The scroll becomes reshaped by the new sheet, the gift of her daughter. Her daughter bought the sheet to demonstrate her filial piety. She wasn’t thinking of the portrait. She only hoped to add some color to her mother’s room. If using such a sheet to wrap the portrait is in any way a mistake, the mother must take the blame.
In previous years she used the denim sheet from the kang as the bottom layer and covered the portrait with a hand-dyed door curtain. Since the curtain has many holes, she is glad to replace it with the new sheet.
The mothballs smell stronger and fresher than the tobacco leaves. She repeatedly sniffs the scent. It reminds her of the smell of the man outside when he stayed with her.
“Lay the portrait in the sun in a hurry!” she orders herself. But the man’s interruption agitates her. The benign face of the ancestor, however, restores her calm.
Pulling the denim sheet from the kang and throwing it on the rope in the yard, she stretches it flat from one end to the other. Then she’s suddenly filled with shame and pulls the sheet down rapidly. The sheet was rinsed just a few days ago. It is tracelessly clean. The light shines through it. Nevertheless, the thought of the man causes her to pull it down.
Her ex-husband slept with her on this sheet for years, but she never felt shame when she dried the portrait in the sun. She probably wouldn’t have felt this way today, either, if her new friend hadn’t come knocking at such an untimely moment. Thinking of what they did on the sheet, she throws it on the bench under the eaves and considers what to replace it with.
After a while, her eyes light up. She takes out the sheet she has saved in the closet for her son. Though her son barely visits her, it is the ideal choice. He is the rightful descendant, and so he’s qualified to line up with the portrait. He will also be the new chief if he doesn’t leave the village.
So she completes the drying procedure with the portrait in the middle, her daughter’s sheet under it, and her son’s on top.
After the drying process is finished, simply and securely, she covers the gate with the denim sheet to resist peeking outside. Having completed her task, she sits on a stool in the shadows, enjoying the sunshine with the ancestor.
She drowses under the dry heat of the sun, but then quickly awakens, worrying that the wind will blow the portrait off the rope. Besides, the time in the sun must be carefully calculated, for the scroll is fragile.
Footsteps hasten to the outside door. This time she simply does not answer. There is a gentle knock. Then the man moves back and begins to think aloud:
“Xishou, what happened today? I want to talk to you about a good thing . . .” After a quiet moment, he murmurs softly, temptingly, “Your hands, your fine hands . . .”
She is half-seduced; her hands under her knees begin to tremble out of control. But she calms herself by sucking her fingers in her own mouth. If it were not for the secret hanging on the rope, she would open the door.
She again hears his steps. Suddenly frightened, he yells at her, “What’s on your mind? Don’t be nervous, you don’t—”
She interrupts, “I’m OK! Everything is fine! Why don’t you come later tonight?”
“As long as you’re OK . . .” He leaves in relief.
After he leaves, her mind relaxes and stretches out. The covered portrait with the two layered sheets flies in the wind. But she sees them separately. The top sheet is her son’s—he soars lightly and joyfully like a free flag. The portrait is heavy—he breathes deeply and wheezes. The bottom sheet . . . but her mind is cut off from involving her daughter—it’s improper. Stop it! She tells herself to close her eyes at once and calm her restless heart. She will always relate someone to the portrait on the antique paper. It was her father-in-law years ago, then her ex-husband. In the past the portrait symbolized power. Then the portrait and power became less closely connected. Sometimes it’s only a portrait, but sometimes, it is the spirit of the entire village.
The man outside also has a different family now. He used to be a teacher in the village school and then became accepted as a son-in-law living in his wife’s home. From that he became a member of the village. She is willing to associate him with the portrait, but he has already become confusedly entangled in her mind. It was wise to put her son’s sheet on top so that she would think first of her son. All things change in the world; you don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Another day the villagers may be keen to worship their forefathers again, looking eagerly for the face of the ancestor. Then the keeper of the portrait will be the one who boards the altar first and gives orders to everyone in glory.
