by Yu Hua
Now for the first time he scanned the surroundings attentively. He saw that his father was crossing the street to where someone else was standing. He felt that this person looked rather familiar, but he couldn’t immediately think who it was. The man threw him a smile. His father stopped in front of him, and the two of them began to converse.
He stood where he was, as if waiting for his father to come back, or perhaps wondering whether he should leave. Then he heard something fall out of the sky and hit the ground nearby. When he turned his head, there was a brick lying there. He gave a start, realizing now that he was standing directly beneath a building. Looking up, he saw someone perched on the scaffolding above. It was a middle-aged man, a lot like the one who had leaned against the plane tree. He felt that any minute a brick would come hurtling toward his head.
20
The man was leaning against a plane tree, right next to the street. Although he wasn’t smoking a cigarette, he was definitely the man he was looking for.
He remembered, now, that this was the place where Bai Xue first signaled to him. At that time he was still completely in the dark; at that time he was in a buoyant mood. He had just made his escape from that creepy building, and he didn’t know why he ended up here.
When he came to a stop about ten meters away, the man took notice. He said to himself: That’s right, he’s the one.
As he slowly approached the man, the man’s expression grew more and more wary, and the hand he’d kept in his pocket slowly began to emerge. And the people walking in the street slowed their pace to watch him—he knew they might rush him at any time.
He went up to the man. The man was rubbing his hands in front of his chest as though ready to throw a punch at any moment, and his legs were tensed.
But he stuck his hands in his pant pockets and said with composure, “I’d like to have a word with you.”
The man perceptibly relaxed and seemed to smile. “You’re looking for me?” he asked.
“That’s right,” he said.
The man looked toward the street, as though to deliver a signal. “Go ahead.”
“Not here,” he said. “I want to talk to you alone.”
The man looked hesitant. He did not want to leave the plane tree, meaning he did not want to leave those accomplices of his who were pretending to be pedestrians.
He gave a smirk. “You don’t dare?”
The man laughed loudly. “Let’s go,” he said.
So he began to lead the way, the other man following close behind. He walked with a measured pace, so that he could repel at any time a sneak attack. Now he heard a disorderly medley of footsteps behind him, which meant there were now several people following him. He did not look back. “It has to be just you and me,” he said.
The man made no reply and the footsteps behind him did not diminish in number.
“If you don’t have the guts, just leave.”
Again the man laughed.
He continued forward, but stopped for a moment when he got to the entrance to an alley. Only when he saw there was nobody in the alley did he enter. Now the steps behind him dwindled.
He couldn’t help but smile as he proceeded to the deepest section of the alley. The man was close behind. He knew he could not afford to look back now, for if he did, that would put the man on guard and he would keep a few steps back. So he walked on as though at ease, while mentally calculating the distance between them. It seemed a little too far. So he unobtrusively slowed his pace, and the man did not notice.
Now he felt things were just about right, so he swiftly crouched, putting his weight on his left leg and at the same time stamping backward with his right foot. He heard a scream, and then the sounds of a stumble and fall. He looked back to find the man, his face pale, sitting on the ground and clutching his stomach in pain.
He took a step forward and aimed another kick, this time at the man’s face. The man groaned and fell to the ground.
“Tell me, what were you trying to do?” he asked.
“I wanted Zhang Liang and the others to steer you into the middle of the street and have a truck hit you.”
“I know that,” he said.
“If that didn’t work, I was going to have your father lead you under that building and let a brick fall on your head.”
“And then?” he asked.
The man was still leaning against the plane tree. Now he stuck his hand into his chest pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
It’s definitely him, he thought. But he lacked the determination to confront him. He felt that if the two of them did face off, the outcome would be the opposite of what he had just imagined. The one left moaning on the ground, in other words, would be he himself. This man was heavily built, after all, and he was so weak and scrawny.
The man no longer looked so distracted; his gaze was distinctly hostile.
He suddenly realized he had been standing here too long.
21
“Do you know something?” Bai Xue said.
