The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  Border Town (excerpts)

  Chapter 1

  An old imperial highway running east from Sichuan into Hunan Province leads, after reaching the west Hunan border, to a little mountain town called Chadong. By a narrow stream on the way to town was a little white pagoda, below which once lived a solitary family: an old man, a girl, and a yellow dog.

  As the stream meandered on, it wrapped around a low mountain, joining a wide river at Chadong some three li downstream, about a mile. If you crossed the little stream and went up over the heights, you could get to Chadong in one li over dry land. The water path was bent like a bow, with the mountain path the bowstring, so the land distance was a little shorter. The stream was about twenty zhang wide—two hundred feet—over a streambed of boulders. Though the quietly flowing waters were too deep for a boat pole to touch bottom, they were so clear you could count the fish swimming to and fro. This little stream was a major choke point for transit between Sichuan and Hunan, but there was never enough money to build a bridge. Instead the locals set up a square-nosed ferryboat that could carry about twenty passengers and their loads. Any more than that, and the boat went back for another trip. Hitched to a little upright bamboo pole in the prow was a movable iron ring that went around a heavily worn cable spanning the stream all the way to the other side. To ferry across, one slowly tugged on that cable, hand over fist, with the iron ring keeping the boat on track. As the vessel neared the opposite shore, the person in charge would call out, “Steady now, take your time!” while suddenly leaping ashore holding the ring behind. The passengers, with all their goods, their horses, and their cows, would go ashore and head up over the heights, disappearing from view. The ferry landing was owned by the whole community, so the crossing was free to all. Some passengers were a little uneasy about this. When someone grabbed a few coins and threw them down on the boat deck, the ferryman always picked them up, one by one, and pressed them back into the hands of the giver, saying, in a stern, almost quarrelsome voice, “I’m paid for my work: three pecks of rice and seven hundred coppers. That’s enough for me. Who needs this charity?”

  But that didn’t always work. One likes to feel one’s done the right thing, and who feels good about letting honest labor go unrewarded? So there were always some who insisted on paying. This, in turn, upset the ferryman, who, to ease his own conscience, sent someone into Chadong with the money to buy tea and tobacco. Tying the best tobacco leaves Chadong had to offer into bundles and hanging them from his money belt, he’d offer them freely and generously to anyone in need. When he surmised from the look of a traveler from afar that he was interested in those tobacco leaves, the ferryman would stuff a few into the man’s load, saying, “Elder Brother, won’t you try these? Fine goods here, truly excellent; these giant leaves don’t look it, but their taste is wonderful—just the thing to give as a gift!” Come June, he’d put his tea leaves into a big earthenware pot to steep in boiling water, for the benefit of any passerby with a thirst to quench.

  The ferryman was the old man who lived below the pagoda. Seventy now, he’d kept to his place near this little stream since he was twenty. In the fifty years since, there was simply no telling how many people he’d ferried across in that boat. He was hale and hearty despite his age; it was time for him to have his rest, but Heaven didn’t agree. He seemed tied to this work for life. He never mulled over what his work meant to him; he just quietly and faithfully kept on with his life here. It was the girl keeping him company who was Heaven’s agent, letting him feel the power of life as the sun rose, and stopping him from thinking of expiring along with the sunlight when it faded at night. His only friends were the ferryboat and the yellow dog; his only family, that little girl.

