Pow!

POW! 11

‘Don't say any more, child. It's the first time the woman has spoken. The cadence of her voice brings to mind filigrees of honey and gives the impression that there is little in life that she hasn't experienced. She smiles, hinting at deep mysteries, then takes a few steps back and sits on a rosewood chair that magically appeared when I wasn't looking (but perhaps it's been there all along). She waves to me and speaks for the second time: ‘Don't say anything, child. I know what you're thinking! I can't take my eyes off her. I watch as she slowly, dramatically, undoes the brass buttons of her robe, then snaps her arms out to the sides like an ostrich spreading its wings, giving an unobstructed view of the gorgeous flesh hidden by that plain, threadbare robe. My heart is intoxicated, my soul possessed; I've taken leave of my senses. A buzzing erupts in my ears; my body is chilled; my heart is pounding; my teeth are chattering; I feel like I'm standing naked on ice. Beams of light emerge from her eyes and her teeth as she sits illuminated by flames from the stove and the candle. Her breasts, like ripe mangoes, sag slightly in the centre to form fluid arcs, the nipples rising gracefully, like the captivating mouths of hedgehogs. They summon me intimately but my feet feel as if they have taken root. I sneak a glance at the Wise Monk, who is sitting with his hands pressed together, looking more dead than alive. ‘Wise Monk,’ I say softly, painfully, as if wanting to take strength from him to save myself but also seeking his approval to act upon my desire. But he doesn't stir; he might as well be carved from ice. ‘Child! The woman speaks again, but the words do not appear to have come from her mouth; they seem to have emerged from somewhere above her head or low in her belly. Sure, I've heard stories about ventriloquists who can speak without opening their mouths but those people are either martial- arts masters, buxom women or circus clowns, not ordinary people. They're strange, mysterious individuals one associates with black magic and infanticide. ‘Come here, child. There's that voice again. ‘Don't deny what you feel in your heart. Do what it tells you to do. You're a slave to your heart, not its master.’ But I keep up the struggle, knowing that if I take a step forward I won't be able to go back, not ever. ‘What's the matter? Haven't I been on your mind all along? When the meat touches your lips, why won't you eat it?’ I'd sworn off meat after my little sister died, and remained true to that vow. Now, just looking at meat turns my stomach, makes me feel guilty somehow and reminds me of all the trouble it's caused in my life. Thoughts of meat restore my self-control—some of it, at least. She snickers, and the sound is like a blast of cold air from deep down in a cave. Then she says—this time I'm sure the words come from her mouth, which opens and closes contemptuously, ‘Do you really think you can lessen your sins by not eating meat? Do you really think that not sucking on my breasts will be proof of your virtue? You may not have eaten meat for years but it has never been far from your mind. Even though you pass up the opportunity to suck on my breasts today, they will not be far from your mind for the rest of your life. I know exactly what you're like. Don't forget, I've watched you grow up and I know you as well as I know myself.’ Tears gush from my eyes. ‘Are you Aunty Wild Mule? You're still alive? You didn't die, after all?’ It feels as if an affectionate wind were trying to blow me over to her; but her mocking grin stops me. ‘What business is it of yours if I am or am not Wild Mule?’ she sneers. ‘And what business is it of yours if I'm alive or dead? If you want to suck on my breasts, come here. If you don't, then stop thinking about it. If sucking on my breasts is a sin, then not sucking on them, though you want to, is a greater one! Her piercing mockery makes me want to crawl into a hole, makes me want to cover my head with a dog pelt. ‘Even if you could cover your head with a dog pelt,’ she says, ‘what good would that do you? Sooner or later you'd have to take it off. And even if you vowed to never take it off, it would slowly rot away and fall apart to expose that ugly potato head of yours! ‘So what should I do?’ I stammer, beseechingly. She covers herself with her robe, crosses her left leg over her right and says (commands): ‘Tell your tale—’

