Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

1

DING SHIKOU, OR TEN MOUTH DING, HAD WORKED AT THE Municipal Farm Equipment Factory for forty-three years and was a month away from mandatory retirement age when he was abruptly laid off. Now if you put shi (+), the word for ten, inside a kou , the word for mouth, you get the word tian (), for field. The family name Ding can mean a strapping young man. As long as a strapping young man has a field to tend, he'll never have to worry about having food on the table and clothes on his back. That was his farmer father's cherished wish for his son when he named him. But Ding Shikou was not destined to own land; instead he found work in a factory, which led to a far better life than he'd have had as a farmer. He was enormously grateful to the society that had brought him so much happiness, and was determined to pay it back through hard work. Decades of exhausting labor had bent him over, and even though he wasn't yet sixty, he had the look of a man in his seventies.

One morning, like all other workday mornings, he rode to the factory on his 1960s black and obstinate, clunky Grand Defense bicycle, which presented quite a sight among all the sleek lightweight bikes on the street. Young cyclists, male and female, first gave him curious stares, then steered clear of him, the way a fancy sedan gets out of the way of a lumbering tank. As soon as he pedaled through the factory gate, he saw a group of people clustered around the bulletin board. The voices of a couple of women rose above the general buzz, like hens about to lay eggs. His heart fluttered as he realized that what the workers feared most had finally happened.

He parked his bike and took a look around, exchanging a meaningful glance with old Qin Tou, the gateman. Then, with a heavy sigh, he slowly walked over to join the crowd. His heart was heavy, but not too heavy. After word of imminent layoffs at the factory had gotten out, he went to see the factory manager, a refined middle-aged man, who graciously invited him to sit on the light-green lambskin sofa. Then he asked his secretary to bring them tea. As Ding held the glass of scalding liquid and smelled its jasmine fragrance, he was engulfed in gratitude, and suddenly found himself tongue-tied. After smoothing out his high-quality suit and sitting up straight on the opposite sofa, the factory manager said with a little laugh:

“Ding Shifu, I know why you're here. After several years of financial setbacks here at the factory, layoffs have become unavoidable. But you're a veteran worker, a provincial model worker, a shifu — master worker — and even if we're down to the last man, that man will be you.”

People were crowding up to the bulletin board, and from his vantage point behind them, Ding Shikou caught a glimpse of three large sheets of paper filled with writing. Over the past few decades, his name had appeared on that bulletin board several times a year, and always on red paper; those were the times he had been honored as an advanced or model worker. He tried to elbow his way up front, but was jostled so badly by the youngsters that he wound up moving backward. Amid all the curses and grumbling, a woman burst out crying. He knew at once it was Wang Dalan, the warehouse storekeeper. She'd started out as a punch-press operator, but had mangled one of her hands in an accident, and when gangrene set in they'd had to amputate it to save her life. Since it was a job-related injury, the factory kept her on as a storekeeper.

Just then a white Jeep Cherokee drove in the gate honking its horn, seizing the attention of the people fighting to read the layoff list; they all turned to stare at the Jeep, which looked as if it had just come back from a long, muddy trip. The clamor died down as dazed expressions showed on the people's faces. The Jeep looked a little dazed too, its horn suddenly silent, the engine sputtering, the tailpipe spitting out puffs of exhaust. It was like a wild beast that sensed danger. Its gray eyes stared as they fearfully sized up the situation. At roughly the same time it decided to back out through the gate a chorus of shouts erupted from the workers, whose legs got the message, and in no time the Jeep was surrounded. It tried to break free, lurching forward and backward a time or two, but it was too late. A tall, muscular young man with a purple face — Ding Shikou saw that it was his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu — bent down, opened the car door, and jerked the assistant manager in charge of supply and marketing right out of his seat. Curses rained down on the man's head, translucent gobs of spittle splattered on his face, which by then was a ghostly white. His greasy hair fell down over his eyes as he clasped his hands in front of his chest, bent low at the waist, and bowed, first to Lü Xiaohu, then to the rest of the crowd. His lips were moving, but whatever he was trying to say was drowned out by the threatening noises around him. Ding couldn't make out a single word, but there was no mistaking the wretched look on the man's face, like a thief who'd been caught in the act. The next thing he saw was Lü Xiaohu reach out to grab the assistant manager's colorful necktie, which looked like a newly-weds’ quilt, and jerk it straight down; the assistant manager disappeared from view, as if he'd fallen down a well.

A pair of police cars stormed up to the compound, sirens blaring. This threw such a scare into Ding Shikou, whose heart was racing, that all he could think of was getting the hell out of there; too bad he couldn't get his legs to follow orders. Finding it impossible to drive through the gate, the police parked their cars outside the compound and poured out of the cars; there were seven of them in all — four fat ones and three skinny ones. Armed with batons, handcuffs, walkie-talkies, pistols, bullets, tear gas, and a battery-powered bullhorn, the seven cops took a few unhurried steps, then stopped just outside the gate to form a cordon, as if to seal off the factory gate as an escape route. A closer look showed that they probably weren't going to seal off the factory, after all. One of the cops, who was getting along in years, raised the bullhorn to his mouth and ordered the workers to disperse, which they did. Like a wolf exposed in the field when sorghum stalks are cut down, the assistant manager for supply and marketing popped into view. He was sprawled on the ground, facedown, protecting his head with his hands, his rear end sticking up in the air, looking like a frightened ostrich. The cop handed his bullhorn to the man beside him and walked up to the cowering assistant manager; he reached down and took hold of the man's collar with his thumb and two fingers, as if to lift him to his feet, but the assistant manager looked as though he was trying to dig a hole for himself. His suit coat separated itself from him, forming a little tent. Now Ding could hear what he was shouting:

“Don't blame me, good people. I've just returned from Hainan Island, and I don't know a thing. You can't blame me for this….”

Without letting go of the man's coat, the policeman nudged his leg with the tip of his shoe. “Get up,” he said, “right now!”

The assistant manager got to his feet, and when he saw that the person he'd gotten up for was a policeman, his phlegm-splattered face suddenly became the color of a dirt roadway. His legs buckled, and the only reason he didn't crumple to the ground again was that the policeman was still holding him by the collar.

Before long, the factory manager drove up in his red VW Santana, followed by the vice mayor for industry in a black Audi. The factory manager was sweating, his eyes tear-filled; after bowing deeply three times to the workers, he confessed to them that he was powerless in an unfeeling market that was taking a factory with a glorious history down the road to financial disaster, and that if they kept losing money, they'd have to close up shop. He wrapped up his tale of woe by calling attention to old Ding. After recapping old Ding's glorious career, he told them he had no choice but to lay him off, even though old Ding was scheduled to retire in a month.

Like a man who has been awakened from a dream, old Ding turned to look at the red sheets of paper tacked up on the bulletin board. There, right at the top of the lay-off list, in alphabetical order, he spotted his own name. He circled his fellow workers, with the look of a child searching for his mother; but all he saw was a sea of identical dull gray faces. Suddenly light-headed, he squatted down on his haunches; when that proved too tiring, he sat down on the ground. He hadn't been sitting there long before he burst into tears. His loud wails were far more infectious than those of the females in the crowd, and as his fellow workers’ faces darkened, they too began to cry. Through tear-clouded eyes he watched Vice Mayor Ma, that agreeable, friendly man, walk toward him in the company of the factory manager. Flustered by the sight, he stopped crying, propped himself up by his hands, and got shakily to his feet. The vice mayor reached out and shook his grimy hand. Old Ding marveled over the softness of the man's hand, like dough, not a bone anywhere. When he thrust out his other hand, the vice mayor reached out with his free hand to take it. Four hands were tightly clasped as he heard the vice mayor say:

“Comrade Ding, I thank you on behalf of the municipal government and Party Committee.”

Ding's nose began to ache and the tears gushed again.

“Come see me anytime,” the vice mayor said.

2

Originally, the Municipal Farm Equipment Factory had been a capitalist operation called Prosperity Metalworks, which produced mainly kitchen cleavers and scythes. After it became a semipublic company, its name was changed to the Red Star Met-alworks. It produced the Red Star two-wheeled, double-shared plow, which had been so popular in the 1950s; then in the 1960s it specialized in the Red Star cotton seeder. In the 1970s its name was changed to the Farm Equipment Manufacturing and Repair Company, producing millet and corn threshers. In the 1980s, it manufactured sprinklers and small reapers. In the 1990s, using new equipment imported from Germany, it produced pull-tab beverage cans; its name was changed once again, this time to Silesia Farm Machinery Group, but people habitually referred to it as Farm Equipment Manufacturing and Repair.

After shaking hands so warmly with Vice Mayor Ma, Ding was caught up in a mood of empty joy, the sort of feeling he'd had as a young man after climbing off his wife. His restless, seething fellow workers began to calm down in the presence of the police, the vice mayor, and the factory manager. Without intending to, old Ding set a fine example for all the workers. He heard the factory manager say to the assembled workers: “Who among you can boast of old Ding's seniority? Or match his contributions? Just look at how quietly he's taking the news. So why are the rest of you kicking up such a row?” Then it was the vice mayor's turn: “Comrades, you can learn a lesson from Ding Shifu by looking at the big picture and not making things hard on the government. We will do everything in our power to create new job opportunities, so you won't be out of work for long. But between now and then, you'll have to come up with something on your own and not just rely on the government.” With mounting excitement, he added, “Comrades, if members of the working class can reverse the course of events with their own two hands, it shouldn't be hard to find a way to make a living, should it?”

