by Mo Yan
But I didn’t go to the guesthouse to get something to eat. Since the day we first touched, I felt like a frog in love, no appetite, nothing but unbridled passion. But appetite or not, I had to eat, so I forced myself to eat some snacks she’d brought me, though I tasted none of them. Still, they provided life-giving calories and nutrition.
I leaned against the window with my binoculars, prepared for my daily ritual. The clock in my head was remarkably accurate. Since in those days the town had no tall buildings, nothing blocked my view. If I’d wanted to I could have brought the faces of the old folks doing their morning exercises in Tianhua Square right into my eyes. First I aimed my binoculars at the entrance to Tianhua Lane. One Tianhua Lane was my house. The gate was closed. My son’s enemies had drawn a picture and written slogans in chalk on the gate: a fanged little boy, half of whose face was filled in with chalk, the other not. He was holding his sticklike hands in the air, a sign of surrender. Down between his sticklike legs hung an enormous penis from which a single line ran all the way down to the bottom of the gate.
I lowered my binoculars, which spat out Tianhua Square and Tianhua Lane. My heart skipped a beat. There was Huang Hezuo, straining to walk her bicycle down the three steps outside the gate. She spotted the graffiti when she turned to lock the gate, so she parked her bike, looked around, and crossed the street, where she broke off a branch of the pine tree there and used it to wipe off as much of the chalk as possible. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she’d be grumbling. After the chalk was smeared beyond recognition, she got on her bike and headed north for a dozen yards or so before disappearing behind a row of houses. How had she managed to get through the night? Had she lain awake or had she slept like a baby? No way to know. Though there’d never been a time during all these years that I’d actually loved her, she was, after all, the mother of my son, and our lives had been closely bound up together. She reappeared on the road leading to the square in front of the station. Even when she was riding a bicycle she wobbled, and now more than ever, since she looked to be in a tearing hurry. Now I could see her face, which seemed covered by a smoky veil. She was wearing a black top with a yellow phoenix design. I knew she had plenty of clothes; on a business trip once, probably driven by deep-seated guilt feelings, I’d bought her a dozen skirts, all of which she’d immediately put away at the bottom of a trunk and never wore. I thought she might glance over at my window when she passed by the government office building, but she didn’t. She looked straight ahead, and I heaved a sigh. I knew that this woman was not about to give me my freedom, not without a fight. But since the battle had begun, it would have to be a fight to the finish.
Once again I trained my binoculars on the door of my house on Tianhua Lane, which was actually a wide boulevard, the preferred route by parents taking their children to the Phoenix Elementary School in the southern district. It was teeming with parents and children at this early morning hour.
My son and his dog walked out the gate, dog first, followed by the boy, who opened one side a crack and slipped through. Clever boy. If he’d opened both sides, he’d have had to turn around and close them both, a waste of time and energy. After locking up, he jumped from the top step to the sidewalk and headed north. I saw him wave to a boy riding by on a bike; the dog barked at the boy. They walked past the Tianhua Barbershop, which was directly opposite a shop that made home aquariums and sold tropical fish. The south-facing door showed up bright in the morning sunlight. The shopkeeper, a retired bookkeeper who’d worked at a cotton storage and transportation station, was a dignified old man who displayed his fish in aquariums out on the sidewalk. My son and his dog stopped to watch the ungraceful movements of big-bellied goldfish. The shopkeeper appeared to say something to my son, whose head was too low for me to see his mouth. He might have answered, he might not have.
They were back on the road, heading north, and when they reached the Tianhua Bridge, my son appeared to want to go down to the water, but the dog grabbed his clothes in his teeth to stop him. A good, loyal companion. My son struggled to get free, but was no match for the dog. Finally, he picked up a piece of brick and threw it into the water; it landed with a splash. A yellow dog greeted our dog with a bark and a wagging tail. The green plastic awning over the farmer’s market sparkled in the bright sunlight. My son stopped at just about every shop along the way, but the dog invariably grabbed his clothes or nudged him behind the knee to keep him going. When they reached Tianhua Lane, they sped up; that was when my binoculars began sweeping the area in front of the New China Bookstore, which was on Tianhua Lane.
