head. Picking up his gong, he walked outside, climbed clumsily up the steps of his watchtower, and gazed off to the northwest.
Some time later, Sima Ku led his men back to the bridge, where they scavenged sections of twisted track, a train wheel, painted bright red, and a bunch of nondescript chunks of brass and iron, all of which they put on display outside the gate of the church as proof of their glorious military victory. With saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth, Sima boasted to the gathered crowd, over and over, how he had destroyed the bridge and derailed the Japanese cargo train. As he recounted the event, he spiced it up with new details, his tale growing richer and more interesting with each telling, until it had all the excitement and adventure of a popular romance. My second sister, Zhaodi, was his most ardent listener. At first just a member of the crowd, before long she bore witness to the new weapon that had been used; eventually, in her mind, she became a participant in the destruction of the bridge, as if she’d been one of Sima Ku’s followers from the very beginning, climbing onto the piling with him and falling to the icy surface of the river right beside him. She grimaced each time the pain in his backside erupted, as if they shared the same wounds.
Mother had always said that the Sima men were all lunatics. By this time she had figured out what Zhaodi was thinking, and had a premonition that the drama involving Laidi was about to be replayed, and soon. With growing anxiety, she looked into her daughter’s dark eyes and saw the frightful passion burning inside. How could those eyes and those thick, bright red, shameless lips belong to a seventeen-year-old girl? She was like a bovine creature in heat. “Zhaodi, my daughter,” Mother said, “do you realize how old you are?” Second Sister glared at Mother. “Weren’t you already married to my father when you were my age? And you said your aunt had twins when she was only sixteen, both plump as little piglets!” All Mother could do at this point was sigh. But Second Sister was not through. “I know you want to say he already has three wives. So I’ll be his fourth. And I know you want to say that he’s a generation older than me. Well, we don’t have the same surname and we’re not related, so I’m not breaking any rules.”
Mother relinquished her authority over Second Sister, letting her do as she pleased. She seemed calm enough, but I could tell that it was tearing her up inside by the changed taste of her milk. During those days, when Second Sister was chasing after Sima Ku, Mother took my other six sisters down to the cellar to dig a secret path among the turnips to the stockpile of sorghum stalks out by the southern wall. Part of the dirt we dug up we dumped in the latrine and part we carried out to the donkey pen, but most of it went down the well next to the stockpile.
New Year’s passed peacefully. On the night of the Lantern Festival, Mother strapped me on her back and led my six sisters outside to enjoy the lanterns. Every family in the village hung lanterns outside their doors; they were small lanterns, except for the two red lanterns the size of water vats hung by the gate of Felicity Manor, each lit by a goat tallow candle thicker than my arm. The light they gave off flickered brightly. Where was Zhaodi? Mother didn’t even ask. She had become our family’s guerrilla fighter, one who might stay away for three days, then show up unannounced. We were about to set off firecrackers on the last night of the year to welcome the god of wealth when Zhaodi showed up wearing a black rain cloak. She proudly showed off the leather belt wrapped tightly around her narrow waist and the silver revolver hanging heavily from it. In a sort of mocking tone, Mother said, “Who’d have guessed that the Shangguan family would one day produce another highwayman?” She seemed on the verge of crying, but Second Sister merely laughed, the laugh of a lovestruck girl, which brought a ray of hope to Mother that it was not too late to bring her to her senses. “Zhaodi,” she said, “I can’t let you become another of Sima Ku’s concubines.” But Zhaodi just sneered – this time it was the sneer of a wicked woman – and the hope that had flared briefly in Mother’s heart was extinguished.
