Lianlian. If I die now, at the age of forty-two, so what?
No place was more “out in the open” than the town’s market square, with its movie theater, bordered by a museum on one side and a library on the other. All three buildings were fronted by tall steps, with blue glass walls that rose up into the sky and rotating electric lights. He’d often driven past this theater in Lianlian’s car, but had never realized how big it was. Now, as Prince Jintong, down on his luck, strolled alone through the square, it seemed enormous, taking up the entire vista. The square was laid with octagonal concrete tiles. His feet were killing him. He took a look at one of the soles; there were at least ten blisters the size of grapes, some of which had already popped and were oozing a clear liquid. The blood blisters hurt the worst. When he spotted several piles of animal droppings, the thought that they might be dog shit filled him with dread.
A gust of wind carried several white plastic bags tumbling through the air around him; he ran after them in spite of his aching feet, catching one and racing after another, leaving bloody footprints all the way to the edge of the square. The second bag was snagged on the branch of a holly tree, so he sat down, and remained sitting even though the cold wind and tiles sent stabbing pains up his rectum. As he wrapped the plastic bags around his feet, he noticed that many others were caught in the tree, and in a mad but joyous frenzy he took them all down and wrapped them around his feet. He stood up and started walking again, happy to see that his soles were springier and more comfortable, and that the shooting pains were hardly noticeable. The scraping sound of his plastic feet traveled into the distance.
The rumble of heavy machinery came to him from the bank of the Flood Dragon River. Here in the renamed Osmanthus District residents were home in bed sleeping peacefully. All the lights in the district were off, except for a few lighted windows in the newly built Osmanthus Mansions southeast of where he stood, the most luxurious building in town. Finally, he decided to head over to the pagoda and be with his mother. This time he wouldn’t leave her side again, no matter what. If that made him a hopeless case, so be it. He might not be able to dine on ostrich eggs, or bathe in a sauna, but he wouldn’t have to worry again about sinking so low that he walked the streets alone, half naked, plastic bags for shoes.
As he passed shop after shop along the way, he was drawn to a brilliant window display; he stopped – though he shouldn’t have – in front of six fashionably dressed mannequins, three male and three female, standing in the window. What caught his attention, besides the golden or jet black hair, the sleek and intelligent foreheads, the high noses, the curled lashes, the expressions of tenderness in the eyes, and the soft, red lips of the female mannequins, were, of course, the high, arching breasts. The more he looked, the more the mannequins seemed to come alive; the sweet smell of women’s breasts seeped through the window glass and warmed his heart. He didn’t return to his senses until his head bumped up against the cold glass. Fearing that his madness was upon him again, and that this time it would not go away, he forced himself to turn and walk off while he remained clearheaded. But he did not get far before circling back and raising his hands in supplication. “Please, Lord, let me touch them! I need to touch them. I’ll never ask for anything again, as long as I live.”
Flinging himself toward the mannequins, he felt the glass shatter, but there was no sound. When he reached out to touch the breasts, the mannequins tumbled to the floor. He landed on top of them, his hand cupped around a rigid breast, and a horrifying realization came to him. My god, there’s no nipple!
A salty, acrid liquid washed into his eyes and his mouth as he fell into a bottomless abyss.
6
Toward the end of the 1980s, the Cultural Affairs Office of the Municipal Bureau of Culture decided to build an amusement park on the high ground currently occupied by the pagoda. The director led a red bulldozer, a dozen or more reassigned policemen armed with billy clubs, an official witness from the Municipal Notary Office, and TV and newspaper reporters to surround the house in front of the pagoda. There he read aloud the government’s proclamation for the benefit of Jintong and his mother: “After careful study, it has been determined that the house in front of the pagoda is public property belonging to Northeast Gaomi Township, not the private property of the Shangguan family. Their house has been sold at fair value, the money given to their kin, Parrot Han. The Shangguan family is in violation of the law by occupying said house, and must vacate the premises within six hours. If they do not, they will be guilty of squatting on public property. Do you understand what I have just read?” the director asked truculently.
Seated calmly on her bed, Mother replied, “Your tractors will have to go through me.”
“Shangguan Jintong,” the director said, “your aged mother has lost her mind, I’m afraid. Go talk to her. A wise individual submits to circumstances. You do not want to make an enemy of the government.”
Jintong, who had spent three years in a mental institution for crashing through the shop window and destroying a mannequin, wood-enly shook his head. A scar stood out on his forehead, and his glassy eyes showed the depth of his mental defect. When the director took out his mobile phone, Jintong fell to his knees, holding his head in his hands and pleading, “Please, no electric shocks… no shocks… I’m a mental defect…” “The old one’s losing her mind,” the director said, “and the young one’s already lost his. What now?”
“We have this on tape,” the government witness said, “so if they won’t move on their own, we’ll just have to move them!”
The director signaled the police, who dragged Jintong and his mother out of the house. With her white hair flying, she fought like an old lion, but all Jintong did was beg, “Please don’t shock me… no shock… I’m a mental defect…”
When his mother tried to fight her way over to the straw huts, the police bound her hand and foot. She was so enraged she foamed at the mouth before finally passing out.
The police tossed the few pieces of broken furniture and tattered bedding out into the yard. Then the red bulldozer raised its enormous scoop, with its row of steel teeth, and rumbled up to the little house; smoke belching from its smokestack. In Jintong’s mind, it was coming for him, and he pressed himself up against the damp base of the pagoda to await death.
At this critical moment, Sima Liang, who had not been seen in years, dropped from heaven into their midst.
7
In fact, ten or fifteen minutes earlier, I had spotted the olive green helicopter circling in the air above Dalan. Like a gigantic dragonfly, it skimmed across the sky, dropping lower and lower, at times nearly scraping the pointed dome of the pagoda with its drooping belly. Swirls of wind from the rotors created a buzzing in my ears as the helicopter swooped down, tail high in the air. A large head peeked out through the brightly lit cockpit window and looked down at the ground. The person moved out of sight before I got a good look at his face. The bulldozer roared, its tracks clanking as it raised its toothed scoop and moved up to the house like a bizarre dinosaur. The old Taoist, Men Shengwu, dressed in his customary black robe, appeared like an apparition in front of the pagoda, and just as quickly vanished. All I could think to do was shout, “Don’t shock me, I’m a mental defect, isn’t that enough?”
The helicopter returned, this time leaning to one side and spitting yellow smoke. A woman’s figure leaned out of the cockpit and shouted, her voice barely audible over the earsplitting
Qin Wujin was the grandson of Mr. Qin Er, who had taught Sima Ku and me. He was in charge of the Cultural Relics Office, but was more interested in development than preservation, and was at that moment examining a large celadon bowl belonging to our family. How bright his eyes were. His jowls twitched; the shout from the helicopter overhead had obviously given him a start. As he looked up into the sky, the helicopter circled back and shrouded him in a blast of yellow smoke.
Eventually, it landed in front of the pagoda. Even after it was safely on the ground, the flat blades of its rotor continued their witless revolutions –
