LEAVE HIM
With a moan, Pang Chunmiao covered her mouth with her hand, spun around, and stumbled off down the street, running a few steps, then walking, running and walking, running and walking, the way we dogs move. She kept her hand over her mouth the whole time. The sight saddened me. Instead of going back to New China, she turned and disappeared down a lane. I looked over at your wife’s ashen face and felt chilled. It was clear that Pang Chunmiao, a silly little girl, was no match for your wife, the victim in all this; her tears refused to leave the safety of her eyes. It was time, I thought, for her to take me home; but she didn’t. Her finger was still bleeding, too much to waste, so she filled in missing strokes and reapplied the fuzzy parts. There was still blood, so she added an exclamation mark to the words. Then another, and another…
LEAVE HIM!!!
A perfectly good slogan, though she seemed to want to write more. But why gild the lily? So she shook her finger and stuck it in her mouth, then reached under her collar with her left hand and pulled a medicinal plaster off her shoulder to wrap her injured finger. She’d put it on just that morning.
After stepping back to admire the slogan, written in blood to goad Chunmiao into action and as a warning to her, she smiled contentedly before pushing her bike down the street, with me some three or four yards behind her. She stopped to look back at the tree a time or two, as if afraid someone would come along and rub the words out.
At an intersection we waited for the green light, though we crossed with our hearts in our throats, thanks to all the black-jacketed motorcyclists for whom a red light was a mere suggestion and the drivers of cars who paid little attention to traffic lights. In recent days a bunch of teenagers had formed what they called a “Honda Speed Demons Gang,” whose purpose was to run their Honda motorcycles over as many dogs as possible. Whenever they hit one, they ran over it over and over, until its guts were spread all over the street. Then with a loud whistle it was off to the next one. Just why they hated dogs so much was something I never could figure out.
46
Huang Hezuo Vows to Shock Her Foolish Husband
Hong Taiyue Organizes a Government Protest
The meeting to discuss Jinlong’s idiotic proposal went on till noon. The elderly Party secretary, Jin Bian – the onetime blacksmith who had fitted my dad’s donkey for shoes – had been promoted to vice chairman of the Municipal People’s Congress, and it was a foregone conclusion that Pang Kangmei was next in line for the Party position. She was the daughter of a national hero and a college graduate with rich experience at the grassroots level. Barely forty years old and still attractive, she had the enthusiastic backing of her superiors and the support of those beneath her. In other words, she had everything she needed for success. The meeting was highly contentious, with neither side willing to back off its position. So Pang Kangmei simply pounded her gavel and announced: “We’ll do it! For the initial phase we’ll need 300 million yuan. We’ll leave it up to the banks to come up with that amount. We’ll form a Merchants Investment Group to attract investment capital from both domestic and overseas sources.”
I was distracted throughout the discussion, using visits to the toilet as an excuse to make phone calls to the New China Bookstore. Pang Kangmei’s gaze followed me like a laser. I could only smile apologetically and point to my stomach.
I phoned the bookstore three times. Finally, on the third try, the clerk with the husky voice said heatedly:
“You again. Stop calling. She was led outside by the crippled wife of Deputy County Chief Lan, and she still hasn’t returned.”
I called home. No answer.
My seat felt like a heated grill, and I know how bad I must have looked as I sat through the meeting, one scary image after another racing through my mind. The most tragic image was of my wife murdering Chunmiao in an out-of-the-way village or remote spot, then killing herself. A crowd of rubberneckers had gathered around the bodies and police cars, sirens blaring, were speeding to the scene. I sneaked a look at Kangmei, who was volubly describing aspects of Jinlong’s blueprints with a pointer, and all my benumbed brain could think about was how, in the next minute, the next second, anytime now, this huge scandal would land in the midst of this meeting like a suicide bomb, sending fragments of steel and flesh flying…
The meeting was adjourned amid applause that carried complex implications. I rushed out of the conference room, followed by a malicious comment by one of the attendees: “County Chief must have a crotch-full by now.”
I ran to the car, catching my driver by surprise. But before he could scamper around to open the door for me, I’d already climbed into the backseat.
“Let’s go!” I said impatiently.
“We can’t,” he said helplessly.
He was right, we couldn’t. The administrative section had lined up the cars by seniority. Pang Kangmei’s silver Crown Victoria sedan was at the head of the line in front of the building. Next in line was the county chief’s Nissan, then the People’s Consultative Conference chairman’s black Audi, the National People’s Congress municipal director’s white Audi… My VW Santana was twentieth. They were all idling. Like me, some of the attendees were already in their cars, while others were standing near the gate, engaged in hushed conversations. Everyone was waiting for Pang Kangmei, whose laughter preceded her out of the building. She was wearing a high-collared sapphire blue business suit with a glittering pin on her lapel. She told everyone that she owned only costume jewelry, which, according to her sister, could fill a bucket. Chunmiao, where are you, my love? I was on the verge of climbing out of my car and running out onto the street when Kangmei finally got into her car and drove off, followed by a procession of automobiles leaving the compound. Sentries stood at attention on both sides of the gate, right arms raised in salutes. The cars all turned right.
“Where is everybody going, Little Hu?” I asked anxiously.
“To Ximen Jinlong’s banquet.” He handed me a large red, gilded invitation.
I had a vague recollection of someone whispering during the meeting, “Why all this discussion? The celebration banquet’s there waiting for us.”
“Turn the car around,” I said anxiously.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the office.”
He was not happy about that. I knew that not only were the drivers treated to some good food at these events, but they were also given gifts. Not only that, Chairman of the Board Ximen Jinlong had a reputation of being especially generous in this regard. To try to console Little Hu, and to cover myself for my behavior, I said:
“You should be aware of my relationship with Ximen Jinlong.”
Without responding, he made a U-turn and headed back toward my office building. Just my luck to run up against market day at Nanguan. Hordes of people on bicycles and tractors, in donkey wagons and on foot, crowded into People’s Avenue. Despite a liberal use of his horn, Little Hu was forced to go slowly with the flow of traffic.
“The goddamn traffic cops are all off drinking someplace!” he grumbled.
I ignored him. What did I care if the cops were off drinking? Finally, we made it to the office, where my car was immediately surrounded by a crowd of people that seemed to have risen out of the ground.
Some old women in rags sat down in front of my car, slapping their hands on the ground and filling the air with tearless wails. Like magicians on a stage, several middle-aged men unfurled banners with slogans: “Give us back our land,” “Down with corrupt officials,” things like that. A dozen men were kneeling behind the wailing old women and holding up sheets of white cloth with writing on them. Then there were people behind the car passing out