The vice mayor drove off in his black Audi, followed by the factory manager in his red Santana. Even the now disheveled assistant factory manager drove off in his white Cherokee. The crowd of workers grumbled a while longer before breaking up and heading home. Lü Xiaohu walked up and took a leak on the bulletin board, then turned and said to old Ding, who was propped up against a tree:

“Let's go, Shifu. You'll go hungry hanging around here. The old man's dead and the old lady's remarried, so it's every man for himself.”

Old Ding nodded to Qin Tou, the gateman, and walked his Grand Defense bicycle through the factory gate. Qin Tou called out to him, “Wait up, Ding Shifu!”

He stopped just beyond the gate and watched the former high school teacher come running up to him. Everyone knew that old Qin was well connected, which was how he was able to take on the light duties of a gateman and newspaper delivery-man after retiring as a schoolteacher. When he caught up to old Ding, he reached into his pocket and took out a business card.

“Ding Shifu,” he said somberly, “my second son-in-law is a reporter for the provincial newspaper. This is his card. Go ask him to plead your case in the court of public opinion.”

Old Ding hesitated a moment before taking the card. Then he swung his unwilling leg over his Grand Defense and started off. But he hadn't ridden more than a couple of feet before his legs began to ache badly; he lurched sideways and fell off, the heavy bicycle crashing down and pinning him to the ground. Old Qin ran up, lifted the bicycle off, and helped him to his feet.

“Are you okay, Ding Shifu?” old Qin asked with genuine concern.

Once again he thanked old Qin and headed home slowly, walking his bike this time. Warm April breezes brushing against his face infused feelings of emptiness, sort of saccharine sweet. He felt dizzy, borderline drunk. Clusters of snowy poplar blossoms on the road by the curbs waved back and forth. A flock of homing pigeons circled in the sky above him, their trainers’ whistles falling on his ears. He was a long way from crushing torment, yet he couldn't stop the river of tears running down his cheeks. As he passed a neighborhood park near his house, a little boy chasing a ball ran smack into him, sending shooting pains up his leg that forced him to sit down beside the road. The little boy looked up at him.

“Gramps,” he said, “how come you're crying?”

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and said, “You're a nice little boy. I'm not crying. Got some sand in my eyes. …”

3

His leg ached terribly when he got home, so he asked his wife to go out and buy a couple of medicinal patches. But these actually made the pain worse, and now he had no choice but to go see a doctor. Since they were childless, his wife asked Lü Xiaohu to take him to the hospital on his three-wheel cart. An X ray showed he had a fracture.

Two months later, he hobbled out of the hospital with the help of a cane. The two-month hospital stay and all the medication had nearly wiped out the old couple's savings. Armed with his cane and a pipe dream, he went to the factory with a fistful of receipts and a head full of illusions. But the gate was closed and locked and the compound was still as death. For the first time, he felt truly wronged. Banging his cane on the metal gate, he shouted at the top of his lungs. The gate emitted a hollow sound, like the late-night barks of a dog. Finally, old Qin stuck his head out of the gatehouse and asked through the gate, “Is that you, Ding Shifu?”

“Where's the factory manager? I need to see him.”

Old Qin shook his head and smiled wryly, not saying a word.

Lü Xiaohu, who had come along with him, had an idea: “Here's what I think, Shifu. Go over and sit in front of the government offices. Either that or set yourself on fire.”

“What did you say?”

“I'm not saying you should set yourself on fire,” Lü Xiaohu said with a smile. “Just give them a scare. They care about face more than anything.”

“What kind of idea is that?” Ding said. “Are you asking me to go put on an act?”

“What else can you do? Shifu, a man your age can't keep up with the rest of us. We've got our youth and our strength, so we can still make a living. But the government's all you've got left.”

Ding neither sat in nor burned himself up, but he did hobble up to the government office gate, where he was stopped by a gateman in a blue tunic.

“I'm here to see Vice Mayor Ma,” he said, “Vice Mayor Ma…”

The gateman gave him a cold, hard look, without saying a word. But the minute he tried to walk through the gate, the gateman grabbed him and jerked him back. “I said I'm here to see Vice Mayor Ma,” he shouted as he struggled to break free. “He told me to come see him.”

His patience quickly exhausted, the gateman shoved him backward; Ding stumbled a few steps before plopping down on the ground. He could have gotten back up, but he just sat there, feeling miserable and wanting to cry. So he did. At first it was just some silent sobs, but before long, he was really bawling. Rubberneckers began drifting over to see what was wrong. No one said a word. Embarrassed by the gathering crowd, he knew he should get up and leave, but just walking away would be even more embarrassing. So he shut his eyes and really cut loose. Then he heard Lü Xiaohu's shrill voice rise from the crowd. After relating Ding's glorious past to the crowd, Lü started to complain about his treatment, trying to stir up the crowd. Ding felt something hard hit him on the leg. When he opened his eyes, he saw a one-yuan coin flopping around in the mud next to his leg. Then more coins and bills fell all around him.

A squad of policemen came running up out of nowhere, their rhythmic footsteps sounding like the jackhammers made by the Farm Equipment Manufacturing and Repair Factory. Waving their batons, the police tried to disperse the crowd, but the people wouldn't budge. That led to pushing and shoving, and as Ding watched legs fly around him and heard the shouts and shrieks, he was overcome with guilt feelings. No matter what, he couldn't keep sitting there.

As he was getting to his feet, three well-dressed men rushed out of the government office building, two refined-looking young men in front, a fair-skinned, fleshy, middle-aged man bringing up the rear. They seemed almost buoyant, as if carried along by the wind. When they reached the gate, the two young men stepped aside to let their middle-aged companion walk ahead. Their movements were practiced and orderly; they were well trained. With a wave of the man's hand and a crisp order, the police backed off; the scene was reminiscent of a father breaking up a fight between his son and a neighbor boy by pulling a long face and telling his son to get the hell out of there. That done, he assumed a gentler tone in asking the crowd to disperse. Lü Xiaohu elbowed his way up front and spoke to the middle-aged man, who bent toward old Ding and said:

“Good uncle, Vice Mayor Ma is at a meeting in the provincial capital. My name is Wu, I'm Assistant Director of the General Office. Tell me what it is you want.”

Ding choked up as he gazed into the kindly face of Assistant Director Wu.

“Good uncle,” Assistant Director Wu said, “come into my office. We can talk there.”

With a sign from Assistant Director Wu, the two young men walked up and took old Ding by the arms to walk him into the building, followed by Assistant Director Wu, who was carrying his cane.

As he sat in the air-conditioned office sipping hot water that Assistant Director Wu had personally poured for him, the blockage in his throat went away, and he talked about his suffering and his troubles. Once he'd stated his case, he took out the bundle of expenditure receipts. Assistant Director Wu responded with an explanation of how things stood, then took a hundred-yuan bill out of his pocket and said:

“Ding Shifu, you hold on to those receipts. When Vice Mayor Ma returns, I'll give him a complete report on your situation. But for now, I'd like you to have this hundred yuan.”

Old Ding stood up with the help of his cane and said:

“You're a good man, Assistant Director Wu, and I thank you.” He bowed to the man. “But I can't accept your money.”

4

In the days that followed, he ignored his apprentice's advice to return to the government building to put on his act again, even though no one showed up from Vice Mayor Ma's office. His wife complained that his pride was making their lives a living hell, and scolded him by saying you can't help a dead cat climb a tree. He reacted by smashing a teacup and glaring venomously into his wife's gaunt, ashen face. The courage to stand up to him lasted only a moment. Then, lowering her head and reaching into her apron pocket to take out her badly worn black Naugahyde wallet, she put the responsibility squarely on his shoulders: “We have exactly ninety-nine yuan. When that's gone, there's no more.”

She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen, from where chopping sounds soon emerged. Preparing soup bones. A moment later, she returned. Nestled in her hand, which was covered with bone splinters, was a one-yuan coin. “My apologies,” she said gravely. “Here's another yuan. I was using it to prop up the table leg. I nearly forgot about it.”

A strange smile appeared on her face as she laid the coin down beside her wallet. He glowered at her, wanting her to look at him. All he needed was for their eyes to meet for him to have the chance to silently unload half a lifetime of discontent toward her. Because she was infertile, in his eyes she was simply inferior. But she shrewdly turned around, taking the brunt of his rage on her back. She was wearing a black synthetic blouse with yellow flowers, something she'd picked up somewhere or other and which was utterly inappropriate for a woman her age. A sunflower the size of a basin cast an aging ray onto her slightly hunched back. Raising his fist, with the idea of pounding the hell out of the wallet on the table, he stopped in midair, sighed despondently, and sat down, defeated. Any man who can't make a living and take care of his family has no right to lash out at his wife. That's the way it's always been, in China and in other places.

One sunny morning, he put away his cane and walked out the door. With the sun's blinding rays stinging his eyes, he felt a bit like a mole that's come out into the light after years in a dark hole. A rainbow array of automobiles passed slowly in front of him, with motorcycles shuttling in and out among them, like defiant jackrabbits. He wanted to cross the street, but didn't have the nerve to weave his way through the stream of cars. A vague memory of an overpass somewhere nearby surfaced, so he started walking down the sidewalk, with its newly laid, colorful cement tiles. He may have lived in the city for many years, but he discovered that he wasn't even as brave as a common villager he spotted riding an unwieldy bicycle down the street. The man was carrying a gas can with sweet potatoes baking inside; with steam pouring off the back of his bike, even fancy sedans gave way to him. A pair of villagers with saws and axes over their shoulders strolled down the street, whistling; the shorter of the two, wearing a corduroy jacket, carefree as can be, swung his ax at the trunk of an Oriental plane tree. Old Ding shuddered, almost as if he had been the target of the chopping blow. Peddlers’ stands filled the tree-lined street, one every few paces, and nearly every one of them hailed him as he passed by. They displayed a motley array of wares, as large as electric appliances and as small as buttons, and everything in between. One of them, a dark-skinned man with slanted eyes, was squatting beneath a tree, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a pair of fat little piglets on tethers.

