The April 3rd Incident

by Yu Hua

  Just like with the first incident, I had not the slightest inkling that the second was going to happen. I remember that the weather was perfect; the sky was so blue I didn’t dare look at it. I was in an ordinary mood, neither good nor bad. I rolled down both windows and unbuttoned my shirt; the breeze felt great. My Yellow River truck made a noise like a cow’s moo—a solid, reassuring sound. I sped along the asphalt highway as though on a carefree outing; I was going sixty kilometers an hour. The road spun under my wheels like cloth on a dyeing machine. My wife works in the dyeing factory, that’s why I thought of it. But I had only gone thirty kilometers when the asphalt surface came to an end and a potholed road began. It could almost have been carpet bombed, that’s how bad it was, and sitting in the truck I felt as though I were riding bareback on a horse. I hated all the shaking and the sensation that at any moment I might be bounced out of my seat. The stuff inside my belly was heaving back and forth as well. So I stopped the truck. A Liberation came rumbling up from the other direction, and when it got close I hailed the driver and asked, “What kind of road is this?”

  “First time here?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “No wonder you’re surprised,” he said. “It’s called ‘the Boneshaker.’ ”

  There in the cabin I kept bouncing around like a jumping flea, so how could I not feel dizzy? Later I became vaguely aware that the sea was off to my right, a huge expanse of muddy water in an endless roiling tide, and the roar of the tide made my belly seethe: I felt there was a muddy sea inside me too. I stuck my head out the window and barfed like crazy, and what I barfed was a muddy chowder, sure enough. I barfed until my eyes were streaming and my legs were shivering and my midriff was practically in spasms. If I kept on barfing like that, I thought to myself, I’d be barfing up my whole belly, so I clapped a hand over my mouth.

  Now I could see a broad asphalt road not far ahead, and before long my truck would make it off this bone-shaking surface and race onto the level highway. By now I had vomited everything up, which was a big relief, except that it left me feeling feeble and faint. I continued to be tossed around in my seat, but I no longer felt queasy, and even began to unwind a little bit. And when I saw how the asphalt road was getting closer and closer, my spirits began to pick up. But where I really got screwed was when I’d made it down onto the highway and my stomach started acting up again. I knew it had nothing to act up with, since I had already thrown up everything I had inside, but all the empty retching was even more unpleasant. My mouth fell open because I just couldn’t keep it shut, and out of my throat emerged a bizarre series of sounds, as though an inch-long fish bone had got stuck somewhere. Again I felt like throwing up, but all I could produce was noise, along with some smelly air. Tears dripped from my eyes once more and my legs no longer just shivered but shook uncontrollably, and I could practically hear my kidneys groaning with all the cramps in my midriff. A sour drool dribbled from the corners of my mouth and slithered down my chin, onto my neck and chest, and then down to my midriff, where all those cramps were going on. The stuff was cold and sticky and I wanted to rub it off with my hand, but I didn’t have the strength to do even that.

  Just at that moment I saw a human figure flit into view ahead of me and I heard a heavy thump. Weak and distracted though I was, I knew something bad had happened. Somehow my energy revived and I was able to stamp on the brakes hard enough that the truck ground to a halt. But then I just couldn’t get the door open—my hand was trembling too much. A bus drove past, its passengers staring out the windows. I thought they were sure to have seen something, so I gave up on the door and sat numbly in my seat, waiting as the bus stopped in the distance, waiting for people to come running over. But a long time passed and none of the passengers appeared. A few country women did walk in my direction, their eyes glued to the truck, and I thought that this time somebody was bound to see something, for sure they would shout and make a commotion, but they walked right past as though nothing had happened. So I began to develop doubts, to wonder whether my eyes had been playing tricks on me. Then somehow the door opened without any difficulty and I jumped out to look at the front of the truck: there was nothing unusual there. I went around the truck twice and still could see nothing wrong. So I began to relax, thinking I must have been imagining things. I gave a long sigh of relief, which drained me of energy once more.

  If I hadn’t seen bloodstains on the wheels, if I had just nipped back into the cabin and carried on driving, perhaps nothing would have happened. But I did see them. Not only that, I put my hand on the stains and found the blood was still wet. Then I knew for sure I had not been imagining things. So I got down on the ground and took a peek underneath the truck. I saw a girl lying curled up there.

  I stood up and looked around vacantly, waiting for someone to come and investigate. It was summer, in the middle of the day, and the sun was beating down lazily and everywhere seemed to be smoking. There was a little river on the left, but it didn’t seem to be moving—it looked more like it was covered in moss. A concrete bridge spanned the river, with a railing on one side. A muddy road with tall grass growing on both sides stretched off into the distance, where a few houses lay; I thought I spotted some people there too. I waited, but nobody showed up.

