Shaogong, han - A Dictionary of Maqiao.html

by A Dictionary of Maqiao (lit)

  "No one, eh? That's a bit more like it. Just tell us where the drill's hidden. Before we get really angry."

  "I never wanted to make anyone angry in the first place. But that invitation card you sent today just went too far, I haven't told Brother Yanwu yet…"

  "What're you talking about?"

  "Ah-ah, I said I haven't told Manager Ma yet…" Before the words were out of his mouth, Kuiyuan felt his hair being grabbed by a hand, his head jerked roughly upwards and twisted round to face Wang's big beard. The beard within his field of vision was sharply inclined.

  "Still messing around with us?"

  "Talk, I'll talk, all the talk you want…"

  "Move!"

  Kuiyuan felt another sharp pain in his behind.

  He led the three men to the sweet potato patch, scratched away at the topsoil with his hands, took out the electric drill and the socket board, and-quite unnecessarily-tapped the dust off the socket board and cast aspersions on its quality: "Poor quality, this is, I could tell just from looking."

  "Give us some straw sandal money." The black shadows took the electric drill, snapping off Kuiyuan's watch while they were at it. "We'll let it go for now, but any more trouble from you and we'll have your ears off before we've got another word out of you."

  "Righto."

  Kuiyuan was completely baffled as to how they'd found him out, but he didn't dare ask. He didn't dare make any kind of a sound until the black shadows had moved off and the sound of their footsteps completely died away; only then did he get up, and weep and curse, with no thought of dignity: "Bastards, bastards, I'll get you all if it's the last thing I do-"

  He rubbed his wrist, discovered it to be indeed bare, then groped around in the hole in the ground, but found that too devoid of his watch. He resolved to go and find the village head.

  The village head had no time for his stories about Chief Yuan or Unlucky Yuan, about his watch (or the lack of it), for his bawls and wails, did no more than throw him a sideways glance. A fanatical opera addict, the village head went off to Tiananmen that evening to watch a show. Unfortunately there was no good opera that day. A troupe from near Shuanglong Bow took to the stage, singing some cobbled-together drum dances, their operatics, movements, costumes and make-up so scrappy they looked just like a few people who'd gotten together to thresh and dry grain on a stage. They sang utter nonsense, in fact if they ran out of words they'd produce obscenities or bits of nonsense, quite happy just to get a laugh from the audience. A lot of the audience had hurled their shoes at the stage.

  Unable to lay his hands on a tattered old pair of shoes, the village head walked out of the theater and headed back home to bed. Suddenly, while on the road home, a banshee cry erupted behind him and two hands grasped his neck, toppling him over forwards. His forehead smashed on some unknown object; stars flashed before his eyes. While he was still trying to get a proper look at who was behind him, to work out what was going on, he felt a sudden chill by his right ear; when he groped at it with his hand, he discovered that side of his head was already quite seriously bereft of his…"Ear-" he yelled out in terror. He heard behind him the sound of clothing being ripped, heard the black shadow behind him bite speedily and squeakily on something, spit it on the ground, jump violently up and down, pick the thing on the ground up again, and hurl it violently, far away in the direction of where people were most densely assembled. All this took place in an instant.

  "Hey, Wang, go fetch your fucking ear-"

  This piercing, booze-soaked scream was Kuiyuan's.

  "You bastard Wang, that's what happens if you don't listen to your betters, your ear ends up going to the dogs-"

  It was obvious that Kuiyuan's knife had cut up the wrong person.

  "Kui you bastard, you're going to get it now, you got the wrong person!" someone shouted out nearby.

  More and more people gathered around. Some rushed forward, grabbing back the apparently crazed Kuiyuan by the waist. After a bout of brawling, Kuiyuan felled the new arrivals, broke past all obstacles, and headed for the dark night of the hills.

