by Yu Hua
Sun Fu swung his arm and struck the boy, knocking the apple out of his hand and connecting so firmly with the boy’s chin that he collapsed on the ground. He shielded his head with his hands, all the time chewing vigorously. Sun Fu, incensed, seized the boy by the collar and hauled him to his feet. The boy’s throat was so constricted by the tight collar that it was impossible for him to chew; his eyes began to goggle and his cheeks swelled, some apple still inside. Gripping the collar with one hand, Sun Fu squeezed the boy’s neck with the other. “Spit it out! Spit it out!” he yelled.
A crowd was gathering. “He’s still trying to eat it!” Sun Fu told them. “He stole my apple and took a bite out of it, and now he’s trying to swallow it!”
Sun Fu slapped him hard on the face. “Come on, spit it out.”
But the boy simply clenched his mouth all the more firmly. Sun Fu put a hand on his throat and started throttling him once more. “Spit it out!” he cried.
As the boy’s mouth opened, Sun Fu could see chewed-up bits of apple inside. He tightened his viselike grip on the boy’s throat, until his eyes began to bulge. “Sun Fu,” somebody said, “look, his eyeballs are practically popping out of his head. You’re going to strangle him.”
“Serves him right,” Sun Fu said. “It serves him right if he’s strangled.”
Finally, he loosened his hold. “If there’s one thing I hate,” he said, pointing at the sky, “it’s a thief. Spit it out!”
The boy began to spit out the apple piece by piece. It was a bit like squeezing toothpaste out of a tube, the way he spat bits onto his shirt front. After he closed his mouth, Sun Fu levered it open again with his hand, and bent down to look inside. “You haven’t spit it all out,” he said. “There’s still some left.”
The boy spat again—practically all saliva this time, but with a few crumbs of apple here and there. The boy spat and spat, until in the end there was just a dry noise, no saliva anymore. “That’ll do,” Sun Fu said.
He saw many familiar faces among the people who had gathered to watch. “In the old days we never locked our doors, did we?” he said. “There wasn’t a family in the whole town that locked its doors, was there?”
He saw people nodding. “Now, after locking the door once, you have to use a second lock as well,” he continued. “Why? It’s because of thieves like this. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a thief.”
Sun Fu looked at the grimy-faced boy, who watched spellbound, as though fascinated by what he was saying. The boy’s expression stirred an excitement in him. “If we follow the old ways,” he said, “we ought to break one of his hands, break the hand that did the stealing …”
Sun Fu looked down at the boy. “Which hand was it?” he shouted.
The boy shivered and hastily put his right hand behind his back. Sun Fu grabbed the hand and showed it to everybody. “It was this hand. Otherwise, why would he try to hide it so quickly?”
“It wasn’t that hand!” the boy cried.
“Then it was this hand.” Sun Fu grabbed the boy’s left hand.
“No, it wasn’t!”
As he said this, the boy tried to pull his hand away. Sun Fu gave him a slap on the face that made him teeter. After a second slap, the boy stood still. Sun Fu grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head up. “Which hand was it?” he yelled, staring into his face.
The boy’s eyes widened as he looked at Sun Fu, and after a moment he stretched out his right hand. Sun Fu took hold of the boy’s wrist, and with his other hand gripped the middle finger of the boy’s hand. “If we follow the old ways,” he said to the bystanders, “we should break this hand. We can’t do that anymore. Now we emphasize education. How do we educate?”
Sun Fu looked at the boy. “This is how we educate.”
He pressed down hard with both hands. There was a sudden crack as he broke the boy’s middle finger. The boy screamed with a cry as sharp as a knife. Looking down, he saw the broken digit flopping against the back of his hand and slumped to the ground in shock.
“That’s the way to deal with thieves,” Sun Fu said. “If you don’t break one of their arms, at the very least you need to break a finger.”
Saying this, Sun Fu leaned down and hauled the boy to his feet. He noticed the boy’s eyes were clamped shut with pain. “Open your eyes!” he yelled. “Come on, open them.”
