by Keyi Sheng
Since my father felt betrayed by my oldest brother, he turned double attention to my second brother, stipulating his bound duty to study. He was basically not expected to touch any farming work. When it was harvest time and my sister had set the threshing machine to roaring with her quick steps, my second brother volunteered to run errands, only to be scolded by my father. My oldest brother’s diploma had been taken down, but my second brother’s new diploma made the rear of the house shine once more. When my father saw that I also received various ‘awards,’ he made it a point to never encourage me himself. The better my results were, the more disappointed my father was. This was like a blatant provocation. He clearly preferred me to be a stupid, reckless troublemaker, which would allow him to make use of the various punishment tactics he loved.
My father often sat in the rear of the house smoking, with Chairman Mao smiling upon him like the Mona Lisa as he spewed clouds of secondhand smoke. Every New Year, he would remove the portrait of Chairman Mao, his teeth stained yellow by the smoke, and replace it with a fresh picture. The new image would show Chairman Mao’s teeth in all their white purity, practically reflecting the white light when the weather was fair. When I pulled a stool up beneath the picture and added a moustache for Chairman Mao, my father picked me up like I was a shadow puppet, swinging and pulling me, until I dropped to my knees on the ground, kneeling there the whole morning.
After my sister broke up with the son of the village Party Secretary at my father’s insistence, they had nothing further to do with each other. She farmed all day, and at night silently bit on matchsticks with her chicken’s arse mouth; her shoulders continued twitching as if she were in the silent films. In the winter, she went out with my father to carry mud to repair levees to earn work points. The matchsticks cost 2 cents each, which meant that my sister’s chosen method of suicide was quite cheap. Perhaps that was why she continued on in this fashion, as if it had become the only pillar of her survival. She felt that her problems came from her appearance; her earlobes were not long, her fingers too stubby, and her palms too hard. Women of good fortune had soft hands, as if they had no bones at all. She often rubbed my hands, saying that they felt as if they had no bones either. She was envious. She also envied the daughters of this or that man, hanging on to their father’s necks as they whined. She was driven to tears by her jealousy.
The son of the village Party Secretary remarried. When his new wife’s belly started to bulge, my sister had an epiphany, thinking of a way to escape from home. She should marry. Why hadn’t this occurred to her earlier? When the matchmaker had come to her door, she had been of the mind that she would never marry. She now forced apart her metal can and counted a heap of loose paper money. Within a few days, she had made a pair of fashionable bell bottoms. But she was only allowed to be pretty for a few minutes. My father could not stand it. He thought permed hair and sunglasses and bell bottoms were symbols of rebellion and a lack of proper upbringing, so he cut the new pants to shreds.
A creature like Chuntian would be quite a hot commodity, if she were led to the market. The fingers of the buyers and sellers would be vigorously calculating prices in the cuffs of their sleeves, almost pecking blood out. My sister had no clue about her own value. She nodded her head on the first blind date, even though the potential husband was like a black mule with a foolish smile. His name was Liu Zhima, and he gave out betel-nut and cigarettes to everyone he met, not even sparing the little children. At this point, my father became aware of how reluctant he was to let my sister go. She was a good worker, and hers was a vacancy he could not afford to fill. My father first grew melancholy, then anxious; then finally, he set an exorbitant bride price, which made him feel slightly relieved. A few days later, the necessary ceremonies were held. The wedding was set before spring ploughing next year, roughly six months away.
*
The autumn rains wouldn’t let up. My father again became worried. Chuntian was getting married. He should prepare a few items for her as a dowry, just to keep the neighbours from talking. The nightstool was easy to manage, and did not cost much to make. My father worried that the wardrobe was too big to transport. He said so, as if to justify himself, making clear it wasn’t just about saving money. He did not want to be remiss in his treatment of my sister, so the issue of the wardrobe gnawed at him as he sat in the rear of the house smoking and thinking, glancing at Chairman Mao from time to time as if a suggestion might come from that front. My father thought it through quickly. This generation was bad, making this popular and that popular, with nobody knowing who started each fad. This caused people to make a big show of the dowry, as if it were some sort of competition to see who could get the highest bride price. It was all quite crass. My father cursed, then turned and caught sight of the rotten wardrobe in the room. The Mona Lisa smile crept across his face.
