Two armed gunmen escorted Mrs. Spots onto a platform. They pressed her head down over and over again, but over and over again Mrs. Spots raised her head.
While she was being held captive on the playground, a man was searching her dwelling. Opening her mahogany wardrobes, he stood in amazement: three wardrobes were stuffed full with one qipao after another, every single one delicate and beautiful. He also found a box of jewelry. There were pearls, blue jades—all to match the qipaos. The matching was so perfect that nobody had noticed it before. It spoke of the type of education Mrs. Spots had had. Women without her education might wear silver and golden ornaments, but they could never have known how to wear pearls and blue jades like Mrs. Spots.
Mrs. Spots was still wearing a beautiful qipao when she was tortured mercilessly on the platform. This one was a lily-white qipao, dotted with baby’s breath in red on the white background. Mrs. Spots had chosen it intending to justify herself, that she advocated and loved the people’s government. When she wore this qipao, a feeling welled up in her heart that the red stars seemed to be infused into her body and blazed forth. Her heart, trembling with excitement, evoked indefinable pangs and flame—the flame of new hope for the future! Her life, Mrs. Spots thought, should be like baby’s breath, evoking that new and brilliant light.
However, for people in Xifu, it was unbearable that Mrs. Spots would have new ideas. She was labeled as the mistress of a reactionary warlord. She was called the wife of the despotic landlord. The newly empowered villagers shouted slogans, rushed toward Mrs. Spots, and started to hit and kick her to the ground. The first people who rushed to punch and kick Mrs. Spots were the women of Xifu. They kicked her with their feet, boxed her with their hands, and spat on her. Their spittle, a hail of sticky bullets, shot at Mrs. Spots’s head and face and soiled her qipao. Someone twisted off a brick from the wall of the school and smashed her head. Her head was broken, and the bright-red blood flowed out through her hair like a spouting spring.
Mrs. Spots was dead. Her white-silk qipao was stained with her bright-red blood, perfectly coordinating with the baby’s-breath embroidery. The qipao was now a bloodstained dress.
On the day Mrs. Spots died, the special commissioner of the newly established people’s government of the county rushed to the scene and made an embarrassing announcement: Mrs. Spots was an enlightened democrat.
Undoubtedly, Mrs. Spots was buried in the backyard of her school by the new people’s government. Before the Cultural Revolution, I had the good fortune to be accepted by the renamed school and later saw Mrs. Spots’s tomb covered with winter jasmine. I had a fantasy that the plentiful winter jasmine became a qipao for Mrs. Spots, a qipao that would not wither as time went by. However, after some time, the ghostly wind of the Cultural Revolution blew more violently. The young students with their red sleeve emblems brought their hoes and shovels and dug the winter jasmine off the tomb, planing it smooth. The gravestone, set up for Mrs. Spots by the new people’s government, was overthrown in the Tomb-Planning Movement and broken into two pieces.
Now, if you have a chance to go to Xifu on Guanzhong Plain, all you can see that remains of Mrs. Spots is that high platform. However, people who knew her still speak about the words she left behind. There is blood in man’s head. There is water in man’s heart.
Translated by Zhang Yating and Hu Zongfeng
Wang Guansheng
Born in Sanyuan County, Shaanxi Province, Wang Guan-sheng graduated from the Southern Suburbs School of Sanyuan County in 1967. He joined the army in 1969 and worked as a soldier in Unit 505, a staff member of the cultural center of Sanyuan County, a managerial staff member of the Workers’ Club of Sanyuan County, and director and associate professor of editorship of the Shaanxi Provincial Writers Association. He made his literary debut in 1982 and joined the Chinese Writers Association in 1993.
18
WANG GUANSHENG
At the Foot of Mount Yanzhi
1
The Elder Zhu was lying idly on the grass. His younger brother, the Younger Zhu, was making letters with stones. The two brothers were on the pasture enclosed with chain-link fence.
“Ain’t you jist . . . killin’ time?” the Elder Zhu asked without looking at his younger brother. The older brother’s gaze passed through the fence to rest on the snow-covered peak of Mount Qilian and then to the gentle slopes of Mount Yanzhi.