The tractor's frozen engine crackled and popped from the blaze of burning rubber. Mother turned the crank. The engine sputtered and black smoke rolled out of the exhaust. Excitedly, I jumped to my feet, even though I really didn't want her to start up the engine; it died as quickly as it had come to life. She replaced the spark plug and turned the crank again. Finally, the engine caught and set up a mad howl. Mother squeezed the gas lever and the flywheel whirred. Though it hardly seemed possible, the shuddering of the engine and the black smoke from the exhaust told me that this time she'd succeeded. On that morning, as water turned to ice, we were going to have to go to the county seat, travel down icy roads into a bone-chilling wind. Mother went into the house and came out wearing a sheepskin coat, a leather belt, a black dogskin cap and carrying a grey cotton blanket. The blanket, of course, was something we'd picked up, as were the coat, the belt and the cap. She tossed the blanket on top of the tractor, my protection against the wind, then took her seat up front and told me to open the gate, the fanciest gate in the village. No gate like it had ever been seen in our century-long history. It was double-panelled, made of thick angle iron, impenetrable even by a machine gun. Painted black, it sported a pair of brass animal-head knockers. The villagers held our gate in awe and reverence; beggars stayed away. After removing Mother's brass lock, I strained to push the panels open as the icy wind streamed into the yard from the street. I was freezing. But I quickly realized I couldn't let that bother me, for I spotted a tall man slowly walking our way from the direction in which the cattle merchants entered the village; he was holding the hand of a four- or five-year-old little girl. My heart nearly stopped. Then it began to pound. Even before I could make out his face I knew it was Father, that he had come home.

Morning, noon and night for the five years that he'd been gone, I'd imagined Father's homecoming as a spectacular occasion. The actual event was remarkably commonplace. He wasn't wearing a cap, and pieces of straw stuck to his greasy, uncombed hair; more straw was stuck in the little girl's hair, as if they'd just climbed out of a haystack. Father's face was puffy, there were chilblains on his ears and salt-and-pepper whiskers covered his chin. A bulging, khaki-coloured canvas knapsack, with a ceramic mug tied to the strap, was slung over his right shoulder. He was wearing a greasy, old-fashioned army greatcoat; two buttons were missing—their threads hung loose and their outlines were still visible. His pants were of an indistinguishable colour and his almost-new knee-high cowhide boots were mud-spattered although their tops shone like patent leather. The sight of those boots reminded me of Father's long-lost days of glory; if not for those boots, he'd have presented a truly dismal sight that morning. The girl wore a red wool cap with a little pompom that bounced as she struggled to keep pace with Father. She was wearing an oversized red down parka that went down nearly to her feet and made her look like an inflated rubber ball rolling down the road. She had dark skin, big eyes, long lashes and thick brows that nearly met to form a black line over her nose and that seemed out of place on a girl so young. Her eyes reminded me immediately of Father's lover, Mother's bitter enemy—Aunty Wild Mule. I didn't hate the woman, in truth I sort of liked her, and before she and Father ran off I used to love going over to her little wine shop, where I could feast on meat. That was one of the reasons I liked her, but not the only one. She was good to me; and once I discovered that she and Father were having an affair, I felt closer to her than ever.

I didn't call out nor did I do what I'd imagined I'd do, which was to rush madly into his arms and tell him about all the terrible things that had happened to me since he left. I also didn't report his arrival to Mother. All I did was scamper out of the way and stand absolutely still, like a bemused sentry. When she saw that the gate was open, Mother grabbed the handlebars and began to move the massive beast. She reached the gate at the same moment as Father with the little girl in tow.

‘Xiaotong?’ he said, in a voice filled with uncertainty.

I didn't say a word but stared at Mother's face, which had turned ashen, and at her eyes, which had frozen in their sockets. The tractor lurched like a blind horse towards the gate and Mother slid out of the cab as if she'd been shot.

Father froze, agape. Then he closed his mouth. Then opened it, then he closed it again. He looked at me guiltily, as if hoping I'd come to his rescue. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lay his knapsack on the ground and let go of the little girl's hand before taking a few hesitant steps towards Mother. He turned back to look at me one more time, and I looked away. When he reached her—finally—he picked her up in his arms. Her eyes remained frozen in their sockets as she stared blankly at his face, as if sizing up a stranger. He opened his mouth—the yellow teeth again—then closed it—and the teeth disappeared. Only a few guttural sounds emerged. Without warning, Mother reached out and scratched his face. Then she fought her way out of his arms and ran to the house on legs that wobbled so much they looked as limp as noodles. She zigged and she zagged, a slipshod trajectory, but somehow managed to get inside our big house with its tiled roof. She slammed the door shut behind her, so hard that a pane of glass came loose, crashed to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Deathly silence. Then an unswerving howl, followed by wails that swerved and spun.

Father stood in the yard like a rotting tree, embarrassment writ large across his face; as before, his mouth opened and closed, closed and opened. I saw three gashes on his cheek. Ghostly white at first, they soon filled with blood. The little girl looked up at him and began to bawl. ‘Daddy, you're bleeding,’ she cried out shrilly, in a lilting out-of-town accent. ‘Daddy, you're bleeding…’

Father picked her up. She wrapped her arms round his neck and said through her sobs: ‘Let's go away, Daddy.’