My son took a slingshot out of his pocket and aimed at a bird in the pear tree in front of the home of my colleague, another deputy county head by the name of Chen. Pang Chunmiao appeared in front of the bookstore as if she’d fallen out of the sky. Son, dog, I’ve got no more time for you today.
Dressed in a spotless white dress, she was a vision of loveliness. Her freshly washed face was free of makeup, and I could almost smell the sandalwood fragrance of her facial soap and the natural fragrance of her body, which intoxicated and nearly transported me into another world. She was smiling. Her eyes sparkled; morning light reflected off what I could see of her teeth. She was looking up at me and knew that I was looking down at her. It was rush hour; the street was clogged with cars; the pedestrian lanes were alive with motorbikes spewing black smoke; bicycles weaved in and out of cars and motorbikes coming at them, inviting a chorus of honking from exasperated drivers. On any other day I’d have found this all quite repellent, but today it was a glorious sight.
She stood out there until her coworker opened the door for her; just before she walked inside, she put her fingers to her lips and tossed me a kiss. Like a butterfly, that kiss flew across the street, hovered briefly in the air just beyond my window, and then landed on my mouth. What a wonderful girl. I’d have died for her without hesitation.
My secretary came in to tell me I was to attend a meeting that afternoon in the County Committee conference room to discuss the Ximen Village Resort development plans. Attendees would include the county Party secretary, his deputy, the county chief, the Party Committee, all county government department heads, and leading bankers. Jinlong, I knew, was going for broke this time, and down the line what awaited him, as well as me, would not be garlands of flowers and smooth sailing. I had a hunch that a cruel fate was in store for my brother and me. But we would both forge ahead, and in this regard, we were truly brothers, for good or ill.
Before clearing my desk to leave for the meeting, I picked up my binoculars and took my customary position at the window, where I spotted my son’s dog leading my wife across the street and up to the door of the New China Bookstore. I’ve read several of Mo Yan’s stories in which he writes about dogs; they always seem more clever than humans, and that always gave me a laugh — such nonsense, I thought. But now, all of a sudden, I became a believer.
45
Dog Four Follows a Scent to Chunmiao
Huang Hezuo Writes a Message in Blood
A silver Crown Victoria pulled up and parked in front of the school gate when I dropped your son off. A nicely dressed girl stepped out of the car, and your son waved to her, like any American boy might, and said, “Hi, Fenghuang!” She waved back. “Hi, Jiefang!” They walked in through the gate together.
I crossed the street, turned east, then headed north, walking slowly toward the train station. Your wife had tossed me four onion rolls that morning and, so as not to appear ungrateful, I ate them all. Now they lay heavily in my stomach. When the Hungarian wolfhound who lived behind a restaurant smelled me out, he barked a friendly greeting. I didn’t feel like responding. I wasn’t a happy dog that morning. I had a hunch that before the day was over, bad things would happen to man and dog alike. Sure enough, I met your wife on the way before reaching her work site. I greeted her with dog sounds to let her know her son was safely in school. She jumped down off her bicycle and said:
“Little Four, you s
aw it with your own eyes, he doesn’t want us anymore.”
With a sympathetic look, I walked up to her and wagged my tail to try to make her feel better. Just because I didn’t care for the greasy odor that clung to her body didn’t alter the fact that she was my mistress. She walked her bike over to the curb and signaled for me to come to her, which I did. The roadside was littered with white blossoms from roadside Chinese scholar trees. A foul smell from a nearby panda-shaped trash can hung in the air. Farm tractors pulling trailers with vegetables and spurting black smoke from their exhaust pipes rumbled down the street until they were stopped by a traffic cop in the intersection. A couple of dogs had met their end the day before thanks to chaotic traffic conditions. Your wife touched my nose.
