Yu Zhan’ao lay on the kang sneering.
‘What’re you smirking for, Little Yu?’ one of them asked.
Emboldened by the wine, he blurted out, ‘I murdered them!’
‘You’re drunk!’
‘Drunk? I tell you, I murdered them!’ He sat up, reached into the bag hanging on the wall, and pulled out his short sword. When he slid it out of the scabbard, it caught the moon’s rays and shone like a silverfish. ‘I’ll tell you guys,’ he said with a thick tongue, ‘our mistress… I slept with her… Sorghum fields… Came at night and set a fire… stabbed one… stabbed the other…’
One of his listeners quietly blew out the lantern, throwing the room into a murky darkness in which the moonlit sword shone even more brightly.
‘Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep! We have to be up early tomorrow to make wine!’
Yu Zhan’ao was still mumbling. ‘You… damn you… pretend you don’t know me after you hitch up your pants… work me like an ox or a horse… Don’t think you can get away with it… Tonight I’m going to…
Yu Zhan’ao walked into the moonlit yard and looked at the glazed wine vats glistening in the light like jewels. A southern breeze swept over from the fields, carrying the bittersweet aroma of ripe sorghum and making him shiver. The sound of a woman’s giggle drifted over from the western compound. As he slipped into the tent to move the bench outside, he was met by the pawing sounds of the black mule tethered behind the feed trough. Ignoring the animal, he carried the bench over to the wall. When he stepped on it and straightened up, the top of the wall reached his chest. A light behind the window illuminated the paper cutout. The mistress was playing games with the girl Passion on the kang. ‘Aren’t you a couple of naughty little monkeys?’ he heard the woman Liu say. ‘It’s bedtime; now, go to sleep!’ Then she added, ‘Passion, look in the pot and see if the dough has begun to rise.’
Holding the sword in his mouth, Yu Zhan’ao climbed up onto the wall. The five dogs rushed over, looked up, and began to bark, frightening him so badly he lost his balance and tumbled into the western compound. If Grandma hadn’t rushed out to see what was going on, the dogs probably would have torn him to pieces, even if there had been two of him.
After calling off the dogs, Grandma shouted for Passion to bring out the lantern.
The woman Liu, rolling-pin in hand, came running out on big feet that had once been bound and screamed, ‘A thief! Grab him!’
Passion followed, lantern in hand, the light falling on the battered face of Yu Zhan’ao. ‘So it’s you!’ Grandma said coldly.
She picked up the sword and tucked it into her sleeve. ‘Passion, go fetch Uncle Arhat.’
No sooner had Passion opened the gate than Uncle Arhat entered the compound. ‘What’s going on, Mistress?’
‘This hired hand of yours is drunk,’ she said.
‘Yes, he is,’ Uncle Arhat confirmed.
‘Passion,’ Grandma said, ‘bring me my willow switch.’
Passion fetched Grandma’s white willow switch. ‘This’ll sober you up,’ Grandma said as she twirled the switch in the air and brought it down hard on Yu Zhan’ao’s buttocks.
Stung by the pain, he experienced a sense of numbing ecstasy, and when it reached his throat it set his teeth moving and emerged as a stream of gibberish: ‘Mistress Mistress Mistress…’
Grandma whipped him until her arm was about to fall off, then lowered the switch and stood there panting from exhaustion.
‘Take him away,’ she said.
Uncle Arhat stepped up to pull Yu Zhan’ao to his feet, but he refused to get up. ‘Mistress,’ he shouted, ‘a few more lashes… just give me a few more…’
Grandma whipped him twice on the neck with all her might, and he rolled around on the ground like a little boy, kicking the air with his legs. Uncle Arhat called for a couple of hired hands to carry him back to the bunkhouse, where they flung him down on the kang; he rolled around like a squirming dragonfly, a stream of filth and abuse gushing from his mouth. Uncle Arhat picked up a decanter, told the men to pin his arms and legs, and poured wine down his throat. As soon as the men let go, his head lolled to the side and he grew silent. ‘You drowned him!’ one of them exclaimed fearfully, bringing the lantern up. Yu Zhan’ao’s face was contorted out of shape, and he sneezed violently, extinguishing the lantern.
He didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky. He walked into the distillery as though stepping on cotton; the men watched him curiously. Recalling the beating he’d received the night before, he rubbed his neck and his buttocks, but felt no pain. Thirsty, he picked up a ladle, scooped some wine from the flow, tipped back his head, and drank it down.
Old Du the fiddler said, ‘Little Yu, your mistress gave you quite a beating last night. I’ll bet you won’t be climbing
Up till then the gloomy young man had instilled a measure of fear in the others, but that had evaporated when they heard his pitiful screams, and now they outdid one another teasing him mercilessly. Without a word in reply, he grabbed one of them, raised his fist, and buried it in the man’s face. A quick exchange of glances, and the others rushed up, threw him to the ground, and began raining blows on him with fists and feet. When they’d had their fill, they took off his belt, stuck his head into the crotch of his pants, tied his hands behind his back, and threw him to the ground.
Like a stranded tiger or a beached dragon, Yu Zhan’ao struggled to get free, rolling around on the ground like a ball for as long as it takes to smoke a couple of pipefuls. Finally, having seen enough, old Du went up, untied Granddad’s hands, and freed his head from his pants. Yu Zhan’ao’s face was pallid as a sheet of gold paper as he lay on the pile of firewood like a dying snake. It took him a long time to catch his breath. Meanwhile, the others held on to their tools, just in case he took it into his head to get even. But he just staggered over to one of the vats, ladled out some wine, and began gulping it down. When he was finished, he climbed back up onto the pile of firewood and fell fast asleep.
From then on, Yu Zhan’ao got roaring drunk every day, then climbed up onto the pile of firewood and lay there, his moist blue eyes half closed, a mixed smile on his lips: the left side foolish, the right side crafty, or vice versa. For the first few days, the men watched him with interest; after a while, they began to grumble. Uncle Arhat tried to get him to do some work, but Yu Zhan’ao just looked at him out of the corner of his eye and said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I’m the master here. That kid in her belly is mine.’
By then my father had grown in Grandma’s belly to about the size of a little ball, and in the mornings the sound of her retching in the yard drifted over to the western compound. The experienced old-timers talked about nothing else. When the woman Liu brought over their food, they asked her, ‘Old Woman Liu, is the mistress with child?’
She glared at them. ‘Watch out, or someone might cut out your tongue!’
‘Looks like Shan Bianlang knew what he was doing after all!’
‘Maybe it’s the old master’s.’
‘No wild guessing! Do you really think a spirited girl like that would let one of the Shan men touch her? I’ll bet it was Spotted Neck.’
Yu Zhan’ao jumped up from the pile of firewood and gestured gleefully. ‘It was me!’ he shouted. ‘Ha ha, it was me!’
They had a good laugh over that, and cursed him roundly.
On more than one occasion, Uncle Arhat urged Grandma to dismiss Yu Zhan’ao, but she invariably replied, ‘Let him rant and rave if he wants to. I’ll fix his wagon sooner or later.’
One day she walked into the compound, her thickening waist obvious to all, to speak with Uncle Arhat.
Avoiding her eyes, he said softly, ‘Mistress, it’s time to break out the scales and buy the sorghum.’
‘Is everything ready? The compound and the grain bins?’
‘Everything’s ready.’
‘When did you do it in the past?’
‘Just about now.’
