Cries in the Drizzle

by Yu Hua

  It was not so difficult for Sun Youyuan to sling my great-grandmother over his back and take to his heels, but now that he had started running, it was not so easy to stop. He mingled with the streams of refugees just as my grandmother had done, and on several occasions he clearly heard the sound of Japanese guns at his back. Being the devoted son that his era expected him to be, he could not bear to see my great-grandmother lurching down the road in her bound feet, so he carried her on his back the whole way, sweat pouring down his face, panting for breath, following the refugees as they fled helter-skelter along dust-swirled roads.His only respite came one evening when, reduced to a state of near-total exhaustion, he detached himself from the throng, set my great-grandmother down under a withered tree, and went off in search of water. Successive days of arduous travel had so worn out my feeble great-grandmother that she fell into a heavy sleep as soon as she lay down, and on that chilly moonlit night she was savaged by a wild dog. As a child, I found it hard to get my mind off this nightmarish scene: somebody falls asleep, and then—a bit here, a piece there—they are devoured by a wild dog; I could not imagine anything more gruesome than that. By the time my grandfather returned to the tree, my great-grandmother had been horribly mangled. The wild dog stuck out its long tongue and licked its nose, staring at my grandfather ferociously. His mother's shocking appearance made Sun Youyuan howl like a lunatic. He forgot for a moment that he was human, and he bared his teeth just like the wild dog and made a lunge toward it. It was my grandfather's roar that frightened the animal most, and it turned tail and fled. Sun Youyuan, in a towering rage, set off in pursuit, but the curses he rained down on the vile creature must have slowed his pace. Eventually, when the dog had completely disappeared from view, my grandfather returned to his mother's remains, rattled and tearful. He knelt at her side and punched himself viciously in the face, his piercing wails filling the night with gloom and dread.

  After burying his mother, Sun Youyuan found his confidence at a historic low. Sick at heart, he randomly followed the swarms of refugees, though his mother's death had rendered his flight suddenly meaningless. That's why when my grandfather first saw my grandmother by a tumbledown wall a brook babbled in his heart. By this time all traces of my grandmother's lofty pedigree had been erased; she sat bedraggled on a bank of wild grass and saw my grandfather's haggard face with blurry eyes, through disheveled hair. Reduced by hunger to utter debility before long she slumped on my grandfather's back and fell asleep. Young Sun Youyuan thus acquired a wife and brought to an end his life as an aimless vagabond. So long a victim of poverty and undernourishment, Sun Youyuan now strode forward with my grandmother on his back, his face glowing with hope.

  IN THE FLICKERING LIGHT

  After Grandfather sprained his back, an uncle suddenly impinged on my consciousness. An utter stranger to me, he apparently lived in a small market town and did a job that involved people opening their mouths and his reaching in and pulling out their teeth. According to reports, he shared a street corner with a butcher and a cobbler. My uncle inherited the medical career that my grandfather had once pursued in such absurd fashion, but he was able to sustain it indefinitely, which shows that his medical technique differed from my grandfather's utter hogwash. By the side of a noisy street he opened his broad oilcloth umbrella and sat down underneath it, as though he were out fishing. As soon as he donned his white gown with its motley collection of dirty blotches, he could claim to be a medical specialist. The small table in front of him was piled with several pairs of rusty pliers and several dozen bloodstained teeth. These pulled teeth served effectively as a vehicle for self-promotion, advertising the high sophistication of his dental arts and drumming up business from customers with loose teeth.

  When Granddad walked past us one morning without a word, a blue bundle over his back and a shabby umbrella in his hand, my big brother and I were taken aback. He said nothing to my parents as he left, and they gave no sign that there was anything unusual about his departure. My brother and I leaned up against the back windowsill, watching him shuffle off. It was Mother who told us, “He's gone to see your uncle.”

