by Yiyun Li
“Didn't you say he was a war hero?”
“War hero is rubbish. You know how he was recruited? They came to my father's village and said they would invite all the young men to a house for dinner. Well, if someone invited you to dinner with a gun at your head, you would go. So my father went along with some other young people. And they were treated to a very good dinner and then invited to sit on a big brick bed. A boy soldier kept the fire burning under the bed, adding wood so that in a short time the brick bed became very hot. Like a barbecue plate, you see? And the officer said, ‘Young men, we are the People's Liberation Army and we fight for the people. Think about it. If you are interested in our cause, come down and you'll become a glorious member among us.’ Nobody moved. Of course all their parents had warned them not to join the army; they said the Communist army would not enlist someone at gunpoint like the Nationalist army. And yes, it was true that the officer was very polite. He kept telling the boy soldier to make the brick bed warmer for the guests, and an orderly kept bringing them hot tea and more tobacco leaves for their pipes. Now, tell me, what would you do? Move, or stay on the bed to have your ass burned? So after a long time my father couldn't stand the heat and came off the bed. He was the first one so he got a higher rank than his companions, and later they sent him to learn how to fly fighter planes. The rest of them became foot soldiers and orderlies.”
“They all came off, then?”
“All except one. My father's best buddy. His bottom was so badly burned he was called ‘Hot Butt’ for the rest of his life.”
Nini smiled. Bashi often told stories, and she could never tell which part was true and which was from his imagination.
“Why? You don't believe me? Ask anyone in my father's village! They said my father was clever because he came off the bed early and got the biggest promotion, but where did that get him? On the other hand, Hot Butt didn't end up in a better place. He was executed for sabotage in ‘59. He and my father died within a month of each other. They said my father was called by his friend's ghost. What does that tell you?”
Nini shook her head.
“There is only one place for everyone to go.”
Nini tried to picture Bashi's grandmother, her body withered like a ginseng root and her ghost floating in the air, eavesdropping on them. She scooped the porridge into a bowl. “Here, you must eat more and talk less,” she said to Bashi. It couldn't hurt for the old woman's ghost to see that her grandson was well taken care of.
They sat down and ate. After a moment of quietness, Nini said, “My family will go to the mountain tomorrow.”
“Why? Your family didn't have ancestors buried here,” said Bashi. “They don't have a wire service in the mountain for them to send the offerings.”
“They just want an excuse to waste all the money and go to the mountain for fun.”
“Like every other family. Are you going?”
“Me? The sun has to rise from the west for them to take me.”
Bashi nodded and then stopped his chopsticks, looking at Nini with a meaningful smile. “So you'll be home, and … alone.”
“With the baby.”
“She can sleep anywhere, no?” Bashi said.
Nini's heart skipped a beat. “But you need to bury your grandma.”
“Do you think she'll mind if I don't go?”
“Yes,” said Nini. “Don't let her down.”
“But I may get sick and unfit for the burial trip.”
Nini smiled. She was pleased that the old woman's ghost could not compete with her. Out of modesty and caution, she suggested that Bashi buy a lot of paper money for the old woman's ghost in case she felt offended, and he agreed that it was a good idea. The more they planned, the more it seemed the perfect opportunity, Nini thought, for her to put a chain on his heart so it would not go astray to another girl. “How are you doing with Old Kwen's dog?” Nini asked. She did not believe anything he said about the dog, but it made him happy when she talked about it as if it were serious business.
It was going well, Bashi replied. He had been feeding the dog hams and steaks cured in hard liquor and now it had become his friend; what would a dog with a master like Kwen fancy other than that, Bashi said, and added with a smile that he was ready to launch a test of his poison very soon. Nini listened halfheartedly and ate with concentration.
“Of course, hard work gets rewarded,” Bashi said. “While I've been working on Kwen's dog, I've found something else interesting. That woman whose body you didn't see? Some people in town are trying to organize a protest on her behalf.”
A slice of pig-blood gelatin dropped from Nini's chopsticks into her porridge. “Why?” she said. “Isn't she already dead?”