Thinking of such a scene, she opens her eyes in pleasure and almost jumps into the room, ladling out a basin of cold water. The cool wash delivers the appropriate sobriety. Cleansed from fatigue, her face glows as fresh as a new bride.
Her father-in-law had been the keeper of the portrait for three years when she became a bride. So her wedding was much grander than that of any other woman in the village. She clearly remembers her father-in-law perched solemnly in the sitting room, receiving gifts and congratulations respectfully, holding a long-stemmed Chinese pipe.
The old man died with the same satisfied smile, because he was sure his offspring was still the keeper of the portrait. It’s too bad that her ex-husband left home and forgot it. She has now charged her son with being the keeper. She has faith he’ll be mature enough to undertake the responsibility when she’s no longer able. After a few years she’ll need to advise him about the portrait. Hopefully the important obligation will help him grow up quickly. Regrettably, her daughter-in-law can neither know the glory of her ex-husband’s keeping it nor learn how her mother-in-law has fulfilled the trust of protecting it all her life.
A few slight cracks appear in the portrait in the June sun, and the shadow moves to the east. The duration of the ritual drying grows shorter, and thus must be done more carefully, year by year. She had meant to roll the scroll on the rope, but the appearance of a crack makes her give up that dangerous idea. With the help of the stick, she carries the portrait with the sheets, and then slowly puts all three of them on the kang to cool off.
The sun burns away the mothball smell. The sharp odor of tobacco leaves remains. The tobacco leaves better protect against bugs, but there are no longer raw tobacco leaves at home. Her ex-husband would be the proper one to ask for some from the neighbors; for her, a woman alone, to ask would cause too many rumors. With no fresh leaves available, she rolls the old leaves into the scroll to prevent the bugs and then puts a few mothballs in the sheet her daughter sent. Then she wraps both the sheets and the portrait in the red-silk cloth.
The ritual is complete when she finally encloses the portrait. After taking the denim sheet off the gate and laying it on the mattress, she wearily lies down on the kang. As usual, she thinks about whether the portrait is an image made up by the painter or a true picture of the ancestor. After displaying or drying the portrait, pondering that question always invites her to fall into a long, sweet, satisfying sleep.
That night, the man comes as promised.
She has already forgotten her daytime ritual reservations when she opens the door to him. She feels only eager expectation. The man takes her hands the moment he enters. She quickly becomes as soft as mud, almost losing her ability to walk. He lifts her from her knees straight to the kang. His hands grope for the lamp cord to turn the light on, but she begs him: “Don’t turn on the light.”
He agrees and sits in the dark. Her hands clutch his shoulders as soon as he turns his face to her. He falls to the kang and she immediately throws herself on his chest. But the man remains as calm as the face of the ancestor in the portrait. She can’t understand why he is so restrained.
“Are you trying to make me lose my mind?” she babbles.
“Ha!” He grins at her and then touches her bosom. “You closed the door tightly today.”
“It was broad daylight.” She tears open her clothes and her body is quivering.
The more sh
e quivers, the calmer the man remains. It is as if, facing a deliciously cooked dish on the table, he ponders whether it might taste bad when it’s either too cold or too hot. He waits for just the right moment, caressing her to make her almost come. Then he takes his hand away and says:
“Let’s talk!”
“What? Can’t you wait until after . . . ?” She is gasping.
“Now is the best time!” He’s made up his mind.
“Do this first and then . . .”
“Talk first!”
In a few words he tells her that one of his old coworkers bought out of his job and went into the antique business. As a result, he’s now so rich his wallet is as thick as a brick, and he even owns a car.
“I came to your home today, but your door was closed so tightly.”
“I won’t stop you if you leave with him.” Sobbing, she feels aggrieved and insulted. Then she sobers up. “You should save your words for your wife and kids.”
“I’m not talking about leaving.”
