The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  There is a curtain of water in front of every house. People leave their doors half open and, leaning on the doorframes, separated by the water curtains, start chatting. The talk is all about the drought and the rain this spring. They eat as they chatter on, a big bowl of rice in the left hand, a pair of warped wooden chopsticks in the right, picking up the rice in the congee with the chopsticks. The congee looks a little brownish red because of the sodium added, and seems the more tasty for it. There are a few salted beans and pickles in the bowl, smelling of mold; but once you’re used to it the smell becomes quite delectable. The rain falling on the pebbled pavement makes a surprisingly loud noise, drowning out any other sound, so people have to shout. There is one house with its door locked; whoever lives there hasn’t come home yet, and the clothes hanging out in front of the house have not been taken in. There is a pair of pants with floral patterns, all wet, and the flowers look exceptionally colorful.

  It has turned cool again, and sweaters are called for. Villagers who have no sweaters wear quilted jackets, nearly all of them black. After the rain the streets actually seem a little desolate and cold. The pebbled pavement has been thoroughly washed; the earth looks darker and the pebbles brighter, as though outlined in ink. The water in the river has risen, and looks crystal clear, covering the moss on the banks. The cement path beneath the dam appears whiter than before, but the dirt track looks darker. The scattered woods are all fresh and green, like villages made up of trees. In some village, a child has died during the heavy downpour; he was going to the lake for weeds to feed the pigs, and slipped when he was walking by a catchwater. The story has spread over several miles and then vanished, as if scattered by the wind. The townsfolk still say that the rain has been timely, making the weather more pleasant, and the villagers are also singing its praises, for the green wheat in the fields has all brightened up.

  THEY STILL DON’T TALK to each other, as though they’re deadly enemies. Others all notice it and think it strange. Yet after a while they become used to it and are no longer surprised. But after they’ve been used to it for a while, they once more feel that there’s something strange about it. Since the animosity has lasted so long, there must be an unusual reason, and they can’t just let the two of them be enemies forever. They have asked her, but she won’t talk; they have asked him, and he won’t talk either. They go back to question her again, and because they seem so serious, she can’t help taking it seriously too, reacting in a stiff and stubborn manner. Her reaction draws even more attention, as they think that she is about to open up her heart, and they become even more persistent in their questioning. This rouses her feeling of having been wronged, which is further exaggerated because of their seriousness, and she bursts into tears. The fact that she is crying strengthens the confidence of others to get at the root of the matter, but she shakes her head in tears: “I don’t want to say anything; I have nothing to say.” It is the truth, but it sounds as though there is much behind it. They keep on questioning her, but then she refuses to speak anymore, just keeps crying as if she’s heartbroken. She is crying partly because she feels she has been wronged, but more because she is puzzled and embarrassed, as she knows for a fact that nothing has happened. Nothing has actually happened, and yet the situation looks so serious; she feels responsible, and therefore a little afraid. Her reaction at least partially satisfies the others. They feel that now they are justified in going to question him again.

  Cornered, all he can do is hit back at them verbally. He is all tensed up, cursing ferociously; he doesn’t know what he is saying or why he is saying it. He feels rather ridiculous but he simply can’t stop. Everyone is shouting at him, telling him to stop, telling him to apologize to her. Apologize for what? They all seem to know; the two of them are the only ones who don’t understand, and yet actually the two of them are the ones who do. But they don’t realize this; they think that they understand nothing, and feel that they have been wronged, the victims of a terrible joke.

  They are surrounded by the others, and the leader of the dance section grabs each by one hand, trying hard to make them shake hands and be friends again. Both of them are struggling fiercely and it takes the combined effort of everyone to hold them. She is crying, he cursing; both are angry and frustrated because they are struggling to no end. At last their hands touch; they are still struggling to avoid touching one another, but now the aversion seems a little false. Their hands touch, and they suddenly seem moved, the struggle to free themselves has obviously weakened. Their hands are at last brought forcibly together by the section leader, palm to palm. He has never felt more strongly about her body before, nor she his. Their hands touch for a split second, like lightning, and in the midst of everyone’s resounding laughter their hands part, and they both turn to escape. But that split second seems so long, long enough for them to experience and savor for a lifetime. It is as though in that split second when they touch, he realizes that this is the hand of a woman, and she that this is the hand of a man. They escape, so ashamed that they can’t look each other in the face, let alone talk to each other.

  So it is that they still don’t talk to each other. But now their silence has everyone’s approval, and they are left alone. They practice as usual, and as hard. She throws herself violently on the floor; the physical pain gives her such a wonderful sense of satisfaction that she has become almost addicted to it. The more painful it is, the more she sympathizes with herself, and the more determined she becomes. He tries his utmost to twist his body into unrecognizable shapes, for that is the only way he can calm down; he is proud of his severity with himself. When either one of them leaves the studio, the other’s determination and confidence in this self-torture will disappear, the physical tension and excitement vanish all of a sudden. They torture themselves because they want to show something off. It is a pity that they are concentrating so hard on themselves that they can’t spare ten percent, or even one percent, of their attention for the other’s performance. Their effort is completely wasted. Their need for the other person originates in themselves. There is satisfaction and meaning in hardship and endurance only if the other person is present. Yet ultimately both are showing off to themselves, hoping thereby to gain their own trust and sympathy.