  In his final years my grandfather's plight was like that of a rickety old chair that is abandoned and can only wait quietly for the advent of the fire that will consume it. On the day Granddad came to grief my brother Sun Guangping had been given a satchel, an accessory that, owing to the fact he was older than me, he received well before I did. That moment still glimmers in my childhood memory. Late one afternoon, on the eve of the start of the school year, my father Sun Kwangtsai sat on the doorsill, puffed up with unjustified pride, loudly instructing my older brother what to do if the kids in town got into an argument with him: “If there's just one of them, hit him; if there's two, scoot back home.”

  Sun Guangping, then eight years old, gazed at Sun Kwangtsai with a look of mindless awe; it was during these years that he most idolized his father. His deferential expression inspired my father to patiently explain the reasoning behind this injunction, unconscious of what nonsense he was talking.

  For a clodhopper, my father was very smart, and quick to pick up whatever fashion was in vogue. The first time my brother headed off for school with his satchel on his back, Sun Kwangtsai stood at the entrance to the village and issued a final reminder. It was comical to see a grown man like him imitate the tone of a bad guy in a movie. “Password?” he barked out.

  My older brother had a natural gift for putting things in a nutshell. When he turned around to deliver his response, he did not repeat his fathers fussy and complicated instructions but called simply “Beat one, flee two.”

  In the midst of that gleeful exchange my aging grandfather slipped past silently, holding a length of cord: he was going up the hill to collect firewood. Seen from behind, he looked so tall and strong. I was sitting on the ground, and his forceful steps sprinkled dust over my face, blurring the jealousy I felt toward my brother and the unthinking excitement of the moment.

  My grandfather's misadventure was intertwined with my big brother's jubilation. At that stage, more than twenty years ago, my younger brother and I were still happy just to forage for snails at the edge of the pond. But Sun Guangping, on his first day back from school, was all set to show off what he had learned. I'll never forget how he swaggered home with his satchel over his shoulder, then swung the satchel around so that it hung over his chest and put his hands behind his back. The latter gesture clearly was designed as an imitation of his teacher. He sat down next to the pond and pulled his textbook out, first letting the sunlight catch it, then reading it with great concentration. My little brother and I watched dumbfounded, the way two hungry dogs, their stomachs rumbling, might watch a bone flying through the air.

  It was at this precise moment that Sun Kwangtsai came lumbering up, with an ashen Sun Youyuan on his back. My father was fuming. He set Sun Youyuan down inside on his bed, and as soon as he came out of the house he started muttering, “It's just what I was afraid of, that somebody would get sick. Now we're really screwed! One more mouth to feed and one less pair of hands at work—that's twice we lose out.”

  After taking that tumble on the hill my grandfather was laid up in bed for a whole month, and though later he was able to get up and walk about, his back was so stiff that full movement was beyond him. Having lost the capacity to engage in labor, he would greet the villagers with a smile even more timid than the one he wore when my grandmother died. I can still picture the tremulous look on his face as he told them, “I can't bend down.”

  One could hear self-recrimination in his voice, as well as an eagerness to justify himself. His fate was forever altered by this sudden handicap, and he began a life of dependency. In the few months leading up to my departure from Southgate, the old man, once so hale and hearty, rapidly grew sallow and emaciated, as though a makeup department had been working on him. It was clear that he had become an encumbrance, and thus was inaugurated the arrangement whereby his sons took turns looking after him, and
I finally learned that I had an uncle. After a full month at our house, Granddad would set off along the dirt track into town. He needed to take a boat from there, I believe, to reach the place where my uncle lived. A month later, right around dusk, his figure would shamble into sight again in the distance, on that same road.

