Big Breasts & Wide Hips

1

During the first spring of the 1980s, Jintong, having served his time, sat in an out-of-the-way corner of a bus station waiting room, feeling shy and confused as he waited for the bus to Dalan, the capital of Northeast Gaomi Township.

The fifteen long years now behind him truly seemed like a bad dream. He thought back until his head ached, but all he could conjure up were memory fragments, all linked to bright light that stung his eyes like shards of glass imbedded in mud. He recalled the moment when handcuffs were first snapped on his wrists, and the reflected light that seared his eyes just before darkness enshrouded him and he heard his mother’s shouts in the distance: “What right do you have arresting my son? My son is a good man, he’s never hurt anyone”… and then he recalled the frightful days spent in the lockup awaiting sentencing, how every night by the muted light in his cell he had been forced to perform oral sex on the bearded guard… and he recalled the unbearable heat beating down on the labor camp salt works, creating even more blinding light. The guards wore sunglasses; the inmates were not permitted to. Wherever he looked the salty, corrupting, blinding light brought tears to eyes that were exposed to the salty air… then he recalled scenes of gathering kindling in the freezing cold of winter, sunlight sparkling on the snow-covered ground and glinting off the guards’ rifle barrels. The deafening crack of rifle fire straightened him up, and as he looked into the sun he saw a dazzlingly dark figure wobble and fall to the ground. He later learned that it was an inmate who had tried to escape, only to be shot by a guard… his thoughts then took him back to a summer when bursts of lightning the size of basketballs lit up the skies over the fields. Terrified, he fell to his knees. “Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “spare me. I did nothing wrong, please don’t strike me dead… let me go on living… let me live out my sentence and regain my freedom… I want to see my mother once more”… another blast of thunder rent the sky, and when he came to, a goat lay beside him, struck dead by lightning, the smell of burnt flesh hanging in the air…

Outside, the predawn sky was still dark. The dozen hanging lights in the waiting room were mere decorations; the little bit of light inside was supplied by a pair of low-wattage wall lamps. The ten or so black benches were monopolized by trendy youngsters who lay there snoring and talking in their sleep, one with his knees bent and his legs crossed, his bell-bottom trousers looking as if they were made of sheet metal. Hazy morning sunlight gradually filtered in through the windows and lit up the place, and as Jintong examined the clothes of the sleepers arrayed around him, he knew that he had reentered the world in a new age. In spite of the patches of spittle, the filthy scraps of paper, even the occasional urine stain, he could see that the floor was constructed of fine marble. And even though the walls provided rest for plenty of fat but weary black flies, the wallpaper pattern was bright and eye-catching. For Jintong, who had just emerged from a rammed-earth hut in the labor reform camp, everything around him was fresh and new, completely alien, and his unease deepened.

Finally, the early-morning sun lit up the foul-smelling waiting room, and passengers began to stir. A pimply-faced young man with a mass of wild hair sat up on his bench, scratched his toes and feet, closed his eyes as he took out a flattened filter cigarette, and lit it with a plastic lighter. After taking a deep drag, he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it on the floor. He slipped his feet into his shoes and rubbed the sticky mess into the floor. Turning to the young woman lying beside him, he patted her on the rear. She moaned seductively as she squirmed herself awake. “Here’s the bus,” he said louder than he needed to. Slowly she sat up, rubbed her eyes with her reddened hands, and yawned grandly. When it finally occurred to her that her companion had tricked her, she gave him a few symbolic thumps and moaned once more, before stretching out on the bench again. Jintong studied the young woman’s fat face, her stubby, greasy nose, and the white, wrinkled skin of her belly, which poked out from under her pink shirt. With an air of impertinence, the man slipped his left hand, on which he wore a digital watch, under her blouse and caressed her flat chest, eliciting a feeling in Jintong that he had been left behind by time, and it gnawed at his heart like a silkworm feasting on mulberry leaves. For the first time, apparently, a thought occurred to him: My god, I'm forty-two years old! A middle-aged man who never had a chance to grow up. The young man’s display of affection reddened the cheeks of this covert observer, who looked away. The unforgiving nature of age spread a layer of deep sadness over his already gloomy mood, and his thoughts spun wildly. I've lived on this earth for forty-two years, and what have I accomplished? The past is like a hazy path leading into the depths of a wilderness; you can only see a few feet behind you, and ahead nothing but haze. More than half my life is over, a past utterly lacking in glory, a sordid past, one that disgusts even me. The second half of my life began the day I was released. What awaits me?

At that moment he spotted a glazed porcelain mural on the opposite wall of the waiting room: a muscular man in a fig leaf was embracing a bare-breasted woman with a long ponytail. The looks of longing on the faces of the young couple – half human and half immortal – gave rise to a sad emptiness in his heart. He had experienced this feeling many times before, while lying on the ground at the Yellow Sea labor reform camp and looking up into the vast blue sky. While his herd of sheep grazed in the distance, Jintong often gazed up at the sky, within sight of the row of red flags that marked the inmates’ boundary line, and patrolled by mounted armed guards who were followed by the mongrel offspring of army dogs belonging to former soldiers and local mutts that interrupted their lazy rounds by howling meaning-lessly at the foamy whitecaps on the sea just beyond the dike.

During the fourteenth spring of his imprisonment, he became acquainted with one of the grooms, a bespectacled man named Zhao Jiading who was incarcerated for attempting to murder his wife. A gentle man, he had been an instructor at a college of politics and law before his arrest. Without holding back any of the details, he related to Jintong how he had planned to poison his wife: his well-conceived plan was a work of art, and yet his wife somehow survived the attempt. Jintong repaid him by relating the details of his case. When he finished, Zhao said emotionally, “That’s beautiful, sheer poetry. Too bad our laws can’t tolerate poetry. Now if at the time I'd… no, just forget it, that sounds stupid! They gave you too heavy a sentence. But of course you’ve already served fourteen of your fifteen years, so there’s no need to complain about it now.”

When the labor reform camp leadership proclaimed that his time was up and he was free to go home, he actually felt abandoned. With tears in his eyes, he pleaded, “Can’t I spend the rest of my life right here, sir?” The official who had given him the news looked with disbelief and shook his head. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because I don’t know how I’m going to survive out there. I’m useless, worse than useless.” The official handed him a cigarette and lit it for him. “Go on,” he said with a pat on the shoulder, “it’s a better world out there than in here.” Never having learned to smoke, he took a deep drag and nearly choked to death. Tears gushed from his eyes.

A sleepy-eyed woman in a blue uniform and hat walked past him, lackadaisically sweeping up the cigarette butts and fruit peels on the floor. The look on her face showed how much she hated her job, and she made a point of nudging the people sleeping on the floor with her foot or broom. “Up!” she’d shout. “Get up!” as she swept puddles of piss onto them. Her shouts and nudges forced them to sit or stand up. Those who stood stretched and yawned, while those who remained sitting on the floor wound up getting hit by her dustpan or her broom, and they too jumped to their feet. And the minute they did that, she swept the newspaper they’d been lying on into her dustpan. Jintong, who was huddled in a corner, did not manage to escape her tirade. “Move aside!” she demanded. “Are you blind?” Employing an alertness tempered over fifteen years at the camp, he jumped to the side and watched her point unhappily at his canvas traveling bag. “Whose is that?” she snarled. “Move it!” He picked up the bag that held all his possessions, not putting it down until she’d passed her broom across the floor a time or two; he sat back down.

A pile of trash lay on the floor in front of him; the woman dumped the contents of her dustpan on the pile, then turned and walked off. The mass of flies resting on the garbage she had disturbed buzzed in the air for a moment before settling back down. Jintong looked up and spotted a line of gates along the wall where the buses were parked, each topped by a sign with a route number and destination. People were lined up behind some of the metal railings waiting to have their tickets punched. By the time he located the gate for bus number 831, with a destination of Dalan and the Flood Dragon River Farm, a dozen or more people were already in line. Some were smoking, others were chatting, and still others were just sitting blankly on their luggage. Studying his ticket, he noted that the boarding time was 7:30, but the clock on the wall showed it was already 8:10. A touch of panic set in as he wondered if his bus had already left the station. Tattered traveling bag in hand, he quickly joined the line behind a stone-faced man carrying a black leather bag and took a furtive look at the people in line ahead of him. For some reason, they all looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to any of them. They seemed to be observing him at the same time, their looks running from surprise to simple curiosity. Now he didn’t know what to do. He longed to see a friendly face from home, but was afraid of being recognized, and he felt his palms grow sticky

“Comrade,” he stammered to the man in front of him, “is this the bus to Dalan?” The man eyed him up and down in the manner of the officials at the camp, which made him as anxious as an ant on a hot skillet. Even to himself, let alone others, Jintong saw himself as a camel amid a herd of sheep, a freak. The night before, when he’d seen himself in the blurry mirror on the wall of a filthy public toilet, what had looked back at him was an oversized head covered with thinning hair that was neither red nor yellow. The face was as mottled as the skin of a toad, deeply wrinkled. His nose was bright red, as if someone had pinched it, and brown stubble circled his puffy lips. Feeling the man’s eyes scrutinizing him, he felt debased and dirty; the sweat on his palms was now dampening his fingers. The man’s response to his question was limited to pointing with his mouth to the red lettering on the sign above the gate.

A four-wheeled cart pushed by a fat woman in a white uniform walked up. “Stuffed buns,” she announced in a childishly high-pitched voice. “Hot pork and scallion buns, right out of the oven!” Her greasy red face had a healthy glow, and her hair was done up in a tight perm, with countless little curls like the backs of the woolly little Australian sheep he’d tended. Her hands looked like rolls straight from the oven, the pudgy fingers like sausages. “How much a pound?” a fellow in a zip-up shirt asked her. “I don’t sell them by the pound,” she said. “Okay, how much apiece?” “Twenty-five fen.” “Give me ten.” She removed the cloth covering – once white, but now almost completely black – tore off a piece of newspaper hanging on the side of the cart, and picked out ten buns with a pair of tongs. Her customer flipped through a wad of bills to find something small enough to give her, and every eye in the crowd was glued to his hands.

“The peasants of Northeast Gaomi have done well for themselves the past couple of years!” a man with a leather briefcase said enviously. Zip-up Shirt stopped wolfing down a bun long enough to say, “Is that a greedy look I see, old Huang? If it is, go home and smash that iron rice bowl of yours and come with me to sell fish.” “What’s so great about money?” Briefcase Man said. “To me, it’s like a tiger coming down from the mountain, and I don’t feel like getting bitten.” “Why worry about stuff like that?” Zip-up Shirt said. “Dogs bite people, so do cats, even rabbits when they’re scared. But I never heard of money biting anyone.” “You’re too young to understand,” Briefcase Man said. “Don’t try that wise old uncle routine on me, old Huang, and you can stop slapping your face to puff up your cheeks. It was your township head who proclaimed that peasants were free to engage in business and get as rich as they can.” “Don’t get carried away, young man,” Briefcase Man said. “The Communist Party won’t forget its own history, so I advise you to be careful.” “Careful of what?” “A second round of land reform,” Briefcase Man said emphatically. “Go ahead, do your reform,” Zip-up Shirt shot back. “Whatever I earn, I spend on myself -eating, drinking, and having a good time – since true reform is impossible. You won’t find me living like my foolish old grandfather! He worked like a dog, wishing he didn’t have to eat or shit, just so he could save up enough to buy a few acres of unproductive land. Then came land reform and – whoosh – he was labeled a landlord, taken down to the bridge, where you people put a bullet in his head. Well, I’m not my grandfather. I’m not going to save up my money, I’m going to eat it up. Then, when your second round of land reform is launched, I’ll still be a bona fide poor peasant.” “How many days since your dad finally had his landlord label removed, Jin Zhuzi?” Briefcase Man asked. “And here you are, acting so pompous!” “Huang,” Zip-up Shirt said, “you’re like a toad trying to stop a wagon – you overestimate yourself. Go home and hang yourself! You think you can interfere with government policy? I doubt it.”

Just then a beggar in a tattered coat tied with red electric wire walked up with a chipped bowl holding a dozen or so coins and a few filthy bills; his hand shook as he held the bowl out to Briefcase Man.

“How about it, elder brother, something for me… maybe to buy a stuffed bun?” The man backed up. “Get away from me!” he said angrily. “I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.” When the beggar glanced over at Jintong, a look of disdain shone in his eyes. He turned away to seek out someone else to beg from. Jintong’s depression deepened. Even a beggar turns away from you, Jintong! The beggar walked up to the fellow in the zip-up shirt. “Elder brother, take pity on me, a few coins, maybe a stuffed bun…” “What’s your family standing?” Zip-up Shirt asked him. “Poor peasant,” the beggar replied after a brief pause. “For the last eight generations.” Zip-up Shirt laughed. “Coming to the rescue of poor peasants is my specialty!” He tossed his two remaining stuffed buns and greasy paper wrapping into the bowl. The beggar crammed one into his mouth, the greasy paper sticking to his chin.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the waiting room. A dozen or so obviously jaded ticket-takers in blue uniforms and caps emerged from their lounge with ticket punches, the cold glare in their eyes a sign of their loathing for the waiting passengers. A crowd fell in behind them, pushing and shoving their way up to the gates. A man with a battery-powered bullhorn stood in the corridor and bellowed, “Line up! Form lines! We don’t start punching tickets till there are neat lines. All you ticket-takers, please note – no lines, no tickets!” The people crowded up to the ticket-takers anyway. Children began to cry, and a dark-faced woman with a little boy in her arms, a baby girl on her back, and a pair of roosters in her hand loudly cursed a man who pushed up against her. Ignoring her, he lifted a cardboard box filled with light bulbs high over his head and kept forging his way up front. The woman kicked him in the backside – he didn’t so much as turn around.

Jintong wound up getting pushed backward, until he was last in line. Summoning what little courage remained, he gripped his bag tightly and plunged forward. But he had barely begun when a bony elbow thudded into his chest; he saw stars and, with a groan, slumped to the floor.

“Line up! Form lines!” the man with the bullhorn bellowed over and over. “No lines, no tickets!” The ticket-taker for the Dalan bus, a girl with crooked teeth, pushed her way back through the crowd with the help of her clipboard and ticket punch. Her cap was knocked askew, sending cascades of black hair out. Stomping her foot angrily, she shouted, “Go ahead, shove away. Maybe a couple of you will get trampled in the process.” She stormed back to the lounge, and by then the two hands of the clock came together at the 9.

The people’s passion cooled off the minute the ticket-taker went on strike. Jintong stood on the fringe of the crowd, gloating secretly over this turn of events. He felt sympathy for the ticket-taker, viewing her as a protector of the weak. By then, the other gates had opened, and passengers were pushing and shoving their way along the narrow passageway between two barricades, like a rebellious waterway forced between sandbars.

A muscular, well-dressed young man of average height walked up carrying a cage with a pair of rare white parrots. His jet black eyes caught Jintong’s attention, while the caged white parrots reminded him of the parrots that had circled the air above the son of Birdman Han and Laidi decades earlier on his first trip home from the Flood Dragon River Farm. Could it be him? As Jintong observed him closely, Laidi’s cold passion and Birdman Han’s resolute innocence began to show in the man’s face. Jintong’s astonishment led to a sigh. How big he’s gotten! The dark little boy in a cradle had grown into a young man. That thought reminded him of his own age, and he was quickly immersed in the doldrums of a man past his prime. Listlessness, that great emptiness, spread through him, and he envisioned himself as a withered blade of dry grass rooted in a barren land, quietly coming to life, quietly growing, and now quietly dying.

The young man with the parrots walked up to the ticket gate to look around; several of the passengers called out greetings, which he acknowledged in a cocky manner, before looking down at his watch. “Parrot Han,” someone in the crowd yelled out. “You’re well connected, and you’re good at talking to people. Go tell that young woman to come back here.” “She wouldn’t punch your tickets, because I hadn’t arrived.” “Stop bragging! We’ll believe you when you get her out here.” “Now line up, all of you, and quit shoving! What good does shoving do? Line up, I say, line up!” He ordered them around, half in jest, forcing them into a straight line, all the way back to the benches in the waiting room. “If I catch anyone pushing and shoving, disrupting this line, well, I’ll take his mother and… understand?” He made an obscene gesture. “Besides, everyone will get on, early or late. And if you can’t get inside, you can climb up onto the luggage rack, where the air is fresh and the view is great. I wouldn’t mind sitting there. Now wait here while I go get that girl.”

He was as good as his word. She came out of the lounge, still angry, but with Parrot Han at her side peppering her with sweet talk. “Dear little aunty, why get upset over the likes of them? They’re the dregs of society, punks and sluts, twisted melons and sour pears, dead cats and rotten dogs, rotten shrimp paste, all of them. Fighting with them just brings you down to their level. Even worse, getting angry leads to physical swelling, and poor uncle would die if he saw that, wouldn’t he?” “Shut up, you stinking parrot!” she said as she rapped him on the shoulder with her ticket punch. “No one will ever try to palm you off as a mute!” Parrot Han made a face. “Aunty,” he said, “I’ve got a pair of beautiful birds for you. Just tell me when you want them.” “You’re quite the smooth talker, like a teapot without a bottom! Beautiful birds, you say? Ha! You’ve been promising that for a year, and I haven’t seen so much as a single feather!” “I mean it this time. I’m going to show you a real bird for a change.” “If you had a heart, you’d forget about your so-called beautiful birds and give me that pair of white parrots.” “I can’t give you these,” he said. “These are breeders. Just arrived from Australia. But if it’s white parrots you want, next year I’ll give you a pair, or I’m not your own Parrot Han!”

When the narrow gate opened, the crowd immediately tried to squeeze through. Parrot Han, cage in hand, stood beside the ticket-taker. “You see, aunty,” he said. “How can anyone dispute the poor quality of the Chinese? All they know how to do is push and shove, even when that actually slows things down.” “The only thing your Northeast Gaomi Township can produce is bandits and highwaymen, a bunch of savages,” she said. “I wouldn’t advise you to try to catch all the fish in the river with one net, aunty. There are some good people there. Take, for instance -” He stopped in midsentence as he saw Shangguan Jintong walking bashfully toward him from the end of the line.

“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “you’re my little uncle.”

Timidly, Jintong replied, “I… I recognized you too.”

Parrot Han grabbed Jintong’s hand and shook it eagerly. “You’re back, Little Uncle,” he said, “finally. Grandma has almost cried herself blind thinking about you.”

The bus was by then so packed that some people were actually hanging out the windows. Parrot Han walked around to the rear of the bus and climbed the ladder up to the luggage rack, where he drew back the netting, secured the caged parrots, and then reached down for Jintong’s traveling bag. Somewhat fearfully, Jintong followed his bag up to the luggage rack, where Parrot Han pulled the netting over him. “Little Uncle,” he said, “hold tight to the railing. Actually, that’s probably unnecessary. This bus is slower than an old sow.”

The driver, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a mug of tea in his hand, walked lazily up to the bus. “Parrot,” he shouted, “you really are a birdman! But don’t blame me if you fall off there and wind up as roadkill.” Parrot Han tossed a pack of cigarettes down to the driver, who caught it in the air, checked the brand, and put it in his pocket. “Not even the old man in the sky can handle someone like you,” he said. “Just drive the bus, old-timer,” Parrot Han said. “And do us all a favor by not breaking down so often!”

The driver pulled the door shut behind him, stuck his head out the window, and said, “One of these days this beat-up old bus is going to fall apart. I’m the only one who can handle it. You could change drivers if you wanted, but then it wouldn’t even leave the station.”

