Three Sisters

PART ONE

LITTLE EIGHT WAS barely a month old when Shi Guifang handed him over to her eldest daughter, Yumi. Outside of taking him to her breast several times a day, she showed no interest in her baby. In the normal course of events, a mother would treat her newborn son like a living treasure, cuddling him all day long. But not Shi Guifang. The effects of a monthlong lying-in had been the addition of some excess flab and a spirit of indolence. She seemed to sag, albeit contentedly; but mostly she displayed the sort of relaxed languor that comes with the successful completion of something important.

Shi Guifang savored the guiltless pleasure of leaning lazily against her door frame and nibbling on sunflower seeds. She’d pick a seed out of the palm of one hand, hold it between her thumb and index finger, and slowly bring it up to her mouth, her three remaining fleshy fingers curling under her chin. She demonstrated remarkable sloth, mainly in the way she stood, with one foot on the floor, the other resting on the doorsill. From time to time she switched feet.

People did not mind Shi Guifang’s indolence, but sometimes a lazy person will appear proud, and it was this that people found intolerable. What gave her the right to look so superior when all she did was crack sunflower seeds? She definitely was not the Shi Guifang of earlier days. People had once praised her as a woman who eschewed the usual prideful airs of an official’s wife. She smiled when she talked to them, and when eating made that impossible, she smiled with her eyes. But now, as people thought back over the past decade, they concluded that she had been putting up a front all that time. Embarrassed that she’d had seven girls in a row, she had suppressed her true nature with a show of excessive courtesy. That was then. Now the birth of a son, Little Eight, had given her the right to be haughty; she was as courteous as ever, but there’s courtesy and then there’s courtesy. Shi Guifang typified the amiable, approachable manner of a Party secretary. But her husband was the Party secretary, not she, so what right did Shi Guifang have to be so indolently amiable and approachable?

Second Aunt, who lived at the end of the alley, often came out to rake the grass that was drying in the sun. She sized up Shi Guifang with a sneer: She had to open her legs eight times before a son popped out, Second Aunt said to herself, and now she has the cheek to act like she’s a Party secretary.

Shi Guifang had come to Wang Family Village[1] from Shi Family Bridge. During the twenty years she was married to Wang Lianfang she had presented him with seven girls, not counting three miscarriages. She was often heard to say that the three who didn’t make it had probably been boys, since all the signs had been different; even her taste buds had undergone a change. She spoke of her miscarriages as if they were missed opportunities; had she managed to keep just one of them, she’d have carried out her life’s mission.

On one of her trips to town she visited a clinic, where a bespectacled doctor confirmed her suspicions. His scientific explanation would have had the average person scratching his head in bewilderment. But Shi Guifang was smart enough to get the gist of it. Put simply, being pregnant with a boy demands more care, the pregnancy is harder to hold on to, and spotting is unavoidable, even when the woman manages to keep the baby. Shi Guifang sighed at the doctor’s sage words, reminding herself that a boy is a treasure, even in the womb. She was consoled to learn that fate was not keeping her from having a son, which was more or less what the doctor was really saying, and that she must have faith that science also plays a role. But this did little to lessen her feelings of despair. On her way home she stared for a long moment at a snot-nosed little boy on the pier before she tore her eyes away, dejected.

That was not, however, how Wang Lianfang saw things. Having studied dialectics in the county town, Party Secretary Wang knew all about the relationship between internal and external factors, and the difference between an egg and a rock. He had his own irrational understanding of boy and girl babies. To him, women were external factors, like farmland, temperature, and soil condition, while a man’s seed was the essential ingredient. Good seed produced boys; bad seed produced girls. Although he’d never admit it, when he looked at his seven daughters his self-esteem suffered.

A man with wounded self-esteem develops a stubborn streak. By initiating a battle with himself, Wang Lianfang resolved to overcome every obstacle on his way to ultimate victory. He vowed to have a son, if not this year, then the next. If not next year, then the year after; and if not the year after, then the year after that. Not in the least anxious that he might be denied a son to carry on the line, he settled in for a long, drawn-out battle rather than seek a speedy victory. Admittedly, depositing his seed in a woman was not all that difficult.

Shi Guifang, on the other hand, endured considerable dread. During the first few years of their marriage, she’d been fairly resistant to sex. On the eve of her wedding, her sister-in-law had put her lips close to Shi Guifang’s ear—she could feel her hot breath—to admonish her not to open too wide and to cover herself if she desired her husband’s respect and did not want to be thought wanton. In an enigmatic tone that hinted at a broad knowledge of human affairs, her sister-in-law had said, “Remember, Guifang, the harder the bone, the better it is to gnaw.” In fact, Guifang had no use for her sister-in-law’s wisdom. But after several girls in a row, the situation changed dramatically. No longer resistant, no longer coy, Guifang turned fearful. She clamped her legs together and covered herself with her hands. Inevitably, the clamping and covering began to rankle Wang Lianfang, who one night slapped her twice—once forehand and once backhand.

“Who do you think you are?” he had said, angrily. “Not a single boy has popped out of you, and yet you still expect two bowls of rice at every meal.”

Anyone standing beneath the window would have heard every word, and if it got around that she wouldn’t do it, she’d have been ruined. Only an ugly shrew would refuse to do it if all she could manage was girls.

A slap now and then didn’t bother Guifang, but Wang’s shouts made her go limp. When that happened, she could no longer clamp her legs shut or cover herself. Like a clumsy barefoot doctor, Wang would set his jaw as he pulled down her pants and, seconds after entering her, spray his seed into her body. That is what really frightened her, his seed, since every one of those little invaders was capable of turning into a baby girl.

Finally, in 1971, the heavens smiled on them. Shortly after the Lunar New Year, Little Eight was born. It was not a run-of-the-mill Lunar New Year, for the people had been told to turn the celebration into a revolutionary Spring Festival. Firecrackers and games of poker were banned throughout the village, an edict that Wang himself announced over the PA system, though even he was not altogether sure just what a “revolutionary” holiday ought to be. But that did not matter so long as someone in the leadership had the courage to make the announcement; new policy always emerged from the mouth of a member of the leadership. Standing in his living room, Wang held a microphone in one hand and fiddled with the switches on the PA system with the other. Neatly lined up in a row, the little switches were hard, shiny exclamation marks.

“This is to be a Spring Festival that stands for solidarity, vigilance, solemnity, and vivacity,” Wang barked into the microphone, his words like the gleaming exclamation-mark switches he pressed while he spoke: vigilant and solemn, adding a harsh and mighty aura to the cold winds of winter.

With an old overcoat draped over his shoulders and half a Flying Horse cigarette between his fingers, Wang Lianfang went on a holiday inspection of the village on the second day of the new year—a raw, cold day. The lanes and alleys were virtually deserted, with only a few old men and children out, a dreary sight for such an important holiday. Obviously, the younger men had gathered at some secret spot to try their luck at cards. Wang stopped in front of Wang Youqing’s door, where he coughed a time or two and spat out a glob of phlegm. The window curtain parted slowly to reveal the red padded jacket of Wang Youqing’s wife. She glanced at the lane entrance and gestured toward her gate. The house was too dimly lit and her hand had moved too fast for Wang Lianfang to know what that gesture meant, but he turned to look just as the PA system came to life, carrying the voice of his mother, whose shouts were garbled by several missing teeth and a sense of urgency: “Lianfang, hey, Lianfang. It’s a boy. Come home!”

It took Wang Lianfang, who was still looking toward the lane entrance, a few minutes to comprehend what he was hearing. When he turned back to the red jacket in the window, Youqing’s wife, her face resting against the sill, was gazing at him impassively, her shoulders slumped. He thought he saw a trace of resentment on her bewitching face, which was framed by the stand-up collars of her jacket as if it were cupped in the palms of her hands. From the clamorous background emerging from the loudspeaker, Wang could tell that his living room was swarming with people. Someone put on a record, which filled the village with the valiant, sonorous, and rhythmic strains of “The Helmsman Guides the Ocean Journey.”

“Go on home, you,” Youqing’s wife said. “They’re waiting for you.”

Shrugging the old overcoat up over his shoulders, Wang laughed and muttered to himself, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Yumi ran in and out of the house, her sleeves rolled up to expose arms that had turned purple from the cold. But her cheeks were fiery red, generating an irrepressible glow, a sign that she was trying to suppress both an excitement and a shyness of unknown origin. The strain of mixed emotions had turned her face smooth and shiny. She bit her lip the whole time she was running around, as if she, not her mother, had delivered Little Eight. At long last her mother had a boy, and Yumi could breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief. Happiness took root in her heart. As eldest daughter, Yumi was, for all intents and purposes, more like a sister to her mother. In fact, she had assisted the midwife in the birth of the sixth girl, Yumiao, since certain things were too awkward for an outsider to handle. The arrival of Little Eight constituted the third time she’d watched her mother give birth, and that made her privy to all of a woman’s secrets, a special reward for being the eldest. The second sister, Yusui, was only a year younger than Yumi, and the third girl, Yuxiu, two and a half years. But neither of them could match Yumi’s understanding of the ways of the world or her level of shrewdness. Age among siblings often represents more than just the order of birth; it can also signal differences in the depth and breadth of life experience. Ultimately, maturity requires opportunity; the pace of growth does not rely on the progression of time alone.

Yumi was outside dumping bloody water in the ditch when her father walked through the gate. He assumed that on such a happy occasion his daughter would say something to him or at least glance his way. But she didn’t. She wore only a thin knit top that, because it was a bit on the small side, showed off her full breasts and thin waist. Wang was surprised at the sight of her curves and purple arms; Yumi had grown into a woman.

Yumi normally did not speak to her father, not a word, and he figured that had something to do with what went on between him and other women. Sure, he slept around, but his wife didn’t seem to mind; she even continued to be friendly with those women, some of whom still called her Sister Guifang. But not Yumi. Though she never talked about it openly, she had her way of dealing with the women, something that Wang Lianfang learned later during a little pillow talk. Zhang Fuguang’s wife was the first to let on, several years back, when she was a newlywed. “Yumi knows,” she said, “so we have to be careful.”

“She doesn’t know shit,” Wang replied. “She’s just a kid.”

“She knows. I’m sure of it.”

It was not something Fuguang’s wife had dreamed up. A few days before, she had been sitting under a locust tree with some other women sewing a shoe sole when Yumi walked up. Fuguang’s wife’s face reddened as soon as she spotted Yumi, and, after a quick glance, she looked away to avoid the girl’s eyes. But when she stole another glance, she realized that Yumi was standing in front of her, staring holes in her. Totally calm, totally composed, Yumi sized her up from head to toe and back as if they were the only two people present. Since she was only fourteen at the time, Wang Lianfang refused to believe she knew anything.