“If you ask me, people go crazy for no reason,” Bashi said. “Have you seen the leaflets all over town?”
Nini said she had not noticed, and then remembered hearing whispered conversations between her parents in bed. One time her father had said that using a dead person as a weapon was a common trick and would get the troublemakers nowhere; another time he said that they themselves had their victory and justice. Both times her mother cursed with her usual venom.
“Who are these people?” Nini asked.
“They belong to a secret group, coming at night with white skulls as necklaces.”
Nini shuddered, even though she knew that Bashi was probably being his exaggerating self. “What do they care about the woman?”
Bashi shrugged. “Maybe the ghost of the dead woman came back and cast a spell so people are under her power now, and work for her.”
“That's nonsense,” Nini said with a trembling voice.
“Why else are these people willing to act like idiots?”
Nini thought about Mrs. Gu, her former gentleness and her sudden change of attitude. Nini had stopped at the Gus’ door several times in the past week, but neither Mrs. Gu nor Teacher Gu had come out to meet her. Perhaps Mrs. Gu herself was under the spell of her daughter's ghost and had become an unreasonable woman. “That old woman,” Nini said sullenly. “She hates me.”
“Who?”
“The mother of the executed woman.”
“Why do you have anything to do with her?”
“How do I know?” Nini said. “People all hate me.”
“Not me,” Bashi said. “I like you.”
“That's what you say now,” Nini said. “Who knows when you'll change your mind?”
Bashi swore this would never happen, but Nini was no longer in a mood to listen. She said abruptly that it was time for her to leave, and before Bashi could object, she went straight to the kitchen to get the coal for herself. Bashi scratched his head and begged her to let him know how he had offended her. She thought his eagerness to keep her pleased was ridiculous. If he wanted a smile from her she would give him one, but the way he worried like an ant on a hot pot made her happy. She said she would come back the next day after her parents and sisters left the house. “You can prove yourself to me then,” she said, and left without giving Bashi a chance to defend himself.
TEACHER GU SPENT TWO WEEKS in the city hospital, and was released the day before Ching Ming, along with other patients who had requested to go home for the holiday. Teacher Gu's left hand had recovered well, and with a barely usable left leg and a cane, he was able to move slowly. Mrs. Gu hired a pedicab, and on the short ride home from the hospital, Teacher Gu saw several people stop and watch them pass, some nodding at them and one even raising a hand to wave before scratching his head, as if he was embarrassed by his own gesture. Mrs. Gu nodded back, surreptitiously too, which did not escape Teacher Gu's eyes. He pulled up the blanket that was slipping away from his legs, and his wife, startled as if from a secret dream of her own, bent to rearrange it. “You must be cold without the boots,” she said. She took off her mittens, stuck her hands into the blanket, and held his feet. Through the cotton socks he could feel the warmth of her palms. “The doctor said to avoid the boots so the circulation wouldn't be blocked,”
she said, as if she were placating a child. “We'll be home soon.”
Teacher Gu looked down at his feet, tucked away in the old woolen blanket, which bore a pair of phoenixes, the red and golden colors already fading. It had been a present from his first wife the day he had left for Muddy River, at the time a small, undeveloped town, perfect for his exile. The blanket, with its gaudy colors and patterns, was an insult to his aesthetics, and he remembered throwing it back to the woman who had decided to stop being his wife. She had picked it up and repacked it in his suitcase. It was time for them to believe in something less intellectual, she had said; it was an error for them to remain blind in their intellectualism.
Go to court your illiterate proletariat master, was his reply, hurled at her out of rage and self-pity. But later, when he calmed down, he puzzled over his first wife's words. She was always the wise one, choosing the winning side even before the civil war had tipped one way or the other. He, however, was a thorough dreamer, living in his ivory tower until an eviction order was slapped in his face.
