by Yan Lianke
*
Uncle and Lingling set about making the two-room building of mud brick and tile into a home. Uncle brought bowls, woks, sheets and blankets from his house so they could live in comfort. The fields around the village were divided into private plots, but the threshing grounds were communal, usually shared by about a dozen households. After the Communist government was established in 1949, the threshing grounds had been divided among ‘mutual-aid teams’. Later, when the People’s Communes were formed, they were shared by ‘production brigades’. Now that the communes had been disbanded and the villagers had returned to farming private plots, the threshing grounds were divided informally among groups of households. When the thatched hut next to this threshing ground had collapsed, the villagers had pitched in to build a two-room building of mud brick and tile. During the busy harvest season, when the villagers took turns threshing wheat, the building was used as a place to rest or nap. During the rest of the year, it was used for storing farm equipment.
And now it was Uncle and Lingling’s new home.
They set up a makeshift stove, and the outer room became a kitchen. They made a bed from planks of wood, and the inner room was transformed into a bedroom. They mounted shelves on the walls and heaped them with basins and bowls; they nailed baskets to the walls and filled them with chopsticks; they arranged the pots and pans and woks and crocks. When there was a place for everything and everything was in its place, the little mud-brick building felt just like home. A house that they could call a home, a place that made them feel at home.
At first, Uncle tried to be discreet about the move, waiting until it was dark to sneak back to his house and collect his things. But after a few days, when he realized that no amount of discretion could keep the villagers from finding out, he threw caution to the wind and ventured out in broad daylight. If the cat was already out of the bag, the water over the dam, the soy sauce spilled and the vase broken, what the hell did it matter, anyway? He was comfortable with his transgressions, resigned to his fate. And so he made no secret of the fact that he was carting food, fuel and furniture, the necessities of daily life, from his house to the threshing ground. If, on his way, he happened to run into one of the villagers, he was as guileless as glass.
‘Hey, Ding Liang!’ shouted one of the village men. ‘Where are you going with that load of stuff?’
Ding Liang stopped in his tracks. ‘It’s not your stuff. Why should you care?’
That shut the man up. After a while, he mumbled: ‘What the hell . . . I was just trying to be helpful.’
‘If you want to be helpful, why not trade places? You take my fever, and I’ll take your health in exchange. That will really lighten my load.’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘Oh, yes? How so?’
‘Just go, leave.’
But Ding Liang stood his ground. ‘Why should I be the one to go? It’s not like I’m standing in your living room.’
Seeing that Ding Liang wasn’t going to budge, nor answer any questions about his relationship with Lingling, the other man left. But he didn’t go directly home. Instead, he paid a visit to Lingling’s husband and in-laws. Moments later, Lingling’s mother-in-law emerged from the house, her face angry and her hair dishevelled. She stormed through the village, heading straight for the threshing ground. Clutching a stout wooden stick she had picked up somewhere along the way, she looked like a soldier armed for battle. A crowd of curiosity-seekers, women and children mostly, trailed along behind her.
As she reached the threshing ground, she let loose a torrent of abuse: ‘Lingling, you slut! You’re so loose you could drive a truck between your open legs! Come out here and face me, you whore!’
But it was Uncle, not Lingling, who emerged from the mud-brick house to face the angry mother-in-law. When he was standing a few metres away from her, he stopped, tucked his hands into his pockets, and took up a defiant posture: one foot forward, one foot behind, so that his upper body slouched backwards. ‘If you’re going to curse anyone, Auntie,’ he drawled, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, ‘if you’re going to beat anyone, it ought to be me. I’m the one who seduced Lingling, and talked her into moving in with me.’
The woman fixed Ding Liang with a stare. ‘No, you tell her to come out here this instant!’
‘She’s my wife now, so if you’ve got a problem with her, you can take it up with me.’
‘Your wife, you say?’ Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Until she and Xiaoming are divorced, she’s still his wife, and my daughter-in-law! Look at you, you’re a disgrace! Your cousin is a respectable man, and your father was a teacher . . . I honestly don’t know how he ended up with sons like you. You boys are a disgrace to the family name.’
