The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  The peddler takes a rest in a shady corridor at the back of the kitchen, where there is actually a little breeze. He feels good and it makes him talkative, so he starts telling stories about the melon fields. These are all scandalous stories, such as the one about a farmer catching a couple fornicating while he was keeping watch in the melon fields, or a young girl who wet her pants from eating too many melons. Someone reports this to the troupe leader, and the peddler nearly has to forfeit his earnings from the melons. Yet on the whole he has had an easy day; he has sold two basketfuls of melons without having to endure much of the heat. Now that he has finished a good day’s work he ambles out of town leisurely, carrying his empty baskets on a shoulder pole. On his way back there is a well every mile or so, the water is sweet and cool, and a drink of it drives the heat away. The peddler thinks: There’s no reason why people living on the main street should suffer so—crowding together under this heat, without even the shade of a tree where they can catch the breeze, and working strict hours whether the sun is high up in the sky or not. But the girls in town are really nice, with such fair complexions and soft skin; the men in town are fortunate indeed.

  The townsfolk, on the other hand, pity the villagers who cannot even find a place to hide under the burning sun. Their shoulders and legs are covered in blisters, and their skin peels off layer after layer. The sun also makes the color of their clothes fade and they never wear anything the least colorful. What a monotonous life! But the melons are really something. The inexplicable thing is why the couple at the middle school keep their door shut even in this burning weather. It would be understandable if it were only at night, but is it necessary to keep the door shut in the middle of the day too? Not unless they can’t hold out until nightfall; imagine doing that when the sun is high, it must be excruciatingly hot! And yet though they are at it day and night, there is never any sign of them having a baby. The woman looks like an unmarried girl, her tummy flat, her waist and buttocks narrow, and her skin soft and supple.

  Even after the hottest period is over and the calendar says that it is autumn, the heat lasts another eighteen days.

  AFTER THESE EIGHTEEN burning days, the theatrical troupe sends some of its members to a major company in a southern seaside city to learn new routines. Since only principal dancers and actors are allowed to go, the two of them are left behind, still practicing every day, and still doing things the wrong way. She has grown even taller and bigger, and in comparison he, who has not grown at all, looks as though he has actually shrunk. She feels that she is becoming too big, that her body has become a burden. When she takes a wash and looks at her unusually full breasts, she is shocked and worried. She doesn’t know why they have grown so big, and she doesn’t know what will happen if they go on developing. She even suspects that this may be a strange illness. The thought makes her head swell, and she is so scared that she wants to cry. She studies every single part of her body, all so big, and she becomes afraid of herself. She knows that she is too big, but there is no way she can make herself smaller. In the company of the troupe’s slim and refined girls she can’t help feeling lowly and inferior because of her size. Besides, she never thinks before she speaks and so her words always seem incoherent or out of place. Her intelligent companions all call her Big Soppy. Fortunately she is someone who doesn’t think much, so her feelings of inferiority and fear do not affect her health in the slightest. She is energetic, and her appetite is huge. At night when she climbs into bed, she hugs herself with her own arms, feeling extremely fond of herself. And then she falls soundly asleep, like a baby, without the least care in the world. In her sleep she frequently makes noises with her mouth, the sounds of a pampered child.

  The burden for him is his maturity. At heart he seems a fully grown man, filled with shameless desire so mean and base that it frightens him. At first he did not know which part of his body was the seat of such desire; if he did, he would surely be determined to destroy that part of himself. And then one night he wakes up at an inappropriate time, and it suddenly dawns on him where his sin originates; to him it is all sin. But by this time he has realized how impossible it is to destroy that part of himself, and what’s more, because it is such an important part he begins to treasure his desires as well. He does not understand why this is so.

  And now the ones who had gone to learn new routines have come back, wearing stylish clothes and carrying the latest in traveling bags. They get off the ferry, step onto the unsteady gangway, and make their way to the bank. Both of them have come to welcome the returning team. She has not succeeded in pushing her way to the front, and so has not been able to lay her hands on a single bag, but she’s excited and happy all the same. She either walks in front of the group as if she is clearing the way for an army, or walks at the back as though to make sure that everything is all right, all the while babbling about irrelevant things. No one answers her; no one hears her. Yet if it were not for her and her prattle the occasion would not have been so lively.

  He walks in the center of the group, next to the principal dancer who always plays the male lead in dance dramas. The principal dancer puts one arm around his shoulders. Though he never attracts much attention he and the principal dancer are the best of friends, and the latter confides in him. On the way from the pier to the theater, the principal dancer says to him:

  “You’ll get a new role.”