  I stared at the bloodstains on the wheels a bit more, and after looking at them a long time I realized there really weren’t that many, just a few drops here and there. So I bent down and grabbed a handful of dirt and began to slowly mop up those drops of blood, and when I’d got through half the job I stopped to light a cigarette; then I went on mopping. Only when I had rubbed the blood away did I seem to wake from my daze. Get out of here, I told myself. Stop hanging around! I got in the truck right away. But just when I’d slammed the door and started the engine, suddenly I saw in front of me a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy, wearing a large pair of overalls and riding a bicycle. The boy I’d knocked into the reservoir over ten years ago somehow reappeared at this very moment. It was all ordained by fate. Even though that scene simply flickered for a second and then abruptly disappeared, there was no way I could just drive away.

  I got back down and dragged the girl out from underneath the truck. Her forehead was horribly mangled. But blood was still flowing from her wound, and though her breath was faint, at least she was breathing. Her eyes were staring—dark, bright eyes just like that pair of eyes from a dozen years earlier. I took her in my arms and carried her across the concrete bridge with the single railing, until I made it to the dirt road. Her soft body was burning hot and her long black hair hung loose, resting on my arms like a willow frond. I felt a piercing sadness, as though the injured child was my own. As I held her in my arms, she rested her head on my chest, making it look all the more like she was my own child. I walked for a long time with her nestled in my arms like that, and the houses I had glimpsed from the highway grew bigger, though the human figures I had seen earlier were now absent. Suddenly a quiver of excitement surged up inside me, for I had a vague sense that I was doing something noble. My thoughts returned to the scene of the accident a dozen years earlier, and it was as though I hadn’t done a hit-and-run but had dived into the reservoir and saved the boy, as though the child I carried in my arms was the boy in the oversize overalls. The black hair dangling over my arm simply showed how long the boy’s hair had grown during the intervening years.

  As I drew nearer to the houses, I realized there were still more houses beyond them. A large tree blocked my path and in its shade an old woman sat topless, her dried-up breasts hanging all the way to her waist. She was watching me, and when I went over and asked where I would find a hospital, she saw the girl in my arms and gave a scream. “You’re in for it now!” she cried.

  That cry alerted me that I had made a big mistake by not making good my escape. But now it was too late. I looked down at the girl to find that blood was no longer dripping from her forehead and her black hair was no lon
ger waving free, for blood had glued it together. Her body seemed to be losing its warmth—though actually it was my own heart cooling down. Again I asked the old woman directions to a hospital, and again she answered with a shriek. She was frightened dumb by the awful sight, I thought, and I knew I would get no answer from her if I asked again. So I skirted the tree and proceeded. But the old woman followed me, shouting over and over, “You’re in for it now!” Soon she had rushed ahead, shrieking incessantly with a cry as grating as the sound of breaking glass. I saw a few piglets scurry past, and then several other old women appeared. Coming up to me, they took one look and then they too cried, “You’re in for it now!” So I followed along behind the old women as they wailed, though I was now utterly confused, unsure what was the point of my going in this direction. Before long, there was a big crowd of people on all sides, and my ears were buzzing with a chaotic hubbub of voices. I couldn’t absorb anything they were saying—all I noticed was that there were men and women, young and old. Only now did it dawn on me that I was in a village—how could I expect to find a hospital in a village? Suddenly it all seemed ridiculous. The road ahead was crammed, so I turned around, only to find that way was blocked by just as dense a throng.

  I realized I was standing by a small drying ground, adjacent to a two-story house—newly built, by the look of it. A tall, burly fellow emerged from inside and snatched the girl away from me; trailing behind him were a woman and a boy in his teens. Then they all scuttled inside the house.

  It happened so quickly I was a bit dazed. But now that I was relieved of my burden, I felt I ought to get back to the truck. Just as I turned around and made ready to leave, someone came up to me and punched me in the jaw. The impact made a dull sound, like a fist hitting a sofa. No sooner did I turn back toward the house than the teenage boy came racing out, waving aloft a shiny sickle. As he lunged toward me, the flailing sickle swept down and struck me in the midriff, slicing through my skin as though it were paper and severing my gut. As he yanked on the sickle, it carved through my buttocks and cut such a long, deep tear that my intestines began to slither right out. Before I could clamp my hand on the wound, the woman flailed at me with a hoe. I managed to duck, but the blade of her weapon hacked into my shoulder like an axe cutting wood, and my shoulder blade snapped with a loud thunk, like a door flung open. The burly fellow was the last one to rush at me; he was brandishing an iron rake. Even as the hoe still dangled from my shoulder, the four teeth of the rake had already plunged into my chest. The middle teeth severed my pulmonary artery and aorta and blood gushed out with a whoosh, as though someone were dumping a basinful of foot-wash water. The outer teeth punctured my two lungs, and one of them pierced my heart. When the man tugged on the rake, my lungs came flopping out and I collapsed on the ground. I lay faceup as my blood spilled in all directions, like the spreading roots of an ancient tree. I died.