But then a few months later, Wang Daren’s wife gave Wang Lianfang a real scare. He had barely climbed on top when she covered her face with her arms and arched upward as if her life depended on it. “Party Secretary, work hard and get it over with quickly.” Unsettled by her plea, he did finish quickly—too quickly. After which Wang Daren’s wife hurriedly cleaned herself without a word. Wang cupped her chin and asked what was wrong. She fell to her knees.

“Yumi will be here any minute to play shuttlecock,” she said. Wang blinked nervously; now he believed the rumors. But back at home he saw innocence in his daughter’s face, and he knew this was a subject he could not bring up. That was the day Yumi had stopped talking to her father, and that hadn’t bothered him—you can’t stop sleeping just because there’s a mosquito in the room. But now that Wang finally had his precious son, Yumi quietly made her existence and its significance known to him; it was an unmistakable signal that she had grown up.

Wang Lianfang’s mother’s lower lip quivered, her arms hung down at her sides. She was so old she could not control her slack lower lip. For women her age, unexpected happy events like this were sheer torture, for they were incapable of showing emotions on faces that seemed forever stiff. Wang’s father, on the other hand, was handling it all quite well, having settled on a dispassionate response. He just puffed slowly on his pipe. He was, after all, the former director of security, a man who had seen a thing or two and knew how to keep his cool, even during happy moments.

“You’re back,” his father said.

“I’m back.”

“Well, pick a name.”

Having thought about this on the way home, Wang was prepared. “He’s the eighth child, so we’ll call him Wang Balu.”

“Balu, as in ‘Eighth Route Army’? Sounds fine,” the old man said. “But ‘Wang’ and ‘ba’ together mean ‘cuckold.’”

“All right then, we’ll call him Wang Hongbing, ‘Red Army’ Wang.”

The old man said nothing more, typical of a head of household in the old days. They showed approval by silence.

The midwife called for Yumi, so she laid down the basin and hurried into her mother’s bedroom. Wang saw that she’d learned to hold her arms close to her body as she ran, although her braids swung briskly across her back. Over the years, he’d been so focused on fooling around and spreading his seed that he hadn’t paid enough attention to Yumi, who had, it was clear, reached marriageable age.

In fact, the issue of her marriage had never been brought up. Wang Lianfang was, after all, a Party secretary, not just anyone—a fact that many families found intimidating. Even the matchmakers had passed Yumi by. All shrewd matchmakers believed the saying that an emperor’s daughter never had to worry about finding a husband. Given her family background and good looks, Yumi could easily spread her arms and turn them into the wings of a phoenix.

Peasants do not have the luxury of taking winters off, for that’s when they have to work on their equipment after the year’s use. Everything—waterwheels, feed troughs, buckets, farming skiffs, pitchforks, shovels, rakes, flails, and wooden spades—needs attention, some to be repaired, others to be mended, sharpened, or oiled. Nothing can be overlooked or put off. The most taxing job, but also the most urgent, is repairing the irrigation system. Didn’t Chairman Mao himself say that irrigation is the lifeline of agriculture? A peasant himself, the Chairman would have been a formidable farmer if he had not gone off to Beijing. He was also correct in pointing out that water is the first and foremost of the eight principles: water, fertilizer, soil, seed, density, care, labor, and management. Irrigation work usually takes place in the winter, and major repairs are especially hard on the peasants, who wind up more exhausted than when they’re out working in the fields.

There is one more thing that must not be forgotten—the Lunar New Year’s holiday. In order to wrap up the current year and obtain good omens for the year to come, all families—from the laziest to the busiest—need a decent New Year’s holiday. No one is spared from the hard work of washing and scrubbing; frying peanuts, peas, and broad beans; popping rice; dusting; repairing walls; and steaming rice cakes and buns. Pleasurable aromas permeate every house, shrouding them in steam.

Then there are the social obligations that require attention. And so, in the middle of winter, and especially during the last month of the old year and the first month of the new, a time when there is no actual farm-work, the peasants are busier than ever. As the saying goes, “Celebrate in the first month, gamble in the second, and till the fields in the third.” The second lunar month is the farmers’ only free time, days when they visit relatives and try their luck at gambling. They must turn to the land for survival early in the third lunar month, right after Qingming, the tomb-sweeping holiday, which falls on April 5 in the Western calendar. However important or involved other matters may be, the peasants’ livelihood is buried in the ground, and it must be plowed up in the first days of spring if the farmers are to survive another year. City folk like to sing the lament, “Spring days are lamentably short,” but theirs is too refined a view, embellished by sentimentality. For peasants, the meaning of that phrase—twenty or thirty fleeting days—is genuine and literal. Those good days of spring are gone so quickly they leave no time for even the briefest lament.

Yumi scarcely left the house during the second month because she was too busy taking care of Little Eight. No one forced her; she was happy to do it. A girl of few words, she carried out her duties meticulously, especially those involved in looking after the family. Eager to do well in everything, she worked without complaint, tolerated no criticism, and refused to accept the proposition that there could be a better family than hers. And yet, the absence of a male heir had been the subject of gossip swirling around her family. As a girl, she could not make her views on this matter public, though she had been anxious, worried even, for her mother’s sake. But now everything was fine, because with the arrival of Little Eight, people had nothing to talk about. She quickly assumed the care of her brother and took over all her mother’s exhausting duties, carrying them out with quiet, single-minded devotion. Naturally gifted in the business of childcare, she held the baby like a real mother after only a few days, cradling his smooth head in the crook of her arm as she rocked him and hummed lullabies. At first she was a bit shy and performed some of her duties awkwardly. But there are different kinds of shyness; one kind can be upsetting, another kind can be a sign of pride. With Little Eight in her arms, Yumi kept company with the married women of the village, engaging the young mothers in discussions or exchanging ideas on topics such as what to watch out for after burping the baby, the color of the baby’s stool, or the baby’s expressions and what they meant. While these may seem trivial and insignificant, to these women they were important topics of conversation that brought considerable pleasure.

After a while, Yumi stopped looking like a sister caring for her baby brother, and she no longer sounded like one. The proper, steady, and absorbed way she held him put everyone’s mind at ease; she was so tightly bound to the baby that nothing else seemed to matter. In a word, Yumi exuded the air of a young mother, which caused Little Eight to get his kinship wrong, for as long as his belly was full he refused to cling to Shi Guifang. His dark eyes were always fixed on Yumi, and though his focused gaze may not have held any particular meaning, he never let her out of his sight. After gazing down at Little Eight for a while, she too would sometimes slip into a sort of trance for no apparent reason other than a yearning for her own marriage. At moments like that she easily lapsed into daydreams, planning her own future in a vacuum. But she remained single nonetheless.

The village was home to a few passable young men, none of whom she considered to be a good match, who clammed up if she approached when they were talking to other girls. Their eyes darted around in their sockets like startled fish. This always saddened Yumi and made her feel lonely. She believed the old people when they said that a door’s high threshold has its virtues and its vices. Several of the girls her age who had been spoken for would sneak around cutting out shoe soles for their future husbands, and when Yumi spotted them doing this, instead of laughing at them, she’d steal a glance at the size of the soles and guess the boy’s height. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, the girls never gloated in front of her; in fact, they felt inferior.

“This is the best we can do,” they’d say. “Who knows what grand family Yumi will find.”

Encouraging talk like that secretly reinforced Yumi’s belief that she was slated to have a brighter future than any of them. But when nothing came of it, her happiness seemed like a bamboo basket: Its holes were revealed when it was taken out of the water. At such times, strands of sadness would inevitably wrap themselves around her heart. Fortunately, Yumi was not overly anxious; these were only idle thoughts. Such thoughts are sometimes bitter and sometimes sweet.

Yumi’s mother grew lazier by the day. The physical toll of childbirth had undeniably affected her vitality. But it was one thing to hand Little Eight over to Yumi, and yet another to turn the whole household over to her. What does a woman live for anyway? Isn’t it to run a household? If she shuns even the authority to do that, what besides a rotten egg with a watery yolk is she? But there were no complaints from Yumi, who was content with the way things were. When a girl learns to care for a baby and take charge of a household, she can wake up that first morning after her wedding day fully prepared to be a competent wife and a good daughter-in-law, someone who need not be in constant fear of what her mother-in-law thinks. There was another reason Yumi liked the new arrangement: her sisters—Yusui, Yuxiu, Yuying, Yuye, Yumiao, and Yuyang—had never before bowed to her authority, though they all called her eldest sister. The second girl, Yusui, was slightly simpleminded, so there was no need to worry about her. The key figure was number three, Yuxiu, who had carved out her own territory at home and in the village, employing her intelligence and her native ability to please people. And there was more: Yuxiu, who had large, double-fold eyes, fair skin, and a pretty face, could be cunning when she needed to be. Even a minor slight might send her into their father’s arms to pout. Yumi could never bring herself to do that, which was why their father favored Yuxiu. But now everything had changed. Yumi not only took care of Little Eight, she had also been given charge of the household and had assumed the responsibility for keeping her sisters in line. This would not have been the case if their mother had not relinquished her authority; but now that she had, Yumi, as the eldest, was in charge. That’s the way it always is.

The first sign of Yumi’s authority surfaced at the lunch table one day. Yumi did not possess innate authority, but authority is something you can take in your hand and squeeze till it sweats and sprouts five fingers that can be balled into a fist. Their father had gone to a meeting at the commune, and the fact that she chose this moment to strike showed how shrewd Yumi was. That morning she had fried a new batch of sunflower seeds for their mother and, just before lunch, had fetched water to wash the dishes. She worked quietly, but a well laid-out plan had formed in her head. At mealtimes there were always so many people around the table that their mother had to keep after everyone to eat or the meal would drag on forever, making it impossible to clear the table. Squabbles inevitably resulted. Having made up her mind to follow her mother’s example, Yumi decided that the lunch table was where it would all start. And so it did. With a glance at Shi Guifang, she said, “Hurry up, Mother. I fried some sunflower seeds and put them in the cupboard.” Then she tapped her chopsticks against her rice bowl and shouted, “Come on, girls, eat up so I can do the dishes. Hurry up and finish your rice.” That was how their mother had always done it—tap on the rice bowl and shout at the girls. Yumi’s urging produced results and the speed picked up around the table. But not for Yuxiu, who actually began chewing more slowly—damned haughty and damned pretty. Taking her seventh sister, Yuyang, in her arms and picking up the little girl’s rice bowl, Yumi began feeding her. After spooning in a few mouthfuls, she said, “Are you planning to do the dishes, Yuxiu?” She neither looked up nor raised her voice, but the implied threat was unmistakable.