  Still trembling all over, the terrified village head covered over the bleeding wound on the right side of his head and launched into an unending wail of sorrow: "Ear… my eyayayar…" He'd collapsed onto the ground on all fours, like a dog, searching. Somebody suddenly had a thought and said Kuiyuan had just thrown something toward the foodstall-could it have been the ear? At this, everyone's eyes instantly switched over in that direction, while those standing there hurriedly moved their feet out of the way to allow room for the bleeding village head, for some beams from a flashlight to sweep over the ground. Bending over, they soon found a cigarette box, a few pieces of watermelon skin, and a few piles of pig dung, but not a scrap of flesh. In the end, a sharp-eyed child found the fleshy fragment in a tattered straw sandal, but unfortunately the blood and flesh had gotten completely mangled, were embedded with grains of sand, smeared with black dirt, and were absolutely stone cold, as if they had never been part of a person. People said the only mercy in the whole unfortunate affair was that it hadn't been snapped up by a dog.

  People relaxed, feeling able to tread on the ground at their ease, without worrying they might be treading on something precious. They could be confident of the ground beneath their feet once more.

  By the time the village head returned from the country clinic, his head tied up with white silk, it was nearly morning. Apparently the ear had been sewn back on after a fashion, but Kuiyuan had done his dastardly work rather too well, chewing the ear till it was almost beyond recognition. The doctor said that for the time being he couldn't say for certain whether the ear would still work: they'd have to wait and see.

  Lots of people thronged the door to his house, craning their necks to get a look inside.

  Three months later, Kuiyuan's case was finally judged in the regional court. He'd fled to Yueyang, but was caught and brought back by the public security joint defence team dispatched by Yanwu. His crimes were grievous bodily harm and theft: one sentence of eight years covered both crimes. Having failed to get himself a lawyer, he seemed entirely insouciant about the whole process, standing in the court grinning and laughing every so often at a few mates of his behind him, giving his hair the odd carefree toss. Without the bailiff's intervention, the young men behind him would've passed a lit cigarette over to him.

  "Can't I even smoke?" A look of great surprise came over his face.

  When the presiding judge finally asked him if he had anything to say, another look of great surprise came over him:

  "Did I do something wrong? You're kidding me-what did I do wrong? All I did was get the wrong person, my only fault was drinking too much that day. You know I don't normally drink, unless it's Remy Martin, Hennessey Cognac, dry white Great Wall Wine, Confucius wine, and a small cup at the most. My problem is I have too many friends, whenever anyone sees me they want me to drink, so what can I do? It'd be letting friends down not to drink! A gentleman should never drink alone, and all that. And anyway, it was the middle of July that day, the gateway to the spirit world was wide open, so it would've been letting the ancestors down not to drink…"

  After he'd been cut short once by the judge, he nodded his head repeatedly, "Okay okay okay, I'll cut to the chase, get to the point. Of course, I did something a bit uncivilized, but this wasn't a crime, no crime at all; the worst you could say about it was I let my judgement cloud over just that one time, like I just lost my grip, smashed a bowl. Wouldn't you say? After today's hearing, I think this point should already be perfectly clear. The facts speak for themselves. I've already explained this to the higher-ups. Director Li from the prefectural commissioner's office will be here in a minute, that's the director of the Grain Bureau, I had a meal at his place not so long ago…"After the judge had once more impatiently requested him to omit his wide and varied descriptions of the weather, the surroundings, the menu of the day that meal took place, he was once more obliged to obey. "Okay, I won't say anything
more about Director Li. The higher-ups have views on this matter. Chief Provincial Editor Han Shaogang also believes I've done nothing wrong.

  You all know Chief Editor Han, yes?… What? You don't even know Chief Editor Han? He was my dad's best friend! He used to belong to our County Cultural Institute! My advice to you all is make a phone call and ask him what the provincial government actually thinks about this…"

  His stream of consciousness lasted a good twenty minutes.

  Staring at his flame-yellow teeth, the judge decided his arguments made no sense at all, refused his appeal, and told the police to take him out. The final image he left with people as he was led away was that of his overlong suit pants, their cuffs overhanging his heels, brushing back and forth over the ground in a wet, muddy mess.

