Etako held her younger sister, Yoko, tightly in her arms, sitting by their mother’s side. She wanted to cry, but no sound came from her throat.
That afternoon, it started to rain—heavy, black rain. Down with the raindrops came all the dirt and dust that had been forced up into the air during the shock. Everywhere the air smelled burnt. It was as if a huge, black pan lid covered the whole city of Hiroshima.
The black rain washed Etako and her younger sister until they were completely drenched. They had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the black rain. They did not even try to evade it, allowing the rainwater to flow down their limbs and bodies, down their faces. Yoko was too nervous and frightened to cry; she held tightly to her elder sister’s neck, wanting to never let go.
Dark, black clouds hung above the scorched ground washed by black rain. Every house was reduced to piles of brick and rubble. There were a few people digging into the piles, looking for their relatives or their belongings, for anything they might be able to find. The rain continued to fall, pouring down from the sky. The heat of the rain hitting ash created smoke where it fell. Ugly water blisters mushroomed here and there on the ground. Black rain ran down along the damaged buildings, leaving black slashes across the once-white walls. Etako looked at the black smears, feeling sad and hopeless.
Her whole world had suddenly changed. What had happened? What would happen now? No one could say for sure. She felt the weight on her back and shoulders: her younger sister, Yoko, was lying quietly now on Etako’s back, black rainwater dripping from her face onto Etako’s neck, cold and itchy. After quite some time, Yoko put out her little finger and pointed to the black marks down the wall. In a childish murmur she said, “Rain, rain, black rain, Yoko is afraid of the rain . . .”
Etako and Yoko rested at the remains of their damaged house, sitting there listlessly and waiting for their father to come home. The black rain, after falling heavily and fast, stopped suddenly without warning. After the rain, the sun came out again. It was another sunny morning in Hiroshima. But Hiroshima was no longer there.
Yamamoto Etako was no longer there, either—at least, not as she had been before that morning. Long after the event, Etako learned that the black rainfall, although it hadn’t lasted very long, had caused the survivors lifelong injury; deadly injury. This rain would cause them endless pain thereafter.
Etako and Yoko have been afraid of rain ever since.
Their father never did return home; he was gone forever. He had been teaching in his school downtown. The bomb exploded in the air 577 meters above his head. The temperature at the center of the explosion was over 6,000 degrees; at that temperature everything evaporates, leaving only a trace of ash and dust behind.
And so Etako assumed the responsibility of taking care of her sister. They lived in the temporary tent encampment built for the survivors. At the remains of their house, she found the tiny yellow daisy flowers that were the first plants to grow after the bombing of Hiroshima. The daisies struggled their way from the broken bricks and ash, weak and sickly flower buds reaching for the breeze. Days later, the flowers blossomed in the field, viable, fresh, and beautiful. Soon after, in the shade of their wall another daisy flower blossomed. Then another near the wall with the black rainwater marks.
She had wanted to get married, with her younger sister accompanying her. But Etako’s blood was found to have been affected by the radiation from the bomb. There were obvious changes in it, and her health would always be in question. Yoko, however, seemed to remain healthy; no abnormalities were found after several medical checks. The sisters appreciated this blessing of God over their family. It was a miracle of life: not everyone who survived the disaster would turn out to be sick.
In honor of Kamo, their brave dog who’d saved Yoko during the bombing, they started to raise a second Kamo—and then after him, a third. They raised one Kamo after another; the dogs had become a constant part of their life together.
Yoko grew up and got married. The man’s family was wary of his deciding to marry a Hiroshima girl, a survivor of the bombing. Yoko had had to provide them with all the documents and medical reports, had endured all the strict examinations and evaluations. In Etako’s eyes the scrutiny had been an insult to her family’s dignity. But for the sake of Yoko’s happiness and her future, they allowed it.
