by Bi Feiyu
Road conditions continued to deteriorate. They slowed to a caterpillar crawl, finally settling in behind a column of stationary trucks. She took her foot off the gas, turned off the ignition, removed her gloves, and thumped the steering wheel. She gave him an unfriendly look.
‘Good thing there’s no kid in my belly,’ she remarked.
He froze for a moment, then said, somewhat ingratiatingly, ‘If there had been, you’d have shaken it loose by now.’
‘I wouldn’t let that happen, not at two thousand per,’ she replied solemnly.
That said, she stared at him with what might be characterised as a provocative look in her eyes; she appeared to be waiting for a response. Scandalised by this brief and inelegant exchange, Ding Gou’er felt like a budding potato that had rolled into her basket. As the forbidden mysteries of sex were suddenly revealed in her ambiguous and suggestive remark, the distance between them all but vanished. With feelings of annoyance and uncertainty creeping into his heart, he kept a watchful eye on her. Her mouth twisted again, making him very uncomfortable, and he now sensed that she was a guarded, evasive woman, foolish and shallow, certainly no one with whom he had to mince his words.
‘So, are you pregnant?’ he blurted out.
Now that he’d dispensed with conventional small talk, the question hung out there like half-cooked food. But she forced it down her gullet and said almost brazenly,
‘I’ve got a problem, what they call alkaline soil.’
Your tasks may be important, but no investigator worthy of the name would allow those tasks to be in conflict with a woman. In fact, women are a part of one’s tasks.
Reminded of those lines, which were so popular among his colleagues, he felt a lustful thought begin to gnaw at his heart like an insect. Ding Gou’er took a flask from his pocket, removed the plastic stopper, and helped himself to a big drink. Then he handed the flask to the lady trucker.
‘I’m an agronomist who specialises in soil improvement.’
The lady trucker smacked the horn with the palm of her hand, but was able to coax only a weak, gentle bleat out of it. The driver of the Yellow River big rig in front of them jumped out of his cab and stared daggers at her from the roadside. Ding Gou’er could feel the anger radiating from the man’s eyes through the gleaming surface of his mirror-lens sunglasses. She snatched the flask out of his hand, sniffed the mouth as if measuring the quality of the contents, then-down the hatch, every last drop. Ding Gou’er was about to compliment her on her capacity for drink, but quickly changed his mind. Praising someone for drinking skills in a place called Liquorland sounded pretty lame, so he swallowed the words. As he wiped his mouth, he stared openly at her thick, moistened lips and, casting decorum to the wind, said, ‘I want to kiss you.’
The lady trucker’s face reddened. In a shrill, brassy voice, she roared back, ‘I want to fucking kiss you!’
Left speechless by the response, Ding Gou’er scanned the area around the truck. The driver of the Yellow River big rig had already climbed back into his cab. A long, snaking line of vehicles stretched ahead, while a canopied truck and a donkey cart had fallen in behind them. The donkey’s broad forehead was decorated with a red tassel. Squat, misshapen trees and weed-infested ditches with an occasional wildflower lined the roadside. Powdery black smudges disfigured the leaves and weeds. Beyond the ditches lay autumnal dry fields, their withered yellow and grey stalks standing ethereally in the shifting winds, looking neither cheery nor sad. It was already mid-morning. A mountain of waste rock pierced the sky ahead, releasing clouds of yellow smoke. A windlass standing at the mine entrance turned leisurely. He could only see part of it; the Yellow River big rig blocked out the bottom half.
She kept shouting the same sentence over and over, the one that had given Ding Gou’er such a fright, but she didn’t make a move. So Ding Gou’er reached over to touch her breast with the tip of his finger. Without warning, she crushed up against him, cupped his chin in the palm of her icy hand, and covered his mouth with hers. Her lips felt cold and mushy, not resilient-freakish, like puffs of cotton waste. That was a turn-off. It killed his desire and he pushed her away. But, like a plucky fighting cock, she sprang back at him hard, catching him off guard and making resistance all but impossible. He was forced to deal with her the same way he dealt with criminals: try to make her behave.
