by Hua Bai
I lifted her easily, and I was so alive.…
I gaze at her window. In the past it was pasted over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.
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“Sunamei! After worshiping Goddess Gan-
mu, your eyes become even brighter, like midnight stars.”
“Sunamei! After worshiping Goddess Ganmu, you shoot
up in a twinkling, like a sapling in May.”
“Sunamei! After worshiping Goddess Ganmu, your waist
sways like willow twigs in March.”
“Sunamei! After worshiping Goddess Ganmu, you spread
your fragrance far and wide, like a bud ready to bloom.”
“Sunamei! After worshiping Goddess Ganmu, you bring
back her smiles.”
Sunamei was pleased. So many people admired her –
women and men, peers and elders. Although Ami did not
say anything, she looked her up and down with closed smiling lips and kissed her cheeks affectionately. Sunamei
looked at herself in the mirror a couple of times a day.
Amazed by her own change day by day, she couldn’t help
shouting into the mirror, “Sunamei, you really are pretty!”
When autumn came, the heaviest job was cutting millet
under a summer sun that never wanted to set. Three com-
munities brought in this harvest. Sunamei joined the ranks of the adults, squatting in the fields, cutting and cutting.
The withered stalks of ripe millet sang a rustling tune to the movements of the sickles. When adults of the three communities joined together, the work site heated up. Apart from singing, they made love jokes – sexual puns that made
Sunamei’s cheeks burn. These grown-up women’s explosive
laughter not only provided the best explanations but also 1 1 9
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added to their charm. The smells of sweat and tobacco from male bodies simmered in the air like hot wine. Sunamei
worried that the harvest would soon be over, and then she could not hear those jokes any more. Those men and
women, older than she, demonstrated such surprising talent in making jokes. Witty remarks simply rolled off their lips like pearls. Every metaphor taught Sunamei new shades of meaning. She was so intoxicated by those sweet, obscure
comparisons that she wanted to swoon. She never dared to laugh out loud at the jokes. She was there simply to cut the millet mechanically with two hands; she let the sweat from her face trickle down through her breasts and soak her
waistband.
On the threshing floor, men and women, surrounding a
large heap of barnyard millet, let their flails rise and fall in unison. In the center, Amiji Zhima swayed to the rhythm of the flails. She looked so energetic, swaying as she flailed; sweat soaking the upper part of her skirt, her reddened face shined in the late sunlight. The men glanced at her arms with sleeves folded high up, at her swaying buttocks, at her brown feet beneath the ruffles of the skirt. Sunamei was thinking to herself, “How wonderful if I were the one standing in the middle! I know how to do it.” She beat her flail fiercely. The giggler Geruoma laughed loudly, without
restraint. Sunamei found this cheap because Geruoma had
passed the skirt ceremony together with her. How could she still laugh like that? A foolish laugh, like a girl under thirteen. What’s so funny, anyway? Do you have beauty to display? Zhima had the beauty of a pollen-emitting flower;
Sunamei did not, and that was what annoyed her most.
Night fell. Men stayed on the threshing floor to guard the millet. They lay their sweat-soaked bodies on the dry straw and covered themselves with fur cloaks in the fashion of the Li nationality (the Li call them cha’erwa). Women brought them food. Watching the men eat heartily, the women forgot their own exhaustion. Some men showed off the waist-
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bands and pants their axiao had made for them as they praised their fine needlework and good hearts. Some men
begged or grabbed little gifts from women to test their love for them. Sunamei wore a new waistband and a new kerchief she had embroidered in expectation of someone’s begging for or grabbing it. Grabbing was better, for it revealed the lover’s irrepressible passions. When the men had eaten their fill, the women picked up all the bowls and pots. They left individually rather than in a group, as they had come. The men also left one by one in different directions. Everything seemed natural, as if there had been no deliberation. In fact, some of the bowls and pots were shattered when the lovers met and hugged each other too eagerly.
Sunamei had not yet learned the language of the eyes. She did not yet know the secret of a planned accidental meeting.
With self-confidence, she chose to walk alone on a quiet path. The path led her to a small river, flanked by a row of saplings. She did not feel hot, yet wanted very much to
bathe her sweaty body in the icy water. It seemed an endless job to pinch away the bits of straw from around her neck.
Although she could not hear any man following her, she was positive that he must be stalking her at a distance. There must be a man attracted to her, perhaps two or three taking her path. The river sang aloud to accompany her. Oh, she could hear noise behind her. She became too excited to walk steadily, and her feet banged against each other. When she was certain the noise was footfalls – the footfalls of a man –
she nearly shed tears of joy. This proved her attractiveness as a mature woman. She pulled her shoulders back. Imitating Amiji Zhima’s carriage, she let her skirt sway like waves but held her body steady as if she were borne up by the clouds in the sky. She could feel the man behind gazing steadily at her back. She knew her back was full and broad. The footsteps came nearer, hesitated, and then stumbled. Sunamei pretended not to hear, as if she were listening only to the singing of the river. She was guessing who it could be. One by 1 2 1
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one, she reviewed the most robust and interesting men in the fields, as well those on the threshing floor that day. Was it Nazhu, who could put coarse jokes into delicate words?
