This time, Grandma Guifang called for her grandson, who was growing taller each day, and spoke to Sister Yinxiu about the hardships of bringing up children in old China. The older woman said that things were much easier now than they had been in the past, and she chastised her daughter-in-law for not being grateful for her blessings. Seeing her son looking at her imploringly, Sister Yinxiu could not insist any more. All she could do was bury her face in her quilt and weep for a long time, heartbroken.
Sister Yinxiu had the guts to fight against the gossip in the village, but she dared not oppose Grandma Guifang, because that meant opposing all the elderly in the clan, all the village leaders, and the invisible, intangible force that controlled the destinies of all the people of the village. Didn’t she want to work in the pigsty and live in the village anymore?
Old Mo suggested that she consult her brother, the commune’s pig-purchasing agent, about their dilemma. If he could speak for her as her brother and a leader of the commune, things might be much easier.
Her brother, who had recently applied to join the Party, received Sister Yinxiu warmly. He had been brought up by this elder sister. The precocious young man wore a contemporary hairstyle and a sports coat with fancy buttons. He offered his sister a glass of water and began cooking dinner for the two of them.
“What? You want to remarry!” Her brother was surprised. He believed that his sister was lucky to be the daughter-in-law of Grandma Guifang, a member of the commune’s Party committee. However, seeing his sister’s obvious unhappiness, he softened his tone. “But Grandma Guifang is a longtime community leader; even the secretary of the commune’s Party committee has to discuss matters with her. So you have to get her consent. As she doesn’t agree . . .”
Was there anything more to be said? Sister Yinxiu walked out of the gate of the commune, her face pale, her body trembling. She felt as if a sudden storm had frozen her, turning her yellow and withered, without a sign of life.
Thus, year in and year out, the issue was laid aside.
And as for Old Mo? This simple, kind, and honest cook had always been considerate of his beloved Sister Yinxiu, unwilling to bring her any inconvenience. Now when they met, they were careful not to mention the issue at all. But he, who had been cheerful and talkative, became an eccentric lone soul, addicted to smoking and drinking by himself.
Sister Yinxiu—people now called her Aunt Yinxiu according to the custom, since she was nearly forty years old—still raised pigs. Passersby could see her at work in the piggery. As she fed the pigs, she still wore a white apron around her waist, but it could not be distinguished from the black belt that held it up. She still continued to carry the pig food on a pole across her shoulders, but now her back was stooped and her walk staggered. With a black scarf covering her head, she swept and tidied the pigsty. How thin and pale her face had become. As she cut alfalfa with a sickle, anyone seeing her from behind would have mistaken her for an old woman.
It is true, as Guifang said, that life in the countryside has gotten better and easier in recent years. With the advent of wheat mills and soybean mills, it is no longer necessary to carry pig slop from the dining halls of factories, for wheat and soybean residue can serve as pig food. Although Aunt Yinxiu does not see Old Mo anymore, she still feels contented; she believes that she has a man to love who also loves her, and she can recall the precious time they spent together. This kind of love may be peculiar and odd, but who would dare say it is not valuable, pure, and beautiful?
Near midnight during the tenth Spring Festival since he met Sister Yinxiu, after cooking and cleaning up from the factory’s annual dinner party, Old Mo heads back to the factory residences. He indulges his gaze, fixing his eyes on the soft light passing through light-green, apricot-yellow, and lavender curtains in nearby buildings. He hears children’s laughter and sweet music, and he sees the silhouettes of lovers in various windows.
Old Mo flicks his cigarette butt to the ground and enters the building for single staff. Usually it is well lighted, but now with young boys and young girls away visiting their families, the light in the empty building is dim. Pushing the door open and staggering to his room, Old Mo clutches a bottle of liquor. He drinks until he is drunk—so drunk that he never wakes up again.
Aunt Yinxiu doesn’t get the news until many days later. At first she spends the morning searching for the rod for stirring pig food, though all the while she is holding it in her hand. In the afternoon she can’t endure stoically any longer and falls ill, lying in bed for two days. She finally wakes up a little past midnight. Through the window she can see the dim light of the moon and the stars. Somehow, she thinks of that black-and-white she-piglet, her favorite, whose illness she and Old Mo cured. That piglet must have already given birth to many litters of piglets.