Uncle laughed. ‘Call me a disgrace if you like, Auntie. You can call me names, beat me and curse me all you want, but it’s not going to change the fact that Lingling belongs to me. She’s mine.’
Lingling’s mother-in-law was no longer angry – she was livid. Her face swept through the whole spectrum of anger: shocked white, thunderous grey, furious red, seething purple. It was as if Uncle had delivered her a personal humiliation, or spat right in her face. Her lips and hands trembled with rage. At this point, there was nothing for it but violence and curses. Nothing short of a good, round beating and tongue-lashing could set this straight. The scream that issued from Lingling’s mother-in-law’s lips was incomprehensible, but there was no mistaking her gesture: an arm raised high in the air, brandishing a big stick.
Uncle removed his hands from his pockets, took a few steps forward and squatted on the ground in front of her, penitent.
‘Go ahead, Auntie. Hit me. Beat me to death, if that’s what you want.’
Her arm remained raised, the stick frozen in mid-air. If she wanted to beat him, here he was, squatting on the ground in front of her. But was that really what she wanted, to beat her own nephew? Maybe her curses were just for show, a way to vent her anger and save face in front of the other villagers. If she hadn’t cursed him out, she’d never be able to face people or hold her head high, at least not in this village. But no, she couldn’t bring herself to beat her nephew, not after he’d squatted on the ground, offered himself up like that, and even called her ‘auntie’.
The spring sun flooded the threshing ground with pale translucent light. All around, the wheat was moist and green. In someone’s field, a lonely goat – goats were such a luxury these days, who had the energy or the means to raise them? – nibbled at the tender stalks of wheat.
Baaaaa . . . The goat’s thin bleating floated through the air like a ribbon of sound.
Uncle crouched on the ground, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the blow to fall. But the blow never came. Lingling’s mother-in-law lowered her stick and turned to the villagers. ‘You see that? I don’t know how Ding Liang can still call himself a man, when he’ll squat down in the dirt and take a beating for some filthy whore.’
Then, raising her voice: ‘You saw it, didn’t you? We all saw it. We ought to go to the school right now and bring them down here so they can see what kind of son Ding Shuiyang raised. The kind of man who would humiliate himself for a common slut.’
Still shouting and cursing, Lingling’s mother-in-law turned and began walking towards the village. The crowd of onlookers followed her, throwing backward glances at my uncle, like a lynch mob going back to the village to fetch reinforcements. Uncle slowly rose to his feet and watched them leave.
When they were some distance away, he shouted: ‘All right, Aunt! So you cursed me and made me lose face. But Lingling and I are going to live together, whether you like it or not. If you keep on like this, I won’t be so nice next time!’
From then on, Lingling and Uncle didn’t care what anyone said. Now and then, humming a happy tune, uncle returned to his house to cart odds and ends back to his love nest.
The older villagers, with an insight born of long experience, were openly sympathetic to the young couple
. If they happened to meet Uncle on the road, they would gaze at him for a while, and then inquire how they might help. ‘Liang,’ said one elderly man. ‘Is there anything you kids need? If so, I can lend you something from my house.’
Uncle, moved by this kindness, stopped and thanked him for his concern. ‘That’s kind of you, Uncle,’ he said, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘But we have everything we need. Besides, if you helped us, you’d be the laughingstock of the village.’
‘Let them laugh. A lifetime is a lifetime, whether it’s a long one or a short one. When you’re this close to death, I say live and let live.’
Uncle, unable to hold back his tears, began to cry.
If one of the younger villagers happened to see Uncle on his way to the threshing ground, perspiring and struggling under a heavy load of food or furnishings, he would take the pole from Uncle’s shoulders and transfer it to his own. ‘You’re not strong enough to be carting all these things around,’ one young man chided him. ‘If you need something carried, you just give me a shout.’
Uncle laughed. ‘I can handle it. I’m not worthless yet.’