It was time to leave their intellectualism behind. When Teacher Gu settled down in Muddy River he recalled her words and decided to teach night classes to illiterate women. In their progress he saw his merit, not as an intellectual but as a worker ant, moving the smallest grains of sand away from a mountain that lay between his people and an enlightened, civilized society. On the night of his wedding to his second wife, he brought out the blanket; a present from an old friend, he told his young bride. An expensive present it was, as a woolen blanket was still a rarity in provincial towns. His wife fell in love with it, and for the first few years, she treasured it and used it only on special occasions, holidays and anniversaries, and the first month of each new year. But like everything else cherished in a new marriage, over the years the blanket lost its original importance and was used now for practical reasons—it was a blanket of top quality, good for the severe six-month-long winter of Muddy River.
When they reached the alley, the pedicab stopped, too wide to pass through to the Gus’ door. Teacher Gu limped slowly toward home while his wife counted out the bills for the driver. A few chickens jumped aside and watched Teacher Gu, and he recognized his two hens among the group. He pushed the gate open and saw a pile of wood, cut and stacked neatly. A young woman heard his steps and came out of the house. They were back just in time for lunch, she said.
Teacher Gu studied the woman. She was in her late twenties, her medium-length straight hair covering the nape of her neck, parted to one side with a barrette; she wore a gray Mao jacket and a pair of pants in a darker gray. At first glance, she had the standard appearance of a young married woman, neutral-looking, as a wife was expected to no longer reveal any of her femininity and beauty to strangers. Yet a corner of her gauzy, peach-colored scarf spilled over the collar of the Mao jacket, perhaps with deliberate intent. Teacher Gu squinted at the scarf; on their wedding night his first wife had worn a silk robe of the same hue, peach being her favorite color.
The woman smiled, her teeth very white and even. “How are you feeling, Teacher Gu?”
He did not reply. He realized that the woman was prettier than she intended to appear. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone unfriendly.
“This is Kai,” said Mrs. Gu, coming through the gate. “She reads the news.”
“Ah, of course it's you,” Teacher Gu said. It was impossible to forget her voice, which could easily be compared to a sunny autumn sky, a clear creek in the springtime, or any other empty similes that could be used to describe other female announcers, from the central radio stations to the provincial stations, all well chosen because of the lack of individual features in their voices. What a sad thing it was, to be someone who could so easily be replaced by another perfect, almost identical voice, Teacher Gu thought. What a tedious job it must be, to speak day in and day out words that were not one's own. But then what right did he have to despise her? For all he knew she might enjoy the fame this job brought her. “You have a nice voice,” Teacher Gu said. “Great for being the throat and tongue for the party.”
There was a small pause before Kai nodded hesitantly. Mrs. Gu studied both of them nervously and put a hand on Teacher Gu's arm. “You must be tired now. Why don't you have some lunch and take a nap?” She half supported and half pulled him into the house. He wiggled his arm, with more force than he had intended, to free himself.
Kai carried a pot of chicken stew to the table and asked Teacher Gu how the trip home had been for him. He did not answer. There was no space in his heart for small talk, neither with his wife nor with a stranger. While he had been lying in the hospital for two weeks, he had conducted many conversations with his first wife, sometimes arguing, other times agreeing with her; he wanted no one to interrupt them.
Mrs. Gu apologized to Kai in a low voice, saying the trip might have worn him out. Kai said it was not a problem at all, and in any case, she should be leaving to take care of a few things. Teacher Gu tried to return to his preoccupation, yet the young woman distracted him. He looked up and studied her face. “You were my student, weren't you?” he said all of a sudden, taking both Kai and Mrs. Gu by surprise.
“Kai did not grow up in Muddy River,” Mrs. Gu said, and explained that Kai had become an announcer after she left the theater troupe in the provincial capital.
Teacher Gu stared at Kai. She would make the bed in case he wanted a rest before lunch, Mrs. Gu said.
He had taught hundreds of students in the past thirty years; only lately had he begun to mix up their names and faces, yet, like any older person, the more forgetful he was in his recent life, the sharper his earlier memories became. “You were my student,” Teacher Gu said again.
Kai looked uneasy. “I was in your first-grade class for two months before I moved away,” Kai said.
“When was that?”
“Nineteen sixty.”
Teacher Gu squinted and calculated. “No, it was in 1959. You were in the same class as Shan.”