Translated by Xiaohui Xue
Zhang Hong
Born in Hong’an County, Hubei Province, Zhang Hong graduated from the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, Hanzhong Normal College, in 1978, and then with the class of writers, from the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, Northwest University, in 1990.
She worked in succession as a teacher’s assistant, associate research fellow, editor in chief of Ankang Literature magazine, chairman of the Ankang Writers Association, director of the Shaanxi Provincial Writers Association, and vice-chairperson of the Shaanxi Provincial Writers Association.
Zhang Hong made her literary debut in 1980 and joined the Chinese Writers Association in 1994. Her works include the prose collections Return to the Grass, Ephemeral World, and Singing Fish; the novels Black Box and Qingyang Ridge; and the poetry collection Red Is My Color. She won the Literature Prize of Special Zones and the first Jiyuan Literature Prize. Her short stories and poetry are broadly represented in anthologies.
16
ZHANG HONG
Lei Ping’er
The art gallery has employed two kinds of people since the national reform: those who are too incompetent to survive the socialist market, and those who are too artistic to satisfy it. Lei Ping’er is an employee there but is neither of these kinds. She works in the gallery’s Reference Room. She is twenty-eight, unmarried, and in an awkward stage of womanhood.
Chinese men in this city have bizarre ideas about women. They call the women who think intelligently and act intelligently “stunners.” Stunners are perfect. Other women think intelligently but act with a slight stupidity. These women are adorable.
Other women are like Lei Ping’er—they act stupid and even think stupidly. This is just too much for anyone. Polite people call her “naive.” Direct people—namely, her colleagues in the gallery—nickname her “dippy girl.”
Lei Ping’er herself knows nothing about this. She is happy with her celibacy and lives a very routine life. Each morning, she practices singing and then dancing in the courtyard of the gallery. She eats breakfast. We could describe this breakfast as “classic.” Unlike those who carelessly buy a shaobing—a clay-oven roll—in the street to cover the whole morning, Lei Ping’er enjoys freshly cooked congee, along with homemade salted egg and some mahua, the twisted crullers fried carefully in sesame oil.
She goes to work, though there is no work to do. Under a tight budget, the gallery can only stock a few magazines and newspapers. Almost no one visits Lei Ping’er in the little Reference Room. But she always finds ways to occupy herself. Once she planted a patch of evening primrose in the yard, and now her first “work” each morning is to water them. The flowers blossom only at night and close again by morning. Lei Ping’er picks a bunch before they bashfully finish their bloom, and then she stands at the gallery’s gate and greets her colleagues with a smile. As she hands off each flower with great joy, she urges her colleagues again and again: “Use fresh water!” she says. “The primrose is very fragile!”
The gallery is filled with professional artists—painters, musicians, writers, and calligraphers. They despise Lei Ping’er but hide their contempt with words. For them, life is b
oring. Why not have some fun and make her talk? The bachelors, especially the young ones, call Lei Ping’er “sister” to lure her into doing things for them. Among them, Lei Ping’er has a favorite: Liu Cong, a college graduate assigned to the gallery.
Liu Cong is smart and good-looking. He chats with Lei Ping’er, teasing her with a brand of kindly respect. It pleases her. He gives her a sincere thanks after eating her homemade pancake, and even lets his gratitude show in his eyes. Lei Ping’er wants to use all her skills to cook for him.
Xi Xia, Liu Cong’s girlfriend and a college graduate as well, is even smarter than her boyfriend. She is a writer, and Liu Cong is a painter. Both enjoy some fame in their professions. But they both have a flaw: laziness. They neither sweep an inch of floor nor wipe down their tables. The dust accumulating on those tables gets thick enough to make a drawing in. When they met, Xi Xia seized upon Lei Ping’er’s warmheartedness. She spoke with honey lips and called Lei Ping’er her “little sister,” and soon that girl was joyfully at her service.
But in truth Lei Ping’er thinks only about Liu Cong, even as she does favors for Xi Xia.
