The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Go get one from the back.”

  How am I supposed to climb out of the cab to the back of the truck when he’s driving so fast? So I say, “Forget it.”

  He says, “Go get one.” He’s still looking at me.

  I say, “Stop staring at me. There’s no road on my face.”

  With this, he twists his eyes back onto the highway.

  The truck’s driving back in the direction I just came from; I’m sitting comfortably in the cab, looking out the window and chatting with the driver. By now we’re already the best of friends. I’ve found out that he’s a private entrepreneur. It’s his own truck. The apples are his too. I hear change jingling in his pockets. I ask him, “Where are you going?”

  He says, “I just keep driving and see when I get there.”

  It sounds just like what everyone else said. That’s so nice. I feel closer to him. I want everything I see outside the window to be just as close, just as familiar, and soon all those hills and clouds start to bring more friends to mind, so I shout out their nicknames as we drive by.

  Now I’m not crying out for an inn anymore. What with the truck, the driver, the seat in the cab, I’m completely at peace. I don’t know where the truck’s going, and neither does he. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because all we have to do is keep driving, and we’ll see when we get there.

  But the truck broke down. By that time, we were as close as friends can be. My arm was draped over his shoulder and his over mine. He was telling me about his love life, and right when he’d got to the part about how it felt the first time he held a woman’s body in his arms, the truck broke down. The truck was climbing up a hill when it broke down. All of a sudden the squeal of the engine went quiet like a pig right after it’s been slaughtered. So he jumped out of the truck, climbed onto the hood, opened up that upside-down lip, and stuffed his head back under it. I couldn’t see his ass. But I could hear the sound of him fiddling with the engine.

  After a while, he pulled his head out from under the hood and slammed it shut. His hands were even blacker than before. He wiped them on his pants, wiped again, jumped down, and walked back to the cab.

  “Is it fixed?” I asked.

  “It’s shot. There’s no way to fix it.”

  I thought that over and finally asked, “Now what do we do?”

  “Wait and see,” he said, nonchalantly.

  I was sitting in the cab wondering what to do. Then I started to think about finding an inn again. The sun was just falling behind the mountains, and the hazy dusk clouds looked like billows of steam. The notion of an inn stole back into my head and began to swell until my mind was stuffed full of it. By then, I didn’t even have a mind. An inn was growing where my mind used to be.

  At that point, the driver started doing the official morning calisthenics that they always play on the radio, right there in the middle of the highway. He went from the first exercise to the last without missing a beat. When he was finished, he started to jog circles around the truck. Maybe he had been sitting too long in the driver’s seat and needed some exercise. Watching him moving from my vantage point inside the truck, I couldn’t sit still either, so I opened the door and jumped out. But I didn’t do calisthenics or jog in place. I was thinking about an inn and an inn and an inn.

  Just then, I noticed five people rolling down the hill on bicycles. Each bike had a carrying pole fastened to the back with two big baskets on either end. I thought they were probably local peasants on their way back from selling vegetables at market. I was delighted to see people riding by, so I welcomed them with a big, “Hi!” They rode up beside me and dismounted. Excited, I greeted them and asked, “Is there an inn around here?”

  Instead of responding they asked me, “What’s in the truck?”

  I said, “Apples.”

  All five of them pushed their bikes over to the side of the truck. Two of them climbed onto the back, picked up about ten baskets full of apples, and passed them upside down to the ones below, who proceeded to tear open the plastic covering the top of the wicker and pour the apples into their own baskets. I was dumbstruck. When I finally realized exactly what was going on, I made for them and asked, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  None of them paid the slightest bit of attention to me. They continued to pour the apples. I tried to grab hold of someone’s arm and screamed, “They’re stealing all the apples!” A fist came crashing into my nose, and I landed several feet away. I staggered up, rubbed my nose. It felt soft and sticky, like it wasn’t stuck to my face anymore but only dangling from it. Blood was flowing like tears from a broken heart. When I looked up to see which of them had hit me, they were already astride their bikes, riding away.