“He’s got another woman, Little Four,” she said. “I could smell it on him. You have a better nose than I do, so you must have known too.” She lifted her black leather purse, parts of which had turned white from use, out of her bicycle rack, took out a sheet of paper, and unfolded it. In it were two long strands of hair. She held it up to my nose. “This is her,” she said. “They were on his clothes. I want you to help me find her.” Her eyes were moist, but I saw flames in them.
I didn’t hesitate. This was my job. Truth is, I didn’t have to sniff at those strands of hair to know who I should go looking for. Well, I trotted along seeking out a smell like mung-bean noodles, your wife following me on her bike. Because of her injury, she kept her balance better riding fast than riding slow.
I did hesitate when we reached the New China Bookstore, since the scent from Pang Chunmiao’s body gave me a good feeling. But when I looked back and saw your wife limping toward me, I made up my mind to go through with it. I was, after all, a dog, and dogs are supposed to be loyal to their masters. I barked twice at the entrance, and your wife pushed open the door to let me go in first. I barked twice at Pang Chunmiao, who was wiping down a counter with a damp cloth, then I lowered my head. I simply couldn’t look Pang Chunmiao in the eye.
“How could it be her?” your wife said. Keeping my head down, I whined. Your wife looked up into Pang Chunmiao’s red face. “How could it be you?” she said uncertainly, her voice betraying feelings of agony and forlornness. “Why is it you?”
The two middle-aged clerks gave the newcomer and her dog suspicious looks. The red-faced one, whose breath reeked of pickled tofu and leeks, shouted angrily:
“Whose dog is that? Get him out of here!”
The other clerk, whose rear end smelled of hemorrhoid ointment, said softly:
“Isn’t that County Chief Lan’s dog? Then that must be his wife. . . .”
Your wife turned and glared hatefully at them. They lowered their heads. Then in a loud voice your wife confronted Pang Chunmiao.
“Come outside,” she said. “My son’s class monitor sent me to talk to you.”
After your wife opened the door to let me out, she went through the door sideways and, without looking behind her, walked over to her bicycle, unlocked it, and pushed it down the street, heading east. I was right behind her. I heard the door of the New China Bookstore open and close, and I didn’t need to look to know that Pang Chunmiao had come outside. Her smell was stronger than ever, a case of nerves.
In front of a chili sauce shop your wife stopped and grasped a French plane tree with both hands; her legs were trembling. Chunmiao walked up with obvious hesitation and stopped three yards before she reached us. Your wife was staring straight ahead at the tree trunk. I kept an eye on each of the two women.
“You were only six years old when we started at the cotton processing plant,” your wife said. “We’re twenty years older than you, different generations.
“He must have tricked you,” she continued. “He’s a married man, you’re a young maiden. That’s completely irresponsible of him, he’s a brute and he’s hurt you.” Your wife turned around, rested her back against the tree, and glared at Pang Chunmiao. “With that blue birthmark he looks three parts human, seven parts demon. For you to be with him is like planting a fresh flower on a pile of cow shit!”
A pair of speeding squad cars, sirens blaring, drew curious looks from people out on the street.
“I’ve already told him the only way he’ll get his freedom is over my dead body,” your wife said emotionally. “You know what’s what. Your father, your mother, and your sister are all public figures. If word of your affair were to get out, the shame they’d feel would be overwhelming; they’d have no place to hide their faces. As for me, what do I care? Half my bottom is missing, and I have no reputation worth saving, so I have nothing to lose.”
Children from the kindergarten were just then crossing the street, with one nanny in front, another at the rear, and two more running up and down to keep the children in line, shouting the whole time. Cars in both directions were stopped at the crosswalk.