  At such moments, my big brother and I would race exuberantly toward him. Our little brother could only stand at the edge of the village and watch us as we ran, a smile of vicarious excitement on his face. Sun Youyuan's eyes would brim with tears, and his hands would tremble as he ruffled our hair. In reality, our mad dash was inspired by sibling rivalry, not by any great delight at Granddad's return. The umbrella in his hand and the bundle on his back were what triggered our enthusiasm: whoever was first to grab the umbrella was the undisputed champion. Once, I remember, my brother seized the bundle as well as the umbrella, and then marched along on Granddad's right, proud as a peacock. I, on the other hand, was heartbroken to be completely empty-handed. On the short walk home I kept complaining to Granddad about how unreasonable my brother was. “He's got the bundle too!” I sobbed, “He took the umbrella, and then he took the bundle!”

  Granddad did not correct this injustice, as I had hoped. His misunderstanding of our motives brought tears to his eyes, and I can still remember how he wiped them away with the back of his hand. My little brother, then four, was always on the lookout for ways of turning things to his advantage, and seeing Granddad so tearful he ran home as fast as he could, shrilly announcing to our parents: “Granddad's crying.” Though he, like me, came back empty-handed, he had found something to make up for it.

  Given my tender age before I left home, I could not possibly feel the extent of the humiliation Granddad suffered. But now that I think about it, my father was always in a foul mood during the month that Granddad was with us. In our cramped little house he would often howl as loud as a winter gale. If he pointed at Sun Youyuan and cursed him by name, then I would be in no doubt that Granddad was bearing the brunt of his rage, but at other times I would watch my father warily in case he was suddenly to aim a kick at me. When I was young my father was an unpredictable fellow.

  During his time at our house my grandfather was so self-effacing that he practically disappeared. He would sit for a long time in an inconspicuous corner, silently idling away what little life he had left. But when meals were served he would appear on the scene as quick as lightning, often startling us three boys. My little brother then had an opportunity to show off, putting his hand to his chest and looking agitated, so as to underscore what a fright he'd been given.

  Examples of Granddad's spinelessness remain etched on my mind. On one occasion when Sun Guangming went looking for him, my little brother—still unsteady on his feet—fell down and started wailing. Not only that—he started cursing too, as if he had somehow been tripped. Not yet able to enunciate very well, he did his best to swear with great conviction, though it all sounded like a puppy's yapping to me. Granddad, however, was so anxious that his face went pale, fearful that Sun Guangming would carry on crying right until my father came back from the fields at the end of the day, and knowing that Sun Kwangtsai would never pass up an opportunity to fly into a rage. One could see in Sun You-yuan's eyes a dread that disaster was about to strike.

  After his accident Sun Youyuan seldom mentioned our grandmother, talk of whom made us uncomfortable. Instead he became accustomed to recalling for himself the days that he spent with her. He, after all, was the only member of the family who would have been able to savor the memories of their lives together.

  When Sun Youyuan sat in a bamboo chair recalling his pretty young bride (once so well-to-do), his pallid face seemed all the more expressive, for its creases and furrows would start to undulate. I would often sneak a glance at the smiles that fluttered over his face like grasses in a breeze, smiles that strike me as poignant when I think about them now. But for me at the age I was then, I was simply astonished that someone could smile all by himself. When I shared this discovery with my big brother, who was down by the riverside catching shrimp, he ran home at a speed faster than I could manage, his excitement proving how right I was to be amazed. When we two grimy little boys arrived by Granddad's side, a smile was still playing delicately on his face. My brother acted with a boldness that was almost beyond my imagination, and his loud cries of protest jerked my grandfather out of his reveries. Granddad quivered from head to toe, as though struck by lightning; his mysterious smile vanished and his eyes filled with apprehension. My brother, still so immature, assumed a mantle of severity as he scolded Granddad: “How can you smile when you're on your own? Only loonies do that.” Then he waved his hand dis-missively: “In the future, you're not to smile by yourself, is that understood?”

  Granddad, now clear on this point, gave a humble and deferential nod.