  *Open Eyes

  : After Kuiyuan had served one year in prison, he fell ill and died. When the news reached Maqiao, his mother choked with sorrow and died. When matters had reached this pass, the enmity between the Kuiyuan and Yanwu households became even more deeply entrenched. To make a long story short, Kuiyuan's three older brothers smashed some glass in Tiananmen and injured Yanzao. Yanwu then sent his people to break in on the Kuiyuan household's funerals and hurl dogshit missiles at the soul tablet, at the offerings table, even at the two coffins. Only when the two households were threatening each other with torches and knives did the villagers ask the Ox-head to mediate between them. The upshot of the mediation was that Yanwu made a few concessions and agreed to give the remainder of Kuiyuan's family 800 yuan in "comfort money"; in return, Kuiyuan's family would no longer harbor old grievances and old scores would be completely canceled out. In accordance with past custom, the Ox-head presided over the Open Eyes ritual: he killed a black rooster, then filled about ten bowls with its blood, which the men on both sides drank down. Representatives from both sides each produced an almost-finished bamboo arrow, each made a cut on their arrow, then put the two together and broke them with their combined strength, to show that from today onwards they would no longer fight and kill each other-each side took the broken arrow as a pledge. Finally, each side asked an old widow, someone without sons, grandsons, or any descendants, to step forward. A bowl of clear water, in which had been put a copper coin, was placed in their hands, out of which they fished the money, then slowly rubbed it over the eyes of the other widow. One said: "Ma Yanwu's family did your people wrong, you mustn't cover your eyes, you must open your eyes, from now on there will be harmony…" The other one said: "Hu Kuiyuan's family's same-pot brothers did your people wrong, you mustn't cover your eyes, you must open your eyes, from now on there will be harmony…"

  They started to mumble a song:

  Everyone has a mouth The ways of the right are many. Everyone has two ears. The ways of the right last through the years. Open your eyes today, see clearly tomorrow, Dear brothers, young and old, start to smile. Today we meet, tomorrow we part, Although separated by mountains and rivers, we are all under the same heaven…

  The more wretchedly poor the woman, the more qualified she was to be the eye-opening person on an occasion like this. No one could explain why it had to be like this.

  After the eyes had been opened, both sides immediately returned to calling each other brother; no one, under any circumstances, could ever bring up this phase of enmity again. In other words, all the whys and wherefores, all the enmity (or lack thereof) had been completely washed away by a bowl of water run off from the eaves.

  In our present, new era, of course, the phrase "open eyes" has taken on more and more new implications. The Ox-head will discuss the here-and-nows of the national situation, the Asian Games to be held in China or family planning, for example, as a preamble to opening eyes. Both parties concerned have to give the Oxhead a red envelope (of money), not like it was in the past, when a pig's snout was enough as a thank-you gift. Both parties also have to pay "worry costs" to those who've watched the conflict unfold firsthand: heavy costs meant providing a meal, light costs meant a packet of cigarettes. Some of the young men who'd hung out with Kuiyuan had had their heads together in continual discussion over the last few days, waiting for this to happen. It was as if they were wanting to do something, but couldn't say what they wanted to do, so in the end they did nothing. They were like moths drawn to the light, always heading for where the action was, their faces masks of concern for everything, expressing a desire to put the world to rights, but when they arrived someplace, they'd have a directionless drink of tea, a directionless smoke and assemble in directionless twos and threes, casting frequent, knowing glances or smiles at each other. Someone might suddenly get up and yell "Let's go!," which might have led an outsider to believe something was about to happen. But nothing would in fact happen: the gang of them would go and have a look at a small shop, change the tree they were sitting under, resume their waiting in groups of twos and threes, scrap among themselves over the odd cigarette-nothing more.

  And that was how they worried about Maqiao for several days until finally receiving their reward: Yanwu sent someone off to buy a few cigarettes and some packs of cold drinks to keep their mouths happy; and that took care of them.

  They'd originally planned to go take a look at Kuiyuan's house, but when they got there they bumped into someone called Huangbao, who blocked the road and gave them an earful. Not knowing much about him, they exchanged knowing glances and raised their eyebrows at each other until someone gave another shout of "Let's go!"-they all roared with laughter, then left.