Mrs. Gu turned to Kai, who looked stricken, and for a moment no one spoke. Teacher Gu tried hard to recollect more about Kai, but all he saw was Shan, in his first-grade class in 1959, a skinny girl with two thin pigtails, the ends yellowed like scorched weeds, a malnourished child among the starved children in the famine that would last three years before losing its grip on the nation.
Mrs. Gu was the first to recover. She ladled stew into a bowl. “Kai brought the chicken and the chestnuts,” she said.
“Why did you change schools?” Teacher Gu asked.
“I was chosen and sent to the Children's Theater School,” Kai said.
Teacher Gu snorted. “I imagine you were well fed as a selected star, then,” he said. Something about this young woman annoyed him, her voice, her being the same age as Shan but with a secure job and an easy life, her intrusion into his home, her lying to his wife about not having met Shan. His own daughter, seven years old back then, had looked up at him with pleading eyes when he divided the meager food he had saved from his own ration for the children who came from bigger families and were hungrier than his daughter. Those children grew up to be the most dangerous youths, their minds as empty and eagerly receptive as their mouths, and they devoured anything fed to them, good and bad and evil. “Have you ever known hunger?” Teacher Gu said to Kai now, not covering his animosity.
“He who is in your house is a guest,” Mrs. Gu said, and he recognized the tone of disapproval. “You're not behaving like a good host today.”
“Teacher Gu must be tired now,” Kai said. “I'll come back later to talk to him.”
He did not answer either woman. He stumbled out of the chair and into the bedroom. The stove was burning well, and all of a sudden he was exhausted by the warmth. He listened to his wife apologizing to Kai, and Kai replying that of course she understood, and no, she did not mind it at all. Soon their conversation became inaudible. Teacher Gu looked at the clock on the wall. He wondered how long it would take his wife to remember
her sick husband, made too hot and uncomfortable by the burning stove in the middle of a spring day.
Seven minutes Teacher Gu had counted on the clock when Mrs. Gu came in with the untouched bowl of stew. “You really should eat a little,” she said.
“Where's that woman?” he said.
“Her name is Kai,” Mrs. Gu said.
Teacher Gu struggled to drag himself into a sitting position. He was surprised that his wife did not hurry to help him.
“You were very unfriendly to her, as if she owed you something,” Mrs. Gu said.
“She lied to us. Why was she here?” Teacher Gu demanded. “She's a political tool for the government. What does she want from us?”
His wife stared at him with a quizzical look that reminded him of his rebellious daughter ten years earlier. “Didn't you teach your students to use their brains and not to jump to quick conclusions?”
So this was what he had come home for, Teacher Gu thought, an unpleasant wife who questioned his every word. “How long do you plan to remain this person that I don't think I've had the privilege of knowing before I went to the hospital? Do I deserve an explanation?” he said, raising his voice.
“The doctors said to remain calm,” she said.
“Never is there a calmer person than a dead one.”
His wife put the bowl on a stool next to the bed. He thought she would sit on the stool and feed him. When she did not, he made an effort to reach for the spoon even though he had no appetite.
“There's something you should know—we didn't tell you before because we thought your recovery was more important then,” Mrs. Gu said.
“Who are ‘we’?”
“Kai and I, and her friends. We're mobilizing the townspeople for a petition for Shan.”
The change in his wife—her eyes that were no longer directed downward when she spoke, her clear pronunciation of words beyond her vocabulary—alarmed Teacher Gu. In almost thirty years of being second-class citizens, and especially in the ten years since Shan's imprisonment, they, as a couple, had retreated to a cocoon they had woven together, a flimsy and claustrophobic shell that provided their only warmth; sometimes it was hard to tell where one self ended and the other began; they were the two fish that chose to live the rest of their lives in the same drying puddle—had all this been an illusion? Who was this woman in front of him, trusting young strangers with some crazy and meaningless idea about a protest that could never change his daughter's fate? The feeling of falling down, unable to grab onto something—the same feeling he had experienced when he was first ill—made his breathing difficult.