They sat in the cab gasping for breath, the investigator pinning her arms down to keep her from putting up any resistance. She kept trying to force herself on him, her body twisting like a coil, her back arched like a leaf spring; she grunted from the exertion like an ox caught by the horns. She looked so fetching, Ding Gou’er couldn’t help but laugh.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she demanded.
Ding Gou’er let go of her wrists and removed a business card from his pocket.
‘I’ll be on my way, young lady. If you miss me, you can find me at this address. Mum’s the word.’
She sized him up, studied the card for a moment, then his face, with the keen intensity of a border guard examining a visitor’s passport.
Ding Gou’er reached out and flicked the lady trucker’s nose with his finger, then tucked his briefcase under his arm and opened the passenger door. ‘So long. girl,’ he said. ‘Remember. I’ve got the right fertiliser for alkaline soil.’ When he was halfway out the door, she grabbed his shirttail.
The look of timidity mixed with curiosity in her eyes now convinced him that she was probably quite young, never married, and unspoiled. Lovable and pitiable at the same time. He rubbed the back of her hand and said with genuine feeling, ‘Girl, you can call me uncle.’
‘You liar,’ she said. ‘You told me you worked at a vehicle control station.’
‘What’s the difference?’ He laughed.
‘You’re a spy!’
‘You might say so.’
‘If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have given you a ride.’
Ding Gou’er took out a pack of cigarettes and tossed it into her lap. ‘Temper, temper.’
She flung his liquor flask into the roadside ditch. ‘Nobody drinks out of something that tiny,’ she remarked.
Ding Gou’er jumped out of the cab, slammed the door shut, and walked off down the road. He heard the lady trucker yell after him, ‘Hey, spy! Know why this road’s in such terrible shape . . .’ Ding Gou’er turned to see her hanging out the driver’s window. He smiled but didn’t answer.
The image of the lady trucker’s face stuck in the investigator’s head for a moment like dried hops, frothing briefly before vanishing like the foam on a glass of beer. The narrow road twisted and turned like an intestinal tract. Trucks, tractors, horse carts, ox carts . . . vehicles of every shape and hue, like a column of bizarre beasts, each linked by the tail of the one in front and all jammed up together. The engines had been turned off in some, others were still idling. Pale blue smoke puffed skyward from the tractors’ tin exhaust stacks; the smell of unburned gasoline and diesel oil merged with the stink of ox and horse and donkey breath to form a foul, free-floating miasma. At times, he brushed against the vehicles as he shouldered his way past; at other times he had to lean against the squat, misshapen roadside trees. Just about all the drivers were in their cabs drinking. Isn’t there a law against drinking and driving? But these drivers were obviously drinking, so the law must not exist, at least not here. The next time he looked up, he could see two-thirds of the towering iron frame of the windlass at the mouth of the coal mine.
A silver-grey steel cable turned noisily on the windlass. In the sunlight, the iron frame was a deep, dark red, either because it was painted or maybe just rusty. A dirty colour, a motherfucking dirty dark red. The huge revolving drum was black, the steel cable turning on it gave off a muted yet terrifying glint. As his eyes took in the colours and radiant light, his ears were assailed by the creaking of the windlass, the moans of the cable, and the dull thuds of underground explosions.
An oval clearing bordered by pagoda-shaped pine trees
fronted the mine. It was crowded with vehicles waiting to haul away the coal. A mud-spattered donkey had thrust its mouth up into the needles of a pine tree, either for a snack or to work on an itch. A gang of grubby, soot-covered men in tattered clothes, scarves tied around their heads and hemp ropes cinching up their waists, had squeezed into one of the horse carts, and as the horse ate from its feedbag, they drank from a large purple bottle, passing it around with great enjoyment. Ding Gou’er was not much of a drinker, but he liked to drink-could tell the good stuff from the bad. The pungent smell in the air made it obvious that the purple bottle was filled with poor quality liquor, and from the appearance of the men drinking it, he guessed that they were farmers from the Liquorland countryside.
As he passed in front of the horse, one of the farmers shouted hoarsely, ‘Hey, comrade, what time does that watch of yours say?’
