The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  But actually it’s not all hard work; sometimes it can even be fun. Her figure has developed in such a way that she looks awful whatever she wears, and is clumsy whatever she does. It’s only when she takes her clothes off, leaving only the leotard, that her proportions become more pleasing. When she is engaged in dance movements, movements uncalled-for in daily life, a good feeling surges inside her. She looks into the mirrors around her, and thinks to herself: “It’s unfair to say I’m ugly, and it’s unfair to say I’m clumsy.” Drops of sweat roll down her satin-smooth skin, like pearls. Her hair, all wet, sticks to her long thick neck. It grows down low, extending almost to the point where the neck is joined to the back. The short hairs on her neck are always getting wet, then drying off, and as a result become all curly. When the sun shines on this curly hair, in profile she looks like a little lamb.

  He too looks more lithe when he’s in practice clothes. Besides, since he’s technically superior to most people, what does it matter if his physique isn’t perfect? When he tries out some really difficult steps, he experiences a sense of elation. He takes off his vest, revealing his extremely white but coarse back. Acne spreads profusely all over his face and his body; it is as though the nutrition he absorbs must have an outlet, and since he gains neither height nor weight, all the nutrition and energy go toward nurturing his spots, which are like small red beans, a sign of his youthful vigor. When the spots gradually subside, they leave behind small brown hollows like wells. His back, in particular, is full of such hollows, and strongly resembles the rough surface of a rock. Each brown well is filled with a drop of sweat, clear and transparent.

  Sweating is like taking a shower; it cleanses the dirt from even the deepest recesses of the body. After sweating, one feels extremely relaxed and carefree.

  There is only a small room with a cement floor for having a wash-down. It’s right next to the pantry, and the pantry is right next to a water pump, so they can mix the right amount of hot and cold water and then carry it into the washroom and put it on a small cement platform. Under the platform there is a drain, and at the back of the door hooks for hanging clothes. That’s all there is for furnishing. Both men and women use this room, and if the door is closed, one has to shout: “Anyone in there?” and the person inside shouts back: “Occupied.” If it’s a woman’s voice from inside, the man outside turns back and waits till she finishes, and vice versa. Otherwise the person inside unhooks the lock and stands behind the door, and then locks up again when the person outside has entered.

  When the weather is hot, this room is quite crowded, and arguments frequently arise. But in winter it’s deserted. Since it is a windowless, north-facing room with no sunlight all day and nothing to keep it warm, it can be very cold. The unpainted wooden door is half open, revealing the naked cement floor, whitened with constant washing. If it weren’t for the little pools of water left on the floor by the two of them taking turns to shower every day, the room would be even more desolate. He always lets her have her wash first, while she is still sweating from the exercise, so that she won’t feel too cold, but still she dares not stay too long, for she will soon feel the piercing cold. While he is waiting, to keep his body warm he continues practicing, doing grand jetés around the room. Every time he comes to the north windows he seems to hear the sound of water splashing in the washroom. He can’t help but see in his mind’s eye water flowing down her smooth, broad back, then diverging into two streams, running down her elephantine legs until it reaches the ground and runs over the cement floor.

  One day she didn’t shift her feet throughout her wash-down, and when he carried his water into the room he saw that amid the little pools of water on the floor there were two footprints, completely dry, left there by a pair of feet wearing soft rubber slippers. He stared at the footprints, and gradually he traced a pair of ankles, calves, knees, thighs, and up he went, until it seemed that the whole person was standing in front of him. Before he realized it, his water had turned cold.

  The next day he bought her an apple-green plastic bucket, remembering that she had complained about the basin being too small, saying even two basins of water weren’t enough for a good wash. A bucketful should be quite enough, he thought.

  Maybe with more water she enjoys her wash more, and no more dry footprints appear on the wet floor. All the footprints are drowned.