“Old uncle, how about a nice piglet?” the peddler asked fervently. “They're real Yorkshires, the finest breed you can find. They make great pets, clean and neat, much better than dogs or cats. In the West they're more popular than dogs and cats. A United Nations study has proved that the only animals smarter than pigs are people. Pigs can recognize words, they can paint pictures, and if you've got the patience, you can even teach them to sing and dance.” He took a crumpled newspaper clipping out of his pocket, stuck the tethers under his foot to free both hands, and pointed to the clipping. “Old uncle,” he said, “you don't have to believe me, it's right here in black and white. See here — an elderly Irish woman raised a pig, and it was the same as hiring a nanny. Every morning, after bringing in the paper, it went out and bought her some milk and bread. Then it scrubbed the floor and boiled water, but most amazing of all, one day the old woman had a heart attack, and that smart little pig went straight to the local clinic for an ambulance. It saved that old woman's life….”

Thanks to the peddler's honeyed words, the sort of good mood he hadn't enjoyed for a very long time settled upon Ding. He cast a warm, tender gaze down at the piglets, which were tethered by their rear legs and huddled closely together, like a pair of inseparable twins. Their bristles glistened like silver threads, their bellies sported black spots. Their snouts were pink, their little eyes like shiny black marbles. A pudgy little girl with pigtails that stuck straight up waddled up and squatted in front of the piglets, entering old Ding's field of vision. Frightened by the little girl, the piglets pulled in opposite directions, squealing like a couple of puppies. Next to enter his field of vision was a young woman with a radiant face who reached out both arms — her skin milky white — and scooped up the little girl, who kicked and howled so much that the woman had to put her back down on the ground. Showing no fear at all, the little girl went right up next to the piglets, which squeezed up against each other. She reached out with her dainty little hand, and the piglets squeezed together even tighter and began to quake. Finally, she touched one of them. It squealed, but didn't try to get away. Looking up at the young woman, the girl giggled. The peddler saw it was time to put his three-inch weapon of a tongue into play. He repeated his earlier sales pitch, this time spicing it up even more. The woman kept her eyes on him, a captivating smile frozen on her lips. She was wearing an orange-colored dress, bright as a flaming torch and so low-cut that when she bent over, her full breasts crept into view. Old Ding couldn't help glancing over at her, much to his embarrassment, as if he'd done something he really shouldn't have done. He noticed that the pig seller had his eyes glued on the exact same spot. Every time the woman tried to pick up the little girl, her plan was shattered by the little girl's tantrum. Old Ding noticed a heavy gold necklace around the woman's neck and deep green jade bracelets on both arms. And he couldn't miss the woman's heavy fragrance: sweeter smelling than the jasmine tea he'd been given in the factory reception room, sweeter smelling than the perfume the factory secretary wore, so sweet smelling it made him giddy. Knowing instinctively where his sale was coming from, the peddler zeroed in on the little girl, regaling her with all the advantages of raising pigs and holding his little piglets right up in front of her, despite their noisy struggles to keep a distance between them and her. Scratching one pig's belly, then the other's, he said to the little girl in the sweetest tone of voice he could manage, “Go ahead, little sister, touch the two little cuties.”

Now that they'd been scratched, the piglets calmed down and grunted contentedly, gazing off into the distance as they rocked back and forth a bit before settling softly onto the ground. The little girl summoned up the courage to tug one of their ears and gently poke its belly. More contented grunts as both the little pigs started to fall asleep.

Having made up her mind to leave, the woman picked up the little girl, only to spark yet another tantrum. She put her down again, and as soon as the little feet hit the ground, they headed unsteadily right for the piglets; no more tears. A crafty smile spread across the peddler's face as he launched into yet another sales pitch.

“How much for one of those?” the woman asked him.

After a thoughtful “hmm,” he replied decisively:

“For anybody else, three hundred apiece, but you can have the pair for five hundred.”

“Can't you make it a little less?” she asked.

“Young lady, take a good look at those pigs. You don't see animals like that every day. They're purebred, living, breathing Yorkshires! Go to the toy section of any department store, and you'll find that a toy pig will cost you a couple of hundred! If my son weren't getting married and didn't need money to set up a household, I wouldn't part with these two for five thousand yuan, let alone five hundred!”

The woman smiled sweetly. “Slow down,” she said. “The next thing you'll be telling me is that they're a pair of unicorns!”

“That's not far from the truth!”

“I didn't bring any money with me.”

“No problem. I'll deliver them to your door.”

But when the peddler tugged on the tethers to leave, the piglets started scurrying back and forth, and he was forced to pick them up and tuck one under each arm. They squealed their displeasure.

“Stop squealing, little ones. Luck is with us today. You're about to become the happiest little pigs in the world. Joyful days are here for you two. Instead of squealing like that, you should be laughing.”

The peddler followed the woman into a lane, a pig under each arm. The little girl, who was perched on the woman's shoulders, turned around and laughed loudly at the sight of the pigs.

Old Ding watched the procession of pigs and people as long as he could with a growing sense of melancholy. Then he started walking again, all the way up to the middle of the overpass, where he stopped and thought dreamily about the captivating elegance of the young woman. The bridge too was crowded with little stalls, each one manned by a peddler who had the look of a laid-off worker. The overpass swayed slightly; gusts of hot wind hit him in the face. Cars whizzed back and forth on the sparkling asphalt below. He spotted his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu, wearing a yellow vest, speeding down the sidewalk across the way on his three-wheeled pedicab. A white canopy over the back shielded a stately young couple. They were traveling so fast he couldn't see the spokes in the wheels, which were just a silvery blur. The two heads behind the man up front touched from time to time. Sweat poured down Lü Xiaohu's face. He was no one to mess with, old Ding was thinking, but was a terrific fitter, and any fitter worthy of the name was good at just about anything he put his hand to.

After walking down off the overpass, he entered a farmer's market, filled with hope. The canopy over the market was made of green nylon, which gave the faces of all the vegetable sellers a green tint. The smell of vegetables, meat, fish, and fried snacks merged and engulfed him; so did the shouts of hawking peddlers. In front of one of the stalls he spotted Wang Dalan, the one-handed woman who had worked with him at the factory. She was watching over a pile of sticky strawberries.

“Ding Shifu,” she called to him warmly. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

He stopped in his tracks. And when he did, he spotted three more former workers from the factory. They all smiled at him. Then they asked him to sample their wares.

“Have some strawberries, Ding Shifu!”

“How about a tomato, Ding Shifu?”

“Try one of my carrots, Ding Shifu!”

He was about to ask them how business was, until he got a good look at their faces. There was no need to ask. Life was tough, all right, but as long as you were willing to work hard and put your pride aside, you could always get by. But there was no way a man his age could compete with younger folks in opening a vegetable stall, let alone pedaling a pedicab like his apprentice. He also couldn't sell piglets out on the street; you couldn't call it hard work, but you needed the gift of gab, someone who could talk a dead man into coming back to life. At the factory, old Ding had a reputation for almost never having anything to say. This was all very disappointing, but he hadn't reached the point of despair. He'd take a look around and find something he could do. In fact, that's what he was doing now. He refused to believe that in a city this big, there wasn't a single thing he could do to make a living. And just as despair was beginning to creep in, the old man upstairs pointed out the way to riches.

Dusk was falling when he found himself in front of the hill behind the factory, where the blood-red rays of the setting sun danced on the brilliant surface of the man-made pond behind the hill. Carefree couples strolled along the path ringing the lake. After decades of working at the factory, this was the first time he'd ever made his way out to the hill, let alone strolled around the lake. For all those years, the factory had been his second home; the dozens of awards he'd earned represented buckets of sweat. He turned back to look once more at the factory: a workshop that had once buzzed with activity now stood quiet and deserted. The clang of steel on steel had become yesterday's dream; the chimney that had spewed black smoke for decades was now a sleeping volcano; the factory grounds were littered with tin can rejects and rusty cutting machinery; the yard behind the cafeteria was strewn with empty liquor bottles.

The factory was dead; a factory with no workers was nothing less than a graveyard. His eyes burned, his heart was filled with a mixture of sadness and anger. As the evening deepened, an eerie gloom rose above the hilltop thickets, heralded by the shriek of a bird that startled him. He massaged his sore leg and stood up. He walked back down the hill.

A cemetery occupied the area near the lake at the foot of the hill. It was the final resting place of over a hundred heroes from the life-and-death struggles of the city thirty years before. Lush green trees ringed the cemetery: there were pines, cypresses, and dozens of towering poplars. He walked over to the cemetery on a leg so sore he had to sit down on a stone marker. Crows saturated the night with caws from a nest in one of the poplars and magpies circled above as he massaged his leg. While he was rubbing it, his gaze drifted to the abandoned hulk of a bus on the ground beneath the poplar. No tires, no glass in the windows, and hardly any paint anywhere. Who, he wondered, left that thing here? And why? Occupational habit had him thinking how he could convert the thing into a living space. And at that moment he spotted a young couple skulking out of the cemetery, like a pair of specters, then slipping into the rusty bus. For some strange reason, he began breathing hard. One old Ding wanted only to get out of there as quickly as possible; a second old Ding couldn't tear himself away. While the two old Dings were engaged in a fierce battle of wills, a soft, lovely moan emerged from the bus hulk. That was followed by an irrepressible female scream, not all that different from the screech of a cat in heat, but distinct nonetheless. Old Ding couldn't see his own face, of course, but his ears were burning and even the puffs of air from his nose seemed overheated. There was a rustling noise in the bus just before the man popped out through the door. The woman followed a few moments later. He held his breath like a thief hiding in the bushes, not getting slowly to his feet until he heard a somewhat triumphant cough coming from the line of trees beyond the cemetery.