The bus crept out onto the gravel road to Northeast Gaomi Township. They met many vehicles, including tractors, coming from the opposite direction, carefully passing the slow-moving bus, the wheels sending so much dust and gravel into the air that Jintong didn’t dare open his eyes. “Little Uncle, people say you got a raw deal when they sent you up,” Parrot Han said, looking Jintong in the eye. “I guess you could say that,” Jintong said mildly. “Or you could say I deserved it.” Parrot handed him a cigarette. He didn’t take it. So Parrot put it back in the pack and glanced sympathetically at Jintong’s rough, callused hands. “It must have been pretty bad,” he said, looking Jintong in the face again. “It was okay once I got used to it.” “There have been a lot of changes over the past fifteen years,” Parrot said. “The People’s Commune was broken up and the land parceled out to private farmers, so everyone has food on their table and clothes on their back. The old houses have been torn down under a unified program. Grandma couldn’t get along with that damned old lady of mine, so she moved into the three-room pagoda that used to belong to the old Taoist, Men Shengwu. Now that you’re back, she won’t be alone.”

“How… how is she?” Jintong asked hesitantly.

“Physically she’s fine,” Parrot said, “except for her eyesight. But she can still look after herself. I’m not going to hide anything from you, Little Uncle. I’m henpecked. That damned woman of mine comes from a hooligan proletarian family, and doesn’t know the first thing about filial piety. She moved in, and Grandma moved right out. You might even know her. She’s the daughter of Old Geng, who sold shrimp paste, and that snake woman – she’s no woman, she’s a damned snake temptress. I’m putting all my energy into making money, and as soon as I’ve got fifty thousand, I’m kicking her ass out!”

The bus stopped on the Flood Dragon River bridgehead, where all the passengers disembarked, including Jintong, with the help of Parrot Han. His eye was caught by a line of new houses on the northern bank of the river, and by a new concrete bridge not far from the old stone one. Vendors selling fruit, cigarettes, sweets, and the like had set up their stalls near the bridgehead. Parrot Han pointed to some buildings on the northern bank. “The township government moved its offices and the school away, and the old Sima family compound has been taken over by Big Gold Tooth – Wu Yunyu’s asshole son – who built a birth control pill factory, and makes illicit liquor and rat poison on the side. He doesn’t do a damned thing for the people. Sniff the air,” he said, raising one hand. “What do you smell?” Jintong saw a tall sheet-metal chimney rising above the Sima family compound, spewing clouds of green smoke. That was the source of the stomach-churning smell in the air. “I’m glad Grandma moved away,” Parrot Han said. “That smoke would have suffocated her. These days the slogan is ‘Eight Immortals Cross the Sea, Each Demonstrating His Own Skills.’ No more class, no more struggles. All anyone can see these days is money. I’ve got two hundred acres of land over in Sandy Ridge, and plenty of ambition. I’ve set up an exotic bird breeding farm. I’ve given myself ten years to bring all the exotic birds in the world here to Northeast Gaomi Township. By then, I’ll have enough money to secure influence. Then, with money and influence, the first thing I’m going to do is erect a pair of statues of my parents in Sandy Ridge…” He was so excited by his plans for the future, his eyes lit up blue and he thrust out his scrawny chest, like a proud pigeon. Jintong noticed that when they weren’t selling something, the vendors on the bridgehead were watching him and Parrot Han, who never stopped gesticulating. His feelings of inferiority returned, accompanied by regrets that he hadn’t gone to see slutty Wei Jinzhi the barber for a shave and a haircut before leaving the labor reform camp.

Parrot Han took some bills out of his pocket and stuffed them into Jintong’s hand. “It’s not much, Little Uncle, but I’m just starting out and things are still pretty tight. Besides, that stinking old lady of mine still has a string tied to my money, and I don’t dare treat Grandma the way she deserves, not that I could. She nearly coughed up blood raising me. Things couldn’t have been harder for her, and that’s something I won’t forget even when I’m old and my teeth fall out. I’ll make things right for her once I carry out my plans.” Jintong put the bills back into Parrot Han’s hand. “Parrot,” he said, “I can’t take that.” “Not enough?” That embarrassed Jintong. “No, it’s not that…” Parrot put the bills back into Jintong’s sweaty hand. “So, you look down on your useless nephew, is that it?” “After what I’ve become, I don’t have the right to look down on anyone. You’re special, a thousand times better than your absolutely worthless uncle…” “Little Uncle,” Parrot said, “people don’t understand you. The Shangguan family is made up of dragons and phoenixes, the seed of tigers and panthers. Too bad the times were against us. Just look at you, Little Uncle – you’ve got the face of Genghis Khan, and your day will come. But first go home and enjoy a few days with Grandma. Then come see me at the Eastern Bird Sanctuary.”

Parrot walked over and bought a bunch of bananas and a dozen oranges from one of the vendors. He put them into a nylon bag for Jintong and told him to take them to Grandma. They said good-bye on the new bridge, and as Jintong looked down at the glistening water, he felt his nose begin to ache. So he found an isolated spot, where he put down his bag, and went to the river’s edge, where he washed the dirt and grime off his face. He’s right, he was thinking. Since I’m home, I’ve got to grit my teeth and make my mark – for the Shangguan family, for Mother, and for myself.

Calling upon his memory, he made his way back to the old family home, where so many exciting events had occurred. But what spread out before him was a vast stretch of open land, where a bulldozer was just then knocking down the last remnants of the wall that had encircled the house. He thought back to what Parrot had said while they were on the top of the bus: the three counties of Gaomi, Pingdu, and Jiaozhou each gave up a tract of land for a new city, the center of which was to be the town of Dalan. So the spot where he was standing would soon become a thriving city, and his house was planned as the site for a seven-story high-rise that would house the Dalan Metropolitan Government offices.

Streets had already been widened, paved with gravel over clay, and bordered by deep ditches, in which workers were in the process of burying thick water mains. The church had been razed, and a sign that read “Great China Pharmaceutical Company” hung above Sima’s house. A fleet of beat-up old trucks was parked on the onetime church grounds. All the millstones from the Sima family mill house were lying here and there in the mud, and on the spot where the mill had once stood a circular building was going up. Amid the rumbling of a cement mixer and the biting odor of heated tar, he passed by teams of surveyors and gangs of laborers, most of them drunk on beer, as he walked out of a construction site that had once been his village and onto the dirt path that led to the stone bridge over the Black Water River.

As he was crossing the bridge to the southern bank of the river, he spotted the stately seven-story pagoda on the hill; the sun was just setting, and its fiery red rays seemed to set the bricks ablaze and turn the bits of straw between them to cinders. A flock of doves circled the structure, a single column of white smoke rose from the kitchen of the hut in front. The fields lay in a deathly silence broken only by the roar of heavy equipment at the work site. Jintong felt as if his head had been pumped dry, except for the hot tears slipping into the corners of his mouth.

In spite of the pounding of his heart, he forced himself to walk toward the sacred pagoda. Long before he reached it, he saw a white-haired figure standing in front of the pagoda, leaning on a cane fabricated out of an old umbrella handle and watching his progress. His legs felt so heavy he could barely put one foot in front of the other. His tears continued to flow unobstructed. Like the straw in the building, Mother’s white hair looked as if it had caught fire. With a muffled shout, he fell to his knees and pressed his face up against her bony knees, deformed from a lifetime of physical labor. He felt like a man at the ocean bottom, where sounds and colors and shapes ceased to exist. From somewhere deep in his memory, the smell of mother’s milk rose, overwhelming all his senses.

2

Not long after returning home, Jintong fell seriously ill. At first, it was only a weakness in his limbs and soreness in his joints. But that was followed by vomiting and diarrhea. Mother spent all she’d accumulated over the years by collecting and selling scrap to pay doctors from all over Northeast Gaomi. But none of the injections or medicines made any difference in his health. One day in August, he took her hand and said, “Mother, all my life I’ve brought you nothing but trouble. Now that my life is about over, you won’t have to suffer any longer…”

She squeezed his hand. “Jintong, I won’t permit you to talk like that! You’re still young. I may be blind in one eye, but I can still see good days ahead. The sun is bright, the flowers smell like heaven, and we have to keep moving into the future, son…” She spoke with all the energy she could muster, but sad tears had already dripped onto his bony hand.

“Mother, talk all you want, but it won’t do any good,” Jintong said. “I saw her again. She had stuck a plaster over the bullet hole in her temple and was holding a piece of paper with her and my names on it. She said she’d gotten our marriage certificate and was waiting for me to marry her.”

“Dear daughter,” Mother said through her tears to the empty space before her. “Dear daughter, you did not deserve to die, I know that, and you’re like my very own daughter. Jintong spent fifteen years in prison over you, and his debt has been paid in full. So I beg you to show some mercy and forgive him. That way this lonely old woman will have someone to look after her. You’re a sensible girl. As the saying goes, life and death are different roads, and you must take one or the other. Forgive him, dear daughter. This blind old woman begs you on her knees…”

As his mother prayed, Jintong saw Long Qingping’s naked body in the sunlit window, her ironlike breasts covered with rust. She opened her legs wantonly, and out came a clump of round, white mushrooms. But when he looked closer, he saw that it was a cluster of rounded infant heads, not mushrooms, and that they were all joined together. Each tiny head had a complete face and was covered with downy yellow hair: tall noses, blue eyes, paper-thin earlobes, like the skin of beans soaked in water. All the infants were crying out to him, the sound soft and weak, but clear as a bell. Daddy! Daddy! The sound struck terror in his heart, so he closed his eyes. The infants broke free and rushed toward him, landing on his face and body, where they tugged at his ears, stuck their fingers in his nose, and clawed at his eyes, all the while calling out Daddy. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, but that did not block out the sight of Long Qingping scraping her rusty breasts with sandpaper, the sound grating on his ears. She stared at him with a mixture of melancholy and rage, still scraping her breasts until they looked as if they’d been turned on a lathe, shiny and brand-new, emitting a cold glint that gathered around the nipples and, like freezing rays, bore straight into his heart. He shrieked, and passed out cold.

When he regained consciousness, he saw a candle burning on the windowsill and an oil lamp hanging on the wall. Gradually, the tortured face of Parrot Han materialized in the flickering light. “What happened, Little Uncle?” The voice seemed to come from far away, and he tried to answer, but couldn’t make his lips move. Wearily, he shut his eyes to block out the candlelight.

“Take my word for it,” he heard Parrot say. “He’s not going to die. Not long ago, I read a fortune-telling book. Little Uncle has the face of someone for whom wealth and good fortune await, someone who will live a long life.”

“Parrot,” Mother said, “I’ve never begged for anything in my life, but now I’m begging you.”

“Grandma, when you talk like that you might as well be cursing me.”

“You know lots of people, so I’m asking you to get a cart and take your uncle to the county hospital.”

“There’s no need for that, Grandma. Our town facilities enjoy big-city standards. Local doctors outshine those at the county hospital. Since Dr. Leng has already seen him, there’s no need to go anywhere else. He graduated at the top of his class at the Union Medical College and studied abroad. If he says there’s no cure, then there’s no cure.”

With a look of dejection, Mother said, “Parrot, we don’t need your fine words. You’d better go. If you’re late getting home, you’ll have to answer to that wife of yours.”

“Sooner or later I’m going to be free of those shackles. Here, Grandma, take this twenty yuan and buy something Little Uncle would like to eat.”

“Keep your money,” she said. “Now go. There’s nothing your Little Uncle wants to eat.”

“Maybe he doesn’t, but you need to eat. Raising me to manhood took a lot out of you, Grandma. We suffered under government oppression and were so poor we barely got by. After they took Little Uncle away, you put me on your back and went out begging, knocking on doors all over Northeast Gaomi. Thoughts of what you had to do cut into my heart like a dagger and I can’t help but weep. We were the lowest of the low. If not, I’d never have married that shrew. Don’t you agree, Grandma? But those hellish days are about to come to an end. I’ve requested a loan for my Eastern Bird Sanctuary, and the mayor has approved it. If this works out, I have my cousin, Lu Shengli, to thank. She’s manager of the Dalan Bank of Industry and Commerce. She’s young and talented, and what she says goes. Grandma, don’t worry, I’ll go talk to her. If she won’t help us with Little Uncle’s illness, who will? She’s another family member you raised to adulthood. Yes, I’ll go talk to her. She’s made quite a name for herself. She has a car and a driver, and she eats like a queen: two-legged pigeons, four-legged turtles, eight-legged crabs, curvy prawns, prickly sea cucumbers, poisonous scorpions, and nonpoisonous crocodile eggs. That cousin of mine can no longer be bothered by duck and chicken and pork and dog meat. I know it may sound bad, but the gold necklace around her neck is as thick as a dog leash. She wears platinum and diamond rings on her fingers and a jade bracelet on her wrist. Her eyeglasses have gold frames and natural crystal lenses, she wears Italian designer fashions and French perfume whose fragrance will stay with you the rest of your life

“Parrot, take your money and go!” Mother cut in. “And don’t go talk to her. The Shangguan family doesn’t rate a rich relative like that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Grandma. I could take Little Uncle to the hospital in a cart, but getting anything done these days depends on contacts. The difference in treatment between a patient I bring in and one my cousin brings in is night and day.”

“That’s the way it’s always been,” Mother said. “Whether your uncle lives or dies is in the hands of fate. If luck is with him, he’s bound to live. If not, even if the magical doctors Hua Tuo and Bian Que came back to Earth, they couldn’t save him. Now go on, and don’t upset me.”

Parrot had more to say, but Mother angrily banged the tip of her cane on the floor and said, “Parrot, please do as I say. Take your money and go!”

Parrot left. Jintong, still in a sort of half-sleep, heard Mother outside the house wailing. A night wind rustled the dry grass on the pagoda. A bit later, he heard her busying herself at the stove, sending the odor of herbal medicine into his room. It seemed to him as if his brain had shrunk down to a mere sliver, and the medicinal odor squeezed its way into that sliver, as if through a sieve. Ah, that sweet taste is cogongrass, the bitter taste is soul-returning grass, the sour taste is clover, the salty taste is dandelion, the spicy taste is Siberian cockle-bur. Sweet, bitter, sour, salty, and spicy, all five tastes, plus purslane, pinellia tuber and Chinese lobelia, mulberry bark, peony skin, and dried peach. Apparently, Mother had gotten nearly every herbal medicine available in Northeast Gaomi and was cooking it all in a big pot. The combined odor, with its mixture of life and of soil, poured into his brain as if from a powerful faucet, washing away the filth and slowly opening up his mind. He thought about the lush green grass outside, the flower-covered open fields, and cranes that roamed the marshland. A cluster of golden wild chrysanthemums summoned pollen-laden bees to them. He heard the heavy breathing of the land and the sound of seeds dropping to the ground.

Mother came in and bathed him with cotton soaked in the herbal mixture. She could see he was embarrassed. “Son,” she said, “you could live to be a hundred, but in my eyes you’ll always be a little boy.” She cleaned him from head to toe, even the dirty spaces between his toes. Evening winds entered the room as the smell of the herbal concoction grew heavier. He’d never felt more refreshed or cleaner than at that moment. He heard Mother sobbing and muttering out behind the house, alongside a wall of empty liquor bottles. He began to sleep and, for the first time, was not startled awake by a nightmare. He slept till dawn. When he opened his eyes in the morning, his nose filled with the smell of fresh milk. But it was different from the mother’s milk and goat’s milk he’d lived on before, and he tried to determine the source: the feeling he’d experienced years earlier, when, as the Snow Prince, he’d blessed all those women by caressing their breasts, flooded into his mind. The greatest sense of longing came from the last breast he’d caressed that day, the one belonging to the proprietor of the sesame oil shop, Old Jin, the woman with only one breast.

Mother was delighted to see that he appeared to be on the mend. “What would you like to eat, son?” she asked. “Whatever it is, I’ll make it. I went into town and borrowed some money from Old Jin. She’ll bring a cart over one of these days and take away all those bottles in back for repayment.”

“Old Jin…” Jintong’s heart was pounding. “How is she?”

With her one good eye – even it was failing – she looked at her son, puzzled by how uneasy he seemed, and let out an exasperated sigh. “She’s turned into the ‘queen of trash’ of the entire area. She owns a car and has fifty employees who melt down used plastic and rubber. She’s doing fine financially, but that man of hers is worthless. She has a bad reputation, but I had no choice but to go see her. She’s as generous as ever, a woman in her fifties, and, strangely, she even has a son…”

As if slapped in the face, Jintong bolted upright, like someone who has seen the merciful, bright red face of God. A happy thought came to him: My feelings weren’t wrong after all. He was sure that the one-eyed breast of old Jin was heading toward his room and that the sandpapered breasts of Long Qingping were retreating. “Mother,” he blurted out with a degree of bashfulness, “could you step outside before she comes?”

Momentarily at a loss, she regained her composure and said, “Son, you’ve managed to send away the death demon, so I’ll do anything you ask. I’m going now.”

Jintong lay back down, filled with excitement, and was quickly immersed in that life-giving aroma. It came from his memory, not from anywhere outside, bursting upon him. He closed his eyes and saw her fuller yet still smooth face. Her eyes were as dark as ever, moist and seductive, every movement intended to snatch away a man’s soul. She was moving quickly, like a comet, and that breast of hers, left unseated by time, jiggled under her cotton shirt, as if straining to get out. Very slowly, the spiritual aroma emanating from his heart and the material aroma emanating from Old Jin’s breast drew together like a pair of mating butterflies. They touched and quickly merged. He opened his eyes, and there, standing by his bed, was Old Jin, just as he had imagined her.

“Little brother,” she said emotionally as she bent down and took his brittle hand in hers, her dark eyes awash with tears, “my dear little brother, what is wrong with you?”

Feminine tenderness melted his heart. Arching his neck like a newborn puppy that has yet to open its eyes, he nibbled at her breast with his feverish lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her shirt and lowered her overflowing breast, full as a muskmelon, onto his face. His mouth sought out the nipple; the nipple sought out his mouth. Once his trembling lips encircled her and she entered his mouth trembling, they were both boiling hot and moaning madly. Powerful jets of sweet, warm milk hit the membranes of his mouth and converged at the opening of his throat, where it coursed down into a stomach that had retched up everything it held. At the same time, she felt the morbid infatuation for this onetime beautiful little boy she had stored up for decades leave her body along with the milk…

He sucked her dry, then, like a baby, fell asleep with the nipple in his mouth. She stroked his face tenderly and gently pulled the nipple away. His mouth twitched, but she could see the color returning to his sallow face. Mother was standing by the door, watching sadly. But what she detected in the weather-worn face of the old woman was neither rebuke nor jealousy; rather, it was self-rebuke and gratitude. Old Jin stuffed her breast back under her shirt and said resolutely, “I wanted to do it, aunty. It’s something I’ve wanted to do all my life. He and I had a bond in a previous life.”

“Since that’s the case,” Mother said, “I won’t thank you.”

Old Jin took out a roll of bills. “Old aunty, the other day I calculated wrong. That pile of bottles out back is worth more than I gave you.”

“Sister-in-law,” Mother said, “I don’t think Brother Fang will be happy when he finds out.”

“As long as he’s got a bottle around, he’s happy. I’m awfully busy these days, and I can only come once a day. When I’m not around, give him something light and watery.”

Under the ministrations of Old Jin, Jintong quickly regained his health. Like a molting snake, he shed a layer of dead skin. For two whole months, the only nutrition he received was from Old Jin; on those frequent occasions when his stomach rumbled, all he had to do was think about regular, coarse food for darkness to settle around him and his intestines to knot up painfully. His mother’s brow, smoothed out after he had been pulled back from the brink of death, now began to knit again. Every morning he stood in front of the wall of bottles behind the house, the wind whistling in the bottlenecks, like a child waiting for its mother or a woman waiting for her lover, eyes cast anxiously in the direction of the road that led from the bustling new city, through the open fields, to where she stood, nearly bursting with anticipation.

One day Jintong waited from dawn to dusk for Old Jin, but she didn’t show. He stood until his legs were numb and his eyes began to glaze over, so he sat down and leaned up against the wall of whistling bottles. At dusk, the chorus of music sounded mournful, only deepening his sense of dejection. Tears slipped unnoticed down his cheeks.

