The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  That dentist is a good case in point. When the people from the countryside spot those oversized teeth they stare at them in bewilderment, and there are often many people standing in front of the large sign looking up at it, unable to fathom its reason for being there. Even if one of them were standing there with a toothache, under no circumstances would he let that dentist, with her foreign methods, pull his tooth for him. Instead he would go over to the Li Yung-ch’un Pharmacy, buy two ounces of bitter herbs, take them home, and hold them in his mouth, and let that be the end of that! The teeth on that advertisement are simply too big; they are hard to figure out, and just a little bit frightening.

  As a consequence, although that dentist hung her shingle out for two or three years, precious few people ever went to her to have their teeth pulled. Eventually, most likely owing to her inability to make a living, the woman dentist had no recourse but to engage in midwifery on the side.

  IN ADDITION TO the Crossroads, there are two other streets, one called Road Two East and the other called Road Two West. Both streets run from north to south, probably for five or six li. There is nothing much on these two streets worth noting—a few temples, several stands where flatcakes are sold, and a number of grain storehouses.

  On Road Two East there is a fire mill standing in a spacious courtyard, a large chimney made of fine red brick rising high above it. I have heard that no one is allowed to enter the fire mill, for there are a great many knobs and gadgets inside which must not be touched. If someone did touch them, he might burn himself to death. Otherwise, why would it be called a fire mill? Because of the flames inside, the mill is reportedly run neither by horses nor donkeys—it is run by fire. Most folk wonder why the mill itself doesn’t go up in flames since only fire is used. They ponder this over and over, but are unable to come up with an answer, and the more they ponder it, the more confused they become, especially since they are not allowed to go inside and check things out for themselves. I’ve heard they even have a watchman at the door.

  There are also two schools on Road Two East, one each at the southern and northern ends. They are both located in temples—one in the Dragon King Temple and one in the Temple of the Patriarch—and both are elementary schools.

  The school located in the Dragon King Temple is for the study of raising silkworms, and is called the Agricultural School, while the one in the Temple of the Patriarch is just a regular elementary school with one advanced section added, and is called the Higher Elementary School.

  Although the names used for these two schools vary, in fact the only real difference between them is that in the one they call the Agricultural School the silkworm pupae are fried in oil in the autumn, and the teachers there enjoy several sumptuous meals.

  There are no silkworms to be eaten in the Higher Elementary School, where the students are definitely taller than those in the Agricultural School. The students in the Agricultural School begin their schoolwork by learning the characters for “man,” “hand,” “foot,” “knife,” and “yardstick,” and the oldest among them cannot be more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. But not so in the Higher Elementary School; there is a student there already twenty-four years old who is learning to play the foreign bugle and who has already taught in private schools out in the countryside for four or five years, but is only now himself attending the Higher Elementary School. Even the man who has been manager of a grain store for two years is a student at the school.

  When this elementary school student writes a letter to his family he asks questions like: “Has Little Baldy’s eye infection gotten better?” Little Baldy is the nickname of his eldest son, who is eight. He doesn’t mention his second son or his daughters, because if he were to include all of them the letter would be much too long. Since he is already the father of a whole brood of children—the head of a family—whenever he sends a letter home he is mainly concerned with household matters: “Has the tenant Wang sent over his rent yet?” “Have the soybeans been sold?” “What is the present market situation?” and the like.

  Students like him occupy a favored position in the class; the teacher must treat them with due respect, for if he drops his guard, this kind of student will often stand up, classical dictionary in hand, and stump the teacher with one of his questions. He will smugly point out that the teacher has used the wrong character in a phrase he has written on the board.

  AS FOR ROAD TWO WEST, not only is it without a fire mill, it has but one school, a Muslim school situated in the Temple of the City God. With this exception, it is precisely like Road Two East, dusty and barren. When carts and horses pass over these roads they raise up clouds of dust, and whenever it rains the roads are covered with a layer of mud. There is an added feature on Road Two East: a five- or six-foot-deep quagmire. During dry periods the consistency of the mud inside is about that of gruel, but once it starts to rain the quagmire turns into a river. The people who live nearby suffer because of it: When they are splashed with its water, they come away covered with mud; and when the waters subside as the sun reappears in the clearing sky, hordes of mosquitoes emerge and fly around their homes. The longer the sun shines, the more homogenized the quagmire becomes, as though something were being refined in it; it’s just as though someone were trying to refine something inside it. If more than a month goes by without any rain, that big quagmire becomes even more homogenized in makeup. All the water having evaporated, the mud has turned black and has become stickier than the gummy residue on a gruel pot, stickier even than paste. It takes on the appearance of a big melting vat, gummy black with an oily glisten to it, and even flies and mosquitoes that swarm around stick to it as they land.