The man smiled and edged a bit closer. ‘So, brother, be honest . . . has the fever stopped you and Lingling from, you know, doing it?’
‘Not at all,’ Uncle bragged. ‘We do it twice a night.’
The man carrying the shoulder pole halted in surprise. ‘Seriously?’
‘Of course. Why else would Lingling be willing to ruin her reputation by moving in with me?’
The young man, taking Uncle at his word, shook his head in amazement.
The conversation ended when they reached the threshing ground, but the young man couldn’t keep himself from staring at Lingling, eyeing her from behind when she wasn’t looking. Sure enough, Lingling had a fantastic figure: narrow waist, shapely behind, a broad back and shiny jet-black hair that flowed over her shoulders like water. Noticing that his visitor was staring at Lingling’s hair, Uncle sidled over and whispered in his ear: ‘She lets me brush it.’
The young man took a deep breath and turned to stare at Uncle. ‘You dog, you . . .’
Uncle laughed. Lingling heard the sound behind her, but continued bustling around hanging laundry and doing chores, her movements allowing the visitor to fully appreciate her beauty. In every way, Lingling was more than a match for Song Tingting, uncle’s wife. Maybe her rounded face wasn’t quite as easy on the eye as Tingting’s slightly more oval face, but she was young, barely into her twenties, and nubile from head to toe. She had an irrepressible youthful energy that Tingting lacked. The youthful visitor stared at Lingling, lovestruck.
Uncle gave him a swift kick in the behind. The young man blushed, and so did Lingling. Then, remembering the shoulder pole he was carrying, he went into the house to unload Uncle’s things. Lingling poured the visitor a glass of water, but after being caught staring so blatantly, he was too embarrassed to sit down for a drink. He made an excuse about having something to do, and with one last glance at Lingling, took his leave. Lingling escorted him as far as the door, and Uncle accompanied him to the edge of the threshing ground.
‘You’ve got it good here, brother,’ said the young man as they reached the edge of the threshing ground. ‘If I had a woman like Lingling, I wouldn’t care if I got the fever twice.’
‘When you know you’re going to die soon, you grab love while you can, right?’ Uncle smiled.
‘You ought to marry her,’ said the young man earnestly. ‘That way, you can move back into your house and live together properly.’
As Uncle watched his visitor walk off, his smile faded. He seemed lost in thought.
2
One day, as Grandpa was pottering around his rooms, Uncle came to visit. He had some news: he and Lingling wanted to get married. Uncle planned to divorce his wife, and Lingling planned to divorce her husband: two more bits of news. He had also come to ask a favour.
Uncle and Grandpa, it seemed, had a lot to talk about.
‘Dad, I want to marry Lingling,’ Uncle announced, grinning.
Grandpa stared at him in shock. ‘You’ve got some nerve, coming here.’
It was the first time Uncle had visited Grandpa, or held a proper conversation with him, since he’d moved in with Lingling a fortnight earlier. Although he’d come to discuss a serious matter, Uncle wore the same lazy grin he always had. Even Grandpa’s angry reaction wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face.
‘I want to marry Lingling,’ Uncle repeated, leaning casually against the table.
‘You’re just like your brother.’ Grandpa looked askance at his youngest son. ‘You’d both be better off dead.’
Uncle straightened up, the smile fading from his face. ‘Dad, I’m serious. We’re going to get married.’
Grandpa stared in disbelief. After a few moments, he said through gritted teeth: ‘Are you insane? How much time do you think you have left? Or Lingling, for that matter?’
‘What’s so insane about it? And who gives a damn how much time we have left?’
‘You think you’ll live through next winter?’
‘Probably not. That’s why I’m in a hurry to marry her. Every day counts.’
Grandpa’s silence seemed to stretch for an eternity.
‘How can you possibly marry her?’ he asked, after a while.
‘I’m going to go and see Tingting and ask her for a divorce.’ As Uncle spoke, his face lit up with a smug grin, as if he’d just done something very clever or scored some sort of victory.
‘This time it’s me asking her for a divorce.’ His grin widened. ‘And not the other way around.’
