The Bloodstained Dress
There is blood in man’s head. There is water in man’s heart.
—a folk saying from Xifu
Naturally Mrs. Spots was wearing a qipao dress the day she came to my hometown.
The villagers had no idea that the dress Mrs. Spots was wearing was called qipao. They all stood alongside the street and watched a graceful Mrs. Spots pass through, too dazed by her appearance to offer her a word of greeting. Even the roosters, who would crow till your ears buzzed every day, kept silent. Even the dogs, who would bark till heaven shook, made no noise. A sudden quiet fell on the small village, chokingly quiet.
Mrs. Spots had been riding in a carriage. She could have stayed in the carriage until she reached the gate of Uncle Spots’s grand residence; she could have stepped out, marched in, and sat down in the mistress’s grand chair to receive welcome greetings from relatives, maids, servants, and manual laborers. Uncle Spots had many laborers and servants.
He hadn’t always been this grand, though. A long time before, he’d organized a gang of bandits and become rich overnight. Then he bought a thousand acres of farmland, built a big house with three layers of deep courtyards and wings, and hired workers and servants, plus a gang of armed guards. Their shadows roamed around the village day and night.
People in Little Castle might hate Uncle Spots from the bottom of their hearts, but they all showered him with flattery as if they owed their very lives to him. Why? Because most of the young people in the thirteen bands of the village had joined Uncle Spots’s bandits, all carrying with them the dream that one day they would end up just as rich. Others were tenants on his farmland.
Mrs. Spots, for her part, had long heard of the wealth and power of her husband’s family, but, as a graduate from Ginling College, she had been exposed to ideas of democracy and equality and such, and would not—no, never!—want to make a show in front of the village folks. So, still a full li from town, she asked the carriage to stop, lifted the curtain herself, and landed on the ground, light as a swallow.
It was April in Xifu when she arrived. The rapeseed flowers were in full blossom everywhere, and the green wheat farmlands stretched to the horizon. Mrs. Spots drank in the scene. Around her, the bees were buzzing, and colorful butterflies were fluttering here and there. What a charming pastoral scene! Mrs. Spots fell in love with the countryside on this, her first journey to her husband’s hometown. She knew that walking into town was not what Mr. Spots would do, but she had her own principles: she must be humble and respectful before the common people.
Uncle Spots was stubborn and ambitious, rarely following other people’s advice. But, strangely, he acted upon whatever Mrs. Spots said. Uncle Spots admired nobody but Mrs. Spots. So, on that day, he also got down from his horse and walked into the village with Mrs. Spots, arm in arm, with an air of deep affection.
The dress Mrs. Spots was wearing that day was a qipao made of black-silk brocade. It wrapped her tightly and made her body perfectly curved. Starting from her fair neck, a red arc of qipao glided over her chest like a shooting star. Running along the red arc were evenly spaced, chrysanthemum-shaped, traditional Chinese fabric buttons, glittering like stars in the sky. The small red flowers scattered and bloomed on the black background of qipao. As Mrs. Spots walked along with elegance and nobility, the village folk were struck by their own inferiority and unworthy lives and felt pain in their hearts.
Mrs. Spots smiled kindly at the folks huddling on the side of the street. She greeted them with nods, but none of these people responded to her. Instead, they greeted Uncle Spots shyly. What a pity Mrs. Spots failed to understand that the villagers actually admired her most that day; it was confirmed in the folk stories passed down for years to come.
Later, all the people did remember that Mrs. Spots’s qipao was made of black-silk brocade. However, about other details, they differed. The dress’s opening front, the edge piping, the fabric buttons, and the flowers on the black silk became the subjects of much controversy. Each villager had his own views. As for the shape of the buttons, for example, some said they were dragonfly-shaped, while others claimed they were frog-shaped, bee-shaped, butterfly-shaped, and swallow-shaped. Some said they were lute-shaped, harp-shaped, bud-shaped. Some said they were chrysanthemum-shaped, orchid-shaped, peach-blossom-shaped, and kapok-shaped. However, the villagers were of one voice about one thing, without any dispute—namely, their judgment about Mrs. Spots.