  Swallows love water, and sometimes they imprudently fly down to the quagmire to skim their wings over the water. It is a dangerous maneuver, as they nearly fall victim to the quagmire, coming perilously close to being mired down in it. Quickly they fly away without a backward glance.

  In the case of horses, however, the outcome is different: they invariably bog down in it, and even worse, they tumble down into the middle of the quagmire, where they roll about, struggling to free themselves. After a period of floundering they lie down, their energy exhausted, and the moment they do so they are in real danger of losing their lives. But this does not happen often, for few people are willing to run the risk of leading their horses or pulling their carts near this dangerous spot.

  Most of the accidents occur during drought years or after two or three months without any rainfall, when the big quagmire is at its most dangerous. On the surface it would seem that the more rain there is, the worse the situation, for with the rain a veritable river of water is formed, nearly ten feet in depth. One would think this would make it especially perilous, since anyone who fell in would surely drown. But such is not the case. The people of this small town of Hulan River aren’t so stupid that they don’t know how brutal this pit can be, and no one would be so foolhardy as to try leading a horse past the quagmire at such times.

  But if it hasn’t rained for three months the quagmire begins to dry up, until it is no more than two or three feet deep, and there will always be those hardy souls who will attempt to brave the dangers of driving a cart around it, or those with somewhat less courage who will watch others make their way past, then follow across themselves. One here, two there, and soon there are deep ruts along both sides of the quagmire formed by the passage of several carts. A late arrival spots the signs of previous passings, and this erstwhile coward, feeling more courageous than his intrepid predecessors, drives his cart straight ahead. How could he have known that the ground below him is uneven? Others had safely passed by, but his cart flips over.

  The carter climbs out of the quagmire, looking like a mud-spattered apparition, then begins digging to free his horse from the mud, quickly making the sad discovery that it is mired down in the middle of the quagmire. There are people out on the road during all of this, and they come over to lend a helping hand.

  These passersby can
be divided into two types. Some are attired in traditional long gowns and short overjackets and are spotlessly clean. Apparently none of them will move a finger to assist in this drama because their hands are much too clean. Needless to say, they are members of the gentry class. They stand off to the side and observe the goings-on. When they see the horse trying to stand up they applaud and shout, “Oh! Oh!” several times. But then they see that the horse is unable to stand and falls back down, again they clap their hands and again they shout several times, “Oh! Oh!” But this time they are registering their displeasure. The excitement surrounding the horse’s attempts to stand and its inability to do so continues for some time, but in the end it cannot get to its feet and just lies there pitifully. By this time those who have only been watching the feverish activity conclude that this is about all that will happen, that nothing new will materialize, and they begin to disperse, each heading off to his home.

  But let us return to the plight of the horse lying there. The passersby who are trying to free it are all common folk, some of the town’s onion peddlers, food sellers, till masons, carters, and other workers. They roll up their trouser cuffs, remove their shoes, and seeing no alternative, walk down into the quagmire with the hope that by pooling their strength they will be able to hoist the horse out. But they fail in their attempts, and by this time the horse’s breathing has become very faint. Growing frantic, they hasten to free the horse from its harness, releasing it from the cart on the assumption that the horse will be able to get up more easily once it is freed from that burden. But contrary to their expectations, the horse still cannot stand up. Its head is sticking up out of the mire, ears twitching, eyes shut, snorts of air coming from its nostrils.

  Seeing this sad state of affairs, people from the neighborhood run over with ropes and levers. They use the ropes to secure the horse and the levers to pry it free. They bark out orders as though they were building a house or constructing a bridge, and finally they manage to lift the animal out. The horse is still alive, lying at the side of the road. While some individuals are pouring water over it and washing the mud off its face, there is a constant flow of people coming and going at the scene of the spectacle.

  On the following day everyone is saying: “Another horse has drowned in the big quagmire!” As the story makes its rounds, although the horse is actually still alive, it is said to have died, for if the people didn’t say so, the awe in which they held that big quagmire would suffer.

  It’s hard to say just how many carts flip over because of that big quagmire. Throughout the year, with the exception of the winter season when it is sealed up by the freezing weather, this big quagmire looks as though it has acquired a life of its own—it is alive. Its waters rise, then subside; now it has grown larger, in a few days it recedes again. An intimate bond between it and the people begins to form.