Yoko got married joyfully. She left the family and moved to her new home in Nagoya with her new husband. She was married to an honest and dependable man. Shibata Shoji was a bus driver, a man of duty. He and Yoko came frequently to Hiroshima to visit Etako. Shibata was kindhearted and easygoing. Two years later, their son was born; they named him Kamo. The infant was found to have some blood abnormalities and was eventually diagnosed with leukemia. Throughout his childhood he was often sickly and was frequently in the hospital. The medical reports said that Kamo was sick because of his mother’s radiation exposure. This would be an extremely frequent finding in the generation of babies born to survivors of the bombing.
Shibata Shoji did not say anything about Kamo’s leukemia to his family. But Yoko decided the she must leave the Shibata family. She didn’t want to bring into the world another child who’d been poisoned from the bombs. After Yoko left the family Shibata, Kamo had a new mother—his stepmother Shizuko—who gave birth to two healthy sons, Kikuo and Kiyoo.
Yoko kept the family name of “Shibata,” because it was also her son’s family name. She wanted always to have the same name as her son.
6
The new semester started and my husband’s work transferred him from Hiroshima to Tokyo. When we were preparing to move, as I was cleaning and packing our things, I found in the bottom of a drawer the dog collar I’d once bought for Kamo. I couldn’t find an appropriate time to bring it to my next-door neighbors, but I couldn’t bear to throw it away. So I decided to bring it with me to my new house in Tokyo; maybe one day I would have a dog myself.
When we settled down in Tokyo, I was eager to meet our new neighbors in the apartment next door. They were a newly married couple. They both sported hair dyed yellow; they both wore stylish curvy jeans. Both the man and the woman liked to wear big earrings. When I’d run into them at the elevator or our doorstep, they never took the initiative to greet me unless I opened my mouth and said hello first. The couple seldom even spoke to each other—each was always looking intently at his or her mobile phone, clicking on the keypad, busily sending messages or e-mails to someone else.
I told my husband that I still thought frequently of the Yamamoto sisters in Hiroshima and wanted to write something about them and for them.
My husband said, “What could you possibly write? They’re just two elderly sisters and an old dog, and the dog is dead. The sun sets also, and the two sisters are still living happily and enjoying their life. Isn’t that all?”
I said, “It is that simple, indeed, a simple story. But hearing it from your mouth, in your words, it does sound like nonsense.”
Written in Hiroshima in 2002
Translated by Qin Quan’an
Xiao Lei
Xiao Lei was born in Heyang County, Shaanxi Province. Xiao Lei has published collections of lyric poetry including Adolescence, The Land Reluctant to Part, The Graceful God of Fragrance and Happiness, and a collection of narrative poetry The Porter’s Love. His collections of journalism include Wild Gild Geese Flying South, In the Distant Place, The Olympics of Literature, and Personal Experience in Hollywood. He has published a collection of novellas, Persistent Unrequited Love: A Trilogy, and a novel, Lunar Craters, as well as the nonfiction release Jin Jie. His recent publications include the lyric poems “Singing of Energy Resource” and “Mandate of Heaven,” and journalism pieces “Prince of the Desert” and “The Remote Apricot River.” He has won a dozen awards for literature and his writings are featured in several anthologies.
His calligraphy has been displayed in a number of exhibitions; published in newspapers, magazines, and albums; included in various collections; and wi
dely collected throughout the world.
9
XIAO LEI
Who Would Go to the Scaffold
Folks who lived in this area preferred to sing the words in a play rather than speak them. Therefore it was said that they were “singing in a play” rather than “acting in a play.”
Now and then Liang Xiangqian wondered why this was so. Was it because Shaanxi opera, which had been popular from generation to generation for thousands of years, so touched people’s hearts with its charming tunes? Or was it because not everyone could act in Shaanxi opera, and therefore it was a comfort to those who could sing a few lines but couldn’t act? His conclusion was that both of these explanations applied.
Indeed, what made this particular Lantern Festival so special was that it included a performance of Shaanxi opera.