  The bucket, filled with boiling water, flattens into an oval as she carries it in her hand. Sunlight shines through the apple-green sides, turning the water a tender shade of green, with a layer of pale green steam hovering over it. The water in the bucket shakes as she enters the small, dark room and disappears behind the unpainted and half-rotted wooden door. The room is extremely dark, with neither window nor lamp; only a narrow band of light seeps through from underneath the door. But there is some light on the bucket of water, luminous, a most tender green. The water is scalding. A dry, stiff towel gets soaked in no time. She lifts this towel, saturated with hot water, and puts it over her shoulder. She can feel the water running down her chest and back, like hundreds of needles pricking her skin. She sucks in her breath with a “schusch” and repeatedly dips the towel into the bucket, and splashes water over her body. The water in the bucket gradually diminishes, and the light dims. Now she starts to put on her clothes. She pushes the door open; the sunlight hurts her eyes like the touch of a passionate and violent lover. She is so happy! The sight of him sweating and still engaged in a continuous series of grand jetés, a dirty knee-band wrapped around his blackened leg, moves her to pity, and she generously lends him the bucket.

  The next day, she takes the bucket he has returned to fetch water, but finds that he has not cleaned it after he used it. There is a little grayish water left at the bottom of the bucket, and on the sides a film of grayish particles. She is just about to tell him off, and then stops herself and stands in a daze. She tilts the bucket and looks around inside it. There are tiny particles in the greyish water too, and she can’t help speculating what they might be—can these be flecks of his skin? She knows that not only sweat comes from the skin, but also that tiny flecks of skin are sloughed off; not dust or dirt, just flecks of skin. When she thinks of this she can’t help resenting it. She fills the bucket with clean water, pours it away, and then half fills it again before she starts cleaning the sides. The plastic bucket seems rough to the touch somehow; something which she can’t wash away titillates her palm. No matter how dark the room is, every time she scoops water up in her palms she sees tiny particles in it, particles swimming about like playful fish. On this day, even after her wash-down, she still feels unclean, and her back feels itchy. So she keeps moving her shoulders and back muscles about in some rather unseemly gestures. Her roommates resent her the more for it; some probably suspect that she has lice or something, though she washes every day, while they only go to the public bath once a week.

  The women’s public bath is exactly like the men’s. It’s a big pool, and bathers lower themselves into it much as dumplings are put into boiling water to cook. By afternoon the water becomes murky. Since the theatrical troupe enjoys a special status in town, on Saturday mornings, before the villagers come into town, the public bath is open to the troupe for two hours so the actors and actresses can have their wash first. The girls all bring their own washbasins and scoop water from the pool to wash themselves. When they are done, they walk out with their hair wet and hanging down, their faces glowing, and their dirty clothes in the basins which they balance on one hip much as the renowned ancient beauty Xishi did after she finished washing silk by the river. At the door of the public bathhouse the villagers are queuing, their faces dirty, their eyes gluey, and their bodies shivering. They look at the girls in wonder and admiration, trying hard to imagine what a blessed, royal life they lead.

  On winter afternoons, there are always men and women walking about the streets, their faces glowing from the heat of the public bath.

  The men and women with glowing faces, carrying baskets on sho
ulder poles or in their hands, or pulling carts, are satisfied, and hurry along the roads leading out of town. One of these roads leads to the pier, another goes north across the floodgate. In the evening the sun gradually sinks behind the three high red flags cut in the earth on top of the floodgate, and turns these discolored flags a deep red. This is the noisiest hour here below the gate; carts rumble past, interspersed with the solitary ringing of bicycle bells, and women wearing homemade shoes walking on the dusty cement road leave behind clear imprints of the even or uneven sewing on their soles. They hurry on while the sun is still shining. When they reach a dirt track, their footprints are lost in the shifting dust.

  It is the dry season; it hasn’t rained for three consecutive months. On the main road the loosened earth is a full inch thick, completely covering your feet as you walk. The fields are cracked, the ponds dry, the water from the wells murky, and the water level of the river below the dam has gone down, laying bare dark green moss. The setting sun is fiery. After sinking behind the floodgate it stays, as if by magic, behind a small green wood in the distance. Every small wood is a village you can see but can’t reach, like a mirage.

