriage certificates,

  printed and stamped by the local power bureaus, and legalize a marriage more easily than pairing a she-rabbit with a he-rabbit. The bride, Xie Li, taking advantage of her political superiority, had beaten the drum and gong with her

  tongue and had issued a mere two- or three-word command

  to nail old Gui and herself together in a marriage certificate, effective immediately. She had simply enthroned herself in his room with all her belongings. Why had her class origin become so important? How had her lack of education

  turned into political capital? Could a foreigner understand any of this? No, impossible. Therefore, we must compile a dictionary of Chinese fiction especially for foreigners; otherwise, the Chinese novel can never travel outside our national boundaries.

  Yunqian absolutely forbade my seeing old Gui and

  advised me to kill my dangerous, childish curiosity. In fact, I cared only about old Gui’s life. When human feelings in a society drop to the freezing po
int of indifference, that society is bound to collapse. What importance life holds for every individual. Isn’t the fate of a state and nation embodied in the fate of its countless ordinary individuals?

  Before I went to the farm to turn in my medical diagnosis for June, my legs carried me to old Gui’s gate in spite of myself. No need to press the button, because the huge iron gate was wide open. From outside I had already heard signs of a brawl in the living room. Disturbed, I entered and

  climbed the stone steps leading to the scene. At first sight, I saw the servant sitting on a couch. His earlier humble

  appearance had given way to an air of complacency and

  solemnity, as, wearing an old Mao suit, he watched with a scoffing smile while Xie Li jumped and screamed. She then stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. Her three comrades in arms stood behind her, hands likewise on hips.

  She railed, “It isn’t that easy! Move? I am the wife of Professor Gui Renzhong! The foreign guest has taken our pic-1 5 5

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  tures, which must have appeared in the American newspa-

  pers. The background of those pictures is this very house.

  Think of the international scandal if we were forced to move out!”

  “Not a bit of it,” drawled the servant. “The foreigners

  will never know about it.”

  “I’ll ask my husband to write to Mr. Thomas Eliot.”

  “Go right ahead. But let me warn you that your letter

  will be delivered directly into my hands. Then you will be found guilty of the crime of treason and imprisoned, and I’ll let you stay there to wear out the bottom of the jail.” His voice showed no malice.

  “No, wait a minute. I can’t write to Thomas Eliot; I don’t even have his address. As soon as he stepped out the gate, I handed in his identity card. It was you who took it.” Now I saw old Gui slink out from behind the grand piano with his shoe box containing Jane’s ashes. “You good-for-nothing, shut up and stand aside!” Xie Li shouted at old Gui.

  The servant spoke at a slow, measured pace: “You must

  move out today. The hotel is sending men over for the furniture, utensils, and bedding. Men from the model opera