Perhaps it was Nacuo, who could make his muscles roll like a woman’s body. If not them, it must be the best singer, Azha, whose voice made Sunamei’s body thrill. The footsteps caught up with hers. Her anxiety matched her joy, and her heart nearly stopped beating. She was waiting, waiting for the appearance of a pair of coarse or gentle hands and a burning hot body, waiting to be thrown onto the short
grass. Then – as she expected – she felt her head kerchief being snatched away. Turning to look, she saw a boy no
taller than she. It was Bubu of the Adi community, a boy who had just put on pants. As if falling into a deep pond, Sunamei pushed him away, grabbed back her kerchief, and
screamed, “You! Are you a man? A bare-bottomed cock!”
The bare-bottomed cock was audacious enough to hold her
waist.
Sunamei shoved Bubu to the stones. Then, straddling
him, she beat him with her quivering fists. Kicking his feet, Bubu cried aloud like a baby. Sunamei stood up and ran
away like an arrow, along the path of the river to the dark woods. She dashed heedlessly into the woods like a deer
startled by gunfire. Covering her head with her hands, she tunneled through the dense branches. She did not stop until she came to a spot where the branches were so thick that no noise from the outside could sink in. Then she grabbed a young sycamore tree and cried to her heart’s content. She had never been so sad and had not cried like this since her tenth birthday. She was disappointed in herself and hated all men. Do you have eyes? Why are you so blind to my
beauty?
Above her, a bird cried. Becoming as ashamed as she had
been enraged, she immediately stopped crying and dried her tears with the back of her hand. Quietly she squatted and groped for a round, heavy stone the size of a dove’s egg. Lift-1 2 2
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ing her face, she was searching for the bird who dared to mock her. High concentration lit up her eyes. She discovered a long-beaked stork, resting in the woods after a day’s catching of loaches. She saw it scratch the mud from its claws. Sunamei cast a look of hatred at it, tiptoed, and then jerked her body, flinging the stone at the stork. She had good aim, having hit a sparrow with a stone at age five and small fish in the shallows many times. The long-beaked
stork was frightened off, a tuft of its breast feathers falling off. The victory relieved Sunamei’s bad mood. She walked out of the woods slowly. When she saw the big black dog of her family sitting by the roadside, it was like seeing a kins-man. Throwing her arms around its neck, Sunamei said,
“How did you know I was here? You were afraid I would
lose my way, weren’t you? Good dog! Good, good dog!”
Tears welled up again; she choked back her sobs. Al-
though the dog had been her friend since her childhood, a dog after all was just a dog. Wagging its tail, the black dog ran ahead and Sunamei followed. By the time they reached home, it was already midnight. She saw her ami waiting for her at the entrance. “Sunamei,” Ami held Sunamei in
her arms and asked softly, “where is your axiao? Why don’t you bring him home? This is something to be proud of,
you know. Mo, you should bring him home with good
manners.”
On the verge of collapsing into Ami’s arms with a cry, she held back her tears, recalling she was a skirt woman, not a little girl wrapped in a linen gown any more. She merely said angrily, “For me, all men are dead!” Then she dashed through the yard and up the stairs, plunging into her huagu.
She sat paralyzed on the bed, covering her face with the sheep’s wool and lying motionless until daybreak.
From fragrant autumn to chilly winter, Sunamei’s
pinched face showed no smile. Quite unexpectedly, the
silent anger made her look more mature and more beautiful.
Like a patch of azaleas blooming on the mountain peaks,
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beautiful Sunamei rose before the men from dozens of miles around, making them look up to her and seek a path to
reach her. When the swinging festival came in the first
lunar month, Sunamei deliberately asked that her swing be five feet longer than the others. As soon as she got on, the swing flew high above the heads of the audience. The ruffles of her skirt danced like lotus leaves in a storm. Her self-confidence rose with her body. She giggled heartily, her calves flashing from under her flying skirt. She could hear, from beneath her feet, that the clapping and cheering for her were much louder than for any other woman. It was true this
time. She tasted the sweetness of the truth. She was really flying, clouds and sun whirling overhead. Among the
laughter and cheers she discerned men’s sincere praises. Her intoxicating laughter, like a stream breaking its dam, ceaselessly poured down.
“Is she the Sunamei from Youjiwa Village?”
Sunamei swung away, giggling.
“Is she the mo of Cai’er? Oh!”
Sunamei swung back, giggling.
“Like a lotus flower shooting above the water at night.”
Sunamei bent over. One forceful pedal, and she flew to
the sky again.
“How wonderful if I could have her as my axiao. ”
Sunamei looked down at the uplifted faces and giggled.
“She must have chosen her own axiao long ago.”
Sunamei swung over people’s heads and soared to the sky, giggling.
“I would be content if I could drink a little tea in her huagu. ”
Sunamei swung down, giggling.
“I am going to look for her tonight.”
