by Yu Hua
I sit there for a long time before I slowly stand up. It isn’t easy because my whole body aches like crazy every time I move, but still I stand up and limp over to the truck.
The truck looks miserable, battered. I know I’ve been battered too.
The sky’s black now. There’s nothing here. Just a battered truck and battered me. I’m looking at the truck, immeasurably sad, and the truck’s looking at me, immeasurably sad. I reach out to stroke it. It’s cold all over. The wind starts to blow, a strong wind, and the sound of the wind rustling the trees in the mountains is like ocean waves. The sound terrifies me so much that my body gets as cold as the truck’s.
I open the door and hop in. I’m comforted by the fact that they didn’t pry away the seat. I lie down in the cab. I smell leaking gas and think of the smell of the blood that leaked out of me. The wind’s getting stronger and stronger, but I feel a little warmer lying on the seat. I think that even though the truck’s been battered, its heart is still intact, still 10 yu hua
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warm. I know that my heart’s warm, too. I was looking for an inn, and I never thought I’d find you here.
I lie inside the heart of the truck, remembering that clear warm afternoon. The sunlight was so pretty. I remember that I was outside enjoying myself in the sunshine for a long time, and when I got home I saw my dad through the
window packing things into a red backpack. I leaned against the window frame and asked, “Dad, are you going on a trip?”
He turned and very gently said, “No, I’m letting you go on a trip.”
“Letting me go on a trip?”
“That’s right. You’re eighteen now, and it’s time you saw a little of the outside world.”
Later I slipped that pretty red backpack onto my back.
Dad patted my head from behind, just like you would pat a horse’s rump. Then I gladly made for the door and excitedly galloped out of the house, as happy as a horse.
On the Road at Eighteen 11
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Classical Love
1
Willow walked down a yellow highway on his way
to the civil service examination in the imperial capital. He wore a dark green cotton robe over coarsely woven pants, a faded cap, and a dark green silk belt strung around his waist. He looked like an emerald green tree walking down the yellow highway. It was the height of spring, and stands of peaches and willows flourished amid the mulberry and hemp fields as far as the eye could see. Thatched cottages, enclosed within bamboo fences, were strewn sparsely across the countryside. The sun hung high above, its innumerable rays like golden filaments threading through a silk loom.
Willow had been walking down the highway since dawn, and in that time the only people he had encountered had been a pair of government messengers hurrying down the road and a few soldierly men on horseback urging their mounts on with whips held high. The storm cloud of dust stirred by the horses’ hoofs had obscured Willow’s view of the road ahead. He had not encountered any other travelers since.
Several days earlier, when he first left his village home and stepped onto the yellow highway, desolation had welled up in his heart. The heavy clatter of his mother’s cloth loom had continued to pursue him long after he had left their thatched hut, searing his back like a burn. And his father’s eyes in the moments before his death bore vividly down on him. He had stepped onto the yellow highway to win glory for his ancestors. The brilliant colors of spring unfolded before him like a scroll, but he had no eyes for the scenery.
He saw what seemed to be the fluttering leaves of late 12
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autumn, and the road under his feet was clearly illusory, without substance.
Willow was hardly the scion of an aristocratic clan – his dead father was just a poor scholar who had never passed the civil service examinations. Although his father had been able to write in a good hand and paint flowers, scenery, and the like with real style, he couldn’t work with his hands or lift a carrying pole, so how could he support a family, let alone fill his own belly? If it hadn’t been for the whole family’s reliance on the constant clatter of his mother’s loom, Willow would have been hard-pressed to make it through his childhood. His mother’s back, bowed by many years of labor, would never straighten. When he was still a little boy, Willow had begun to read poetry and prose under his father’s supervision. As the years went by he had inherited his father’s disposition. He took to reading off-color books, and although he could write a pretty hand and paint flowers tolerably well, he still neglected the all-important art of the octopartite essay.1 And so it was that, even as he stepped onto the yellow highway on his way to the civil examination in the capital, he was enveloped by the specter of a father who had languished in poverty after repeatedly failing the examinations.
Willow took leave of the thatched hut shouldering only a gray bundle containing a change of clothes, paper, an inkstone, and a writing brush. Willow traveled penniless. He supped on the wind and slept in the dew, selling his services as a scribe and a painter now and again for some petty change with which to assuage his hunger. Once along the way, he had seen a pair of youths who were also on their way to the examinations in the capital. They were proud scions of aristocratic clans, clad in embroidered tunics, sitting astride 1A pedantic form of essay writing on orthodox Confucian themes that was central to success in the imperial civil service examinations in ancient China.
Classical Love 13
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noble mounts, accompanied by a smart-looking valet. Even the valet’s outfit had put Willow to shame. He didn’t have a valet to escort him along the road – he was accompanied only by the shadow he cast onto the dusty surface of the yellow highway. With every slight swing back and forth of his gray bundle came the lone sound of a writing brush tapping against the inkstone.
