Dream of Ding Village

by Yan Lianke

There, outside their little house in the centre of the threshing ground, they sat face to face, gazing at one another. They leaned forward in their chairs, so that their faces were almost touching. Their features were clearly visible; in the moonlight, their noses cast a faint shadow on their faces. Had either of them exhaled a long breath, the other would have felt it on his or her face.

  ‘Did you like the noodles I made?’ Lingling asked.

  ‘They were great,’ Uncle answered. ‘A hundred times better than Tingting’s.’

  As he spoke, Uncle took off his shoes and rested his feet on Lingling’s thighs. Sighing with pleasure, he tipped his head back and gazed up at the vast, starry sky. Playfully, flirtatiously, he began rubbing his feet over Lingling’s body, pinching her skin between his toes. Then, with another sigh of pleasure he said: ‘It would have been better if you and I had got married years ago.’

  ‘Better how?’

  ‘Better in every way.’

  Uncle sat up straight and stared into Lingling’s eyes, looking deeply into them, like a man searching for something at the bottom of a shadowy well. She sat very still, allowing him to gaze at her. With the moonlight illuminating her from one side, she looked like a woman posing for a portrait. Her features were composed, but her hands were busy massaging Uncle’s legs, kneading his skin, giving him all the comfort she had to offer. Everything she had to offer. Although it was hard to tell in the moonlight, her face had a slight pink flush. She seemed bashful, as if she had been stripped naked by Uncle’s gaze.

  ‘It’s lucky we both got the fever,’ said Lingling.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Otherwise, I’d still be married to Xiaoming and you’d be with Tingting. We’d never have had a chance to be together.’

  Uncle pondered this. ‘I suppose not.’

  For a moment, both felt almost grateful for the fever that had brought them together. They pushed their chairs even closer, and Lingling continued massaging Uncle’s feet and legs.

  After she had finished, Lingling removed Uncle’s feet from her lap and helped him put his shoes back on. Then she kicked off her shoes and swung her legs on to his lap, primly and properly, without any naughty games of footsie. He began to vigorously massage her calves, moving down to her ankles before slowly working his way back up again over her calves, knees and thighs.

  Each time he increased the pressure, he would ask, ‘Is that too hard?’

  ‘A little,’ she would answer.

  ‘How’s this?’

  ‘Too soft.’

  Gradually, Uncle got a feel for what Lingling meant by ‘not too hard and not too soft’, and a sense of where to apply more pressure and where to apply less. When he rolled up the legs of her trousers, her calves gleamed in the moonlight like two smooth, bright pillars of jade. Her legs were pale and supple, soft and moist, free of sores or any other marks of the fever. Ardently, clumsily, Uncle kneaded and stroked her legs, all the while inhaling the alluring perfume of her flesh.

  ‘Does that feel good?’ he asked.

  Lingling smiled. ‘Very good.’

  Uncle’s expression turned solemn. ‘Lingling, I want to ask you something serious.’

  Lingling raised her head. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, as their eyes met.

  ‘But you have to tell the truth,’ Uncle added.

  ‘So ask me.’

  Uncle thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I’ll live through the summer?’

  Lingling gave a little start. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’

  ‘But don’t people in the village say that if you live through the winter, you can live through another year?’

  Uncle resumed massaging her legs. ‘The last few days, I’ve had dreams where I hear my mother calling me.’

  Surprised, Lingling sat up a little straighter in her chair. She swung her legs off Uncle’s lap, slipped on her shoes and peered at him intently, as if she were searching his face for clues. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said even though it’s summer, she gets cold when she sleeps. She said since it’s not my father’s time yet, she wants me to come and sit by her bed and warm her feet.’

  Lingling was silent, thinking about what Uncle had said.

  Uncle was silent, thinking about what his mother had said to him in his dream.

  The lonely silence seemed to stretch on and on. After a while, Lingling raised her eyes to look at Uncle.

  ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘The year the blood-selling started.’

  ‘Same as my father-in-law.’

  ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Hepatitis.’

  ‘Did he get it from selling blood?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The two fell silent. It was a deathly silence, a silence of the dead. As if there were not a human being left on earth, not even themselves. As if everyone were dead and buried. As if all that remained were sand and soil, crops and trees, the chirping of insects on a summer’s evening, and the moon that shone above. In the silvery light, the faint chirping of insects carried from the fields. The movement of worms and insects could be heard from underground, as if burrowing through the cracks in a coffin. It was a standing-at-a-graveside sound, a noise that sent a chill up your spine and seeped into your bones. Like a trickle of ice-cold wind, it got between the cracks and joints, worming its way into your bone marrow. Most people would have shivered at the sound, but Lingling and Uncle barely quivered: they had talked about death so much, they were no longer afraid of it.

  They looked at one another.

  ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  They went into the house, into the bedroom, and closed the door.

  Soon, the bedroom was warm with their scent. As cosy as starched, freshly washed sheets; as joyous as the bed of newlyweds.

  It had been a pleasant early summer evening, crisp and cool. Lingling and Uncle had enjoyed the evening as much as anyone else in the village. As they were making love in the candlelit room, Lingling suddenly asked: ‘Liang, am I the only person you’re thinking of right now, the only one in your heart?’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I don’t think I am.’

  ‘I’d be a fool to think of anyone else.’

  ‘I think I know a way to get your mind off your mother and your dreams of dying, so that you only think of me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Think of me as your mother, not as Lingling. If you call me “Mother”, maybe you’ll stop dreaming about her, and stop worrying about dying.’

  Uncle stopped what he was doing and stared at her.

  Lingling extricated her body from beneath his and sat up in bed.

  ‘My dad died ten years ago,’ she said, looking into his eyes, ‘just like your mum. Both of us lost our parents. From now on, you be my daddy, and I’ll be your mummy.’ Lingling blushed a deep red. She wasn’t bashful about what they’d been doing, but because she’d finally spoken her mind. It wasn’t a blush of embarrassment, but of earnestness. Although Lingling was shy around other people and often spoke with lowered head, Uncle knew that her true character was different. When they were alone, her shyness disappeared, and was replaced by a wild, adventurous streak. At times, she was even wilder than Uncle.

  Because she was still young, barely in her twenties.

  Because she was going to die soon.

  Because every day, every second, every bit of happiness mattered.

  Lingling threw off the covers, exposing Uncle’s naked body. She sat at the edge of the bed, smiling mischievously, like a child playing a game. ‘From now on, Liang, you can call me “Mummy”. I’ll love you like a mummy would, and do anything you ask me to, even wash your feet. And I’ll call you “Daddy”, and you have to love me like a daddy and do anything I ask you, just like my daddy did when he was alive.’

  Lingling leaned into Uncle and gazed up at him, like a pampered child beggin
g for attention. There was a shade of a smile on her face, a hint of anticipation, as if she couldn’t wait to call him ‘Daddy’, or for him to call her ‘Mummy’. She began stroking his skin with her fingertips, licking his flesh with her tongue. Her touch was a moist wind blowing over his skin: tickling, tantalizing, tingling. Uncle squirmed, unable to endure the sensation. He was caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to pin her body beneath his.

  ‘You temptress.’

  ‘You demon.’

  ‘Witch.’

  ‘Warlock.’

  ‘Mummy . . . I want to do it.’

  Lingling froze, as if she hadn’t expected Uncle to really use that word. Mummy. She seemed shocked that he’d said it, and maybe a little frightened. She raised her head to look at him, searching his face to see if he’d really meant it, or if his words were false. But Uncle wore the same easy smile he always had. The same lazy, foolish grin. Rascally, but with a touch of sincerity. Lingling wasn’t certain she liked what she saw there; when Uncle reached out to touch her, she gently moved his hand away. Uncle couldn’t stand it – he had to have her. His smile faded, and his expression grew serious. He gazed at her for a while, then opened his mouth and said it again.