The old Ding who wanted to leave and the more curious old Ding engaged in yet another battle of wills; on and on they fought as his legs carried him into the bus. The dark, murky interior was damp and musty smelling. Gray litter was scattered around the floor; he nudged some of it with the tip of his shoe and decided it was toilet paper.

A husky voice called to him from outside:

“Shifu — Ding Shifu — where are you?”

It was his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu.

He walked outside and took a few cautious steps forward to calm himself before replying:

“Stop shouting, I'm in here!”

5

Lü Xiaohu was pedaling so hard he could barely talk:

“Your wife was worried half to death, said you had a funny look in your eyes when you left the house, afraid you might do something foolish, try to end it all. I told her you'd never do anything like that, not somebody as smart as you. I told her I knew where you'd be, and I was right. Shifu, screw the factory, now that it's turned into this. If an earthworm in the ground won't starve to death, then neither will we, the working class.”

He was watching his apprentice's back lurch from side to side from his seat in the pedicab and listening to him prattle, and while his heart was awash with feelings, he didn't make a sound. It felt to him as if a hot current were racing through his body, and in that moment, the gloom that had accompanied him ever since getting laid off simply vanished. His heart was like the sky after a rainfall. The pedicab turned into a busy street, where the flashing neon lights gave him an incomparable rush. Barbecue stalls lined the street, filling his nose with aromatic smoke. Suddenly a shout: Environmental cops! The peddlers jumped on their bicycles and pedaled off with their smoky barbecue stalls behind them, straight into the maze of neighborhood lanes. Their dispersal went off like clockwork, like a perfectly executed drill, no straggling, like a school of fish diving en masse to the bottom of a river, leaving not a trace.

“Did you see that, Shifu?” his apprentice asked. “Chickens follow their ways and dogs follow theirs. After getting laid off, everyone comes up with his own brilliant idea.”

As they were passing a public toilet, old Ding reached out and tapped his apprentice on the shoulder. “Stop,” he said.

He walked up to the toilet, a building made of white ceramic tiles with a green glazed tile roof. A young fellow sitting in a glass booth rapped the glass with his finger, calling his attention to the red lettering on the window:

PAY TOILET ONE YUAN PER VISIT

He put his hand in his pocket. Empty, not a cent. Lü Xiaohu walked up and pushed two yuan through the crescent opening in the booth. “Come in with me, Shifu,” he said.

A sense of shame welled up in old Ding's heart, not because he had no money, but because he hadn't known that he had to pay to use the toilet. After following his apprentice inside the brightly lit toilet, his nostrils were assailed by a strangely sweet reek that made his head swim. The floor tiles were so glossy he could see his reflection in them, and he faltered, nearly losing his balance. Master and apprentice stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the urinal and stared at the deodorant balls tumbling and rolling under the liquid assault, neither man so much as glancing at the other.

“Who ever heard of having to pay to use a toilet?” he muttered.

“Shifu, you're like a man from Mars. I can't think of anything you don't have to pay for these days,” his apprentice said with a shrug. “But it isn't all bad. If not for pay toilets, lower-class people like us would never have the privilege of relieving ourselves in such a high-class place, not even in our dreams.”

The apprentice led him over to the sink, where they washed their hands; then he showed him how to use the blow-dryer. Their mission accomplished, they walked out of the public toilet.

Back in the pedicab, old Ding kept rubbing his rough, blow-dried hands; they'd never felt so moist and smooth.

“Little Hu,” he said emotionally, “I've just taken a high-class leak, thanks to you.”

“That's funny, Shifu!”

“I owe you one yuan. I'll pay you tomorrow.”

“Shifu, you'll say anything for a laugh.”

Just before they reached his house, he said, “Stop here.”

“We're almost there. I'll take you to your door.”

“No, I want to talk to you about something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Any man who can't make a living and take care of his family is like a woman who can't have children. He can't hold his head up in society.”

“You're right, Shifu.”

“Which is why I need to go out and find some work.” “That sounds good to me.”

“But there are laid-off workers everywhere you look, not counting all those people working on public projects. Just about every job you can think of is taken.”

“That's about how things are.”

“Little Hu, there's no such thing as a true dead-end, wouldn't you say?”

“Shifu, those are the words of a sage, so they must be true.”

“Well, I discovered a path to riches today. Now the only question is, should I do it or not?”

“Shifu, as long as it's not murder or arson you're talking about, or highway robbery, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't.”

“But what I'm talking about, well, it might not be legal….” “Shifu, don't scare me like that. You know I'm not a brave man.”

But once he laid out his plan in detail, Lü Xiaohu said excitedly:

“Shifu, no one but a genius like you could come up with a brilliant idea like that. Now I can see how you were able to invent a two-wheeled, double-shared plow in the 1950s. How could what you're talking about be illegal? If something like that's illegal, well… Shifu, this will be a rest stop for lovers, not only civilized, but humane as well. This may not sound good, but you'll be setting up a … a sort of pay toilet! Forget your misgivings and go to it, Shifu. Tomorrow I'll get a bunch of guys together to help you put it in shape!”

“Don't tell anyone about this. You're the only one who knows.”

“As you say, Shifu.”

“That includes my wife.”

“Don't you worry, Shifu.”

6

He was sitting in the woods between the cemetery and man-made lake, leaning up against a poplar. A little path wound its way up the hill, disappearing from view from time to time. Every once in a while his gaze traveled past the woods up to the edge of the cemetery. He could only see a corner of his little cottage, but it was all right there in his mind.

A few days before, he and Lü Xiaohu had gone back to the factory. After being let in by the gateman, he took advantage of a lifetime of “connections” to pick up discarded sheet metal, rivets, steel plate, and other items. The two men spent the next two days repairing and cleaning up the dilapidated bus hulk. They used the sheet metal to seal up the broken windows, then made doors out of steel plate, with locks on both sides. Once the repairs were made, Lü Xiaohu turned up a bucket of green paint and another of yellow. With the two men slapping on paint, this way and that, a broken-down hulk of an abandoned bus was transformed into something that looked like a military transport in a subtropical jungle. Master and apprentice stepped back to admire their work; the faint smell of paint made them happier than they could have expected.

“Shifu,” Lü Xiaohu said, “it's done.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Should we set off some firecrackers to celebrate?”

“Let's not.”

“As soon as the paint dries, you're open for business.”

“What do we do if there's trouble, little Hu?”

“Don't sweat it, Shifu. I've got a cousin at the Public Security Bureau.”

On the night before he opened for business Ding was so excited he didn't sleep a wink. His wife was so excited she couldn't stop hiccupping. They were both out of bed at four in the morning, and as she prepared his breakfast and lunch, she kept asking him what sort of job he'd found.

“I already told you,” he said impatiently. “I'm going to be an advisor to some peasant entrepreneurs in the suburbs.”

“I saw you and little Hu whispering back and forth,” she said between hiccups. “I doubt you were talking about being an advisor. Don't go getting involved in any shady practice at your age.”

“Can't you find something good to say this early in the morning?” he replied angrily. “Come along with me if you don't believe me. You can let those peasant entrepreneurs feast their eyes on your esteemed countenance!”

His comment took the wind out of her sails, and she shut up.

From his vantage point under a tree, he watched a bunch of old folks hard at work on their morning exercises: airing caged birds, strolling, practicing Tai Chi, doing Chi Kung, some voice training. The sight of all those contented people depressed him. If he had a child — son or daughter, it made no difference — he wouldn't be here sitting under a tree early in the morning, laid off or not; he was like the fool who saw a rabbit run into a tree stump and break its neck, then spent his days after that waiting for a second rabbit to do the same. A layer of mist hung over the man-made lake as an orange glow appeared in the east. An old man doing voice exercises seemed to rock the woods:

“Ow-ke — ow-ke —”

Waves of melancholy washed over him, like the ripples on a breezy lake. But only for a moment. A new stage in his life was about to begin, and the new life, like the woman who bought the little pigs, filled his mind with too many lustful thoughts for him to get sentimental. In the hour or so before sunup, the woods were filled with the songs and chirps of birds; the air had a minty quality that cleansed his lungs and lifted his spirits. It didn't take long for him to see how wrong he'd been to come out so early. At this time of day, only old folks were out, and they preferred the area around the lake to the cemetery; even if they came to the cemetery, they weren't the clientele he was waiting for. But that's all right, he consoled himself. I'll count this as my morning exercise. After breathing the foul factory air for decades, it's time I gave my lungs a break with some fresh air. Picking up his camp stool, he strolled through the woods and around the cemetery to familiarize himself with the area. The discarded birth control paraphernalia he spotted on the ground made him more confident than ever that he'd chosen the right path.

Around noon, several couples in bathing suits and large towels draped over their shoulders walked over from the lake, looking very much like lovers in search of a spot to get naked together. But when they passed by him, he suddenly became tongue-tied, and all those catchy phrases that Lü Xiaohu had created and that he had committed to memory stuck in his throat. Hearing the sounds the couples made in the dense woods, all roughly the same, but discernibly individual, was like seeing his own folding money swept away by the wind, filling his heart with a mixture of regret and despondence.

That night he went to see his apprentice and, with considerable embarrassment, told him what had happened during the day.

“Shifu,” Lü Xiaohu said with a laugh, “what's there for a laid-off worker to be embarrassed about?”

