by Mo Yan
‘What are you doing here?’ Mother demanded. ‘Why aren't you out supervising the tomb construction?’
‘I've got gravediggers there now.’
‘You should be supervising them.’
‘I have been,’ Big Four said. ‘I wouldn't dare be careless on a job for Boss Lan. But…’
‘But what?’
He took out a notepad from his pocket: ‘Director, the gravediggers are almost finished and next comes the coffin chamber. For that we'll need three tonnes of lime, five thousand bricks, two tonnes of cement, five of sand, two cubic metres of lumber, and other odds and ends…can you advance some money for that?’
‘Don't you think you've bled us enough?’ Mother was not happy. ‘Building a tomb can't cost that much, yet you come asking for money. Use your own and get reimbursed when the job is finished.’
‘Where am I supposed to get the money?’ Big Four whined. ‘I get paid for the project in my left hand and then pass it on to the workers with my right. I'm a middleman, with nothing left over for me. Without some money now, we're looking at work delays.’
‘I can't believe I'm even talking to you,’ Mother said as she headed over to the eastern wing, with Big Four hard on her heels.
Father was sitting stony-faced behind a table on which lay a rice-paper accounts book. A brass ink box with a writing brush on top of it sat to the side. He accepted memorial gifts from a steady stream of people—cash or packets of yellow worship paper, a hundred sheets for some, two hundred for others—and entered them into his account book, while the Inspection Station's assistant head, Xiao Han, manning a squat table behind him, stamped the paper with the mark of an ancient copper coin, thus turning the paper into spirit money that could then be burnt for the deceased. Some people brought packets of actual spirit money issued by the ‘Bank of the Underworld’ and displaying the imagined likeness of King Yama, in denominations no smaller than a hundred million RMB. Picking up a billion-yuan note, Xiao Han said with a sigh: ‘Won't bills this big cause inflation down there?’
An old man named Ma Kui, who'd brought a hundred RMB in cash and two packets of worship paper, shook his head. ‘That stuff's almost useless. Only imprinted worship paper counts as money in the underworld.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Xiao Han. ‘Have you been down there to check it out?’
‘My wife came to me in a dream and said that's considered fake money down there.’ He kicked piles of it on the floor. ‘You need to tell Lao Lan to throw it away. If she takes fake money with her, she'll be arrested as a counterfeiter.’
‘There are police down there?’ Xiao Han asked.
‘Of course there are. They've got everything we've got up here,’ Ma Kui replied confidently.
‘We've got a United Meatpacking Plant and we've got you—how about those?’
‘Don't get smart with me, young fellow. Go see for yourself if you don't believe me.’
‘Going down is the easy part. How do I get back? You'd like to see me dead, you old fart!’
Mother walked in and nodded to Ma Kui. ‘Where are you going, Inspector Han? Are you looking for a promotion?’ Mother picked up the phone before he could respond and dialled a number. ‘Is this the Finance Department? Xiao Qi, This is Yang Yuzhen. Big Four's on his way to see you. Give him five thousand RMB, and don't forget to get a receipt with his thumbprint.’
‘Make it ten thousand, Director Yang,’ Big Four said brazenly. ‘Five won't do it.’
‘Don't get greedy, Big Four,’ Mother said sharply.
‘That's not it.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Five thousand isn't nearly enough. See here. Three thousand for bricks, two thousand for lime, five thousand for lumber…’
‘Five thousand, and that's it,’ Mother cut him off.
Big Four sat down in the doorway. ‘In that case, we'll have to stop work…’
‘King Yama would tremble if he ran into the likes of you,’ Mother said as she picked up the phone again. ‘Give him eight thousand,’ she said.
‘You're an iron abacus, Director Yang. Make it an even number. After all, it's not your money.’
‘I can't authorize ten thousand precisely because it isn't my money.’
‘Lao Lan knew what he was doing when he hired you.’
‘Get out!’ Mother spat at him. ‘Just the sight of you gives me a headache!’
Big Four stood up and bowed to Mother. ‘There's no one better than Director Yang, not my mother and not my father.’
‘You can substitute the word “money” for Director Yang! You're an expert at cutting corners on roads and buildings. If you do that on this tomb, Big Four, you'll live to regret it.’
‘Don't give it another thought, Director,’ Big Four said snidely. ‘I'll spend less and work harder, even if the money runs out. I'll build you a tomb that's impervious to an atom bomb.’