Sunamei flew away, giggling.
“Do you really think she wants you? ”
Sunamei, lowering her body, swooped down, strewing
her laughter among the admirers.
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“Do you really think she wants you? ”
Sunamei was flying away.
“Do you really think she wants you? ”
Sunamei deeply inhaled the wind from the steppe.
“Do you really think she wants you? ”
Looking down at the men who were quarreling over her,
Sunamei laughed. “I shall decide who I want.”
Sunamei let her swing slow down by itself. Slower and
slower, until finally the swing stopped and Sunamei jumped down, giggling. She ran away, still giggling, chased by hundreds of men’s loving eyes. She ran toward Youjiwa Village, like a black phoenix butterfly flying into the deep green woods, having dazzled people’s eyes with its crazy waltz.
Hooves clattered like firecrackers. Sunamei felt there was a man on horseback behind her. The clattering suddenly
slowed down. “Pa-ta, pa-ta.” A horse’s hot breath nearly licked her back. She did not turn her head, but moved aside to make way. Yet the rider did not pass her. Tightening the reins, he let his horse circle around Sunamei. Sunamei lifted her head in anger, only to see a smiling face, the face of a forty-year-old man, a ruddiness penetrating through his
darkly tanned skin. The face was covered by black stubble, the eyes were bright, a few red veins in them betraying the strength of wine. Around his waist was a wide belt with six wallets. On the brow of his chestnut horse hung a small
round mirror, and the horse’s mane was decorated with scar-let tassels.
“Sunamei! I want to stay in your huagu tonight.”
“If you dare to come – ” Sunamei did not expect she
could give such a mature reply. It was calm, neither condescending nor humble, neither too proud nor too shy. Lifting her face and with eyes wide open, she replied in a voice neither too loud nor too soft.
“I am Longbu of the Kezhi family. That’s just what I
wanted to hear.” With these words, he turned his horse to leave. Sunamei saw Longbu leaning into the saddle as he
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galloped away. A waft of wild odor from his body dispersed in the air. The horse galloped swiftly, yet Longbu bent down to light a cigarette and turned to blow Sunamei a smoke
ring. Then, in the manner of a Mosuo male courting the
female, he shouted, “Ah – hi – hi!” The sonorous sound echoed in the air for a long time.
Sunamei laughed. She was laughing at her own pretense.
She had acted like a woman who had already received at
least five axiao.
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I gaze at her window. In the past it was pasted
over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.
One afternoon in May, I went to the farm to
send my monthly report to the PLA rep. On my way back, I chanced on Gui Renzhong. Why hadn’t I noticed him the
moment I got on the bus? Because he had changed beyond
recognition. The former cowherd now had his formerly
messy hair neatly parted in the middle and pasted thinly over his scalp, with an excess of pomade (too old-fashioned).
He wore a brand-new khaki Mao-suit and a pair of fashionable leather shoes, but he still held the shoe box that contained Jane’s ashes. His new appearance so confused me that I felt like a twelve-foot Warrior Buddha too tall to touch his own head. Gui, one of the old intellectuals undergoing labor reform on the farm, had slicked back his hair in a style
that even newly promoted cadres dared not follow. He dragged
me to the vacant seat by his side and whispered mysteri-
ously, “Little Liang, I have moved to the city.”
“Moved to the city?” How could he possibly move to the
city? How could he obtain permission? Was he capable of
solving the problems of housing, registration, food rationing, and the other dozens of official coupons for daily necessities? In particular the coupons were the privilege of city residents, closely linked with their life and death. Without those coupons you couldn’t even buy a roll of coarse toilet 1 2 7
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paper. A city was different from the countryside, where one could rub his bottom clean simply with a lump of dry clay.
Seeming to guess my doubts, Gui put his arm around my
shoulder and said, “Housing, residential registration, grain ration – everything has been solved. I even got a ticket for three ounces of cooking oil for this month. Three whole
ounces – that’s quite a lot. They also gave me all kinds of coupons for daily necessities. One of them is for buying women’s sanitary pads. Although I can’t use it myself, I was told it could be secretly exchanged for eggs. One sanitary-pad coupon is worth two brown eggs.”
“Really?” I was dumbfounded. How could he have sud-
denly risen to blue heaven?
“I owe everything to Chairman Mao’s wise diplomatic
policy. To tell you the truth, I must start with ‘ping-pong diplomacy.’ Now China is ready to have a dialogue with
imperialism. Kissinger and Nixon have both visited China.
At the banquet in honor of Nixon, the song ‘America, the Beautiful’ was played. It was fantastic, a glorious victory for Chairman Mao’s great diplomatic line! In the past, it was absolutely correct to ignore the Americans and fight them mercilessly; now it is equally correct to hold banquets for them, so as to demonstrate fully the style of our great
nation. As to Chairman Mao’s great strategies, I’ve never had the slightest suspicion. Now it all becomes clear,
doesn’t it? We have swapped Soviet revisionism for U.S.
imperialism. Now Soviet revisionism has become our num-