The carpenter was called to our home. Wood shavings rolled up merrily on the floor after the nightstool had been made, new doors placed on the wardrobe, and the other riveting parts reinforced. When the carpenter left, my father started polishing the items, repairing as needed, then covering them with a coat of paint. When the weather was fine, he put all three things on the flat ground, bending over and busying himself here and there like an artist. He touched up here, polished there, as if there was nothing on earth more important than his handiwork. No one in the village personally made their daughter’s dowry. They said the crucial moment revealed that the dog-fucking Li ultimately couldn’t bear to let his little girl go. ‘Dog-fucking’ wasn’t an especially crude term, but was just an expression often heard from the lips of the village men to add weight to any emotion expressed, making it seem more sincere.
If the professional standard of the carpentry was not so high, my father would have undertaken the whole task himself. My father did not know where to start in carpentry, and this rattled his all-encompassing confidence. Only when he had set to work, did my father discover that painting was not as simple a job as he had imagined. The nightstool was brushed with tung oil, requiring only a few more coats. But it was harder to apply the red lacquer evenly on the wardrobe. It ended up looking like the face of a dark-skinned woman in white powder, not of uniform thickness, and very patchy. He ultimately had quite a battle with that wardrobe. Because the weather was bad, the painting project lasted three months. When he finally announced that it was complete, he was like a triumphant soldier returning home at the end of a long campaign. My mother prepared a good meal as a reward. This episode had cost my father a great deal of energy, turning his hair even whiter than before.
*
Before the New Year, my mother and the mothers of several other men in prison undergoing labour reform met together to discuss visiting their sons as a group. For some of them, it was as if they were waking from a dream, realising that the prisoners would have to celebrate the New Year too, so they rushed to prepare food, clothing, and other necessities, accidentally creating an early New Year atmosphere. Most of these women hardly ever left the village, but now they began to establish a link to the outside world. I felt there was nothing more enviable than this group of mothers of convicts setting out to see their children. Their hair was grey. They made themselves clean and tidy, with scarves covering their heads. They wore their good clothes stored at the bottom of the chest, those reserved for visiting relatives, and carried sacks stuffed with salted fish, eggs, preserved meat, and pickles. Slinging the sacks over their shoulders or arms, they tottered out on their journey with vigour and vitality. They had to walk to Lanxi, where they could take a rickety minibus to Yiyang County, then change buses for a four or five hour ride to the prison, where they would wait at the gate like a flock of speckled hens for the doors to be thrown open.
As our mother was preparing, she asked my father whether he was going too. With his expression dark and fierce, my father smoked. When he inhaled a stream of smoke, he wanted to go; when he exhaled, he did not. He inhaled and exhaled half a pack of cigarettes, filling the r
oom with smoke. Finally, my father’s voice swam through the cloud toward my mother like a bunch of tadpoles in a murky pond. He said he would not go, saying the expenses of the journey were not worth it. After that, visiting the prison became my mother’s business alone. She never described the proceedings, and my father never even bothered to ask.
*
Just after the New Year, the flower drum opera group began their show, with dragon and lion dances, rice-begging, songs, and performances for the God of Fortune and Buddha. My mother flattened her bank notes and hid them in her pocket. Whoever performed at her door could get a share of them. When the flower drum opera group came to perform, they put up electric bulbs, one to hang for a celebratory welcome and one for a happy send-off. This sort of performance was worth at least five yuan. The lead actor was beautiful, and the singing was good. We gave them one ‘peasant worker soldier’ edition banknote worth ten yuan without feeling the pinch. In some places, believers lived frugally for a lifetime, saving for pilgrimage. During the first month of the year, the villagers’ generosity was basically similar to that. Just this once, they acted with panache. This year we collected money and invited the opera troupe to sing and act out a popular local drama. They sang from the sixth day of the Spring Festival to the fifteenth day, and I even got to play the part of a little imp who waved its streamers.