  But young and ignorant as they are, it is only natural that they don’t realize this. They simply take delight in practice, and feel that they need each other’s presence during practice. Because of this inexplicable need, they have a tacit understanding: they won’t practice alone, but if one of them comes to the studio, the other will turn up unbidden, and once there, neither will leave without the other.

  After three heavy downpours, the weather becomes hotter every day; it is summer. The cicadas sing from before daybreak until night. The sun penetrates the thin tiles of the studio roof and the heat surrounding the room pours in through the open door and windows. Every day they give the floor a thorough wash with their sweat, and the red paint gradually fades, revealing the original pale color. It is wonderful to feel the sweat exuding through every pore. Her wet leotard sticks to her body. She is practically naked, the hints are so blatant, though not the tiniest part of her body is bare. These hints, much more strongly than nakedness, stimulate thoughts and desires. She is not well proportioned; every part of her body is exaggerated or distorted, like the creation of a cartoonist. The curves thrust in and out without restraint. Yet once you are accustomed to it, normal well-proportioned bodies actually seem flat and dull.

  He is wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts and a shabby knee-band around his left knee. He is so thin that his bones seem to stick out of his pale, coarse skin; as he dances, one can see his bones moving under his skin. His ribs are clearly visible, two neat columns of them, giving the impression that the skin here has disappeared. His ribs, strong as steel, obstruct the flow of his sweat, which either streams down from rib to rib, or gets caught between the ribs, casting a pattern of shadows on his body. Her body is as smooth and shiny as velvet, with
sweat pouring down. The two of them, dripping wet, now turn their attention to each other and really see each other for the first time. Before this the one has never looked at the other; each only saw, admired, and loved himself or herself. Now, while they try to catch their breath, they suddenly have a chance to look at each other, and in the other’s dripping body they seem to see their own naked image. They feel shy, and can’t help avoiding each other’s eyes. They are still resting; it is too hot and the cicadas are too noisy.

  At midday, the only noise is that of the cicadas’ song. Every front door along the street is open, yet no sound comes from the houses. People don’t even snore during their afternoon naps; just trickles of saliva, still warm, shine and even steam on the pillows. The shopping hall in the department store looks especially deserted; there are only flies buzzing and tracing out circles in the air. The shop assistants are bent over the counters, fast asleep, the glass surface of the counters cooling their faces, and their faces warming and moistening the glass. Occasionally an untimely customer will hesitate in the shopping hall and glide noiselessly across the marble floor. No ferry calls at the pier; under the red-hot sun the river reflects a blinding light. Naked children walk a long distance along the banks and put their feet into the river to test the water; it’s boiling. There are several water-carts lying around, with planks raised, and the watermen sleeping underneath them.

  She tries a grand jeté in which one foot is supposed to touch the back of her head, but she fails, and falls heavily onto the floor. It seems as if it is the floor which rises up to meet her and strikes her a heavy blow. The feel of the warm floorboards suddenly makes her weak. She turns over, and, lying on her back, arms outstretched, stares at the triangular roof of the studio. A thick strut points down at her body as though it is going to fall. The shady ceiling is wide and deep, a sanctuary. She feels calm and untroubled. Her eyes follow the ceiling’s dark edge downward, and come up against the unexpected glare of the sun; the sun’s rays are particularly bright just beneath the eaves and it makes her sad, almost hopeless. She lies on the floor, motionless, time flowing by her side, and stopping by her side. There is a tall old scholar tree in the courtyard, its leaves casting pale shadows on the window. She almost catches a glimpse of that ever-singing cicada spreading and folding its wings.

  Just at this moment, two steely thin legs appear by the crown of her head; the leg bones stick out and all the muscles seem to recede rapidly toward the back. She cranes her neck backward to look at these legs; there are some sparse, coarse hairs pitch-black against his snowy skin. She stares at them quietly, and finds them ridiculous. But now the leg bones are leaning toward her. He is squatting in front of her looking into her eyes. He asks all of a sudden:

  “Want me to give you a hand?”

  “No!” She wants to shout, but her voice is hoarse and she can’t raise it. With a quick push she sits up, but his hands are already under her arms, and before she can steady herself he has pushed her up to a standing position. She wobbles, but his hands grip her armpits like iron wrenches and force her to stand steadily. With his hands still under her arms, she feels the burning heat there, while other parts of her body have cooled down. The heat from these two places is overwhelming. She doesn’t feel hot anymore, and the sweat flows down pleasantly, like a song. When she is firmly on her feet he takes his hands away and lowers them until they reach his thighs. His palms and wrists are all wet from the sweat in her armpits, and the warmth of her armpits envelops his hands. Now his hands, hanging by his side, seem lonely and desolate. He can’t help stretching his fingers, trying to catch something, but there is nothing there.