Ding raised his arm, glanced down, and told the fellow what he wanted to know. The farmer, eyes bloodshot, looked mean and pretty scary. Ding’s heart skipped a beat. He quickened his pace.
From behind him, the farmer cursed, ‘Tell that bunch of freeloading pigs to open up.’
Something in the young farmer’s unhappy, ill-intentioned shout made Ding Gou’er squirm, even though there was no denying that it was a reasonable demand. Already a quarter past ten, the iron gate was still secured with a big, black, tortoise shell of a cast-iron padlock. The faded red letters of five words-Safety First Celebrate May Day-on round steel plates had been welded to the fence. Early autumn sunlight, beautiful and brilliant, baked the area and made everything shine as if new. A grey brick wall, which stood head high, followed the rises and hollows of the ground, lending it the curves of an elongated dragon. A small, secondary gate was latched but unlocked; a wolfish brown dog sprawled lazily, a dragonfly circling its head.
Ding Gou’er pushed on the small gate, bringing the dog quickly to its feet. Its damp, sweaty nose was but a fraction of an inch from the back of his hand. In fact, it probably touched his hand, since he felt a coolness that reminded him of a purple cuttlefish or a lychee nut. Barking nervously, the dog bounded off, seeking refuge in the shade of the gatehouse, among some indigo bushes. There the barking grew frenzied.
He raised the latch, pushed open the gate, and stood there for a moment, leaning against the cold metal as he cast a puzzled look at the dog. Then he looked down at his thin, bony hand, with its dark, jutting veins, which carried blood that was slightly diluted with the alcohol he had consumed. There were no sparks, no tricks, so what made you run off when I touched you?
A basinful of scalding bath water fanned out in the air above him. A multi-hued waterfall like a rainbow with a dying arc. Soapsuds and sunlight. Hope. A minute after the water ran down his neck, he felt cool all over. A moment later his eyes began to burn and a salty yet sweet taste filled his mouth like a face-full of grime, the non-corporeal essence of wrinkles. For the moment, the special investigator forgot all about the girl in the cab. Forgot the lips like cotton waste. Some time later, he would tense visibly at the sight of a woman holding his business card, sort of like gazing at mountain scenery through a heavy mist. Son of a bitch!
‘Lived long enough, you son of a bitch?’ The gatekeeper, basin in hand, stood there cursing and kicking the ground. Ding Gou’er quickly realised that he was the target of the curses. After shaking some of the water out of his hair and mopping off his neck, he spit out a gob of saliva, blinked several times, and tried to focus on the gatekeeper’s face. He saw a pair of coal-black, shady-looking, dull eyes of different sizes, plus a bulbous nose, bright red like a hawthorn, and a set of obstinate teeth behind dark, discoloured lips. Hot flashes wove in and out of his brain, slithering through its runnels. Flames of anger rose in him, as if an internal match had been struck. White-hot embers singed his brain, like cinders in an oven, like lightning bolts. His skull was transparent; waves of courage crashed on to the beach of his chest.
The gatekeeper’s black hair, coarse as a dog’s bristly fur, stood up straight. No doubt about it, the sight of Ding Gou’er had scared the living hell out of him. Ding Gou’er could see the man’s nose hairs, arching upward like swallowtails. An evil, black swallow must be hiding in his head, where it has built a nest, laid its eggs, and raised its hatchlings. Taking aim at the swallow, he pulled the trigger. Pulled the trigger. The trigger.
Pow – pow – pow – !
Three crisp gunshots shattered the stillness at the gate to the Mount Luo Coal Mine, silenced the big brown dog, and snagged the attention of the farmers. Drivers jumped out of their cabs, needles pricked the donkey’s lips; a moment of frozen indecision, then everyone swarmed to the spot. At ten thirty-five in the morning, the Mount Luo Coal Mine gatekeeper crumpled to the ground before the sounds had even died out. He lay there twitching, holding his head in his hands.
Ding Gou’er, chalky white pistol in his hand, a smile on his lips, stood ramrod stiff, sort of like a pagoda pine. Wisps of green smoke from the muzzle of his pistol dissipated after rising above his head.
People crowded around the metal fence, dumbstruck. Time stood still until someone shouted shrilly, ‘Help, murder! Old Lü the gatekeeper’s been shot dead!’
