“Well, until then, here’s a small token of my regard. Do take it.” Duckweed gives her dear aunt 200 yuan.
“To see you again is enough for me. Why should I need money? I have no use for it.”
“It’s not just for you. And besides, I’d have no idea what to buy for you.”
“Oh, then I’ll accept it, my child.”
Auntie puts the money into the front of her garment. The roller starts up again.
“Duckweed Nan is here! Duckweed Nan is here!” People shout to each other across another courtyard.
“I’m coming. I’m coming!” Duckweed answers.
“You’re not used to this mountain path. Let us help you up.”
“I can manage. I used to be able to carry a bag of beans up here. I think I can do it!”
Nan does have some trouble climbing the steep yard. She takes her steps one by one, with difficulty because of her high-heeled leather shoes. Li stops shooting and offers her a helping hand, but Nan refuses to take it.
“Duckweed Nan! Duckweed Nan!” Local people stand in line, jumping and clapping, shouting their welcomes. A tall boy reaches her first and grasps her hands.
“Who are you?” Nan asks. “You’re not a member of this brigade, are you?”
“I’m Doggie. I was only this tall when you were here in the brigade.”
“Doggie—you always had a runny nose, didn’t you?”
“Um . . .” Doggie grins shyly.
More helping hands reach her, and Li continues to shoot the colorful scene with Nan’s video camera.
The village is called Little Clear Creek. Zhang knows it like the back of his hand. He was surprised last night when he heard Nan’s story; such a big event happened here twenty years ago, and he didn’t know a thing about it.
Back at the date tree, when Nan was wondering if the child might be dead, he was quick to find the words to comfort her—but in truth, he was not so sure the little creature could have survived for very long.
Treat a dead horse as though it’s alive. Zhang considers the present situation. Now that Nan has committed her story to his care, he believes he should do his best to help her. Besides, he feels especially responsible for this young woman. For many reasons, the northern Shaanxi folk are closely related with the Beijing cadres. When Zhang was the party secretary of the town, it was he who brought them by donkey cart from the county town into the village, and it was he who saw them off, one by one, when they left to return to city life. Naturally he has a deep, lasting affection for these young people.
The very arrival of Duckweed Nan in Little Clear Creek is a blessing. A festival atmosphere hangs in the village. Shouts echo throughout the valley, and Nan’s name is spreading quickly to every family. They treat her as they would their own daughters; every face turns from gloomy to smiling. She is the daughter of the whole village.
Zhang is especially excited—but the excitement mingles with other feelings in his heart. Being somewhat sensitive, he avoids the bustling scene and falls a few steps behind the crowd. For one thing, he fears that he cannot bear the commotion. For another, he has already started working out the matter that Nan entrusted to him. When it comes to one’s private affairs, he thinks, a secret inquiry is better than a public one.
Zhang enters the village by himself.
Pillar’s Wife is standing high above the courtyard, watching. She sees Zhang and greets him with a question: “Uncle Zhang, have you come because of Duckweed?”
“Oh, well, yes.”
“Why has she come here?”
“No special reason. She’s now a higher-up at a company in Beijing. She’s checking out our village, uh, to possibly build a date-processing factory.”
“I don’t believe that. Who on earth would throw money into this poor valley? She must have come for something else.”
“Not everyone is like you. Believe me or don’t; I don’t care.”
“She came for something else, I’m sure,” Pillar’s Wife mutters to herself.
Zhang shoots her a dirty look and continues on his way.
The heavy roller squeezes along the millstone. Duckweed’s old aunt pushes the roller around along an invisible track. But she fumbles for the money her niece gave her—more money than she’s ever had in her life. As the locals would say, it’s burning a hole in her pocket.
The pushing suddenly ceases.
“Who’s there?” Without turning her head, she withdraws one of her hands from her waist. “Who is so kind as to visit me?” Her voice sounds like a warm smile.
“Hillock Zhang, from the Zhang River.”