Yuxiu stopped chewing and put down her rice bowl. “I’m waiting for Father.”

No reaction from Yumi, who finished feeding Yuyang and started clearing the table. When she came to Yuxiu she picked up her sister’s rice bowl and dumped the contents into the dog’s bowl. Yuxiu backed away against the bedroom door and eyed Yumi without a word. The haughty look remained, but the younger sisters could tell that something was different somehow, and that Yuxiu wasn’t nearly as pretty as before.

Rather than wage open warfare with Yumi at the dinner table that night, Yuxiu simply refused to speak to her. But Yumi had only to note how quickly Yuxiu was eating her congee to get a sense of what her sister was up to. Yuxiu, of course, was not about to submit easily, so she began acting up, tangling her chopsticks with those of the fourth girl, Yuying. Knowing what was going on, Yumi ignored her. Acting up like that, she knew, was a sign of desperation; Yuxiu was losing steam and needed to vent her frustration. Yuying smacked Yuxiu’s chopsticks out of her hand and onto the floor, refusing to be bullied by her older sister. Calmly, Yumi laid down her bowl, picked up Yuxiu’s chopsticks, and stirred them in her own congee to clean them before handing them back. Then she gently scolded Yuying: “Yuying, don’t fight with your third sister.” By referring to Yuxiu as third sister in front of the others she underscored the family’s prized hierarchy. Now that Yuxiu was pacified, she looked pretty again. Someone had to be blamed for the incident, and that someone was Yuying, even though Yumi knew it was not her fault. But someone had to suffer an injustice to achieve a balance between two contending forces.

Yumi noticed out of the corner of her eye that Yuxiu was the first to finish her dinner. This time the cunning sister, the fox spirit, had lost her bluster. Fox spirits are known for running wild, but they have their failings. One, they’re lazy, and two, they tend to pick on those weaker than they. All fox spirits are like that. If someone can tolerate those two attributes, foxes are easy to keep in line. Yumi only wanted her sister to obey her once; if she did, she’d do it again and then again. After three times, obedience would become second nature. The first time was the key. Authority is achieved when others obey you, and it manifests itself in a demand for obedience. Having vanquished Yuxiu, Yumi knew that she was now in charge of the household, an awareness that delighted her as she did the dishes. Naturally, she did not show it. Transferring what is in your heart to your face is a recipe for disaster.

Yumi had lost a lot of weight by the time the second lunar month, solar March, rolled around, and she roamed the village with Wang Hongbing in her arms. She would never call him Little Eight in front of anyone but her family; she always called him Wang Hongbing in public. Village boys normally did not hear their given names except from their teachers. But Yumi called her toothless little baby brother by his full name, investing him with a serious, more formal aura, thus distinguishing him from the sons of other families and placing him above all others. With the baby in her arms, she talked and looked like a seasoned mother, something she had learned from the young mothers on the streets, in the fields, and on the threshing ground. It was not something she came to instinctively; being highly focused, she made sure she perfected anything new before actually putting it into practice. And though she was still young, she differed from the chatty, sometimes sloppy young mothers she met, and she always looked good with her little brother in her arms. She had her own style, her unique inventions. The way she cared for the baby impressed the village women. But what they focused on was not how capably she carried her brother; rather they talked about how precocious she was and what a good girl she’d turned out to be.

But then the village women detected something new as Yumi carried Wang Hongbing around the village. Something that went beyond just caring for the baby, something far more significant. As she chatted with the village women, she’d casually take Hongbing over to the houses of the women who had slept with her father. Once there, she’d stand outside the door for a long time. This was a way to win back her mother’s dignity. But Fuguang’s wife was oblivious to Yumi’s hidden purpose when the girl showed up at her door one day. Without thinking, she reached out to take the baby from Yumi, even referring to herself as aunty.

“Here, let aunty hold you. How would that be?” she asked.

Yumi kept chatting with the others, treating Fuguang’s wife as if she weren’t there, all the while tightening her grip on her brother. After two failed attempts to take the baby, Fuguang’s wife realized that Yumi would not loosen her hold. But with all those people standing around in front of her house, the humiliation was intolerable. So she brought little Hongbing’s hand up to her lips as if it smelled wonderful and tasted even better. Snatching the little hand away from the woman, Yumi licked every finger clean and spat at Fuguang’s door before turning to scold Hongbing: “How filthy!” Hongbing laughed so hard his gums showed. Fuguang’s wife paled with shock. She could say nothing, nor could the other women, who all knew Yumi’s intentions.

Yumi stood in front of one door after another, exposing and warning the women inside, sparing none of them. The mere sight of her threw a fright into anyone who had slept with Wang Lianfang, and her silent accusations were more terrifying than condemnations broadcast over a loudspeaker. Without saying a word, she exposed the women’s transgressions little by little and subjected them to terrible humiliation. This proved to be a particularly satisfying and ambitious feat in the eyes of the guiltless women, who were now jealous of Shi Guifang for having such a remarkable daughter. Back home, they scolded their children with more severity than usual, railing against them for being “useless things.”

“Just look at Yumi,” they exclaimed.

They weren’t worried that their children would overlook Yumi’s qualities, but that they would never match up. Also implied in this simple comment was the serious and urgent business of setting up a model for proper living. The village women’s admiration of Yumi grew and grew; on their way home from work or walking down to the pier, they would crowd around her to coddle Wang Hongbing. When they were done, they’d say, “I wonder which lucky woman will get Yumi for a daughter-in-law.” Expressing envy of a nonexistent lucky woman was a roundabout way of flattering Yumi. Since modesty dictated that she not respond, Yumi merely sneaked a look up into the sky, the tip of her nose glowing.

But Yumi was about to be married, and the women were still in the dark. Where did her future in-laws live? As far away as the edge of the sky, yet right in front of their eyes. Peng Family Village, which was about seven li away. And what about “him”? That was just the reverse: right in front of their eyes, yet as far away as the edge of the sky. This was not something Yumi was going to make public.

After the Spring Festival, Wang Lianfang had one more thing to do, and he sought help every time he went to a meeting—Yumi needed a husband. As the girl got older, it became less and less feasible for her to stay in the village. Though anxiety weighed on him, Wang told himself that his daughter must not become just anyone’s wife. Marrying beneath her station would not serve her well; but more important, this would make her parents lose face. Wang hoped to find a match with a young man from an official’s family, one that was naturally powerful and influential. Each time he found a suitable match in a neighboring village, he told Guifang to talk to Yumi, who reacted with bland indifference. Wang could sense that with a father like him, Yumi, a proud and clever girl, had little faith in any man from an official’s family. In the end, it was Secretary Peng from Peng Family Village who suggested the third son of a barrel maker in his village, which nearly ended the conversation, for Wang knew that the “third son” of a “barrel maker” could not possibly amount to much.

“He’s the young man who qualified as an aviator a couple of years ago. There are only four in the county,” Secretary Peng explained. Wang bit down on his lip and made a sucking sound, for that changed everything. With an aviator for a son-in-law it would be as if he himself had flown in an airplane, and whenever he took a piss it would be like a day’s rain. So he handed Yumi’s picture to Peng, who took one look and said, “She’s a real beauty.”

“Actually, the prettiest one is my third daughter,” Wang replied, which elicited a silent laugh from Peng.

“Your third daughter is too young.”

The barrel maker’s third son sent a response, along with his photo, to Secretary Peng, who forwarded them to Wang Lianfang, who then passed them on to his wife; and they ultimately came to rest snugly under Yumi’s pillow. The young man was called Peng Guoliang, a name that made him a true standout. Why? Because Guoliang, which means “pillar of the state,” was appropriate for an aviator. Like a pillar, he was anchored to the ground, but his head was in the sky. An uncommon name. He was not particularly good-looking, at least not in the photo. On the skinny side, he seemed older than his age. He had single-fold eyes with heavy lids and a pronounced squint. They did not appear to be eyes that could find their way home from up in the clouds. His lips were pressed tightly together, too tightly, in fact, for that highlighted his overbite, which was clearly visible even in the frontal shot. But he had posed for the photograph in full uniform at the airfield, which gave him a military air that the average person could not easily envision. The Silver Hawk airplane beside him stirred the imagination further. Despite the deficiencies in Peng Guoliang’s looks, Yumi suffered a loss of pride; her self-esteem tumbled for no obvious reason as she sensed her own inadequacy. The man was, after all, someone who traveled between heaven and earth.

Yumi wished the match could be settled right away.

In his letter Peng Guoliang gave his address, including his unit, a clear indication to Yumi that her response would determine the future course of her life. This was important, and she knew she had to proceed with care. Her first thought was to have a few more photographs taken in town, but she changed her mind when she realized that he must have been happy enough with her looks to send a letter to Secretary Peng. There was no need to do anything more.

The issue now was her letter. Peng Guoliang had been somewhat vague in his, not boastful but certainly not modest. He emphasized only that he “had strong feelings” for his “hometown” and that when he was in his airplane all he wanted to do was “fly back home to be with the people there.” The most revealing line was his positive reaction to Uncle Peng’s suggestion. He wrote that he “would place absolute trust” in “any person Uncle Peng liked.” But he hadn’t stated outright that Yumi was the woman for him. Which meant that she had to skirt the issue as well; being too obvious indicated a lack of class, and that would never do. On the other hand, it would be worse to be overly vague; if he felt she was uninterested, the match would be lost and unsalvageable. Peng Guoliang seemed to be right in front of her eyes, yet truly he was as far away as the edge of the sky. The distance satisfied Yumi’s ego, and yet it brought her sorrow as well.

After much thought, Yumi decided to write a restrained letter. Following a brief and properly worded introduction, she altered her tone.

I definitely am no match [for you].[2] You fly high in the sky and only a fair[y] woman could be a match [for you]. I am not as good as the fair[y] women, nor am I as good-looking.

Her dignity remained intact, since it was natural for a girl to say she was not as pretty as a fairy. She ended the letter.

Now I look up into the sky every day and every night. The sky is always the same, with only the sun during the day and only the moon at night.