Besides gardening and helping others, Lei Ping’er has a greater hobby: singing. She once dreamed of learning singing at a national academy of music; she was so determined to attend that she never found herself a partner. It’s true! People in the gallery know that she once promised herself never to date a man until college. Then, last year, an experienced admissions officer told her frankly that her chances of admission were “absolutely zero.” Since then, she has quit singing.
To be honest, her singing is pretty OK. What is not OK is the way she puts on these exaggerated facial expressions in her performances. Her looks are bad. She is short and chubby and out of shape, which is a bit challenging to the audience’s aesthetic standards. Her red cheeks gleam against her swarthy face, and her eyes have contracted pupils that make her look sort of bad or even evil. Thus, Lei Ping’er’s good heart is totally betrayed by her looks.
When Lei Ping’er was feeling heartbroken, Liu Cong encouraged her. “Not all good singers were admitted by the Academy of Music,” he said. “It’s just like those great poets in China’s history, like Li Bai and Du Fu. They never, ever won a title in the imperial examination, but they still wrote great poems. There is actually something precise in your singing—it’s passion. And great passion can make even the gods weep. Keep practicing. Your effort will definitely be rewarded someday.”
With Liu Cong’s advice, she instantly goes crazy. She sings in the morning and sings at night. She even sings in the midday sometimes. Soon the whole gallery feels its flesh creep.
People complain to the gallery director. “She is doing this ghost-wailing and wolf-howling all the time,” someone says. “When does she plan to give our ears some peace?” Director Xu cannot turn a deaf ear to public opinion. He speaks with Lei Ping’er.
“Lei Ping’er, stop singing! Do you know that your singing is worthless?”
“What do you mean?” she says. “Has my singing ever kept you from finding a lover, or from improving your sex life? You don’t have time to teach your artists how to make more money, but you have time to stop my professional development?”
Director Xu is choked by her bluntness. Now, if anyone else complains to him about Lei Ping’er, he loses his temper immediately. “If you’re so tough, why don’t you talk to that freak yourself?”
One Hu Yong, Liu Cong’s buddy, says, “Someone ought to be good at this. You know that old saying that the only one who can untie a bell is the person who tied it? Director Xu, go and ask Liu Cong to stop her. That has to work.”
Director Xu comes to Liu Cong’s studio. “Dear Liu, can you do a favor for our gallery?” He sits cross-legged with his beard hanging down, and Liu Cong has the urge to boast to his buddies. He doesn’t respond to the director’s awkward plea.
The director continues. “Everyone is complaining about Lei Ping’er’s singing practice now. I asked her to stop, but that f—” He swallows the word “freak” in front of Liu Cong. “But she mistakes me for an evil man. Liu Cong, can you go and ask her to stop? It’s driving everyone crazy.”
Liu Cong gives an indifferent smile. “I will try, then.” In fact, Liu Cong feels quite proud of himself, since he can manipulate a woman the director cannot control.
In the evening, Lei Ping’er takes her homemade guotie—fried dumplings—to Liu Cong’s studio, complaining to him as well. Liu Cong listens patiently as he eats. Afterward he mentions nonchalantly that it might be better to sing along the river, as the air is fresher there. And especially in the morning—singers can take in some essence of heaven and earth, which is exceptionally great for the voice. He also suggests that Lei Ping’er sing in his studio whenever she needs an audience. “Besides,” he says, “a good singer always needs a good listener.”
Liu Cong then tells her a story about Bo Ya, a legendary musician in ancient China. Bo Ya had a bosom friend, Zhong Ziqi, who was also a devoted fan of his music. After Zhong’s death, the musician stopped playing, as he’d lost the one who best understood his music.
Lei Ping’er is soon moved to tears by the beautiful and philosophical story. “From now on,” she says, “I will sing only for you. Those vulgar people in our gallery will never hear my songs again.”
For Lei Ping’er, what is said must be done and what is done must be carried to fruition. After that night, she stops her public practice and sings only for Liu Cong in his studio. Although Liu Cong never despised Lei Ping’er, like others in the gallery, he never particularly liked her, either. His kind attitude was merely a reward for Lei Ping’er’s kindness. Now that he’s with her constantly, he can no longer control his antipathy. Especially when Lei Ping’er sings him those love songs with great passion—for Liu Cong it is totally unbearable, like being hugged and kissed by a gorilla.
