by Justin Hill
‘Then I’ll go to Beijing.’
She left Liu Bei alone and moved on to someone else. Another tout had captured the old woman and he was taking her outside. ‘Wherever you want to go I’ll get you a ticket,’ the man was saying, and the old lady was hobbling after. At that moment a shutter snapped open and tickets sales began.
It took forty minutes for Liu Bei to get to the front of the queue. All the time large confident men in shades pushed to the front and no one dared to stop them. Anyone who didn’t look rich and confident was cursed and pushed to the back of the queue. Liu Bei stayed tightly crammed into her space in the crush. She couldn’t stop anyone pushing in five spaces ahead, but she could stop anyone getting in front of her. If someone pushed in behind she didn’t even turn: that was for someone else to worry about.
When at last the push of bodies left her at the front Liu Bei bent down to the small hole and shouted. ‘Ticket to Shanghai!’
‘Hard seat or hard sleeper?’
‘Hard seat.’
‘There’s nothing for a week.’
‘OK.’
Liu Bei could just see the woman’s face: she was flicking the beads up and down an abacus and adding up the cost. ‘A hundred and forty-seven yuan.’
Liu Bei counted out the money and shoved it into the hole. She could hear more clicking as the woman checked the sum, then flicked a small cardboard ticket at her. Liu Bei grabbed it and squeezed out from the press of people, clutching it in her hand. It was a small thing to cost so much.
The day was sunny and warm all morning, but in the afternoon a wind rose and blew clouds in from the coast. Sun An sat in the doorway of his shop and watched them grow steadily more grey and foreboding. In the bamboo grass at the side of the shop the wind whistled a sad tune. Sun An decided he wouldn’t wait this time. He would go and see Peach and find out why she hadn’t come to see him. She’d said that she loved him. Didn’t that mean anything to her?
Sun An hadn’t been inside the factory compound before. As he walked under the gateway he bit his lip and thought what he’d have to tell his parents about the missing money. He wouldn’t go, he decided, not until he had some more money. Then he would go and see them and take Peach as well. They’d be happy their son had a girlfriend from the city. An educated and pretty mother for their grandchildren. They’d be too happy to say anything about the money. He wondered what he could do to pay for his sister’s school fees. He would go and visit his relatives and see if they would loan him the money. Some of them didn’t approve of educating girls in the family so he’d tell them it was for the shop.
Sun An’s mind jumped ahead and he imagined himself with the biggest video shop in town; with Peach as his wife and his sister at university in Xiangtan or even Changsha. He would take his parents to see the village that Chairman Mao was born in. His father would like that. He respected Chairman Mao, thought Mao was a strong leader.
Sun An stopped thinking when he got to the blocks of flats. He didn’t know which one Peach lived in so he went to one door and knocked. He could hear a TV inside, the shouts of a family: husband, wife, mother-in-law, child.
‘Who is it?’ a man shouted.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Sun An shouted back.
‘Who is it?’
‘I only want directions,’ Sun An tried again.
‘It’s a beggar,’ he heard a woman say. ‘Don’t open the door.’
‘Go away!’ the man shouted.
Sun An knocked again but there was no answer, just the random chatter of a television, so he kicked the door and went.
The wind was damp, the evening chill made Sun An’s skin pimple. He’d have to get some more coal bricks in, he thought as he sat on a doorstep and waited. At last someone came walking along the path. Sun An asked the man where Peach, Madam Fan’s daughter, lived.
Madam Fan, the opera singer?’ Da Shan double checked.
‘Yes.’
‘Up there. Fifth block, third floor, on the right.’
Sun An counted the blocks of flats and stopped at the fifth. Fifth block, third floor, on the right, he repeated to himself as he paced up the steps. Fifth block, third floor, on the right. Fifth block, third floor, on the right.
Sun An’s mantra became so hypnotic that he missed the right door and carried on up the stairs, still chanting. He was half way up to the fourth floor when he realised his mistake and turned to go back down. On the third floor landing there were two doorways. Fifth block, third floor on the right.