At that point the letter took on a sentimental tone. Somehow, an emotional attachment was building inside her, concrete but hard to pinpoint, persistent and tormenting. As she read what she had written, she began to weep silently; she couldn’t help it, for she felt deeply aggrieved, since none of this was what she really wanted to say. She desperately wanted to tell Peng how happy she was about the match. How wonderful it would be if someone could say that to him for her, to let him know how she felt. She sealed and posted the letter, though she was careful to give the return address as: “Wang Family Village Elementary School, care of Miss Gao Suqin.” Yumi was visibly thinner by the time the letter was on its way.

With the arrival of his son, Wang Lianfang felt more at ease with himself. Obviously, he would not be touching Guifang again, so all of his pent-up energy could be devoted to Youqing’s wife. Wang’s extramarital affairs had a long and complicated history that began when Guifang was pregnant with Yumi. Having a pregnant wife is not an easy thing for a man. During the first few weeks of marriage, he and his wife were insatiable and could not wait to turn off the light and jump into bed. But the good times came to an end when she missed her period the second month. She was enormously pleased with herself; lying in bed with her hands clasped over her belly, she announced proudly, “I got pregnant the very first night. It had to be, I just know it. I know I got pregnant our first night.”

Proud, yes, but not so proud that she forgot to announce the implementation of “martial law”: “No more, starting today.” Wang Lianfang frowned in the dark, for he thought getting married meant that he could enjoy sex anytime he wanted. It had never dawned on him that marriage led only to a pregnant wife. When he laid his hand on her belly, he sighed silently, but then his fingers took over and his hand began to move lower and lower. At the last moment, she clutched his hand and squeezed it viciously, a wanton, audacious gesture that signaled her pride of accomplishment. He had a desperate need, but he found no outlet; it was an irrepressible need that grew more urgent the more he tried to suppress it. That went on for more than a week.

Wang never imagined that he would have the audacity to do what he did then. At the brigade office one day, he pushed the bookkeeper to the floor, spread her out, and took her. His eyes must have been red from the urgent need that had been building inside him, although his mind was a total blank at the time. He recalled the details only after the fact, when he picked up a copy of Red Flag and was hit by a shuddering fear. How, in the middle of the day, had he suddenly become possessed by that thought? The bookkeeper, more than ten years his senior, belonged to an older generation, and he was expected to call her aunty. When it was over, she got up, wiped herself off with a rag, pulled up her pants, tied the waistband, straightened her hair, brushed herself off front and back, locked the rag in a drawer, and walked out. Wang found her nonchalance perplexing. He worried that she might kill herself because of what he’d done. If she did, he would definitely lose his job as the commune’s youngest branch secretary. That night he roamed the village till eleven o’clock, keeping his eyes peeled as he searched every corner, his ears pricked for any unexpected sounds. The next day he went to the brigade office at the crack of dawn, where he checked the rafters. Finding no hanging corpse was not reassuring enough. People began to stream in, and when nine o’clock rolled around, in strolled the bookkeeper, polite and cordial as always. Her eyes were not red and puffy, which put Wang enough at ease that he could pass out cigarettes and engage in casual bantering. After a while, she walked up with an account book and a note beneath her finger that said, “Come outside. I want to talk to you.” Since it was a written communication, there was no way to gauge her emotion, and the anxiety that had melted away a short time before came rushing back. His heart was pounding as he watched her walk outside and, looking through the slats in the window, saw her return to her house. Agitated though he was, Wang managed to stay put for ten or fifteen minutes. Then, looking appropriately serious, he took out the Red Flag magazine, rapped the desktop with his finger as a signal for the others to keep at their studies, and walked out the door. He arrived at the bookkeeper’s house alone, where his life as a man truly began. He was not quite a man when he walked through the door, and it was she who taught and guided him to the best times of his life. What kind of husband had he been? There was so much to learn. A battle between the two of them began, one that was drawn-out, difficult, and exhausting, a danger-ridden fight to the bitter end. But they ultimately pulled back from the precipice. He matured quickly, and before long she had nothing more to teach him. Then she looked and sounded terrible; he could even hear her insides collapse and break apart.

Wang Lianfang’s major gain during the battle was the honing of his courage. Actually, he had nothing to fear. Not at all. Nothing bad would happen even if the women did not consent. On this point the bookkeeper had voiced criticism: “Don’t pull down their pants the moment you see them. That makes them seem unwilling.” Shaking that thing between his legs, she examined and criticized it: “You. Don’t you know who you are? Even if they’re unwilling, they need to know you’re the boss. As they say, check the owner before you hit the dog, and if you don’t care about the monk, at least give the Buddha some face.”

There were even more gains to be had from the long, complex struggle that allowed him to see something quite meaningful. In no way an ordinary man, Wang knew something meaningful when he saw it and was expert at discovering the meanings inherent in things. Never content to be just a seed spreader, he saw himself as a propagandist as well, a man who wanted the women in the village to know that every bridegroom was overeager, since foreplay had been alien even to him. Those other men were ignorant of the depth and duration of the struggle or, for that matter, the importance of being thorough. Without Wang, all those women would forever be kept in the dark.

An additional, external factor in the history of Wang’s struggle warrants a brief mention. For a decade or so, Shi Guifang never stopped being pregnant, which meant she was regularly off-limits. She would stand under a tree, one hand on the trunk and the other on her belly, and broadcast her dry heaves throughout the village without a trace of self-awareness. After a decade of this disgusting scene, Wang could hardly bear the ugly sight of her and her dry heaves. She sounded so hollow, so devoid of any viewpoint or stance; and she was oblivious of everything else around her. It was the same every time, embodying the formulaic characteristics of a traditional essay, which displeased Wang immensely. Now Guifang’s only job was to quickly give him a son. But she couldn’t, so what the hell was she dry heaving for? He hated those dry heaves, and the moment he heard one, he’d say, “There she goes again, another report.”

Although he was told “no more” at home, Wang Lianfang did not alter the course of his struggle. And in this regard, Guifang was surprisingly enlightened, unlike many other women, who thought highly of themselves or were simply timid. Wang Yugui’s wife was one of those. Wang Lianfang had slept with her only twice, and she was already displaying a degree of timidity. Standing there naked, with tears and snot flowing, she cupped her breasts, which had now been touched by someone other than her husband, and said, “Secretary, you got what you wanted, so save some, leave a little for my husband.” He laughed at her strange request. Can something like this actually be saved? Besides, why are you covering your breasts? A woman’s bust undergoes several changes: the golden breasts of a maiden, the silver breasts of a wife, and the bitch’s teats of a mother. So what’s she doing cradling those bitch’s teats in the crooks of her arms as if they were gold nuggets? That’ll never do.

Pulling a long face, he said, “Fine with me. There are, after all, new brides every year.” But this woman became a casualty. Even her husband could not get her to have sex with him, and all he could do was beat her to vent his anger. Late at night she was often heard screaming in bed because of Yugui’s fists. Wang Lianfang was finished with her. She’d talked about saving some for Yugui. Apparently she hadn’t.

In more than a decade of dalliances, the Wang Family Village woman who most pleased Wang Lianfang was Youqing’s wife. When he wasn’t dealing with village class issues, she was the subject of all of his thoughts. For him she was a true bodhisattva. In bed it was as if there were no bones in her limp body, which seemed electrically charged. Yes, indeed, he’d found a true bodhisattva. In the spring of 1971, good news cascaded down on Wang like a sow expelling a litter of piglets: first he was given a son, then Yumi found a future husband, and now he was the beneficiary of the spark plug in Youqing’s wife.

Peng Guoliang’s return letter traveled far. First to Wang Family Village Elementary School and then to Gao Suqin before it landed in Yumi’s hand. She was washing diapers at the pier nearest the school when it arrived. In the past she had done the washing at the pier near her house, but that had changed, for once a girl has something on her mind, she prefers doing things away from home. With her back bent, she scrubbed the diapers, each of them soft and pale as if they were burdened with worry. As her hands busied themselves with work, Yumi’s mind was consumed by Peng’s return letter and what it might reveal. She tried to predict what he would say to her, but of course, she couldn’t imagine the future. That brought her no small measure of sadness, for in the end, her fate was in the hands of someone whose inclinations remained a mystery.

And then Gao Suqin came out to wash some clothes. With a wooden bucket on her hip, she negotiated the stone steps, one slow step at a time, looking like someone in possession of rare knowledge. The sight threw Yumi into a minor panic, as if her teacher had a hold over her. But Gao looked down and simply smiled. Yumi sensed what was about to happen, though the smile was only a prelude to silence. So, it appeared, nothing was about to happen after all. What a disappointment. Yumi could only smile back. What else could she do? In fact, Yumi admired and respected Gao Suqin more than anyone she knew. Gao could speak standard Mandarin, and she turned the classroom into a giant radio, reciting lessons from inside and sending standard Chinese words out the window. She could also demonstrate complex math solutions on the blackboard. Yumi once saw her write out a long math problem that included addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division signs, as well as parentheses and brackets. One step at a time, she drew seven or eight equal signs before producing the solution, a zero.

“Why teach something like that?” Third Aunt commented. “After all that trouble, you’re left with nothing, not even a fart.”

“What do you mean nothing?” Yumi replied. “There’s a zero, isn’t there?”

“All right then, tell me how much is a zero.”

“Zero is something. It’s the solution to a math problem.”

Now Gao was squatting beside Yumi and smiling, which turned the wrinkles in her face to parentheses and brackets. Yumi wondered what she was adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing, and whether the solution might also be a zero.

Finally Gao Suqin spoke. “Yumi, how can you treat this so calmly?”

The question nearly sent Yumi’s heart up into her throat, but she pretended not to have understood. She swallowed and said, “Treat what?”

Still smiling, Gao Suqin lifted a piece of laundry out of the water, straightened up, and shook the water off her hands before slipping her thumb and index finger into her pocket to extract something—an envelope. Yumi blanched.

“Our second child is too young to know that he shouldn’t open the letter, but I assure you I didn’t read a word of it.” She handed Yumi the letter, which had indeed been opened. Too stunned, embarrassed, and outraged to say anything, Yumi rubbed her hands back and forth against her pant legs before taking the letter. Her fingers fluttered as if they had grown feathers. She could barely contain the sense of pleasure that this surprise had brought her, and yet profound disappointment seeped into her bones, for her prized letter had been opened by somebody else.

Yumi walked up the bank and turned her back to Gao to read the letter twice. Peng Guoliang had called her “Comrade Wang Yumi,” a formal and lofty term of which she felt utterly unworthy. No one had ever used such a ceremonial term of address for her, and it gave her an indescribable, almost sacred sense of self-esteem. Her breathing quickened at the sight of the term “Comrade” and her blouse rippled outward with the expansion of her chest. Peng’s letter then described his mission in life—to protect the blue skies above the motherland and struggle against all imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries.

