Wild Fruit

by Keyi Sheng

  In short, she could not bear to be at home. At first, she would rush home before night fell. Later, she extended her playing time, then would crawl home just before midnight, and eventually it expanded to just after midnight, and it gradually kept increasing until she ended up staying out the whole night. Her face was often bloated, and her expression dark. Twice, Zhima dragged her from the card table and, when they got home, beat her until she was bruised and bleeding. But her battered flesh did nothing to discourage her. The next time, Zhima had no choice but to overturn the card table and warn the players that he would beat up anyone who played cards with my sister, and even create trouble at their houses. After that, whenever Chuntian showed up at the card table, everyone scattered; when she left, they regrouped around the table.

  By the third time this happened, Chuntian started to think clearly. She would not bring harm to others, so she gave up. But cards were as addictive as drugs. When her withdrawal hit her, she grew itchy physically and mentally, and her muscles twitched. The image of cards flew in front of her eyes. Food was tasteless, and her sleep was restless. She was in a trance. Eventually, she could stand it no more. She rode a broken bicycle to a town miles away and played cards there. When her passion for gambling cooled, she went home and said that she had gone back to her girlhood home and stayed for a few nights. If playing cards was a form of military exercise in the village, then the village recreation room was a battlefield, with real knives and guns. Chuntian barely made it through. Eight times out of ten she lost, and when she lost, she would borrow money. Some people claimed she even slept with men to get the money to keep playing cards.

  But in the end, the cat was out of the bag. People who saw her playing cards at the recreation room reported back to Zhima. He came to the village searching for her. However, Chuntian had won that day, and the person who lost to her was not willing to let her leave the table. There was a security officer in the village, and one must play by the rules. Zhima could do nothing but stand obediently to one side, talking nicely and begging her to go home, then pouting as he stood waiting at the door. Later, some of the players said that Zhima sitting there waiting like that affected their mood, and they finally forced my sister to leave the table. When they left the recreation room, Zhima raised a fist. Without a word, my sister just started fighting with him. A crowd surrounded them, watching the excitement; Zhima had apparently heard the rumours. He kicked her while cursing, tore her clothes, and made a wreck of her hair.

  Some people tried to discourage him. Zhima said, ‘What the fuck do you people have to do with me beating up my woman?’

  It was only when a great number of people had seen my sister’s exposed body that Zhima was satisfied. She did not cry, but just pulled the rags across her chest and, puckering her lips as tight as a chicken’s arse, left the crowd’s field of vision. Zhima, pushing the rickety bicycle, followed her, spitting betel nut juice at intervals.

  When all was done, Chuntian still sat on the back of Zhima’s bike and went home, as if nothing had happened. She continued along, very proper and honest, for a week. But her old ailments returned, and she pedalled into town and continued playing cards. After some time, Yicao was also less anxious to come home to eat fried rice, and was likewise too lazy to do her homework, so she started fooling around with boys on the sly.

  Zhima realised he could do nothing about Chuntian, so he went to my father to complain. My father rained curses on him. My mother said, ‘Whether or not you can manage your own woman is your own affair. Don’t come knocking on our door about this sort of thing again.’

  Zhima had no ally. He decided he could only leave Chuntian to her own devices. He cursed her, saying, ‘I hope you die at that damned card table.’

  Once, Chuntian did not go home for two consecutive nights. At ten in the morning, Zhima showed up in the gaming hall. The whole place was full of smoke. Chuntian sat, face dark, in that tobacco-filled room, the floor covered with cigarette butts and betel nut dregs. She glared at him with black-ringed eyes, pulled her mouth into the usual chicken arse shape and looked at the cards in her hand.

  Zhima said, ‘Go home. Something’s happened.’

  Chuntian did not say anything. Zhima patiently repeated himself twice.

  Upset, my sister asked, ‘What happened? Who died?’

  Zhima hesitated, then said, ‘That’s right. Your uncle died.’

  My uncle and aunt did not have children. My uncle had always liked my sister, and had even wanted to adopt her when she was small. My aunt did not agree; she wanted a son. Chuntian had many adversaries in her life. Had it not been for this sort of aunt, she would have been my uncle’s little princess. My uncle was very good to Chuntian, and she always went to visit him on holidays, receiving gifts or cash on such occasions. Later, when she complained of my father’s coldness and violence, she always raised my uncle’s kindness and affection as a point of comparison.

  My uncle died of a cerebral haemorrhage. Chuntian did not get to see him one last time. When she arrived, the coffin had already been sealed. My aunt leaned on it, howling. The candles, incense and even firecrackers all reeked of the smell of death and burial. My father’s face showed the restraint it required for him not to scold; he was furious with my sister for being improperly late. If it had not been for the special occasion, he would have certainly taken the opportunity to unpack all his old grievances against her and air them. Chuntian had married into another family so long ago, but he had never let go of his right to teach her a good lesson.