What everyone said was: “Mrs. Spots was somewhat unusual. She was different from us. Not just a little bit different, but too different!” In their various reports I heard undertones of admiration, but also of jealousy and even hatred.
Uncle Spots had no spots on his face. His face was blackish, chiseled, and typical of a Xifu man in its firmness and courage. The surname of Uncle Spots was not really “Spots.” Actually, no one was named “Spots” in the thirteen bands of his village. Where did this name come from? Whether from respect or mockery, he was called Uncle Spots. But the name came entirely from his wife.
A short time before Mrs. Spots’s arrival in the village, an important event happened. The Japanese army invaded Shanghai. The whistles of flying cannonballs pierced the air, and the roar of planes shook the earth. Both were ripping the nerves of Nanjing City—the capital of the Kuomintang—and of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek. The leader was at a loss about what to do next. He gathered his high-ranking military counselors and generals and made a test to know their recommended countermeasures. The question was: “The Japanese army has come; what should we do next?” All weighed their words and wrote ideas carefully. Uncle Spots, as a division commander, responded to the question without hesitation. He took up his writing brush and wrote on the paper with large strokes: FIGHT.
The instant he left the meeting hall, Uncle Spots felt his left eye twitching for no reason. As the saying went, a twitching left eye foretold good luck, while the right eye, bad luck. But what good luck would befall him? His eye had been twitching for a few days without explanation. Then, the officers from the government announced that he was promoted to major general.
A lady came with the officers. She was wearing a qipao. She had long legs and a slender waist. It was a pleasant surprise to hear her say that she had been appointed by the government to be his confidential secretary. This is how Mrs. Spots entered the story.
Uncle Spots was grateful to the government from the bottom of his heart.
Uncle Spots said, “Good.”
Uncle Spots was a man of humble birth and few words. Whenever possible, he responded with a single word: “Fight.” “Good.” On that day he said “Good” chiefly because the secretary’s qipao caught his eyes. That qipao, made of bright-pink charmeuse silk, was as smooth as water. It opened in the front on the right side with lute-shaped Chinese fabric buttons. Its design was fashionable, tastefully simple. An embroidered plum blossom was sewn on the most protruding part of her chest and gave a three-dimensional impression. This qipao, flavored with elegance and modesty, brightness and nobility, framed the perfect figure of the secretary. Particularly on the lower part of the dress, where two long slit openings would float up slightly when she walked before him; this became a tantalizing scene for Uncle Spots.
In the days to follow, when Uncle Spots saw the secretary walking past him in her high-heeled shoes and qipao with those side-slash openings, he would lose his head and say automatically, “Good.”
It was really good. A few days passed. One night the secretary made the bed for Uncle Spots, and then she unbuttoned her bright-pink charmeuse silk qipao and joined him in bed, amorously.
In the morning they had to get up. The secretary washed the makeup from her face—but she missed a few spots. Uncle Spots collected her in his arms and licked every spot tenderly. Her body was quivering with passion in Uncle Spots’s caress. She admired him and said, “The generalissimo said that your word ‘Fight’ was written carelessly, but that your answer was good. It was right. To the Japane
se army, we have only one thing to say: ‘Fight.’”
Details from the daily life of Uncle Spots and his secretary spread through Xifu. My folks envied the pair. And yet, Uncle Spots looked humble, illiterate, and reckless; he had organized the bandits and killed many people. He had a terrible reputation in my hometown.
He brought his secretary back to his own village. In his hometown, she was not the secretary, but the wife of Uncle Spots.
Mrs. Spots never left my hometown after she came to Xifu. But after traveling there with her, Uncle Spots did not warm the adobe kang at all. He immediately got on his horse and left for the war against Japan. Saying good-bye to Uncle Spots at the entrance of the village, Mrs. Spots lifted her hands and touched his face gently, saying, “There is blood in man’s head.” Mrs. Spots then took her hand away from his face and pressed it upon her chest, saying, “There is water in man’s heart.”
The folks heard about her words and failed to understand them but felt they were pleasant to the ears. A few repeated the words: there is blood in man’s head; there is water in man’s heart.