My sister did not like crowds, preferring to stay home by herself and sleep. When she would wake up, she would look for something to eat, occasionally going out to play a game of Chinese dominoes. Nobody bothered about her for the first month of the lunar year, and she did nothing to draw attention to herself. The first month passed. The cotton-padded jackets were packed away, green shoots sprouted on willow twigs, and peach blossoms laughed in the wind. I was the first one who noticed my sister’s swollen belly. Even so severely sick, she did not go to see a doctor. I had to tell my mother. She checked my sister’s belly, and I could see from her face it was catastrophic. That night, my parents whispered in the room next door. I heard my father curse loudly, and my sister and I both heard the word ‘shameless.’ My sister covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders started to shake convulsively. Before long, I realised she was laughing – in fact, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Actually, since her blind date, my sister had not chewed anymore matches worth 2 cents a box. Sometimes she even made sweet snoring sounds.
The day my sister, Chuntian, got married, the weather was especially good. She wore a pink jacket, wide skirt, and her waist was so thick it was hard to hide. In the early 1980s, a pregnant bride was a rarity. My sister did quite well. Under countless strange looks, she went over to her husband’s house with her protruding tummy. My father decided to have no part in any of it. He did not want to lose face along the way. He was a real bastard, always making sure his own behaviour appeared stately. He always stood on the side of righteousness.
At nine o’clock in the morning, my sister and mother, each shedding some tears, stepped out of the house. I was exceptionally pleased in my new rose-red outfit. The three of us got on the causeway with vigour, followed by the matchmakers, lugging the nightstool and wardrobe behind them. Two long poles were tied around the wardrobe, and its top was covered with several red and green quilts. They carried the wardrobe like they were carrying sedan-chairs, with their hips moving in rhythm. Those carrying the items walked at a fast pace, and they eventually had to leave us behind.
The three of us flowed gradually across the winding causeway. Though, actually, there were four of us. Everything around us was deserted. The ranks of our procession were both neat and solitary. No one spoke. Chuntian’s mouth was in its usual chicken-arse-tight pucker. It was more like a funeral procession. We walked for four hours. I could not remember clearly if any of us issued a sound the whole time. No impression was left in my mind at all. I felt we were walking toward a hole, and it was getting darker and colder. The weeds around us stood higher than my head, and the reeds rustled. We noticed a cluster of Chinese roses blooming by the roadside, the same colour as my sister’s new jacket. I should have picked one and given it to her, but neither I, my mother, nor my sister herself thought of it at the time. We were focused on walking. The weather that day was the only thing worth mentioning.
I was spinning a top at the door. When it was spinning, it seemed to stand still. I lay the rope down and stared at the top as it turned. My grandfather had much experience with boredom. Seeming to think I was bored too, he took compassion on me. He called my nickname and waved to me. Staring at a thing spinning blindly was in fact quite boring, but I did not expect my grandfather to step in with anything of interest to me either.
I walked lazily over. For the first time, my grandfather disclosed the contents of his treasure chest. A smell of old must and fragrant food rushed out of it. All my grandfather’s possessions were locked inside. I was like a thief checking to see what treasures I would like. I saw some bottles, cans and several books that were starting to turn yellow. A set of ivory Chinese dominoes flashed vaguely, and then my grandfather fastened the lid again. He put a large piece of rock sugar into my mouth, saying, ‘Let Grandpa teach you some calligraphy. We in the Li family have this one excellent craft. It would be a shame not to pass it on.’