The tractor was still roaring, like a wounded animal. I went over and turned it off.

With the engine stilled, the crying sounds from Mother and the little girl thudded against my eardrums. Some early risers on their way to fetch water walked over to see what was wrong. Furious, I slammed the gate shut.

Father stood up with the girl in his arms and walked over to me. ‘Don't you know who I am, Xiaotong?’ he asked, his voice heavy with apology. ‘I'm your dieh…’

My nose ached, my throat closed up.

He ruffled my hair with his big hand. ‘Look how much you've grown since I last saw you,’ he said.

Tears spilt from my eyes.

He wiped them dry. ‘Be a good boy,’ he said. ‘Don't cry. You and your mother have done well. It does my heart good to see how well you're getting along.’

Finally I managed to squeeze the word Dieh out of my throat.

He set the girl on the ground and said: ‘Jiaojiao, say hello to your brother.’

The girl tried to hide behind his legs while she eyed me timidly.

‘Xiaotong,’ he said, ‘this is your sister.’

The girl had beautiful eyes that reminded me of the woman who always cooked meat for me. I liked her at once. I nodded.

With a sigh of relief, Father picked up his knapsack, then took me by one hand and the little girl by the other, and walked up to the house. Mother's wails came in waves, each swell greater than the last; by the sound of it, she wasn't going to stop anytime soon. Father lowered his head to think for a minute and then he rapped on the door. ‘Yuzhen, I've been a terrible husband…I've come back to apologize and make it up to you…’

Tears gathered in his eyes, and in mine.

‘I've come back to help make a good life for us all. The facts prove that the Yang family knows how life is supposed to be lived, and that the Luo family doesn't. If you can forgive me…I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me…’

Father's profound self-criticism both moved and disappointed me. If he was serious about doing what he said, then if he stayed, he'd quit eating pig's head, wouldn't he? Mother yanked the door open and stood there, hands on her hips, her face ashen, her eyes red, her gaze searing. Father stumbled backward and the little girl scooted behind him, shaking from head to toe.

Mother spewed words like lava from a volcano: ‘So this is what you've become, Luo Tong, you heartless bastard! Five years ago, you abandoned your wife and son to run off with that fox demon and live the good life. How dare you come back?’

‘I'm scared, Daddy,’ the little girl sobbed.

‘How nice for you, a bastard child thrown into the bargain!’ said Mother as she glared at the girl. ‘The spitting image!’ she snarled. ‘A little fox demon! Why haven't you brought the big fox demon back with you? If she showed her face round here, I'd rip her cunt right out of her!’

Father smiled in embarrassment, his body language clearly saying ‘You have to lower your head when you're under someone else's eaves.’

Mother slammed the door shut again. ‘You take that bastard child and get the hell out of here,’ she shouted from the other side. ‘I don't want to see either one of you again! You didn't give us a thought until the fox demon tired of you and threw you out. Go away! You're already dead in the hearts of your wife and son.’

She stormed into her room and began to cry once more.

His eyes closed, Father was breathing like an asthmatic on his last legs. ‘Xiaotong,’ he said, once his breathing returned to normal, ‘I hope you and your mother have a good life. I'll be going now…’

He rubbed my head a second time, then squatted to let the girl climb onto his back. But she was too small, and her coat too bulky; she made it halfway before sliding back to the ground. So he reached behind him, grabbed her by the legs and boosted her onto his back. Then he stood up and leaned forward, sticking his neck out as far as it would go, like an ox in a slaughterhouse. His bulging knapsack swayed under his arm, like a cow's stomach hanging from a butcher block.

‘Don't go, Dieh,’ I cried, grabbing his overcoat. ‘I won't let you go!’

I banged on the door. ‘Niang!’ I shouted to Mother. ‘Niang, please let Dieh stay…’

‘Tell him to get the hell out of here,’ she screamed, ‘the farther the better.’

I stuck my hand in through the gap where the glass pane had been, unlatched the door and flung it open.

‘Go in, Dieh,’ I said. ‘You're staying for me.’

He shook his head and began to walk away with the girl on his back. But I grabbed his coat and began to cry again at the same time as I tried to pull him back through the door. As soon as we were inside, the heat from the stove wrapped itself round us. Mother was still cursing but not as loudly as before. And each outburst was followed by sobs.

Father set down the girl while I arranged a pair of stools round the stove for them. Perhaps no longer as frightened by Mother's crying, the girl seemed to gain a bit of courage. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I'm hungry.’

