Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

in this tiny spot I call home. But I have no regrets.

“Looked at from one angle,” Big-head said, “just knowing you have no regrets earns my respect as a man.” He laughed, almost a giggle. The expression of that dog of mine began to emerge on his face, as if developed from the negative of a photograph.

Not until the day Mo Yan brought her to my office did the full meaning of “time flies” hit me. I’d always thought I was close to the Pang family and that I saw them often. But as I thought back, the impression of her that I’d come away with was of a girl doing a handstand in the entrance to the Cotton Processing Plant Number Five.

“You… you’re all grown up,” I said as I looked her over, like an old uncle. “That day, your legs… straight up in the air…”

The fair skin of her face reddened; a drop of sweat dotted the tip of her nose. That was Sunday, the first of July 1990. It was a hot day, so I’d left the window of my third-floor office open. Cicadas in the lush canopy of the French parasol tree outside my window were chirping like falling rain. She was wearing a red dress with a modestly plunging neckline and lacy piping. She had a thin neck above prominent collarbones, highlighted by a tiny green piece of jewelry, maybe jade, attached to a red string. She had big eyes and a small mouth with full lips; she wore no makeup. Her front teeth, ivory white, seemed slightly pressed together. Like an old-fashioned girl, she wore her hair in a braid, which caused a stirring in my heart.

“Please, have a seat,” I said as I poured tea. “Time really does fly, Chunmiao. You’ve grown into a lovely young woman.”

“Please don’t bother, Uncle Lan. I ran into Mr. Mo Yan on the street, and he treated me to a soft drink.” She sat demurely on the edge of the sofa.

“Don’t call him uncle,” Mo Yan said. “Chief Lan and your elder sister were born in the same year. And his mother was your sister’s nominal mother.”

“Nonsense!” I tossed a pack of China brand cigarettes on the table in front of Mo Yan. “Nominal mother, normal mother, those vulgar views of relationships never played a role in our family” I placed a cup of Dragon Well tea in front of her. “Call me whatever you like. Don’t listen to this guy. I understand you work in the New China Bookstore.”

“County Chief Lan, always the bureaucrat,” Mo Yan said as he put the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and took a cigarette out of the box on my desk. “Miss Pang is a clerk in the children’s section of the bookstore, but in her spare time she’s an artist. She plays the accordion, she performs the peacock dance beautifully, she can sing sentimental songs, and her essays have been published in the county newspaper literary supplement.”

“Is that so!” I remarked. “I’d say your talents are wasted in that bookstore.”

“You said it!” Mo Yan remarked. “‘Let’s go see County Chief Lan,’ I said to her. ‘He can get you a job in a TV station.’”

Her face was redder than ever now. “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Mo.”

“By my calculation, you’re twenty,” I said. “So why don’t you take the college entrance exam? You could be an art major.”

“I don’t have that kind of talent…” She hung her head. “I just do those things for fun. Besides, I wouldn’t pass the entrance exam. I get flustered the minute I enter an exam hall. I actually faint…”

“Who needs college?” Mo Yan said. “True artists don’t come out of higher education. Take me, for example.”

“You’re shameless, and getting worse,” I said. “Braggarts like you never amount to anything.”

“All right, enough about me,” Mo Yan said. “And since there are no outsiders here, I’ll call you Big Brother Lan and urge you to do what you can for our young sister here.”

“Of course,” I said. “But what can I do that Party Secretary Pang can’t do better?”

“That’s what makes young Chunmiao so special,” Mo Yan said. “She’s never asked a favor of her sister.”

“Okay, tell us, writer of the future, what have you been working on lately?”

At that point Mo Yan began telling us about the novel he was writing, and though I tried to look as though I was listening, I was actually recalling all my dealings with the Pang family. I swear I didn’t think of her as a woman that day or for a long time afterward. It felt good just looking at her.

But two months later, everything changed. Also on a Sunday afternoon.

I’d spoken to her about working in television. I could have made it happen if that’s what she’d wanted. One well-placed comment was all it would have taken. Not because my word carried much weight, but because she was Pang Kangmei’s sister. She rushed to defend herself. “Don’t listen to Mo Yan. That really isn’t what I had in mind.” She said she didn’t want to go anywhere, that she was content selling children’s books.