The boy opened his eyes, but he was still in agony and his mouth was twisted into a strange shape. Sun Fu kicked him in the legs. “Move it!”
Sun Fu grabbed him by the collar and shoved him along the street until they were back in front of the fruit stand. He rummaged around in a carton for some rope and tied him to the stall. “Shout,” he said to the boy, when he saw people watching. “Shout ‘I’m a thief!’ ”
The boy looked at Sun Fu. When he failed to comply, Sun Fu seized his left hand and took a tight grip on the left middle finger. “I’m a thief!” the boy cried.
“That’s not loud enough,” Sun Fu said. “Louder.”
The boy looked at Sun Fu, then thrust his head forward and yelled with all his might, “I’m a thief!”
Sun Fu saw how the blood vessels on the boy’s neck pro-traded. He nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s the way you need to shout.”
All afternoon the autumn sun bathed the boy in light. His two hands were tied behind his back and the rope was coiled around his neck, so it was impossible for him to lower his head. He had no choice but to stand there stiffly, his eyes on the highway. Beside him lay the fruit that he had coveted, but with his neck fixed in place he could not even give it a glance. Whenever someone walked by—any passerby at all—at Sun Fu’s insistence he would shout, “I’m a thief!”
Sun Fu sat behind the fruit stand on his stool, watching the boy contentedly. He was no longer so indignant about losing an apple and had begun to feel pleased with a job well done, because he had captured and punished the apple thief, and the punishment was still not over. He made sure the boy yelled at the top of his voice every time somebody walked by. He had noticed the boy’s shouts were drawing a constant flow of people to his fruit stand.
Many looked with curiosity at the yelling boy. They found it strange that a trussed-up captive would cry “I’m a thief” so vigorously. Sun Fu filled them in on the story, tirelessly explaining how the boy had stolen an apple, how he’d been caught, and how he was being punished. “It’s for his own good,” Sun Fu would add.
And he’d make clear the thinking behind this. “I want him to understand he must never steal again.”
Then Sun Fu would turn to the boy. “Are you going to do any more stealing?” he barked.
The boy shook his head vehemently. Because his neck was clamped so tight, he shook his head only slightly, but very quickly.
“Did you see that?” Sun Fu said triumphantly.
All afternoon long, the boy shouted and yelled. His lips dried and cracked in the sun and his voice grew hoarse. By dusk, the boy was unable to come out with a full-blown shout and could only make a scraping noise, but still he went on crying, “I’m a thief.”
The passersby could no longer make out what it was he was shouting. “He’s shouting ‘I’m a thief,’ ” Sun Fu said.
After that, Sun Fu untied the rope. It was almost dark now. Sun Fu transferred the fruit to his flatbed cart, and when everything was in order he untied his prisoner. Just as Sun Fu was placing the coiled rope on top of the cart, he heard a dull thump behind him and looked round to find the boy had crumpled to the ground. “After this,” he said, “I bet you won’t dare to steal again, will you?”
As he spoke, Sun Fu mounted the bicycle at the front of the cart and rode off down the broad highway, leaving the boy sprawled on the ground. Weakened by hunger and thirst, he had collapsed as soon as he was untied. Now he just went on lying there, his eyes slightly ajar, as though looking at the road, or as though not looking at anything at all. He lay motionless for some minutes, and then he slowly clambered to his feet and propped himself aga
inst a tree. Finally, he started shuffling down the road, toward the west.
Westward the boy headed, his puny body swaying slightly in the twilight as he made his way out of town one step at a time. Some witnessed his departure and knew he was the thief Sun Fu had caught that afternoon, but they didn’t know his name or where he had come from, and of course they had even less idea where he was going. They saw how his middle finger dangled against the back of his right hand, and watched as he trudged into the distant twilight and disappeared.
That evening, as usual, Sun Fu went to the little shop next door to buy a pint of rice wine, then cooked himself a couple of simple dishes and sat down at the square dining table. At this hour of the day the setting sun shone in through the window and seemed to warm the room up. Sun Fu sat there in the twilight, sipping his wine.