Father reached into his knapsack and took out a cold bun, which he broke into pieces and set on top of the stove. The smell of toasted buns quickly filled the room. He untied his ceramic mug and cautiously asked: ‘Is there any hot water, Xiaotong?’

I fetched the vacuum bottle from the corner and filled his cup with warm, murky water. After making sure it wasn't too hot, he said: ‘Here, Jiaojiao, have some water.’

The girl looked at me, as if seeking my permission. I nodded, trying to be friendly. So she took the cup and began to drink, gurgling like a thirsty calf. Mother burst out of her room, snatched the mug out of the girl's hand and flung it into the yard, where it clattered noisily. Then she turned and slapped her. ‘There's no water here for you, you little fox demon!’

The girl's cap was knocked off her head, exposing a pair of braids that had been curled up and pressed down under it, little white ties on the ends. ‘Wah!’ she burst out crying, turned and ran into Father's arms, who jumped to his feet, trembling violently, his fists clenched. I knew it was wrong but I was hoping he'd slug Mother; but he slowly unclenched his fists and held the girl close. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ he said softly, ‘I know how you must loathe me, and I wouldn't blame you if you flayed me with a knife or shot me dead. But you have no right to hit a motherless child…’

Mother stumbled backwards, the icy look in her eyes beginning to thaw. She fixed her gaze on the little girl's head, and kept it there for a long moment. Finally, she looked up. ‘What happened to her?’

‘It didn't seem like much,’ he said softly, ‘just a touch of diarrhoea. But that went on for three days, and then she died…’

The hate on Mother's face was replaced by one of goodwill. But the anger in her voice remained: ‘Retribution, that's what it was, divine retribution!’

Then she went into the other room, opened a cupboard and brought out a packet of stale biscuits. She tore open the oilpaper wrapping, took some out and handed them to Father. ‘Give them to her,’ she said.

Father shook his head, refusing to take them.

Now awkward, Mother laid them on the stove and said: ‘No matter what kind of woman winds up in your arms, a bad life and a cruel death await her. The only reason I'm still alive is that my karma is stronger than yours!’

‘I wronged her, and I wronged you.’

‘Keep your fine words to yourself, they mean nothing to me. You can talk till the heavens open up, and I still won't share my life with you. A good horse doesn't graze the grass behind it. If you had any backbone, I couldn't keep you here even if I wanted to.’

‘Niang,’ I said, ‘let Dieh stay.’

‘Aren't you afraid he'll sell the house to feed his face?’ she asked with a snide grin.

‘You're right,’ Father said, smiling bitterly, ‘a good horse doesn't graze the grass behind it.’

‘Xiaotong,’ Mother turned to me. ‘Let's you and me order some meat and wine at a restaurant. After suffering for five years, we deserve to enjoy ourselves for a change.’

‘I won't go,’ I said.

‘You little shit! Don't do anything you'll regret.’ Mother turned and walked outside. She'd taken off her sheepskin jacket and her black dogskin cap. Now she was wearing a blue corduroy jacket, and the collar of her red sweater that gave off sparks showed above her jacket. Back straight, head thrown back, she had a spring in her step, like a newly shod mare.

My anxiety lifted once she passed through the front gate. I picked up one of the baked buns and handed it to the girl, who looked up at Father; he nodded his approval. She took it from me and began eating, big bites followed by little ones.

Father took out a couple of cigarette butts from his jacket, rolled them both into a torn piece of newsprint and lit it at the stove. Through the blue smoke that emerged from his nostrils, I took note of his grey hair and the oozing chilblains on his ears. I thought back to the times he and I had gone to the threshing ground, where he'd priced the cattle, and to the times he'd taken me to Aunty Wild Mule's house, where I'd been fed plenty of meat, and I was filled with mixed emotions. I turned my back to him to keep from crying.

Then, out of the blue, I was reminded of our mortar. ‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘we have nothing to fear, no one will ever pick on us again, because we've got a big gun.’

I ran to the side room, ripped away the carton paper, picked up the heavy base, and, straining mightily, stumbled out into the yard with it in my arms. I set it down carefully in front of the door.

Father walked out, followed by his daughter.

‘Xiaotong, what's this?’

Without stopping to answer, I ran back into the side room, picked up the heavy tripod, carried it into the yard and laid it beside the base. On my third trip, I carried out the sleek tube, then assembled the whole thing, quickly and expertly, like a trained artilleryman. Then I stepped back and proudly declared: ‘Dieh, you're looking at a powerful Japanese 82 mm mortar!’