  The role is the young Red Army soldier in the pas de deux “Hard Times.” It is impossible to find someone as small as him and technically as brilliant. In other troupes this role is always danced by a woman. The role seems custom-made for him; it suits him so perfectly that no questions are raised and he is cast for it. It is all smooth sailing except for one thing—there are many lifts in the dance, and in one particular section the old soldier is required to carry the young one on his back while performing difficult steps, showing his robustness and strength. At this point his major defect is revealed. Though he looks small he is incredibly heavy. The “old soldier” just does not have the strength to carry him; he bends under his weight, unable to perform a single step. Moreover, neither of them has had practice in lifts in pas de deux, and as a result they do not know how to make the lifts easier. He clings to his partner’s back with all his might, and though he feels embarrassed and apologetic it doesn’t help. When he clumsily jumps off his partner’s back time and again, his partner can’t help complaining:

  “You really are too heavy.”

  He turns red, countering: “You’re just chicken!”

  Anger darkens his partner’s face, and a confrontation seems unavoidable. The principal dancer tries to smooth things over, saying:

  “I’ll have a go.”

  The principal dancer walks through the steps carrying him on his back, but though he succeeds in doing this he can’t catch his breath afterward. Then all the others come up to him and take turns walking around with him on their backs, laughing. Finally he has had enough, and struggles to get back on the ground, giving the person under him a hard push. This at last puts an end to the joke on him.

  In the evening he skips dinner, staying in the studio to improve his balloné. He knows that the initial jump is all-important: if he could get on to his partner’s back with ease, what follows would be no problem at all. But if he were to exhaust himself trying to cling to his partner and fail to coordinate his breathing with the steps, there’d be trouble. Besides, he also wishes that he could take things more easily.

  After a short while, she too comes to practice. She practices every day after dinner as if she thinks it’s good for digestion. Thus she can eat more; she loves eating and has a great appetite. Today she is wearing a new peach-colored leotard, one of those the travelers have brought back with them for distribution to the troupe. This is one of the regular leotards used by the big companies, with a very low neckline, especially at the back where it reaches almost down to the waist. The elasticized welts around the legs are too tight, and cut deeply into her thighs.

/>   All of a sudden he asks her amicably to help him rehearse the lifts in the dance. She has not heard him speak so mildly to her for a long time, and besides, she has had a stupid urge to show off since that afternoon, so she readily consents. First of all he takes her through the paces; but that afternoon she had stood on one side watching them rehearse and taken note of every movement, so now she does every step correctly. He then goes to the electrician for a tape recorder and the music tape, speedily locates that section of the music, and starts the tape. He climbs onto her back, and strangely, she doesn’t feel burdened at all. On the contrary, the exuberant music makes her very happy. He performs his movements on her back, feeling secure; he had not thought that her back would be so broad, firm, and strong. They go through the paces like a dream, and at the end of it she’s panting only a little, as is normal. Before he speaks she says eagerly:

  “Let’s do it one more time!”

  This time they take it from the top. She has learned all the old soldier’s steps and her rendering is none too bad; she actually expresses the heightened emotions rather well. When it comes to the lift, he gets on to her back with perfect ease. She has strong, powerful arms. Since she makes light of the burden, his confidence increases and his movements become bolder and more adroit, thus making it even easier for her. Gradually they become familiar with the way each other moves, and he finds that the understanding between them is better than what he had achieved with his original partner. After going through the dance five or six times, they become at ease with the movements and dance without hesitation, forgetting the technical difficulties and the need for mental preparation before the lift. Every gesture of the arm and every movement of the leg seem second nature to them. And the music is uplifting; every repetition makes it more intimate and more beautiful. She has forgotten that her role is that of an old Red Army soldier, and thinks that she is just playing herself; he has also forgotten that his role is a young soldier, and thinks that he is just playing himself. Every movement has become their own, an expression of their feelings and instincts. They have forgotten themselves in the dance; their images flash across one mirror onto another until they are surrounded by images of themselves. They actually feel that they are beautiful, and they never feel better about themselves than when they dance. Besides, there is also the music.

  As he climbs on her back once again he smells the heavy odor of sweat; he feels the firmness of her back on his chest, exposed by the low-cut leotard, naked, warm, and wet. His equally warm, wet chest rubs against her back, making a noise, and the friction hurts a little. He can feel the strong movements of her waist with his knees and her rounded muscular shoulders and thick neck with his hands. As she pants, her neck alternately tenses up and relaxes. Her hair, soaked in sweat, is plaited and fixed to the back of her head with hairpins. The tip of her plait brushes against his nose, and he can smell the strong odor of oil and sweat while a cool hairpin pricks his cheek. All his senses are aroused, freed from the dance techniques, and he tenses up once again. But this is a different kind of tension; instead of suppressing all physical and emotional sensations, now every sense and every feeling is strained, fine-tuned, and activated. Dancing has become for him just mechanical movements, unworthy of the slightest attention. He is carried on the back of a burning body; a burning body is moving energetically under him. Even the tiniest breath is communicated to his most sensitive nerve, igniting his hope, which is erupting like lightning and fire.