  ‘Mummy . . .’

  At first, Lingling didn’t respond. Her eyes filled with tears, but she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. After a few moments, she reached silently for Uncle’s hand, the hand she had just pushed away, and placed it softly on her breast. It was a reward of sorts.

  For a long time after that, the room was silent, but for the sounds they made. Sighs and moans. The rhythmic creaking of the bed, and the wood groaning under their weight, as if the bed had broken a leg, or was about to collapse. Neither worried about the bed collapsing. They were each immersed in their own mad passion. Making love with abandon.

  Covers got kicked off the bed; clothes got scattered to the floor. They didn’t care, or even notice. By the time it was over, everything was on the floor.

  When Lingling awoke, the sun was already high in the sky. It took her a moment to realize she hadn’t died during the previous night’s exertions, a frenzy that had driven her to the brink of exhaustion. It was like dying in a dream and waking up the next morning, shocked to find oneself still alive.

  Lingling was awake before Uncle, who was still filling the room with his ragged snores. Thinking about the frenzied madness of the night before – how he had called her ‘Mummy’, and she had called him ‘Daddy’, and all the things they had done, the things they had shouted at each other – Lingling blushed a deep crimson. Lying next to Uncle’s sleeping form, thinking back to the night before, Lingling blushed and smiled. She rose from the bed silently, tiptoed to the door and threw it open. The full force of sunlight hit her head-on, sent her reeling, so that she had to grab the doorframe for support. When she had regained her balance, she saw from the position of the sun in the sky that it must be nearly noon. In the surrounding fields, the wheat was growing tall and lush, filling the air with its rich golden scent.

  As usual, Ding Village seemed silent and still. Lingling noticed a knot of people approaching from the opposite direction, a group of villagers carrying shovels, ropes and wooden poles. They seemed to be passing by the threshing ground on their way back to the village. Some were dressed in funeral caps or mourning clothes, their silent, wooden expressions betraying neither grief nor joy. Only a couple of the men laughed and chattered as they walked. Lingling could hear snippets of their conversation, carried on the wind: Don’t be fooled by the nice weather. Sure, the wheat is growing well now, but come autumn, there’s going to be a drought . . . What makes you say that? . . . It’s in the almanac. It says come the sixth lunar month, there’s going to be a drought . . .

  As the group of villagers rounded the corner of the threshing ground, Lingling recognized some of them as Ding Xiaoming’s neighbours. They had been her friends and neighbours, too, when she and Xiaoming had lived together. Standing at the door of the little mud-brick house, she hailed one of the older men.

  ‘Hey, uncle!’ she shouted. ‘Who died?’

  ‘Zhao Xiuqin,’ the man answered.

  Lingling was shocked. ‘But I saw her just a few days ago, carrying a bag of rice from the school into the village!’

  ‘Well, she got the fever more than a year ago, so she was lucky to make it this far. But that’s why she died, you know, because she brought home that bag of rice. She set it outside the door, and the minute her back was turned, one of the family’s pigs got into the bag and ate it all. You know Xiuqin’s temper . . . she got so mad at that pig, she started chasing it around the yard and hitting it, beating it so bad she broke its spine. But it wore her out, it did. She started bleeding inside, coughing up a lot of blood, and the night before last, she died.’

  Lingling turned a sickly shade of grey. She could almost feel herself bleeding internally, her own stomach filling with blood. Cautiously, tentatively, she ran her tongue over her lips and found no taste of blood. That was reassuring. But her heart was still racing, pounding in her chest, and she had to grab the wall for support.

  ‘You haven’t started making lunch yet?’ the man asked her.

  ‘I was just about to.’

  The funeral procession continued on its way. Lingling was just about to turn and go back into the house when she spied her husband, Ding Xiaoming, at the back of the crowd. He carried a shovel, and seemed to be deliberately lagging behind the others. She wanted to rush indoors, but it was too late: he’d already seen her. She would have to say something.

  ‘Did you come to help with the burial?’ she called out.