Supporting herself on her cane, Mother stood beneath the darkening sky looking scornfully at him, her expression a mixture of pity over his misfortunes and anger over his inability to overcome them. She watched him for a while without saying a word, then turned and walked back into the house, accompanied by the taps of her cane on the ground.

The following morning, Jintong picked up the family sickle and a basket and walked over to the nearby trench. At breakfast, he’d eaten a pair of mushy yams, staring wide-eyed as if someone were stripping the skin from his body. Now his stomach ached badly and he had a sour taste in his throat. He had to fight not to throw up as he followed his nose to the delicate fragrance of wild peppermint. He recalled that the co-op’s purchasing station was willing to buy peppermint. Naturally, earning some extra money wasn’t the only reason he wanted to gather peppermint; even more importantly, he thought it might help him break his addiction to Old Jin’s milk. The stuff grew from halfway down the slope all the way to the water’s edge, and its odor was invigorating. He even found that he could see more clearly. He breathed in deeply, wanting to fill his lungs with the fragrance of peppermint. Then he began cutting it down, using skills he’d honed during his fifteen years in the labor reform camp and quickly leaving a trail of fallen peppermint stalks, with their white sap and fine hairs.

As he moved down the slope, he discovered a hole the size of a rice bowl. His initial fright over the discovery quickly turned to excitement as it occurred to him that it must be a rabbit hole. Presenting Mother with a wild rabbit would bring a little joy into her life. He began by sticking the handle of his sickle into the hole and shaking it. Something moved down there – he heard it – which meant the hole was occupied. So he sat down, gripping his sickle tightly, and waited. The rabbit stuck its head up out of the hole until its furry mouth showed. Jintong swung his sickle, but the rabbit pulled its head back just in time. The next time, however, he felt the sickle cut deeply into the rabbit’s head; jerking it back, the rest of the animal appeared, still twitching, and landed at his feet. The tip of the sickle had entered the rabbit’s eye, from which trickles of blood emerged and ran down the glistening blade of the weapon. The little marble-like eyes were barely visible through tiny slits. Suddenly chilled to the bone, Jintong threw down the sickle, scrambled up to the top of the slope, and looked around like a boy in deep trouble who needs help.

Mother was there already, right behind him. “Jintong, what are you doing?” she asked in a voice that crackled with age. “Mother,” he blurted out in agony, “I killed a rabbit… oh, the poor thing… what have I done? Why did I have to kill it?”

“Jintong,” Mother said in a stern voice she’d never used with him before, “you’re forty-two years old, and still you act like a little sissy! I haven’t said anything to you these past few days, but I can’t hold back any longer. You know I can’t be here with you forever. After I’m gone, you’ll have to shoulder the family responsibilities and get on with your life. You can’t go on like this.”

Looking down at his hands in disgust, Jintong wiped off the rabbit blood with dirt. His face was burning, stung by Mother’s criticism, and he wasn’t happy.

“You have to go out into the world and do something. It doesn’t have to be anything big.”

“What can I do, Mother?” he said dejectedly.

“Here’s what you can do. Be a man and take that rabbit down to the Black Water River. Skin it, gut it, and clean it, then take it home and cook it for your mother. I haven’t tasted meat in six months at least. Maybe you’ll have trouble skinning and gutting the rabbit, worrying about being cruel. But isn’t it just as cruel for a grown man to be sucking at a woman’s breast? Don’t ever forget that a woman’s milk is her lifeblood, and sucking it dry is ten times crueler than killing a rabbit. If you think like that, you’ll be able to do it, and it will give you a satisfying feeling. Killing an animal doesn’t bring a hunter remorse over taking a life, it brings him pleasure. And that’s because he knows that all the millions of beasts and birds in this world were put here by Jehovah to satisfy human needs. Humans are the pinnacle of existence, people represent the soul of this earth.”

Jintong nodded vigorously as he felt something hard settle slowly in his chest. His heart, which up till then had seemed to be floating on water, felt as if it were starting to sink.

“Do you know why Old Jin stopped coming?”

Jintong looked into Mother’s face. “Was it you…”

“Yes, it was me! I went to talk to her. I couldn’t stand by while she ruined my son.”

“You… how could you do that?”

She continued, ignoring his tone. “I told her that if she really loves my son, she can sleep with him, but I won’t allow you to suckle at her breast anymore.”

“Her milk saved my life!” Jintong shouted shrilly. “If not for her milk, I’d be dead now, rotting away, food for the worms!”

“I know that. Do you think I could ever forget that she saved your life?” She thumped the ground with her cane. “I’ve been a fool all these years, but I finally understand that it’s better to let a child die than let him turn into a worthless creature who can’t take his mouth away from a woman’s nipple!”

“What did she say?” he asked anxiously.

“She’s a good woman. She told me to go home and tell you that there will always be a pillow for you on Old Jin’s bed.”

“But she’s a married woman…” Jintong’s face had grown pale.

Mother threw down a challenge, her voice quaking with madness. “If you don’t show a little spunk, you’re no son of mine. Go see her. I don’t need a son who refuses to grow up. What I want is someone like Sima Ku or Birdman Han, a son who’s not afraid to cause me some trouble, if that’s what has to be done. I want a man who stands up to piss!”

3

With newfound valor, he crossed the Black Water River, as Mother had told him to, and went to see Old Jin. With Mother’s help, this was to be the start of his life as a real man. But as he set out on the road to the newly created city, his courage left him like a tire with a slow leak. The high-rises, with mosaic inlays on the sides, were impressive in the sunlight, while at a number of work sites, the yellow arms of cranes swung massive prefabricated forms into place. Insistent jackhammers thudded against his eardrums, arc welders on steel girders near the sandy ridge lit up the sky more brightly than the sun. White smoke curled around a tower, and his eyes began to wander. Mother had given him directions to Old Jin’s recycling station, which was near the bay where Sima Ku had been shot all those years ago. Some of the buildings alongside the wide asphalt street had been finished, others were in the process of going up. No sign remained of the Sima family compound. The Great China Pharmaceutical Company was gone. Several large excavators were digging deep trenches in the ground. Where the church had once stood, a bright yellow, seven-story high-rise towered over its surroundings like a golden-toothed member of the nouveau riche. Red characters, each the size of an adult sheep, proclaimed in glittering fashion the power and prestige of the Dalan Branch Office of the China Bank of Industry and Commerce.

Old Jin’s recycling station was spread out over a large area, behind a plaster board fence. The scrap was separated by type: empty bottles formed a great wall that dazzled the eyes, a mountainous prism of broken glass; old tires were stacked in heaps; a mound of old plastic rose higher than a rooftop; smack in the middle of discarded metal stood a howitzer minus its wheels. Dozens of workmen, towels covering the lower half of their faces, were scampering all over the place like ants. Some were lugging tires, others were doing the sorting, while still others were loading or unloading trucks. A black wolfhound was tied to the base of a wall with the chain from an old waterwheel, still wrapped in red plastic. It appeared far more ferocious than the mongrels at the labor reform camp; its fur looked as if waxed. Lying on the ground in front of the dog were a whole roasted chicken and a half eaten pig’s foot. The watchman had a mass of unruly hair, rheumy eyes, and a deeply wrinkled face; on closer examination, he looked like the militia leader of the original Dalan Commune. A large furnace stood in the yard for melting plastic. Strange-smelling black smoke was belching out of a squat sheet-metal chimney; dust skittered along the ground. A group of scrap vendors was gathered around a large scale, arguing with the old man in charge of the scale. Jintong recognized him as Luan Ping, a salesclerk at the old Dalan Co-op. A white-haired old man rode into the station on a three-wheeled cart; it was Liu Daguan, onetime head of the local branch of the Post and Telecommunications Bureau. Once known for the way he strutted around, he was now in charge of Old Jin’s workers’ dining hall. Feeling his nerve slipping away, Jintong stood in the yard looking helpless. But a window in the simple two-story building in front of him was pushed open, and there stood the capitalist, single-breasted Old Jin in a pink bathrobe, holding her hair in one hand and waving to him with the other. “Adoptive son,” he heard her shout brazenly, “come on up!”

It seemed to him as if everyone in the yard turned to watch him walk toward the building, head down, their stares making every step an awkward one. What about my arms? Should I cross them? Let them hang straight down? Stick them in my pockets, maybe, or clasp them behind my back? Finally, he decided to let them hang at his sides, shoulders hunched, and walk the way he’d been trained during his fifteen years at the camp, like a whipped dog, slinking along with its tail between its legs, head bowed but always looking from side to side, moving as rapidly as possible alongside a wall, like a thief. When Jintong reached the bottom of the stairs, Old Jin shouted from the second floor, “Liu Daguan, my adoptive son’s here. Put on a couple more dishes.” Out in the yard, someone – he didn’t know who – sang a nasty little ditty: “If a child wants to grow up strong, he needs twenty-four wanton adoptive mothers…”

As he climbed the wooden staircase, the heavy aroma of perfume floated down to him. He looked up timidly and saw Old Jin standing at the top of the stairs, her legs spread, a mocking smile on her powdered face. He stopped and clenched the metal banister with his sweaty palm.

“Come on up, adoptive son,” she welcomed him, her mocking smile now gone.

He forced himself to keep going, until a soft hand gripped his wrist. In the dark hallway it felt as if the odor of her body were dragging him along to a den of seduction, a brightly lit, carpeted room where the walls were papered; colorful balls made of paper hung from the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a desk, on which a fountain-pen holder rested. “That’s all for show. I don’t read or write much.”

Jintong stood rooted to the floor, unwilling to look her in the eye. All of a sudden, she laughed and said, “I can’t believe this is happening. This has to be an all-time first.”

He looked up and met her seductive gaze. “Adoptive son,” she said, “don’t let your eyeballs drop out and injure your feet. Look at me. With your head up you’re a wolf; with your head down you’re a sheep. The most uncommon thing in the world is a mother arranging sex for her own son, and I’m impressed she even thought of it. Do you know what she said to me?” Old Jin made her voice sound like his mother’s: “‘If you’re going to save someone, dear sister-in-law, go all the way; if you’re seeing off a guest, take them to their door. You saved him with your milk, but you can’t feed him for the rest of his life, can you?’ She was right, since I’m over fifty already.” She patted the robe over her breast. “This treasure of mine won’t hold up for long, no matter how I use it. When you stroked it thirty years ago, it was, in the popular phrase of a few years back, ‘high-spirited and full of life, militant and ready for a good fight.’ But now it’s more a case of ‘the phoenix past its prime is no match for a chicken.’ I owe you from a previous life. I don’t want to think about why, nor is it important for you to know. All that’s important is the fact that this body of mine has simmered for thirty years, until it’s cooked through and through. Now it’s up to you to feast on it any way you want.”

Jintong stared at her single breast as if in a trance, greedily breathing in its fragrance and that of the milk it held, not even seeing the full thighs she exposed for his benefit. Out in the yard, the man in charge of the scale shouted, “This guy wants to sell this to us, Boss.” He held up some thick cable. “Do we want it?” Old Jin stuck her head out the window. “Why bother me?” she said unhappily. “Go ahead, take it.” She slammed the window shut. “Damn! I’ll buy anything someone has to sell. Don’t look so surprised. Eight out of ten of people with things to sell are thieves. I’ll get whatever’s being used at the work site. I’ve got welding rods, tools in their original packages, steel ribs, cement. I don’t turn anyone away. I pay scrap prices, then turn around and sell it as new, and there’s my profit. I know this will all fall apart one of these days, so I use half of every yuan I make to feed those bastards down there and spend the other half any way I want. I’ll tell you straight out that at least half of those clever, fancy men out there have visited my bed. Know what they mean to me?” Jintong shook his head. “All my life,” she said, patting her breast again, “this is what has gotten me where I wanted to go. Those idiot brothers-in-law of yours, from Sima Ku to Sha Yueliang, fell asleep with this nipple in their mouths, and not one of them meant a thing to me. In my lifetime, the only person who’s ever set my soul on fire is you, you little bastard! Your mother told me you’ve only been with a woman once, and that was a corpse, and she figured that’s the source of what’s bothering you. So I told her not to worry, that there’s at least one thing I’m good at. Send your son to me, I said, and I’ll turn him into a man of steel.”

Old Jin opened her robe seductively. She was wearing nothing underneath. The white parts were white as snow, the black parts black as coal. His face bathed in sweat, Jintong sat down weakly on the carpet.

She giggled at the sight. “Scared you, didn’t I? There’s nothing to be scared of, adoptive son. Breasts may be a woman’s treasure, but there are even greater treasures. You can’t eat steaming bean curd if you hurry it. Stand up and let me fix what’s wrong with you.”

She dragged him into her bedroom like a dead dog. The walls were ablaze with color; a large bed sat on deep pile carpeting near the window. She undressed him as if he were a naughty little boy. Beyond the sunlit window, the yard was alive with men walking around. Recalling Birdman Han’s movements, Jintong cupped his hands over his crotch and squatted down. He saw his reflection in a floor-to-ceiling dressing mirror – it was so disgusting it nearly made him puke. Old Jin doubled up with laughter – she sounded so young, so wanton, the laughter flying out into the yard like a dove. “My god, where did you learn that? I’m no tiger, you know, and I won’t bite that thing off!” She nudged him with her foot. “Get up, it’s bath time!”

She led Jintong into the bathroom, where she turned on the light and pointed to a pink bathtub beneath a crystal fixture with a frosted bulb, bordered by tiled walls, a coffee-colored Italian commode, and a Japanese water heater. “I bought all this from scrap dealers. Half the people in Dalan are thieves these days. I don’t have running hot water, so I need to heat my own bath water.” She pointed to four water heaters arrayed around the tub. “I spend half my day soaking in the tub. I never took a single hot bath the first half of my life, so I’m making up for that now. But you’re worse off than I, son, and I don’t imagine the labor reform camp supplied hot water for baths.” While she talked, she reached out and turned on all four heaters, from which hot water gushed into the tub and steam quickly filled the room. Old Jin, pushed him in, but he shrieked and jumped back out. She pushed him in again. “Tough it out,” she said. “It’ll cool down in a minute.” So he gritted his teeth, as all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head. He felt a prickly sensation all over. Neither truly painful nor totally numbing, it fell somewhere between agony and bliss. He went limp, his body slipping weakly under the water, as the four jets pummeled his skin with watery arrows. Through the steamy air he saw Old Jin slip out of her robe, climb in like a big white sow, and cover him with her soft, lustrous body. The steam was suddenly perfumed. Picking up a bar of fragrant bath soap, she washed his head, his face, and his body, which was quickly covered with a rich lather. He submitted weakly, and when her nipple brushed against his skin, he nearly died of ecstasy. The dirt and grime fell away as the two of them moved and shifted in the tub; his hair, his stubbly beard, were cleansed of filth. An ordinary man would have thrown his arms around her, but he just lay there and let her scrub and pinch him all over.

After they emerged from the bath, she flung the rags he’d worn home from the camp out the window and dressed him in clean underwear. Then she helped him into a Pierre Cardin suit she’d readied for the occasion. After completing the outfit with a tie, with which she struggled for a moment, she combed his hair, adding some Korean hair oil, trimmed his beard, and splashed on some cologne. She then led him over to the dressing mirror, where a tall, handsome, impressive-looking Chinese man in Western garb looked back at him. “My dear,” Old Jin exclaimed, “you look like a movie star!” He blushed and turned away. But he’d liked what he’d seen. It wasn’t the Shangguan Jintong who had survived on stolen eggs at the Flood Dragon River Farm, and it surely wasn’t the Shangguan Jintong who had tended livestock in a labor reform camp.

Old Jin led him over to a sofa at the foot of the bed and handed him a cigarette, which he refused. Fearfully he accepted the tea she held out to him. She leaned against the folded comforter on the bed, spread her legs casually, and covered herself with her bathrobe, as she leisurely blew smoke rings from a cigarette she’d lit for herself. With the powder washed off in the bath, wrinkles and a few dark freckles showed on her face. When she closed her eyes to keep out the smoke, crow’s feet fanned out in the corners. “I’ve never seen a more innocent man in my life,” she said with a squint. “Am I just an ugly old hag?”

Unable to bear the penetrating glare that squeezed out from her slitted eyes, he lowered his head and laid his hands on his knees. “No,” he said, “you’re not old, and you’re not ugly. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I thought your mother was lying to me,” she said, sounding demoralized. “But I see it was true, every bit of it.” She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and sat up. “The incident with that woman, did it really happen?” He stretched his neck, unused to being confined by a starched collar and a tie; his face was sweaty. As he rubbed his knees, he felt he was on the verge of crying.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I was just asking. You’re such a little idiot.”

At noon, a dozen or so men in Western suits and leather shoes joined them for lunch. Holding his hand, she introduced him to her guests. “This is my adoptive son. Looks like a movie star, doesn’t he?” The men gazed at him with their clever eyes. One of them, a man with slicked-down hair and wearing a gold Rolex, the band intentionally loose around his wrist, said with a salacious wink, “Old Jin, you’re an old cow feasting on tender new grass!” Jintong recalled that Old Jin had introduced this middle-aged man as the chairman of some commission or other.

“Up your mother’s ass!” Old Jin swore. “This son of mine is the Golden Boy at the feet of the Queen Mother of the West, a gentleman in every respect. Not like you horny dogs. You’re attracted to women like mosquitoes are drawn to blood. You’ll sink your teeth into them even if you get swatted flat in the process.”

‘Old Jin,” a bald man piped up, “you’re the one we want to sink our teeth into.” His jowls flapped when he talked, so badly he often had to cup his hands around his cheeks to keep his mouth from twisting out of shape. “Such tasty flesh!”

“Old Jin, you’re taking a page out of Empress Wu’s book,” said a husky young man with naturally wavy hair and eyes like a goldfish. “You’ve got yourself a little pretty boy!”

“You all have your second and third wives, but I can’t…” Old Jin stopped short. “Just shut your foul mouths. If you don’t watch out, I’ll make sure people find out about all your sneaking around.”

A heavy-browed, hollow-cheeked man held out his wineglass and walked up to Jintong. “Elder brother Shangguan Jintong, here’s to you and your release from the camp.”

Now that his secret was out, Jintong felt like crawling under the table.

“He was framed!” Old Jin shouted indignantly. “Jintong is an honest man who would never do what he was charged with.”

The men began whispering among themselves. Then they stood up and, one after the other, toasted Jintong. Since he’d never drunk alcohol before, it took little to set his head spinning. The men’s faces took on the appearance of sunflowers waving in the wind, and he had the baffling feeling that he ought to clear something up with these people. He held out his cup and said, “I did it… with her, but her body was still warm… eyes still open… she smiled…”

“Now that’s a real man!” he heard one of the sunflowers say, which made him feel better, just before he fell facedown into the food on the table.

He awoke to find himself stark naked on Old Jin’s bed. She was there beside him, also naked, leaning against the comforter, a glass of wine in her hand; she was watching a video. It was the first color TV Jintong had ever seen – at the camp he’d seen a tiny bit of TV on a black-and-white set, which was astonishing enough, but the color picture had him doubting his own eyes. Especially since a naked man and woman were cavorting right there on the screen. Feelings of guilt weighed his head down. He heard Old Jin giggle. “You can stop pretending, son. Raise your head and take a good look. You need to see how people do it.” Jintong raised his head and stole another look or two. Chills ran up and down his spine.

Old Jin leaned over and switched off the video. White dots filled the screen until she turned off the TV. When she adjusted the bedside lamp, a soft yellow light painted the walls. The light blue window curtains cascaded down to the bed mat like a waterfall. Old Jin smiled and began teasing him with her feet.