He had no idea how he had arrived at Bai Xue’s house. He recalled that one day a couple of years earlier he had seen her glide out of this door, just as she glided out now.
Bai Xue clearly had been startled to see him.
And he noticed that she was a bit embarrassed—window dressing, of course.
Bai Xue’s bedroom was stylish, but not as tidy as Hansheng’s. When he sat down on a chair, Bai Xue blushed a little, but it was natural for her to blush—in the final analysis she was different from them, he thought.
It was then that Bai Xue said, “Do you know something?”
She planned to tell him everything directly—now it was he who was astonished.
“Yesterday I ran into Zhang Liang in the street….”
Sure enough, she was going to spill the beans.
“He suddenly called my name.” No sooner had her normal coloring returned than she again reddened. “We never talked to each other in school, so I was flabbergasted….”
He began to be perplexed, not knowing what Bai Xue would go on to say.
“Zhang Liang said that you all would come over to my house today—you, Zhu Qiao, Hansheng, and Yazhou. He said it was your idea. They were here this morning.”
Now he understood. Bai Xue was trying to cover up for the activities of Zhang Liang and the others that morning. She was more devious than he had imagined.
“Why didn’t you come with them?” she asked.
He didn’t know what to say and could only look at her mournfully. He now saw a dramatic change in Bai Xue’s expression: she looked rather stunned.
She’s learned how to perform, he said to himself.
A long time seemed to pass, and he saw that Bai Xue was at a loss. It seemed she didn’t know where to put her hands.
“Do you remember what happened the other day?” he said. “I saw you as I was walking down the street. You signaled to me.”
Bai Xue turned bright red. She sputtered a reply: “I thought you were smiling at me, so I smiled too—how did you get the idea it was a signal?”
So, she’s determined to playact, he thought. But he continued undeterred. “Do you remember there was a middle-aged man close by?”
She shook her head.
“He was leaning against a plane tree,” he said, to jog her memory.
But still she shook her head.
“So, what was it you were signaling?” He couldn’t help losing patience.
She gazed at him as if dumbfounded. “What makes you think it was a signal?” she said uneasily.
He ignored this. “From then on I realized I was being watched.”
Now she assumed an air of utter bewilderment. “Who’s watching you?” she asked.
“Everyone.”
It looked as though she wanted to laugh but decided against it, given how serious he was. She did venture a comment, however. “You love to joke.”
“Cut out the playacting!” he cried.
She gave a start and looked at him fearfully.
“Tell me this: Why are they watching me, and what are they going to do next?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He could only sigh with disappointment, for he could see she would tell him nothing. She was no longer the Bai Xue in a yellow blouse. Now she was wearing a dark red jacket. He was astonished to find he had only just noticed.
He stood up and left Bai Xue’s bedroom; he realized the kitchen was on the right. When he entered the kitchen, he saw a knife sitting there. He picked it up and tested its sharpness: it would do. He went back into Bai Xue’s room, knife in hand. Now he saw her jump to her feet in alarm and retreat to the corner of the room. As he stepped forward, he heard her give a cry of panic. Then he pressed the knife against her throat and she trembled with fear.
Bai Xue stood up, and so did he. But he was unsure whether to go to the kitchen and get the knife.
He saw Bai Xue go over to the calendar on the wall. She tore off a page, then looked at him over her shoulder. “Tomorrow is April Third.”
He was still hesitating over whether or not to go to the kitchen.
“How about you guess?” Bai Xue said. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
He was startled. What would happen on April Third? April Third? He remembered now. His mother had mentioned this, and so had his father.
He understood that Bai Xue was dropping a hint; she could not say things in so many words, because she had worries of her own. He felt he ought to leave: further delay might make things tricky for her.
As he came out of the bedroom, he realized the kitchen was not on the right but on the left.
22
He had never known that the long moan of a train horn could raise his spirits so high.