Mrs. Spots, in the eyes of the village folk, did not understand country life. At the east of the village was her three-hundred-mu private wheatland. The wheat was lush, as thick as the sea. When the wind arose, it would stir up tides of grain. If the wheat had grown for a longer time, it would have been a good harvest. However, Mrs. Spots asked some townspeople to level the wheat. They carried bricks, tiles, lime, and sand. They brought a red flag and set off firecrackers before starting to build. The time frame laid out for them was quite short and urgent. Even the brick kilns far away were baking bricks and tiles day and night, but could not meet the requirements of Mrs. Spots’s plan.
After that, Mrs. Spots ordered her guards to lead all the manual laborers on the building site to demolish the temples and theaters of the thirteen bands throughout the village, to satisfy the urgent needs of the new construction. The demolition of the temples and theaters outraged some people. They came together and fought, with their tools and hoes as their weapons. They were courageous but helpless without guns.
Bang! Bang! Mrs. Spots’s people were shooting guns into the sky. So the protesters withdrew, knowing they could not win.
Mrs. Spots would go to the building site to inspect, always wearing her qipao. She had so many qipaos—she wore a different one each day. When she was wandering and inspecting the building site in her qipao, the workmen had more drive to work. With sweating faces and working hands, they seized each opportunity to stare at Mrs. Spots.
She was knowledgeable about construction. She’d give advice here and make signs there. The whole plan was completed quickly. Eventually, everyone knew that Mrs. Spots was setting up a new school. The sign on the school gate adopted words by Yu Youren, the doyen of the Republic of China: “Free School of the New China.”
Mrs. Spots moved to the school to live. She worked, rested, and ate in a charming house built on a high platform, in the traditional style of a watery town in South China. The folks could see Mrs. Spots in qipao, pacing gracefully on the platform in the glow of sunrise and sunset.
On the platform she set a round, hollowed-out, carved red-mahogany urn. A woman attended to her and gave Mrs. Spots a celadon teacup with a lid. Then she passed Mrs. Spots a vertical flute with two red tassels. Mrs. Spots brought it to her lower lip and played tunes the people of Xifu had never heard. Naturally, the music was quite pleasant. In contrast with Qinqiang, a popular opera in Xifu, her melodies sounded more gentle and lovely. Her tunes were favored by the local people. The music made the sky bluer and set birds of all kinds—magpies, swallows, turtledoves—to fluttering in the clouds.
The first group of students came to the school from our provincial capital, Xi’an. Some teachers in Chinese-style robes arrived as well. On the school’s opening day, Uncle Spots rushed back. He was the honorary headmaster; Mrs. Spots was the acting headmaster. All the students lined up on the playground for the opening ceremony. Uncle Spots asked Mrs. Spots to make a speech. Rather than yielding to him, she stepped forward from Uncle Spots’s side and started to speak with elegance and ease. She had spoken only a few words when suddenly Uncle Spots shouted loudly at the students, “Open your legs!”
Mrs. Spots understood Uncle Spots’s vernacular. She looked back at Uncle Spots and smiled; then she turned to the assembled group, bowed in apology, and said, “At ease, please.”
“Open your legs” became a joke about Uncle Spots. Everyone wondered why Uncle Spots did not know the words “at ease” or “halt,” but insisted on the indelicate command “open your legs.” Increasingly, the village folks admired Mrs. Spots.
Everyone knew that the students in the school came from the occupied regions in the northeast and north of China. The homes of many students were burned down. They didn’t know whether their family members were still alive.
Mrs. Spots also encouraged the local children to study in the school. If their families were rich, they could donate to the school; if not, the children could study for free.
At this opening ceremony, Mrs. Spots was wearing a particularly beautiful qipao, a dark-red velvet one. Its buttons, like pinpricks of light, were as dazzling as gold. This qipao had long sleeves and a stand-up collar. Its cuffs and neckline were embedded with rabbit fur. On the dark-red background was embroidered a fire dragon, as golden as the buttons. The dragon’s head was on her chest, its whiskers on her shoulders, its paws resting on her belly and waist, its shining body and tail clinging to her delicate waistline and plump buttocks. The dragon came to life moving around her. It was the soul and eternal beauty of the Chinese dragon. On that bright and sunny morning, she looked beautiful and charming.