His throat was as dry as an abandoned well; the top half of his body was hot as cinders, the lower half was like a stagnant pond. His eyes were fixed on her full breast, which hung down to her navel and sagged slightly to the left. His lips parted as he moved over to take it into his mouth, but Old Jin moved it away and, at the same time, shifted provocatively. Irritated by her rejection, he grabbed her soft shoulders to roll her over. She turned toward him, her breast flashing into view like a frightened wild goose, but was quickly moved back out of sight. Before long, they were engaged in a wrestling match, one struggling to find the breast, the other fighting him off, until they were worn out. Finally, Old Jin was too weary to deny him any longer, and he buried his head in her bosom, with no thoughts for anything else, taking the nipple into his mouth with such force it’s a wonder he didn’t swallow up the whole breast. Once she’d surrendered her nipple, all the fight in her vanished. With moans of pleasure, she dug her fingers into his hair as he proceeded to suck her dry.

Jintong slept like a baby after emptying her of her milk. Old Jin, her heart on fire, tried every trick she knew to wake the man-child up, but he snored on.

The next morning, she awoke with a weary yawn and glared at Jintong. Her nursemaid brought over her baby for a feeding, and Jintong saw the infant, not yet a month old, in the nursemaid’s arms, staring at him with hatred in his eyes. “Not now,” Old Jin said to the woman, rubbing her breast. “Go get him a bottle of milk at the dairy farm.”

Once the nursemaid had made a tactful exit, Old Jin cursed, “Jintong, you bastard, you sucked so hard you drew blood.” He smiled apologetically and stared at the hand cupping her treasure. The demon of desire reappeared, and he began to make his move. But this time she stood up and took her breast into the other room.

That night, Old Jin wore a thick padded coat over a specially made canvas bra; she cinched her waist with a wide, brass-studded belt of the type used by martial arts masters. She had trimmed the bottom of the coat to just above her hips; tufts of cotton trailed from the un-hemmed opening. She was naked from the waist down, except, interestingly, for a pair of red high-heeled shoes. The moment Jintong saw how she was dressed he felt as if his insides were on fire, and he was quickly and impressively aroused to the point where his erection bumped into his belly. She was about to bend over like an animal in heat, but Jintong, too filled with desire to wait, threw her down on the rug like a tiger pouncing on its prey, and took her then and there.

Two days later, Old Jin introduced her new general manager, Shangguan Jintong, to the workers. He was dressed in a tailored Italian suit, with a Lacrosse silk tie and a camel-colored serge overcoat. The outfit was topped by a French beret, worn at a rakish angle. He stood with his hands on his hips, like a rooster that’s just hopped off of a hen’s back – weary yet haughty, as he faced the motley crowd of workers in Old Jin’s network. He made a brief speech, both the words and manner styled after the way the guards at the labor reform camp had reprimanded the inmates. He saw a mixture of envy and hatred in their eyes.

With Old Jin as his guide, Jintong traveled to every corner of Dalan, where he was introduced to people who had dealings – direct and indirect – with the recycling station and the various sales outlets. He took up smoking foreign cigarettes and drank foreign liquor, learned the ins and outs of mah-jongg, and mastered the arts of playing host, passing out bribes, and evading taxes; once he even took the delicate hand of a young waitress in the Gathering Dragons Guesthouse restaurant in front of a dozen or more guests; flustered, she dropped the glass she was holding, smashing it to pieces. He took out a wad of bills and stuffed them into the pocket of her white uniform. “A little something for you,” he said. She thanked him in a flirtatious voice.

Every night, like a farmer who never tires, he cultivated Old Jin’s fertile soil. His inexperience and clumsiness brought her special pleasure and a new kind of excitement; her shouts often woke the fatigued workers as they slept in their shacks.

One evening, a one-eyed old man strolled into Old Jin’s bedroom, his head cocked. Jintong shuddered when he saw him and pushed Old Jin to the side of the bed before scrambling to cover himself with the blanket. He recognized the man at once: it was Fang Jin, at one time in charge of the People’s Commune production brigade, Old Jin’s legal husband.

Old Jin sat there with her legs crossed. “Didn’t I just give you a thousand yuan?” she asked, a sharp edge to her voice.

Fang Jin sat down on the Italian leather sofa in front of the bed, where he had a coughing fit and spat a gob of phlegm onto the beautiful Persian rug at his feet. The glare of hatred in his good eye was hot enough to light a cigarette. “I didn’t come for money this time,” he said.

“Then what do you want?” she asked irately.

“Your lives!” Fang Jin pulled a knife out from under his jacket, jumped up from the sofa with an agility that belied his age, and threw himself onto the bed.

With a shriek of horror, Jintong rolled to the far edge of the bed and wrapped the blanket around him. He was too petrified to move after that. He then watched in terror as the cold gleam of Fang Jin’s knife pressed toward his chest.

Like a fish flopping on the ground, Old Jin placed herself between Fang Jin and Jintong, so that the tip of the knife was aimed at her chest. “If you’re not the illegitimate child of a first wife, you’ll stab me first!” she said coldly.

Grinding his teeth, Fang Jin said, “You whore, you stinking whore…” Despite the savagery of his words, the hand holding the knife began to tremble.

“I’m no whore,” Old Jin said. “Sex is how a whore earns her living. But me, I actually pay for it. I’m a rich woman who’s opened a brothel for her own pleasure!”

Fang Jin’s gaunt face twitched like waves on the ocean. Beads of snot hung from the sparse ratlike whiskers on his chin. “I’ll kill you!” he said shrilly as he thrust his knife at Old Jin’s breast. But she spun out of the way, and the knife stuck into the bed.

With a single kick, she knocked Fang off of the bed. After whipping off her martial arts belt, slipping out of her short robe, taking off her canvas bra, and kicking off her shoes, she slapped her belly wantonly, the hollow sound nearly frightening Jintong out of his skin. “You old coffin shell,” she shouted. “Can you do it? Climb on up if you can. If not, get the fuck out of here!”

Fang Jin was sobbing like a baby by the time he rose to a stooped position. With his eyes on Old Jin’s jiggling pale flesh, he pounded himself on the chest and wailed in agony, “Whore, you whore, one of these days I’m going to kill you both…” Fang Jin ran away.

Peace returned to the room. The roar of a power saw came from the carpentry shop, merging with the whistle of a train entering the station. At that moment, Jintong heard the dreary sound of the wind whistling through the empty liquor bottles at home. Old Jin sprawled in front of him, and he saw her single breast splayed in all its ugliness across her chest, the dark nipple looking like a dried sea cucumber.

She gave him an icy stare. “Can you do it like this?” she said. “No, you can’t, I know that. Shangguan Jintong, you’re dog shit that won’t stick to a wall, you’re a dead cat that can’t climb a tree. I want you to get your balls out of here, just like Fang Jin!”

4

Except for the fact that her head was on the small side, Parrot Han’s wife, Ceng Lianlian, was actually quite a stunning woman, especially her figure. She had long legs, nicely rounded hips, a soft, narrow waist, slender shoulders, full breasts, and a long, straight neck – from the neck down there was absolutely nothing to complain about, since she’d inherited it all from her water-snake mother. Thoughts of her mother reminded Jintong of that stormy night in the mill years earlier, back during the civil war. Her head, small and flat as the blade of a shovel, had swayed in the early-morning rain and mist, and she truly looked to be three parts human and seven parts snake.

After Old Jin fired him, Jintong wandered the streets and lanes of the increasingly prosperous Dalan City. He didn’t have the nerve to go home to see his mother. He’d sent her his severance pay, even though he’d spent nearly as much time lined up at the post office to wire the money as it would have taken to go over to the pagoda, and even though she’d have to go to the same post office to get the money, and even though the clerk there would be puzzled by his action, that’s how he did it.

When his steps took him to the Sandy Ridge district, he discovered that the Cultural Bureau office had set up two monuments on the ridge. One commemorated the seventy-seven martyrs who had been buried alive by the Landlord Restitution Corps, the other commemorated the courageous fight against the German imperialists by Shangguan Dou and Sima Daya, who had given their lives in the cause nearly a century before. The text, in virtually incomprehensible classical prose, made Jintong’s head swim and his eyes glaze over. A group of boys and girls – college students, by the look of them – was gathered around the monuments, discussing them animatedly before huddling together for group photos. The girl with the camera was wearing skintight blue-gray pants, the flared bottoms covered with white sand, and uneven rips at the knees, under an incredibly bulky yellow turtle-neck sweater that hung from her armpits like the sagging neck of a cow. A heavy Chairman Mao pin was pinned to her chest, and a camera vest with pockets of all sizes was draped casually over her sweater. She was bent at the waist, raising her backside in the air like a horse doing its business. “Okay!” she said. “Don’t move. I said don’t move!” Then she began looking for someone to take their picture. Her gaze fell on Jintong, who was still wearing the outfit Old Jin had given him. The girl said something in a foreign language, which he didn’t understand. But he sensed at once that she’d mistaken him for a foreigner. “Say, girl, if you speak to me in Chinese, I’ll understand you!” She gulped, probably surprised by his heavy local accent. For someone from a distant land to come to China and actually learn the Northeast Gaomi dialect was really something! is what he assumed she was thinking, and even he heaved a sigh. How wonderful it would be if a real foreigner could speak like someone from Northeast Gaomi. But, of course, there was such a person – the sixth son-in-law of the Shangguan family, Babbitt. Not to mention Pastor Malory, who had spoken better Chinese than Babbitt. “Sir,” the girl said with a smile, “would you mind taking our picture?” Infected by her vitality, Jintong forgot for the moment his current situation, shrugged his shoulders, and made a face the way he’d seen foreigners do in the movies. He was quite convincing. Taking the camera from her and watching as she showed him which button to push, he said Okay, followed by a few comments in Russian. That produced the desired effect; the girl stared at him with obvious interest, before turning and running over to the monuments, where she leaned on her friends’ shoulders. He looked into the viewer like an executioner, cutting all the girl’s friends out of the shot and zeroing in on her. Click. He pressed the button. “Okay,” he said. A moment later he was standing alone in front of the monuments, watching the youngsters as they walked off. An aura of youth lingered in the air, and he breathed in it greedily. He had a bitter taste in his mouth, as if he’d just eaten an overripe persimmon, a stiff tongue, and a bellyful of disapproval.

Resting his hand on the monument, he was hopelessly mired in fanciful thoughts, and if his nephew’s wife, Geng Lianlian, hadn’t come to his rescue, he might have withered right there on the marble monument like a dead bird. She rode up from town on a green sidecar motorcycle. Jintong had no idea why she stopped by the monuments, but he gazed appreciatively at her lovely figure. “Are you my uncle, Shangguan Jintong?” she asked.

He blushed in acknowledgment.

“I’m Geng Lianlian, the wife of Parrot Han,” she said. “I know he’s had nothing but terrible things to say about me, as if I were some kind of female tiger.”

Jintong nodded ambiguously.

“I hear Old Jin showed you the door,” she said. “That’s no big deal, since I’ve come to hire you for our Eastern Bird Sanctuary. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with your duties, salary, and benefits, so you needn’t even ask.”

“I’m worthless, I can’t do anything.”

She smiled. “We’ll give you something you can do,” she said, taking him by the hand before he could respond with more self-deprecating comments. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ve spent a good part of the day running all over town looking for you.”

She seated Jintong in the sidecar along with a giant macaw tethered by a chain. It gave him a mean look and screeched. Lianlian reached over and tapped the bird before undoing the chain. “Old Yellow,” she said, “fly back and notify the manager that Uncle’s on his way.”

The bird hopped awkwardly onto the edge of the sidecar and from there down to the sandy ground. Like a child learning to walk, it stumbled forward a few paces, spread its stiff wings, and rose into the air. After climbing thirty or forty feet, it wheeled and buzzed the motorcycle. “Old Yellow,” Lianlian said, looking up at the circling bird, “go on now. No more funny stuff. I’ll give you some pistachios when I get home.” With a cry of delight, the parrot skimmed the treetops and flew off to the south.

Lianlian stepped down on the starter, then climbed onto the motorcycle, twisted the handlebar, and careened off down the street, the wind billowing her hair – his too. They sped down a newly paved road, quickly reaching a marshy area, where the Eastern Bird Sanctuary occupied a fenced-in area of at least two hundred acres. The garish entrance gate, which looked like a memorial arch, was guarded by two watchmen with Sam Browne belts across their chests and toy pistols on their hips. They saluted Lianlian as she drove past.

Just inside the gate was a man-made mountain of stones from Taihu, fronted by a pond with a fountain that was surrounded by cranes that looked real, but weren’t. The macaw that had flown back ahead of them was resting alongside the pond. When it saw Lianlian, it fell in behind her, hopping awkwardly.

Parrot Han, made up like a circus clown and wearing white gloves, ran out from a little building with beaded curtains over the door. “Well, Uncle, we finally got you to come. I always said that as soon as things picked up around here I’d start paying back my debts.” He waved a glittering silver baton as he spoke. “Heaven and earth may be vast, but not as vast as Grandma’s kindness. And so, the first debt I owe is to her. Sending her a sack filled with meat wouldn’t please her, nor would the gift of a gold cane. Finding work for her son, on the other hand, would please her no end.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Lianlian said, like a supervisor speaking to a subordinate. “Have you got the mynah bird trained? You swore you could do it.”

“Don’t you worry, my dear wife!” Parrot acted the part of a clown, bowing deeply. “It’ll be able to sing ten songs, you’ve got my word on that.”

“Uncle,” Lianlian said turning back to Jintong, “we can talk about your new job, but first let me show you around.”

As the new director of public relations for the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, Jintong was sent by Lianlian to a spa for ten days, where he was tended to by a Thai masseuse. Then he went to a beauty salon for ten facials. He emerged totally rejuvenated, a new man. Lianlian spared no expense, dressing him in the latest fashions, drenching him in Chanel cologne, and assigning a young woman to attend to his daily needs. All these extravagances made Jintong uneasy. Rather than give him any concrete job, Lianlian concentrated on filling his head with bird knowledge and taking him through blueprints for the sanctuary expansion plans. By the time they finished, he was convinced that the future of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary was in fact the future of the city of Dalan.

One night, when all was quiet, sleep eluded Jintong as he tossed and turned on his springy Simmons mattress. As he took stock of his life up that point, he realized that the life he was enjoying at the bird sanctuary was nothing short of a miracle. Exactly what does this small-headed woman have in mind for me? Rubbing his chest and underarms, now nicely fleshed out, he finally fell asleep, and almost immediately dreamed that peacock feathers had grown on his body. Fanning his tail feathers, like a gorgeous wall, he saw thousands of little dancing spots. All of a sudden, Geng Lianlian and several mean-looking women came up and began pulling out the tail feathers to give as gifts to rich and powerful friends. He complained to them in peacock-talk. Uncle, Lianlian said, if you won’t let me pluck your feathers, what good are you to me? She grabbed a handful of his colorful tail feathers and pulled – Jintong shrieked, and woke himself up. His face was covered with a cold sweat, and he immediately noticed a dull pain in his rear. There was no more sleep for him that night. As he listened to birds fighting off in the marshland, he reflected upon his dream, trying to analyze just what it meant, a trick he’d learned back in the labor reform camp.

The next morning, Lianlian invited him to breakfast in her office. Sharing this honor was her husband, the master bird trainer, Parrot Han. The moment Jintong stepped through the door he was greeted by a “Good morning” from a black mynah on a golden perch. The bird ruffled its feather as it “spoke,” and he wondered if his ears had deceived him. He walked around to see if he could find the source of the sound. “Shangguan Jintong,” the mynah bird said. “Shangguan Jintong.” The bird’s greeting shocked and elated him. He nodded in its direction. “Good morning,” he said. “What’s your name?” The bird ruffled its feathers and said, “Bastard! Bastard!” “Did you hear that, Parrot?” Lianlian said. “This is what you’ve been teaching your little pet!” Parrot slapped the mynah. “Bastard!” he cursed. “Bastard!” the dizzy mynah echoed him. “Bastard!” Obviously embarrassed, Parrot turned to Lianlian. “Damn,” he said, “have you ever seen the likes of this bird? It’s like a little child. You can try to teach him proper language till you’re blue in the face, but it’s no use. Then say a bad word, and he picks it up at once.”

Lianlian treated Jintong to some fresh milk and a partially cooked ostrich egg. She had the appetite of a bird, while Jintong had the appetite of a pig. She drank a cup of wonderfully fragrant Nestlé’s coffee. “Uncle,” she said, “an army trains for a thousand days to fight for one. The time has come for you to display your skills.”

Jintong gulped in surprise, which led to a series of hiccups. “Urn,” he stammered, “what can, what can I do…”

Noticeably disgusted by the hiccups, she fixed her callous gray eyes on his mouth. Because of the callousness, her normally tender eyes were suddenly unbelievably intimidating, reminding him of her mother and of those marshland snakes that could swallow a wild goose. That thought cured his hiccups.

“You can do lots of things!” Rays of tenderness shot from her gray eyes, returning them to their enchanted beauty. “Uncle,” she said, “do you know the one thing needed for us to turn our plans into reality? Of course you do, it’s money. The sauna resort cost money. The big-breasted Thai masseuse cost money. Do you know how much that ostrich egg you just ate cost?” She held out five fingers. “Fifty? Five hundred? Five thousand! Everything we do costs money, and for the Eastern Bird Sanctuary to prosper, we need a lot of it. Not eighty or a hundred thousand, and not two or three hundred thousand, but millions, tens of millions! And for that we need the support of the government. We need bank loans, and the government owns the banks. The bank managers do the mayor’s bidding, and who does the mayor listen to?”

She smiled, looked at Jintong, and answered her own question.

“You, that’s who!” More hiccups.

“Take it easy, Uncle. Listen carefully. The new mayor of Dalan isn’t just anybody, it’s none other than your very own mentor, Ji Qiongzhi, and the first person she inquired about as mayor was you. Just think, Uncle, after all these years, you’re still in her thoughts. Emotions don’t get any deeper than that.”

“So I go see her and say, mentor Ji, I'm Shangguan Jintong, and Fd like you to lend my niece several million yuan for her bird sanctuary, is that it?” Jintong said.

Lianlian laughed hard. Gently pounding Jintong on the shoulder, she said, “Silly Uncle, my silly Uncle, you sure have earned your reputation as an innocent man. I’ll teach you how to do it.”

Over the next couple of weeks, Lianlian put Jintong through the sort of day-and-night training that Parrot used on his birds, instructing him on what a powerful woman likes to hear. On the day before Ji Qiongzhi’s birthday Lianlian conducted a dress rehearsal in her bedroom. Dressed in a sheer white nightgown, she played the part of Mayor Ji, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of fine wine in the other, a love potion on the pillow, and embroidered slippers on her feet. Jintong, wearing a tailored suit and French cologne, was holding an array of peacock feathers in one arm and a trained parrot in the other as he gently pushed open the leather-trimmed door -

– The moment he stepped into the room, Ji Qiongzhi’s prestige and manner froze him in his tracks. Unlike Lianlian, she wasn’t dressed in a revealing nightgown. Instead, she was wearing an old army uniform, buttoned all the way up to the neck. And she wasn’t smoking a cigarette or holding a glass of wine. Needless to say, there was no love potion on the pillow. In fact, she didn’t receive him in her bedroom. She was smoking a Stalin-era pipe filled with reeking coarse tobacco, and was guzzling tea from an oversized mug with chipped porcelain and the words “Flood Dragon River Farm” stamped on one side. Seated in a beat-up rattan chair, she had her feet, encased in smelly nylon socks, on the desk in front of her. She was reading a mimeographed document when he entered. She tossed it aside when she saw him. “Bastard! Lousy bedbug!” Jintong’s legs nearly buckled, and he all but threw himself to his knees in front of her. Taking her feet off the desk, she slipped into her shoes, caving in the backs, and said, “Come here, Shangguan Jintong. Don’t be frightened, that wasn’t meant for you.”