  *Standing the Body

  : Kuiyuan had been adopted by the Hu family, but as he hadn't yet pressed names he didn't count as having formally entered the clan, so he was buried in Maqiao. A little big brother of his, one Fangying, who'd been married off in faraway Pingjiang County near the Luo River, hurried back when she heard the news, to weep before her little brother's coffin. She hadn't been present at the eye-opening, and would under no circumstances accept a single cent from Yanwu's family. Not only this, she even said she wouldn't let Kuiyuan go under the ground and kept guard in front of the grave, wouldn't let anyone touch it with a hoe. She asked a few people to help her put the coffin vertically upright, propping it up at the sides with a few pieces of rock. This was called "standing the body." Standing the body was a way of voicing a grievance, a way of attracting the attention of ordinary people and of officials. The stones heaped around the coffin signified that the grievance was as vast as the mountains themselves. The upright position of the coffin, then, signified the resolution that while the grievance hadn't been fully voiced, the dead wouldn't lie still, that they were sworn not to enter the ground. Deaf to what she heard from others, Fangying had decided in her own mind that her brother had died unjustly, that he'd been persecuted to his end by Yanwu's henchmen.

  She even broadcast throughout the village that she'd give 10,000 yuan as a reward to whomsoever helped her rehabilitate Kuiyuan and redress the injustice. If they didn't want the money and wanted her instead, that was fine also: she'd be a contract wife for a year, wouldn't charge anything for her labor, for doing the housework and producing children during that year. All she wanted was her body back in one piece after a year.

  *Uh

  : Back in the days of the Cultural Revolution, the commune ordered each stockade to dig air-raid shelters, also called war-preparation caves. The Soviet Union, apparently, was going to fight down from the north, America was going to fight up from the south, and Taiwan was going to fight over from the east, so all the war-preparation caves had to be dug before the full moon was up. It was also said a very, very large bomb indeed had already been launched from the Soviet Union and in another day or two it'd fall on us here-if our planes couldn't bring it down, that is. The team leader had no choice but to organize three revolving shifts to work on the job day and night, to keep a step ahead of the World War. Generally speaking, two men and one woman were allocated to each shift, the men to take care of digging and carrying the earth, the woman, weaker than the other two, to
take care of the topsoil. And so it was that Fangying, grasping a hoe with a sawed-off handle hoe, accompanied Fucha and me into the cave. The war-preparation cave was very small, so narrow it only permitted two people to pass by at one time. The farther in we dug, the dimmer the rays of light became, and very soon we needed the light of an oil lamp. To save oil, we lit only a tiny lamp which illuminated a small, dusky circle around where the pickaxe fell, leaving everywhere else shrouded in boundless darkness. You could only figure out your surroundings by sounds and smells: whether your partner had returned from carrying earth, whether he'd put down his bamboo hat to wait, whether he'd brought some tea or something to eat, for example. Of course, in a tiny space like this, you very easily picked up the smell of other people's bodies, distinct from the smell of lamp smoke: the smell of a woman's sweat, her hair, her saliva, for example-and some rather less specific male smells besides.

  After digging for a few hours, you started to shake and sway. Several times I felt my own face bumping accidentally into another face that streamed with sweat, or brushed by a few long strands of twisted hair. As I gently moved my numbed legs while coming back out of the digging position, whenever my concentration slipped I might collide with a leg somewhere behind me in the darkness, or with a bosom-I could sense its soft fullness, and how it dodged away in panic.

  Fortunately, it was very hard to get a good look at the other person's face. The flickering dusky light illuminated the mud wall your nose was rammed up against, illuminated the eternal, inescapable fate that lay before you, illuminated the dense accumulations of pickaxe marks that swarmed at you everywhere, reflecting back in places a few rays of yellow light.

  It made me think of how our forefathers had described hell.

  There was no difference between day and night down here, no difference between summer and winter, no recollection even of the outside world far, far away. Only accidental collisions with another sweat-streamed face startled you awake: you discovered you still existed, you were still a person, an actual person with forename and surname, for example, with a gender. For the first few days, after we'd just started, Fangying and I still managed to find a few things to talk about. But after a few startled collisions, she said no more; the most I'd get out of her was a grunted "uh." I later discovered her "uh's" covered an enormous spectrum of tones and degrees of vehemence, could express doubt, assent, even anxiety or refusal. "Uh" represented the absolute concentration of her language, an endlessly various piece of rhetoric, an inexhaustible sea of meaning.