He walked up cautiously to the mortar, bent down and examined it carefully.

When we'd first accepted the heavy weapon, it had been so rusted it had looked like three hunks of scrap metal. I'd attacked the rust with bricks, knocking off the biggest chunks, then switched to sandpaper and removed it from every inch of the metal, even inside the tube. Finally, I rubbed on several coats of grease, until it recaptured its youth, regained its metallic sheen; now it squatted open-mouthed on the ground, like a lion, ready to roar.

‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘look inside the tube.’

Father turned his attention to the tube as a glare lit up his face. When he looked up, there was a sparkle in his eyes. I could see how excited he was. ‘This is something,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Really something. Where'd you get it?’

I shoved my hands into my pockets and pawed the ground as nonchalantly as possible.

‘From an old guy and his wife, who brought it on the back of an old mule.’

‘Have you fired it?’ he asked as he turned his attention back to the tube. ‘I'm sure it'll fire, this is the real thing!’

‘I was planning on going to South Mountain Village in the spring to look up that old man and his wife. They must have shells. I'll buy every one they've got, and the next person who picks on me will see what this thing can do to his house!’ I looked up at Father and, with an ingratiating look, said, ‘We can begin by blasting Lao Lan's house!’

With a bitter smile, Father shook his head but said nothing.

The girl had finished her baked bun. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I'm still hungry.’

Father went back inside and came out with the charred buns.

The girl was shaking. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I want a biscuit.’

Father looked at me, obviously embarrassed. I ran inside, picked up the packet of biscuits Mother had tossed down by the stove and held them out to her. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘eat.’

She reached out to take them but Father swept her up in his arms like a hawk taking a chicken.

She burst out crying.

‘Be a good girl, Jiaojiao,’ he said, wanting her to stop crying. ‘We don't eat other people's food.’

That unexpected comment chilled my heart.

He shifted the girl, who would not stop crying, onto his back and patted me on the head with his free hand. ‘Xiaotong,’ he said, ‘you're a big boy now, and you'll do better than your dieh ever did. Now you've got this mortar, and I know I won't have to worry about you.’

With his daughter settled on his back, he turned and walked to the gate. I struggled to hold back my tears as I ran after him.

‘Do you have to go, Dieh?’

He cocked his head to look at me. ‘Be careful with that mortar. Use it only when you have to, and don't use it on Lao Lan's house.’

The hem of his overcoat slipped through my fingers. After bending forward to make it easier for his daughter to hold on, he walked down the frozen road in the direction of the train station. He'd taken only a dozen steps or so when I shouted. ‘Dieh—’

Though he didn't turn back to look, she did. A radiant smile spread across her tear-streaked face, like an orchid in spring or a chrysanthemum in autumn. She waved, sending sharp pains through that ten-year-old heart of mine. I sat down on my haunches and watched as, in about the time it takes to smoke a pipeful, the figures of my father and the little girl disappeared round a bend in the road. Then, after about twice as long, but from the opposite direction, Mother came rushing down the road with the head of a pig, white with red showing through. ‘Where's your dieh?’ she asked, alarmed, when she reached me.

Full of revulsion over the pig's head, I pointed towards the station.

Somewhere far off a rooster crows, weak but clear, and I know we've reached that moment when total darkness precedes the dawn. The sun will be up soon, and the Wise Monk still hasn't moved. Somewhere in the room a mosquito drones wearily. The candle has burnt down, the cool wax in the candleholder is shaped like a chrysanthemum. The woman lights a cigarette and squints as the smoke drifts into her eyes. Then, with a burst of energy, she stands and shrugs her shoulders, sending her robe sliding to the floor, like dry tofu crust, gathering pathetically round her ankles. She steps on it with both feet before sitting back in her chair, where she spreads her legs and first rubs, then pinches, her nipples, spewing white streams of milk. I am both aroused and mesmerized. As I sit, I watch as the slough of my body maintains its shape, like a cicada, on the stool, while another me, this one stripped naked, walks towards the streams of milk. They spray onto his forehead and into his eyes, leaving drops on his face, like pearly tears. The milk spews into his mouth; the strong taste of human milk fills mine. He kneels in front of the woman and rests his head, with its chaotic mop of hair, on her belly, keeping it there for a long time. Finally, he looks up and asks, as if talking in his sleep: ‘Are you Aunty Wild Mule?’ She shakes her head, then nods, then sighs and says: ‘You foolish little boy.’ She cups her right breast and stuffs the nipple into his mouth…