  In Memory of Miss Willow Yang

  1

  For a long time now I have led a life of self-indulgent ease. I live in a place called Smoke, in a one-room cottage overlooking the river, and though the cottage is no more than a mundane rectangle, its boxy shape evokes the simple lines and uncluttered routine of my life.

  As I roam around the town, I delight in the sound of my footsteps, a music that only a stranger’s heels can make. Despite the length of my stay here, I have successfully managed to defend the purity of my footsteps, which have never been corrupted no matter how worldly the clamor of the street.

  I refuse all dangerous associations. The smiles that I encounter alarm me with their eagerness for contact, and I rebuff them at once, for I can easily detect the sinister intentions they are so bent on concealing. Each wearer of a smile is aiming to come into my life and occupy it. He’ll clap a coarse hand on my shoulder and force me to open my door; he’ll lie down on my bed as if it were his, and casually alter the position of my chair. When leaving, he’ll give three successive sneezes that forever lay claim to my living space, and even if I light mosquito coils everywhere it’ll be impossible to smoke them all away. Then, before I know it, he’ll bring along a pack of cronies who reek of vulgar kitchen stench. Though they may not sneeze, their mouths will be full of bacteria and with their loud talk and raucous laughter they’ll bathe my room in germs. At that point I won’t just feel my life has been hijacked; I’ll feel I’ve been stabbed in the back as well.

  I prefer to schedule my excursions at nighttime, not because I doubt my resolve to spurn all friendly overtures, but because the dim light gives me a reassuring sense that I have ventured beyond the reach of common people. After a careful study of the windows in the houses nearby, I notice that every single window has its curtains drawn, and I find comfort in the knowledge that the curtains separate me from others. But danger still lurks, for even stringent isolation cannot protect me fully. Often when I enter the narrow streets of the neighborhood, I feel I am marching down the corridor of a hepatitis ward, and I can never afford to lower my guard.

  It’s at night that I observe the curtains. At that hour, the streetlights behind me endow them with an impenetrable mystique, and when the breeze catches a curtain and ruffles its folds, its pattern will stir bewitchingly. This makes me think of the river that runs past my lodging and how its bends and eddies have inspired the countless scenes of fluttering snowflakes that punctuate my dreams. More often, however, the curtains are motionless, allowing me time to take full measure of their brightness. Even if changes in lighting and the curtains’ rich colors may complicate my observations, once I adjusted for those variables I found that their radiance is just like the glance of a snake that has coiled itself in the middle of a pitch-dark street. Ever since I gained that insight, each time I enter one of these residential streets I feel as though I’m being watched by a thousand pairs of beady eyes.

  It was at a much later date, on May 8, 1988, that a young woman walked toward me. Her role was to make my life develop a flaw, or enable it to become more perfect. To put it another way, her arrival would have such effects as these: I would wake up one morning to find that the room had acquired an extra bed, or find that my own bed had vanished into thin air.

  2

  The outlander is actually no stranger to me. He comes from a place where the grass grows tall—simply the sight of his veins told me that. The first time we met was in the middle of a summer’s day, and he was naked to the waist in the sweltering heat. His skin made me think of a tree trunk just stripped of its bark, and his veins spread as luxuriantly as green grass.

  I find it hard to remember exactly when that was, but it seems a long time ago. If I think back carefully, I can recall the color of the sky and the trill of the cicadas in the trees. The outlander was sitting under the arch of a bridge. I was impressed that he had chosen such an original spot to seek refuge from the heat.

  The outlander is the kind of person who puts me at ease from the start: I found his serenity appealing. Even when I was still a good ten meters from him, I knew that he was not the sort who would knock on my door, sleep on my bed, or harbor designs on my chair. I walked toward him fully aware that some kind of verbal exchange would ensue, but knowing that a conversation with him would take a very different form from that with a woman who’s washing vegetables or a man lighting a coal stove. So when he smiled at me, a reciprocal smile appeared on my face and we began to talk.

  Out of caution, initially I stood outside the arch. But as he spoke, he indicated through a series of gestures that he welcomed me to come inside, so I joined him under the arch. He promptly picked up several sheets of paper from the ground and scrawled lines all over them, lines that looked a lot like his gestures. I sat down in the spot where the papers had lain, knowing this would please him. Now his smile was just an arm’s length away. Of all the smiles I had encountered in Smoke, his was the only one that promised me safety.

  He talked in a steady tone that seemed much like the river’s
leisurely roll as it flowed beneath the bridge, and so from the very start I felt at home with his voice. Given that the circumstances under which we became acquainted were neither dramatic nor remarkable, his level tone seemed highly appropriate. He now dispensed with his hand gestures, so that I would pay full attention to what he was saying. He told me a story about time bombs that dated back to a distant war.