By this time Yumi was barely able to stand and was on the verge of collapse from sheer joy. The skies had always been too far off to have any consequence in her life, but now things were different, for the skies were tightly bound up with and became part of her. In her mind, the blue sky now stretched far and wide until she merged with it. But the greatest impact on her came from the phrase “struggle against the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries,” written so casually and yet carrying such bullish force. Those imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries were not everyday landlords or rich peasants; no, they were too distant, too powerful, and too elevated—visible and yet unfathomable, mysterious and unidentifiable. Just listen to the words—imperialists, revisionists, reactionaries. Without an airplane, you could dine on healthy meals of fish and meat all your life and still not know where to find these imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries.

Peng’s letter was all but filled with ideals and vows, with determination and hatred, but toward the end, the tone changed and he abruptly asked:

Are you willing to be with me, hand in hand, in my struggle against the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries?

Yumi felt as if she had been dazed by a silent, staggering blow. Gone was that feeling of sacredness as her romantic feelings began to grow, little by little, then swelling into a surging torrent of emotion. The words “hand in hand” were a club, a rolling pin perhaps, pressing down her passive yet willing body each time she read the letter, flattening her out, causing her to grow increasingly light and thin.

Her face paled as she leaned against a tree trunk for support, drained of energy and finding it hard to breathe. Peng had finally broached the subject, and now the matter of her marriage was settled. The thought sent tears down her cheeks. With the icy palms of her hands, she brushed the hot tears toward her ears, but her face would not dry; more tears replaced the ones that had just been wiped away—over and over and over. Finally she gave up, crouched down, buried her face in her hands, and abandoned herself to fervent sobs that evoked a sense of joy mixed with uncertainty.

Gao Suqin, her clothes rinsed, hoisted her bucket onto her hip and moved behind Yumi.

“Enough, Yumi. Just look at yourself.” Then she pointed to the river with her pursed lips. “Look, Yumi, your bucket is floating away.”

Yumi stood up and gazed without actually seeing the bucket that had floated ten or fifteen yards down the river. She stood there, frozen.

“Go get it,” Gao Suqin said. “If you don’t hurry, you won’t retrieve it even in an airplane.” Finally regaining her senses, Yumi ran down the riverbank, chasing the wind and waves.

News of Yumi’s impending marriage had spread through the village by that night and quickly became the sole topic of conversation. Yumi had found an aviator whose job was to fight the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries. The villagers had known that a girl like her would land a good husband, but an aviator went beyond their wildest predictions. On that night there was an airplane in the mind of every girl and boy, a palm-size airplane that flickered in the distant sky, dragging a long contrail behind it. This was an astounding development. Only an airplane can fly in the blue sky, of course. Otherwise, why not try to fly an old sow or an old bull? Neither a sow nor a bull could ever rise up and soar in the clouds and be so far off that it was only the size of a palm. Impossible to imagine. The airplane not only changed Yumi, but it also changed her father. Wang Lianfang had been invested with certain powers, but they were limited to events on terra firma. Now happenings in the sky also fell under his jurisdiction. Wang Lianfang had connections in the commune, in the county government, and now in the sky as well. He was omnipotent.

As Yumi’s man was more than a thousand li away, her romance took on the unusual aura of traversing a thousand mountains and crossing ten thousand streams; this made the relationship especially moving in the eyes of others. The two began a correspondence. Exchanging letters differs from face-to-face meetings, and while it may be exhaustive and precise, it is reminiscent of the old convention that a man and woman should avoid direct contact. And so, via the posting and receiving of letters, their relationship encompassed elegance and refinement. After all, black ink on white paper constituted their courtship, created by various strokes of a pen; and the villagers found that charming. For most of them, Yumi’s was a true romance—a model but also impossible to imitate. In a word, her romance was beyond the reach of everyone else.

But they were wrong. No one knew how much Yumi suffered. She could not do without those letters, but they brought her much anxiety day and night. They became a secret torment. She had completed the elementary level of primary school and would have continued on to the advanced level and, had there been one in the village, to middle school. There was neither. So she’d had only three years of schooling at the elementary level, which meant only two years’ instruction in reading.

In those years, Yumi did well in most things, but the act of writing was hard for her. And no one could have anticipated the possibility that her courtship would be carried on via the written word. One after another the letters arrived from Peng Guoliang, each one creating a need for a response, making a difficult task even more so for Yumi, an introverted young woman who, like all such women, possessed a second pair of eyes that looked inward. These inward-looking eyes illuminated every corner of her heart with extraordinary clarity. But her problem was that she could not transfer the contents of her heart onto a sheet of paper. She simply couldn’t. No sentence, no word, afforded her the opportunity to say what she wanted to say. And there was no one she could ask for help. Anguished, she could only cry.

If only Peng Guoliang could be there beside her, she wouldn’t need words. She could talk to him with her eyes or with her fingers, or even with her silhouette. But since that was not possible, she could only bury the imagined face-to-face meeting in her heart and restrain herself. Tender feelings filled her breast like moonbeams that blanketed and illuminated a courtyard. Reaching out with her hand, she created a shadow. But she could not grab hold of these moonbeams. She tried, but when she opened her hand, all that remained were her five fingers. The moonbeams resisted all attempts to fit into a letter.

Yumi sneaked Yuye’s New China Dictionary out of the room. But what good would that do, since she didn’t know how to use it? All those unfamiliar words were like schooling fish—knowing they were just beneath the surface did not help her find the ones she wanted. It was hard, nerve-racking work. She rapped herself on the forehead. What’s the word I want? Where do I find it? All those missing words held her back. When they simply would not come, she stared at her paper and pen, and fell into despair. Everything she wanted to say turned to tears. With her hands clasped in front of her, she pleaded, “Why won’t the heavens take pity on me? Please, please, take pity on me.”

Yumi picked up Wang Hongbing and went for a walk, unable to abide another minute in the house, where she was tormented by the unrelenting thought of writing a letter. Her mind was in a fog, her energy depleted. Romance—just what is it? The concept evaded her, and all she could do was talk to Peng Guoliang in her heart. Even then, the finest words she could imagine could not be transferred onto paper. They clogged her heart, bringing only pain. She felt trapped, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was awash in a turmoil caused by sadness, anxiety, oppression, and exhaustion. Fortunately, Yumi was gifted with an extraordinary ability to hold things inside. No one knew what she was going through, even though she grew more gaunt every day.

With Hongbing in her arms, Yumi arrived at the home of Zhang Rujun, whose wife had given birth to a baby—a boy—the year before. They had much to talk about. Rujun’s wife, who suffered from an eye problem, was not a pretty woman and thus held no attraction for Yumi’s father, a Party secretary. Yumi was sure of that.

Which women her father was involved with, and when, never escaped Yumi’s sharp eye. Any woman who treated her with uncommon courtesy immediately put her on alert. She’d had a lot of that. Behind it lay guilt and flattery, an appearance of warmth that masked a sense of dread. The courtesy would be accompanied by the nervous running of fingers through hair. But the real proof was in the eyes, which darted around as if wanting to take in everything while daring to look at nothing, like those of a cornered rat. Go ahead, be as courteous as you like, Yumi would think, you shameless slut. All those nice manners do not alter the fact that you’re a trollop, cheap goods. No friendly look from Yumi ever greeted those women. The funny thing was, the more obvious Yumi’s frosty look, the more polite the women became; that, in turn, only increased the intensity of Yumi’s look. You deserve nothing less, you stinking whore. All good-looking women are trash. If Wang Lianfang hadn’t emptied his virility into their bodies, Mama would not have had so many girls. As for Yuxiu, the pretty daughter, Yumi predicted that she’d one day be unable to keep her belt on snugly as well, even though she was Yumi’s natural sister.

Rujun’s wife was different. She was not pretty, but she was a person of substance; her every action befitted a true woman. She conducted herself in an appropriate, tasteful manner, and her eyes never betrayed a hint of evasiveness. She was not an ignorant woman, which was why Yumi found it so easy to talk to her. But there was another reason why Yumi treated her so well: Her husband was a Zhang, not a Wang. All the residents of Wang Family Village shared one of two surnames: Wang or Zhang. Yumi’s grandfather had told her of the fierce enmity between the two clans, an entrenched hatred that had led to many fights and at least a few deaths. One evening, when Wang Lianfang was home drinking with some village cadres, the name Zhang came up, sparking him to pound the table. “Two surnames isn’t the problem,” he said. “We’re talking about two distinct classes.”

Yumi, who happened to be in the kitchen lighting a fire in the stove, heard every word. Currently the two clans lived in peace and enjoyed an atmosphere of relative tranquillity with no outward signs of discord. And yet people had died in the past, a fact that could not be brushed away. The dead had borne their rage into the grave, and one day it would sprout anew. However placid things seemed, however harmonious the surface or calm the winds, a powerful undercurrent of hostility lay hidden deep in the hearts of the Zhang clan. They always addressed Yumi’s father as Secretary Wang, but just because the enmity was not in full view did not negate its existence. If every important matter were out in the open, people would not be people; they’d be more like pigs and dogs. And so Yumi used the more common forms of address with members of the Wang clan, reserving such intimate terms as “sister” and “aunty” for members of the Zhang clan. She kept outsiders close, like family, precisely because they couldn’t be trusted like family.

Cradling her baby brother, Yumi had a casual conversation with Sister Zhang just inside the gate. Rujun’s wife, who had been holding her own son when she spotted Yumi, quickly carried the boy inside and returned with a stool. She reached out to take Hongbing. “A change will do you good,” she said when Yumi held back. “Food from a neighbor’s pot always tastes better.”

Yumi sat down and glanced at the end of the lane. That glance did not escape Rujun’s wife, who knew that the visit, like others in recent days, had more to do with where she lived than who she was, for her house was an ideal vantage point to spot the arrival of the postman. She did not, however, let on and chose instead to sing the praises of little Wang Hongbing. There are countless ways to make a mistake; heaping praise on someone’s child is not one of them. She and her visitor had been chatting about a variety of things for a while, when Rujun’s wife saw Yumi sit up tall and peer over her head. Knowing that someone was coming their way, Rujun’s wife lowered her head and listened carefully.

When the familiar sound of a bicycle chain did not materialize, she knew it wasn’t the postman. No need to be concerned. Suddenly laughter erupted behind her, so Rujun’s wife turned to see who was coming. It was a clutch of youngsters, their heads bunched together as they fought to peek at something. They were as excited as if they’d seen a table groaning with food. Slowly they approached Rujun’s house as Jianguo, called Little Five, looked up and spotted Yumi. He waved and shouted, “Come here, Yumi, it’s a letter from Peng Guoliang.”