  When the water is high, not only are horses and carts impeded, it is an obstacle even to pedestrians. Old men pass along its edge on trembling legs, children are scared out of their wits as they skirt around it.

  Once the rain begins to fall, the water quickly fills the now-­glistening quagmire, then overflows and covers the bases of neighboring walls. For people out on the street who approach this place, it is like being dealt a setback on the road of life. They are in for a struggle: sleeves are rolled up, teeth are ground tightly, all their energy is called forth; hands clutch at a wooden wall, hearts pound rapidly; keep your head clear, your eyes in focus . . . the battle is joined.

  Why is it that this, of all walls, has to be so smooth and neatly built, as though its owners have every intention of not coming to anyone’s aid in this moment of distress? Regardless of how skillfully these pedestrians reach out, the wall offers them no succor; clawing here and groping there, they grab nothing but handfuls of air. Where in the world is there a mountain on which wood like this grows, so perfectly smooth and devoid of blemishes or knots?

  After five or six minutes of struggling, the quagmire has been crossed. Needless to say, the person is by then covered with sweat and hot all over. Then comes the next individual, who must prepare himself for a dose of the same medicine. There are few choices available to him—about all he can do is grab hold here and clutch there, till after five or six minutes he too has crossed over. Then, once he is on the other side he feels revitalized, bursts out laughing, and looks back to the next person to cross, saying to him in the midst of his difficult struggle: “What’s the big deal? You can’t call yourself a hero unless you’ve faced a few dangers in your life!”

  But that isn’t how it always goes—not all are revitalized; in fact, most people are so frightened that their faces are drained of color. There are some whose trembling legs are so rubbery after they have crossed the quagmire that they cannot walk for some time. For timid souls like this, even the successful negotiating of this dangerous stretch of road cannot dispel the mood of distress that has involuntarily settled upon them; their fluttering hearts seemingly put into motion by this big quagmire, they invariably cast a look behind them and size it up for a moment, looking as though they have something they want to say. But in the end they say nothing, and simply walk off.

  ONE VERY RAINY DAY a young child fell into the quagmire and was rescued by a bean-curd peddler. Once they got him out they discovered he was the son of the principal of the Agricultural School. A lively discussion ensued. Someone said that it happened because the Agricultural School was located in the Dragon King Temple, which angered the venerable Dragon King. He claimed it was the Dragon King who caused the heavy downpour in order to drown the child.

  Someone disagreed with him completely, saying that the cause of the incident rested with the father, for during his highly animated lectures in the classroom he had once said that the venerable Dragon King was not responsible for any rainfall, and for that matter, did not even exist. “Knowing how furious this would make the venerable Dragon King, you can imagine how he would find some way to vent his anger! So he grabbed hold of the son as a means of gaining retribution.”

  Someone else said that the students at the school were so incorrigible that one had even climbed up onto the old Dragon King’s head and capped him with a straw hat. “What are the times coming to when a child who isn’t even dry behind the ears would dare to invite such tremendous calamities down upon himself? How could the old Dragon King not seek retribution? Mark my word, it’s not finished yet; don’t you get the idea that the venerable Dragon King is some kind of moron! Do you think he’d just let you off once you’ve provoked his anger? It’s not like dealing with a rickshaw boy or a vegetable peddler whom you can kick at will, then let him be on his way. This is the venerable Dragon King we’re talking about! Do you think that the venerable Dragon King is someone who can easily be pushed around?”

  Then there was someone who said that the students at that school were truly undisciplined, and that with his own eyes he had once seen some of them in the main hall putting silkworms into the old Dragon King’s hands. “Now, just how do you think the old Dragon King could stand for something like that?”

  Another person said that the schools were no good at all, and that anyone with children should on no account allow them to go to school, since they immediately lose respect for everyone and everything.

  Someone remarked that he was going to the school to get his son and take him home—there would be no more school for him.

  Someone else commented that the more the children study, the worse they become. “Take, for example, when their souls are frightened out of their bodies; the minute their mothers call for the souls to return, what do you think they say? They announce that this is nothing but superstition! Now, what in the world do you think they’ll be saying if they continue going to school?”

  And so they talked, drifting further and further away from the original topic.

  Before many days had passed, the big quagmire receded once again and pedestrians were soon passing along either side unimpeded. More days passed
without any new rainfall, and the quagmire began to dry up, at which time carts and horses recommenced their crossings; then more overturned carts, more horses falling into it and thrashing around; again the ropes and levers appeared, again they were used to lift and drag the horses out. As the righted carts drove off, more followed: into the quagmire, and the lifting began anew.