Ding Gou’er. Pagoda pine. Dark green, nearly black.
‘The old dog was an evil bastard.’
‘See if you can sell him to the Gourmet Section of the Culinary Academy.’
‘The old dog’s too tough.’
‘The Gourmet Section only wants tender little boys, not stale goods like him.’
‘Then take him to the zoo to feed to the wolves.’
Ding Gou’er flipped the pistol in the air, where it spun in the sunlight like a silvery mirror. He caught it in his hand and showed it to the people crowding round the gate. It was a splendid little weapon, with the exquisite lines of a fine revolver. He laughed.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed. It’s a toy gun, it isn’t real.’
He pushed the release button and the barrel flipped open; he took out a dark red plastic disk and showed it around. A little paper exploding cap lay between each hole in the disk. ‘When you pull the trigger,’ he said, ‘the disk rotates, the hammer hits the cap, and - pow! It’s a toy, good enough to be used as a stage prop, but something you can buy at any department store.’ He reinserted the disk, snapped the barrel back into place, and pulled the trigger.
Pow – !
‘Like so,’ he said, a salesman making his pitch. ‘If you still don’t believe me, look here.’ He aimed the pistol at his own sleeve and pulled the trigger.
Pow – !
‘It’s the traitor Wang Lianju!’ shouted a driver who’d seen the revolutionary opera The Red Lantern.
‘It’s not a real gun.’ Ding Gou’er lifted his arm to show them.
‘You see, if it had been real, my arm would have a hole in it, wouldn’t it?’ His sleeve had a round charred spot, from which the redolent odour of gunpowder rose into the sunlight.
Ding Gou’er stuffed the pistol back into his pocket, walked up, and kicked the gatekeeper who lay on the ground.
‘Get up, you old fake,’ he said. ‘You can stop acting now.’
The gatekeeper climbed to his feet, still holding his head in his hands. His complexion was sallow, the colour of a fine year-end cake.
‘I just wanted to scare you,’ he said, ‘not waste a real bullet on you. You can stop hiding behind that dog of yours. It’s after ten o’clock, long past the time you should have opened the gate.’
The gatekeeper lowered his hands and examined them. Then, not sure what to believe, he rubbed his head all over and looked at his hands again. No blood. Like a man snatched from the jaws of death, he sighed audibly and, still badly shaken, asked, ‘What, what do you want?’
With a treacherous little laugh, Ding Gou’er said, ‘I’m the new Mine Director, sent here by municipal authorities.’
The gatekeeper ran over to the gatehouse and returned with a glistening yellow key, with w
hich he quickly, and noisily, opened the gate. The mob broke for their vehicles, and in no time the clearing rocked with the sound of engines turning over.
A tidal wave of trucks and carts moved slowly, inexorably toward the now open gate, bumping and clanging into each other as they squeezed through. The investigator jumped out of the way. As he stood there observing the passage of this hideous insect, with its countless twisting, shifting sections, he experienced a strange and powerful rage. The birth of that rage was followed by spasms down around his anus, where irritated blood vessels began to leap painfully, and he knew he was in for a haemorrhoid attack. This time the investigation would go forward, haemorrhoids or no, just like the old days. That thought took the edge off his rage-lessened it considerably, in fact. There’s no avoiding the inevitable. Not mass confusion, and not haemorrhoids. Only the sacred key to a riddle is eternal. But what was the key this time?
The gatekeeper’s face was scrunched up into a ludicrous, unnatural smile. He bowed and he scraped. ‘Won’t our new leader follow me into the reception room?’ Prepared to go with the flow-that was how he lived his life-he followed the man inside.
It was a large, spacious room with a bed under a black quilt. Plus a couple of vacuum bottles. And a great big stove. A pile of coal, each piece as big as a dog’s head. On the wall hung a laughing, pink-skinned, naked toddler with a longevity peach in his hands-a new year’s scroll-his darling little pecker poking up like a pink, wriggly silkworm chrysalis. The whole thing was incredibly lifelike. Ding Gou’er’s heart skipped a beat. His haemorrhoids twitched painfully.