In line with Lianlian’s instructions, Jintong should have bowed deeply at that moment, and then, with tears in his eyes, gazed at her soft bosom, but for only about ten seconds. Longer than that would give the impression of unwelcome intentions; less than that implied disrespect. Then he was to say, “My dear teacher, Ji Qiongzhi, do you still remember that useless student you once had?”

But she’d called him by name before he could open his mouth and looked him over from head to toe, the same liveliness in her eyes as before. He felt prickly all over, and wished he could drop what he was carrying and get away as fast as his feet would carry him. She sniffed the air. “How much cologne did Geng Lianlian spray on you?” she asked mockingly.

She got up and pushed open a window to let in the cool night air. Off in the distance, arc welders raised sparks on steel girders high above the ground, like holiday fireworks. “Have a seat,” she said. “I have nothing to offer you, except a glass of water.” She picked up a mug with a missing handle from the tea cart, studied the gunk at the bottom, and said, “Maybe not. It’s filthy, and I’m too lazy to go wash it out. I’m getting old. Time is unforgiving. After running around all day, my legs have swelled up like leavened bread.”

“When she brings up her age and complains about getting old, Uncle, you mustn’t agree with her. Even if her face looks like a dried-up gourd, what you have to say is” – now he parroted the exact words Geng Lianlian had coached him to say: “Teacher, except that you’ve filled out a little, you look just the same as when you were teaching us songs all those years ago. You look like a woman of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, certainly no more than thirty!”

With a sneer, Ji said, “Geng Lianlian told you to say that, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” He blushed.

“Jintong, you can’t sing a song well just by memorizing the lyrics. I assure you that that sort of ass-kissing is wasted on me. Under thirty, indeed! That’s crap! I don’t have to be told that I’m getting old. My hair’s turning gray, my eyesight’s getting worse, my teeth are threatening to fall out, and my skin sags. There’s more, but I’d rather not talk about it. People out there praise me to the sky to my face, but curse me behind my back, silently if not out loud. That old deadbeat! The old witch! Since you owned up to it, I’ll overlook it today. I could just as easily have thrown you out. But have a seat. Don’t just stand there.”

Jintong handed her the array of peacock feathers. “Teacher Ji, Geng Lianlian asked me to give you these and told me to say, ‘Teacher, these fifty-five peacock feathers are a birthday gift that mirrors your own beauty.’” “More crap!” Ji said. “A peacock is beautiful. But a peahen is uglier than a roosting chicken. Take those feathers back to her. And what’s that, a talking parrot?” She pointed at the cage he was holding. “Uncover it and let me have a look.” Jintong removed the red silk cover and tapped the cage. The sleepy parrot inside ruffled its wings and said angrily, “How are you, how are you, Teacher Ji?” Ji Qiongzhi smacked the cage, throwing such a scare into the bird that it hopped up and down, its pretty feathers banging loudly against the cage. With a sigh, Ji said, “How am I? No damned good, that’s how.”

She refilled her pipe and sucked on it like a toothless old man. “Birdman Han planted a dragon seed,” she said, “but all he got for his efforts was a flea! Why did Geng Lianlian send you here?”

Jintong stammered, “She asked me to invite you to take a tour of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary.”

“That’s not the real reason,” Ji said as she picked up her mug of tea and took a drink. She banged it down on the table and said, “What she really wants is a bank loan.”

5

On one glorious spring day, Ji Qiongzhi elevated Jintong’s status in the eyes of others by leading a delegation of Dalan’s most influential officials and, by special invitation, the managers of the Construction Bank, the Bank of Industry and Commerce, the People’s Bank, and the Bank of Agriculture on an inspection tour of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary. Lu Shengli, a woman of majestic bearing, dressed very simply that day, but any discerning individual could see that this very simplicity was in itself a fashion statement, and that her “simple” clothes were all designer imports.

Forty or more expensive sedans pulled up at the gate of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, where a pair of red palace lanterns three meters in diameter, filled with more than a hundred silver-throated skylarks, hung. Parrot Han had trained the birds to start singing as soon as they heard the sound of automobile engines. The lanterns vibrated with the skylarks’ songs, natural music of unsurpassed and unforgettable beauty. The arched roof of the gate was home to more than seventy nests of golden swifts, also trained by the magical hand of Parrot Han. A wooden plaque standing alongside the gate gave the English name of the swifts and a Chinese and English detailed description of the birds. Of special note was the fact that the nearly transparent nests were famous for their high nutritional value; a single nest sold for 3,000 yuan. For this occasion, Geng Lianlian had secretly installed several hundred audio speakers on nearby trees, which flooded the area with taped birdcalls. Just inside the gate, four wooden plaques proclaimed: Birds Call Flowers Sing, one gigantic word on each plaque. At first, the observers assumed that the word “sing” was a mistake, but they quickly realized that it was the perfect choice, since the flowers of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary did in fact appear to be singing as they swayed along with the nearly deafening birdcalls. A flock of well-trained wild chickens performed a welcoming dance in the middle of the courtyard, pairing off as couples one minute and spinning in the air the next, in perfect cadence with the music. These can’t be wild chickens! They’re nothing less than a flock of young gentlemen (for the sake of aesthetic continuity, Parrot Han had trained only male birds), a flock of young dandies forming a multicolored chorus line that dazzled the observers’ eyes. Geng Lianlian and Jintong led the visitors into the sanctuary’s performance hall, where Parrot Han, wearing ceremonial dress with embroidered red flowers, waited impressively, baton at the ready. Once the visitors were inside, a young female attendant threw a switch, flooding the hall with light, and twenty tiger-skin parrots on a horizontal perch directly opposite the entrance sang out in unison: Welcome welcome, hearty welcome, welcome welcome, hearty welcome! The visitors responded with ecstatic applause. Before the sound had died out, a flock of little siskins flew out, each carrying a folded pink slip in its beak, which they dropped into the hands of the visitors. Opening their slips, the visitors read the following: Greetings to your honorable personages! Your advice and guidance will be much appreciated. The recipients clicked their tongues in amazement. Next came two mynahs dressed in red jackets and little green hats; waddling up to a microphone at the center of the stage, one of them announced haughtily, Ladies and gentlemen, how do you do! The second mynah translated into fluent English. Thank you for honoring us with your presence. We welcome your precious advice – more translation. The director of the Municipal Trade Bureau, who knew English well, commented, Pure Oxford English. Now, for your enjoyment, we offer a solo rendering of “The Women’s Liberation Anthem,” sung by Hill Mynah. A hill mynah in purple dress bird-walked up to the microphone and bowed to the audience, so deeply that they could see the two yellow flaps on the back of her head. She said, today I’m going to sing a historical song, which I respectfully dedicate to Mayor Ji. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you. Another deep bow exposed for the second time the two flaps, as ten canaries hopped out onto the stage to sing the opening bars in their lovely voices. The hill mynah began to rock as her voice rose in song:

In the old society, this is how it was:

A dark, I so dark dry well, deep down in the ground.

Crushing the common folk, women at the bottom,

At the very, very bottom.

In the new society, this is how it is:

A bright, I so bright sun shines down on the peasants.

Women have been freed to stand up,

At the very, very top.

The song ended amid thundering applause. Lianlian and Jintong sneaked a look at Ji Qiongzhi to gauge her reaction. She sat there calmly, neither clapping nor shouting her approval. Lianlian began to squirm. “What’s with her?” she asked softly, giving him a nudge with her elbow. He shook his head.

Lianlian cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention. ^UI now invite our honorable guests to the dining room. Since the Eastern Bird Sanctuary is a new enterprise and has limited funds, we can offer only a modest meal. Our chef has prepared a ‘hundred bird banquet’ in your honor.”

The pair of avian masters of ceremony rushed up to the microphone to announce in unison, “Hundred bird banquet, hundred bird banquet, delicacies galore. From ostrich to hummingbird. Mallard and blue horse chicken. Red-crested crane and long-tailed turtledove. Bustard and ibis, hawfinch and mandarin duck, pelican and lovebird. Yellow roc, thrush, and woodpecker. Swan, cormorant, flamingo

Ji Qiongzhi walked out before the mynahs could list all the birds on the menu, her face hard as iron. Her subordinates fell in behind her with demonstrable reluctance. She had no sooner entered her car than Lianlian stomped her foot in anger and cursed, “What a witch! A goddamned deadbeat!”

The next day, the relevant portions of a meeting of the Municipal Government were sent to Geng Lianlian. “A bird sanctuary?” Ji Qiongzhi was quoted as saying. “They’ll not see a penny of government money as long as I’m mayor of this city!”

Lianlian giggled at the news. “That old fart. We’ll keep riding the donkey and singing our song, and see what happens.” She then directed Jintong to send the gifts they’d already prepared to the homes of the people who had come to the show, Ji Qiongzhi not included. The gifts included a pound of swallow’s nest and a bouquet of peacock feathers. For the most important visitors – that is, bank managers – an additional pound of swallow’s nest.

Jintong hesitated. “I… can’t do something like that.”

Within the space of a second, Lianlian’s gray eyes turned into those of a snake. “Can’t do it,” she said icily. “Then I'm afraid Fll have to ask Uncle to look for work elsewhere. Who knows, maybe that precious teacher of yours will find you an official position somewhere.”

“We can have Uncle be a gateman or something,” Parrot Han volunteered.

“Shut your mouth!” Lianlian hissed. “He may be your uncle, but he isn’t mine. I'm not running an old folks’ home here.”

“I’d advise you not to kill and eat the donkey after the milling’s finished,” Parrot muttered.

Lianlian flung her coffee cup at Parrot’s head. Yellow rays shot from her eyes, her lips parted savagely, and she said, “Get out of here, get the hell out, both of you! Anger me, and I’ll feed you to the eagles!”

Feeling his soul fly off in terror, Jintong cupped his hands in front of his chest. “It’s all my fault, Niece, I should die a thousand deaths. I’m not human, I’m the scum of the earth. Don’t take it out on my nephew. I’ll leave. You fed and clothed me, and I’ll pay you back, even if I have to become a garbage collector or scavenge empty bottles for their deposit.”

“That’s some drive you’ve got,” Lianlian mocked him. “You’re a damned idiot. Anybody who spends his life hanging by his mouth on women’s nipples is lower than a dog. If I’d been you, I’d have hanged myself from a crooked tree long ago. Pastor Malory planted a dragon seed, but all he harvested was a flea. No, you’re no flea. A flea can at least jump high into the air. At best you’re a stinking bedbug, and maybe not even that. You’re like a louse that’s gone hungry for three years!”

Cupping his hands over his ears, Jintong fled the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, but no matter how fast he ran, Lianlian’s razor-sharp verbal barbs cut him to ribbons. In his confusion, he ran into a field of reeds, all yellow and withered, since they hadn’t been cut down the year before; the new reeds had already grown half a foot. He burrowed deep into the field, and was, for the moment, cut off from the outside world. The dry plants rustled in the wind; the bitter odor of new plants rose from the muddy ground at his feet. His heart was nearly breaking, and as he tumbled to the ground, he began to wail piteously, pounding his cumbersome head with his muddy hands. Like a little old lady, he cried out between sobs, “Why did you let me be born, Mother? How could you raise a worthless piece of garbage like me? You should have stuffed me down a toilet right after I was born. Mother, I’ve lived my life like something that’s neither human nor demon! Adults picked on me, children picked on me, men picked on me, women picked on me, the living picked on me, the dead picked on me… Mother, I can’t go on, it’s time for me to depart this world. Old man in Heaven, open your eyes, strike me dead with a bolt of lightning! Mother Earth, open up and swallow me down. Mother, I can’t take it any longer! She cursed and reviled me right to my face…”

Once he’d cried himself out, he lay down on the muddy ground. But that was so uncomfortable he had to get right back up. He blew his nose, red from crying, and wiped his tear-streaked face. It had been a good cry, and he felt much better. His attention was caught first by a shrike’s nest in the reeds, and then by a snake slithering out between them. He froze for a moment, but then congratulated himself for not giving the snake a chance to crawl up his pant leg. The shrike’s nest took his thoughts back to the Eastern Bird Sanctuary. The snake shifted those thoughts to Geng Lianlian, and his heart slowly filled with rage. He gave the nest a hard kick, but since it was tied to the reeds by horsetail grass, not only did it stay where it was, but he nearly lost his balance. He ripped the nest loose, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it with both feet. “Lousy goddamned bird sanctuary! Son of a bitch! Here’s what you get! I’ll stomp you out of existence! Son of a bitch!” All that stomping gave him courage and increased his anger, so he bent down and broke off a reed, accidentally cutting his palm with the razor-sharp leaf. Ignoring the pain, he raised the reed high over his head and took out after the snake, which he found slithering amid the purple buds of young reeds; it was racing along the ground. “Geng Lianlian,” he shouted as he raised the reed over his head again, “you venomous snake! You messed with the wrong person, and now your life is mine!” He swung the reed with all his might. He wasn’t sure if he hit the snake on the head or on the body, but he was sure he hit it somewhere, because it immediately curled up, raised its black-streaked head, and began hissing. It stared at him with its malicious gray eyes. He shuddered and his hair stood on edge. He was about to strike out with his reed again when the snake slithered toward him. With a cry for his mother, he threw down the reed and ran out of the patch as fast as his legs would carry him, oblivious to the cuts on his face from the sharp leaves brushing against him. He stopped to catch his breath only when he was sure the snake hadn’t followed him. There was no strength in his limbs, his head was swimming, and he felt weak all over; and his empty stomach grumbled. Off in the distance, the arched gate of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary sparkled in the bright sunlight. The honking of cranes soared up to the clouds. In days just past, this would be lunchtime. The sweet fragrance of fresh milk, the smell of bread, and the redolence of quail and pheasant sought him out all at once, and he began to regret his impulsiveness. Why did I leave? What would it have cost me to hand out a few gifts? He slapped himself. It didn’t hurt, so he did it again. This time it stung a little. He hauled off and slugged himself, and leaped into the air, it hurt so much. His cheek throbbed. Shangguan Jintong, you’re a bastard who’s let his obsession over face cause nothing but suffering! he cursed himself loudly. His feet carried him in the direction of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary. Go on. A true man knows how to stand tall when he should and bend when he must. Apologize to Geng Lianlian, admit you were wrong, and beg her to take you back. What good does face do when you’ve sunk this low? Face? That’s a luxury for the well-to-do, not for the likes of you. Just because she called you a stinking bedbug doesn’t make you one. Or, for that matter, a louse. He berated himself, he begrudged himself, he grieved for himself, he forgave himself, he felt his own pain, he enlightened himself, he talked himself around, he taught himself a lesson, and before he knew it, he was standing at the gate of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary.

He paced irresolutely. Every time he got up the nerve to go in, he held back at the last minute. When a true man says he’s setting out, a team of four horses can’t hold him back. If there’s no place for me here, there’ll be one somewhere. A good horse doesn’t turn and eat the grass it’s trampled on. I do not lower my head even if I die from hunger; I stand tall before the wind as I die from the cold. I’ll fight over a good showing, but not over bread. We may lack food, but we don’t lack will. Everyone has to die sometime, and we must leave a name for history. He recited one cliché after another to strengthen his resolve, but he’d taken no more than a few steps before he returned to the gate. Jintong faced a dilemma. He hoped against hope that he might bump into Parrot Han or Lianlian there at the gate. But then he heard Parrot Han call out something, and he ran behind a tree. And so he remained, just outside the gate, until the sun went down. Gazing up at the house, he saw soft light streaming out of Lianlian’s window, and melancholy set in. He continued gazing, but nothing came to mind, and in the end he turned and dragged himself off in the direction of town.

It was the smell of food that drew him instinctively to the night snack market in town. Originally the site of a martial arts training center, it was now the place where tasty snacks were sold. When he arrived, the shops were still open, their neon lights flashing on and off. Shop owners lolled about in their doorways, spitting watermelon seed husks effortlessly into the street as they waited in vain for customers. The scene on the cobblestone street, was more welcoming, the asphalt glistening with water, both sides alight with warm red electric lamps. Proprietors of roadside stands were dressed in white uniforms and high hats, their faces shone. A plaque at the entrance proclaimed:

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

HERE YOUR MOUTH IS FOR EATING, NOT FOR TALKING

YOUR COMPLIANCE WILL BE REWARDED

He never dreamed that the snow market regulations would find their way to this little snack market. Pink mist rose above the street, thanks to the red lamps, framing the shop owners as they signaled passersby with their eyes and their hands, lending the area a mysterious, furtive aura. Clusters of boys and girls in bright clothes, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, cuddling together and passing looks, but scrupulously observing the no-talking ban, were part of a grand spectacle, sharing in the strange, joyous mood of what was neither a game nor a joke, resembling tiny clutches of birds, staggering along, pecking here and there, buyers and sellers alike caught up in the seriousness of the moment. The moment Jintong stepped onto this street of silence, he experienced the rush of returning to his roots, and momentarily forgot his hunger and the humiliation of that morning. It felt to him that the silence had broken down all barriers between the people

Sometime after midnight, damp, cold winds from the southeast covered him like the skin of a snake. He had walked from one place to another, eventually winding up back in the night market, which had closed up for the night. The red lamps had been turned off, leaving only a few dim streetlights shining down on the street, now cluttered with feathers and snakeskins. Sanitation workers were sweeping up the garbage; some young hooligans were engaged in a wordless fistfight. They stopped when they saw him and simply stared. The hooligans exchanged glances, one of them gave a signal with his eyes, and they swarmed around Jintong. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself on the ground being freed of his suit, his shoes, everything but his underwear. Then, with a loud whistle as a sign, his tormentors vanished like a school of fish in the ocean.

Jintong went off looking for the thieving hooligans, up one dark lane and down another”, half naked and barefoot. Maintaining the silence was no longer a concern to him, as he cursed one minute and wailed the next. The sauna-softened soles of his feet took a beating from the shards of brick and tile on the ground, while the freezing night air cut into his skin, made tender by the Thai masseuse. At that moment he realized that people who have spent years in Hell aren’t especially bothered by its agonies, but such is not the case with those who have lived in more heavenly circumstances. Now he felt as if he’d been consigned to the lowest level of Hell, that he was as miserable as he’d ever been. Thoughts of the scalding water in the sauna baths made the bitter cold seem as if it had penetrated the marrow of his bones. Thinking back to the days of passion spent with Old Jin, he reminded himself that he had been naked then too; but that was being naked for fun. And now? Walking the streets late at night, he felt like a zombie.

Dogs had been outlawed in the city by municipal order. A dozen or more abandoned dogs – fascist-like German shepherds, mastiffs with the bearing of lions, loose-skinned Shar-Peis, and other breeds – had come together to form a pack, making its home in garbage heaps. Sometimes they were so stuffed with food they poisoned the air with their farts; at other times they were so hungry they could barely drag themselves along. The dogcatchers of the Municipal Environmental Protection Bureau were their mortal enemies. Not long before, Jintong had heard that the son of Zhang Huachang, the MEP Bureau chief, had been singled out from the hundreds of children at a kindergarten, taken off by a pack of savage dogs, and eaten. At the time, Zhang’s son was playing on a carousel when a black wolfhound soared like an eagle from a high chain bridge, landing precisely in the seat occupied by the poor little boy; it grabbed his neck in its jaws as a motley collection of mongrels emerged from hiding places as a protective unit for the wolfhound. They swaggered unhurriedly past the petrified kindergarten teachers and carried the bureau chief’s son off with them. The famous radio personality, Unicorn, ran a series of broadcasts about this frightful incident on the local radio station, concluding with the astonishing view that the dog pack was disguised members of a society of criminals. Back when Jintong had been neatly dressed and was eating like a king, the news had made no impression on him. But now he could think of nothing else. The city was just then promoting “Love your city, keep it clean month,” and garbage collection had become a priority, so the dogs had been reduced to skin and bones. Dogcatchers were armed with imported automatic rifles with laser gunsights, forcing the dogs to spend the days down in the sewers, not daring to show themselves above ground, emerging only at night to scavenge for food. They’d already killed and eaten the Shar-Pei belonging to the owners of a furniture shop, and Jintong, with his inviting naked flesh, was in danger of becoming the next course.