  My mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nieces were all there in mourning apparel. Yicao’s eyes seemed very seductive. She was developing, with small blossoms beginning to show on her chest. She was intrigued by this new scene. Her fascination had nothing to do with death; at first, she was even chewing gum. My mother dug it out of her mouth and threw it away and said, ‘You don’t learn from good examples. You’re acting like a hooligan.’

  My mother liked Yicao. She had a sweet tongue. When she went to our house, she would pester my mother to make her delicious snacks. None of us siblings were sweet talkers, so with just this tactic alone, Yicao captured my mother’s heart. A character like Yicao’s was at complete variance with ours. No one like her was to be found in either the Li or the Liu house. At this moment, she supported her old grandmother, comforting her with care.

  As soon as the funeral gun sounded, the firecrackers exploded hysterically. The sixteen people who carried the coffin let out a sudden cry and raised it onto their shoulders. The crowd around it was in a commotion. But before they could move from the terrace, the coffin suddenly cracked. My uncle’s head drooped from the crack in the coffin. My aunt had bought the coffin and, hoping to leave a little more money for herself to live on, she had chosen the cheapest. She had never imagined the wickedness of the coffin-maker, that he would do a shoddy job and make the coffin loose. It was too late to change it, so the people stuffed my uncle’s body inside once more, but the quality of the coffin was too poor, and it was too thin and short. The top of my uncle’s head and his heel pushed against the ends of the coffin and the gaps could not be closed, so the people just tried to nail the coffin shut forcefully. The long nails penetrated my uncle’s head and feet. The wood around each nail was soaked in blood.

  After so many frustrations, my uncle was finally laid to rest in his grave. The crowd dispersed, and the grass started to grow on the grave.

  For a very long time, my sister did not go into town to play cards.

  To those of us in the village, Beijing was as distant as heaven. It was not real, but just something we could see on the television, and it disappeared with the press of a button, no different from our dreams. Before I registered for my university, the village had a bon voyage celebration for me, sending me off with fireworks. They held a banquet, everyone drinking until they were red in the face. Everyone came with great kindness, as if ushering me into paradise. They even mentioned my second brother, Li Xiazhi, saying my family produced
scholars, saddening my parents. When Xiazhi had gone to Changsha for university, it had not been such an event. Those he had close contact with came to congratulate him, but everything else was normal. I gave the Li household a good name, elevating my grandfather’s status, and most people attributed my success to his influence. For a time, we had become a scholarly family. Perhaps times were changing. It seemed the academic atmosphere in the village was improving. Some parents in the village came to my father and mother, trying to learn the secret to raising a university student. I can imagine my parents’ naive expressions. If a sapling grew from bird shit, how could they find the bird that deposited the shit? That was most likely the case, in my situation.

  My father was even more vague, describing the smoke of burning incense rising over our family’s ancestral grave. When he said that, he had no intention of following the trail of smoke to find its source.

  My mother was more flattered at the compliment. In fact, I credited my success to her. For so many years, she got up when it was still dark each day to make me breakfast, then cooked hot meals for me when I came home. She was never lazy. I was my mother’s occupation.

  Long ago, Chuntian had said she wanted to go to some distant place and never come back. I became interested in distant places then, always feeling they must be nice places. At the very least, my father was not there, and anyplace that did not have my father was a fun place to be. At that time, Shunqiu and Xiazhi always praised me for being naturally intelligent, which became the root of my self-confidence. To me, going to the university was a normal thing; not going would have been strange. If I had said that aloud, people would have scolded me for being insincere, seeing it as a form of blind arrogance, so I chose to keep my mouth shut and stay low-key, simply letting the smoke continue to rise from the ancestral grave.

  *

  I did not become a class cadre during university. I spent all my time studying and falling in and out of love. I studied in the library or on my bed. I dated under the willow tree and on the banks of the lake. Later, I dated in the library and in bed, and left studying for the willow tree and the lake. Eventually, I could do either anywhere I pleased, until the two activities finally merged completely. I had four boyfriends, the longest lasting for a year, and the shortest for three months. Some of them later became ‘sea turtles’– overseas graduates who returned home – and were completely transformed into elite businessmen. Some of them became famous reporters, supporting various important news and media, writing current political columns, making indiscreet remarks or criticisms. The best-looking was a boy a little older than me, Qin Huaihe. I took him home to show him off. My father was more enthusiastic than before, catching fish from the pond in front of my house and slaughtering chickens in the back garden. He brought out all the good wine he possessed. But in the end, Qin Huaihe still went to England. Of course, he could have taken me with him to England, or at least not just abandon me like that. But ending our relationship was not all his decision. Mostly, I felt that dating became fictitious if the distance was too great, while being in the same location was somehow more real and reliable. So I broke off the relationship, and Qin Huaihe slipped away and decided to try the local girls in England instead. Later, we became close friends.

  Aside from a few casual boyfriends, I had another hidden relationship. If I say it openly, it takes away the mystery, but the fact is, my college life was quite ordinary.