  The girl’s mother, the ferryman’s only child, had some fifteen years earlier come to know a soldier from Chadong through the customary exchange of amorous verses, sung by each in turn across the mountain valley. And that had led to trysts carried on behind the honest ferryman’s back. When she was with child, the soldier, whose job it was to guard the farmer-soldier colonies upcountry, tried to persuade her to elope and follow him far downstream. But taking flight would mean, for him, going against his military duty, and for her, leaving her father all alone. They thought about it, but the garrison soldier could see she lacked the nerve to travel far away, and he too was loath to spoil his military reputation. Though they could not join each other in life, nothing could stop them from coming together in death. He took the poison first. Not steely-hearted enough to ignore the little body growing within her, the girl hesitated. By now her father, the ferryman, knew what was happening, but he said nothing, as if still unaware. He let the days pass as placidly as always. The daughter, feeling shame but also compassion, stayed at her father’s side until the child was born, whereupon she went to the stream and drowned herself in the cold waters. As if by a miracle, the orphan lived and matured. In the batting of an eye, she had grown to be thirteen. Because of the compelling deep, emerald green of bamboo stands covering the mountains on either side by the stream where they lived, the old ferryman, without a second thought, named the girl after what was close at hand: Cuicui, or “Jade Green.”

  Cuicui grew up under the sun and the wind, which turned her skin black as could be. The azure mountains and green brooks that met her eyes turned them clear and bright as crystal. Nature had brought her up and educated her, making her innocent and spirited, in every way like a little wild animal. Yet she was as docile and unspoiled as a mountain fawn, wholly unacquainted with cruelty, never worried, and never angry. When a stranger on the ferry cast a look at her, she would shoot him a glance with those brilliant eyes, as if ready to flee into the hills at any instant; but once she saw that he meant her no harm, she would go back to playing by the waterside as if nothing had happened.

  In rainy weather and fair, the old ferryman kept at his post in the prow of the ferryboat. When someone came to cross the stream, he’d stoop to grasp the bamboo cable and use both hands to pull the boat along to the other shore. When he was tired, he stretched out to sleep on the bluffs by the waterside. If someone on the other side waved and hollered that he wanted to cross, Cuicui would jump into the boat to save her grandpa the trouble and swiftly ferry the person across, pulling on the cable smoothly and expertly without a miss. Sometimes, when she was in the boat with her grandpa and the yellow dog, she’d tug the cable along with the ferryman till the boat got to the other side. As it approached the far shore, while the grandfather hailed the passengers with his “Steady now, take your time,” the yellow dog would be the first to jump on land, with the tie rope in his mouth. He’d pull the boat to shore with that rope clenched between his teeth, just as if it were his job.

  When the weather was clear and fine and there was nothing to do because no one wanted to cross, Grandpa and Cuicui would sun themselves atop the stone precipice in front of their home. Sometimes they’d throw a stick into the water from above and whistle to the yellow dog to jump down from the heights to fetch it. Or Cuicui and the dog would prick up their ears while Grandpa told them stories of war in the city many, many years ago. Other times, they’d each press a little upright bamboo flute to their lips and play the melodies of bridal processions, in which the groom went to the bride’s house and brought her home. When someone came to cross, the old ferryman would lay down his flute and ferry the person across on the boat by himself, while the girl, still on the cliff, would call out in a high-pitched voice, just as the boat took off:

  “Grandpa, Grandpa, listen to me play. You sing!”

  At midstream, Grandpa would suddenly break out in joyful song; his hoarse voice and the reedy sound of the flute pulsated in the still air, making the whole stream seem to stir. Yet the reverberating strains of song brought out the stillness all around.

  When the passengers heading for Chadong from east Sichuan included some calves, a flock of sheep, or a bridal cortege with its ornate palanquin, Cuicui would rush to do the ferrying. Standing in the boat’s
prow, she’d move the craft along the cable languidly and the crossing would be quite slow. After the calves, sheep, or palanquin were ashore, Cuicui would follow, escorting the pack up the hill, and stand there on the heights, fixing her eyes on them for a long ways before she returned to the ferryboat to pull it back to the shore and home. All alone, she’d softly bleat like the lambs, low like a cow, or pick wildflowers to bind up her hair like a bride—all alone.

