and fresh. “Why, dearest Chumiao? Is this a dream? Why?” “Dearest Lan, everything I have is yours, you want me, don’t you…” I struggled. We kissed again, desperately, and what followed was inevitable.
We lay on the cot in each other’s arms; somehow it didn’t seem so narrow now. “Dearest Ghunmiao, I’m twenty years older than you, I’m ugly as sin, and I’m so afraid I’ll bring calamities down on you. I don’t deserve to live…” I was nearly incoherent. She stroked my chin and my face. With her mouth pressed against my ear, she said, “I love you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll be responsible for what happens.”
“I don’t want you to be responsible. I’m a willing partner. I won’t leave you until we’ve been together a hundred times.”
I was like a starving cow that has suddenly spotted a patch of fresh new grass.
A hundred times came and went in a hurry, but we still found it impossible to part.
On the hundredth time, we wished it would never end. She touched my face and said tearfully, “Take a good look at me. Don’t forget me.”
“Chunmiao, I want to marry you.”
“No.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” I said. “What awaits us is probably an abyss. But I have no choice.”
“Then we’ll jump in together,” she said.
That night I went home to lay my cards on the table. My wife was in the side room, winnowing mung beans – a tricky job, but one she was good at. As her hands moved up and down and sideways, the beans fairly flew and the husks soared out.
“What’s up?” I asked for lack of anything better to say.
“His granddad sent over some mung beans.” She reached down and picked out some gravel. “They came from his garden. I don’t care if other things go bad, but not these. I’ll have some bean sprouts for Kaifang.”
She went back to work.
“Hezuo”-I hardened my heart-“I want a divorce.”
Her hands stopped in midair and she stared blankly at me, as if she didn’t comprehend what I was saying.
“I’m sorry, Hezuo, but I think that’s best.”
The winnowing basket tipped slowly forward, sending a few, then a dozen or so, then a hundred or more beans spilling out onto the cement floor, like a green waterfall.
The basket fell out of her hand and she began listing to the side, losing her sense of balance. I thought about reaching out to steady her, but she leaned up against a chopping board on which some onions and dry oil fritters lay. She covered her mouth with her hand and began to sob. Tears gushed from her eyes.
“I really am sorry, but please do this for me.”
She flung her hand away from her mouth and wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers. Clenching her jaw, she said:
“Over my dead body.”
43
Angered, Huang Hezuo Bakes Flat Bread
Drunk, Dog Four Displays Melancholy
While you were laying your cards on the table with your wife, still covered with the heavy scent of passionate lovemaking with Pang Chunlai, I was outside crouching under the eaves, gazing at the moon, deep in thought. There was a deranged quality to the wonderful moonbeams. Since it was a full moon, all the dogs in the county were scheduled to meet in Tianhua Square. The first item on the agenda was a memorial for the Tibetan mastiff who could not adapt to life below sea level, causing his internal organs to fail, which led to internal bleeding and death. Next was to arrange a celebration for my third sister, who had married the Norwegian husky belonging to the county Political Consultative Conference chairman four months earlier, and had just had a litter of three white-faced, yellow-eyed bastard pups a month ago.
Lan Jiefang, you rushed out of the house and gave me a meaningful glance as you passed by I saw you off with a series of barks: Old friend, I think the happy times are coming to an end for you. I felt mildly hostile toward you; the smell of Pang Chunmiao you carried with you worked to diminish the hostility I’d otherwise have felt.
My nose told me you headed north, on foot, the same route I used when taking your son to school. A lot of noise from your wife came from inside the house, thanks to the open door, through which I saw her raise her cleaver and, with loud thuds, shred the onions and oil fritters on the chopping board. The pungent smell of chopped onions and rancid odor of oil fritters spread vigorously through the room. By now your scent placed you at the Tianhua Bridge, where it merged with the putrid smell of foul water running below. With each blow from her cleaver, her left leg wobbled a bit, accompanied by a single clipped word: “Hate! Hate!”
Your son came running out of the main house to see what was going on in the side room. “Mama!” he shouted in alarm. “What are you doing?” Two more violent chops finally vented the hatred she was feeling; she put down her cleaver, turned her back to him to dry her tears, and said, “Why aren’t you in bed? Don’t you have school tomorrow?” He walked up in front of her. “You’re crying, Mama!” he cried out shrilly. “What do you mean, crying? What’s there to cry about? It’s the onions.” “Why are you chopping onions in the middle of the night?” “Go to bed. If you’re late for school tomorrow, I’ll show you what it means to cry.” The anger in her voice was unmistakable. She picked up the cleaver, throwing a fright into your son, who backed up and started muttering to himself. “Come back here!” she said, rubbing his head with one hand and gripping the cleaver in her other. “I want you to study hard and bring credit to yourself. I’ll make some onion-stuffed flat bread for you.” “I don’t want any, Mama,” he said. “You’re tired, you work so hard…” But she pushed him out the door. “I’m not tired. Now be a good boy and go to bed.” He took a few steps, then stopped and turned back. “Papa came home, didn’t he?” She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Yes, but he left, he had to work overtime tonight.” “How come he always has to work overtime?”
I found the whole episode depressing. Among dogs I could be totally unfeeling. But in a family of humans, emotions came at me from all directions.
As promised, your wife set to work making onion-stuffed flat bread. She kneaded the dough, so much that she wound up with a pile half the size of a pillow. What was she thinking, that she’d treat your son’s whole class to freshly baked flat breads? Her bony shoulders rose and fell as she worked, sweat darkened the back of her jacket. Intermittent spells of crying spoke to her anger, to her sorrow, and to so many of her memories. Some of the tears fell on her jacket front, some fell on the backs of her hands, and some fell into the dough, which was getting softer and softer and producing a slightly sweet aroma. Adding some flour, she continued to knead the dough. She sobbed from time to time, but quickly stopped and dried her tears with her sleeves. Soon her face was dotted with white flour, a comical yet pitiful appearance. She occasionally stopped working, let her hands fall to her sides, and walked around the room, as if looking for something. On one of those occasions, she slipped on some scattered mung beans and fell to the floor, where she sat for a moment, looking straight ahead, as if staring at a gecko on the wall. Then she banged her hands against the floor and wailed, but just for a moment, before getting to her feet and going back to work.
Once the dough was ready, she set her pan on top of the stove, turned on the gas, and lit a fire. After carefully pouring in a bit of oil, she laid in the first prepared flat bread, which sizzled and sent bursts of fragrance into the kitchen air and from there to the yard outside and the street beyond; once it had spread through town I was able to relax a bit, after being so fidgety. I looked up into the western sky, where the moon now hung, and listened to what was happening at Tianhua Bridge. The scent told me that our regular meeting was ready to begin, and that they were all waiting for me.
The hundreds of mongrels seated around the central fountain stood up when I made my entrance at Tianhua Square and welcomed me boisterously.
Deputy chairmen Ma and Lu escorted me to the chairman’s podium, a marble foundation on which a replica of