  I dated an English teacher the semester I graduated. We called him Mr Zhu. He was around thirty-eight, and his complexion was good. He had a photo of his wife and daughter in an embrace on his desk, and they fluttered on his computer screen. They were also firmly embedded in his wallet, so whenever we went for dinner or to a hotel, as soon as he opened his wallet, I saw them. It was like they were raising a hose and spraying cold water at me. I acted out of boredom, and this made it even harder for me to warm up to Mr Zhu. It put me in the state of ambiguity; I was not sure if I was hungry or not, and I could eat or not eat. I had to admit that Mr Zhu was a good cook. He had experience, and I knew that, and he could cook a good dish. The quantity was small but the flavour was good, lingering even when we parted. That’s how things were between us.

  But none of this affected my studies. During my four years at university, I read the twenty-four histories, the four classics, and the five great books of Chinese literature, and I read all the philosophers, the Tang and Song poems, the Ming and Qing novels, hundreds of biographies, Western philosophy, and Eastern stories. Later, I did an internship at a Beijing television station. Mr Zhu opened that door for me. When I had slept with him, I had never imagined there would be such tangible benefits. Later, when I thought about it, if Mr Zhu had not carried his wife and daughter’s picture in his wallet, he probably would have delayed me for my entire life. I was like a ball of fire which, once ignited, had no boundaries and did not care about consequences. I can say without shame that Mr Zhu met all the criteria I dreamed of in a relationship, and I hated myself for not being like a vixen with a firm grasp. In one swoop, I could have made a wasteland of Mr Zhu’s family and then, in one more fell swoop, I could have built the richly ornamented home he would share with me. Fishing in these emotional waters, I was still like Jiang Taigong, not using a hook, but just assuming that the fish would leap into my hand of their own volition. I learned soon enough, though, that twenty-first century fish were not like the discerning fish of the ancient Shang dynasty, when Jiang had waited them out. That was probably why I was single when I left school, with no male arm to cling to.

  While I was an intern at the television station, the director who guided me was Yehe Nara, and she was an idler. Her ancestors were high officials of the Qing court. She retained remnants of her aristocratic legacy, and was very particular about food and clothing. She always paid careful attention to image. She liked me very much. Yehe Nara drove a VW Beetle, and there were always perfumed sachets and cartoon dolls in the car. When she was free, she would take me to wander around. I went to many famous lanes, celebrities’ former residences, and time-honoured shops. If it were not for Yehe Nara, my four years studying in Beijing would have been in vain.

  Yehe Nara had been working for ten years. Seeing me as little more than a child, it was fortunate she felt no contempt, but instead took me under her wing, as if she were my sister. She had made up her mind that I would graduate from her excellent school in three months, so she embarked on the mission of giving me a full education, including teaching me about food, drinks, entertainment, and love. She taught me how to get along with men, and how to give and receive affection freely. On the weekend, she dragged me to bars and taught me the art of flirting, and how to drink red wine or Champagne without paying for it. Yehe Nara did not touch beer or spirits, feeling they did not match her image. I deeply enjoyed Yehe Nara’s lack of restraint. Her mantra was the English phrase, ‘Why not?'. I did not know what I did in my past lives to deserve being blessed with such a mentor. I had learned how to dress. In three months my talent in dealing with worldly affairs and emotions grew exponentially. I even had a one-night stand with a long-haired artist. I had never imagined women could enjoy this sort of life, too.

  Yehe Nara had soft, thin skin, long eyes, fine eyebrows, and small, narrow lips. She looked like a typical Southerner, but had a Northerner’s personality. She was articulate, precise and accurate in her use of words. Once, when she had had too much to drink, she spoke of her past boyfriends. The focus was on a pilot who was her childhood sweetheart. Not long before they were to be married, his plane crashed into the sea. Her lover now was the boss of Thinker Bookstore. She wanted to take me to Thinker to see where they committed their love act, where the boss had raised her skirt and fucked her behind the bookshelves. Just ten metres away, the guests were drinking coffee and chatting.

  We got in the car and left Sanlitun. As we drove, Yehe Nara spoke nonstop of the boss’s new tricks. Once in the dark of night, he had pushed her against the bough of a tree in the park and fucked
her where she stood. On the other side of the park were residents of the city and Peking Opera fans having late singing practice. She said doing it in public places had an unexpected appeal. Yehe Nara’s descriptions whetted my appetite. The boss of the Thinker Bookstore provoked my curiosity and filled my fantasies.

  The entrance to the bookstore was not large. The black bricks and red window frames were in the old Beijing style, but when you entered the door, it felt broad and open, and a few cats napped atop the books. Walking past the book bar reading area, there were several rows of bookshelves. They were meticulously organised, starting with a row on democracy, freedom, and constitutionalism, then followed by a row of Chinese intellectuals, a row of Western philosophy, and so on. Yehe Nara stopped in front of the literature section and, laughing, said softly, ‘This is it.’