“I advise you to leave him and find someone else to fall in love with. Get married, have a child, and you’ve got my word I’ll never tell anyone about this. Huang Hezuo may be ugly and someone to be pitied, but she means what she says.” Then your wife wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before sticking the first finger of her right hand in her mouth. I saw her jaw muscles tense. She pulled her finger out of her mouth, and I smelled blood. The tip of her finger was bleeding, and I watched as she wrote two words in blood on the glossy trunk of the French plane tree:
LEAVE HIM
With a moan, Pang Chunmiao covered her mouth with her hand, spun around, and stumbled off down the street, running a few steps, then walking, running and walking, running and walking, the way we dogs move. She kept her hand over her mouth the whole time. The sight saddened me. Instead of going back to New China, she turned and disappeared down a lane. I looked over at your wife’s ashen face and felt chilled. It was clear that Pang Chunmiao, a silly little girl, was no match for your wife, the victim in all this; her tears refused to leave the safety of her eyes. It was time, I thought, for her to take me home; but she didn’t. Her finger was still bleeding, too much to waste, so she filled in missing strokes and reapplied the fuzzy parts. There was still blood, so she added an exclamation mark to the words. Then another, and another . . .
LEAVE HIM!!!
A perfectly good slogan, though she seemed to want to write more. But why gild the lily? So she shook her finger and stuck it in her mouth, then reached under her collar with her left hand and pulled a medicinal plaster off her shoulder to wrap her injured finger. She’d put it on just that morning.
After stepping back to admire the slogan, written in blood to goad Chunmiao into action and as a warning to her, she smiled contentedly before pushing her bike down the street, with me some three or four yards behind her. She stopped to look back at the tree a time or two, as if afraid someone would come along and rub the words out.
At an intersection we waited for the green light, though we crossed with our hearts in our throats, thanks to all the black-jacketed motorcyclists for whom a red light was a mere suggestion and the drivers of cars who paid little attention to traffic lights. In recent days a bunch of teenagers had formed what they called a “Honda Speed Demons Gang,” whose purpose was to run their Honda motorcycles over as many dogs as possible. Whenever they hit one, they ran over it over and over, until its guts were spread all over the street. Then with a loud whistle it was off to the next one. Just why they hated dogs so much was something I never could figure out.
46
Huang Hezuo Vows to Shock Her Foolish Husband
Hong Taiyue Organizes a Government Protest
The meeting to discuss Jinlong’s idiotic proposal went on till noon. The elderly Party secretary, Jin Bian — the onetime blacksmith who had fitted my dad’s donkey for shoes — had been promoted to vice chairman of the Municipal People’s Congress, and it was a foregone conclusion that Pang Kangmei was next in line for the Party position. She was the daughter of a national hero and a college graduate with rich experience at the grassroots level. Barely forty ye
ars old and still attractive, she had the enthusiastic backing of her superiors and the support of those beneath her. In other words, she had everything she needed for success. The meeting was highly contentious, with neither side willing to back off its position. So Pang Kangmei simply pounded her gavel and announced: “We’ll do it! For the initial phase we’ll need 300 million yuan. We’ll leave it up to the banks to come up with that amount. We’ll form a Merchants Investment Group to attract investment capital from both domestic and overseas sources.”
I was distracted throughout the discussion, using visits to the toilet as an excuse to make phone calls to the New China Bookstore. Pang Kangmei’s gaze followed me like a laser. I could only smile apologetically and point to my stomach.
I phoned the bookstore three times. Finally, on the third try, the clerk with the husky voice said heatedly:
“You again. Stop calling. She was led outside by the crippled wife of Deputy County Chief Lan, and she still hasn’t returned.”
I called home. No answer.
My seat felt like a heated grill, and I know how bad I must have looked as I sat through the meeting, one scary image after another racing through my mind. The most tragic image was of my wife murdering Chunmiao in an out-of-the-way village or remote spot, then killing herself. A crowd of rubberneckers had gathered around the bodies and police cars, sirens blaring, were speeding to the scene. I sneaked a look at Kangmei, who was volubly describing aspects of Jinlong’s blueprints with a pointer, and all my benumbed brain could think about was how, in the next minute, the next second, anytime now, this huge scandal would land in the midst of this meeting like a suicide bomb, sending fragments of steel and flesh flying. . . .