  The driver was taking a walk, lips curling out as he sucked in deep draughts of air. He had probably lost his breath running. He didn’t seem to be at all aware of what had just happened. I yelled toward him, “They stole your apples!” But he kept on walking without paying any attention to what I had yelled. I really wanted to run over and punch him so hard that his nose would be left dangling too. I ran over and screamed into his ear, “They stole your apples.” Only then did he turn to look at me, and I realized that his face was getting happier and happier the longer he looked at my nose.

  At that point, yet another group of bicycles descended down the slope. Each bike had two big baskets fastened to the back. There were even a few children among the riders. They swarmed by me and surrounded the truck. A lot of people climbed onto the back, and the wicker baskets flew faster than I could count them. Apples poured out of broken baskets like blood out of my nose. They stuffed apples into their own baskets as if they were possessed. In just a few seconds, all the apples in the truck had been lowered to the ground. Then a few motorized tractor carts chugged down the hill and stopped next to the truck. A few big men dismounted and started to stuff apples into the carts. One by one, the empty wicker baskets were tossed to the side. The ground was covered with rolling apples, and the peasants scrabbled on their hands and knees like ants to pick them all up.

  It was at that point that I rushed into their midst, risking life and limb, and cursed them: “Thieves!” I started swinging. My attack was met with countless fists and feet. It seemed like every part of my body got hit at the same time. I climbed back up off the ground. A few children began to hurl apples at me. The apples broke apart on my head, but my head didn’t break. Just as I was about to rush the kids, a foot came crashing into my waist. I wanted to cry, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. There was nothing to do but fall to the ground and watch them steal the apples. I started to look around for the driver. He was standing a good distance away, looking right at me, and laughing as hard as he could. Just so I knew that I looked even better now than I had with a bloody nose.

  I didn’t even have the strength for anger. All I could do was gaze out at everything that was making me so angry. And what made me the angriest of all was the driver.

  Another wave of bicycles and tractors rolled down the hill and threw themselves into the disaster area. There were fewer and fewer apples rolling on the ground. A few people left. A few more arrived. The ones who had arrived too late for apples began to busy themselves with the truck. I saw them remove the window glass, strip the tires, pry away the planks that covered the truck bed. Without its tires, the truck obviously felt really low, because it sank to the ground. A few children began to gather the wicker baskets that had been tossed to the side a moment before. As the road got cleaner and cleaner, there were fewer and fewer people. But all I could do was watch, because I didn’t even have the strength for anger. I sat on the ground without moving, letting my eyes wander back and forth between the driver and the thieves.

  Now there’s nothing left but a single tractor parked beside the sunken truck. Someone’s looking around to see if there’s anything left to take. He looks for a while and then hops on his tractor and starts the engine.

&
nbsp; The truck driver hops onto the back of the tractor and looks back toward me, laughing. He’s holding my red backpack in his hand. He’s stealing my backpack. My clothes and my money are in the backpack. And food and books. But he’s stealing my backpack.

  I’m watching the tractor climb back up the slope. It disappears over the crest. I can still hear the rumble of its engine, but soon I can’t even hear that. All of a sudden, everything’s quiet, and the sky starts to get really dark. I’m still sitting on the ground. I’m hungry, and I’m cold, but there’s nothing left.

  I sit there for a long time before I slowly stand up. It isn’t easy because my whole body aches like crazy every time I move, but still I stand up and limp over to the truck. The truck looks miserable, battered. I know I’ve been battered too.

  The sky’s black now. There’s nothing here. Just a battered truck and battered me. I’m looking at the truck, immeasurably sad, and the truck’s looking at me, immeasurably sad. I reach out to stroke it. It’s cold all over. The wind starts to blow, a strong wind, and the sound of the wind rustling the trees in the mountains is like ocean waves. The sound terrifies me so much that my body gets as cold as the truck’s.

  I open the door and hop in. I’m comforted by the fact that they didn’t pry away the seat. I lie down in the cab. I smell leaking gas and think of the smell of the blood that leaked out of me. The wind’s getting stronger and stronger, but I feel a little warmer lying on the seat. I think that even though the truck’s been battered, its heart is still intact, still warm. I know that my heart’s warm too. I was looking for an inn, and I never thought I’d find you here.

  I lie inside the heart of the truck, remembering that clear warm afternoon. The sunlight was so pretty. I remember that I was outside enjoying myself in the sunshine for a long time, and when I got home I saw my dad through the window packing things into a red backpack. I leaned against the window frame and asked, “Dad, are you going on a trip?”