Not sure if she should believe him, Yumi went up to Little Five. Excitedly, he held an envelope out to her with one hand and a letter with the other. A quick glance satisfied her that it was Peng Guoliang’s handwriting. It was her letter, a letter from her aviator. The blood rushed to her head. Beside herself with embarrassment, she felt as if she were being paraded through town naked. “I don’t want it,” she shouted. As soon as Little Five saw the look on her face, he folded the letter, stuffed it into the envelope, and licked the flap closed before holding it out to her. She knocked it out of his hand. He bent down, picked it up, and said, “It’s yours, honest. It’s to you from Peng Guoliang.”

This time Yumi snatched it out of his hand and flung it to the ground. “You and your whole family can drop dead,” she said, stunning everyone standing in the lane. This was not the Yumi they knew. They had never seen her blow up like this. It was serious. Uncle Pockface, who lived in the lane, heard the disturbance and came over, holding one finger in the air. With an angry look, he walked up to Little Five, bent down, and picked up the letter.

“Spit’s no good. See, it’s open again.”

He sealed the envelope with pasty kernels of rice and held it out to Yumi. “Now that’s taken care of,” he said.

“But they all read it!”

Uncle Pockface laughed. “My son Xingwang is in the army, and when he writes home, I have to ask someone to read his letter for me.”

Speechless, Yumi just trembled.

“You can have the nicest clothes in the world, but when you put them on, people will see them,” Uncle Pockface said. Somehow that made perfect sense. He smiled, his eyes turned to slits, and the pockmarks on his face went from round to oval. But Yumi’s heart was in shreds. Gao Suqin had opened two of Yumi’s letters, so Yumi had asked Peng Guoliang to stop writing to her care of her teacher. What good had that done? In recent days people had mentioned all kinds of peculiar things to her, some of which sounded suspiciously like what had been in his letters. At first, she’d thought she was being overly sensitive, but not now. The whole village was reading his letters before they reached her. Why wear clothes if people’s eyes seemed to be growing out of her navel? Everything about her, it seemed, was an open secret. After his attempt to make her feel better, Uncle Pockface went home. But by then, Yumi’s face was drained of color and two lines of tears glistened in the sunlight like long, shiny scars. Rujun’s wife, who had witnessed it all, did not know what to do and was suddenly fearful. For some strange reason, she opened her blouse, freed one of her breasts, and stuck the nipple in Wang Hongbing’s mouth.

Youqing’s wife had come from Li Ming Village, once known as Willow River Village. The government had renamed it in honor of Li Ming, a villager who had been martyred in 1948. Prior to her arrival in Wang Family Village, Youqing’s wife, whose maiden name was Liu Fenxiang, had earned a reputation as a singer who could reach even the highest notes. The natural charm and appeal of her smile allowed her to win over every listener. Her appearance, too, was special. Dark skin enhanced her beauty, which had none of the contrived qualities of city girls. A cleft chin and a perfectly round mole below her mouth and to the right gave her a slightly seductive look. But the real standouts were her eyes. Free of the sluggish, dull look of a country girl, they were lively and expressive, capable of sending suggestive messages as she gazed from side to side.

This, people said, was a bad habit she’d picked up performing in a propaganda troupe. Liu Fenxiang would shut her eyes before she laughed, causing her lashes to flutter briefly. Then she’d open her eyes, cock her head, and laugh. Li Ming villagers summed up her laughter by calling it “a wanton sound and a coquettish look, typical of a low-class woman.” Thus there were two sides to Fenxiang’s renown, one of them, obviously, not good. “She’s a girl you want to avoid,” people said in private. It was an ambiguous comment, with multiple interpretations, a case of “The mutt can’t mount the bitch unless she offers herself up.” In other words, once she got her claws into someone, she could do what she pleased.

There is plenty of talk like that. Everything is fine so long as it remains unspoken; but once it’s out in the open, it gains credibility and can inflict mortal injury. All comments aside, Liu Fenxiang came to Wang Family Village as a bride with child; that was an indisputable fact. Some of the more perceptive women pointed out knowingly, “At least four months along. Just look at her buttocks.” The father’s identity was a mystery, and according to the least-generous view, even she could not be sure. It so happened that during those days Fenxiang had performed with the troupe at all the nearby communes, where men had taken turns pressing down on her body. All that flattening eventually had turned to swelling. That’s a woman for you: Neither her belly nor her mouth can keep secrets. For Liu Fenxiang, her belly was her ruin—and cost her her good name; and Wang Youqing was the beneficiary. When this unexpected good fortune fell from the sky, he could not have been happier.

The wedding arrangements outpaced the swelling of Fenxiang’s belly. They demanded both great speed and steely determination, and took less time to complete than it would to describe them. Word of Wang Youqing’s betrothal didn’t even make the rounds before Liu Fenxiang of Li Ming Village became a Wang Family Village housewife. She arrived without a trousseau; but even if Wang Youqing had been able to afford it, why waste rations on clothes that will fit only for a short while?

In the end, Youqing’s new wife did not deliver the child. After a bad fall she began to bleed, and that night she miscarried. Suspicion—and nothing more concrete than that, since there were no witnesses—arose that her mother-in-law “accidentally bumped her from behind” and sent her tumbling off a footbridge. It happened soon after Fenxiang joined Youqing’s family, on a day when she and her mother-in-law were walking across the bridge, chatting happily like mother and daughter. Just before they reached the riverbank, her mother-in-law stumbled and bumped into her from behind. While the older woman managed to keep her feet, her daughter-in-law landed hard on the riverbank.

Fenxiang spent the next month laid up in bed, lovingly attended by her mother-in-law, who saw to it that she ate a half jin of brown sugar and a whole chicken every day. “Our Fenxiang sprained her hip in the fall,” she told people. She was clever to a fault, and clever people have a common failing: They are given to calling attention to things that are better kept under wraps. Everyone knew that Youqing’s wife was laid up from a miscarriage.

So came the strange consequence that Fenxiang entered the marriage pregnant, but never carried Youqing’s child. Two years had passed since then, and Youqing’s wife’s figure was, if anything, slimmer than ever. Distraught over the lack of a grandchild, Youqing’s mother grumbled in front of her son: “Now I see. This girl does what she shouldn’t do and does not do what she should. Productive outside, lazy at home.”

Stung by the comment, Youqing had no idea how to respond. Basically a decent man, he decided his only recourse was to work harder in bed, giving it his all. His “all” fell short. But his biggest mistake was to repeat what his mother had said. His wife was livid and immediately attributed the comment to her gossipy mother-in-law. Youqing was too simple and too decent to come up with anything that evil, that hurtful. Deeply angered, Fenxiang flung curses at her husband, all indirectly aimed at his mother. And, never one to let a matter drop, she demanded that his mother move out: “It’s her or it’s me, you choose.”

On the day she swept her mother-in-law out of the house, Fenxiang fired a ruthless parting shot: “You old cunt, you’ll never again hold a man between your legs.” Yet, if the truth be known, her mother-in-law’s comment had not been altogether unreasonable. The longer the daughter-in-law went without having a child, the uglier the villagers’ comments grew, many of them aimed at Youqing himself. All mothers come to the defense of their sons, which is why his had complained about her daughter-in-law. “Youqing doesn’t appear to be a virile fellow,” the villagers were saying.

The truth is, Youqing’s wife believed she was incurably barren. But since he had redoubled his efforts in bed, she did not have the heart to tell him. The doctor had made it clear that the miscarriage had done too much damage. But that had not stopped her from trying. She undertook a regimen of herbal preparations, staying with it for nearly four months. Nothing worked, in part because she had an aversion to traditional Chinese medicine—not the taste, but something else. The common practice was to take the dregs of herbal preparations outside and dump them in the middle of a road to be stepped on by passersby, who would crush them into the dirt; then and only then would the treatment prove effective. But Youqing’s wife did not want anyone to know that she was taking the medicine, for that would make her vulnerable to all sorts of gossip. Everything had to be done in secret.

Luckily for her, as the former member of a propaganda troupe, she had promoted the philosophy of materialism and was impervious to the attractions of superstition. She merely dumped the dregs in the river. Her attempts to keep her regimen secret, however, were easily thwarted by the aromas of the herbal concoctions she cooked up, which traveled farther than the smell of an old hen being stewed. The minute she started brewing the herbs, people’s heads would pop up in the yard, and they would slip gazes more lethal than arsenic through the cracks in the doorway. Over time, Youqing’s wife felt more like a sneak thief than a follower of Chinese medicine, which doubled the bitter taste of whatever she was taking. In the end, she gave it up. That sort of bitterness she could do without.

Her affair with Wang Lianfang had not yet begun by the time people started talking about them. It was not until the winter of 1970 that he began climbing onto her body. In the spring of 1971, the affair was still in its early stages. Their first meeting—out on the street—had occurred not long after her brief period of recuperation. Wang’s eyes bespoke compassion, but Youqing’s wife needed only a single glance to know exactly what was on his mind. Men in official positions customarily use a cordial smile as an invitation to sex, and Youqing’s wife knew how to treat men like Wang. She responded with a bashful smile, confident in the knowledge that eventually he would take her to bed. It was a foregone conclusion, one that fit perfectly with the plan already forming in her mind. She would give Youqing a child; one way or another she would have his baby before having sex with Wang Lianfang, which was going to happen sooner or later. But it should be later. Men are like burglars: The easier the entry, the faster the departure. She’d learned this from experience, and the lessons of history must not be forgotten.

Wang Lianfang, on the other hand, was impatient. That became clear to her soon after they met, when he desperately tried to create opportunities to be alone with her. Say what you will, he was not a man given to reckless behavior in public. Cats instinctively wait for nightfall; dogs know to hide in corners. If Wang Lianfang showed up in front of her house, Youqing’s wife would go next door for some boiled water, excitedly and loudly proclaiming, “Well, look who’s come to see us, it’s Party Secretary Wang.” In the face of such excitement, Wang Lianfang had to suppress his anger and react with a warm and friendly smile. By keeping things out in the open, Youqing’s wife differed from the other women, who were almost pathologically cautious. Her way was better, effectively delaying the day when he would mount her and push her head down as a rooster does to a hen.