  Deep in the night when all is quiet the dogs start barking in the distance. The dogs in town don’t bark, but then hundreds of cats create a commotion. At times like this their screeching shakes the whole town; they seem to be crying, or laughing, or panting, or sighing, and no one is able to sleep. Some bachelor jumps out of bed, grabs a shoulder pole, and hits at two cats blindly, trying to separate them, but they seem to have been glued together since birth. On closer look he finds they’re two silent dogs. The cats have all gone and are continuing their heartrending cries elsewhere. The next morning the bachelor gets up with bloodshot eyes, curses the cats, then curses the dogs, and then looks up at the sky. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain; he curses heaven. Lastly, he thinks of the couple from out of town who are staying in the secondary school; they actually wear pants with stripes and floral patterns. Though they only do it in the house, at bedtime, still, pants are pants; how can you have stripes and flowers on them? It’s just not right.

  THEY HAVE WORKED diligently through a severe winter, and have now seen the coming of a dry spring. Her body is so rotund that it’s impossible for it to grow anymore; it’s like a ripened fruit, but the proportions are wrong. And his body seems as stubborn as his will; it is fixed, refuses to grow. Though she looks like an adult, she is still very childish. She never hides her feelings. She will be laughing one minute, crying the next, as changeable as the summer weather, and yet you don’t feel that she’s abnormal or affected, simply naive. When a group of girls goes on and on teasing a boy in the courtyard, and finally gets him to say: “At night my dad bites my mum’s mouth,” the others all laugh to themselves but pretend not to have heard and change the subject, while she falls about with laughter, completely losing control of herself. It’s not only that she doesn’t cover up for herself, she nullifies the others’ efforts at evasion. They all turn red and try to stop her, but then she says, seemingly very knowledgeable: “The child knows nothing.” The others just don’t know what to make of her, and can only call her “Silly girl!” But she won’t even put up with that, saying in protest: “Who says I’m silly? I know everything.” All they can do is ignore her. As she grows more and more like a woman, her childishness and clumsiness become more apparent.

  She still asks him to help her turn out her legs and loosen her joints, just as she used to when she was young. Though this task has become more and more difficult for him, he can’t turn her down, and it has become a torture for him.

  She lies before him, her legs bent in front of her chest, and slowly parts them to either side. He can’t control the turmoil in his heart. He is panting loudly, almost suffocating with the effort to suppress himself. Sweat pours down from his head, his face, his shoulders, his back, and from the inside of his thighs. As though to compensate for his childlike body, he has matured mentally with unusual speed, and he feels like a completely adult man. When he helps her to loosen up, an evil thought takes hold of him; he wants to hurt her, so he pushes hard. She screams; a scream like the siren on a ferry.

  It frightens him; his hands weaken, letting go of her knees. She brings her knees together, and holds them in her arms in front of her chest, still screaming. Then she starts to revile him, using a whole series of dirty words which only men would have used, such as “fuck you.” She doesn’t really know what it means, just that it’s a strong word and gives vent to her anger. This, however, works on his imagination and makes him more agitated, so he throws the same vulgarity back at her, only he means it. She still doesn’t understand its meaning, and still lies on the floor holding her knees in her arms. Nor does she hold them properly; she holds on to one knee and stretches the other leg, and then she holds on to the other knee while stretching the first one. Every time she stretches or bends her legs, her well-developed waist and chest vibrate in response. As he swears back at her, her anger mounts, and a string of dirty words such as “fuck your brother-in-law” come out of her mouth, illogical and unfit for any ear. He gets worked up, and counterattacks in even coarser language, meaning every word of it. She won’t let him speak anymore, just continues her abuse in a loud, shrill voice, trying to drown him out. His voice is deep and strong; it comes through gradually. When she thinks she has won and stops to catch her breath, his voice is still resounding in the room. Only then does she realize that he has not stopped cursing, but has kept up with her. His voice is like the bass in an orchestra; it may not carry much of the melody, but it always has a part to play. She doesn’t even have time to catch her breath before she starts cursing afresh, trying to best him. He doesn’t give up, and follows her shrill clamor with his deep, deliberate voice until she is finally exhausted and starts to cry, rolling all over the floor. He then stops, and stares at her gloomily.