At this time he had found himself a hiding place on the fourth floor of a building; he was sitting beneath the window. He’d slipped in at dusk, seen by no one. The building still lacked a staircase, and so he had climbed up the scaffolding. He watched as the night sky grew ever darker and listened as the sounds in the street faded into the distance. In the end even the man selling wonton down below had packed up his stall and gone home. A bit like how smoke dissipates in the air, the noises of human beings dissipated too. It was only his own breath that murmured quietly, as though he were talking to himself.
He did not know what to do now, just as he did not know what time it was. But tomorrow—April Third—something was going to happen. He was very clear on that score. He didn’t know what he should do about it, however.
He heard a train horn. This gave him an inspiration, and he stood up. When he stood up, the first thing he saw was a bridge, a bridge that just lay there as though dead. Then he noticed the little river, flowing ominously. Its waves glittered, like countless blinking eyes watching him. He laughed coldly.
Then he climbed out the window and slid down the scaffolding, which creaked like a door.
He followed the shadow-darkened street toward the railroad line. He did not hear his own footsteps; their sound seemed to be have been soaked up by the ground. He felt he was floating along like a breeze.
Before long he was standing on the tracks, which gleamed in the moonlight. On the platform of the little station nearby a single dim, yellow light was shining, and he saw nobody about. Opposite him, a dim light was also shining in the lineman’s little cabin. There had to be someone inside, perhaps already dozing off. He looked again at the railroad tracks, still bathed in moonlight.
Now he heard a sound like a wave surging. It came closer and closer and slowly expanded. He felt the noise blow his hair, and then he saw a sharp, bright light pointing his way, and then the light came sweeping toward him, only to be blocked by his body.
The train was beginning to slow down. It was a freight train, and it came to a stop next to him. Human figures appeared on the platform. He rushed forward and grabbed the metal ladder attached to one of the cars. It was even narrower than the ladder of the water tower. He climbed up and into the car, only to find it was loaded with coal. So he lay down on the pile of coal, and at the same time heard people talking. Their voices seemed to be blown into pieces by the wind, so that when they reached his ears they were just scraps.
Perhaps they had turned out in full force, it occurred to him. He had not gone home all day and his parents would surely suspect he would try to make a run for it. So they would have informed the neighbors opposite, and soon all the lights in that dark housing block would come on, and then all the lights in town. Even without closing his eyes he could imagine the clamor and excitement as they launched their search.
Now he heard the footsteps of someone walking past, so he quickly turned and lay on his stomach as flat as he could. Then came the noise of wheels revolving over the rails, a crisp sound that spread in all directions like lamplight. The footsteps faded into the distance.
Suddenly he heard the train emit a ponderous sound and at the same time he felt his body shake. Almost immediately he saw the station slowly moving, and a breeze began to move with it. As the wind blew more strongly, the noise of the wheels on the rails grew smoother.
He sat up straight on the coal heap. He saw the station tossed into the distance and the whole town along with it. The town receded farther and farther, and soon he could see nothing at all; behind him there was only a pale darkness. Tomorrow would be April Third, he thought. He began to imagine how disconsolate and demoralized they would all be. Without doubt his parents would be punished for failing in their duty. The realization that he had completely shattered their plot filled him with triumph.
Then he turned his head and let the wind blow on his face. Ahead there also lay a pale darkness, and there too he could see nothing at all. But he knew he was now moving farther and farther away from the plot. They would never be able to find him. Tomorrow and forever, the very mention of his name would reduce them to speechless despair.
He thought of a boy he had known when he was younger, and the harmonica that the boy used to play. Every evening he would head over to the house where he lived, and the boy would lean over the windowsill and play that harmonica of his. Later the boy died of hepatitis at the age of eighteen, and the harmonica died then, too.
Death Chronicle
It had not actually been my plan at all to head off in that direction, which only goes to show that things were predestined to happen the way they did. I had arrived at a fork in the road and noticed a sign pointing to the right: QIANMU MARSH, 60 KILOMETERS. So my truck turned right, and that’s what got me into trouble. It was the second time I ended up in that kind of mess.