In the late afternoon on the fourteenth day of the first lunar month, when the sun was about to set, the master actors came by appointment, one after another, from nearby villages and assembled behind the stage of Liangjia Village. In this area, when any village planned to put on a Shaanxi opera performance, it was unnecessary to invite the county or provincial theatrical troupes, because every village had its own master actors. When a performance was arranged, master actors from nearby villages and communes would assemble at the village, and actors would be available for every type of traditional opera role—including dan (female), sheng (male), jing (painted face), mo (middle-aged man), and the clown. Since the plays were all traditional ones following fixed conventions, there was no need for rehearsal. As soon as the various roles were allocated by the director, the performance of a complete series could start immediately with the beating of drums and striking of gongs.
The director of the performance that night was Hei Lao from Liangjia Village. At over thirty years of age, he was an expert farmer and master actor, especially known far and near for playing the female role. He had learned every line of about a hundred plays.
The performance for tonight, he decided, would be Eight Garments. He chose this play to go first because it was splendid. It included every type of role—sheng, dan, jing, mo, and clown—and there was lots of action, like when the evildoer was executed by being cut in two at the waist, and when the heroine cut her own throat, and when Bao Wenzheng cut off the criminal’s head with his dragon-head hay cutter, and the judgment at Yama’s palace. In short, every unique skill and stunt in traditional Shaanxi opera was included in Eight Garments, and Hei Lao knew that this play would enjoy high popularity far and wide. If they performed this play first, everything would get off to a good start. Afterward, when other villages wanted to give a performance, they would certainly invite Hei Lao’s troupe.
Now, behind the stage, Hei Lao was assigning roles to the appropriate actors. He assigned the aged male role of Yang Lian, the young male role of Zhang Chengyu, the painted-face role of Bai Shigang, the aged clown (the constable), and the young clown (the mayor). Naturally, the young female role of Du Xiuying belonged exclusively to Hei Lao. When all these roles were assigned, Hei Lao realized to his surprise that the master actor who’d play the aged squire Ma Hong hadn’t shown up. It turned out that he’d contracted a serious illness and was confined to the kang for days. Who would play Ma Hong?
Hei Lao was worried. Everybody was busy preparing. The man in charge of the costume trunks was distributing costumes among the actors, and those who had their roles were beginning to get ready. Some were putting on their costumes, and some were applying face paints. The role of the aged squire was not a major one, but still the show couldn’t go on without it. What would Hei Lao do?
Worse still, starting in the late afternoon, a great tidal wave of theatergoers had rolled in from far and near. By dusk, the theater was throbbing with people, forming a clamorous atmosphere like crashing waves. Two large oil lamps had been hung high above the stage, and people gazed at the stage with expectant eyes as if waiting eagerly for the sun to rise. He couldn’t disappoint them!
In fact, the villagers had been discussing the performance among themselves for months. There had been a drought the previous summer, and men and women wearing wicker helmets, in bare feet and with their trouser legs rolled up, had knelt in front of the Black Dragon Cave to pray for rain. The old Dragon King had manifested his power, and the rain had spilled down. Thanks to the saturating rain, which lasted for a whole day and whole night, the dying cotton plants were brought back to life, and the seedlings of corn, broomcorn millet, millet, black soybean, and green gram sprang up like mushrooms from the parched fields of wheat stubble. There was a great sense of relief among the desperate farmers, as if they had been rescued from a sea of fire. They had vowed to give serialized theatrical performances to thank the gods.
Since the tenth day of the first lunar month, the whole village had been busy preparing for the grand performance. Opposite the stage, a cloth awning was put up and banners were hung depicting heavenly officials riding on auspicious clouds to give blessings. Offerings were laid out on the square table; the smoke of incense curled up above them. Inside the awning was the shrine of the Dragon King. The villagers had placed him in the center, believing that this god of clouds and rain loved seeing a play as much as the villagers did. The performances at this Lantern Festival were to be held especially in the Dragon King’s honor.
The expectations, from both man and god, put Hei Lao under tremendous pressure. Everything else was ready; all that was needed was the actor. Where could he be found? Even if he could be kneaded with clay, it would take time!