The mastiff pressed toward him on paws as big as human fists, its fangs glinting between upturned lips, growls emerging from deep in its throat. A pair of wolfhounds that could have been twins were right behind it, one on each side as a protective escort, sinister looks on their long, thin faces. A ragtag assortment of mutts brought up the rear.

They were about to attack; the fur on their backs was standing straight up. Slowly Jintong retreated, after bending down and picking up two black rocks. His first impulse had been to turn and run; but then he recalled the advice Birdman Han had once given him: When you’re face-to-face with a wild animal, the worst thing you can do is run. No two-legged animal can outrun a four-legged one. Your only hope is to stare it down.

The dogs pressed forward, confident that this big piece of tender meat in front of them was on the verge of cracking up, getting closer and closer to total paralysis. His steps began to falter as his legs turned increasingly rubbery and his body swayed from side to side; the rocks were about to slip from his hands, and the foul sweat of fear oozed from his pores.

Jintong’s eyes were glazing over; the rocks fell to the ground. He knew that the moment of his liberation from worldly concerns had arrived. But how could he end his days on earth in the stomachs of a pack of dogs? Wearily, he thought of his mother, and he thought of Old Jin, who, with her single breast, would take on any man alive and never come out second best. He didn’t have the energy to let his thoughts continue. Once he was seated on the steps, his sole wish was that the dogs would finish him off quickly. He hated the thought of leaving behind a leg, or something like that. Gobble up every scrap, lick up every drop of blood, and let Shangguan Jintong’s disappearance be a complete mystery.

A wayward calf came to Jintong’s rescue, a miraculous scapegoat. The calf, fat and oily, its hide like fine satin, had broken free from a nearby butcher shop. Its flesh obviously surpassed that of Jintong, for the dogs abandoned their assault on Jintong the instant they laid eyes on the fat little calf. He watched as the calf, frightened out of its wits, ran right in amid the pack of dogs. With a single leap, the mastiff sank its fangs into the calf’s neck. With a mournful lowing, it was thrown onto its side, and the wolfhounds went for its belly, ripping it open in a flash. The rest of the dogs joined in the kill, nearly picking the calf up off the ground as they tore it limb from limb.

Jintong took off running, avoiding dark lanes. This time, by god, if I run into those dogs, there won’t be a calf to come to my rescue. It’s out in the open for me. I’m bound to have better luck if I go where people are and try to scare up some rags to cover my body. If all else fails, I’ll go home to Mother. If necessary, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a scavenger, since I’ve had my share of the good life these past few years with Old Jin and Geng Lianlian. If I die now, at the age of forty-two, so what?

No place was more “out in the open” than the town’s market square, with its movie theater, bordered by a museum on one side and a library on the other. All three buildings were fronted by tall steps, with blue glass walls that rose up into the sky and rotating electric lights. He’d often driven past this theater in Lianlian’s car, but had never realized how big it was. Now, as Prince Jintong, down on his luck, strolled alone through the square, it seemed enormous, taking up the entire vista. The square was laid with octagonal concrete tiles. His feet were killing him. He took a look at one of the soles; there were at least ten blisters the size of grapes, some of which had already popped and were oozing a clear liquid. The blood blisters hurt the worst. When he spotted several piles of animal droppings, the thought that they might be dog shit filled him with dread.

A gust of wind carried several white plastic bags tumbling through the air around him; he ran after them in spite of his aching feet, catching one and racing after another, leaving bloody footprints all the way to the edge of the square. The second bag was snagged on the branch of a holly tree, so he sat down, and remained sitting even though the cold wind and tiles sent stabbing pains up his rectum. As he wrapped the plastic bags around his feet, he noticed that many others were caught in the tree, and in a mad but joyous frenzy he took them all down and wrapped them around his feet. He stood up and started walking again, happy to see that his soles were springier and more comfortable, and that the shooting pains were hardly noticeable. The scraping sound of his plastic feet traveled into the distance.

The rumble of heavy machinery came to him from the bank of the Flood Dragon River. Here in the renamed Osmanthus District residents were home in bed sleeping peacefully. All the lights in the district were off, except for a few lighted windows in the newly built Osmanthus Mansions southeast of where he stood, the most luxurious building in town. Finally, he decided to head over to the pagoda and be with his mother. This time he wouldn’t leave her side again, no matter what. If that made him a hopeless case, so be it. He might not be able to dine on ostrich eggs, or bathe in a sauna, but he wouldn’t have to worry again about sinking so low that he walked the streets alone, half naked, plastic bags for shoes.

As he passed shop after shop along the way, he was drawn to a brilliant window display; he stopped – though he shouldn’t have – in front of six fashionably dressed mannequins, three male and three female, standing in the window. What caught his attention, besides the golden or jet black hair, the sleek and intelligent foreheads, the high noses, the curled lashes, the expressions of tenderness in the eyes, and the soft, red lips of the female mannequins, were, of course, the high, arching breasts. The more he looked, the more the mannequins seemed to come alive; the sweet smell of women’s breasts seeped through the window glass and warmed his heart. He didn’t return to his senses until his head bumped up against the cold glass. Fearing that his madness was upon him again, and that this time it would not go away, he forced himself to turn and walk off while he remained clearheaded. But he did not get far before circling back and raising his hands in supplication. “Please, Lord, let me touch them! I need to touch them. I’ll never ask for anything again, as long as I live.”

Flinging himself toward the mannequins, he felt the glass shatter, but there was no sound. When he reached out to touch the breasts, the mannequins tumbled to the floor. He landed on top of them, his hand cupped around a rigid breast, and a horrifying realization came to him. My god, there’s no nipple!

A salty, acrid liquid washed into his eyes and his mouth as he fell into a bottomless abyss.

6

Toward the end of the 1980s, the Cultural Affairs Office of the Municipal Bureau of Culture decided to build an amusement park on the high ground currently occupied by the pagoda. The director led a red bulldozer, a dozen or more reassigned policemen armed with billy clubs, an official witness from the Municipal Notary Office, and TV and newspaper reporters to surround the house in front of the pagoda. There he read aloud the government’s proclamation for the benefit of Jintong and his mother: “After careful study, it has been determined that the house in front of the pagoda is public property belonging to Northeast Gaomi Township, not the private property of the Shangguan family. Their house has been sold at fair value, the money given to their kin, Parrot Han. The Shangguan family is in violation of the law by occupying said house, and must vacate the premises within six hours. If they do not, they will be guilty of squatting on public property. Do you understand what I have just read?” the director asked truculently.

Seated calmly on her bed, Mother replied, “Your tractors will have to go through me.”

“Shangguan Jintong,” the director said, “your aged mother has lost her mind, I’m afraid. Go talk to her. A wise individual submits to circumstances. You do not want to make an enemy of the government.”

Jintong, who had spent three years in a mental institution for crashing through the shop window and destroying a mannequin, wood-enly shook his head. A scar stood out on his forehead, and his glassy eyes showed the depth of his mental defect. When the director took out his mobile phone, Jintong fell to his knees, holding his head in his hands and pleading, “Please, no electric shocks… no shocks… I’m a mental defect…” “The old one’s losing her mind,” the director said, “and the young one’s already lost his. What now?”

“We have this on tape,” the government witness said, “so if they won’t move on their own, we’ll just have to move them!”

The director signaled the police, who dragged Jintong and his mother out of the house. With her white hair flying, she fought like an old lion, but all Jintong did was beg, “Please don’t shock me… no shock… I’m a mental defect…”

When his mother tried to fight her way over to the straw huts, the police bound her hand and foot. She was so enraged she foamed at the mouth before finally passing out.

The police tossed the few pieces of broken furniture and tattered bedding out into the yard. Then the red bulldozer raised its enormous scoop, with its row of steel teeth, and rumbled up to the little house; smoke belching from its smokestack. In Jintong’s mind, it was coming for him, and he pressed himself up against the damp base of the pagoda to await death.

At this critical moment, Sima Liang, who had not been seen in years, dropped from heaven into their midst.

7

In fact, ten or fifteen minutes earlier, I had spotted the olive green helicopter circling in the air above Dalan. Like a gigantic dragonfly, it skimmed across the sky, dropping lower and lower, at times nearly scraping the pointed dome of the pagoda with its drooping belly. Swirls of wind from the rotors created a buzzing in my ears as the helicopter swooped down, tail high in the air. A large head peeked out through the brightly lit cockpit window and looked down at the ground. The person moved out of sight before I got a good look at his face. The bulldozer roared, its tracks clanking as it raised its toothed scoop and moved up to the house like a bizarre dinosaur. The old Taoist, Men Shengwu, dressed in his customary black robe, appeared like an apparition in front of the pagoda, and just as quickly vanished. All I could think to do was shout, “Don’t shock me, I’m a mental defect, isn’t that enough?”

The helicopter returned, this time leaning to one side and spitting yellow smoke. A woman’s figure leaned out of the cockpit and shouted, her voice barely audible over the earsplitting thunk-thunk-thunk of the rotors, “Stop… can’t raze that… historic buildings… Qin Wujin…”

Qin Wujin was the grandson of Mr. Qin Er, who had taught Sima Ku and me. He was in charge of the Cultural Relics Office, but was more interested in development than preservation, and was at that moment examining a large celadon bowl belonging to our family. How bright his eyes were. His jowls twitched; the shout from the helicopter overhead had obviously given him a start. As he looked up into the sky, the helicopter circled back and shrouded him in a blast of yellow smoke.

Eventually, it landed in front of the pagoda. Even after it was safely on the ground, the flat blades of its rotor continued their witless revolutions – thunk-thunk-thunk – each turn slower than the one before, until they finally shuddered to a stop, and the beast sat there staring wide-eyed. A hatch opened in its belly, framed by light from the cockpit, and down the ladder came a man in a leather coat, followed by a woman in a bright orange windbreaker over a muted orange woolen skirt. Her calf muscles tensed at each step. She had a dignified, rectangular face under a dense swirl of shiny black hair. I recognized her at once: it was the daughter of Lu Liren and my sister Pandi – Lu Shengli, the former manager of the city’s Bank of Industry and Commerce. She had just been elevated to the position of mayor, following the death of the incumbent mayor, Ji Qiongzhi, who had died of a cerebral hemorrhage – from rage, according to some people. Shengli had inherited my fifth sister’s physique, but was more dignified than her mother, proving that each generation surpasses the former. She walked with her head held high, her chest thrust forward, like a thoroughbred racehorse. A middle-aged, big-headed man followed her down the ladder. He wore a designer suit and a wide tie.

The man was turning bald, but had the face of a mischievous little boy, with spirited eyes that held great mystery. A bulbous nose sat atop a handsome little mouth with full lips, and his large, fair, and fleshy earlobes hung down heavily like turkey wattles. I’d never seen a man with a face like that before, nor a woman, of course. With regal looks like that, such individuals were the type fated to be emperors, to be lucky in love, to enjoy the company of three wives, six consorts, and seventy-two concubines. It could be Sima Liang, but I didn’t dare believe it. At first he didn’t see me, which was fine with me, since he surely could not acknowledge my presence. Shangguan Jintong was a former mental patient, a man with a sexual hang-up. Right behind him came a woman of mixed blood who was both taller and bigger than Lu Shengli. She had deep-set eyes and blood-red lips.

Lu Shengli kept glancing at the man, a bewitching smile creasing her customary stern expression. Her smile was more precious than diamonds and more terrifying than poison. The Cultural Affairs director waddled over with our celadon bowl. “Mayor Lu,” he said, “how wonderful to have you come observe our work.” “What are you planning to do?” she asked. “We’re going to build a theme park around this ancient pagoda as a tourist attraction for Chinese and foreigners.” “Why wasn’t I informed?” “It was approved by your predecessor, Mayor Ji.” “Since it was her decision, we’ll have to go back to the drawing table. The pagoda is under the city’s protection, and I don’t want you knocking down the house in front. We are going to reinstate the snow market activities. How much amusement do you think you’ll get out of throwing up a few lousy electronic games, crummy bump’em cars, and chintzy game tables? What’s amusing about that? Comrade, vision is required if we’re going to attract foreign visitors and relieve them of their spending money. I’ve called upon the city’s residents to learn from the path-breaking spirit of the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, to walk where others have not trod before and to produce something new and different. What do we mean by reforms? What does it mean to open up? It means to think and act boldly. There may be things you cannot think of, but nothing you cannot do. The Eastern Bird Sanctuary is in the process of implementing their ‘Phoenix Plan.’ By crossbreeding ostriches, golden pheasants, and peacocks, they plan to produce a bird that so far exists only in legend – a phoenix.” Having grown addicted to orating, the more she spoke, the more frenzied she grew, like the hooves of a horse that cannot stop running. The government witness and the policemen all stood transfixed. The reporter from the municipal TV station, a man with a well-deserved reputation as subordinate to the head of the Radio and Television Bureau, Unicorn, had his camera trained on Mayor Lu Shengli and the honored guests. Reporters from local newspapers abruptly snapped out of their trance and began running around, kneeling and standing to snap pictures of the dignitaries.

Finally, Sima Liang spotted Mother, who was lying in front of the pagoda, bound hand and foot. He stumbled backward and his head rocked from side to side. Tears all but spurted from his eyes. Then he fell to his knees, slowly at first, quickly prostrating himself just as his kneecaps touched the ground. “Grandma!” he said with a loud wail. “Grandma…”

There was nothing contrived about his weeping, as his tear-streaked face proved, that and the snivel running from his nose. With her failing eyesight, Mother tried to focus on him. Her lips quivered. “Is that you, little Liang?”

“Grandma, dear Grandma, it’s me, Sima Liang, the boy you nursed as an infant.” Mother tried to roll over. “Cousin,” Sima Liang said as he got to his feet, “why have you trussed my grandmother up like that?” “It’s all my fault, cousin,” Lu Shengli said awkwardly. Then she turned to Qin Wujin and hissed through clenched teeth, “You sons of bitches!” Qin’s knees began to knock, but he managed to hold on to our celadon bowl. “Just wait till I’m back in my office – no, I’m not going to wait. You’re fired! Now go back and write a self-criticism.” She bent down and started untying Mother; when she encountered a knot she couldn’t undo, she loosened it with her teeth. It was a touching scene. After helping Mother to her feet, she said, “I’m sorry I came so late.” Mother had a puzzled look on her face. “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize me, Grandma? I’m Lu Shengli.” Mother shook her head. “You don’t look like her.” She turned back to Sima Liang. “Liang, let me touch you. I want to see if you’ve filled out.” Mother stroked Sima Liang’s head. “You’re my little Liang, all right,” she said. “People may change over the years, but not the shape of their skull. That’s where your fate is determined. You have plenty of meat on your bones, my child. You seem to have done well for yourself. At least you’re eating well.” “Yes, Grandma, I’m eating well,” Sima Liang sobbed. “We’ve risen out of our hardships, and from now on you can relax and enjoy the good life. Where’s my Little Uncle? How is he doing?”

Sima Liang and I were nearly face-to-face. Should I continue with the mental case act or should I let him see me clearheaded? After a separation of nearly forty years, seeing me as a mental case would be hard for him to take, and I decided that my childhood friend deserved to see me as a normal, intelligent human being. “Sima Liang!” “Little Uncle!” We embraced. His cologne made my head swim. After stepping back, I gazed into his shifty eyes. He sighed, like a man of great wisdom, and I spotted the marks of my tears and snivel on the shoulder of his neatly pressed suit. Then I saw Lu Shengli thrust out her arm as if she wanted to shake my hand; but the minute I stuck mine out, she pulled hers back, which both embarrassed and enraged me. Shit, Lu Shengli, you’ve forgotten your past, you’ve forgotten history! And forgetting history means betrayal. You’ve betrayed the Shangguan family, and a representative of – who can I represent? No one, I guess, not even myself. “How have you been, Little Uncle? The first thing I did after I arrived is ask around about you and Granny.” Like hell! Lu Shengli, you inherited the wild imagination of Shangguan Pandi, who once ran the Flood Dragon River Farm’s livestock section, but you didn’t inherit her sincerity and openness. The Eurasian woman who came with Sima Liang walked up to shake my hand. I had to hand it to Sima Liang, the way he returned with this mixed-blood woman, who looked like the actress in the movie Babbitt had shown years before, on his arm, to bring glory to his ancestors. Apparently not affected by the cold, the woman was wearing a thin dress and thrusting her breasts out toward me. “How are you?” she said in halting Chinese. “I never imagined that our Little Uncle would wind up like this,” Lu Shengli said sadly. But Sima Liang just laughed. “Leave everything to me,” he said. “I’ll make sure this problem goes away. Madam Mayor, I am building the city’s most spectacular hotel, right downtown. I’ll put in a hundred million. I’ll also put up the money to preserve the pagoda. As for Parrot Han’s bird sanctuary, I’m waiting for a report now to see whether or not I’ll invest in that as well. You are the true descendant of the Shangguan family, and you have my complete support as mayor. But I hope I never again see Grandma tied up like that.” “You have my word,” Lu Shengli said. “Every courtesy will be extended to her and to the rest of her family from now on.”

The contract-signing ceremony for a joint venture hotel between the Dalan Municipal Government and the tycoon Sima Liang was held in the Osmanthus Mansions conference room. After the signing, I followed him up to the Presidential Suite. I could see my reflection on the mirrorlike floor. Hanging on the wall was a lamp in the shape of a naked woman carrying a water jug on her head, her nipples like ripe cherries. “Little Uncle,” Sima Liang said with a laugh, “you don’t need to look at that. I’ll show you the real thing in a minute.” He turned and shouted, “Manli!” The mixed-blood woman came into the room. “I’d like you to give my Little Uncle a bath and get him into some new clothes.” “No, Liang,” I objected, “no.” “Little Uncle,” he said, “we are like brothers. Whatever comes, good or bad, we share and share alike. Whatever you desire – food, clothing, entertainment – all you have to do is tell me. If you hold back out of a false sense of politeness, it’s the same as slapping me in the face.”

Manli led me into the bathroom. She was wearing a short dress with spaghetti straps. With a seductive smile, she said in terrible Chinese, “Whatever you want, Little Uncle, I’m here to provide. Mr. Sima’s orders.” With that, she began peeling off my clothes, just as single-breasted Old Jin had done years before. I sputtered feeble objections, but wound up letting her have her way. My tattered clothes wound up in a black plastic bag; once I was undressed, I covered my nakedness with my hands. She pointed to the tub. “Please,” she said.

As I sat in the tub, she turned on the faucets, which sent sprays of hot water from openings all around the tub, gently massaging me as layers of filth were washed away. Meanwhile, Manli, who had put on a shower cap and shed her dress, stood there, her nude figure right in front of my eyes, but only for a moment, before climbing into the tub and straddling me. She began to rub and knead me all over, turning me this way and that, until I finally screwed up the courage to wrap my lips around one of her nipples. She made a clucking sound, then stopped. Another outbursts of clucks, then she stopped again. She sounded like a motor that won’t start. It had taken her only a minute to discover my weakness, and her breasts quickly sagged in dejection. The excitement gone, she scrubbed me front and back, then combed my hair and draped a fluffy bathrobe around me.

8

“So, what do you say, Little Uncle?” Sima Liang was sitting on a leather sofa, a cigar from the Philippine island of Luzon in his hand and a smile on his lips. “How do you feel?” “I feel wonderful,” I said gratefully. “Better than I’ve ever felt before.” “Your day of salvation has come, thanks to me,” he said. “Now, get dressed. There’s something I want to show you.”