One day he decided to broach the subject directly: “Youqing is a fool. I wonder if I’ll ever be lucky enough to enjoy the benefits of his sort of dumb luck.” Youqing’s wife felt her heart lurch. She was not unmoved by his comment, but she pretended that she’d missed the obvious and responded in a loud voice that made Wang very nervous. She was careful not to overdo it, since she wanted to keep him on a string and not scare him into retreating. If he lost hope, she would ultimately wind up more hopeless than he. She knew what she was—a lazy woman. Lazy people need someone to depend on. Without that, they are condemned to live out their days in a dreary anticipation of death.

The head of production had assigned Youqing’s wife to the fertilizer detail, a dirty, tiring job that earned relatively few work points. The assignment had been intended as a warning. So, with a rake over her shoulder, she joined a team of men as they headed out to the fields in high spirits. Wang Lianfang was walking toward them, so greetings were exchanged. They’d continued a dozen or so steps past him when Youqing’s wife suddenly turned and caught up with Wang. She reached out to brush some dandruff off his collar and fingered a loose thread. But instead of pulling it out with her hand, she leaned over and bit it off, then knotted it with her tongue and spat it out seductively.

“You don’t look a damned bit like a Party secretary,” she said in a low voice. “Why don’t you go out and rake fertilizer for me?”

It may have been a silly comment, but it had a stunning effect on Wang Lianfang, who was so overjoyed his eyes glazed over.

Needless to say, Youqing’s wife did not work with the fertilizer detail that day. Standing at the head of one row, she took off her green-checked head scarf, scrunched it up in her hands, and said, “This won’t do. I’m heading back.”

Hoisting the rake over her shoulder in full view of the head of production, she took off for home, swishing her hips like a set of tractor tires. No one tried to stop her. Who knew what she’d meant by “This won’t do”? And what was she “heading back” to do?

By this point Youqing’s wife had given up hope. There would be no more pregnancies for her. Youqing, too, had brought his efforts to an end; nothing he had tried worked. Feeling put out and unhappy, he had left for the irrigation site on the day that Wang Lianfang came by at noon. Youqing’s wife had just had a good cry over how badly her life seemed to be turning out. How had it come to this?

“Where did I go wrong?”

She’d had such high hopes, loved being in the spotlight, and was eager to excel, only to see everything turn out horribly, not at all what she’d expected. The future looked dismal. Wang Lianfang walked in with his hands clasped behind his back and shut the door. He stood there looking as if he had already bedded her. Not surprised by his visit, she stood up, thinking she ought to be pleased. He could have just about any woman he wanted, and yet she had been on his mind all along; he clearly liked her.

So why not? He was the best-looking man in Wang Family Village, well dressed, always said the right thing, and had nice, clean teeth that were, she figured, brushed daily. Her shoulders sagged with those thoughts, and she cast a sad look at Wang as tears spilled from her eyes. Slowly she turned and shuffled into the bedroom, where she eased her buttocks down on the edge of the bed. Lowering her head and stretching out her neck, she began to undress. When she was finished, she looked up and said, “All right, come on.”

Youqing’s wife was no ordinary woman; she’d seen a bit of the world and, as such, had no reason to fear Wang Lianfang. This attitude alone was enough to make her superior to other women. Everyone was afraid of Wang, and that’s just the way he wanted it. Their fear was deep-seated, not just an outward performance, which he especially liked. He had ways of dealing with people who felt differently and would not stop working on them until they feared him as much as everyone else did. But the unintended consequence of this inspired fear was that the women he took to bed either shuddered during sex or lay there like dead fish, afraid to move, keeping their arms and legs close to their bodies, as if Wang were a hog butcher. Not much fun in that. But, to his surprise, Youqing’s wife was not the least bit afraid of him and, more to the point, she enjoyed sex.

As soon as it began, she displayed a unique talent for taking the initiative. If it’s wind you want, it’s wind you’ll get, and if you prefer rain, happy to oblige. She did things no one else dared to do and said things no one else was willing to say. She was a wild woman from start to finish, and when it was over, she lay on her side and wept. It was impossible not to feel sorry for her and, at the same time, hunger for more. This was a technique she employed to great effect. She was a cut of meat Wang Lianfang loved to chew on, and he was a man of considerable appetites, which she satisfied.

Utterly spent, Wang Lianfang lay on top of Youqing’s wife and dozed off. When he awoke he saw that he’d left a string of saliva on her cheek. He reached for his overcoat and took a bottle of little white pills from the pocket. Youqing’s wife was impressed with his preparations; obviously, he never fought battles for which he was unprepared. “Try one, my dear,” Wang said with a little laugh. “It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“Not me,” she replied. “I plan to present Wang Family Village with a little Party secretary. You take it.” No one had ever dared talk to Wang Lianfang that way.

“What nerve!” Wang said with another little laugh.

Youqing’s wife turned her head and refused to take the pill, silently commanding Wang to take it instead. With a look of frustration, he did. Then she took one and watched as he spat his into his hand and laughed again. So she puckered her lips and smiled, slowly revealing a little white pill caught between her two front teeth. Wang responded with a happy display of anger, the sort of vexation to which only a man of a certain age has access. “You’re making things hard on me,” he said as he popped his pill in his mouth and swallowed, then opened his mouth wide for inspection. With the tip of her tongue, Youqing’s wife moved the pill back into her mouth, then a gurgle came from her throat. She stuck her tongue out for Wang’s inspection. Her tongue, bright red and nicely pointed at the tip like a skinned fox, moved deftly and mischievously—a bit of sexual provocation. Throwing his arms around her, Wang clamped his teeth on the extended tongue. As she quivered, she knocked the bottle of pills to the floor, where it shattered and sent its contents rolling in all directions. The pills spread like a starry night in summer and the noise gave them both a start.

“Good,” she said, drawing a shout from Wang as he started in again, after which she spat out the pill she’d hidden in her mouth. No need for me to take any of those, she said to herself. I don’t have that kind of luck. The thought saddened her, for it was a miserable acknowledgment that she was not doing right by either herself or her husband. But she forced herself to drive that thought out of her mind and moved in concert with Wang. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she hung on and whispered into his ear, “Be good to me, Lianfang.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said.

Tears formed in her eyes.

“Be good to me, Lianfang.”

“I said I’ll try my best.” They repeated themselves over and over until she was sobbing, so choked up she couldn’t utter a complete sentence. Wang Lianfang was beside himself with joy.

Wang Lianfang had gotten his first taste of what he was after; like a stubborn mule, he circled Youqing’s wife, his millstone. Youqing was usually at the irrigation site, and time was of the essence. But fate controls the affairs of humans, no matter how cleverly they make their plans. What happened one afternoon proves the point: Youqing came home unexpectedly. When he walked in the door he found his wife stark naked, one leg resting on the bed frame and the other dangling over the chamber pot lid. Wang Lianfang, also naked, was standing there, stuck to Youqing’s wife and swollen with arrogance. As he stood in the doorway staring blankly at the scene, Youqing was too stunned to comprehend what was happening. Wang Lianfang abruptly stopped moving and looked over his shoulder. “Youqing,” he said, when he saw who it was, “go outside and rest awhile. I’ll be finished soon, and you can come back.”

Youqing turned and walked out. The bedroom door, the front door, and the gate were all wide open when Wang left. He closed each of them on his way out. That Youqing, he said to himself, doesn’t even know how to close a door.

Liu Fenxiang now became the primary object of Yumi’s attacks. She had become enemy number one. How could Yumi forgive a woman who made her father act like a bridegroom, dutifully shaving and combing his hair every morning before he went out? By then he had all but stopped talking to his wife, and the way he looked at her made Yumi shudder. Shi Guifang, who spent most of every day cracking and eating sunflower seeds in the doorway, no longer looked as if she belonged to the family. As far as Wang Lianfang was concerned, now that she’d given him a son she pretty much ceased to exist. He even started spending the night with Youqing’s wife. Yumi experienced bitter disappointment on behalf of her mother, but she could only stand by and watch. It was not the sort of thing she could talk about. And who was to blame? The slut, that’s who. It was all the doing of that slut. What Yumi felt toward Youqing’s wife went beyond loathing.

Yumi’s feelings toward Youqing’s wife were complex. Admittedly, she hated her, but it was more than that. There was something that set her apart from other women: a strength unknown in the village, something the other women lacked, something they could see but could not describe. Even Wang Lianfang seemed humbled in her presence.

Liu Fenxiang was exceptional; she rose above everyone else. And it was that indescribable something that fed the people’s indignation. There were, for instance, the tone of her voice and the way she smiled when she talked, a mannerism the younger women of the village gradually began to imitate. Though no one pointed it out or called attention to it, it was there, and that characterized the power she possessed. In effect, everyone in the village liked her.

The men had nothing good to say about Fenxiang, but deep down they were fond of her. Their voices changed when they spoke to her, and not even a scolding from their wives made a difference, since it would be forgotten by the next morning. Though she would be the last to admit it, Yumi was jealous. That was why her loathing ran so deep. She wanted nothing more than to carry Wang Hongbing up to Fenxiang’s front door, as she had with the other women; but Youqing’s wife made no attempt to be secretive and even flaunted her relationship with Wang Lianfang. Since she thought nothing of chatting with Wang out on the street, what was to be gained by standing in front of her house? The woman was so brazen it was impossible to shame her; not even the presence of Little Eight could do that.

But Yumi wound up going over to her house anyway. You can’t have children, she said to herself, and that is your weakness. I’ll hit you where it hurts. So, with little Hongbing in her arms, Yumi strolled casually up to Fenxiang’s door, followed by a crowd of women, some with motives, others merely curious. There was tension in the air mixed with excitement. Rather than shut the door and cower inside when she saw Yumi coming, Youqing’s wife strode out confidently. She did not have to try to look calm—she was truly unruffled. The first thing she did was come up and begin talking to some of her visitors. Yumi avoided looking at her, and Fenxiang returned the favor—not even sneaking a glance at the girl. In fact, the first stolen glance came from Yumi. Before Yumi had a chance to say a word, Youqing’s wife was already talking to the other women about Hongbing—mainly about his appearance. She was saying that he had his mother’s mouth and would be better looking if he had his father’s.

It was a provocative move, heaping excessive praise on Wang Lianfang’s mouth. “But he’ll get better looking as he grows up,” she continued. “Boys always take after their mothers when they’re small. Then, after they start to fill out and head toward manhood, they more and more closely resemble their fathers.”

Fenxiang kept talking. “And Hongbing’s ears stick out a little too much.” Yumi did not want to hear any more of that. Actually, if anything, Youqing’s wife’s ears protruded more than the boy’s did, so Yumi turned and said rudely: “Why don’t you go take a look in the mirror.”