The first time was in the hills of southern Anhui—that was over ten years ago. I was steering my Liberation truck—not the Yellow River I’m driving now—down a narrow, winding mountain road, when I knocked a boy into the reservoir way down below. I really couldn’t help it. My truck was trundling downhill at a pretty good clip, and after making it round the seventh hairpin bend I suddenly realized there was a kid in front of me—just three or four meters ahead—going downhill on a bicycle. I had no time to brake—all I could do was swerve to one side or the other. But if I swerved to the left, I would smash into the mountainside and my Liberation would explode, would erupt in flames, and I would be reduced to ashes long before the crematorium had time to get in on the act. And if I swerved to the right, my Liberation would tip straight into the reservoir. The thud of such a heavy load hitting the water would surely be terrifying, and the wave it threw up would be huge, and there could be no other outcome but me being drowned. In short, I had no choice—the only option was to knock the boy
into the reservoir. The boy turned his head in alarm and looked at me. He had dark, glittering eyes, which I still remembered long after the event—often, when I shut my eyes, those black, bright eyes of his would leap out at me. No sooner did he throw me that glance than his body was flung into the air sideways, the wind inflating his clothes—he was wearing an adult-size pair of overalls. He gave a shout—“Dad!”—and that was all. It was a loud, piercing cry, which I heard twice—the second time was when it echoed off the cliff face. The echo seemed insubstantial, as though blown my way from some far-off cloud. I didn’t stop the truck, for I was scared stupid. It was only when the truck got to the foot of the slope and raced onto the broad, flat highway below that I was able to pull myself together and marvel that I hadn’t fallen off the mountain. I might have been stupid, but I guess my hands were not—I had years of driving experience, after all.
Nobody knows what happened, and I’ve had no reason to talk about it. I suppose that boy must have been the son of a forestry worker. I wonder if the man wept when he fished his son out of the reservoir later. Maybe he had a whole bunch of sons, though, so it probably didn’t make much difference to him if one of them snuffed it. Those mountain folk have lots of kids. I reckon the boy must have been fourteen or fifteen years old. It can’t have been easy for the dad to raise him to that age, mind you—it must have cost him a real packet, after all. So it was too bad the kid died. The bicycle was wrecked as well, to make it worse.
I’d actually forgotten about this, forgotten about it completely. But my own son started growing up, and once he was fifteen he began to nag me about wanting to learn how to ride a bicycle, so I taught him. He’s a smart little fellow, and in no time at all he could ride around in a circle without needing me to hold him steady. Seeing the ecstatic look on his face, I felt ecstatic too. Fifteen years ago, when he was just born, he really scared the shit out of me. He didn’t look human—he looked more like a toy you buy in the store. In those days he would just lie in his cradle kicking his feet about, pissing here, shitting there, and farting loudly as well—what smelly farts those were! But in no time at all he’s already grown so big, riding around on a bike so full of confidence. I’ve done all I can in life—from now on it’s all up to my son. He’s a fine boy, and he puts me in a good light—his teachers are always praising him. In the past when I took the truck out on a job, I’d always be thinking of the wife, but once I had a son I thought only of him and stopped thinking about her. Then, as my son was gaily riding his bike around, I don’t know why, but some little devil got me thinking about that boy who fell into the reservoir over ten years ago. Seen from behind, my son on his bike looked just like that kid—particularly with that head of black hair, he was practically the spitting image. And so that pair of overalls came into my mind. The worst thing was that my son ran right into a tree that day and cried “Dad!” in great alarm. His shout made me shiver inside, and the image of the boy soaring through the air and plummeting into the water suddenly flashed into my mind. What was weird was that my son’s cry, though it came from just a few meters away, to my ears sounded very distant, like the echo I heard in the mountains. That boy’s cry of panic, forgotten for so many years, issued for a second time from the mouth of my son, and for a moment I had the strange sensation that it was my own child I had knocked into the reservoir. After that, I would sometimes get sad for no reason. I never told anyone about what happened, and even my wife doesn’t know. It continued to bother me that the boy kept coming back to mind long after the event. But things might get better in a few years’ time, I thought: once my son was eighteen, maybe I would no longer see in him the shadow of that boy on the bicycle.