  The mountain town of Chadong was only a li from the ferry dock. When in town to buy oil or salt, or to celebrate the New Year, the grandfather would stop for a drink. When he stayed home, the yellow dog would accompany Cuicui as she went to town for supplies. What she would see in the general store—big piles of thin noodles made from bean starch, giant vats of sugar, firecrackers, and red candles—made a deep impression on her. When she got back to her grandfather, she’d go on about them endlessly. The many boats on the river in town were much bigger than the ferryboat and far more intriguing, quite unforgettable to Cuicui.

  Chapter 4

  It was two years earlier: at festival time, on the fifth day of the fifth month, Grandpa found someone to replace him at the ferry and took the yellow dog and Cuicui into town to see the boat race. The riverbanks were crowded with people as four long red boats slipped across the river depths. The “Dragon Boat tide” that raised the waters, the pea-green color of the stream, the bright, clear day, and the booming of the drums had Cuicui pursing her lips in silence, though her heart swelled with inexpressible joy. It was so crowded, with everyone straining to see what was happening on the river, that before long, though the yellow dog remained at Cuicui’s side, Grandpa was jostled away out of sight.

  Cuicui kept watching the boat race, thinking to herself that her grandfather was bound to come back soon. But a long time passed and he failed to return. Cuicui began to feel a little panicky. When the two of them had come to town the day before with the yellow dog, Grandpa had asked Cuicui, “Tomorrow is the boat race: if you go into town by yourself to see it, will you be afraid of the crowd?” Cuicui replied, “Crowds don’t scare me, but it’s no fun to watch the race by yourself.” At that, her grandfather thought it over and finally remembered an old friend in town. He went that night to ask the old man to come tend the ferryboat for the day so he could bring Cuicui to town. Since the other man was even more alone than the old ferryman, without a relative to his name—not even a dog—it was agreed that he’d come over in the morning for a meal and a cup of realgar wine. The next day arrived; with the meal finished and the ferry duty handed over to the other man, Cuicui and her family entered the town. It occurred to Grandpa to ask along the way, once again: “Cuicui, with so many people down there, and so much commotion, do you dare go down to the riverbank to watch the dragon boats alone?” Cuicui answered, “Of course I do! But what’s the point of watching it alone?” Once they got to the river, the four vermilion boats at Long Depths mesmerized Cuicui. She forgot all about her grandfather. He thought to himself, “This will take some time; it’ll be another three hours before it’s over. My friend back at the ferry deserves to see the young people whoop it up. I ought to go back and trade places with him. There’s plenty of time.” So he told Cuicui, “It’s crowded, so you stay right in this spot. I have to go do something, but I’ll be sure to get back in time to take you home.” Cuicui was spellbound by the sight of two boats racing prow-to-prow, so she agreed without taking in what her grandpa had said. Realizing that the yellow dog at Cuicui’s side might well be more reliable than he, the old man returned home to the ferry.

  When he arrived, Grandpa saw his old friend standing below the white pagoda, listening to the distant sound of the drums.

  Grandpa hailed him to bring the boat over so the two could ferry across the brook and stand under the pagoda together. The friend asked why the old ferryman had returned in such a hurry. Grandpa told him he wanted to spell him awhile. He’d left Cuicui by the shore so his friend could also enjoy the excitement down at the big river. He added, “If you like the spectacle, no need to return, just tell Cuicui to come home when it’s over. If my little girl is afraid to come by herself, you can accompany her back!” Grandpa’s stand-in had long ago lost any interest in watching dragon boats; he’d rather stay here with the ferryman on the big bluffs by the stream and drink a cup or two of wine. The old ferryman was quite happy to hear that. He took out his gourd of wine and gave it to his friend from town. They reminisced about Dragon Boat Festivals past as they drank. Pretty soon the friend drank himself to sleep, out on the rock.

  Having succumbed to the liquor, he could hardly return to town. Grandpa couldn’t very well abandon his post at the ferry either. Cuicui, who was stranded at the river, began to worry.