  She is back on her feet now, and walks straight toward the bar, where she starts to do balancé, the tip of her foot drawing empty semicircles in the air. Bright sunlight catches on her foot and throws half a halo in midair. The movements of her protrusive, almost deformed buttocks seem so extraordinarily displeasing to the eye that he really wants to kick at them. She is conscious of his stare, and it makes her happy. His eyes are warmly fondling her thick legs, legs which have lost their elegant curve, and yet have an innocent appeal in their ugliness. She continues her series of balancés, and feeling her tendons stretch and relax she is so lighthearted and so happy that she can’t hold back the urge to glance at him. To her surprise he has already gone back to his own routine. Her spirits plummet; though her legs are still swinging back and forth, her heart is not in it anymore. He is doing a side-split, and as his legs form a straight line on the floor, he bends his torso slowly to the front, with his arms touching the ground, parallel to his legs, and his hands clasping his flexed feet. He senses her attacking him with her stare, aimed at his weakest and most sensitive spot. He can’t help shivering, and folding up his limbs he crouches on the floor. She has withdrawn her stare. Dispirited, he curls up on the floor for a long while before standing up again. Plucking up his spirits, he walks to her side. He stands there struggling with himself, blushing. Finally he mumbles:

  “What is it that you dislike about me?”

  She doesn’t expect him to speak, let alone about something so serious, so she too is embarrassed. She gradually lowers her leg, her face turning red. She answers: “Nothing,” and laughs as though it is funny.

  “We’d better stop this,” he says. “We should help each other out.”

  “That’s all right with me,” she replies, her heart pounding. She feels this is something unusual.

  And so they begin to talk to each other again. Yet somehow they feel that it was more wonderful when they were not on speaking terms. As soon as they talk to each other, the tension is gone, and then the sense of excitement, the inexplicable agitation and curiosity in anticipating the outcome of these events, and the secret flow of ideas by tacit understanding are completely gone too. But still, they both feel that a weight has been lifted from their minds. The tension was just too great, and too dangerous. They did not realize what kind of danger it was, but they both felt the sense of adventure.

  Their relationship has returned to normal, but they no longer have a clear conscience. Each seems to be harboring secret designs; they avoid each other and no longer help each other practice. They talk, but only briefly and awkwardly. When he wants to tell her that the canteen has started serving and that if she’s late she won’t get any good dishes, he means well, of course, but his words sound like a warning: “Meal’s served!” And she answers angrily: “Who needs to be told!” When she has finished showering and wants to tell him it’s his turn, she speaks as though it’s an ultimatum: “I’ve finished, I’m telling you.” And he replies, seemingly irritated: “Who needs to be told you’ve finished!” It seems that this is the only way in which they can talk to each other; they have forgotten how pleasant and natural conversing with each other used to be. Though they use angry words, they don’t really quarrel because neither of them wants to do so. They don’t want to be enemies again. Coming out of that embarrassing situation wasn’t easy, and they treasure the breakthrough. But they both seem a little regretful that the embarrassment is over. Originally they thought that something extraordinary was going to happen, and they were full of expectations, a little afraid, a little hesitant. But now everything has returned to normal; nothing extraordinary will ever happen, or rather, something started to happen and then stopped, so that their expectations have fallen through and they feel strangely resentful of each other. The stiff way in which they talk to each other is thus not all pretense, there is some real cause for it. She frequently glares at him sideways for no reason at all, the whites of her eyes showing even more distinctly against her dark complexion, which makes the glare more effective. He looks as though he is always brooding; his face seems overcast, and since his complexion is pale this sense of gloom is all the more obvious. Sometimes it really scares her, and she dares not give full rein to her temper.

  But still, they are on speaking terms again. Ever since they started talking again they seem less dedicated in their pract
ice. Self-torture has lost its meaning, and when they look for a new way to communicate and to fight they can’t find it. They are both at a loss. For a period of time they seem to have lost their goal in life and have become dispirited. Besides, the weather is extraordinarily hot. In the midday sun someone breaks an egg on a paving stone in the street and watches it cook. Almost a hundred people come to watch, their faces all sweaty and oily, but they are so amazed by the sight that they completely forget about the heat. Only the children keep on crying loudly because the prickly heat on their heads, all pus now, is hurting terribly. At night, though the sun is gone, the earth pants for breath from the heat it has soaked up, and exhales it in gasps, steaming the bamboo beds and straw mats lying all over the streets. Actually it is as hot outdoors as it is indoors; so hot that even mosquitoes don’t come out.

  Yet in the countryside the crops are growing particularly luxuriantly; the leaves of the beans are a delightful green and tender pods have appeared. Old villagers, like dogs, stick their tongues out in the heat but they still keep saying: “It’s hot when it should be hot and cold when it should be cold; that’s the way for the weather to be.” The melons are growing nicely too. A small watermelon—thin-skinned, with red pulp and black seeds—only costs three cents. A peddler carries them through the lanes and streets, shouting as he goes along. Even in the early morning one feels greasy because of the heat, so someone in the troupe beckons the peddler into the courtyard and everyone sits around his basket eating melons. After they have eaten their fill they ask the accountant to pay the peddler and charge it to the “heat-prevention” account.