The rolling resumes, lightly, with a helping hand from the man.
“Hillock Zhang, have you come with Duckweed?”
“I have little business to do in town. I’ve come for two reasons. First, to accompany Duckweed, since she’s a newcomer. Second, to see if you are still alive, my old friend. In the fifties—the last century!—just after the Liberation, you were the model beauty around here!”
“Age and a beard haven’t made you mature at all. Where will I hide my old face if the young people hear your nonsense?”
“Well, then, let’s get down to business. I must ask you for a definite answer, Double Blessing’s Mother.”
“So serious you seem to be. How can I know anything so serious?”
“Serious or not serious, you treat me as if I were speaking nonsense. How would you prefer me to behave?”
Double Blessing’s Mother smiles broadly. Anyone who remembers her younger days can see that she is pleased through and through. “OK,” she relents. “What is the matter? Just tell me.”
“Aha. We are both aging, and half our lives are gone. We could grow used to anything and not be alarmed. Don’t you agree?”
“Would you please get to the point instead of beating about the bush?”
“It’s a long story,” Zhang says. “About twenty years ago, exactly the third year when the Beijing cadres settled down in our brigade, right at the season when the dates turned red, someone may have found something by the road just outside the village. Did you ever hear of anyone who might have seen or heard of anything like that?”
“Like what?”
“A baby.”
“A baby?” Duckweed’s aunt gasps. “How sinful! Who would ever leave a baby out there?”
“You see, I even warned you, and you’re still alarmed. Don’t worry about who did it. Our focus is the baby itself. Do you know if anyone picked it up, even among our neighboring villages?”
“Oh, I can see what you’re getting at. You want to implicate Duckweed in this, don’t you? You’ll never do that. Duckweed is innocent—pure through and through. I couldn’t care less about what you say unless you first take that back.”
“That would be out of the question, Double Blessing’s Mother. To tell you the truth, it is Duckweed who has come by air and bus to our village to search every corner for the baby. Her conscience won’t let her bury this forever in her heart. Besides, she can no longer bear a child, you know.”
Double Blessing’s Mother thinks for a minute and says gravely, “I really don’t know. I would tell you if I knew. How pitiful this is; Duckweed, my poor child!”
“Think again. Try to remember.”
“There’s no need for that. Do you think someone who found a child in the village could keep it a secret for so long and from so many people? No way!”
“This time spent with you has been useless. Such idle talk, and all for nothing!” Zhang feels discouraged. “I’m going.”
Duckweed Nan arrives at a clearing where three cabins sit facing a soil cliff.
The cabins were built originally for the cadres to settle down in the country. After the cadres returned to the city, one cabin was used as the village hall, and the other two became classrooms of the village school.
Now all the villagers, old and young, are gathered here in front of the cabins. The village head—a middle-aged man, about the same age as Duckweed�
��has decreed that every household bring their best food here to make an impromptu potluck reception for Duckweed. In the center of the courtyard is a large stone table, heaped with red dates, peanuts, boiled corn, squash soup, and more. The village head himself has carried a huge watermelon and cut it open for everybody to share.
As the school hour draws to a close, pupils begin to crowd like herds of sheep, laughing and playing, adding to the festival atmosphere.
Soon everyone takes a seat. One of the wives suggests that Duckweed should sing a song for everyone, and the others all agree. The local people remember what a good singer Nan always was.
Duckweed feels a little nervous. She’s excited but also hesitant, as if she were a stranger here.
The village head interrupts to say, “Our Duckweed is out of breath after a long journey. Let’s give her some time to prepare. I will sing for you first!” At the top of his lungs he begins to shout the song “A Widower Cried for His Deceased Wife.”
When he finishes, Duckweed stands up and smooths her dress. She says, “I will sing ‘Wandering Chants’ for you. This is my favorite song. I first learned it in Little Clear Creek, and I later returned to it in the army. I often sang it in the office. These days I sing it at karaoke with friends. It always reminds me of northern Shaanxi. It reminds me of all of you.”