She’d come to see me six times over those two months. This was her seventh visit. The first few times she’d sat in the same place on the sofa as on the day we’d met. She’d also worn the same red dress and sat as demurely as ever, all very proper. At first, Mo Yan had accompanied her, but then she’d started coming alone. When Mo Yan was present, he never shut up. Now he wasn’t, and an awkward silence hung in the air. To break the ice on one of the previous occasions, I’d taken a book from my bookcase and said she could borrow it. After flipping through it she said she’d already read it. I handed her another. She’d read that one too. So I told her she could look for one she hadn’t read. She pulled out a book entitled How to Treat a Sick Domestic Animal. It was one she hadn’t read. I couldn’t keep from laughing. “Girl,” I said, “you’re a riot! Okay, if that’s the one you want, read on.” I picked up a stack of documents and started reading, occasionally glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. She sat back in the sofa, legs together, resting the book on her knees, absorbed in what she was reading, softly mouthing the words.

But the seventh time she came, her face was ghostly white; she sat with a bewildered look. “What’s the matter?” I asked. She looked at me, her lips quivered, and – Wah!-she burst out crying. Since someone was working overtime in the building that day, I ran over and opened the door. The sounds of her crying soared up and down the corridor like birds on the wing. I ran back over and shut the door. For me, this was a new, and extremely troubling, experience. Wringing my hands nervously, I paced the room, like a monkey that’s been thrown into a cage, and said over and over, “Chunmiao Chunmiao Chunmiao, don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry…” It did no good – she cried with abandon, louder and louder. I thought about opening the door again, but quickly realized that was a bad idea. So I sat down beside her and grabbed her ice-cold hand with my sweaty one and put my other arm around her; I patted her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” I said, “please don’t cry Tell me what’s wrong. I want to know who had the nerve to make our little Chunmiao so sad. Tell me who it was, and I’ll go twist his head till he’s looking behind him…” But she kept crying, eyes shut, mouth open, like a little girl, pearl-like teardrops streaming down her cheeks. I jumped to my feet, but sat back down. A young woman crying in the office of a deputy county chief on a Sunday afternoon was nothing to joke about. If only, I thought, I could be like one of those kidnappers you read about, I’d have wadded up a sock and stuffed it in her mouth to keep her quiet. What I actually did might be seen by some as the epitome of foolishness and by others as the height of intelligence. I held one of her hands, pulled her close by the shoulders, and covered her mouth with mine.

She had a very small mouth; I had a very big one. Mine covered hers completely. Her cries rattled around inside my mouth and produced a loud hum in my inner ears. Soon the cries turned to sobs, and then the crying stopped. At that moment I was overcome by a strange, powerful, unprecedented emotion.

Now I was a married man with a child of his own, and you might think I’m lying when I tell you that in fourteen years of marriage we’d had sex (that’s the only way to describe contact in which love played no role) a total of nineteen times. Kiss? Once, and that wasn’t a real one. It was after we’d seen a foreign movie, and I was affected by the passionate love scenes. I wrapped my arms around her and puckered up. She turned her face this way and that to avoid contact, but eventually our mouths touched, barely, and all I felt was teeth; not only that, her breath smelled like spoiled meat. It made my head swim. I let her go and never again entertained a similar thought. On each of those rare sexual encounters I put as much distance between me and her mouth as possible. I tried to get her to have her teeth looked at, but she gave me an icy stare and said, “Why should I? My teeth are fine.” When I told her I thought she might have halitosis, she replied angrily, “Your mouth is full of shit.”

Later on I told Mo Yan that that afternoon’s kiss was a first for me, and it rocked my soul. All I wanted to do was suck on her full lips, almost as if I wanted to swallow her whole. Now I knew why Mo Yan was forever using that particular phrase when he had his male characters falling head-over-heels in love in his novels. The moment my mouth was on hers, she stiffened and her skin turned cold. But just for a moment; when she relaxed, her body seemed to grow and to soften; then came the heat, like an oven. At first my eyes were open, but not for long. Her lips swelled, and the smell of fresh scallops filled my mouth. I began to explore with my tongue, something I’d never