Hei Lao was at his wits’ end, as desperate as an ant on a hot pan. At the back of the stage, two boys—Liang Xiangqian, the younger, and Wang Shiyun, the elder—watched the developing dilemma. The boys were both learning drama from Hei Lao during the winter holiday and were now assigned to act walk-on parts. They saw their master’s desperate position and felt as anxious and helpless as he did.
All of a sudden, Wang Shiyun, taking a deep breath and blinking a pair of big, round eyes, made a request to Hei Lao. Timid as a rabbit, he said, “Master Hei, if there is no way out, let me take over.”
“Go away! Get out of here!” scolded Hei Lao. Unable to solve his problem and seeing the reckless boy overreaching himself, he burst with rage. “You can’t even remember the simple line ‘It’s a real pity.’ How could I count on you to act in a new play?” To cover up his own helplessness and anxiety, Hei Lao didn’t hesitate to poke the poor boy’s sore spot. Liang Xiangqian couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for his friend.
Indeed, although he had big eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a strong constitution, Wang Shiyun was not good at his studies or writing Chinese characters, nor was he fit as an actor. He would often forget the text he’d been taught. Even if you started him out with a hint—like “Man’s nature at birth is good,” which is the first line of Three-Character Classic—he wouldn’t remember the next line (“Man is born good”). Even if “Zhao, Qian, Sun, Li,” the first line of The Hundred Surnames, was prompted, he would forget the next—“Zhou, Wu, Zheng, Wang”—even though Wang was his own surname.
As for learning to write Chinese characters, he could not even hold a writing brush firmly and properly. To determine whether he had learned this skill, his teacher used to sneak up on him and pull up his brush all of a sudden, staining the boy’s palm black. Whenever this happened, Wang Shiyun would get a runny nose, and he would wipe his nose with the back of his ink-stained hand, turning his face as black as the flowery-faced role in Beijing opera.
In their drama class with Hei Lao, Wang Shiyun, with his thick and powerful back and shoulders, his big ears and head, was asked to play the aged male role in A Reluctant Farewell. But once on the stage, he could remember only the first few words—“It’s a real pity”—and forgot all the rest of the lines. Motionless and speechless in the center of the stage, he had blinked his black, beanlike eyes and stood looking like a big sack of grain.
At first, Hei Lao had taught him word by word and sung in de
monstration: “It’s a real pity that my daughter has a hard lot, married a bad man named Xu Sheng.” But even after Wang Shiyun had been taught dozens of times, he could still remember only the first few words, forgetting all the rest. Hei Lao had flown into a fury and given the poor boy a resounding slap on the face, hitting him so hard that the boy’s black skullcap flew off and tumbled about on the ground. Liang Xiangqian, who was standing by and learning to play the young male role of Xu Sheng, had found the scene rather amusing—but he dared not laugh out loud. Instead he quickly took to his feet and pretended to go to the lavatory.
Since Wang Shiyun couldn’t manage the major roles, he was given minor ones. One time, the boy had played the role of an old domestic servant. He had tottered onto the stage and introduced himself by saying, “I’m eighty-two years of age . . .” As he spoke he tried to stroke his long, white beard, only to find he had forgotten to wear it—and so he ran backstage to fetch it. It was at that point that Hei Lao lost all hope of turning the boy into a good actor, and the mentor reassigned the boy to a silent role.
After that, Wang Shiyun played the dog in Killing a Dog as a Warning to His Wife, and the tiger in Wu Song Kills a Tiger. He went wrong again in playing the tiger when he forgot the right time to die. His head covered with a yellow robe as the tiger, he fought a fierce duel with Wu Song, a hero of great valor. They fought hand-to-hand from stage left to stage right, from upstage to downstage, repeatedly without end, until Wu Song got so tired that he threw himself upon the stage floor. But even then Wang Shiyun didn’t give up, instead lifting the robe a bit to peep at what was happening. Out of anger, the drumbeater at the side of the stage kicked him on his bottom so hard that the tiger went head over heels and rolled into the wings. Such had been Wang Shiyun’s ignominious experiences in the theater.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 22