  The boat race achieved its final outcome and the military officers in town sent a boat into the Long Depths to release the ducks. Still Grandpa was nowhere to be seen. Fearing that her grandfather might be waiting for her somewhere else, Cuicui and the yellow dog made their way through the crowd, and still there was no trace of him. Soon it would be twilight. All the soldiers from town who’d come hefting benches to watch the commotion had shouldered them now and returned home, one by one. Only three or four ducks remained at liberty in the river. The number of people chasing them was dwindling too. The sun was setting, in the direction of Cuicui’s home upstream. Dusk draped the river in a thin coat of mist. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Cuicui as she surveyed this scene: “Could Grandpa be dead?”

  Keeping in mind that Grandpa had asked her to stay in this spot, she tried to disprove the awful thought to herself by imagining that he must have gone into town and run into an acquaintance, maybe been dragged off to have a drink. That was why he hadn’t come back. Because it really was a possibility, she didn’t want to leave for home with the yellow dog when it wasn’t completely dark yet. She could only keep on waiting for her grandpa there by the stone pier.

  Soon two long boats from the other shore moved into a small tributary and disappeared. Nearly all the spectators had dispersed too. The prostitutes in the houses on stilts lit their lanterns and some of them were already singing to the sound of tambourines and lutes. From other establishments came the raucous shouting of men drinking during the guess-fingers game. Meanwhile, in boats moored below the stilt houses, people were frying up dishes for a feast; greens and turnips sizzled in oil as they were plopped into their woks. The river was already obscured by the misty darkness. Only a solitary white duck was still afloat on the river, with just one person chasing it.

  Cuicui stayed by the dockside, still believing that her grandfather would come to take her home.

  As the strains of song coming from the stilt houses grew louder, she heard talking on a boat below, and a boatman saying, “Jinting, listen, that’s your whore, singing to some merchant from Sichuan while he downs his liquor! I’ll bet a finger on it, that’s her voice!” Another boatman replied, “Even when she sings drinking songs for other men, she’s still thinking of me! She knows I’m in this boat!” The first added, “So she gives her body to other people, but her heart stays with you? How do you know?” The other said, “I’ll prove it to you!” Whereupon he gave a strange whistle. The singing above stopped, and the boatmen had a good laugh. They had a good deal to say about the woman after that, much of it obscene. Cuicui was not used to such language, but she couldn’t leave the spot. Not only that, she heard one of the boatmen say that the woman’s father had been stabbed at Cotton Ball Slope—­seventeen times. That uncomfortable thought suddenly seized her again: “Could Grandpa be dead?”

  As the boatmen continued conversing, the remaining white drake in the pool swam slowly toward the pier where Cuicui stood. She thought to herself, “Come any closer and I’ll catch you!” She kept waiting there quietly, but when the duck came within ten yards of the shore, someone laughed and hailed the sailors on the boat. A third person was still in the water. He grabbed the duck and was slowly making his way to shore, treading water. Hearing the
shouting from the river, a man on the boat yelled back into the murky haze, “Hey, No. 2, you’re really something! That’s the fifth one you’ve bagged today.” The one in the water replied, “This character was really clever, but I caught him anyway.” “It’s ducks for you today, and tomorrow women—I’ll bet you’ll be just as good at that.” The one in the water fell silent and swam up to the pier. As he climbed up onshore, dripping wet, the yellow dog at Cuicui’s side yapped at him as a warning. It was then that he noticed Cuicui. She was the only one on the dock now.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Cuicui.’’

  “And who might that be?”

  “The granddaughter of the ferryman at Bixiju, Green Creek Hill.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for my grandpa. He’s coming to get me.”

  “It doesn’t look like he’s coming. Your grandfather must have gone into town for a drink at the army barracks. I’ll bet he passed out and someone carried him home!’’

  “He wouldn’t do any such thing. He said he’d come get me, so that’s what he’ll do.”

  “This is no place to wait for him. Come up to my house, over there where the lamps are lit. You can wait for him there. How about that?”