by Yu Hua
The physics teacher’s shelter stood close to the path, and when the teacher’s wife glanced Bai Shu’s way as he walked in the rain, he felt he was crossing a forest bathed in sunlight. The monitor had detected no abnormalities: he wanted the physics teacher to know that. But the hand in his pocket stopped him; a key stopped him.
Now the drops of rain that hung in the air were becoming sparser, and a few sparrows flew across the street, their strident chirps anticipating the moment when sunlight would shine on the sodden earth. In the street he could hear people exchanging notes: “I gather there’s not going to be an earthquake after all.”
Bai Shu walked on amid the gossip.
“The next county over has already lifted its earthquake warning.”
The monitor had not detected any abnormality. Bai Shu knew where he needed to go: it was all more pressing now.
When the stocky middle-aged man marched along the street, everyone eyed him with respect. Bai Shu was beneath his notice, but when the man saw Chen Gang he had asked, “How’s your dad?”
“Do you know who that was?” Chen Gang had said to Bai Shu. “That’s the chairman of the County Revolutionary Committee.”
The scene in the County Revolutionary Committee compound was a duplicate of that on the school playing field. Tents of varying sizes had sprouted everywhere: still just like the campsite in the book, the one at the foot of the Alps. Bai Shu stood by the gate for some time and watched. Now that the rain had stopped, the residents stood outside their tents and pulled aside the plastic sheeting. “What a horrible smell!”
Bai Shu heard in their voices the exultation that only a sunny day could bring.
“Finally, that’s the end of that.”
“It was all a false alarm.”
Several young people were struggling to peel back the roof of the biggest tent and lay it on the ground. The stocky man stood off to one side talking with others, but soon they hurried away and just one man in his thirties was left standing next to him. When the cover was turned over, a bright stream of water spilled down. The two men entered the now-roofless tent.
Bai Shu came closer, until he was within speaking distance. The official was sitting in a chair and rubbing his knees, while the younger man stood by a desk, telephone in hand. “Do we inform the broadcasting station?” he asked.
The committee chairman waved his hand in demurral. “First let’s touch base with…” Bai Shu could just make out the name of a neighboring county.
The other man began to dial. “Is that the long-distance desk? Please connect me with…”
“Who are you?” The chairman had finally noticed him.
“The monitor has detected no abnormalities.” Bai Shu heard his words drifting shakily toward the chairman.
“What’s that?”
“The monitoring—the earthquake monitor is normal.”
“Earthquake monitor? Where did that come from?”
The phone rang and the man picked up. “Hello, is that…?”
“Our school’s earthquake monitor,” Bai Shu said.
“Your school?”
“The county high school.”
The man was speaking on the phone. “You’ve lifted the warning?” He put down the receiver. “They’ve lifted the warning too.”
The chairman nodded. “They all have.” He turned to Bai Shu. “What were you saying?”
“The monitor has been normal all along.”
“At your school? You have an earthquake monitor?”
“That’s right.” Bai Shu nodded. “We detected the Tangshan earthquake.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” A grin appeared on the chairman’s face.
“The monitor has been normal. There’s not going to be an earthquake.” Bai Shu finally came out with the prediction he had made when talking to Gu Lin and the others.
“Ah.” The chairman nodded his head. “I understand what you’re saying. There’ll be no earthquake?”
“No,” Bai Shu said.
The chairman stood up and came toward Bai Shu. He proffered his right hand, but Bai Shu didn’t understand what he meant, so he drew it back again. “You’ve performed a great service,” he said. “I thank you on behalf of the people of the county.” He turned to the other man. “Write his name down.”
Later Bai Shu walked again along the street, where water still sloshed. By then the news that there would be no earthquake was spreading throughout the town. In the streets, people were carrying bedrolls and cooking equipment—the first detachment of residents to abandon their tents and head for home.
“Bai Shu!”
He saw Wang Ling sitting on the steps of the theater. He was soaked through, but he looked at Bai Shu with a big smile on his face.
“Did you hear?” Wang Ling said. “The earthquake’s not going to happen.”
He nodded. Then the loudspeakers began to crackle. “The neighboring counties have now lifted the earthquake warning. According to monitor Bai Shu of our county’s monitoring station, there will be no earthquake in the near future….”
“Bai Shu, they’re talking about you!” Wang Ling yelled.
Bai Shu stood there, dumb, as the announcer’s voice slowly faded away; then he walked along the steps and sat down next to Wang Ling. Drops of moisture were encroaching on the scene before him, and he reached out a hand to brush away the tears.
Wang Ling was shaking his arm. “Bai Shu, your name’s in the news!”
The boy’s excitement stirred him. “Wang Ling,” he said, “how about you come to the monitoring station too?”
“Do you really mean it?”
The physics teacher’s image suddenly came to mind, and Bai Shu felt uneasy about the words he had just blurted out, unsure whether the teacher would approve.
The physics teacher’s tent was right next to the street, and passing it meant passing his wife’s glance.