“I won’t take one penny, even if he gives you a hundred, as long as you stay with me.” She takes his hands again in love.
“Don’t rush. I still have other things . . .”
She brushes his hands off and sits up in annoyance, buttoning her gown.
He senses he is pushing her too hard. He again caresses her fine hands, licking every fingertip skillfully. And she again fills with sexual desire and moves into his arms. But he goes blank, wondering whether to talk with her frankly before or after the sex. Feeling his hesitation, she tells him he can speak directly. There is nothing they can’t talk about with each other.
Neither feels good about the way things are.
He goes straight to the point. “Do you keep an old portrait?”
“Yes . . . no, oh . . .” She’s reluctant to leave her state of happy desire, painfully unwilling to acknowledge his all-too-plain question.
“It costs a fortune!”
“What fortune? I don’t need a fortune.”
“It’s a piece of wastepaper in your hand!”
Her quivering ceases. The delicious high coming from her fingertips falls off quickly and vanishes. He continues to lick her fingertips and tenderly throws himself on her on the kang. She remains motionless as a corpse. Dropping her fingers, he tries to find her lips with his. But it is useless. She turns her face, avoiding his kiss and making noises as if she were going to vomit. Then she pushes him away with all her strength. As before, he chins into the middle of her bosom, but it doesn’t help. He thought the prospect of a large fortune would excite her, but her mind is elsewhere.
“You keep the portrait!” he asserts.
“Nonsense!”
“You keep it!”
“Fuck you!” she responds angrily.
“There is a portrait of a male ancestor; the female one is lost.” He ignores her anger.
Finally she sits up. Bang! She turns the light on and moves to the edge of the kang. She sits like the ancestor in the portrait with her hands on her knees and her feet on the ground. But her face is grim and twisted.
“What are you doing? Let’s sleep together and talk lazily.”
“Get out! Your blind wife is waiting!”
“OK, no damn portrait, let’s have sex, OK?”
She stands up solemnly and tidies her disheveled gown.
He sighs deeply in regret, striving for a last chance with his soft tone. “That’s their ancestors, not yours, nor mine. It is literally a portrait worth nothing.”
She is hurt and shocked. Such words would disturb her if she did not remember the reverence in her father-in-law’s face and that his son’s sheet once wrapped the portrait. Without knowing why, she lies, “He took the portrait when we divorced. It’s the only thing he asked for.”
“You are stupid! That thing is probably worth more than all your other possessions!”
“It’s his ancestor, after all, no matter how valuable it might be.”
He sits up, disappointed. But to keep his relationship with her, he begs her to come back to bed.
She leans on the door frame, holding her elbows. Her defiance glows in her eyes.
He smiles bitterly. “My goddess, you are my ancestor. You cannot leave me like the portrait did.”
She bursts into laughter and points outside. “I’m no longer in the mood tonight.” She is satisfied with his last words—he called her his ancestor.
They walk to the gate, one behind the other.
His wife with cataracts is groping along the village paths. She scolds in a small voice as she walks along, “You are a shame to my ancestor, you are a shame!”
He slips away from his wife hurriedly. Hearing his retreating steps, his wife erects her ears and chases after him with twittering steps. “I am the one who is ashamed of my ancestor!”
Huang Xishou stands beside the doorway for a long while. She is annoyed by the half-blind woman’s open insult to the ancestor. Then she thinks, but she is the one who truly belongs to the village.
She makes up her mind. She will break with the man whose family name is not from the village. She will find a local man who respects the ancestor.
Translated by Li Meng
Hong Ke
Hong Ke was born Yang Hongke in 1962 in Qi Shan County, Shaanxi Province. He graduated from the Chinese department of Shaanxi Baoji Normal College. Hong Ke is a member of the Shaanxi Writers Association and now teaches in the School of Liberal Arts of Shaanxi Normal University. He went to Xinjiang Autonomous Region in 1986 and lived in Kui Tun for ten years.