He scratched his head. “Little Hu, you know I'm a grade-seven worker who's spent most of his life in the company of-iron and steel. I never thought I'd come to this in my old age.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, Shifu, you still don't know what it means to be hungry. If that day comes, you'll know that in a contest between face and belly, your belly will win every time!”

“I see what you're saying, but for some reason I can't open my mouth.”

“It's not your fault,” his apprentice said with another laugh. “You're a grade-seven worker, after all. Tell you what, Shifu, I've got a plan….”

At noon the following day, old Ding returned to the spot he'd picked out the day before, carrying a piece of wood on his back. Anyone entering the cemetery from the hill had to pass this way. Though it was a secluded area, it was surrounded by open space. From where he sat, in the mottled shadows of a tall poplar, he had a clear view of people swimming in the lake. With all the birds off somewhere, the only sound was the constant chirping of crickets, which sent their cool droppings down on him like raindrops.

Finally, a couple came walking up the path. They were in full view: the woman was wearing a sky-blue bikini, her milky white skin glistening between the leafy shadows; the man wore a pair of stretch trunks and had a hairy chest and legs. Giggling as their hands roamed all over each other, they drew nearer and nearer; the sight of all that cleavage and the mole on her belly made old Ding feel like a voyeur. He also noticed with disgust that the man's belly button protruded instead of sinking in and that his trunks looked as if he'd hidden a potato in the front. When they were only a few feet from him, he picked up the piece of wood at his feet and raised it up high enough to cover his face, which felt as if it were on fire. The red lettering was aimed at the couple. He watched the woman's long, slender legs and the man's hairy ones stop in their tracks and listened as the man read the sign aloud:

“A quiet, secluded, safe cottage in the woods. Ten yuan per hour, includes two soft drinks.”

The woman giggled.

“Hey, there, old man, where's this cottage of yours?” the man asked audaciously.

Old Ding lowered the board to reveal the top half of his face. “There,” he stammered, “over there.”

“Can we take a look?” The man grinned at the woman and said, “I am a little thirsty.”

The woman gave him a seductive look out of the corner of her eye. “You can die of thirst for all I care!”

With a sly look and a smile at the woman, the man turned to old Ding and said:

“Take us over to see the place, old man.”

He stood, noticeably agitated, picked up his stool, put the board under his arm and led them through the cemetery to the abandoned bus.

“This is your little cottage?” the man exclaimed. “It's a damned iron coffin!”

Old Ding unlocked the brass lock and swung the heavy door open.

The man bent at the waist and went inside.

“Hey, Ping'er,” he shouted, “it's goddamned cool in here!”

The woman looked askance at old Ding, a slight blush on her face, before sticking her head in to take a look. Then she went in.

The man stuck his head out. “It's too dark in here. I can't see a thing!”

Old Ding handed him a disposable lighter.

“There's a candle on the table,” he said.

The candle cast its yellow light on the inside of the bus. He watched as the woman took a drink from the soda bottle in her hand. Her still wet hair streamed down her back like a horse's tail, nearly covering her high, jutting buttocks.

The man stepped out of the bus and made a sweep of the area. “Say, old man,” he asked in a soft voice, “do you guarantee nobody comes around here?”

“There's a lock inside,” he said. “You've got my guarantee.”

“We'd like to take a nap,” the man said, “and we don't want any interruptions.”

Old Ding nodded.

The man went back inside.

Old Ding heard the door being locked.

After walking over to a little grove of locust trees, he looked at his ancient pocket watch, in its metal casing, like a coach on the sidelines. At first, there was no sound inside the bus, but about ten minutes later, the woman began to shout. Because the bus was sealed up so tightly, the shouts sounded as if they came up from under the ground. Old Ding was on pins and needles, as images of the woman's tender white skin swirled inside his head. He thumped his own leg and muttered:

“Don't be thinking about things like that, you old fart!”

But the woman's pale flesh had attached itself to his brain and wouldn't let go. Then the smiling face and cleavage of the woman buying piglets came to join the party.

Fifty minutes later, the steel door swung open and out stepped the woman, now dressed in street clothes. Her face was red, her eyes bright, the look of a hen that's just laid an egg. She glanced off to the side, as if she didn't even know he was there, and walked off toward the cemetery. Then the man emerged, a bath towel draped over his arm and a bottle of soda in his hand. He walked up to the man and said timidly:

“Fifty minutes.. ”

“How much?”

“It's up to you …”

The man, also in street clothes, reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-yuan bill. He handed it to old Ding, whose hand shook; his heart was racing.

“I don't have any change,” he said.

“Keep it,” the man said airily. “We're coming back tomorrow.”

Crushing the bill in his fist, he thought he might burst into tears.

“Old man, you're really something!” the man said as he tossed the empty bottle away. “You ought to stock the place with condoms,” he said softly. “That and some cigarettes and beer. Then double the price.”

Old Ding responded with a deep bow.

7

Acting on the man's suggestion, he outfitted his little love cottage with everything couples might need for their trysts, as well as beer, soft drinks, and snacks of dried fish slices and preserved plums. The first time he went to the pharmacy for condoms, he was so embarrassed he couldn't hold his head up or make clear what it was he wanted, to the utter contempt of the young woman behind the counter. As he slinked out of the store with his prophylactic purchase, he heard her say to another clerk behind her:

“Hey, who'd have thought an old geezer like that still had use for those …”

But as his business grew with each passing day, so did his nerve and his business sense. No longer flushed with embarrassment when he made his purchases at the pharmacy, he even tried to get the clerk to come down on the price. Brazenly, she remarked:

“Old man, if you're not some kind of sex fiend, you must be engaged in black market trade in condoms.”

“I'm both a sex fiend and a black marketer,” he shot back naughtily, looking directly at the woman's scarlet lips.

Over the three months of summer, he netted forty-eight hundred yuan. And as his purse grew fatter, he grew more cheerful and physically robust by the day. Joints that had turned rusty limbered up, as if newly lubricated, and his eyes, which had seemed frozen in place, were now filled with life. And once his eyes and ears grew attuned to the sights and sounds of his new environment, the torch of intimacy, long extinguished, ignited anew. After he had taken his wife to bed more than once, to her incredible astonishment, she asked him, “What sort of tonic have you been taking, you old fart? Trying to kill yourself?”

At ten-thirty every morning, he climbed onto his bike and rode over to the cottage, where he first cleaned the place up, dumping all the trash from the previous day into a plastic bag, which he made sure to double-knot. As someone who placed great importance on social conscience, he would never throw his trash just anywhere; no, he carried it into town and properly disposed of it in a trash receptacle. After cleaning up the place, he replenished his stock of drinks, snacks, and other items. That done, he locked the door, picked up his stool, and found a place to wait for the day's clientele, leisurely smoking a cigarette to pass the time. His taste in cigarettes had improved. In the past, he'd smoked only unfiltered Golden City, but now he'd switched to filtered Flying Swallows. In the past, he couldn't bring himself to look his clients in the eye; now he studied them intently. As he gained more experience, he found he could pretty much predict which couples were likely to use his service and which were not. Most of his customers were birds on the prowl, intent on enjoying each other's bodies illicitly; but once in a while a curious married couple or two people in a committed relationship dropped by. There were at least a dozen repeat customers; he always gave them a cut-rate price, usually 20 percent off, but sometimes as much as 50 percent. Some of his customers were the talkative type, and after they'd finished their business, they'd talk his ear off; others were the bashful type, who took off as soon as they'd handed over the money. His storehouse of knowledge about the sex life of young couples was greatly enriched, thanks to his ears alone. The endless variety of sounds, male and female, emerging from the cottage created at least as many pictures in his mind, sort of like throwing open a window onto a vast panorama. One seemingly sickly couple bounced and thudded around the bus so noisily you'd have thought it was a pair of mating elephants in there, not copulating humans. Then there was the couple who started out by shouting and carrying on and ended by slugging it out and smashing beer bottles. But there was nothing he could do about it, since breaking in on them at a time like that could bring nothing but bad luck. The man emerged with a bloody head, the woman with her hair looking like a rat's nest. He felt sorry enough for them to give them a freebie, but the man actually grandstanded by tossing a hundred-yuan note on the ground before strutting off. When he ran after him to give him change, the man turned and spat in his face. The man had thin, sparse eyebrows, sunken eyes, and a mean look; one glare sent old Ding scurrying off abjectly.

With the arrival of autumn, the poplar leaves began to fall and pine needles darkened. Fewer and fewer people came to swim in the lake, seriously affecting his business; but no day passed without a few clients, especially on Sundays and holidays. This gave him a chance to take it easy, and income was income, even though there might be less of it. It all added up. He came down with a cold about then, but that didn't stop him from going to work. Not wanting to part with his money for cold preparations, he let his wife cook up a pot of ginger soup. He drank down three bowlfuls of the stuff, then covered himself from head to toe and sweated it out. You couldn't ask for a better folk remedy. His plan was to save up as much money as possible for his old age while he was still able. Now that the factory had given him all the severance pay he had coming, the government couldn't be counted on, since even teachers’ pay was slow in coming and the government had to take out loans to pay cadres’ salaries. It was every man for himself, not all that different from grabbing what you could after a natural disaster. There were times when he felt uncomfortable, uncertain if he was a saint or a sinner. One night he dreamed that the police came for him, and he woke up in a cold sweat, his heart racing. He met with his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu, in a quiet little wine shop, and told him what was bothering him.