He had seen her standing beneath a tree. The leaves had partly blocked the sunlight, so it was dappled light that reached her body. He noticed how the shadows of the leaves shifted unhurriedly on her body. What happy shadows! “I’m hopeless,” she was saying to the physical education instructor.
The PE instructor was standing next to the sandpit, inviting her in, like the sandpit itself.
By now she too should have heard the broadcast.
2
The drizzle, persistent for so long, at midday tapered off and then stopped completely. When Zhong Qimin sat by the window and gazed into the far distance, he saw scattered clouds marching rapidly across the sky. He had once stretched out a hand to touch those scudding clouds; as he neared the peak, clouds as dark as smoke had billowed up from below and swept all before them. Those floating giants were actually just as fragile and ephemeral as smoke, and their dispersal was inevitable.
On the open lot, Li Ying was once more calling Xingxing. It was always so easy for him to run away. Lin Gang was there too, throwing open the plastic sheet that covered his tent. “Time for some sunbathing!”
“Where’s the sunshine?” Wang Hongsheng emerged from his tent, thinking Lin Gang was serious.
“Clouds are in the way,” Lin Gang said. It was true. “Turn the sheet over,” he shouted. “Get rid of that stink.”
As the sheets were pulled back and dumped on the ground, the open lot began to look like a garbage dump. Wu Quan’s wife stood inside a now uncovered shelter, and her swollen belly entered Zhong Qimin’s line of vision.
“Xingxing!” Li Ying was calling.
“Let him be,” Wang Hongsheng said. “Give the boy a chance to play.”
“But he’s just a kid.” Li Ying always wore a frown.
Music had fled from the scene. They were making as much din as the Japanese did that year they crossed th
e Marco Polo Bridge, and so music had quickly made itself scarce. As Zhong Qimin rose from his chair, a fresh breeze was blowing. He wished he could insinuate himself into the breeze and roam across the endless fields.
As Zhong Qimin went out, Dawei came back from town. “There’s not going to be an earthquake,” he said, and added still more encouraging news. “Everyone’s moving back into their homes.”
“What about Xingxing?” Li Ying shouted.
“How would I know?”
“That’s right—all you know is fooling around.”
“All you can do is yell.”
It was going to be a long row. Zhong Qimin stepped into the street. Quarrels between men and women are the stupidest noise in the world. Water was still eddying, and as he advanced he felt flowers of foam blossoming and withering at his feet.
He saw people plodding along with bedrolls on their shoulders and cooking equipment in their hands, under a sky where black clouds scudded; children were following behind. They all seemed to be in high spirits, but high spirits could hardly conceal their bedraggled appearance. Wang Hongsheng and the others meanwhile were retrieving their bedrolls and cooking equipment from the tents and taking them home.
The earthquake was not going to happen.
Zhong Qimin felt someone tugging at the hem of his shirt. Xingxing was standing next to him, his pant legs and shirtsleeves rolled up high—a look he was proud of.
“There’s no one there,” Xingxing told him.
The boy seemed to be pointing toward a line of plane trees, and once an old man had passed, there really was no one else.
Xingxing headed off in that direction, his hand still clutching Zhong Qimin’s shirt, so he had no choice but to follow. When they reached the trees, the boy released his grip, walked forward a few steps, and pushed open the door to a house. “Nobody inside.”
It was utter darkness inside. Zhong Qimin knew where the boy wanted to take him. “I just came out of my house,” he said.
The boy paid no heed and went on in. Children are tyrants. Zhong Qimin followed. The boy was going up the stairs, stairs as long and winding as an alley. Later a little light filtered down, and then the stairs ended. They made a right turn, the boy leading once more. A small hand pushed open a large door and then it was the same small hand that closed the door. He saw some furniture and a bed; the curtains were open. Now the boy was over by the windowsill and there was a squeak of curtains being drawn. He had to extend to his fullest height to reach them, and his legs trembled from standing on tiptoe. More squeaks as the curtains shifted reluctantly.
One more squeak, and the two curtains were now almost touching. The boy turned and looked at him, and the light that slipped through the crack between the curtains drifted over his hair. The boy leaned against the wall and slipped down until he was sitting on the floor. He listened carefully, then said, “Outside is quiet now.”
The boy put his hands on his knees and gazed at him silently, his eyes gleaming. Zhong Qimin knew what was expected, so he brought a chair over and sat down. First he straightened his shirt, then he raised his hands and made the motions of playing an instrument. Finally came the contrite apology: “I didn’t bring the flute.”
The boy looked at him reproachfully. He put a hand against the wall and pushed himself upright, then turned away and peered over the windowsill once more. When he glanced back, his face was framed by light. “I thought you had it with you.”
“Let’s guess a riddle,” Zhong Qimin said.
“What’s the riddle?” The boy’s despondency began to lift.
“Whose house is this?”
Not much of a riddle.
The boy looked away again, his eyes ranging over the sky and leaves and electric wires outside the building. Then he turned back, eyes glowing. “It’s Chen Wei’s.”
“Who’s Chen Wei?”