  The light and heat are passed on to her. She cannot feel anything besides the scorching brazier of red-hot coal on her back. The heat has become unbearable; and yet when he gets down and the burning sensation disappears, she feels an emptiness on her back and yearns for him to be up there again. When he gets back up on her back she feels that her heart and lungs are all on fire and wishes to roll on the ground to extinguish the flames scorching her body. But the music and the dance won’t let her lie down. She seems to be controlled by a mighty and invisible will, repeating the routine over and over again, lifting him onto her back, then casting him to the ground. Suddenly she feels completely at ease; her panting stops and her breathing is synchronized with the tempo of her movements. Her body moves of its own accord.

  The movements of their bodies are perfectly coordinated. He feels easy and confident jumping onto her back, never making the slightest mistake, as though that is the place where he truly belongs and the jumps which he performs on the ground are just expressions of his impatience to be up there again. Her mind is only at ease when he is on her back; the heavy burden pressed tightly against her gives her great pleasure. They seem glued together in all their movements, inseparable and intimate. He rolls on her back, jumping up and getting off, and the friction is dear to him, quenching the thirst of his flesh and soul. And the weight of his whole body, with all the rolling, jumping, and rubbing, is but a caress to her. His movements obviously hurt her; her back bends under the weight and her legs shake, but the dance goes on without a single missed step. The music is repeated continuously, interminably, and becomes more and more exuberant, never allowing a moment’s rest.

  It is now late into the night, and someone roars at the studio, cursing them for disturbing his sleep; someone else opens and shuts a window with a loud bang. But they are oblivious to all these noises. The music envelops their world, an exuberant world totally out of control.

  Finally someone turns off the electricity mains. The light suddenly goes off and the music stops; around them all is dark. The lights in the courtyard are turned off too, and there is no moon in the sky. It is pitch-black, like the bottom of an abyss. He was on her back when their movements stopped with the music, frozen. Thirty seconds pass before he lands on the floor. Without uttering a single word, they run away in fear. The strange thing is they manage not to run into each other or fall down in this darkness, but just disappear like puffs of smoke.

  (Translated by Eva Hung)

  ZHAI YONGMING

  (1955– )

  Born in Chengdu, Sichuan, Zhai Yongming is a leading female poet in contemporary China. She began writing when working in the fields after high school. In 1984 the publication of her poem cycle “Woman” brought her to national prominence. She lived in the United States for several years and once worked as a coat-check girl. After returning to China, in 1998 she opened the White Night bar and hosted a salon, à la Gertrude Stein in Paris, that has become a center for literary and art events in her native city.

  Premonition

  The woman in black appears in the dead of night

  And wears me out with one furtive glance

  It dawns on me all fish will die this season

  And every road cuts across the path of birds in flight

  Darkness drags off mountains like a corpse

  Barely audible are the heartbeats of nearby thickets

  With human eyes

  Those giant birds look down at me from the sky

  In a barbarous air mum over its secret

  Winter heaves with a masculine consciousness of brutality

  I’ve been unusually calm

  Like the blind, so that I see the night in the daytime

  With an infant’s innocence, my fingerprints

  Reveal no more proof of sorrow

  Footsteps! A voice is growing old

  The dream seems to know, inside my own eyes

  I see an hour that forgot to blossom

  Weighing down the twilight

  Moss in mouth, they beg at meanings

  That fold smiles tacitly back into their bosoms

  As night shivers in spasm, like a cough

  Stuck in the throat, I have left this dead cavern.

  Hypnosis

  she tells meone’s life

  is sealed

  in sleep

  her gesturestone of voice

  and the whole world’s life

  exhaust me profoundly

  for a moment

  her breath of orchidinto

 
my pineal gland

  dozing off

  I see the butterfly from a previous existence

  returningor not

  the first half of my life

  battles in my sleepshe discovers

  my soul

  has takenthe melatonin of fin-de-siècle

  The Language of the ’50s

  Born in the ’50swe speak

  Just this language

  Nowadaysit’s become comic routines

  Served on platescourse after course

  At banquets

  Those red flags, leaflets

  Violent imagesthose

  Belts buckled with clenched fists

  And bloodthirsty slogansall stiff and fallen

  Those victimizers and victims

  Will never return

  The love of an entire generation castrated

  Will not return

  Born in the ’50sbut

  We no longer speak those words

  Just as we don’t ever again say “love”

  All articulations, phrases, and tones

  Agile as they age at dinner tables

  They don’t understandtheir youthful hair

  Sparkling under the sun like soap bubbles

  Floating around me

  They lower their heads in concert

  Thumbs busier than other fingers