The Younger Zhu had finished the two letters UF and the third letter had already taken the shape of a C. Once a few more stones were added, the huge UFO sign would adorn the vast grassland.
“Those ETs are sharp-eyed. Even if they’re standing on the moon they can see a word this big.” The Younger Zhu now rose to his feet, talking to himself. He was a good-looking boy of fourteen or fifteen.
“Kin’t get a woman, why the fuck did you turn on me?” the Younger Zhu grumbled. He said, “When the ETs come in their UFO to pick me up, I’ll go with them an’ date a girl on Mars. Will you go with me?”
His elder brother made no reply.
“So you won’t? Then you’ll die from blue balls,” the Younger Zhu said.
The Elder Zhu, still silent, turned over to pillow his head on the right arm so as to see their Shandan horses, which were jujube red and in superb condition—massive and well shaped. Grandpa used to say that tall western horses couldn’t be compared with Shandan horses, just like a grandson can’t be compared to his grandfather. Every time Grandpa saw Shandan horses, he would repeat this saying.
Tall and sturdily built as Grandpa was, he could in no way dwarf the massive Shandan horse when he rode it. The horse underneath was even sturdier than Grandpa.
One time, on hearing Grandpa’s familiar saying, the two grandsons burst out laughing. They said Grandpa wasn’t blowing his own horn, but rather he was “tooting his own horse.”
Grandpa had laughed, too. He’d squinted his eyes and peered through the misty Shandan grassland, protesting weakly, “You bastards don’t believe me, eh? If one rode a Shandan horse an’ the other a western horse an’ then ran them for t’ree days around the clock . . . and gave them no food or water . . . You’d see!”
The Elder Zhu chimed in: “The Shandan horse would be fine.”
“And the western horse would’ve been beaten out!” the Younger Zhu hurriedly added.
Then the three of them laughed uproariously, tears running down their cheeks.
Now the two Shandan horses, contained by the chain-link fences, had their heads buried in their troughs. The Elder Zhu was gazing, as he had been for half the day, through the horses’ legs, at Mount Qilian. The snow line was perfectly straight; the mountain beneath it was purplish blue and above, snow white. The snow was pleasant to the eyes; it always reminded him of the appealingly white horse milk.
The Elder Zhu turned over again to see his younger brother walking around the letters he had made out of stones, which the older brother could never read. He then rose to his feet and stood in the center of the enclosed pasture. The Elder Zhu was as tall and strongly built as Grandpa and looked much larger than his younger brother, who was able to read English letters. With a sigh, he said to his younger brother, “Get on the horse an’ go home!”
“What’s the fuckin’ rush? The horses are still grazin’.”
Without looking at his younger brother, the Elder Zhu seized the mane of the taller horse, sprang onto its back, and was off with a strike on its rear. The horse, its forelegs soaring up into the air, bounded over the yard-high fence like a floating cloud and landed silently on the soft grass.
The grassland had all turned brownish yellow. Bent over by the recent autumn rain, the grass was smooth and shining like horsehair.
The horse headed east toward Mount Yanzhi.
Grandpa had liked talking about Mount Yanzhi, telling them that the mountain was recorded in quite a number of ancient books. Grandpa said that without Mount Qilian, there wouldn’t have been cattle. But he added that without Mount Yanzhi, women wouldn’t be good-loo
king.
Wit’out Mount Qilian,
We wouldn’t have cattle so strong-lookin’.
Wit’out Mount Yanzhi,
Our women wouldn’t be so good-lookin’.
“Ptew.” The Elder Zhu had spit the food he was chewing onto the face of his younger brother, who was sitting across the table. Then, pointing in Grandpa’s face, he’d yelled, “Grandpa, you want a woman, don’t you?”
The Younger Zhu, face dotted with food bits, chimed in with a wondering tone. “Grandpa’s c’rrect. I’ve jus’ learned that at school!”
The Elder Zhu’s eyes pointed at his brother, who had rice residue on his face. Despite his elder brother’s warning, the Younger Zhu tilted his head and went on earnestly.