‘You can't find ivory in a dog's mouth.’ Mother said, losing her temper. ‘You don't have the money in hand yet,’ she added as she reached for the phone. ‘Let's see which is faster, your legs or my fingers on the dial.’
‘Damn this stinking mouth of mine!’ Big Four said as he made a show of slapping himself. ‘Director Yang, Elder Sister Lan, oh, no, I mean Elder Sister Luo, my dear Elder Sister. I was just trying to soft-soap you. I'm too coarse to say the right thing…’
‘Get out!’ Mother grabbed a handful of spirit money and threw it at him.
The paper fluttered in the air.
Big Four made a face at the others in the room, turned and scooted for the doorway, where, in his rush, he collided with the wife of Huang Biao. ‘You're not fighting to wear the parental mourning cap, are you, Big Four?’ she blurted out, her face red with anger. ‘Don't worry, there's one waiting for you.’
‘I'm sorry, Elder Sister Lan, no, I mean Elder Sister Huang. I can't control this mouth of mine,’ he said, rubbing his head. Then he stuck his face up next to her and said softly, ‘I haven't bruised your breasts, have I?’
‘You can go to hell, Big Four!’ she said as she kicked him in the shin and fanned the air in front of her face. ‘Have you been eating shit—is that why you stink so bad?’
‘For someone like me,’ Big Four replied, feigning humility, ‘the only shit I could find would turn out to be cold.’
She tried to kick him again, but he moved away in time and slunk out through the doorway.
Everyone in the room was still speechless at Big Four's antics and could now only stare blankly at the new arrival. She was wearing a short blue cotton jacket with a floral pattern, a high collar and buttons down the side over cotton warm-ups that scraped the floor. Black embroidered shoes popped in and out of view. Though she had the look of a rich family's nanny, there was also a bit of the modern schoolgirl about her. She wore her oiled hair in a loose bun; dark eyebrows rested atop a pair of limpid eyes over a button nose and fleshy lips. A dimple formed in her left cheek when she smiled. Her breasts jiggled like a couple of little rabbits. I've spoken of her before—she worked for Lao Lan, taking care of his wife and daughter. After I signed on as a workshop director at United, I stopped taking my meals there, so it had been quite a while since I'd seen her, and my impression this time was that she'd somehow become a loose woman. Why? Because just looking at her made my pecker stand up, no matter how hard I wished it back down. To be honest, loose women have always disgusted me, but that had no effect on my desire to keep looking at her, which in turn led to feelings of guilt. I should have looked away. But she was like a magnet for my eyeballs; and when she saw me staring at her she flashed me a smile that reeked of sex.
‘Director Yang,’ she said, ‘Boss Lan is asking for you.’
Mother glanced at Father with the strangest expression.
Father kept his head down and continued making entries in the book.
So Mother followed the shifting buttocks of Huang Biao's wife out the door. Damn her, she made my face itch. She ought to be shot.
Xiao Han, whose eyes had bee
n glued on those buttocks, said emotionally: ‘A man of substance can't find a decent mate, a warty toad winds up with a flower of a woman.’
‘Huang Biao is just a front man,’ said Ma Kui, who was chain-smoking free cigarettes. ‘Who knows who's the real husband!’
‘Who are you talking about?’ Jiaojiao asked.
Father banged his writing brush on the table, spilling ink in the box.
‘What's wrong, Dieh?’ Jiaojiao said.
‘Shut up!’ he barked.
‘Luo Tong,’ Ma Kui said with a shake of his head, ‘why erupt like that?’
‘Fuck off,’ Xiao Han retorted. ‘Do you plan to smoke those free cigarettes till you've got your hundred-RMB's worth?’
Ma Kui plucked two more cigarettes out of the tin, lit one with the smouldering butt of another and tucked the other behind his ear. Then he stood up and walked to the door. ‘If you want to know,’ he said on his way out, ‘Boss Lan and I are related, since his third uncle's daughter-in-law is the niece of my son-in-law's third uncle.’
‘Xiaotong,’ Father said, ‘go home, and take Jiaojiao with you. I don't want you getting mixed up in all this.’
‘No,’ Jiaojiao said. ‘It's too much fun here.’
‘I said take her home, Xiaotong!’ he insisted.
The look on his face, the sternest I'd seen since his return, scared me enough to make me grab my sister's hand and take her home. But she dug in her heels and grumbled, her body swaying as she resisted my efforts. Father was about to slap her when Mother walked in. He dropped his hand.