“Shifu,” Hu said, “you're not getting goofy on me again, are you? Don't tell me you think your cottage is the only reason those people do it! They'll keep doing it, with or without your cottage. In the woods, in the cemetery, somewhere. Young folks these days are always talking about returning to nature and free love, and who are we to say there's anything wrong with that? They're people, just like us. I told you at the beginning, just pretend you've set up a public toilet in the wild, for which you have every right to charge a modest fee. Shifu, you're head and shoulders above those people who flood the market with their phony alcohol and fake medicine. You have absolutely no reason to be so hard on yourself. Being on good terms with money is more important than trying to be a good son. Without money, you can forget about a loving mother and father, and even your old lady will turn her back on you. Shifu, show some spunk and get on with your business. If there's any trouble, just leave everything to me!”

Old Ding could find nothing wrong with his apprentice's argument. He's right, he concluded. Sure, there was nothing saintly about what he was doing, but one saint was plenty in this world. Any more was just asking for trouble. The last thing Ding Shikou wanted was to be a saint. Besides, he couldn't even if he wanted to. Ding Shikou, he was thinking, you're doing the government a big favor. Being the master of a love cottage in the woods may not bring you honor, but it's a lot better than causing a scene in front of the government headquarters. This thought brought a smile to his face, which flabbergasted his wife, who was shucking peanuts at the table.

“What are you smiling about, you old fart?” she asked him. “Do you have any idea how scary a smile like that looks?”

“Scary?”

“Yes, scary.”

“Well, today that's exactly what I want to do, scare you.”

“Just what do you have in mind, you old fart?” she asked as she backed away, holding a handful of peanut shells. Lightning split the sky outside, heralding a downpour. Cool, damp air seeped into the room, causing the atmosphere inside to actually heat up. He removed his clothes as he bore down on his wife, tossing them behind him; she cowered against the wall, her face turning scarlet, her normally gloomy eyes shining like those of a girl in her prime. Cornered, she flung the peanut shells in his face. “You old fart,” she muttered, “the older you get, the crazier you are.. the middle of the day.. what do you think you're doing. … The lord of thunder and mother of lightning are looking at you.” He grabbed her around the waist and bent her backward. “You old fart!” she screamed. “Old fart… not so hard … you're going to break me in half.. ”

In order to guard against any unforeseen trouble, Ding deposited his earnings under a phony name and hid the passbook in a hole in the wall, which he sealed with two layers of paper.

After the winter solstice, the temperature began to drop and there were no clients for two or three days in a row. He rode over to his cottage around noon. Frost clung to the fallen leaves on the ground. The dark yellow sun cast precious little heat. He sat under a tree for a while, until his fingers and toes turned icy cold. The lake was quiet, deserted, except for a man walking in circles by the water's edge, gauze wrapped around his neck. He was a man engaged in a life-and-death struggle with cancer, a bit of a celebrity around town, owing to the fight he was putting up; the local TV station had aired a segment on his struggle. The station had sent a crew down to the lake to film the story, scaring the hell out of Ding. Just to be safe, he'd climbed a tree and perched up there like a bird for over two hours.

After that incident, a fire inspection team had come to the area, frightening him half to death. This time he'd hidden behind a tree and waited there with his heart in his mouth. One by one the men had walked past his little cottage, but with no visible reaction, as if it were just another of nature's creations. The sole exception was a fat guy who had walked behind the cottage to release a stream of yellow piss. Ding could actually smell it. Our leaders are suffering from too much internal heat, he thought to himself. The fat guy looked to be getting on in years, but he pissed like a youngster: sucking in his gut, he formed a wet circle on the sheet-metal side of the bus, then another and another; but before he could complete the fourth circle, the stream broke off. After taking his young man's leak, the fat guy rapped loudly on one of the sheet-metal window coverings before buttoning his fly and waddling quickly off to catch up with his partners. Just those two frightening episodes.

The chilled air under the tree was too much for Ding, so he got up and moved into the bus to sit down and have a smoke. After carefully extinguishing his cigarette, he closed his eyes and roughly calculated how much he'd made over the six months or so he'd been in business. The results were gratifying. He decided to come back tomorrow, and if there were still no clients, he'd close up shop until the following spring. If I can keep this up for five years, I'll be in great shape for old age.

He rode out to the cottage early the next morning. Cold overnight winds had nearly denuded the trees; there were hardly any leaves left on the poplar branches, while those on the few oak trees scattered among the pines held on and turned a golden color. As they rustled in the wind, they looked like yellow butterflies swarming amid the branches. He came equipped with a snakeskin-patterned sack and a steel-tipped wooden staff. He picked up all the litter in the broad vicinity of the little cottage, not for any monetary gain, but out of a sense of obligation. He was a beneficiary of the best that society had to offer. After tying off the trash bag, he placed it on his bicycle rack, then went into the cottage to gather up the assortment of articles. The caw of a solitary crow outside made his heart skip a beat. Taking a look out the door, he spotted a man and a woman walking his way up the gray path from the little hill behind the factory.

8

The couple, middle-aged, stopped in front of the cottage. It was half-past noon. The man, his hands thrust into the pockets of his gray windbreaker, was quite tall. The wind behind him billowed the cuffs of his pants and exposed his lower calves. The woman was shorter, but not by much; calling upon his decades of experience in sizing up lengths of iron, old Ding guessed that she was in the neighborhood of five-five or five-six. She was wearing a purple down parka over a pair of light blue jeans and white lambskin shoes. Since neither of them was wearing a hat, their hair was at the mercy of the wind, and the woman frequently reached up to pull her hair back out of her face. As they drew up to the cottage, they subconsciously increased the distance between them, which only served to strengthen the impression that they were lovers, and probably had been for many years. When old Ding saw the cold, pained expression on the man's face and the look of an indignant woman on hers, he knew exactly what was going on between them, as if he'd just finished reading their dossiers.

He decided to stay open for one final pair of clients, not because of the money, but because his heart went out to them.

The man spoke to old Ding in front of the cottage, while the woman stood with her back to the door, her hands in the pockets of her parka, as she absentmindedly kicked at some leaves on the ground.

“It sure turned cold today,” the man said. “All of a sudden, like. Not normal.”

“On TV they say it's a cold front down from Siberia,” old Ding said, reminding himself that he ought to get rid of the old black-and-white TV at home.

“So this is the famous lovers’ cottage,” the man said. “I hear it's the brainchild of the Chief of Police's father-in-law.”

Old Ding just smiled and shook his head, which could have meant almost anything.

“Actually,” the man said, “all we're looking for is a quiet spot so we can talk.”

Old Ding gave him an understanding smile, picked up his stool, and headed over to the locust grove without so much as a backward glance.

Sunbeams burst from a gray cloud, flooding the woods with dazzling light. The locust tree seemed covered with a layer of tinfoil, glittery and magical. As he leaned against the springy limbs of the tree, powerful gusts of a northeast wind felt as if they had turned his spine into cold metal. The man stepped into the cottage, bent at the waist. The woman stood off to one side of the doorway, her head lowered, as if deep in thought. The man emerged from the cottage and walked up behind the woman to whisper something. There was no change in her demeanor. So the man reached out and gently tugged at the hem of her coat. She squirmed, a childish movement, like a little girl's display of temper. The man rested his hand on her shoulder, and even though she continued to squirm, she did not shake off his hand. So he pressed down and turned her toward him; she put up mild resistance, but ultimately turned to face him. Then, with both hands on her shoulders, he spoke to her — to the top of her head, actually. At last, he ushered her into the cottage.

Hidden from view beneath the locust tree, old Ding smiled. The metal door closed with a soft click; he then heard the barely perceptible turning of the lock. With that sound, the little cottage became another dead object in the wintry woods, touched from time to time by the sun's cold and desolate rays, giving off brief bursts of murky reflections. Tan-feathered sparrows shitting on the roof of the cottage flitted back and forth, raising a chorus of chirpings. Monstrous, bloated gray clouds sped across the sky, their dark shadows skittering across the wooded ground. He looked at his pocket watch — it was one o'clock. He didn't expect them to be in there long, probably no more than an hour. He'd been about to go home for lunch when these last two “uninvited guests” had showed up. He was getting hungry, and cold, but he'd have to wait them out before heading home. They were, after all, paying by the hour, so he had no right to ask them to leave before they were ready. Some of the couples stayed inside for up to three hours. Up till now, he'd have been happy if his clients had locked themselves inside and slept for eight or ten hours. But with the wind chilling him to the bone and the pangs of hunger growing stronger, he wished they would finish their business quickly and come out. He passed the time by digging a little hole in the ground in front of him with his walking stick, then lighting up a cigarette. Always conscious of the fire danger in a wooded area, he carefully flicked his ashes into the hole.

He'd been sitting under the tree for about half an hour when he heard muted sobs from inside the cottage. A gust of wind set the leaves rustling loudly enough to swallow up the sobs. But as soon as the wind died down, the sobs found their way back into his ears. He sighed sympathetically. This was the sort of romance lovers like that deserved; theirs was a classical, tragic love, like cucumbers in a pickling vat — all salt, no sugar. Young folks these days have gotten away from that. When they're in the cottage, they take advantage of every second, going at it hot and heavy. They scream lecherously, they moan, some of them fill the air with obscenities that make the birds blush. They all do the same thing, but the way they go about it couldn't be more different. By studying the intimate sounds of the men and women, he gained an understanding into changes in people's concepts. Deep down in his heart, he preferred a tearful love, which seemed more dramatic, somehow. As he listened to the sobs and whimpers, he thought about their story: it had to be a sentimental one, a romantic tragedy. For a number of reasons, marriage was not in the cards for them. Maybe, after being separated by a vast distance, this man and woman had come together to meet secretly. Viewed from that angle, he thought, I'm actually a good Samaritan.