Many years ago, he had shared the room with a pretty woman and a five-year-old boy. In those days the room was constantly buzzing with noise and activity, and there was no end of things for the three of them to talk about. Sometimes he would simply sit inside and watch as his wife lit a fire outside in the coal stove. Their son would stick to her like toffee, tugging on her jacket and asking or telling her something in his shrill little voice.
Later, one summer lunchtime, some boys ran in, shouting Sun Fu’s name. They said his son had fallen into a pond not far away. He ran like a man possessed, his wife following behind with piercing wails. Before long it was all too clear that they had lost their son forever. That night they sat together sobbing and moaning in the darkness and the stifling heat.
Later on still, they began to regain their composure, carrying on their lives as they had before, and in this way several years quickly passed. Then, one winter, an itinerant barber stopped outside their house. Sun Fu’s wife went out, sat in the chair that the barber provided, closed her eyes in the bright sunshine, and let the barber wash and cut her hair, clean her ears, and massage her arms and shoulders. She had never in her life felt so relaxed as she did that day: it was as though her whole body was melting away. Afterward she stuffed her clothes into a bag and waited until the sky was dark, then set off along the route the barber had taken.
Sun Fu was alone now, his past condensed into the faded black-and-white photo that hung on the wall. It was a family portrait: himself, his wife, and their son. The boy was in the middle, wearing a cotton cap several sizes too big. On the left, in braids, his wife smiled blissfully. Sun Fu was on the right, his youthful face brimming with life.
WHY THERE WAS NO MUSIC
When the time comes to have lunch or dinner, my friend Horsie observes the following routine. He approaches the table with his mouth slightly ajar (though there’s a big difference between that and a smile). He sits himself down and lowers his head until it is parallel with the table. Then he begins to eat. He makes very little noise as he chews, conveying food into his mouth at a rapid pace without once raising his head, maintaining that parallel relationship throughout the proceedings. If you try talking to him, he will answer you with his head down.
That’s why, when Horsie eats, we describe him as dining. Dining is a serious business: to do it you need to dress appropriately, sit at a proper table, and eat nourishing food in the right way—there’s quite a technique to it, in other words. But eating is altogether a more casual proposition: you can eat at a table or you can eat in the doorway, or you can take your bowl and go round and eat at the neighbor’s—that’s what we often used to do when we were small. Sometimes we’d even take our bowls into the toilet, eating as we had a crap.
In Horsie’s case, he never eats but always dines. From the time I first knew him—we were only ten then—he had already begun to dine, and he took it as seriously as a homework assignment. He would lower his head—even then his head already maintained a parallel relationship to the table—and eat very deliberately, with rapt attention. When he’d finished, his bowl would be as clean as if he had washed it, the table in front of him would look as though it had already been wiped, and the fish bones would be lying in his plate as neatly as a fish itself.
That’s Horsie for you. We tend to walk hurriedly along the street, as though we always have a train to catch, but Horsie’s never in a rush, he’s always just strolling, hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on a point way ahead in the distance, walking along at a calm and leisurely pace. That’s the way he is, never in a hurry no matter what he’s doing, and meticulous too. When he’s talking, for example, he enunciates every word clearly, with balanced phrasing, and expresses himself with care.
Horsie had never fooled around with girls. He was twenty-six when he met Lü Yuan, who by that time was already a familiar face to the rest of us. We were having a meal together and had invited Lü Yuan, and she had brought along two other young women. There were five of us guys, and we were mentally taking their measure, and they, the three girls, were mentally choosing between us. So there we were, eating and gabbing and kidding around, each of us trying our best to put on a good show, the guys waxing eloquent, the girls posturing and preening.
Horsie alone said nothing at all, because he was engaged in the serious business of dining, his head parallel to the table, a faint smile on his face as he listened to us chatting and joking. That evening he didn’t say more than a few sentences, and he didn’t actually dine very extensively, eating only half a dozen shrimp and washing them down with a glass of beer.