On the first day of the year, Mother went with New Year’s greetings to her aunt. She told her what had happened to Laidi and Zhaodi. This elderly aunt of hers, a woman of vast experience, said, “Where the romantic affairs of sons and daughters are concerned, you must let them take their course. Besides, with sons-in-law like Sha Yueliang and Sima Ku, your worries are over. Both those men are high-flying hawks.” “What worries me is that they won’t die in bed,” Mother said. Her aunt replied, “It’s usually worthless people who die in bed.” Mother tried to keep arguing her case, but her aunt waved her off impatiently, sweeping away Mother’s complaints like shooing a fly. “Let me have a look at your son,” she said. Mother lifted me out of the cloth pouch and laid me on the bed. I was frightened by the tiny, deeply wrinkled face of Mother’s aunt, especially her radiant green eyes, set deep in their sockets. Her sharply jutting brow was completely hairless, while the spots around her eyes were covered by fine yellow hairs. She mussed my hair with a bony hand, then tweaked my ear, pinched my nose, and even reached down between my legs to feel my little pecker. Disgusted by her humiliating groping, I strained to crawl over to the corner of the bed. But she grabbed me and yelled, “Stand up, you little bastard!” Mother said, “Aunty, how can you expect him to stand up? He’s only seven months old.” “When I was seven months old I was already going out to the chicken coop to fetch eggs for your grandma,” the old woman said. “That was you, Aunty. You’re a special person.” The old woman said, “I think this little devil is special too! Too bad about that fellow Malory.” Mother’s face reddened, then paled. I crawled to the back of the bed, grabbed hold of the window ledge, and pulled myself up onto my feet. “See there?” the old woman clapped her hands and said. “I told you he could stand, and he did! Look at me, you little bastard!” “His name is Jintong, Aunty, so why do you keep calling him little bastard?”
“Whether he’s a bastard or not only his mother knows. Well, is he, my dear niece? Besides, to me that’s a pet name – little bastard. So are little turtle spawn, little bunny rabbit, little beast. Walk over here, little bastard!” I turned around on shaky legs and looked at Mother’s teary eyes. “Jintong, my good little boy!” Mother said as she reached out for me. I threw myself into her waiting arms. I was actually walking. “My son can walk,” Mother muttered as she hugged me tightly. “My son can walk.” “Sons and daughters are like birds,” her aunt said. “When it’s time for them to fly, you can’t hold them back. And what about you? What I mean is, what would you do if they all died?”
“I’d be fine,” Mother replied.
“That’s what I want to hear,” the old woman said. “Always let your thoughts rise up to heaven, or go down into the ocean, and if all else fails, let them climb a mountain, but never make things hard on yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “I understand,” Mother said. When they were saying good-bye, the old woman asked, “Is your mother-in-law still alive?” “Yes,” Mother said. “She’s rolling around in donkey shit.” The old woman said, “That old witch was a tower of strength her whole life. I never thought she’d one day fall so low!”
If not for that private conversation on the first day of the new year, I’d never have been able to walk at seven months, and Mother wouldn’t have been interested in taking us outside to look at the lanterns, which would have meant a very boring Lantern Festival for us; the history of our family might well have been very different. The streets were teeming with people, but none of them looked familiar. An air of stability and unity existed among residents. Children waved sparklers – what we called golden mouse droppings – that sizzled and popped as the children threaded their way through the crowds. We stopped in front of Felicity Manor to gaze at the gigantic red lanterns on either side of the gate, their ambiguous yellow light illuminating the gilded words “Felicity Manor” carved into a hanging signboard. Bursts of noise emerged from the brightly lit courtyard within. A crowd had gathered outside the gate, where they stood silently, their hands tucked up their sleeves, as if waiting for something. My big-mouthed third sister, Lingdi, asked the person next to her, “Are they going to hand out some porridge, uncle?” The man merely shook his head, but someone behind her said, “They don’t do that till the eighth day of the twelfth month, young lady.” “Then why are you all standing around here?” she turned and asked. “Because they’re going to put on a modern play,” he said. “We’re told that a famous actor from Jinan has come to town.” Mother pinched her before she could say any more.
Finally, four men emerged from the Sima compound, each carrying a black metal object on a tall bamboo pole. Flames licked out of whatever they were, turning the area around the gate from night to day – no, even brighter than daylight. Pigeons roosting in the dilapidated bell tower of the church not far from the compound were startled into flight; they cooed noisily as they flew past us into the dark night. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Gas lamps!” From that moment on, we knew that in this world, in addition to bean-oil lanterns, kerosene lamps, and firefly lanterns, there was such a thing as gas lamps, and that they were blindingly bright. The husky lamp bearers formed a square in front of the Felicity Manor gate, like four black pillars. Some more men walked noisily through the gate carrying a rolled-up straw mat. When they reached the space created by the four men with their gas lamps, they tossed down the mat, undid the ropes around it, and let it spread out on its own. They then bent down, picked up corners of the unrolled mat, and began churning their dark, hairy legs. Because their movements were so quick, and because they were in the light of gas lamps, our eyes were filled with dark blurs that made it seem as if they all had at least four legs, connected seemingly by translucent cobwebs. And that image created the appearance of beetles caught in a spider’s web, struggling to break free. Once the mat was laid out the way they wanted it, they stood up,