  Ding Xiaoming stared at her. ‘Xiuqin’s dead, and she had family and friends and people that cared about her. But you’ve got no one, you’re living out here like an outcast. It should have been you!’ He raised his voice. ‘You should have been dead a long time ago!’

  Xiaoming’s angry words hit Lingling like a burst of gunfire. Before she could muster an answer, he had passed her and was rushing to catch up with the others.

  Lingling stood in shock, watching him disappear in the direction of the village. After a few moments, she turned and slowly walked back into the house. She found Uncle awake, sitting on the edge of the bed getting dressed.

  Lingling’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Let’s really do it,’ she said, a sob in her voice. ‘Let’s get married as soon as we can. And let’s move back to the village, okay? Just once before we die, I want us to be a respectable couple. You have to promise me, Daddy.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  1

  Not long after that, Uncle went to ask his wife for a divorce. Tingting was living in her hometown of Song Village, located five or six miles from Ding Village. Uncle and Lingling made the trip on foot, and brought with them a bag of snacks for Uncle’s son, Little Jun. Uncle went into Song Village alone, while Lingling waited for him beneath a shady tree on the outskirts of the village.

  When Uncle and his estranged wife were seated comfortably in the living room of her parents’ house, he told her: ‘I think we should get a divorce. To tell you the truth, I’d like to marry Lingling before I die. I just want to spend a few happy days with her before we’re gone.’

  Tingting paled. She seemed to be thinking something over. ‘All right,’ she answered after a moment. ‘I’ll give you a divorce if you ask your brother to get me two good coffins. But make sure they’re good ones . . . I want the very best caskets, the kind with carvings all over the sides.’

  ‘Who are they for?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I can guess who one of them is for,’ said Uncle with a roguish grin. ‘He’s got the fever too, hasn’t he?’

  Tingting turned her head away and said nothing. There were tears in her eyes.

  Uncle couldn’t bring himself to say anything more, so he let the subject drop.

  2

  Grandpa went to talk to Xiaoming about the divorce.

  When he arri
ved at the house and found no one home, he went out to the family’s field. Along the way, he ran into his sister-in-law, Xiaoming’s mother. Like a man asking a stranger for directions, he shouted brusquely: ‘Hey, you there! Are you off to water the fields?’

  It turns out she was on her way to water the wheat crop. Her family’s field was located east of the village, near the ancient Yellow River path. While she was out there, it had occurred to her that if she mixed some chemical fertilizer into the irrigation water, it would save her the trouble of fertilizing the field by hand. She was just on her way home to fetch a bag of fertilizer when she’d run into Grandpa along the old river path. At first, she had no idea who he was shouting at. She glanced around to see who else was there, but seeing only the waist-high grass that grew along the roadside, realized that his question must have been meant for her.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘It’s that time again.’

  Grandpa planted himself in the middle of the road, blocking her way. ‘I tell you, I could just kill that son of mine.’

  ‘I was afraid you were here as his matchmaker,’ she said with an icy smile. ‘To talk Xiaoming into giving that slut a divorce.’

  Grandpa coloured slightly. ‘The pair of them are a disgrace.’

  Xiaoming’s mother gave a snort of disbelief. For a few moments, she stared at Grandpa with disdain, her lip curled in a sneer. Then her expression softened. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said, more kindly. ‘Since you and I are in-laws, let me be honest with you. A divorce isn’t out of the question. Xiaoming’s got a fiancée now, a nice little girl – a virgin – never been married. But she’s asked for five thousand yuan to buy bridal gifts. If we can come up with the five thousand, she’ll agree to go ahead with the wedding.’

  Xiaoming’s mother glanced around, as if to confirm that no one was lurking in the tall grass, eavesdropping on their conversation. When she was certain they weren’t being overheard, she continued. ‘Your son is in a hurry to get married and make an honest woman of Lingling before he dies, right? So why not ask the two of them to come up with the five thousand yuan? Then Xiaoming can afford to get married, and those two can make it official, and be buried together when they die.’