He let his thoughts ramble for another hour before getting to his feet to limber up his achy joints and massage his nearly frozen earlobes. It was time to pack up and go home. He decided that the only way to feel good about how things had worked out was to charge them a nominal fee, then stop at the Lanzhou Noodle Restaurant in town for a bowl of beef noodles. The mere thought of those noodles had his stomach rumbling and his teeth chattering. He was damned hungry, and damned cold. It was unseasonably cold, abnormally cold, ridiculously cold, colder than the coldest days of winter last year. The woman's sobs had stopped, leaving the metal cottage perfectly still, quiet as a graveyard. A crow with a piece of intestine in its beak flew up from some distant place and landed in its nest in a poplar tree.

Another hour passed, and the little cottage remained still as death. The clouds kept gathering, and signs of dusk began to settle around the woods. What's going on? he asked himself silently. They didn't look that robust to me. Could they have fallen asleep in there? No, that's impossible! There's nothing in there but a slat bed covered by a straw mat. No mattress and no blankets. It's cold enough outside, even with a bit of weak sunlight; but once that door is closed, the cottage turns into cold storage. So what are they doing in there? He held off as long as he could before walking up to the door and coughing loudly as a signal for them to wrap things up and come out. No response from inside. Don't tell me they vanished into thin air like the goblins in Roll Call of the Gods? No, that's just some supernatural novel. Could they have turned into mosquitoes like the immortal monkey and flown out the window? Impossible, another supernatural story! They couldn't have. … A murky and utterly terrifying scene suddenly flashed before his eyes. His arms and legs began to quake. My god, not that! If that's what's happened, forget about my road to riches. I'll be lucky if I don't wind up in prison. All of a sudden, nothing else mattered. He raised his hand and knocked lightly on the door.

Rap rap rap.

Then he knocked harder.

Thump thump thump!

Then he pounded with his fist.

Pow pow pow!

Then he pounded with all his might and shouted at the top of his lungs:

Pow pow pow! Hey, come out of there! Pow pow pow! What are you doing in there? A trickle of blood oozed from a split between his thumb and finger. Still there was no sound from inside the cottage; for a moment, he wondered if his memory was failing him. Did a couple like that really go inside?

But then the woman's pale oval face suddenly floated in front of his eyes, incredibly lifelike. Her black, mysterious eyes were filled with a haunting look. She had a pointy chin and a bean-sized black mole by the corner of her mouth, out of which grew one long, curly black hair. The image of the man was just as clear. His raised raincoat collar covered his cheeks. He had a high nose, dark chin, and bushy eyebrows; his eyes were gloomy, he had one gold tooth…

No doubt about it, a cold, hard fact: about three hours ago, a sorrowful middle-aged couple stepped inside this abandoned bus, converted into a little woodland cottage; but now they weren't making a sound, and he just knew that the worst thing imaginable had happened. Bad luck was like a foul-smelling honey bucket, and it had just been tipped over on him. His legs buckled, sending him slumping to the ground right in front of the door.

After about as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette, he managed to climb to his feet. He took several turns around the cottage, banging his hand against the metal skin from time to time.

“Hey, you good people,” he raged and pleaded, “wake up and come out of there. I'll give you every penny I made all summer, okay? I'll get down on my knees and kowtow to you, okay? You bastards, you animals, aren't you afraid lightning will strike you dead for taking advantage of an old man? You adulterers, you fornicators, whore, whoremonger, you'll come to a terrible end. I'll call you Daddy, okay? And I'll call you Mommy, okay? Daddy, Mommy, dear ancestors, be merciful and come out of there. I'm a sixty-year-old laid-off factory worker with a wife at home who suffers from stomach problems. That's bad enough, so don't go adding frost to a layer of snow. If dying's what you want, do it somewhere else, not in my cottage. Go hang yourselves from one of those trees, or go drown yourselves in the lake, or go lie down on the railroad tracks. There are all kinds of places to go kill yourselves, so why choose my little cottage to do it? I can tell you're people of means and status, at least a section chief, if not a bureau chief. Is something like this worth dying over? Dying like that is about as meaningful as a bird's feather. It's not worth it. If even people like you don't want to go on living, what about us folks from the lower classes? Bureau Chief, Section Chief, use your head and put yourself in my place. Come out, please come out….”

He yelled himself hoarse, and still not a sound from inside the cottage. Crows returning to their nests as the sun was setting noisily circled in the sky above the poplars, like a gathering cloud. He picked up a big rock and tried to smash down the metal door. A resounding clang ended in the rock splitting in two; the door suffered no damage. So he hunched up his shoulder and used his body as a battering ram. The door barely moved, but he was thrown back at least three meters and sat down hard on the ground. His shoulder hurt like hell. He could barely raise his arm. It felt like his clavicle was broken.

9

He rode his clunky bicycle down from the mountain in a daze, never once hitting the brake, as if death were the only solution. He was heading straight into a northeast wind that billowed his coat and nearly froze his abdomen as the wind whistled past his ears; it was as if he were riding the clouds and soaring through the mist. The garbage bag on the rack behind him blew open, sending soiled paper and plastic bags into the air with a loud whoosh. As he skirted the lakeshore, he didn't see the cancer-battling celebrity. A flock of gray swans wheeled in the air, as if looking for a spot to land on the frozen lake, the ice blanketed with dust and dirt. He rode into town, totally numb. The streetlights were already on; a constant explosion of broken glass drove his heart up into his throat. A police car cruised past, lights flashing, siren off; he nearly fell off his bike in terror.

Muddle-headed though he was, he managed to make his way to the door of his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu, and had just raised his hand to knock when he spotted a drawing pasted on the door; it was a sketch of a boy with anger in his eyes. Old Ding turned to get out of there just as he saw his apprentice coming up the hallway carrying a plucked chicken. The sight of the dead chicken's pimply skin in the murky light raised goose bumps on his skin. His legs buckled, causing shooting pains in his newly healed broken leg, and he sat down hard on the steps. Lü Xiaohu stopped dead in his tracks.

“Shifu,” he asked anxiously, “what are you doing here?”

Like a little boy who's been picked on, then suddenly sees his daddy, old Ding felt his lips begin to quiver and tears spill from his eyes.

“What's the matter, Shifu?” his apprentice asked as he rushed up to help old Ding to his feet. “Has something happened?”

His knees buckled, and he knelt at the feet of his disciple.

“Little Hu,” he sobbed, “something terrible..”

Quickly opening his apartment door, little Hu dragged him inside and sat him down on the sofa.

“Shifu, what's happened? Your wife hasn't died, has she?”

“No,” he said weakly. “It's much worse than that….”

“Tell me, what is it?” Little Hu was getting worried. “Shifu, tell me before I die of anxiety.”

“Little Hu,” he sobbed, wiping his tears, “I'm in big trouble”

“What is it? Tell me!”

“A man and woman went in around noon today, and they still haven't come out….”

“So? Just collect more money from them.” Little Hu breathed a sigh of relief. “This is good news.”

“What do you mean, good news? They died in there….”

“Died?” Little Hu was stunned; he nearly dropped the hot vacuum bottle he had in one hand. “How'd that happen?”

“I'm not sure”

“Have you seen their bodies?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know they're dead?”

“They must be … they went in over three hours ago, and at first I heard the woman sob. Then no more sound.” He showed his apprentice his injured hand. “I tried to break down the door, I pounded on the windows, I shouted, and hurt myself doing it, but no sound inside, not even a whisper….”

Little Hu laid down his vacuum bottle and sat on a stool across from the sofa. He took out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. With his head lowered, he took a deep drag, then looked up. “Shifu,” he said, “take it easy.” He took out another cigarette, handed it to old Ding, and lit it for him. “Maybe they fell asleep. That sort of activity can tire a person out.”

Old Ding nervously rubbed his knees with his hands as he sat there gazing hopefully into the eyes of his apprentice.

“My fine young apprentice, you don't need to try to reassure me,” he said sorrowfully. “I knocked till my knuckles were bloody and yelled myself hoarse. I made enough noise to wake the dead. But nothing stirred inside, nothing….”

“Couldn't they have slipped out while you weren't looking? That sounds plausible to me. Shifu, you should know that there's nothing people won't do to get out of paying what they owe.”

Ding shook his head. “That's not possible, absolutely impossible. First of all, the door is bolted from the inside. Besides, I never took my eyes off the place. I'd have seen a pair of rats scurrying out of there, let alone a pair of full-sized humans.”

“Rats, you say. How about this?” Little Hu said. “They tunneled their way out.”

“My fine apprentice,” old Ding said, his voice cracking tearfully, “forget your wacky theories and help me figure out what to do. I beg you!”

Little Hu lowered his head and puffed away on his cigarette. Deep lines creased his brow. Old Ding stared at his apprentice without blinking, waiting to hear his ideas. Little Hu looked up.

“Shifu,” he said, “I think we just say to hell with it. You've earned a tidy sum this year. Now we wait till next spring and come up with another money-making scheme.”

“Little Hu, we're talking about the loss of two lives….”

“So? That's not our fault,” he said angrily. “Once they decided to die, there was nothing we could do about it. What kind of fuck-ups were they?”

“They looked like educated people to me, maybe party officials.”

“That's even more reason to stay clear of them. With people like that, you know they're having an extramarital affair. No one will shed a tear over their deaths.”

“But,” he stammered, “what if they tie this to me? As the saying goes, you can't bury bodies in the snowy ground. The police will know it was me right off.”

“What are you getting at? Don't tell me you're thinking of going to the police yourself.”

“Little Hu, I've given this a lot of thought. You know what they say: the ugly bride has to face her in-laws sooner or later.”