After walking all morning, parched and hungry, he happened on a crossroads. Fortunately, there was a stream nearby. The banks of the stream were lined by a profusion of green weeds and weeping willows. Willow walked over to the edge of the stream and looked down at the water, which glittered yellow in the light of the sun, like the highway. It was only under the arching branches of the willow that he found a haven of shady green light. He squatted down, immersed his hands in the water, and for a moment felt at ease. He cupped his hands and carefully washed away the dust that coated his face. Finally, he drank his fill and sat down on the bank. Grass poked through his pants, tickling his legs. A white fish ambled back and forth in the water with a lovely swaying motion. Watching the fish twist back and forth, Willow began to feel gloomy, but whether it was because the fish was all alone or because of the loveliness of its motion, he didn’t know.
It wasn’t until much later that Willow stood up and made his way back to the yellow highway. Willow felt dizzy and faint as he emerged from the shade of the willow trees.
Just at that moment, he caught sight of a cluster of houses surrounded by tall trees in the distance. Behind them lay the indistinct outline of a city wall. He set off at a brisk pace toward the houses.
As he neared the wall, he heard a clamor of voices. Countless porters, bearing merchandise on carrying poles, poured in and out of the city gate. Once inside the gate, he saw that the town was brimming with two- and three-story shops, towers, and pavilions. The houses were packed tightly to-14 yu hua
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gether, and the people of the town were prosperous. Willow walked through an unending stream of pedestrians and hawkers that filled the main street. The street was lined by innumerable teahouses and wine shops. Fat slabs of lamb hung outside several of the wine shops, and plates stacked with pig’s trotters, jellied duck, and fresh fish were neatly arranged atop streetside counters. In front of the teahouses were counters laden with platters of tan
gerine cakes, flat cakes, lotus-wrapped rice, and fritters.
Willow passed through the marketplace and soon came to a temple. The temple, glittering gold and green, looked as if it had been recently renovated. Standing on the front steps, Willow gazed inside. A noble and ancient cypress in a courtyard, shiny tile floors swept free of dust, columns and rafters gleaming with an oily luster, but not a single monk in sight. A vast space, but clearly quite empty. Willow thought to himself that this might be a good place to spend the night. He took the bundle of belongings from his back, unwrapped it, pulled out his writing brush, paper, and inkstone, and set them down on the stone steps. He copied out a few Song dynasty quatrains – things like “Dawn wind, lingering moonlight, willows on the banks” – and painted a few flowers to sell to passersby. In a short while, the entrance to the temple was thronged with people. Everyone in town seemed to have some money, and with money
came a fondness for the touch of elegance that only poetry and painting can provide. After quite a long spell of work, Willow had earned a few strings of cash. When the crowds of onlookers gradually began to disperse, Willow carefully hid his money, packed up his bundle, and slowly retraced his steps into town.
The cashiers at the wine shops and teahouses along the road grinned broadly and, despite Willow’s thin cotton robe, warmly called out for his patronage. Willow sat down at a nearby teahouse and ordered a bowl of tea. When he had swallowed all the tea, the emptiness in his gut finally be-Classical Love 15
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came unbearable, and just as he was considering what he should do, a peasant selling griddle cakes happened to pass by. Willow bought a few griddle cakes, ordered another bowl of tea, and slowly ate his meal.
Two men rode by the teahouse on horseback. One was
wearing a dark blue silk gown embroidered with hundreds of little bats and butterflies. The other wore a dark blue silk gown embroidered with innumerable flying birds. They were followed by a trio of women. One was clad in a cloak, another was dressed in a silk dress decorated with a pattern of eight linked circles, and the third was wearing a brocade tunic embroidered with turquoise and golden silk thread.
The jewels in their headdresses gleamed, and the pendants hanging from their belts sounded out like chimes as they swayed past. Maidservants followed at the heels of each of the women, waving oversized, scented silk fans to protect them from the light and heat of the sun.
Willow finished up his griddle cakes, walked out of the teahouse, and began to stroll aimlessly through town. It had been several days since he had left home, and in that time he hadn’t spoken with another soul. Once the hunger in his stomach had been appeased, he felt a surge of loneliness well up inside his chest. Although the streets were bustling with crowds of people, they all looked like strangers. The clatter of his mother’s loom began once again to pursue him.
In the course of his stroll, he happened on a broad, open space, but it was only when he stopped to examine his surroundings that he realized that he was standing by the front gate of a large aristocratic estate. The pavilions and secluded courtyards that lay beyond the gate were terribly impressive. Stone lions, fangs bared and claws brandished, sat to either side of a majestic vermilion gate, which was bolted shut. Peering above the walls, Willow could see birds flying to and fro between the tops of innumerable towering trees.
Curving eaves soared among the trees. Willow gazed in silence for a time and then slowly began to make his way 16 yu hua
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down a path that ran along the perimeter of the whitewashed palace walls. The path was paved with spotless blue tiles. Leafy branches brushed gently down over the top of the wall. Presently, he caught sight of a side gate. Although this entrance was smaller than the main gate, it too was painted a dignified vermilion and bolted shut. Hearing the muffled sound of laughter from inside the wall, Willow paused for a moment and then continued walking along the path. Just as the wall curved and seemed to disappear, he noticed another gate. This door was open. At that moment, someone emerged from within and hurriedly strode away.