  Her whole body is blackened with dirt, and she rubs her eyes with her blackened hands so that her tears become black too, and roll all over her dirty face. Suddenly he feels sad. He takes her bucket, fills it with warm water, and tells her to have a wash. She refuses to listen and goes on crying; this show of sympathy makes her cry even more pitifully and she feels even more heartbroken. All he can do now is go forward and pull her up. Though she’s heavy and is deliberately clinging to the floor, he is extremely strong, and has no trouble getting her on her feet and pushing her into the washroom. When he hears her locking up and then sobbing in the midst of splashing water, his heart is suddenly filled with love and tenderness.

  Her heart feels lighter as she splashes water on her body and feels the dirt and sweat wash away like a layer of unwanted skin. By now her tears have dried, but she goes on sobbing as though in protest. Yet at the same time a strange feeling of warmth fills her heart, gradually spreading throughout her body, like the gentle touch of someone very intimate. She is almost happy, but she doesn’t want to stop sobbing, for this too seems a consolation.

  From this day on they stop talking to each other; they are enemies.

  Though they don’t talk, they still practice. He practices on his own, she on her own; he doesn’t help her turn out, she doesn’t help him loosen up his legs, they just practice by themselves. They both look very grave, overserious, as though attending a solemn occasion. There is no more conversation or laughter in the studio. When they laughed in the studio there used to be a slight echo, but now the only sound is the thump of their feet as they land on the floor, and the echo sounds empty, emphasizing the solitude and the monotony.

  In contrast to this hushed atmosphere are the excitement and tension in their hearts. In her heart she is still contending fiercely with him, cursing him with hundreds of dirty words she doesn’t understand. After that, she feels she is the one who has been abused, she who is pitiful and helpless, so she is even more self-pitying than ever. Every movement is carried out in a long-suffering and dignified manner, and she doesn’t realize her own affectation. All
she feels is that there seems to be a fresh goal in practicing, that it has become more meaningful. It is no longer just self-entertainment nor just self-improvement, it seems to have taken on the added dimension of a performance. Thus she practices harder than usual, and becomes extremely demanding of herself. When she fails to execute a step she just lets go of her body and lets it flop heavily to the ground. The pain often makes her want to cry out, but she always holds back. She will struggle to get up and make a second, hopeless attempt. It seems that by doing so she hopes someone will be moved; actually she moves herself to the point of tears.

  He, in the meantime, is also torturing himself, bending and folding his body into inconceivable shapes. He bends down, his head touching his feet, but he isn’t satisfied with that. He sticks his head out between his feet and holds it erect so he can look at the world from the usual angle. The shape of his body becomes most perplexing; one can’t even tell his trunk from his legs. But as a result of this 360-degree inversion, his eyes survey the world with greater equanimity. He can hold this position for twenty minutes. He seems to hate his body and is intent on punishing it; as if his body has an existence independent of and antagonistic to his soul, which is meting out the punishment. The punishment is so harsh that it becomes a little pretentious. Each, for untellable reasons neither of them understands, strives for excellence. Thus it comes to the time of the first spring rain.

  The rain comes like this:

  The prelude is hot, July-like weather. People haven’t even had time to take off their sweaters before it becomes so hot that they don’t want to keep their T-shirts on. Skirts appear in the courtyard, yet they don’t have the courage to go outside; they just flaunt themselves ruefully on the premises of the theatrical troupe. All of a sudden the sky darkens; it remains dark for a whole day before it pours down, each drop of rain the size of a bean. Cool air descends as though time has reversed its journey. In a split second the colorful skirts are gone and the quilts laid out to air in the courtyard all collected, exposing the wet cement floor. The floor is uneven, the depressions hold water, and rain falling on these small pools ripples successive circles outward. It is now evening, and a rainy evening gives one a feeling of warm desolation, or is it a cool warmth? The rain flows down along the tiles on the roof of the studio, clumsily following a circuitous route to the eaves. Soon there is a curtain of water hanging from the eaves.