We soon forgot about him. At the beginning we would cast him a glance from time to time. He’d be slowly savoring a mouthful of beer, or he would pick up a shrimp with his chopsticks and pop it into his mouth, and a moment later pucker up his cheeks and purse his lips, at which point we stopped looking at him. Then, after we had pretty much forgotten he was there, Lü Yuan suddenly gave a cry of astonishment. Her eyes bulging, she pointed a finger at Horsie’s table setting. It was then we noticed a row of shrimp, five in all, big and small alike, lined up in front of him. Transparent shrimp shells lay sparkling in the light, deposited back on the plate by Horsie after he had cleanly extracted the meat inside. Seeing this, the other two girls gasped with surprise.
Horsie then picked up the last shrimp on the platter. His arm stretched across the table at the same height as his lowered head, and when his chopsticks gripped the shrimp, his elbow twitched with the speed of a lobster’s pincers and he deposited the shrimp in his mouth.
Now he raised his head, and calmly looked at us flabbergasted spectators. His lips closed, his cheeks bulged, his mouth wriggled like an intestine, and his Adam’s apple made a fluid up-and-down movement. Eventually, his bulging cheeks contracted and his Adam’s apple rose. It lingered a moment in that elevated position as he swallowed, a cautious, dignified expression on his face.
His Adam’s apple slipped down and his mouth opened. Then came the moment that left us stupefied: he disgorged what appeared to be a complete and undamaged shrimp, but—and this was the crucial point—it had nothing inside it. He put this intact but meatless shrimp on the table, next to the neat row formed by the other five—equally hollow—crustaceans. Again, a string of exclamations came from the three girls.
Just six months later, Lü Yuan became Horsie’s wife. The other girls at the dinner got married too, to guys we didn’t know.
· · ·
BY MARRYING HORSIE, Lü Yuan detached him from us. From then on, when we sat down to a meal together, we were no longer joined by the avid diner. To be honest, we couldn’t quite get used to it. We had begun to appreciate how striking were those two parallel lines across from us, Horsie’s head and the tabletop—the unchanging distance between Horsie’s head and the table surface so like that between a boarding jetty and the shore. Sometimes, when Horsie sat by the window and sunlight shone in from outside, we noticed that Horsie’s head had a twin on the table’s surface: a black shadow, slightly flattened at its extremities, which slowly shrunk to the thinnest of strips as the light shifted. We had never seen such a long and thin head, not even in a cartoon. Another time
we were sitting in a dimly lit room and once, when I stood up, I bumped into the low-hanging ceiling lamp. The top of my head stung with a scorching pain, and the lamp itself swayed so violently that the shadow of Horsie’s head swung to and fro on the table in crazy motion for a good two minutes, performing in that time practically all the headshaking Horsie would ever need to do.
After Horsie got married, Guo Bin was the only one of us who stayed in touch with him on a regular basis. Often, in the early evening, wearing a gray windbreaker, his hands in his pockets, he would walk from one end to the other of the longest street in town and arrive outside Horsie’s apartment. Then he would curl his long fingers and knock on the door.
Guo Bin told his friends that the atmosphere in Horsie’s new home was entirely Lü Yuan’s creation. From the bedroom to the living room, the walls were crowded with close-ups of Lü Yuan. The earliest photo had been taken when she was just one month old and the others dated from each of the succeeding years, for a current total of twenty-three. In only three of the prints could one see Horsie’s smile, and next to it was the more enchanting face of Lü Yuan. “Unless you look carefully,” Guo Bin said, “you won’t notice Horsie at all.”
Guo Bin went on to tell us that the furniture in Horsie’s house followed a white theme, decorated with pink highlights. The carpet was beige, the walls were beige, and even Horsie’s clothes—the clothes purchased after he was married—had beige as the keynote. Guo Bin attributed all of this to Lü Yuan’s preferences and recommendations. “Did you ever see Horsie wear beige before?” Guo Bin asked.
“Absolutely not.” He answered his own question right away. “Now that Horsie dresses in beige,” he went on, “he looks heavier than before, paler too.”