“My teacher taught me that an’ I recited it ten times on my ride home. Now I kin recite it for you.”
The Elder Zhu glared a second time at his younger brother.
The Younger Zhu, head tilted, chanted the nonstandard Mandarin he’d learned at school.
Losin’ our Mount Qilian,
Our animals won’t breed.
Losin’ our Mount Yanzhi,
Our ladies won’t be fair.
The Elder Zhu glared at the Younger Zhu for a third time.
The Younger Zhu, not bothering to wipe the rice particles off his face, continued, “‘Ladies’ means women. Women make wives for men . . .”
Seeing that his younger brother was winning, the Elder Zhu bounded over the table and threw himself on his brother to stop his showing off. The two brawled on the floor.
Grandpa, sitting aside, commented with a satisfied smile, “Gosh, my younger cub’s knowledgeable.”
Grandpa watched the two brothers wrestle. When the fighting brothers rolled like a ball near him, he gave a kick on each ass to separate them. The two then returned to the table to eat.
Grandpa rose and yelled to the two brothers. “I had a wife!”
“Why ain’t we seen her?” the brothers asked earnestly.
“Died of famine years ago.” Grandpa yelled, “Eat quick!”
The two brothers hurriedly buried their heads in their bowls. Grandpa lowered his voice. “Wit’out a wife, how could I git you’ dad?”
“Why ain’t we seen him?” The brothers raised their heads.
Grandpa burst into a roar. “I’ve told you t’ousand times! That bastard killed you’ mom an’ was executed by the government.”
The two nodded. “No wonder we’ve ne’er seen him.”
The Elder Zhu, now astride his horse, curled the corners of his mouth and winked. Only he himself knew what it meant. Effortlessly, the Elder Zhu caught sight of their mud-roofed house, built right at the foot of the mild slope of Mount Yanzhi. Ten feet away from the mud house lay Grandpa’s tomb. That morning when the two brothers had awakened, they’d found Grandpa, sleeping between them, ice cold. Grabbing hold of Grandpa’s shoulders from both sides, they’d tried to help him up. To their great astonishment, Grandpa had shot up stiff as a ramrod.
Grandpa had never shed tears unless he was happy. Therefore the two brothers likewise shed no tears. With sad faces, they’d dug a grave and buried Grandpa there. Then they had a second thought, realizing they had neglected one thing: Grandpa loved Mount Yanzhi. They should’ve made the tomb in the shape of Mount Yanzhi. Still with somber expressions, the brothers spent half a day making the tomb into a tent-shaped mound. As night fell, they went to bed, sad-eyed.
By the time the Elder Zhu’s horse began to tread on the graveled slope, the older brother heard the Younger Zhu’s horse clopping behind. The Elder Zhu had known his younger brother would follow him—for now that Grandpa was dead, the elder grandson became the lead. The Younger Zhu was only a part of him.
2
The educated Younger Zhu apparently did not agree with his elder brother’s plan of riding through the Shandan grassland. He insisted that they should’ve attempted it while Grandpa was alive. Now with Grandpa gone, who would they turn to mock if their Shandan horses died of exhaustion?
Neglecting his educated brother’s opposition, the Elder Zhu began to make preparations for the trip. He filled Grandpa’s deerskin sack with drinking water.
“Grandpa said give the horses no water,” the Younger Zhu reminded his elder brother.
“Won’t you need some fuckin’ water?” his elder brother replied.
“Why, you’re right!”
Elder Zhu then stuffed two feed bags with soybeans and hung one on each horse’s neck.
“Grandpa said give the horses no food!” the Younger Zhu reminded again.
“What if Grandpa told you to eat shit?”
“Grandpa ne’er told me to eat shit.”
The Elder Zhu didn’t want to argue just for the sake of arguing. He walked out of the house and stood by the doorway to piss. The Younger Zhu followed his elder brother out and pissed by his side. Then they mounted their horses and started off for their trip. The Younger Zhu struck his horse hard, and the horse dashed off over the grassland, its mane flying upright in the air like floating seaweed.
The Elder Zhu caught up and grabbed hold of his younger brother’s bridle rein. “No rush!”