Duckweed clears her throat and begins to sing. Her earnest face and voice spark a memory for the locals—that of an educated girl with two braids in a Red Guard uniform.
Wild geese southward flying,
Fly faster, faster, if you can.
Carry my message to Beijing, saying
That we miss our leader Mao Zedong.
Just then Hillock Zhang arrives and immerses himself in the excitement of the scene. The melody and the sincere way Duckweed sings seem like an invitation. The singer winks at him, and he motions for her to continue. Zhang retreats to the edge of the crowd, bending down to wipe his moist eyes with a sleeve.
The village head approaches and entreats Zhang to rest in the large cabin. Zhang waves a hand to dismiss the invitation. Determined to help Uncle Zhang feel more comfortable, the village head pulls a stool from beneath one of the other guests, and Zhang finally agrees to be seated.
The singing continues.
Zhang catches the village head by his arm and motions for him to squat down next to the stool. “Sir, do you know anyone who had a child in this village, more or less around this time of year, in the fall of 1971?”
“Fall . . . ’71 . . . no, definitely no one. The winter of 1970 was the field reconstruction campaign, and each person worked in his or her own area. How could someone have a child? Even if they wanted to, there’s no way!”
“Don’t answer so quickly. Think carefully. Try to remember! Let’s go through every household, one by one.”
“Oh, including those with married women?”
“Sure.”
“Well, in that case, Pillar’s family, of course. Asiatic Plantain was born that year in the fall. There was a bumper harvest of dates that year, you’ll recall.”
“Plantain! Ha ha, Plantain!” That’s it! An image flashes through Zhang’s mind—a memory of Duckweed taking pictures of the plantain grass under the date tree. He knew someone would know something about the child. It couldn’t have happened without someone being aware of a trace, some clue. Zhang realizes that Plantain, now married, is none other than the short waitress in the guesthouse of the town. To think—Duckweed’s daughter was there right in front of Duckweed’s own eyes!
Patting his forehead, satisfied with this breakthrough, Zhang rises and gives the village head a grateful smile before taking his leave. He decides to go talk to Pillar’s Wife.
The village head remains hovering next to the stool, puzzled by the whole matter.
Nan continues singing, one song leading into another. She is completely absorbed in the performance, showcasing her passion for and devotion to the place and people before her. She feels herself giving in to the atmosphere of celebration.
Kneeling, standing, always adjusting to capture the best possible angle, Literate Li snaps away with his camera.
“Pillar’s Wife, please come inside with me; I have something important to say to you.”
Pillar’s Wife watches the outside world before her cabin. She has remained at home in the yard, not joining the crowd to watch the performance. Something is stirring in her mind, though she’s not sure what it is. Startled by the sudden interruption, she turns to find Mr. Zhang, an elder, which puts her at ease.
“Whatever you have to say to me, just say it here, outside. That way I can enjoy the view while you speak.”
“As you wish.”
Mr. Zhang crouches down into a low talking position.
Pillar’s Wife, who should squat for the sake of politeness, remains standing, apparently unconcerned with social graces. What’s more, she slowly turns her body away from Mr. Zhang, so that her side is toward the elder. She ignores the suggestion of haughtiness that this posture implies.
Zhang snorts. “I don’t mind haughtiness. I’m a straightforward, uncomplicated man. Regardless of how you behave, I’m going to tell you the truth.”
“It would be better if you didn’t speak. I’m not willing to listen.”
“Whether you listen or not, dear Pillar’s Wife, I must speak. Is your daughter, the one who’s married and living in town, named Asiatic Plantain? It’s an easy question.”
“Yes, why? What’s the matter? Is it wrong to name her that?”
“Hold on, I mean no criticism. But I must know: is Asiatic Plantain your own flesh and blood, or are you not her biological parent?”
“What does that really mean, ‘flesh and blood’? Who is to say?”
“I knew it.” Zhang is energized by the answer. He moves to stand up.