Uncle’s face grew serious. ‘But Lingling’s afraid to set foot in her in-laws’ house, so you’ve got to talk Xiaoming and his parents into granting her a divorce.’
For a long time, a very long time, Grandpa said nothing. After a lifetime of silence, a lifetime and then some, Grandpa spoke again through gritted teeth. His words were cold and hard.
‘I won’t do it. I’m too ashamed.’
Uncle left Grandpa’s rooms. On his way out, with a wink and a smile, he said: ‘If you won’t do it, I’ll send Lingling to get down on her knees and beg you.’
3
Which is exactly what Lingling did.
She came to Grandpa’s rooms and knelt on the ground in front of him.
‘Please, Uncle,’ she said. ‘I’m begging you to help us. I don’t think Ding Liang is going to live through the summer. Even if he does, I doubt he’ll last the autumn or winter. He’s got pus-filled sores all over his crotch. They’re so infected, I have to spend hours every day wiping them down with a hot towel.
‘I doubt I’ll make it through the year, either. Xiaoming and his parents don’t want me, and neither does my family. When I went home, my brother and his wife, even my own parents, avoided me like the plague. But until I’m dead, I have to go on living, right? Wouldn’t you agree? Until the day I die, I have to find a reason to go on living.
‘Tingting wants a divorce, and so does Xiaoming. Even Xiaoming’s parents agree. Since that’s what everybody wants, why not go ahead and do it? Then your son and I can get married. Even if it’s only for a few months, at least we’ll be legally married, and when we die, we can be buried together like decent, respectable people.
‘Uncle, just once before I’m gone, I want to be able to call you “Dad”. And when I’m dead, I want you to bury me next to your son. We love each other, and we should be buried as husband and wife, as family. With me to keep him company, you’ll never have to worry. And if someday you pass away, after living to be a hundred years old, I promise to be a filial daughter-in-law in the afterlife, and take good care of you and your wife.
‘Uncle, please . . . Talk to Xiaoming and his parents. As someone who loves your son, as your future daughter-in-law, I’m begging you . . . I’m willing to go down on my hands and knees, to kowtow as many times as I have to, if only you’ll help us . . .’
With this, Lingl
ing struck her head against the ground, in the ritual kowtow.
Once. Twice. A third time.
She wouldn’t stop until Grandpa agreed to help.
CHAPTER TWO
1
A summer’s evening, cool and pleasant. All across the plain, no one wanted to sleep. It seemed a pity to stay indoors and sleep away such a fine evening. In Ding Village, Willow Hamlet, Ferry Crossing and other villages on the plain, sick and well alike sat in doorways or outside, chatting about things past and present, gossiping about other people’s lives, and generally rambling about this and that as they enjoyed the cool night air.
Uncle and Lingling, too, were enjoying the fine evening. They sat together outside their little mud-brick house on the threshing ground. The village lay in one direction; in the other, the school. The wheat-threshing ground was located about halfway between the two. Separated by less than a mile in either direction, it occupied the tranquil mid-point.
Distant lights in both directions gave off a faint yellow glow, a dusky gleam that seemed brighter, somehow, than the moon or stars. It was only during the wheat harvest that the threshing ground lived up to its name. The rest of the year, it was nothing more than a flat stretch of dirt, an empty yard that no one used.
That night, the moon appeared to be floating right overhead. To the villagers, it seemed to hang directly over their houses. But out on the threshing ground it hung above the plain, flooding the landscape with water-coloured light. Beneath that pale moon, the plain was a vast lake of invisible shores. Flat, tranquil and reflective. When a dog barked in the village, the noise rippled the silence of the plain like a fish leaping from the surface. From the surrounding fields came a faint rustling of wheat, like water trickling through sandy soil.
Uncle and Lingling sat outside enjoying the pleasant evening, the soft breeze and, even more, their own pleasant company.
‘Come and sit over here, by me,’ said Uncle.
Lingling moved her chair closer, so that she was sitting in front of him.