“Grandpa said the horses could run like the wind,” the Younger Zhu said, gazing at his brother.
The Elder Zhu looked away and sighed. “I said no rush.”
“OK, I’ll slow down.” The Younger Zhu let loose his bridle rein. He knew that with Grandpa gone, his elder brother was the decision-making master and he was only a part of the Elder Zhu.
The Younger Zhu’s head bobbed from side to side on his shoulders as the horse walked. He was able to fall asleep on horseback at any moment. He was also able to hide himself on one side of a racing horse, making viewers on the other side believe that a riderless horse was passing by. The Elder Zhu could not pull off that trick. He was too massive, and the horse just couldn’t hide him.
The horses walked a long distance with the Elder Zhu awake and the Younger Zhu asleep. The brownish-yellow grassland stretched before them equally. In a short distance a yak skull appeared, white all over with black horns protruding, its two eyeholes terribly dark and huge. The Elder Zhu’s horse rounded the skull from its left and the Younger Zhu’s from the right. A glittering-eyed rat, startled by the clip-clop of hooves, peered out from the nostril of the skull and darted away.
The horses walked another long distance. The Elder Zhu was awake, and the Younger Zhu was still sleeping.
Mount Qilian was approaching nearer and nearer, its snowcap so white as to make a man feel moody. A canal ran into sight, carrying crystal-clear water melted from the white (but not glaring) snow of Mount Qilian. The water was almost invisible to the eye.
The two horses, not needing any guidance, walked to the canal to drink. The Elder Zhu jumped off his horse and grabbed hold of his younger brother’s legs to dismount him. Landing flat on the soft grass, the Younger Zhu continued sleeping soundly.
The Elder Zhu fixed a sack of soybeans to each horse’s head, leaving them to enjoy their feasts. He produced dried buns and a water sack for himself and his brother. Then he kicked his sleeping brother on the butt.
“Git up to eat!”
The Younger Zhu rose up to sit on the grass, yawning. After looking around for a minute, he sobered up and sniggered. “Yeah, I want solid food.”
While the horses chewed soybeans and the two brothers chewed their dried buns, a loud cracking began to resound on the grassland.
The Younger Zhu acted first this time. Jumping onto his horse, he gazed down at his elder brother, who was about to mount his own horse.
“You’ve got the same trouble as Grandpa had, ain’t you?” he yelled at his elder brother.
The Elder Zhu, as if struck by a brick, turned and leaned against his horse, his neck stretched, mouth wide open. He stared dumbly at his younger brother, who now seemed a giant to him up on horseback.
The Younger Zhu, tilting his head, walked his horse around his elder brothe
r, chanting in a stately tone as if reciting an epic. “Ride to the foot of Mount Qilian . . .” The Younger Zhu cleared his throat with a dry cough, which made his elder brother shiver. The Younger Zhu continued walking his horse around in a circle while he drawled out the words. The Elder Zhu followed the Younger Zhu in a circle on the grass, eyes fixed on his younger brother.
“To call on an old man so queer . . .” The Younger Zhu walked his horse in a second circle. His elder brother walked a second circle too.
“Who spares his lovely daughter . . .” The Younger Zhu walked his horse in a third circle. His elder brother followed him in a third circle.
“In exchange for gold and silver.” The Younger Zhu was still walking his horse around in a circle; his elder brother had stopped walking. Leaning against his horse, the Elder Zhu dropped his head.
The Younger Zhu walked his horse next to his discouraged elder brother and gave him a light kick on his broad shoulder.
“Gee! Gold and silver you’ve not got!” he chanted with a giggle.
Now an idea hit the Younger Zhu, who was never short of ideas. He shouted to his elder brother, who looked even stronger than the horse, “Git on the horse and follow me!”
The Younger Zhu, inspired by his idea, was no longer drowsy. He took the lead, riding ahead of his elder brother, who followed, head bowed. The limpid canal was running silently on their left.
The Elder Zhu groped for something in his coat, and at length he produced a handful of paper notes, worn out like straw.
“Here’s the money. I’d taken ’em.”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 37