Mrs. Spots had especially planned to wear this particular qipao for the school ceremony. She had asked Uncle Spots to order it for her in Xi’an. What she aimed to tell the students in the school was that the Chinese dragon would never die—the spirit of the Chinese dragon would last forever!
The last event of the opening ceremony was a basketball match. No one in the village had ever seen a basketball game. Neither had Uncle Spots. Seeing ten players running after a ball, Uncle Spots lost his temper at Mrs. Spots and said, “If we could afford a free school, we should afford the balls. Buy one ball for each student and let him play by himself.” Before he’d finished, Mrs. Spots started laughing and explained that basketball is played that way, with one ball.
Soon after, Uncle Spots had to leave. Again, Mrs. Spots saw him off at the entrance of the village and touched his face. Again she said, “There is water in man’s heart.” Uncle Spots turned and left. He went a short distance and turned around again, shouting at Mrs. Spots, “There is blood in man’s head.”
Mrs. Spots managed the school dutifully. The first group of students graduated, and then a new group was admitted. Most of them came from the occupied regions, but naturally, the native children were welcome too. Mrs. Spots visited from household to household and persuaded some parents to support her in holding literacy classes for girls. Girls were being educated for the first time in the long history of Xifu.
Mrs. Spots paid for all the costs—all the students’ living expenses and school supplies and the teachers’ salaries. In the beginning, she could make ends meet with money Uncle Spots mailed from afar, together with income from his local property. The folks could still see Mrs. Spots pacing in her qipao on her platform in the glow of the sunrise and sunset, but now they rarely saw her smile, sip tea, or play her flute.
The year when the Japanese surrendered, Mrs. Spots was extremely happy for the whole year. That year, her qipao and her smiling face were the brightest spots in the village. In the villagers’ memory, Mrs. Spots wore a scarlet-silk qipao with dark peony flowers. That qipao made her face particularly young and fresh. Some folks had a clear memory that Mrs. Spots wore this qipao for just one day—the day that the Japanese surrendered.
After that day, Mrs. Spots put on different qipaos. One day she wor
e a yellowish silk qipao, the next day another qipao stamped with the Chinese character “happiness,” and on another she wore a green one with squares. The qipaos of different colors and styles made Mrs. Spots conspicuous in the village of Xifu—but perhaps there was a reason. Perhaps Uncle Spots had given her these qipaos and it made her happy to wear his gifts. Maybe she changed them frequently for respite from the loneliness, sadness, grievance, and melancholy.
She longed for the homecoming of Uncle Spots, or even for a message. But Uncle Spots was like a drop of water evaporating in the intense heat of sunshine. He neither returned nor sent messages.
Everyone had guesses about his whereabouts. Some thought that he had lost his life; others said that he was being punished by Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek because he supported the Communist Party. Some people guessed that Uncle Spots had beat the Communist Party on behalf of the generalissimo. There were many guesses, but no one was certain of his whereabouts. The day of the opening ceremony of the school was the last day he was seen in his village.
The expense of the school was now a serious problem, especially after Uncle Spots disappeared. Mrs. Spots’s savings were gone. As a result, she had to let some of her servants and guards go. She was no longer receiving rent for the land; all the income was handed directly to the school.
Then the Chinese Civil War broke out.
The school had a hard time surviving. After the Liberation Army fought a war in Fufeng and Meixian Counties, the school had to be closed.
Mrs. Spots did not leave the school. On the contrary, she was still living in her house on the high platform, built in the style of the watery towns of South China. Every day, she put on different qipaos and paced with grace in the glow of the sunrise and sunset. The time came when the work team for land reform was based in the village. Mrs. Spots was taken out of her house, paraded through the streets first, and then tyrannized.
The site chosen to persecute her was the playground where Mrs. Spots had made her speech at the opening ceremony. Her trial began. Folks from the thirteen bands of the village came, and people from neighboring villages flooded there too. There was a sea of faces on the big playground. People even climbed into the tall trees or stood atop walls to watch. Mrs. Spots was still exceptional and attractive. In Xifu, all the women, old and young, wore black or indigo-blue clothing that they’d woven and dyed themselves. Mrs. Spots was different; she had colorful qipaos and rich knowledge.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 36