  He turned and very gently said, “No, I’m letting you go on a trip.”

  “Letting me go on a trip?”

  “That’s right. You’re eighteen now, and it’s time you saw a little of the outside world.”

  Later I slipped that pretty red backpack onto my back. Dad patted my head from behind, just like you would pat a horse’s rump. Then I gladly made for the door and excitedly galloped out of the house, as happy as a horse.

  (Translated by Andrew F. Jones)

  SU TONG

  (1963– )

  Born in Suzhou, Su Tong graduated from Beijing Normal University in 1984 and became an editor. A prolific author of nine novels and hundreds of short stories, he is best known for Wives and Concubines, a collection of four novellas published in 1990, later adapted for the screen by the director Zhang Yimou under the title Raise the Red Lantern, which was nominated for an Oscar for Best Foreign Film. He won the Man Asian Literary Prize in 2009 for the novel The Boat to Redemption. Reminiscent of William Faulkner and Gabriel García Márquez, Suoften writes about pain, torture, and desire in the south, where tradition crumbles like a house of cards and humanity struggles to keep its sanity, as depicted in the excerpt that follows.

  Raise the Red Lantern (excerpt)

  When Fourth Mistress, Lotus, was carried into the Chen family garden, she was nineteen; she was carried into the garden through the back gate on the west side at dusk, by four rustic sedan bearers. The servants were washing some old yarn by the side of the well when they saw the sedan chair slip quietly in through the moon gate and a young college girl, dressed in a white blouse and black skirt, step down from it. The servants thought it was the eldest daughter returning from her studies in Beiping; when they rushed forward to welcome her, they realized their mistake: it was a female student, her face covered with dust and looking unbearably exhausted. That year Lotus’s hair was cut short, level with her ears, and tied up with a sky-blue silk scarf. Her face was quite round; she wore no makeup; and she looked a little pale. Lotus climbed out of the sedan chair, stood on the grass, and looked blankly all around; a rattan suitcase was placed horizontally beneath her black skirt. In the autumn sunlight, Lotus’s slender figure appeared tenuous and delicate; she looked as dull and lifeless as a paper doll. She raised her hand and wiped the sweat off her face; the servants noticed that she wiped the sweat not with a handkerchief but with her sleeve; this minor detail made a deep impression on them.

  Lotus walked over to the edge of the well and spoke to Swallow, who was washing yarn. “Let me wash my face. I haven’t washed my face in three days.”

  Swallow drew a pail of water for her and watched her plunge her face into the water; Lotus’s arched-over body shook uncontrollably like a waist drum played by some unseen hands. Swallow asked, “Do you want some soap?” Lotus did not speak, and Swallow asked again, “The water’s too cold, isn’t it?” Lotus still did not speak. Swallow made a face in the direction of the other maidservants standing around the well, covered her mouth, and laughed. The maidservants thought this newly arrived guest was one of the Chen family’s poor relations. They could tell the status of nearly all the Chen family’s guests. Just then Lotus suddenly turned her head back toward them. Her expression was much more wide-awake after washing her face; her eyebrows were very fine and very black, and they gradually knit together. Lotus gave Swallow a sidelong glance and said, “Don’t just stand there laughing like a fool; wipe the water off my face!”

  Swallow kept on laughing. “Who do you think you are, acting so fierce?”

  Lotus pushed Swallow away violently, picked up her rattan suitcase, and walked away from the well; she walked a few paces, turned to face them, and said, “Who am I? You’ll all find out, sooner or later.”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY everyone in the Chen household learned that Old Master Chen Zuoqian had taken Lotus as his Fourth Mistress. Lotus would live in the south wing off the back garden, right beside Third Mistress Coral’s room. Chen Zuoqian gave Swallow, who had been living in the servants’ quarters, to Fourth Mistress as her private bondmaid.

  When Swallow went to see Lotus, she was afraid; she lowered her head as she called out, “Fourth Mistress.” Lotus had already forgotten Swallow’s rudeness, or perhaps she just did not remember who Swallow was. Lotus changed into a pink silk cheongsam and put on a pair of embroidered slippers; the color had returned overnight to her face, and she looked much more amiable. She pulled Swallow over in front of her, examined her carefully for a minute, and said to Chen Zuoqian, “At least she doesn’t look too dreadful.” Then she spoke to Swallow. “Squat down; let me look at your hair.”