‘Lao Luo,’ Mother said gravely, ‘Boss Lan wants us to let Xiaotong take the role of the dutiful son. He can join Tiangua to keep a vigil at the bier and smash the clay pot used to burn the spirit money.’
A look of desolation spread across Father's face. He lit a cigarette and puffed on it so intensely that a smoky cloud blurred his features and increased the look of desolation. ‘Did you agree?’ he said at last.
‘I don't see any problem,’ Mother said, slightly embarrassed. ‘Huang Biao's wife says that when he and Jiaojiao were taking their meals there, her mistress said she'd like him as a surrogate son. Lao Lan says that having a son had been her lifelong wish and this would fulfil that wish.’ Mother looked my way. ‘Xiaotong, do you know if that's something Aunty said?’
‘I'm not sure…’
‘How about you, Jiaojiao? Did Aunty ever say she'd like your brother to be her surrogate son?’
‘Yes, she did,’ Jiaojiao confirmed.
Father reached over and rapped Jiaojiao on the head. ‘You can't stop sticking your nose into things! You've been spoilt rotten.’
Jiaojiao burst into tears, and those tears made up my mind.
‘Yes, she did say that, and I told her I'd be happy to. And not just Aunty but Uncle Lan said the same thing, in the presence of Bureau Chief Qin, no less.’
‘It's no big deal,’ Mother said indignantly, ‘certainly not worth blowing up over. It could give the deceased a bit of consolation.’
‘Does the deceased know that?’ Father said icily.
‘What do you think?’ Mother said, looking glum. ‘A person's heart lives on after death.’
‘Please stop spouting nonsense!’ Father railed.
‘What do you mean, nonsense?’
‘I'm not going to argue with you.’ Father lowered his voice. ‘He's your son, have him do what you want.’
Xiao Han, who had been crouching nearby, stood up.
‘Don't be so stubborn, Manager Luo. Since Director Yang's already told Boss Lan it's all right, and Director Xiaotong has no objections, why not let them have their way? Besides, it's just play-acting. Xiaotong could play the role of dutiful son ten thousand times, but he'd still be your son and no one could take that away from you. In fact, most people would fight for an opportunity like this.’
Father kept his head down and said nothing.
‘That's just what he's like—bullheaded,’ Mother said. ‘He'll pick a fight with me over just about anything, and I'm stuck. That's the story of my life.’
‘You'll leave one of these days,’ Father said unemotionally.
‘That's ridiculous,’ Mother said unkindly and then turned to me. ‘Xiaotong, go see Huang Biao's wife and get her to help you change. I don't want you goofing off when the reporters show up. Aunty Lan treated you like a son, so repay her by acting like one.’
‘I want to go change too,’ Jiaojiao whined.
‘Jiaojiao!’ Father growled as he glared at her.
Jiaojiao's mouth trembled as though she were about to burst out crying. The unyielding look on Father's face put a stop to that, although a few tears seeped from her eyes.
POW! 39
Dusk has just settled in and work on the opera stage is done; the four workmen are carrying the freshly painted Meat God to one side of the tall stage. Its face comes alive in the moist rays of the setting July sun; its feet are nailed to a wooden base to keep it from tipping over. My heart tightens with every thud as they pound in those long, thick nails and my feet twitch in pain. I didn't realize I'd fainted till I came to. The wet stains on the front of my pants are proof, as is the taste of blood from a bitten tongue and the pain in the pinched spot between my nose and mouth. A young woman, a medical-school badge pinned to her blouse, straightens up and says to a male student with dyed blond hair: ‘Probably an epileptic seizure.’ He leans over and asks: ‘Is there a family history of epilepsy?’ Confused, I shake my head, which is pretty much empty. ‘How is he supposed to understand that kind of question?’ she says as she glares at him. ‘Has anyone in your family ever had a seizure?’ I think really hard but I'm so weak I can hardly lift my arms. A seizure? Well, Fan Zhaoxia's father frequently passed out on the street, foaming at the mouth and suffering from violent spasms, and I heard people say those were seizures. But no one in my family had them, not even when my mother was furious with my father or me. I shake my head and struggle to prop myself into a seated position with arms as weak as limp noodles. ‘It could have been a symptomatic seizure caused by emotional trauma,’ the woman says to the man. ‘What kind of traumatic experience can someone with a simple intellectual life have?’ He is not convinced. Fuck you! I fume inwardly. What do you know about my so-called simple intellectual life? My life is complex as hell. The woman raises her voice. ‘Avoid heights, don't go in the water, do not drive a car or a motorbike and no riding horses’ I understand every word but I doubt that the look on my face shows it. ‘Let's go, Tiangua’ the man says. ‘The opera is about to begin’ Tiangua? My heart lurches as an avalanche of memories thuds into my head. Is it even remotely possible that the slim-waisted, long-legged university student with shoulder-length hair, finely formed features and kind heart is Lao Lan's daughter, the girl with the dull, colourless hair, Tiangua? She has developed into quite a young woman. There's really no telling what a girl will look like when she grows up. Tiangua! It could have been me calling out or it could have been the crumbling Horse God. I hope it was me, because they say that if the Horse God calls out to a pretty girl and she makes the mistake of responding—she'll have a hard time escaping from a debilitating fate. This time she turns to see who called her name. I mean absolutely nothing to her, so she can't possibly have expected to see the swaggering Luo Xiaotong of her childhood, not in the current state, a barely conscious beggar—I'm not a beggar but I'm sure that's what she and her boyfriend think—lying on the floor of a broken-down temple recovering from some kind of seizure. She stands there, her belly up against the face of the Wise Monk, who doesn't flinch. She doesn't seem to think anything of it as she leans forward, reaches out and strokes the Horse Spirit's neck. ‘Have you read the Wutong story in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio?’ she asks her friend without turning to look at him. ‘No,’ he says with evident embarrassment. ‘We only studied our textbooks so we could get into college. The competition was brutal, since the required test scores were so incredibly high.’ ‘What do you know about the Wut
ong?’ she turns to asks him, a mischievous grin on her face. ‘Nothing.’ ‘That's what I thought’ ‘So what is it?’ he asks. ‘No wonder the writer Pu Songling said “After Wan's success with weapons, the area of Wu had no trouble with the remnants of the Wutong spirit,’” she teases. ‘Huh?’ is all he can manage. She smiles. ‘Forget it. But look here. She holds out her mud-stained hand. See? The Horse Sprit is sweating.’ He takes her hand and leads her out of the temple. She turns to look back, reluctant to leave, and though she is looking at the idol, she's talking to me when she says: ‘You should go to a hospital. You're not about to die but you do need some medical attention.’ My nose begins to ache, in part out of gratitude and in part over the vicissitudes of life. More and more people have joined the crowd outside, including the very old and the very young, bringing with them stools to sit on, assembling from both sides of the road and the cultivated fields behind the temple. What I find strange is that there isn't a single vehicle on the usually busy road, a departure that can only be explained if the police have cordoned it off. I wonder why they haven't erected the stage in the open field across the way instead of on the cramped temple grounds. Nothing is the way it should be, nothing makes sense. I look up and there's Lao Lan, his arm in a sling and a gauze bandage covering his left eye, looking like a defeated soldier, walking up to the temple from the cornfield behind us, escorted by Huang Biao. The girl they'd named Jiaojiao runs happily ahead of them, holding a fresh ear of corn she's just picked. Her mother, Fan Zhaoxia, cautions her: ‘Slow down, honey, you could trip and fall.’ A middle-aged man in an undershirt, holding a folding fan and smiling broadly, runs up to greet the new arrivals: ‘Boss Lan, how good of you to come.’ A man next to Lao Lan makes the introductions: ‘This is Troupe Leader Jiang of the Qingdao Opera Troupe. He's a true artist.’ ‘You can see why I can't shake your hand, Lao Lan says. My apologies’ ‘There's no need for you to apologize, General Manager. The troupe survives on your support’ ‘We help each other,’ Lao Lan replies. ‘Tell your actors to put on a good show to thank the Meat God and the Wutong Spirit. I offended the gods by firing a gun in front of the temple and got what I deserved’. ‘Don't you worry, General Manager, we'll sing our hearts out.’ Electricians with tool bags over their shoulders climb ladders to instal stage lighting, and watching them go up and down reminds me of the brothers who did electrical work back in Slaughterhouse Village years before. How things have changed. The surroundings are the same but not the people. I, Luo Xiaotong, have sunk to the lowest tier of society and am pretty well assured of never being able to turn my life round. My abilities do not extend beyond sitting in this dilapidated temple, propping up a body exhausted by the occurrence of what might have been an epileptic seizure and relating dusty old stories to a Wise Monk whose body is like rotting wood—