I asked what was so good about writing calligraphy. What I really meant was, would there be rock sugar every day when I wrote. My grandfather said the benefits equalled that of playing dominoes. It built character, nourished one’s nature, and if he did not care about winning or losing, one would be free of worry, unhappiness . . . that kind of crap.
Later, I listened to my grandfather’s lofty rhetoric regarding gambling as he flicked open the box. He pushed a piece of rock sugar into his own mouth, teeth crunching on it as he spoke, like he had pebbles in his mouth. He deftly retrieved a brush and some ink from a chaotic pile and told me to hold them. I felt that he was thinking quite highly of me. He moved a small square table over and continued saying that the feeling of having a good hand of cards is the same as writing well, both were worthy of pride. It was many years later that I came to understand my grandfather’s analogy, but he had extended the meaning of having a good hand of cards.
That day I copied the phrase ‘Guan! Guan! Cry the fish hawks.’ My grandfather said the words had endured for three thousand years. My hands were shaking so much, as if I were on death row. I thought something must be wrong with me. I continued to seek my grandfather out to practice calligraphy with him every day after that. When my hand stopped shaking, I felt that writing calligraphy was as interesting as rolling a metal hoop through the street, or playing with a slingshot, or spinning a top – or perhaps even more interesting. Before long, I got a taste of the pride my grandfather had talked about when my teacher praised my writing in front of the rest of the class. I memorised a good deal of poetry. Thinking that Li Bai, Li He, and Li Shangyin might be my ancestors, I found it even more exciting to memorise their work.
That summer, my grandfather found a boil as big as an egg on his buttocks. He felt the opportunity had come to get revenge on my parents, so he took this ailment as an excuse to lie in bed and not get up at all, expecting them to serve him as he ate, drank, peed, and pooped in bed. When anyone came by, he would scream as if dying, shouting, ‘I’m dying! I won’t last long. I just want a bowl of chicken and noodle soup before I die, with a fried egg and chopped chillies.’
Sometimes my mother sent me to see whether or not my grandfather had died yet. When I returned, I said it seemed he still had plenty of spirit left, and had even explained the rhyme scheme of a poem to me. My mother called the old man a coward, saying dying scared him half to death.
With the dressing on the festering boil, my grandfather’s room smelled strongly of herbs. He was like a hen sitting on soon-to-hatch eggs for half a month. When the boil did finally hatch, it gave birth to a bowlful of pus. Collapsing inward, it left a pit on his skin. He lay for ten more days before he was willing to get up. After that, whenever h
e saw anyone, he made a show of having recovered from a serious illness.
Logically, once he had recovered, my grandfather should have sat at the entrance to our house, smiling and thanking passersby, or counting the stars at night until bedtime. Instead, he vanished. This made my parents very unhappy. They had not cared for him like a wounded soldier just so he could return to the battlefield of the gambling house. Before he vanished, my grandfather did not have any money, so he pretended to be so sick he could stay in bed. He wanted to continue being sick, but the mysterious distant relative suddenly sent a rather huge sum of 200 yuan to my grandfather. He could lie still no longer then.
When I came home from school, my grandfather was sitting on the floor staring at the pond outside the door. A few ducks were frolicking on the surface of the water, the male duck flapping his wings and squawking loudly. I felt instinctively that there was something mysterious coming between the ducks and my grandfather. That mysterious matter was his real concern right now.
My grandfather waved to me like a generous lord. He told me to go to the cooperative shop and buy some liquor for him, along with a pound of snacks shaped like cat ears, reminding me to make sure the snacks would crackle when he chewed on them. When I returned, my grandfather invited me to share his snacks. At this time, my grandfather suddenly seemed quite young, pouring his liquor into the dirt-covered iron sheet cup and taking a swig. Each sip he took was followed by a slurping sound, so content he sounded like a vampire finding blood. The ‘cat ears’ were burnt yellow, thin and crispy. I focused on eating the snacks, my heart not really in my grandfather’s chatter.