Sun An shuffled uncomfortably, third floor, on the right, he reassured himself as he lifted his fist and knocked.
Peach had soon learnt that there was only so much housework any single house could provide. A cockroach couldn’t even fart without her finding it and scrubbing the floor where it had been. After she’d scrubbed the toilet floor she sat down and stood up and sat down again; paced around the flat, sat down again. She was so bored that the idea of learning opera began to seem more and more appealing. When her mother played tapes of music she started to learn the words, when the videos were brought out she stayed sitting on the sofa and didn’t go straight to her bedroom.
Madam Fan turned to her daughter and was going to ask, but stopped herself at the last minute.
‘What?’ Peach asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘I can tell you wanted to say something,’ Peach said.
‘I was just wondering,’ her mother began, ‘I just thought how nice it’d be if we could sing opera together, that’s all.’
Peach didn’t say anything. ‘Do you want me to sing?’ she asked at last.
‘You know I do.’
‘OK,’ Peach said. ‘We can start tomorrow if you like.’
Madam Fan had begun to worry about her little plan because Peach was spending so much time inside, but now she’d agreed to learn opera she was more delighted than she’d ever been. If Peach sang opera in the mornings no man’s heart would be safe! The whole of Shaoyang Prefecture would be coming to her door. Maybe she’d even get a better man than Da Shan. One who was rich and not divorced. Someone high up in the Party.
They spent the evening going through the basic dance steps of Beijing Opera. Madam Fan clapped when her daughter got it wrong and laughed when she got it right. ‘Very good! Very good!’ she shouted. ‘Good good!’
Madam Fan told herself that the change in her daughter had come about because of the things she’d told her about her own past. Peach had learnt the lessons she’d meant to teach her. It wouldn’t be long till Peach and Da Shan started meeting in the parks for secret liaisons, holding hands and looking bashful when people walked past. Madam Fan imagined walking through the park and finding them both together! How clever.
Madam Fan gave her daughter two tea towels so she could practise flipping her long sleeves over her arms when she wore the proper opera gown, and stepped in to adjust the angle of Peach’s fingers. Peach repeated the steps with the tea towels, Madam Fan stood back and gave her the thumbs-up–‘Good, very good,’ she announced. ‘How about singing?’
Peach’s shoulders sagged although her feet remained in place. ‘I’m tired.’
‘OK,’ Madam Fan said. ‘Singing tomorrow,’ and then went into the kitchen and boiled a kettle for tea. The flames were blue and yellow, they wafted in an unseen draft. Where they caught the soot on the kettle bottom they sparkled red. As she stood and watched the glass panes rattled in the window frames. The wind was up. The autumn winds would strip the hillsides bare, comb the leaves off the trees.
Madam Fan was drifting off when she heard a knock at the door. It was a slow definite knock, like a warning. What could be the worst thing that could happen now, she thought, and imagined it to be her husband, come back. I’ll let him know if he can come back, she said to herself as she strode to the door. I’ll let him know what I think of all the things he’s been saying about me!
Madam Fan marched to the door and swung it open. Her body was tense and her lungs we
re full and ready–but it wasn’t her husband, it was a young man in cheap clothes.
‘Yes?’ she said, in a condescending manner, still ready to slam the door shut.
‘I want to see Peach,’ the man said.
Madam Fan looked at him. The man spoke with a country accent and there was something about him: he didn’t look like one of Peach’s old classmates and he didn’t live at the factory, she was sure. ‘Who are you?’ Madam Fan demanded after she’d made this summary conclusion.
‘I just want to see Peach,’ the man repeated. His movements were nervous, he was only a little bit taller than Madam Fan herself. She drew herself up and looked at him, almost straight into the eyes. His eyes would have been handsome if he’d had some presence about him, instead they looked shifty.
‘Peach,’ she called out imperiously, ‘there’s someone here to see you.’
Peach came out of her bedroom while Madam Fan stood at the door, on guard. Peach peered round her mother and there was a long pause. Madam Fan began to realise her daughter knew this man after all. When Peach spoke her voice was sullen. ‘I don’t want to see you,’ she said simply.