The boy, confused, shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s fine,” Zhong Qimin said. “Let’s play something different. Come over here and stand in front of this chest of drawers. Let me think—how about you open the third drawer?”
The boy pulled it open.
“What’s inside?”
The boy stuck practically his whole top half into the drawer, then brought out a few sheets of paper and a pair of scissors.
“Great, give them to me.”
The boy handed them over.
“I’ll make you a ship, or a plane.”
“I don’t want a ship or a plane.”
“What do you want?”
“I want glasses.”
“Glasses?” Zhong Qimin raised his head and threw the boy a glance, then got to work making paper glasses. “What do you want glasses for?”
“To wear here.” The boy pointed at his eyes.
“To wear on your mouth?”
“No, to wear here.”
“Around your neck?”
“No, to wear here.”
“Got it.” Zhong Qimin finished his creation and put it on the boy. “Here you go.” The paper covered the boy’s eyes.
“I can’t see anything.”
“How could you?” Zhong Qimin said. “Take the glasses off, carefully….If you look right, what do you see?”
“Chest.”
“What else?”
“Table.”
“If you look left, what do you see?”
“Bed.”
“What about straight ahead?”
“I see you.”
“If I move away, what do you see?”
“Chair.”
“Very good, now put the glasses on again.”
The boy put them on again.
“If you look right, what do you see?”
“Chest and table.”
“And to the left?”
“A bed.”
“And in front?”
“You and a chair?”
“Can you see now?” Zhong Qimin asked.
“Yes, I can,” the boy said.
The boy began to move around the room cautiously. It was indeed quiet here. A long sliver of light hung from the window. He had once walked alone in a forest, and with the branches interlocking above his head and the leaves covering one another, the sky had looked tattered and disjointed. The boy seemed to have opened the door—he could see it too. Sunlight had flitted about, hopping from one leaf to another. The boy was going downstairs, hopping from one step to the next. From beneath his feet had come the faint sound of leaves crackling, as soft as freshly tilled earth.
Zhong Qimin felt someone shaking his chair from behind. Xingxing had not gone downstairs, after all. But when he turned around, he did not see the boy. The chair kept shaking. He stood up and went over to the window, to find the curtains quivering. Pulling them open, he could see people in the streets standing paralyzed with fear. They were maybe the last people to evacuate from the tents, bedrolls and cooking equipment still in their hands. He opened the window and everything outside was still—the same calm that you find in the ancient city of Gaochang.
Now there were people shouting: “Earthquake!”
Reports about earthquakes had proliferated like snowflakes for many days, but what came in the end was a silence like that of the desert near Turfan.
In the street, people began to run, in panic and desperation. The silence of a moment earlier was shattered, and he heard a chaotic medley of sounds torn through with sobs and wails. Zhong Qimin left the window and moved toward the door. He put out his hand and touched the chair: it was no longer shaking. But the world outside was seething with noise. That’s what an earthquake is like: it gives you a momentary serenity, and then everything turns to clamor once more. An earthquake won’t give you ruins so easily,
it won’t give you lasting peace.
When Zhong Qimin came out onto the street, he found a long line of people walking along with bedrolls and cooking equipment on their backs. Even before the first evacuation had ended, a second exodus had started. They were returning to the earthquake shelters. The street was crowded with the sounds of people, just as alarmed and lost as before.
As dusk arrived, Zhong Qimin sat at his window. Someone came back from town with the latest news: “The broadcast said that was a foreshock, and the main shock will follow. Everyone must be on high alert.”
CHAPTER FOUR
1
The straw mat on the bed was completely soaked through. When it first got wet, it still gave off a warm, grassy scent, but now it was dotted with white spots of mold. As she slowly rubbed them off, it felt as if her fingers were touching sticky specks of rotting food.
The constant surge of floodwater moderated the rise in temperature inside the tents. The water underfoot divided into two streams and flowed away, and in the no-man’s-land where the two streams met, froth leapt gaily in all directions. As the water drained, it created crystalline patterns that shone like wisps of light, and in the water’s churning there lingered a cool freshness like that which covers the earth at the dawn of an early autumn day.
Queasy for many days now, she slipped both hands inside her pants to put some space between her skin and her sodden clothes. Wu Quan had thrown up several times, and, each time, his hands trembled alarmingly as he bent down, clutching his hips to avoid toppling over. His mouth gaped emptily, for he now vomited only sound and saliva. It was as though a chisel were chipping away at his throat, so grating was the noise. Though racked by nausea, she had to put up with it, for if she were to actually be sick, Wu Quan would start gagging all the more fiercely.
She saw three centipedes wriggling on the tarp opposite, each crawling in a different direction. She seemed to make out the silky hairs on their heads. They stretched and then contracted as they crawled, leaving three bright trails on the tarp, each a series of arcs.
“We’d be better off dead!” It was the sound of Lin Gang shouting outside. He made a loud splash as he stormed out of the shelter and put his foot in a puddle. Then there was the sound of a door closing as he went inside his house.