We rode to the commercial center of Dalan in a stretch limo, which pulled up in front of a newly decorated lingerie shop. A crowd had gathered around the Cadillac, as if it were a rare dragon boat, by the time we’d stepped out and walked up to a gigantic shop window filled with mannequins. Above the door, the shop’s name – Beautify You Lingerie – was written in a florid script; beneath that, the shop’s motto: Distinctive Fashions in Ladies’ Undergarments. “Well?” Sima Liang asked me. “It’s wonderful!” I said excitedly. “That’s good, because you’re going to run this shop.” What a shock! “I can’t handle anything like this,” I protested. Sima Liang smiled. “You’re an expert in women’s breasts, so who could possibly be more qualified than you at selling brassieres?”

Sima led me through the silent automatic door into the spacious shop, where decorating work was still going on. All four walls were mirrored from one end to the other; the ceiling was a metal material that also reflected images. The foreman of the cleanup crew rushed up and bowed to us. “Now’s the time to make any changes you might have in mind, Little Uncle,” Sima said. “I don’t much care for the name ‘Beautify You,’ ” I said. “You’re the expert. What would you like to call it?” “Unicorn,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. “Unicorn: The World in Bras.” After a momentary pause, Sima laughed and said, “But they always come in pairs!” “Unicorn,” I repeated. “I like it.” “You’re the boss,” Sima said, “and what you say goes.” He turned to the foreman. “Have a new sign made right away. Beautify You has now become Unicorn. Hm, Unicorn, Unicorn. Not bad. It’s distinctive. See, Little Uncle, I said you were the man for the job. If you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t have come up with a more stylish name than that for this shop.”

“Women won’t let you fondle their breasts just because you feel like it,” the head of the Municipal Broadcasting and Television Bureau said as he stirred his Nescafé coffee with a tiny silver spoon. His gray hair, proof of a long, hard life, was combed back neatly. His face was dark, but not dirty; his teeth were yellow, but brushed; his fingers were stained yellow, but the skin was soft. He lit an expensive China-brand cigarette and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you of the opinion,” he asked, “that you can do whatever you want so long as you have the backing of a rich businessman like Sima Liang?”

“No, of course not.” Somehow I managed to keep my anger in check and appear as respectful as possible. “Bureau Chief,” I said to this man who had made such a name for himself during the Cultural Revolution and was still as powerful as ever, “whatever it is you want to say to me, please just say it.”

“Heh-heh,” he sneered. “This son of Sima Ku – a counterrevolutionary with the blood of Northeast Gaomi’s villagers on his hands – has become Dalan’s most honored guest on the basis of a few measly coins he’s put together. Like they say, ‘If you’ve got money, you can get the devil to turn the millstone!’ Shangguan Jintong, what were you before this? A necrophiliac and a mental patient. Now you’re a CEO!” Class hatred turned the eyes of this man they called the Unicorn bright red. He squeezed his cigarette so hard liquefied tar oozed out. “But I didn’t come here today to dispense revolutionary propaganda,” he said grimly. “I’m here in the cause of fame and wealth.”

I listened without interrupting. What difference could it make to Shangguan Jintong, who had suffered abuse all his life? “You know,” he said, “and you won’t ever forget, that time when you and your mother were paraded through the Dalan marketplace, how I suffered in the name of revolution. That’s right, I still recall what it felt like to be slapped by you. Well, I created the Unicorn Struggle Team and had my own program, called The Unicorn, over the Revolutionary Committee PA system, which I utilized to air a number of instructive broadcasts regarding the Cultural Revolution. Anyone around the age of fifty knows who Unicorn was. In the thirty years since, I’ve consistently used the pen name Unicorn, publishing eighty-eight celebrated articles in national magazines and newspapers. The people associate the name Unicorn with me. But now you’ve linked my name with women’s undergarments. You and Sima Liang are so wildly ambitious, you don’t care who you hurt. What you’re doing is nothing short of insane class vengeance and a brazen defamation of my good name. I am going to expose you in print and take you to court, a double-barreled attack using the weapons of public opinion and the law. It’s a fight to the death.”

“Be my guest.”

“Shangguan Jintong, don’t assume that just because Lu Shengli is mayor, you have nothing to fear. My brother-in-law is a vice minister in the provincial Party Committee, a higher rank than mayor. Besides, I know all about her checkered past, and it would not take much for Unicorn to pull her down off her pedestal.”

“Go right ahead. I have nothing to do with her.”

“Naturally,” he went on, “Unicorn has only the best of intentions, and you and I are, after all, fellow residents of Dalan. All I’m asking is that you do right by me.”

“Please, get to the point, revered Bureau Chief.”

“What I mean to say is, I think we can settle this privately.”

“How much?”

He extended three fingers. “I’m not interested in extorting money, so let’s keep it at thirty thousand. That’s peanuts for someone like Sima Liang. I’d also like you to get Mayor Lu Shengli to appoint me as deputy chairman of the Standing Committee of the Municipal Board. If not, there’ll be hell to pay.”

I felt cold all over. “Bureau Chief,” I said as I got to my feet, “you’ll have to talk to Sima Liang about the financial arrangements. The lingerie shop has just opened and we haven’t earned a cent yet. And since I’m ignorant where official matters are concerned, there’s nothing I can say to Lu Shengli.”

“Shit, so that’s his game, is it?” Sima Liang said with a smile. “He didn’t even check around to see what Sima Liang is all about! I’ll take care of that bastard, Little Uncle. I’ll see that he winds up swallowing his own teeth. He thinks he knows a thing or two about blackmail, how to fleece the well-to-do, does he? Well, our ‘Unicorn’ has met his master this time around!”

A few days later, Sima Liang came to me. “You’re in business, Little Uncle. Now, let’s see what you can do. I’ve already taken care of that chump Unicorn. Don’t ask how. He won’t cause any trouble from now on. It’s the dictatorship of the propertied class where he’s concerned. So go have a good time and make yourself proud. Don’t worry about whether you make or lose money in the process. It’s time for the Shangguan family to make a real splash. As long as I’ve got money, you’ve got money. So go for it! Money stinks, it’s nothing but dog shit! I’ve already made arrangements for someone to deliver everything Grandma will need on a regular basis. Now I have to go away on an important business trip and won’t be back for a year or so. I’ll put in a telephone for you. That way I can call if anything comes up. Please don’t ask where I’m going or where I’ve been.”

Business was booming at Unicorn: The World in Bras. The city was expanding rapidly, and another bridge was built over the Flood Dragon River. Where the Flood Dragon River Farm once stood was now home to a pair of large cotton mills, a chemical fiber factory, and a synthetic fiber factory; the area was now a celebrated textile district.

9

On the night of March 7, 1991, as a light rain fell outside, Shangguan Jintong, CEO of Unicorn: The World in Bras, was in a highly emotional state; thoughts thronged his mind as he paced the floor in the shop happily after the lights had been turned off for the night. Upstairs, the salesgirls were giggling. The money was rolling in. Finding himself understaffed, he’d advertised on TV; the following day, more than two hundred young women showed up to apply for jobs. Still excited, he rested his head against the shop window to watch the goings-on outside, also to clear his head and settle down. Shops on both sides of the street had closed for the day, their neon signs flashing in the drizzle. The number 8 bus, a newly established route, shuttled back and forth between Sandy Ridge and Eight-Sided Well.

While Jintong was standing there, a bus pulled up and stopped under the parasol tree in front of the Hundred Bird Restaurant. A young woman stepped down onto the curb, looking slightly lost for a moment. But then she spotted Unicorn: The World in Bras, and walked across the street, where Jintong waited in the darkened interior. She was wearing a raincoat the color of a duck’s egg, but was bareheaded. Her hair, which was nearly blue, was combed straight back to reveal a broad, shiny forehead. Her pale face seemed shrouded in the gloomy mist, and Jintong concluded that she was a recently widowed woman. He was, as he later learned, right on target. For some reason, the woman’s approach threw fear into him; he had the strange feeling that the gloom she exuded had penetrated the thick display window and was spreading throughout the shop. Before even reaching the place, she’d turned it into a mourning hall. Jintong felt like hiding, but it was too late – he was like an insect paralyzed by the stare of a predatory toad. This woman in the raincoat had just that sort of penetrating stare. Undeniably, they were beautiful eyes, beautiful but frightening. She stopped directly in front of Jintong. He was in a dark place and she was in the light, which meant she should not have been able to see him standing there in front of a stainless steel display rack; but she obviously could, and she obviously knew who he was. Her aim was clear. All that looking around as if lost while she stood beneath the parasol tree a moment before had only been an act, intended to confuse him. Later on she would say that God had led her straight to him, but he didn’t believe her, figuring it was all part of a planned scheme, especially after learning that the woman was the widowed eldest daughter of the Broadcasting Bureau chief, Unicorn, who, he was convinced, was behind it all.

Like lovers meeting, she stood before him, separated only by a pane of glass with teary raindrops slipping down one side. She smiled, revealing a pair of dimples that had aged into wrinkles. Even through the glass, he could smell her sour widow’s breath, which sent waves of sympathy crashing into his heart. Jintong gazed upon the woman as if she were a long-lost friend, and tears gushed from his eyes; even more tears gushed from her eyes, soaking her pale cheeks. He could think of no reason not to open the door, so he did. As the rain suddenly fell harder, and as the smell of cold, moist air and muddy soil poured into the shop, she threw herself into his arms as if it were the only natural thing to do. Her lips sought out his; his hands slipped under her raincoat, and he grasped her bra, which felt as if it was made of construction paper. The smell of cold earth in her hair and on her collar snapped him out of his trance, and he quickly jerked his hands away, wishing he’d never let them stray in the first place. But, like the turtle that’s swallowed the golden hook, he wished in vain.

He could think of no reason not to take her into his private room.

He locked the door behind him, but, finding that somehow inappropriate, quickly rushed back and unlocked it before pouring her a glass of water and offering her a seat. She preferred to stand, and he rubbed his hands nervously. How he loathed himself, both for his provocative action and for his bad behavior. If he could have absolved himself from sin and gone back a half hour in time by cutting off a finger, he’d have done it without a moment’s hesitation. But that was not possible; even a missing finger would not bring him absolution. The woman he’d kissed and fondled was standing in his private room covering her face with her hands and sobbing, tears oozing from between her fingers and dripping onto her raincoat. Not content to stifle her sobs, she was nearly bawling, her shoulders heaving. Jintong forced himself to contain his disgust toward this woman, who carried the smell of a cave animal, and led her over to a red Italian leather swivel chair. But she’d barely sat down before he jerked her back to her feet and helped her out of her wet raincoat, soaked from a mixture of rain, sweat, snivel, and tears. That is when he discovered that she was a truly ugly woman: pushed-in nose, protruding lips, and pointy chin – the face of a weasel. So how had she seemed so appealing standing in front of the display window? Somebody is out to trick me, but who? But the real surprise still awaited him; for the minute he removed her raincoat, he nearly cried out in alarm. All this woman, whose skin was covered with dark moles, was wearing was a Unicorn: The World in Bras blue brassiere with the price tag still attached. Seemingly embarrassed, she covered her face. Flustered, Jintong rushed to cover her with the raincoat in his hands, but she shrugged it off. So he locked the door, pulled down the curtains, and made her a cup of instant coffee. “Young woman,” he said, “I deserve nothing less than death. Please don’t cry. There’s nothing that bothers me more than a woman crying. If you’ll stop crying, you can drag me to the police station tomorrow morning, or you can slap me sixty-three times, or I’ll get down on my knees and bang my head on the floor sixty-three times… if you so much as sniffle, I’m overcome with guilt, so I beg you… beg you…” He took out a handkerchief and dried her face, which she permitted, raising her head like a little bird. Play the role, Shangguan Jintong, he was thinking, play it to the hilt. You’re like a pig that remembers the food but not the beatings, so do what you must to get her away from here. Then you can go to the nearest temple, light incense, and give thanks to the Bodhisattva. The last thing you want is to spend another fifteen years in a labor reform camp.

Once he’d dried her face, he held the coffee cup in both hands. “Here, drink this, young lady, please.” She gave him another flirtatious look; it hit him like ten thousand arrows piercing his heart, opening up ten thousand little holes that were home to ten thousand wriggly worms. With the look of someone who was lightheaded from crying, she leaned against Jintong and took a sip of coffee. The crying stopped, but she was still sniffling, like a little girl, and Jintong, who’d spent fifteen years in a labor reform camp and another three in a mental institution, was starting to get angry over her performance. “Young lady,” he said as he tried to drape her raincoat over her shoulders, “it’s getting late, time for you to be going home.” Her lips parted in a grimace, the coffee cup in her hand followed the contours of her breast and abdomen as it crashed to the floor. Wahl She was crying again, this time louder than ever, as if she wanted the whole city to bear witness to her grief. Flames of rage ignited in his heart, but he didn’t dare let so much as a spark emerge. Happily, there were a couple of chocolate drops wrapped in gold foil on the table, like a pair of tiny bombs; he picked up one, peeled off the foil, and stuffed the dark candy into her mouth. “Young lady,” he said, clenching his teeth to keep his tone passably gentle, “don’t cry. Eat the candy…” She spit it out; it landed on the floor, where it rolled around like a little turd, dirtying the wool carpet. On and on she cried. Jintong peeled the foil off of the second piece of chocolate, and stuffed it too into her mouth. In no mood to be an obedient soul, she was about to spit it out, when he covered her mouth with his hand. So she doubled up her fist and tried to slug him. He ducked, putting his face directly opposite the blue bra, beneath which her milky white breasts jiggled. Jintong’s anger melted away, replaced by feelings of pity. Now that reason had taken flight, he wrapped his arms around her ice-cold shoulders. Then came the kissing and petting, the melted chocolate drop serving to fuse their lips together.

A long, long time passed. He knew there was no way he could get rid of this woman before sunup, especially now that they’d kissed and held each other tightly; accompanying an increase in mutual feelings was a greater sense of responsibility. “What have I done to make you dislike me so?” she asked through her tears.

“Nothing,” Jintong protested. “It’s me I dislike. You don’t know me. I’ve served time in prison and in a mental institution. Bad things await any woman who gets close to me. I don’t want to bring harm to you, young lady.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” she said as she covered her face and sobbed. “I know I’m not good enough for you… but I love you, I’ve loved you in secret for the longest time… there’s nothing you need to do except allow me to stay with you for a while… make me a happy woman.”

With that she turned and walked across the room, paused briefly, and opened the door.

Deeply touched, Jintong cursed himself for his pettiness and for having such bad thoughts about the woman. How could you let someone with such a pure heart, a widow who’s suffered so much, walk away in the grip of sadness? What makes you so great? Does an old lecher like you deserve a woman’s love? Can you really let her leave in the middle of the night, in the rain? What if she catches her death of cold? Or what if she meets up with one of those gangs of hooligans?

He rushed out into the corridor and caught up with her. Still teary-eyed, she put her arms around his neck and let him carry her back to his room. The smell of her oily hair made him wish he’d let her go after all, but he forced himself to lay her out on his bed.

With eyes like a little sheep, she said, “I’m yours. Everything I have is yours.”

10

Jintong could not have felt worse as he applied his fingerprint to the marriage certificate, but he did it anyway. He knew he didn’t love this woman, hated her, in fact. First, he had no idea how old she was. Second, he didn’t know her name. And third, her background was a complete mystery. As they walked together out of the civil administrator’s office, he asked her, “What’s your name?”

She grimaced angrily as she opened the red marriage certificate binder. “Take a good look,” she said. “It’s written right there.”

There it was, in black and white: Wang Yinzhi and Shangguan Jintong, having expressed their desire to marry, and having satisfied all the requirements of the Marriage Laws of the People’s Republic of China

“Are you related to Wang Jinzhi?” he asked her. “He’s my father.”

Everything went black – Jintong swooned.

Like an idiot, I’ve boarded a ship of thieves, but what can I do? Getting married is easy; getting unmarried is not. Now I’m more convinced than ever that Wang Jinzhi is behind all this. Damn that Unicorn, just because he suffered at the hands of Sima Liang, he dreamed up this sinister scheme to punish me. Where are you, Sima Liang?

With tears still wetting her eyes, she said, “Jintong, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I love you. This has nothing to do with my father. In fact, he’s even threatened to disown me because of it. He asked me what I saw in you, reminding me that it was public knowledge that you served time for necrophilia and spent several years in a mental institution. So what if you have a nephew who is rolling in money or a niece who is mayor? he said. We may be poor, but not in spirit or integrity… it’s all right, Jintong,” she continued, looking at him through the mist in her eyes, “we can go file for divorce if you want, and I’ll pick up the threads of my life…”

Her tears fell on his heart. Maybe I was letting my suspicions get the better of me. What’s wrong with knowing that someone loves you?

Wang Yinzhi was a managerial genius. She set to work revising Jintong’s business strategy by building a factory behind the shop to produce top-quality “Unicorn” brassieres. Suddenly little more than a figurehead, Jintong spent most of his time in front of the TV set, where he was treated to ubiquitous ads for Unicorn Bras:

“Wear a Unicorn and life starts anew.”

“In a Unicorn fortune smiles on you.”

A third-rate actor was waving a bra in front of the camera:

“Put on a Unicorn and your hubby will flip.

Take it off and your fortunes will slip.”

Disgusted by what he saw, Jintong turned off the TV and began pacing back and forth along the rut he’d created in the lush wool carpet. His pace quickened, his excitement rose, his thoughts grew confused, like a starving, penned-up goat. Soon tiring, he sat down and turned the TV back on with the remote control. The Unicorn Hour was in progress. The program featured interviews and biopics of Dalan’s most influential women. Lu Shengli and Geng Lianlian had both been featured.

The familiar theme music, the pleasant strains of Fate knocking at the door, preceded the voice of the announcer: “This program is brought to you by Unicorn Lingerie. Wear a Unicorn and life starts anew. The unicorn is the beast of love. It warms my heart day and night.” The Unicorn logo filled the screen. The image: a cross between a rhinoceros and a nippled breast.

“Today’s guest is Wang Yinzhi. Thanks to Ms. Wang’s aggressive marketing, the young men and women of Dalan take great pride in wearing Unicorn products. No longer limited to women’s lingerie, the line now features caps and socks, and everything in between.” The microphone moved over to the heavily lipsticked mouth of Unicorn’s general manager, Wang Yinzhi.

“Madam General Manager, my first question to you is, how did you come up with the unusual name ‘Unicorn’ for your shop, your factory, and your line of clothing?” Her smile exuded confidence. One look at her told you she was educated, intelligent, rich, and powerful – a woman to be reckoned with. “It’s rather a long story,” she replied. “More than three decades ago, my father adopted the pseudonym Unicorn. According to him, the unicorn is a magical beast that resembles, to some degree at least, a rhinoceros. It is the ‘magic horn of the heart’ that signifies a coming together in ancient texts. Lovers, spouses, friends, aren’t they all a magic horn of the heart? That is why I chose it for the name of our shop. Turning it into a product name was the next logical step. Magic horn of the heart, yes, magic horn of the heart, doesn’t the sound just carry you off into a world of blissful emotions? But I’m afraid I’ve gotten carried away myself, and all our magic horn of the heart friends out there don’t need me to offer an explanation.”

Why don’t you just shut up! Jintong sputtered indignantly. How dare you take the credit for that! I’ll “Unicorn” you one day!

Seated across from the hostess, a woman with protruding front teeth, Wang Yinzhi talked on and on. “Of course, my husband played a significant role in the early days of the business, but then he fell ill and is now convalescing, leaving it up to me to fight on alone. The unicorn is a true fighter in the wild, and I consider it my duty to carry on the unicorn’s fighting spirit.” “What, may I ask,” the bucktoothed hostess asked, “is your goal?” “To turn Unicorn into a nationally known product line within three years, an international one within ten, and, ultimately, the world leader in apparel.”