“Are you really thinking of going to the police?”

“Maybe, they might still be able to save them.”

“Shifu, this is pretty much the same as setting yourself on fire!”

“My fine apprentice, didn't you say you have a cousin who works at the Public Security Bureau? Will you take me to see him?”

“Shifu!”

“I beg you, I need your cousin's help. If I did nothing, I don't think I could get another good night's sleep ever again.”

“Shifu,” Little Hu said in a somber tone of voice, “have you given any thought to possible consequences? What you've been engaged in will seem sordid to people, and it won't take much digging to find a law that'll send you away for a couple of years. And even if that doesn't happen, you can look forward to a hefty fine. And when those people fine you, you know you've been fined. I wouldn't be surprised if the money you've earned over an entire summer, plus the fall, won't be enough to pay it off.”

“I have to live with that,” old Ding admitted painfully. “I don't want that money. From now on, I'll go begging before I do anything like this again.”

“And what if you're looking at jail time?” his apprentice asked him.

“That's why I want you to speak to your cousin,” he said weakly, his head sagging. “If it's jail time I'm looking at, I'll just go get some rat poison and put an end to everything.”

“Shifu! Shifu!” Little Hu said. “All that stuff about a cousin with the police, I just said that to boost your confidence.”

Old Ding stood there woodenly for a moment, then sighed and rose shakily to his feet. After carefully stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he looked over at his former apprentice, who was staring at the wall, his head cocked to one side, and said, “Then I won't trouble you anymore.”

He turned and hobbled to the door.

“Shifu, where are you going?”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“Little Hu,” he said, “you and I worked together for a while. After I'm gone, if it's not too much trouble, would you check on my wife from time to time? If it is, don't worry about it…”

He reached out and opened the door. A cold wind filling the hallway hit him full in the face. He shivered as he reached out to hold on to the dusty banister and walked off into the dark.

“Wait up, Shifu.” He turned and saw his apprentice standing in the doorway. Light streaming out of the apartment made his face appear to be brushed with gold dust. He heard him say, “I'll take you to see my cousin.”

10

They squeezed into a phone booth, with wind whistling all around them, to call the cousin at home. Whoever answered the phone said he was on duty at the station house. Old Ding's former apprentice said happily:

“Great, Shifu. Do you know why I didn't want to take you to see him? You have no idea how arrogant his wife is. If a poor relation like me goes to their house, her nose is bent out of shape, and her face turns all weird. Like any dog, the bitch sees people like us as her inferior. It's more than I can take. We may be poor in material wealth, but not in our ideals. Isn't that so?”

Old Ding said emotionally:

“Little Hu, I'm sorry to put you through all this.”

“But my cousin's a great guy. A little hen-pecked, that's all.” Then, in a singsong voice, he added, “When a man's wife rules, he sleeps with the mules!”

They stopped first at a sundries shop to buy two cartons of China-brand cigarettes. Old Ding went for his wallet, but his former apprentice pushed his hand away.

“Shifu,” he said, “I'll take care of this. You can't afford it.”

When he saw how much the cigarettes cost, he gritted his teeth and said, no matter how much it pained him:

“I should be paying for this, little Hu.”

“Just leave things to me for now.”

When they walked into the police station, old Ding reached out involuntarily and held on to the hem of his former apprentice's shirt. He felt cold all over, and his palms were sweaty. As it turned out, one of the two duty policemen was the cousin, a young man with slitty eyes and a long neck. He picked up his pen and wrote down everything they told him in a notebook.

“That's it?” he remarked impatiently, tapping the notebook with the tip of his pen.

“That's it…”

“Quite a fertile imagination,” he said coldly, looking at old Ding out of the corner of his eye. “Made quite a bundle, did you?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Cousin,” old Ding's apprentice said, smiling broadly as he laid the plastic bag containing the cigarettes in front of the policeman, “won't you please look into this for the shifu here? If those two took sleeping pills, we might still be able to rescue them. Ding Shifu taught me everything I know. He's a provincial model worker who once had his picture taken with Deputy Governor Yu. But when he was laid off recently, this was the only way he knew to put food on the table.”

“And what if they took rat poison?” The cousin looked at his watch, got to his feet, and said to the other duty policeman, who was playing computer games off in the corner, “Little Sun, I'm going over to the lake to look into a possible suicide. You take care of things here.”

After visiting the bathroom and picking up all the equipment he'd need, the cousin went out to the garage and returned with a motorized three-wheeler. Once old Ding and his apprentice were seated, they drove out of the station compound.

It was right around dinnertime, but it felt much later, owing possibly to the chill in the air and the paucity of traffic. With the vehicle's lights flashing and siren blaring, they sped along, with old Ding clinging to the icy railing, his heart in his throat, just waiting for him to open his mouth and spit it out.

They were soon in the outskirts of town, where the road quality began to deteriorate, although the cousin fought the impulse to slow down, as if to demonstrate his driving skills; the three-wheeler was now more like a bucking bronco. Old Ding was bouncing around so badly, his poor tailbone felt as if it were being pricked by needles.

Once they were on the asphalt road skirting the man-made lake, the cousin had no choice but to slow down, since the surface was fraught with serious bumps and hollows. He skillfully negotiated the course, but couldn't avoid all the hazards. Once, the three-wheeler stalled as they came perilously close to flipping over.

“Goddamned corruption road!” he cursed. “They paved it less than a year ago, and look at it now!”

Old Ding and his apprentice climbed down off the three-wheeler and pushed it down the road. When they reached the edge of the cemetery, they had to leave it before going any farther. The headlight pierced the inky darkness and illuminated a narrow strip of the cemetery and surrounding trees.

“Where is it?” the cousin asked coldly.

He tried to answer, but his tongue seemed petrified, and he merely grunted. His apprentice pointed in the direction of the cemetery. “Over there.”

The three-wheeler's headlight lit up the little path through the cemetery, but it was clear that they'd have to walk. So the cousin turned off the light, reached into his backpack and took out a flashlight that ran on three double-? batteries. Flicking it on to light the way down the gray path through the trees, he said impatiently:

“Let's go. You lead the way.”

So old Ding jumped out in front in an instinctive attempt to get on the cousin's good side. He heard his apprentice say from behind:

“Cousin, the vehicle..”

“How's that? Afraid someone might come by and steal it?” He laughed snidely. “Who but a fucking idiot would be out on a cold night like this?”

With the cousin's flashlight jumping from the tips of the trees to the cemetery ahead, old Ding had trouble keeping his footing, like an old horse with failing eyesight. The path threaded its twisting way through the cemetery, the surface covered by a thick carpet of dead leaves that crackled under their feet. The northeast wind had died down; there was a chilled, eerie quality to the air above the extraordinarily quiet cemetery, except for the human footsteps on the crackling leaves, a sound that sent shivers through the heart. Something icy cold fell on old Ding's face, like raindrops, but not really. Then he saw white floating objects in the flashlight's beam.

“It's snowing!” he said with a trace of genuine excitement.

The cousin corrected him in a chiding tone:

“That isn't snow, it's sleet!”

“Cousin,” the apprentice said, “how come you know so much?”

With a contemptuous snort, the cousin said:

“You people think that cops are all stupid, don't you?”

“Not for a minute,” the apprentice said with an ingratiating smile. “There might be stupid cops on the force, but you're certainly not one of them. I heard my aunt say once that you could read more than two hundred characters at the age of five.”

The cousin's flashlight lit up the tip of a tall poplar, startling some crows in a nest. With caws and chirps, two of the birds flew out of the nest and flapped their wings in the beam of light; one banged into the trunk of the tree, the other flew into a magpie's nest, leading to some mighty squawks. Cousin turned off his flashlight and grumbled:

“Goddamned birds, I ought to blow you all away!”

They walked up to the abandoned bus hulk, which looked like a sleeping monster in the umbrella of light. By then the warring crows and magpies had returned to their own nests, returning the woods to silence. The sleet was coming down more heavily now, making a rustling noise in the night air, sort of like the sound of silkworms munching on mulberry leaves. Cousin shone his light all over the cottage.

“Inside?” he asked.

Old Ding felt his apprentice's eyes on him in the darkness and sputtered out an answer:

“Yes, inside …”

“Damn, you sure know how to find a spot.”

Flashlight in hand, the cousin walked up to the door and gave it a kick. To everyone's surprise, it swung open. Old Ding's eyes followed the beam of light as it moved through the inside of the cottage, like taking inventory of his personal effects. He saw the bed and the straw mat and coarse toilet paper on top of it; the three-legged wooden table against the “wall” in the corner, with its two bottles of beer and three of soda, all of them dusty, two red candles lying next to the beer bottles and another short one, standing up; the dirty melted wax on the table top and the plastic chamber pot; and an anonymous pornographic chalk drawing on the “wall.” The beam lingered on the drawing for a moment, then continued on its way. It landed finally on old Ding's face, as the cousin turned and asked him angrily:

“Ding Shifu, what's this all about?”

The light blinded him, so he tried to shield his eyes with his arm as he stammered in his own defense:

“I wasn't lying, I swear to heaven I wasn't lying.”

The cousin said cynically, “There are people who walk mules and people who walk horses, but I never thought there were people who walk cops.”

He raised his flashlight, turned, and headed back.

Old Ding's apprentice said disapprovingly:

“Shifu, you'll do anything for a laugh.”

Moving up close to his apprentice and keeping his voice low, he said:

“Little Hu, now I understand, it was a pair of spirits.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt a chill run up and down his spine and his scalp tighten; at the same time, however, he felt enormous relief. His apprentice, on the other hand, was even more disapproving:

“Shifu, you really will do anything for a laugh, won't you?”