Before Zhang can fully rise, Pillar’s Wife turns to face him directly, one hand on her hip and the other pointing in Zhang’s face. She scolds: “Hillock Zhang, I’ll spare your old wrinkled face, but only because you’re a few days older than me; otherwise you’d be about to lose face quickly in Little Clear Creek. I myself would tear to pieces anyone who dared to imply what you’re implying. I tell you, this daughter of mine is my own flesh and blood.”
She pauses to remember.
“I, too, was pregnant for ten months and had a painful delivery.”
The stream of abuse that follows arouses no hatred in Zhang. He returns the old woman’s curses not with a curse but with a smile, saying, “Pillar’s Wife, you are a woman, a mother. You must know how much a woman suffers in losing a child. It’s torture for a mother to miss her child for so long, never knowing what has become of her.”
“That’s not my business. If she could tear herself away in the past, she should be strong enough to stay away from the child now.”
“Pillar’s Wife, your claim betrays the truth even if you don’t want it to. The baby who was delivered twenty years ago by Duckweed is your Plantain, whom you must have adopted as your own at that very same time.”
“Uncle Zhang, stop abusing me with these vile accusations, this evil scheming! Go ahead and try to prove it. I’ve done and said nothing to suggest that I am not the biological mother of Plantain.”
Before Zhang can respond, Pillar arrives home from the hilltop with a hoe slanted across his shoulder. He shouts his greeting across the courtyard as he approaches. “Uncle Zhang, what a blessing! What wind blows you to this narrow and remote place?”
“Pillar, my friend. The road is available to all who seek it. I come on behalf of Duckweed.”
“Yes, I was out working the fields when I heard that Nan has come, and I ran home at once to see her.”
“Pillar, I’ve been talking to your wife about something quite serious. Now that you’re here, I’ll tell you.”
“Don’t bother, Uncle Zhang. I know all about it—about Duckweed.”
“You know?” Zhang is caught off guard.
Pillar’
s Wife tries to restrain her husband lest he disclose everything, but her husband waves a signal to stop her, saying, “Sleeping cannot bother the eyelid. My darling, it’s time to tell the truth.”
The wife grows angry and slumps on the ground in protest.
Pillar slowly begins to tell the whole story.
“Some twenty years ago, my wife became pregnant, but we lost the baby to a miscarriage. I wrapped the baby’s body carefully with straw and went out in the dark to the hillside to bury it. On my way back to the village, I noticed a young woman on the outskirts, placing something under a tree. She heard my footsteps and hurried away. I was curious about what she was doing out there by herself and went to look. As I got closer, I saw that she’d left a newborn baby, wrapped tenderly in an army uniform. I picked it up, and it cried out in need.”
“And so you named the baby Plantain because she was found on a cluster of plantain grass, is that right?”
“Right, though it was my wife who named her. She was still reeling from our own loss when I came home with the baby. Immediately she took the infant to her breast and began feeding her. As soon as the baby was settled in her arms, she stopped crying. It was uncanny! Later my wife named the child Asiatic Plantain, for the reasons you already know. Uncle Zhang, my wife loves the girl as only a mother can, and I love her, too. We never really believed we were not her biological parents. Yet somehow, a part of me suspected that someday her birth mother would come to find her.”
“Duckweed never said she wanted to take your daughter away. Rather, she said she’d like to come to see you.”
“I’ve been thinking it through,” Pillar says, “and I’ve come to a conclusion. A married daughter is like water poured out, as they say. And Plantain could easily have another mother in addition to the one she has always known. Isn’t that something good? To be honest, our conditions are so poor in the country that the child grew up as a shepherd, without even a day of schooling. I’m afraid Duckweed will be disappointed with how we’ve cared for Plantain.”
Pillar’s Wife breaks in angrily. “Ridiculous! Bringing a child up is not an easy job; dreary nursing and endless cleaning make for hard work and a toilsome life. Don’t try to shift the blame to me, damn you!”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 15