He complains to his buddies in private. Xi Xia pats Liu Cong’s shoulder and mocks him. “Those who play with fire will perish by fire. What are you complaining for? Poor kid. Be careful—that Lei Ping’er might be in love with you! A bosom friend and a lover are like a pot and a kettle: same color!” Everyone bursts into laughter and makes fun. Liu Cong is deeply regretful. After that, he keeps a distance from Lei Ping’er.
Of course, Lei Ping’er senses nothing. As we have already said, her great strength and her great weakness is stupidity. She never notices those subtle changes in people.
She is now at the peak of pride for having Liu Cong as a bosom friend. One day, she gets an idea to organize a group of old people to teach and practice qigong for free. Soon, at half past five every afternoon, when the sun is slowly setting and the whole world is going out to take a look, people find Lei Ping’er and her group practicing in patches of flowers, breathing the essence of the universe together.
Lei Ping’er has a nice voice and is good at talking. What’s more, she speaks with great conviction. Unsurprisingly, a group of retired seniors are easily persuaded and become her followers. Her teaching gives her a sense of pride and dignity. If Liu Cong happens to pass by when she’s teaching, she becomes far more serious, making the whole gallery feel both awkward and amused. But as time passes, people get accustomed to the sight. They no longer laugh at her. Instead, they grow a kind of respect for this woman. Some female gallery staff even join her team. In the gallery’s courtyard, Lei Ping’er and her qigong group become a special sight.
One day, people are chatting over their tea break. Suddenly Xi Xia says, “Something is wrong with our gallery. A demon or a monster will appear here.”
“How come?” says Director Xu.
“Each time I see Lei Ping’er and her group practicing like mad, I feel like doomsday is coming.”
Director Xu nods. “True! We have to find a way to stop this freak. It’s too much. Her qigong is like an epileptic having a fit. It practically destroys heaven and earth. I don’t know who started such a pseudoscience. It’s killing me. I will bring this up in ou
r meeting tomorrow. My only worry is that Lei Ping’er won’t listen and will keep bugging me.”
Hu Yong, casting a sidelong glance at Liu Cong, says, “No worries! We have a master here.”
Liu Cong is leisurely enjoying his tea and cigarettes. “In my opinion, that’s not enough reason for a meeting. Lei Ping’er is doing nothing wrong, and she only practices when she’s off duty. What right do we have to stop her? At work she’s the most diligent of anyone, sweeping and mopping the floor every day. She even wipes the windows. Her Reference Room is our favorite place. It’s not OK to hurt a person for no good reason. To be honest, I really appreciate her fearless spirit. If you were to tell her that Earth will explode tomorrow, she would still carefully do her regular activities today. That’s pretty interesting.”
Xi Xia is annoyed. “Wow!” she says. “Please don’t tell us you’re already bewitched by her.” Of course, Xi Xia knows that Liu Cong will never be possessed by Lei Ping’er—that is a true “mission impossible.” After four years of dating Liu Cong, she knows him pretty well. Artsy people, she knows, are usually weird. They relate tombs to pregnant women’s bellies, hell to the sun, and ugliness to beauty. In her mind, Liu Cong’s praise comes from nothing but his sense of ugliness.
Now she ruthlessly mocks Lei Ping’er, imitating her cajoling voice and her coy walk. The skillful mockery makes Director Xu and Hu Yong roar with laughter. Xi Xia is good at art and was born pretty. She not only writes beautiful articles, but is also an expert in singing and dancing. And now she is an excellent actress, as her “Lei Ping’er” is more authentic than Lei Ping’er herself.
Xi Xia is pleased with her performance, but Liu Cong bangs the table and stands up abruptly. “Stop it! I think Lei Ping’er is much prettier than you are!”
Xi Xia is struck, motionless as wood. Liu Cong steps out the door, and she realizes what has happened. Quickly she catches up with him and shouts, “She is prettier? Then why don’t you just go out with her? Why are you still with me?”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 34