Hong Ke started publishing his work in 1983. He has written about five million words, encompassing six novels including The Rider to the West and Big River, and eight collections of novellas and short stories, including The Pretty Enslaved Sheep, Riding Over Tian Shan Mountain, and The Sun Sprouts. He has received many literary prizes, including the Lu Xun Literary Award, the Feng Mu Literary Award, the Zhuang Zhong Literary Award, the Novel Award of China Novel Society, and awards from several magazines.
13
HONG KE
One Family in the Desert
Before dawn, the old man went out the gate of his house with a shovel on his shoulder, heading onto the road toward his farm field. His grandson followed, holding an orange juice bottle. The bottle, as long as the Child’s arm, almost touched the ground as if he were dragging a sheep or a dog. Two years before, the Child’s father had brought the bottle of orange juice from the town over a hundred miles away. Grandfather, with hands as strong as bear paws, quickly broke the nylon string around the bottle neck and replaced it with cowhide. All the local cows and dogs had begun to wear such cowhide strings around their necks. The cowhide string became the symbol of village property, and wearing their cowhide strings, the animals would come back to the village by themselves.
Grandfather knew his grandson. A cowhide string was fastened around his bottle. His drinking water now also came from bottles instead of directly from the well. The Child preferred to drink from the bottle, and adults let him do what he liked. Cows and dogs also drank their water from the bottle: the Child poured water from the bottle into the feed trough. The bottle bounced in his arms, causing the water to slosh inside. The eyes of the cows shone like diamonds in the manger. The bottle was heavy, filled with water, and the Child shifted it from hand to hand. The heavy bottle made his arms grow in length. Grandfather said, “Longer arms mean you’re growing up. Don’t worry, work harder!”
The Child was happy and content while working. But Mom complained to Dad, “He should go to school; he should use his head.” Dad told Grandfather that going to school was good. Grandfather laughed so gleefully his mustache trembled and his eyes disappeared into his wrinkled face. The house, too, was laughing. Its windows quivered like the flapping wings of birds. The white poplars in the yard clapped their leaves against the sky.
Mom was drawn from the front of the house into the backyard. Grandfather and the Child lived in back, while
Mom and Dad lived in front. There was a big yard in between. Every family in the desert had a big yard surrounded by either bricks or fencing. A few years ago, Dad and Mom had gone to the distant town to do some business. They seldom came back home, so the front house stayed quiet. Dad came home occasionally, while Mom almost never did.
Dad told Grandfather that the town was hectic and life there was busy, and Grandfather believed it to be so. “Life in town should be busier than in the village,” Grandfather responded. “Busier life is better!” Then he added, “But don’t work your wife too hard!” He glanced at Dad, implying that a man should be busier.
The Child came to understand this many years later, but Dad didn’t understand it. Nevertheless, he nodded his head and said yes. He did this habitually, whether he understood what people were saying or not. No wonder Mom thought he was stupid. Dad could manage with village things, but in town Mom was better.
Hearing Grandfather’s happy laughter, Mom joined them. “Tomorrow we will take the Child with us to town.” Mom never missed such a good opportunity.
Grandfather said coldly, “You will send him to school next year, won’t you?”
Mom was shocked by Grandfather’s sudden change. Her struggles in the business world had not prepared her for the old man’s sudden turn. She stood in silence for a few seconds. “He should go to primary school next year. This year he’s supposed to go to kindergarten. He is six, but in town, two- or three-year-old kids go to kindergarten.”
“My grandson can get his kindergarten education from me.”
Mom kept silent, but with a smirk on her face. Dad started talking. The Child remembered that Dad always said something in a stubborn way, and Mom always gave him such opportunities. Local people called Dad’s way of talking piao liangqiang—“stubborn talking.” It was always the same. He burst into a rage, then turned his head sideways and asked Grandfather: “How can you give him a kindergarten education? Kindergarten education must be provided in school.”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 29
