2.
Fourth Aunt listened with alarm to the sound of the middle-aged woman retching. She rubbed her eyes, grown tired from her louse hunt, and wiped the remnants of shells from her lips; those that stuck to the back of her hand she scraped off on the wall.
Her cellmate was doubled over with dry heaves, her mouth spread wide, so she shuffled across the cell and began patting her on the back. After wiping the spitde from the corners of her mouth, the woman lay back wearily and closed her eyes; she was gasping for breath.
“You’re not… you know, are you?” Fourth Aunt asked.
The woman opened her dull, lifeless eyes and tried to focus on Fourth Aunt’s face, not understanding the question.
“I asked if you’re expecting.”
The woman responded by opening her mouth and wailing, “My baby” and “My little Aiguo.”
“Please, Sister-in-Law, stop. No more of that,” Fourth Aunt urged. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Don’t keep it bottied up inside.”
“Auntie… my littie Aiguo is dead I saw it in a dream… head cracked open… blood all over his face… chubby little angel turned into a lifeless bag of bones… like when you were killing those lice… I held him in my arms, called to him… his rosy cheeks, pretty big eyes… so black you could see yourself in them… flowers all over the riverbank, purple wild eggplants and white wither gourds and bitter fruits the color of egg yolks and pink hibiscus… my Aiguo, a little boy who loved flowers more than girls do, picking those flowers to make a bouquet and stick it under my nose. ‘Smell these, Mommy, aren’t they pretty?’ They’re like perfume,’ I said. He picked a white one and said, ‘Kneel down, Mommy’ I asked him why. He told me just to kneel down. My Aiguo could cry at the drop of a hat, so I knelt down, and he stuck that white flower in my hair. ‘Mommy’s got a flower in her hair!’ I said people are supposed to wear red flowers in their hair-white flowers are unlucky, and you only wear them when someone dies. That scared Aiguo. He started crying. ‘Mommy, I don’t want you to die. I can die, but not you.
By this time the poor woman was sobbing uncontrollably. The cell door opened with a loud clang, and an armed guard stood in the doorway with a slip of paper in his hand. “Number Forty-six, come with us!” he ordered.
The woman stopped crying, although her shoulders continued to heave, and her cheeks were still wet with tears. The guard was flanked by white-uniformed police officers. The one to the left, a man, held a pair of brass handcuffs, like golden bracelets; the other one was a short, broad-beamed woman with a pimply face and a hairy black mole at the corner of her mouth.
“Number Forty-six, come with us!”
The woman slipped her feet into her shoes and shuffled toward the door, where the policeman snapped the golden bracelets onto her wrists. “Let’s go.”
She turned to look at Fourth Aunt. There was no life in her eyes, nothing. Fourth Aunt was so frightened by that look she couldn’t move, and when she heard the cell door clang shut she could no longer see anything-not the guard, not the guard’s shiny bayonet, not the white police officers nor the gray woman. Her eyes burned, and the cell went dark.
3.
Where are they taking her? Fourth Aunt wondered, listening for signs; but all she heard were the crickets outside her steel cage and, from farther off-possibly from the public highway-the sounds of metal banging against metal. The cell was getting lighter; bottleneck flies darted around like blue-green meteors.
With the departure of her cellmate, Fourth Aunt experienced the anxieties of loneliness. She sat on Number Forty-six’s cot, until she vaguely recalled being told by the pretty guard that inmates were not allowed to sit on any cot but their own. She shook open her cellmate’s blanket and was hit in the face by a blast of foul air. It was coated with dark spots like droppings or dried blood, and when she scraped it with her fingernail, a horde of lice scurried out of the folds. She popped some of them into her mouth, bit down, and started to cry. She was thinking about Fourth Uncle and the way he caught lice.
Fourth Uncle sat against the wall in the sun-baked yard, stripped to the waist, his jacket draped across his knees as he picked lice out of the folds and flipped them into a chipped bowl filled with water. “Get all you can, old man,” Fourth Aunt said. “When you’ve got a bowlful, I’ll fry them to go with your wine.”
Jinju, still a little girl, stuck close to her father. “How come you’ve got so many lice, Daddy?”
“The poor get lice, the rich get scabies,” he said, flipping a particularly fat one into the bowl. As Jinju was swishing the drowning lice around with a blade of grass, a bald hen walked up, cocked its head, and scrutinized the insects.
“The hen wants to eat our lice, Daddy,” she said.
“I had to work too hard for these to let you gobble them up,” he said as he shooed the chicken away.
“Give her some, and shell lay more eggs.”
“I promised Mr. Wang in West Village I’d bring a thousand,” Fourth Uncle said.
“What does he want them for?”
“To make medicine.”
“You can make medicine out of lice?”
“You can medicine out of just about everything.”
“How many have you got so far?”
“Eight hundred and forty-seven.”
“Want some help?”
“No. He said no females could touch these. He can’t make medicine out of them if they’ve been touched by female hands.”
Jinju pulled back her hand.
“It’s not easy being a louse,” he told her. “Did you ever hear the story of the city louse and the country louse who meet on the road? The city louse asks, ‘Say, country brother, where are you off to?’ The country louse says, To the city. How about you?’ ‘I’m off to the country,’ the city louse replies. ‘What for?’ To get something to eat.’ ‘Forget it. I’m going to town to find food.’ When the city louse asks why, he says, ‘In the countryside they scour their clothing three times a day, and if they can’t find anything, they beat it with a club and pop whatever comes out into their mouths. If we’re not beaten to death we’re bitten to death. I barely escaped with my life.’ The country louse relates its tale of woe tearfully. The city louse sighs and says, ‘I assumed things had to be better in the countryside than in the city. I never thought they could be worse.’ Things must be better in the city than in the countryside,’ the country louse says. ‘Like hell they are!’ the city louse says. ‘In the city everybody wears silks and satins, layer upon layer of them. They clean them three times a day and change them five. We never catch a ghmpse of flesh. If the iron doesn’t get us, the water will. I barely escaped with
Jinju was in stitches. “Daddy, you made that up.”
With the sound of her daughter’s laughter in her ears, Fourth Aunt sniffled and bit down on a louse, saddened by thoughts of happier days. Putting aside her hunt for lice, she walked barefoot up to the barred window. But it was too high for her to see outside, so she went back and stood on the cot to get a better look. She could see a barbed-wire fence and, beyond that, fields planted with cucumbers, eggplants, and broad beans. The beans were yellowing, the eggplants blooming. A pair of pink-and-white butterflies flew around the purple flowers, moving back and forth between the bean trellises and the eggplant flowers. Fourth Aunt sat down and recommenced her hunt for lice in the blanket, and her mournful memories.