  Swallow squatted down and felt Lotus’s hands picking through her hair, carefully searching for something; then she heard Lotus say, “You don’t have lice, do you? I’m terribly afraid of lice.”

  Swallow bit her lip and did not speak; she felt Lotus’s hands, like the ice-cold blade of a knife, cutting into her hair, hurting her slightly. Lotus said, “What’s in your hair? Smells terrible; take some perfumed soap and hurry over and wash your hair.”

  Swallow stood up; she stood there motionless, with her hands hanging down. Chen Zuoqian glared at her. “Didn’t you hear what Fourth Mistress said?”

  Swallow said, “I just washed my hair yesterday.”

  Chen Zuoqian yelled at her, “Don’t argue about it; if she tells you to go wash, you go wash. Careful I don’t beat you.”

  Swallow poured out a pan of water and washed her hair under the crabapple trees. She felt she’d been horribly wronged; hatred and anger pressed on her heart like an iron weight. The afternoon sun shone down on the two crabapple trees; a clothesline was strung between them, and Fourth Mistress’s white blouse and black skirt were waving in the breeze. Swallow looked all around; the back garden was completely quiet, and no one was there. She walked over to the clothesline, spat right on Lotus’s white blouse, then turned and spat again on her black skirt.

  CHEN ZUOQIAN WAS exactly fifty years old that year. When Chen Zuoqian took Lotus as his
concubine at the age of fifty, the affair was carried out in a half-secretive manner. Right up until the day before Lotus came through the gate, the First Mistress, his first wife, Joy, still didn’t know a thing about it. When Chen Zuoqian took Lotus to meet her, Joy was in the Buddhist chapel counting out her rosary and chanting the sutras. Chen Zuoqian said, “This is my First Mistress.”

  Just as Lotus was about to step forward and greet her, the string broke on Joy’s Buddhist rosary, sending the beads rolling all over the floor; Joy pushed away her amboyna chair and knelt down on the floor to pick up the beads, mumbling all the while, “It’s a sin, it’s a sin.” Lotus went over to help her pick up the beads and was pushed lightly away by Joy, who just repeated, “It’s a sin, it’s a sin,” and never once raised her head to look at Lotus. As Lotus watched Joy’s fat body crouching down on the damp floor to pick up the Buddhist beads, she covered her mouth and laughed silently. She looked at Chen Zuoqian, who said, “All right, we’re going.”

  Lotus stepped over the raised threshold of the Buddhist chapel, took Chen Zuoqian’s arm, and asked, “Is she really a Buddhist? Why’s she chanting the sutras at home?”

  Chen Zuoqian said, “A Buddhist! Ha! She’s just too lazy, hasn’t anything to do, so she plays at being a Buddhist, that’s all.”

  Lotus was enthusiastically welcomed into the rooms of Second Mistress, Cloud. Cloud had her maid bring out watermelon, sunflower, and pumpkin seeds, and several kinds of candied fruits for Lotus. The first thing Cloud said after they sat down concerned the melon seeds. “There aren’t any good melon seeds around here; I have someone buy all the melon seeds I eat in Suzhou.”

  Lotus spent some time cracking melon seeds at Cloud’s, cracking and eating until she was quite bored; she didn’t like snacks like that, but she could hardly show it. Lotus stole a sidelong glance at Chen Zuoqian, hinting she wanted to leave, but he seemed to be intent on staying a little longer at Cloud’s and acted as though he didn’t see Lotus’s expression. Lotus inferred from this that Chen Zuoqian was particularly fond of Cloud; then her gaze couldn’t help lingering on Cloud’s face and figure. Cloud’s facial features had a kind of warmth and delicate grace, even though she couldn’t hide the tiny wrinkles and the somewhat noticeable slackness of her skin; in her movements she had even more the appearance of a cultured young woman from a good family. Lotus thought a woman like Cloud could easily attract men, and women would not dislike her either. She very quickly addressed Cloud as Elder Sister.