Willow waited until the man was no longer in sight and then moved toward the gate, through which he was able to gaze into a small and exquisitely tended garden. He thought to himself that this must be the kind of pleasure garden for aristocratic young ladies that he had read about in books but never actually laid eyes on. Willow hesitated for a moment and then walked into the garden.
Everything inside was as it should be – the place was plentifully supplied with little knolls, running streams, trees, and flowers. Although the hills were made of piled stones, they had been constructed so artfully that they seemed quite natural. A pool lay in the center of the garden.
The surface of the water was covered with a profusion of lotus leaves. A serpentine stone bridge zigzagged across the expanse just above them. By the bank of the pool lay a little open-air pavilion, flanked by two lofty maples whose leaves intertwined above its roof. Autumn was still far away, but the maple leaves were almost imperceptibly tinged with red. Inside the pavilion, which was just large enough to seat three or four people, two barrel-shaped porcelain seats were placed in front of a screen. Behind the screen were over a hundred stalks of green bamboo, through which a vermilion railing was just visible. Countless flowers grew behind the railing. Peach, apricot, and pear trees were in bloom, and there were also crabapples, chrysanthemums, and orchids Classical Love 17
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that had yet to flower. The peach flowers were especially lush, with each bloom noisily jockeying for position as the pale pear blossoms in their midst looked on in silence.
Insensibly, Willow passed in front of a wooden tower so intricately carved and brightly decorated that it looked as if it were constructed of brocade. The path under his feet suddenly came to an end, and Willow looked up to see that the latticed window frames of the tower had been thrown open on all four sides. A slight breeze from the opposite side blew through the tower and out the window toward Willow. He was enveloped by wave after wave of sweet fragrance. Sunset was approaching, the sky glowed with dusky hues, and the sound of chanted poetry drifted down from the windows. It was a sound like a zither being plucked or like pearls drizzling drop by drop onto a plate, a sound that was as delicate and drawn out as the murmuring of flowing water. As the fragrant breeze continued to waft down from the window, the dusky glow began to disperse, and the sky grew slowly darker. Rather than trying to distinguish the words of the poem, Willow merely floated within the magical intoxica-tion of its sound.
Night began to fall, and the sky was a stretch of rolling slate gray. Willow stood motionless, eyes trained on the windows, oblivious to his surroundings. A river, as green and narrow as a jade belt, appeared before his eyes, followed in rapid succession by two different scenes. The first was a slender girl walking by the side of the river, and the second was the rising and falling motion of a weeping willow swaying in the evening breeze. The two scenes merged, drifted apart, and finally began to shuttle back and forth until Willow’s eyes swam.
The chanting sound slowly grew louder, drew nearer, and a brief moment later a woman as beautiful as jade and as lovely as a flower appeared at the window. The woman’s face was flushed pink with delight, and her small, cherry-red lips, from which poetry continued to pour, were pursed 18 yu hua
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in the beginnings of a smile. Her eyes, overflowing with ripples of feeling, played across the garden, as if she longed to divest herself of some secret yearning. After a moment, she caught sight of Willow, cried out in surprise, and, her face quickly coloring with shame, turned and retreated inside. Her eyes had squarely met Willow’s, but now she was hidden somewhere deep inside the tower. Dizzied by this encounter with a cloistered young maiden, Willow felt as leaden as a sleeper falling into a dream. Her cry had been like the snap of a brok
en zither string, bringing the sound of her chanting to a sudden conclusion.
The garden became silent and still, as if everything around him was melting away into nothingness. Only after a long time did Willow come back to his senses. Unsure of whether this encounter had been a mere illusion or something quite real, he looked back up at the window. No one was there. But the breeze still blew, gently enveloping him in fragrance. Willow felt its warmth, and it seemed to him that it must surely have come from the body of the woman whom he had just seen at the window. She must still be somewhere within the tower. Willow seemed to see the breeze moving past the woman’s body, catching hold of her warmth and her fragrance, and finally sending it drifting down from the window toward him. He extended his right hand and lightly stroked the warmth in the wind.
At that very moment, a girl who looked like a maid
appeared in the window and told him to go away.
Although her eyes were wide with anger, there was nothing particularly threatening in her manner. Willow thought that her fury was perhaps more feigned than otherwise.
Utterly unable to tear himself away, his eyes remained fastened to the window. It was the maid who left the window first, discomfited perhaps by the intensity of his gaze.
Night fell around the empty window, and the tower grew blurry and indistinct. Above him, Willow could hear the soft murmur of voices. It seemed like a lady had come into Classical Love 19
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the building, a lady with a low, ringing voice. The maid barked out something sharp and short. But it was only a little later that he heard the maiden’s voice. It was as delicate as drops of water, but Willow was drenched in its sweetness. He smiled insensibly, and the smile rippled across his face like a wave before fading unnoticed.
The maid once again appeared at the window. Catching sight of Willow through the gloom, she exclaimed, “What?
You still haven’t left?”