  In his final years Sun Youyuan tried to get on the right side of everyone in the family, but given that he was our senior, his self-abasement could hardly win our respect. For a time I was pulled in two directions. On the one hand, I urged myself to follow Sun Guangping's example and throw my weight around with Granddad. For a child to issue orders to an adult, after all, is stirring stuff. But at the same time I was swayed by Granddad's kindly gaze, and when we exchanged glances, the warmth in his eyes made it impossible for me to flaunt some spurious authority. I could only leave the room in low spirits and go off in search of Sun Guangping, whose feistiness I admired.

  After Granddad framed my little brother—and so coldbloodedly, too—I abandoned altogether any idea I might have had of bullying Granddad. From that time on my grandfather was for me a sinister, forbidding presence.

  It all stemmed from a simple accident. As my grandfather rose from his corner one day, he happened to give the table a jolt and a bowl was knocked to the floor. I was close enough to see how Granddad froze in horror. He stood with his back to me, staring at the shards of china that now lay scattered at his feet. When I try now to recall the image of him standing there, I see only a hazy shadow. But I do remember that he came out with a long string of shocked whispers; never since have I heard anybody talk as rapidly as he did then.

  Sun Youyuan did not clear away the broken pieces as I was expecting him to do. By now I was six, an age when I could dimly sense that something awful was going to happen, something involving my father, who was due to come home any minute. I had no idea how fearsome he would be when he lost his temper this time, but I knew that to a man as strong as him, shaking a fist was as easy and natural as it was for my mother to shake out her scarf. I stood there as Granddad sat down again in his corner, seemingly unperturbed, having made no effort to conceal the damage. His calm demeanor only intensified my unease. My young eyes veered uncertainly between the shattered bowl and my grandfather's face, and then I fled in alarm, as though I had stumbled on a snake.

  As I had feared, Sun Kwangtsai was driven to new heights of manic anger by the loss of the bowl. Perhaps he was secretly hoping that Granddad was indeed the culprit, so as to justify the abuse he was always tempted to heap on him. His face flushed, Sun Kwangtsai shouted and screamed tirelessly like a child. His anger caught us three boys in its slipstream, reducing us to shivers as though we were being buffeted by a gale. When I glanced timidly at Sun Youyuan, he shocked me by standing up and meekly telling my father, “Sun Guangming broke it.”

  My little brother, fidgeting at my side, did not take this in at all. There was alarm on his face, to be sure, but that came from Sun Kwangtsai's menacing expression. When my father, now boiling with rage, asked him, “Did you do it?” my little brother was scared speechless, and it was not until Sun Kwangtsai roared out this question a second time, pressing toward him threateningly, that I finally heard him speak up in his own defense: “It wasn't me.”

  My little brother slurred his words. Right up until the day he died, he was prone to mumble. His response further inflamed my father, who was no doubt bent on making the most of this opportunity to blow off
steam. He practically exploded, “If it wasn't you, how did the bowl get broken?”

  My little brother looked utterly bewildered. Questioned thus, he could only shake his head in confusion. He was just too young; though able to issue a simple denial, he did not understand that testimony was needed to support his case. Worst of all, he was suddenly distracted by a bird outside and ran out the door to investigate. For my father, this was an intolerable provocation. Seething with fury, he yelled, “Come back here, you little son of a bitch!”

  Although Sun Guangming knew enough to be frightened, he did not realize the gravity of the situation. No sooner was he back in the house than he pointed outside and gave what seemed to him a perfectly reasonable explanation for his exit. “There was a little bird!” he told Sun Kwangtsai, his eyes wide. “It was just there!”

  My little brother's tender face took the full force of my father's flailing hand. He flew through the air and landed with a thump on the floor, where he lay in total silence for what seemed like forever. My mother, no less frightened than me by my father's rampages, cried out in alarm and ran to his aid. Then at last Sun Guangming started to bawl. Just as he did not knowwhy he had been slapped, he did not seem to know why he was crying either.

  My fathers rage began to recede. He banged on the table and yelled, “What the hell are you crying about?”