Jintong flung the remote control at the televised image of Wang Yinzhi. Have you no shame at all? The remote control bounced off of the TV set and landed on the floor. Meanwhile, on the screen, Wang Yinzhi, her falsies protruding like little umbrellas beneath her thin blouse, captivating a vast audience of youngsters, talked on and on. “Madam General Manager, in recent years, young women in the West have gotten caught up in a breast liberation movement. They say that brassieres are no different than the harmful corsets women wore in the seventeenth century. What’s your opinion?” “It’s ignorance, pure and simple!” Wang Yinzhi said categorically. “Those corsets were made of canvas and bamboo splints, like a suit of armor, so of course they were harmful. I’d say you can equate the European women’s love affair with the corset with the way Chinese women bound their feet. But you can’t compare either the corset or bound feet with a modern bra, especially our Unicorn product. A brassiere meets the needs of beauty and health. At Unicorn we take both aspects into account, doing everything possible to satisfy both aesthetic and biological requirements.”

Jintong picked up a teacup to fling at the TV set, but at the last moment he aimed it at the paper-cushioned wall; it hardly made a sound as it bounced harmlessly onto the carpeted floor, sending a few mildewed tea leaves and some red tea splashing onto the wall and the TV set.

A single limp tea leaf stuck to the 29-inch TV screen, like a beard just beneath her mouth. “May I ask, Madam General Manager, are you wearing a Unicorn bra?” the bucktoothed hostess asked, trying to be witty. “Of course I am,” she said as she reached up and shifted her false breasts – seemingly subconsciously, but actually quite intentionally. A bit of free advertising there. “How about your home life, Madam General Manager. Would you say it’s happy?” “Not really,” she replied candidly. “My husband suffers from a psychosis. But he’s a good and decent man.”

That’s crap! He jumped up off the sofa. This is all a plot against me. Honeyed words to my face, then you stab me in the back. You’ve got me under house arrest. The camera caught Wang Yinzhi at an angle that showed her sinister smile, as if she knew that Jintong was home watching her on TV.

He got up, turned off the TV, and began pacing the floor anxiously like a caged simian, hands clasped behind his back, anger mounting by the second. Psychosis? You’re the one with the goddamned psychosis! You say I can’t manage the business? I’m saying I can! You daughter of a whore, you just won’t let me. You’re not a real woman. You’re a stone woman, a hermaphroditic toad spirit! Overcome by a welter of emotions, an exhausted Shangguan Jintong lay down on his faux antique carpet on that spring evening in 1993 and began to sob uncontrollably.

By the time his tears had soaked a spot the size of a bowl, his Fil-ipina servant entered. “Dinner’s ready, sir,” she said as she placed a basket of food on the table, then took out a bowl of glutinous rice, a platter of stewed lamb and turnips, another of tiny shrimp and celery, and a bowl of sweet-and-sour soup with snakehead fish. She handed him a pair of imitation ivory chopsticks and urged him to eat.

Jintong had no appetite for the steaming food arrayed in front of him. Turning to the servant, his eyes puffy from crying, he shouted in anger, “What am I? Tell me that!”

The poor girl was so frightened she just stood there with her arms hanging loosely at her side. “I don’t know, sir…”

“You damned spy!” He flung his chopsticks down on the table. “You’re working undercover for Wang Yinzhi, you damned spy!”

“I don’t understand, sir, I don’t know what you mean…”

“You put slow-acting poison in this food. You want to see me dead!” He picked up the dishes and dumped their contents on the table. Then he flung the bowl of soup at the servant. “Get out of my sight, you spying bitch!”

She ran out of the room howling, her clothes wet and sticky.

Wang Yinzhi, you counterrevolutionary, you enemy of the people, you bloodsucking insect, you damned rightist, capitalist-roader, reactionary capitalist, degenerate, class outsider, parasite, petty scoundrel tied to the post of historical disgrace, bandit, turncoat, hooligan, rogue, concealed class enemy of the people, royalist, filial daughter and virtuous granddaughter of old man Confucius, feudalism apologist, advocate for the restoration of the slave system, spokeswoman for the declining landlord class… Calling up every degrading political term he’d learned over several turbulent decades, he launched a verbal attack against Wang Yinzhi. Tonight you and I are going to have it out once and for all. Either the fish dies or the net breaks. Only one will be left standing. When two armies clash, victory goes to the most heroic!

Wang Yinzhi opened the door, a ring of golden keys in her hand, and stood in the doorway. “Here I am,” she said with a scornful smile. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Mustering up his courage, Jintong said, “I’m going to kill you!”

“Well,” she said with a laugh, “a spark of life, finally. If you really have the guts to kill anyone, you’ve earned my respect.”

She walked unafraid into the room, gave the filth on the floor a wide berth, and stopped in front of Jintong. She smacked him on the head with her key ring. “You ungrateful bastard!” she cursed. “I’d like to know what you’re so unhappy about. You live in the finest hotel in town, you’ve got a servant to prepare your meals. Stick out your arms and you’ll be clothed, open your mouth and you’ll be fed. You live like an emperor, so what the hell else do you want?”

“I want… my freedom,” Jintong muttered.

She froze for just a moment, before bursting out laughing. “I don’t restrict your freedom,” she said after she’d had a good laugh. “In fact, you can leave right this minute. Go!”

“Who are you to tell me to go? It’s my shop, and if anyone’s going to get out of here, it’s you, not me.”

“Like hell!” Wang Yinzhi said. “If I hadn’t taken over the business, you’d have gone under even if you had a hundred shops. And you have the nerve to say this shop is yours! You’ve lived off me for a year already, which is all anyone could expect. Now it’s time to give you back your precious freedom. There’s the door. This room is reserved for someone else tonight.”

“I’m your lawful husband, and I’m not leaving until I’m good and ready.”

“Lawful husband,” Wang Yinzhi repeated mawkishly. “Husband. Do you think you’re worthy of the term? Have you fulfilled your husbandly duties? Are you really up to it?”

“Yes, if you’d do as I say.”

“How dare you!” Wang Yinzhi exploded. “What do you take me for, a whore? You think you can order me around any way you want?” As her face turned bright red, and her ugly lips began to twitch, she flung the keys in her hand at his forehead. A sharp pain drilled its way into his brain and a hot, sticky liquid soaked his eyebrows. He reached up to touch it and pulled back a bloody finger, just as a couple of men he knew burst into the room. One was wearing a police uniform, the other was in a judge’s robe. The policeman was Wang Yinzhi’s younger brother, Wang Tiezhi; the judge was her brother-in-law, Huang Xiao-jun. They went straight for Jintong. “What do you say, Brother-in-law?” the policeman said as he drove his shoulder into him. “Anyone who takes advantage of a woman isn’t much of a man, wouldn’t you say?” The judge kneed him in the back. “My sister’s been good to you. Don’t you have a conscience?”

But just as Jintong was about to speak up in defense, a punch in the stomach drove him to his knees and sour liquid shot out of his mouth. Then the policeman leveled him out with a mighty karate chop in the neck. This brother-in-law, the judge, was a onetime military official who’d been a scout for ten years and had such a powerful hand he could break three bricks with a single chop. Jintong was grateful he’d held back a bit; if he hadn’t, he’d have been lucky to keep his head on his shoulders. Cry, he told himself. They won’t hit a man who’s crying. Crying is what weak people do. Crying is a plea for mercy, and real men never ask for mercy. But they kept hitting him, even as he knelt on the carpet, weeping and sniveling.

Wang Yinzhi was also crying, really crying, like a woman abused. “Don’t cry, Sis,” the judge said. “He’s not worth it. Get a divorce. There’s no need for you to throw away your youth. “You, there,” the policeman said, “I suppose you think the Wang family is an easy mark for you. Well, your niece the mayor has been suspended from duties and is under investigation. Your days of bullying people owing to connections are about to come to an end.”

The policeman and the judge picked Jintong up, carried him out of the room and down the dark corridor, past the brightly lit shop and outside, where they dumped him next to a rubbish heap. Like people said during the Cultural Revolution, he was swept onto the rubbish heap of history. A couple of sick cats in the rubbish heap meowed plaintively. He nodded apologetically. We’re in the same wretched boat, cats, so I can’t help you.

Jintong hadn’t seen his mother for at least six months, ever since Wang Yinzhi had kept him under house arrest, and he longed to see the light shining in that window and smell the enchanting aroma of lilacs beneath it. Last year at this time Wang Yinzhi had been a gloomy woman pacing beneath his window. Now he was the gloomy one, as the raucous laughter of the two brothers-in-law emerged from that window. She was too well connected in Dalan, with protectors everywhere, and he was no match for her. It’s another rainy night, but colder. Tears slither down the glass of the display; but this time they’re mine, not hers. How many nights in a person’s life does he find himself with no home to return to? This time last year I was fearful of letting her wander late at night all alone; tonight that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Before he realized it, his hair was soaked by the rain and his nose was stopped up, a sure sign of a cold. He was also hungry, and regretted flinging that wonderful soup at the maid instead of eating it himself. But now that he thought back, her fit of anger wasn’t altogether unreasonable. Any woman with a useless husband has no choice but to take over. Maybe, he was thinking, there’s still a chance. She hit me, but I didn’t hit her back. I was wrong to throw the soup, but I got down on my hands and knees and licked some of it up as part of the punishment the two men dished out. I’ll go over first thing in the morning and apologize – to her and to the Filipina servant. For now, I should be snoring away on the mattress at home. Maybe suffering a bit will do me good.

He recalled the overhang in front of the People’s Cinema, which was as good a place as any to get out of the rain, so he started walking. His decision to apologize to Wang Yinzhi in the morning went a long way toward putting his mind at ease, and he noticed the starlit edges of the misty sky. You’re fifty-four years old; the dirt is already up to your neck, so it’s time to stop making trouble for yourself. What difference does it make to you if Wang Yinzhi has slept with one or a hundred men? A cuckold is a cuckold.

11

Tears wetted my cheeks, all puffy from slapping myself, but the only reaction I got from Wang Yinzhi was a sneer. No indication that this cold-blooded woman had any intention of forgiving me as she fiddled with her key ring and watched my performance.

“Yinzhi, as the saying goes, one day of married life means a hundred days of tangled emotions. I’m begging you to give me another chance.”

“The problem is, we haven’t had our one day of married life.” “How about that night of March 7, 1991? That should count.”

I watched as she thought back to the night of March 7, 1991. Suddenly her face reddened, as if I’d humiliated her. “No,” she said indignantly, “it doesn’t! That was an indecent act, an attempted rape!”

Shocked and angered by her characterization, I asked myself how I could have been worried about losing a woman who could turn on me like that? Shangguan Jintong, after a lifetime of tears and snivel, isn’t it time you took a stand for a change? She can have the shop, she can have everything, except for my freedom. “All right, then, when shall we file for divorce?”

She took out a slip of paper. “Sign this, and it’s done. Naturally,” she added, “as a fair and decent person, I’m giving you thirty thousand yuan as a settlement. Sign here.” I did. As she handed me a bankbook in my name, I asked her, “Don’t I need to appear in court?” “Everything’s been taken care of,” she said as she tossed me the divorce papers, which had already been filled out. “You’re free,” she said.

Now that the final curtain had fallen on this drama, I really did feel as free and easy as I’d ever felt before. Before the night was over I was back home with Mother.

In the days before Mother died, Dalan’s mayor, Lu Shengli, was found guilty of accepting bribes and sentenced to death, with a one-year reprieve. Found guilty of paying bribes, Geng Lianlian and Parrot Han were put in chains and thrown into prison. Their “Phoenix Plan” had been a gigantic hoax, and the loans of millions to the Eastern Bird Sanctuary, guaranteed by Lu Shengli, as mayor, were, for the most part, used as bribes; what little remained was simply squandered. The interest on the loans was never recovered, let alone the loans themselves, but the banks did nothing for fear that the sanctuary would go belly-up; that, in fact, was a worry shared by all of Dalan City. Eventually, this farce of a sanctuary closed its doors, the birds all gone, weeds covering the feathers and bird droppings all over the compound, the workers off to their next employment. But it continued to exist on the books of all the local banks, as the interest mounted.

Sha Zaohua, who had been missing for years, returned from wherever she’d been; she’d taken good care of herself, and looked like a woman in her thirties. But when she went to the pagoda to see Mother, she received a cold reception. In the days that followed, she carried a torch for Sima Liang, who had returned to town. She produced a glass marble, which she said was an expression of his love for her, and a mirror, which was to be her gift to him. She said she’d saved herself all these years for him. But in his penthouse apartment at Osmanthus Mansions, Sima Liang had too much on his mind to give any thought to rekindling the love affair with Zaohua. Yet she followed him everywhere, which nearly drove him crazy. “My dear cousin,” he bellowed one day, “just what do you think you’re doing? I’ve offered you money, clothes, jewelry, but you don’t want any of those. What do you want?” Pulling her hand off of the hem of his jacket, he sat down hard on his sofa, angry and frustrated, accidentally knocking over a flower vase with his foot; a dozen or more purplish red roses lay strewn limply over the now water-soaked table. Zaohua, who was wearing a diaphanous black dress, got down on her knees on the wet carpet and stared up into Sima Liang’s face. He couldn’t help but look at her out of the corner of his eye. She had a small head and a long neck on which only a few fine lines spoiled the perfect texture. Given his vast experience with women, he knew that the neck was the one place that always gave away a woman’s age. How had Zaohua, a woman in her fifties, kept her neck from looking like either like a length of sausage or a piece of dried-out wood? From there his gaze moved down to the hollows just below her shoulders and the cleavage above the scoop neck of her dress, and nowhere did she have the appearance of a woman in her fifties; rather, she looked like a flower that had been kept in cold storage for half a century, or a bottle of fine liquor that’s been buried for fifty years at the base of a pomegranate tree. A chilled flower is just waiting to be picked; a bottle of old liquor demands to be drunk. Sima Liang reached out and touched her gently on the knee; she moaned and her face flushed bright red, like a brilliant sunset. Throwing herself into his arms, she wrapped her arms around his neck and thrust her heated bosom into his face, rubbing her breasts back and forth until an oily substance ran from his nose and tears oozed from his eyes. “Sima Liang, I’ve waited for you more than thirty years.” “Don’t give me that,” he said. “Thirty years. Do you know what that makes me guilty of?” “I’m a virgin.” “A thief and a virgin? If that’s true, I’ll jump out that window!” Zaohua began to cry, stung by his comment. But then, as anger got the better hand, she jumped to her feet, shed her dress, and lay down on the carpet in front of him. “Sima Liang, come, you be the judge. If I’m not a virgin, I’ll jump out that window!”

Before walking out of the room, Sima Liang looked down at the aging virgin and said glibly, “Well, I’ll be damned, sure and truly damned. You are a virgin.” Sarcasm aside, a pair of tears filled the corners of his eyes. As for Zaohua, who still lay on the carpet, her eyes were moist with joy and infatuation as she looked up at him.

When Sima Liang returned to the room, Zaohua was seated on the windowsill, stark naked, obviously waiting for him. “Well, am I a virgin or aren’t I?” she said coldly.

“Cousin,” Sima Liang replied, “you can forget the act. Remember, I’ve spent most of my life around women. Besides, if I were to marry you, what difference would it make if you were a virgin or not?”

Zaohua responded with a shriek that caused Sima Liang to break out in a cold sweat. A blue glare, like poisonous gas, emerged from her eyes. He sprang toward her just as she tipped backward; the last thing he saw were the reddened heels of her bare feet, heading down.

With a sigh, Sima Liang turned to me as I rushed into the room, drawn to the bloodcurdling shriek. “Did you see that, Little Uncle? If I follow her out the window, I won’t be a worthy son of Sima Ku. But the same is true if I don’t. What should I do?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Grabbing an umbrella some woman had left in his penthouse, he said, “If I die, Little Uncle, you take care of my body. If I don’t, then I’ll live forever.”

He flicked open the umbrella, and with a loud “Shit!” leaped out the window and fell like a ripe fruit.

Nearly blind with fright, I stuck the upper half of my body out the window and yelled, “Sima Liang – Sima Liang -” But he was too busy falling to pay attention to me. People below craned their necks to witness the spectacle, ignoring the body of Sha Zaohua, which was splattered like a dead dog on the cement in front of them, and watching as Sima Liang parachuted right through the canopy of a plane tree and into a cluster of holly trees, trimmed as neatly as Stalin’s mustache, sending what looked like green sludge out in waves. The people on the ground crowded around the trees just in time to see Sima Liang emerge as if nothing had happened, patting the seat of his pants and waving to the crowd. His face was a riot of colors, like the glass windows of the church we went to as children. “Sima Liang,” I shouted tearfully. He pushed his way through the crowd, walked up to the building’s entrance, and hailed a yellow cab. He opened the door and jumped in before the purple-clad doorman could react. The cab sped away with a burst of black exhaust, turned the corner, and entered the stream of traffic; then it was gone.

I heaved a great sigh, as if awakening from a nightmare. It was a bright, sunny, intoxicating, and lazy day, the sort that seems filled with hope but is rife with traps. Sunlight glistened off of Mother’s seven-story pagoda at the edge of town.

“Son,” Mother said weakly, “take me to church. It’ll be the last time…”

With my nearly blind mother on my back, I walked for five hours down the lane behind the Beijing Opera dormitory that wound past the polluted stream by the chemical dye plant, until I found the recently restored church. Tucked away among a row of squat houses, it was simple and a bit run-down, no longer the imposing place it had once been. The front of the church and both sides of the lane were packed with bicycles decorated with colorful ribbons. An old woman sat at the gate entrance, looking like a cross between a ticket-taker and a lookout for secret activities occurring inside. She gave us a friendly nod and let us pass through the gate. The yard was packed with people; there were even more inside the church itself, all of them listening to a sermon delivered by a wizened old pastor who slurred his words. His wrinkled hands were folded on the pulpit, illuminated by a ray of sunlight. The parishioners included old people and small children, but the majority consisted of girls and young women, all seated on benches and making notations in open Bibles in their laps. An old woman who recognized Mother made room for the two of us against the wall, beneath the canopy of an aged locust tree, covered with white blossoms like oversized snowflakes. The air was stifling. A loudspeaker attached to the trunk of the tree spread the old pastor’s words throughout the gathering. Hard to say whether the crackles and static stemmed from the age of the loudspeaker or of the pastor. We sat quietly and listened as he droned on and on, exhorting the parishioners to good deeds and a pure life.

When the sermon ended, a chorus of Amens emerged from the teary-eyed crowd, followed by the strains of a pipe organ off to the side, playing a closing hymn familiar to the worshippers. Those who could sing did so loudly; those who couldn’t hummed along as best they could. That ended the service; some of the parishioners stood and stretched, while others remained seated to talk softly among themselves.

Mother sat on the bench, hands on her knees, eyes closed, as if she’d fallen asleep. Not a whisper of wind, yet the white blossoms suddenly fell from the tree above us, as if the electricity to the magnet holding them on to the branches had been switched off. Their fragrance filled the courtyard as great quantities of them fell onto Mother’s hair, her neck, her earlobes, her hands, her shoulders, and the ground all around her.

Amen!

The old pastor, having completed his sermon, shuffled over to the door of the church and, bracing himself by holding on to the doorframe, gazed at the wondrous floral spectacle before him. He had a mass of unruly red hair, deep blue eyes, a red nose, and a heavy yellow beard. Metal caps covered some of his teeth. Startled by the sight, I stood up. Was this the legendary father I’d never known? The old woman who knew Mother hobbled over on bound feet to make the introductions. “This is Pastor Malory, our old pastor’s eldest son. He has come to us from Lanzhou to head up the church. This is Shangguan Jintong, the son of Shangguan Lu, a parishioner of very long standing.”

Actually, her introductions were unnecessary, because even before she spoke our names, God had already revealed our origins to one another. This bastard son of Pastor Malory and a Muslim woman, my half brother, wrapped his hairy arms around me and held me tight. With tears filling his eyes, he said:

“I have been waiting for you for a very long time, my brother!”