Sun An stepped forward and started to speak. Madam Fan had had enough of this, the boy sounded like a peasant; he was probably a worker down on the building site, she had no idea how he had got her daughter’s name and address–but she was going to make sure he never came back. She stopped him in his tracks and gave him some choice words. ‘I don’t know how you know my daughter’s name,’ Madam Fan declared, ‘but she doesn’t want to see you!’
Sun An tried to push past Madam Fan which made her red with anger. Spots appeared on her cheeks, prickled her skin, intimidating the man into silence. ‘Get out of here you filthy beggar!’ she screamed. ‘Stop molesting my daughter or I’ll call the police!’
‘But she loves me,’ he protested.
Madam Fan was cold with fury. ‘What do you mean she “loves” you?’
‘We love each other,’ he repeated.
One of Madam Fan’s neighbours opened their door and asked if they could keep the noise down.
Madam Fan tried to close the door on the impudent wretch, but he put his hand out and stopped her. ‘Peach!’ he called out, but Peach was helping her mother push the door closed. They managed to shove hard enough to get the latch to click and Sun An was left standing in darkness on the concrete stair landing. He couldn’t understand how she could stop loving him so quickly, after all the money he’d spent on her, after what had happened between them. He sat down in despair, but after a few minutes the neighbour opened his door again to check the noise had gone and saw him there.
‘Piss off!’ The man tried to kick him. Sun An leapt out of the way. ‘We don’t want any beggars around here!’
Sun An stumbled down the steps to the next landing, kept going down till he was out of the factory and down to the river.
For a whole week the cold wind kept blowing summer from the world. It blew over the dead reeds by the river, carried the mournful cry of geese that woke the residents of Shaoyang Number Two Space Rocket Factory from their dreams and made them shiver. Blankets were snatched from wardrobes and cupboards; they snuggled up under them, shut their eyes and wished they could pick up their dreams from where they’d left off. In the mornings they heard the wind and stayed curled up under their sheets, decided not to get up just yet, but to stay and enjoy the warmth a little bit longer.
As the cold wind kept blowing, the club of ballroom dancers started to thin and then fail altogether. It got to the point when only one middle-aged woman turned up with her tape recorder and waited, but no one else came. She put the music on, as if the noise would summon the others out into the crisp morning air: but none came. She would have to dance on her own.
The next morning even this last dancer decided to stay in bed and Madam Fan was out on her balcony to revel in their absence, but after what had happened with her daughter it felt like a hollow victory. Madam Fan took a deep breath and she found she was starting to cry, tears slithering down her cheeks like icy slugs.
The morning after the boy had come to the flat Peach had denied knowing anything about him, but Madam Fan could not believe it. Who’d ever heard a single hand clapping? The neighbours said they’d seen Peach with a boy who had a shop along the road into town. Armed with a sense of betrayal and righteous indignation Madam Fan had persisted till Peach’s defences had crumbled and the whole story had come out.
The meal, how he’d got her drunk, how he’d taken her back to his shop. How he’d had sex with her. Madam Fan listened and the anger against her daughter began to channel itself back towards the boy.
‘He forced you?’ Madam Fan gasped, feeling the cold weight of the past drain through her.
Peach wiped her nose, and looked inconclusive.
‘Did he or didn’t he?’ Madam Fan demanded.
Peach mumbled something and Madam Fan said she couldn’t hear.
‘Yes,’ Peach said at last, ‘he forced me.’
Oh heavens, Madam Fan had thought. Oh heavens.
Madam Fan still couldn’t understand how her daughter could have had a boyfriend who was a peasant. As if there weren’t enough boys in the factory for her. She tried to stop the sadness constricting her throat, but its grip tightened. She leant onto the balcony and cried for all the opportunities she’d missed in her life. Cried because her daughter was about to make the same mistakes. Cried because it felt so good to let it all out.
She would have to do something. She couldn’t let this ruin her daughter’s life like it had hers. The boy might start telling tales: no one would marry Peach if they knew she’d slept with a peasant. Her beautiful daughter would end up with an uneducated man like Madam Fan had done. She’d end up with a wife beater.
Madam Fan wiped her tears away: Peach would get the husband she deserved. She would make sure of that.
Now the cool weather had arrived Fat Pan found he could sleep again, but his wife tossed and turned. Her period had started in the night and after she’d got up and put a tampon in she knew she would never be able to get back to sleep again. She didn’t particularly want to go back to bed anyway: her husband was no great lure any more.
Fat Pan’s wife filled a kettle and switched it on, then she yawned so hard she had to stand still and wait until it had finished. She’d cleaned the kitchen the day before, she may as well clean the living room. She could get it all nice and tidy before her husband got up. It was easier when he wasn’t around.
Fat Pan’s wife put all the videos back into their cases and stacked them by the side of the TV. She tried to find the TV remote control, but it always seemed to disappear whenever needed. At last she found it down the side of one of the cushions on the sofa and put it back in its proper place on top of the TV. If only people could put things back where they belonged, she thought, then things wouldn’t get lost.
She gave an irritated sigh as she saw a piece of paper under the sofa and bent to pick it up. She’d assumed it was a scrap of some kind, but as she picked it up she realised it was an envelope. There was an address on the front: Zhu Da Shan, Shaoyang Number Two Space Rocket Factory, Shaoyang, 422000 and a smear of ink. Her husband must have forgotten to post it. She put it on the coffee table where he could see it, let him sort it out. She wasn’t his secretary.
The same morning Old Zhu got up and threw the blankets off and went down to his allotment. A cold autumn shower had dyed the leaves red. His last melon had been withered by the frost, the tomato plants were just withered stalks now, but at least his beans were still cropping. It seemed no time at all since it was Spring Festival, hardly a week since he’d planted his seeds, and now–here he was, in the autumn already.
Year by year old age comes closer.
Old Zhu bent to pick up a yellow leaf that had not survived the night. It’ll soon be time to start raking up leaves again, he thought.
The wind yanked at her clothes as Madam Fan caught a motor
bike-taxi to her brother’s house. The man was going too fast so she tapped him on the arm and shouted at him to go slower. She didn’t like motorbike-taxis at all. They wobbled and leant to the side when they went around corners
– but she told herself she was doing this for her daughter. Madam Fan liked to imagine that she’d give her life for her daughter.
Her brother was still at work, but his wife was in. Madam Fan sat uneasy on her sofa, while she waited for her brother to come home. After a few minutes she couldn’t wait any longer. ‘It’s about Peach,’ she began and her sister-in-law patted her hand in encouragement.
‘Yes?’
Madam Fan looked down at her hands. ‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Really–I had no idea.’ She sniffed. ‘She didn’t tell me–her own mother.’
‘What?’ her sister in law said.
‘That she had a boyfriend,’ Madam Fan hissed.
‘Isn’t that good?’
‘No!’ Madam Fan said, ‘it isn’t.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
‘He’s a peasant.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘She showed me some poems he wrote to her. His handwriting is terrible.’ Madam Fan rubbed her nose and sniffed. ‘I had no idea. But he took her out to an expensive restaurant … and he gave her beer to drink.’
Madam Fan’s sister-in-law sat forward.
‘He got her drunk. He took her back to his shop.’
There was a moment of breathless silence.
‘He took her back to his shop,’ Madam Fan said, ‘and he forced her!’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’ Madam Fan said. ‘People will gossip so! It’ll destroy her. It happened to me–I know.’
When Madam Fan’s brother came home he saw his sister sitting there. He sensed the chill in the room and put his police cap down on the table. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, sitting on the chair opposite his wife and sister. ‘What is it?’ he said again, ‘what’s happened?’
Madam Fan sprinkled tears like seasoning; sniffed as she retold the story, more elaborately this time and her brother listened and nodded. He was a policeman, he heard this kind of story every day: but he still had a grave look on his face. This was family.