It was a comment that would have put another woman to shame, producing an embarrassed look worse than tears. Youqing’s wife acted as if she hadn’t heard. The minute the words were out of her mouth, Yumi knew she’d fallen into the woman’s trap by speaking first.

Youqing’s wife kept talking to the other women and not looking Yumi’s way. “Yumi is such a pretty girl,” she was saying. “Too bad she has such a sharp tongue.”

She hadn’t said that Yumi was a “pretty little thing” or a “pretty youngster.” No, she’d used the slightly more refined “pretty girl,” as if Yumi were a virtual phoenix that had flown out of a chicken coop. She then changed the direction of the conversation by speaking up for Yumi. “If I were Yumi, I’d be the same way.” In the face of such a sincere comment Yumi could say nothing. She already felt like an unmannered shrew. By calling Yumi pretty, Fenxiang settled the matter. Youqing’s wife and one of the other women then turned to an appraisal of Yumi’s sister, Yuxiu, ending with a comment by Youqing’s wife: “Yumi is the graceful sister. Her looks grow on you.” That gave the discussion a note of finality.

Yumi knew that the woman was playing up to her, though Fenxiang’s expression didn’t show it. Not once did she look at Yumi as she spoke, which gave the impression that she was voicing her true feelings. This actually pleased Yumi, but the woman’s tone of voice angered her. She spoke as if she and she alone were the voice of authority, that whatever she said was true and therefore not open to discussion. How could something like that not make Yumi angry? Who did she think she was? She was a rotten plaything, and that was all. With a grunt of disapproval, Yumi asked sarcastically, “Pretty?” She attacked the word with ferocity, investing it with a richness of possibilities yet turning it into a dirty word at the same time and all but exterminating it.

That done, she turned and walked off, leaving a clutch of frustrated women in her wake. This first duel with Youqing’s wife had ended inconclusively with neither emerging as the victor. But, Yumi thought, Time is on my side. You came to the village as a bride, so I’ve got your number. Your pinkie is stuck in the Wang Family Village door, and that is where it’ll stay.

Peng Guoliang had originally planned to return to his ancestral home during the busy summer months. But his grandfather could not wait that long—he stopped breathing shortly after the arrival of spring. As they say, “The road down to Yellow Springs waits for no one.” After receiving a telegram, Peng returned to his village earlier than he’d anticipated. But after he had returned to Peng Family Village, Yumi heard nothing from him. Then, four days after the body had been placed in the coffin and the first seven-day rites were completed, Peng Guoliang removed his mourning garments and sent word that he was coming to meet Yumi. The news threw her into a panic, but it wasn’t Peng’s fault that the visit was unplanned. The problem was, Yumi did not have anything decent to wear. With few choices, she settled on her New Year’s dress. But she’d worn that over a padded jacket, and when she tried it on without the jacket, the dress was much too big and made her look ludicrous and ugly. There was no time to make a new one, for that would require a trip into town to buy fabric. Disconsolate, she was on the verge of tears, but her happiness over the impending visit prevented the tears from flowing—and that depressed her even more.

Yumi was caught off guard when Youqing’s wife stopped her on the street, as if there were no bad blood between them, as if they were meeting for the first time in days and happy to do so.

“You must hate me, Yumi,” she blurted out before Yumi could say a word.

Never expecting the woman to bring it up like that, Yumi was speechless.

What a shameless woman, Yumi said to herself. No one but Fenxiang would say something like that even if they wore their pants over their face to cover their embarrassment.

“How can you dress like that when your aviator is on his way to meet you?” Youqing’s wife asked.

Yumi stared at her, paused, and then said, “I’ll never have to worry about getting married if men find someone like you attractive.” This thoroughly shocked Youqing’s wife. It was such a vicious slap in the face that even Yumi felt she might have gone too far. But how else could she even the score with so shameless a woman?

Youqing’s wife took a cloth bundle out from under her arm and handed it to Yumi. She had, no doubt, prepared a little speech to go with the gift, but Yumi’s comment had so unsettled her she momentarily forgot what she was going to say and she silently thrust the package into Yumi’s hands.

“I wore this when I was with the propaganda troupe,” she said at last. “I don’t have any more use for it.”

This was the last thing Yumi had expected, and it seemed somehow improper. But whatever the woman’s motive, Yumi could not and would not accept the gift. She handed it back unopened. “A woman can be proud, Yumi,” Youqing’s wife said, “but not arrogant. The only opportunity for even the most talented woman lies in marriage. This is yours, so don’t let the opportunity slip through your fingers. You don’t want to wind up like me.”

The reference to marriage as her only opportunity had the desired effect on Yumi. This time Youqing’s wife pressed the bundle into Yumi’s arms and walked off. But she’d only taken four or five steps when she turned and, with tears glistening in her eyes and looking quite heartbroken, smiled sadly. “Don’t wind up like me,” she repeated. This comment surprised Yumi. Suddenly the woman no longer seemed so overbearing. Who’d have thought that she could have such a low opinion of herself? Yumi found it hard to believe that the woman could feel such bitterness, and she nearly softened her attitude toward Fenxiang. The simple act of the woman’s turning back had brought Yumi pain. She had to consider the encounter as a victory, but in a way it was a lackluster one, though she could not have said why. As Yumi stood in the street looking at the bundle in her hands, Youqing’s wife’s words swirled in her head.

Yumi felt like throwing the gift away, but its history as a propaganda troupe costume—even though it had been worn by Youqing’s wife—held a special attraction for her. It was a spring-and-autumn blouse with a turned-down collar and a fitted waistline. Though she and Youqing’s wife had similar figures, the blouse seemed a bit tight in the waist. But when she looked in the mirror, Yumi nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d never looked so good—as pretty as a city girl. Girls in the countryside tend to have bent backs, sunken chests, and prominent hip bones because of the years spent carrying heavy loads on their shoulders. But not Yumi.

Standing straight and tall and graced with a full figure, she was able to wear nice clothing as it was meant to be worn. Her figure and the blouse were complementary—they each improved the other. How does the saying go? “A woman needs her clothes; a horse needs its saddle.”

But the most stunning effect came from the bustline, where the blouse made her natural curves seem more prominent—as if she were wearing nothing at all. Her breasts jutted out as if they were capable of suckling everyone in the village. Liu Fenxiang must have had a lovely figure back then. No matter how hard she tried, Yumi could not keep from imagining what Youqing’s wife had looked like as a young woman. And the images she conjured up were replicated in herself—and that spelled danger. Reluctantly, she took off the blouse and looked at it from all angles as she held it up. She still felt like throwing it away, but she could not bring herself to do so. A sense of self-loathing began to creep in. How, she wondered, could she be so firm in other things, but see her resolve fail over a blouse? I’ll put it aside, she said to herself, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wear it.

Peng Guoliang arrived at Yumi’s door in the company of Party Secretary Peng. When Shi Guifang, who was standing in the doorway as usual, saw Secretary Peng walking up with a young man in uniform, she knew what was happening. Standing up straight after putting away her sunflower seeds, she welcomed them with a ready smile. “Sister-in-law,” Secretary Peng addressed her when he reached the door. Peng Guoliang stood at attention and saluted stiffly. With a wave of her arm, Shi Guifang invited her guests in. Her prospective son-in-law had made a wonderful first impression despite the excessively formal salute. Initially tongue-tied, all Shi Guifang could do was smile. But fortunately for her, as the wife of a Party secretary, she was not easily flustered. She flipped on the PA system. “Wang Lianfang,” she said into the microphone, “please return home at once. The People’s Liberation Army is here.” She repeated the announcement.

The broadcast was an announcement to the whole village. Within minutes, men and women—young and old, tall and short, fat and skinny—crowded around Shi Guifang’s gate. No one needed to be told what she’d meant by announcing the People’s Liberation Army. In time Wang Lianfang appeared, buttoning up his collar as the crowd made room for him to stride energetically up to Secretary Peng. They shook hands.

Peng Guoliang snapped to attention and saluted once again. Wang Lianfang reacted by taking out a pack of cigarettes and handing one to each of his visitors. With yet another snappy salute, the younger man said, “Sir, Peng Guoliang respectfully reports that he does not smoke.”

Wang met the announcement with a laugh. “Good,” he said, “that’s good.” With one courtesy on top of another, the atmosphere seemed formal, tense even. “So, you’re back,” Wang Lianfang said.

“Yes,” Peng Guoliang replied. Even the crowd outside the door appeared affected by the mood inside, for no one said a word. Peng Guoliang had impressed them with his smart salutes, all perfectly executed, smooth but decisive and resolute.

The arrival of Yumi would bring the story to a climax. She was dragged along after the women had taken Wang Hongbing from her and opened a path to her home. This was a scene they had long anticipated, and once it was acted out they could breathe easier. So they walked her home, one step at a time; all she had to do was lean back and let the others do the work. But when she reached her gate, her courage abandoned her, and she refused to take another step. So a couple of the bolder unmarried girls pushed her up until she was standing in front of Peng Guoliang.

The crowd thought that he might actually salute her, but he didn’t. There was total silence. He didn’t salute, and he didn’t snap to attention. He was, in fact, barely able to stand, and he kept opening and shutting his mouth. When Yumi stole a look at him, the expression on his face put her at ease, though she fidgeted bashfully. Beet-red cheeks made her eyes seem darker, highlighting their sparkle as her gaze darted here and there. To the villagers outside the door she was a pitiful sight, and they could hardly believe that the shy girl they were looking at was actually Yumi. In the end, it seemed, she was a girl like any other. So, with a few lusty shouts from the crowd, the climax passed and the tense mood dissipated. Of course they were happy for Peng Guoliang, but mostly they were happy for Yumi.

Wang Lianfang walked out to treat the men in the crowd to cigarettes and even offered one to the son of Zhang Rujun, who was cradled in his mother’s arms, looking foolish as only a baby can. Wang tucked the cigarette behind the boy’s ear. “Take it home and give it to your daddy,” he said. The people had never seen Wang be so cordial; it was almost as if he were joking with them. A chorus of laughter made for a delightful atmosphere before Wang shooed the crowd away and, with a sigh of relief, shut the door behind him.

Shi Guifang sent Peng Guoliang and Yumi into the kitchen to boil some water. As an experienced housewife, she knew the importance of a kitchen to a young couple. First meetings always turned out the same, with a pair of timid, unfamiliar youngsters seated behind the stove, one pumping the bellows while the other added firewood until the heat turned their faces red and slowly loosened them up. So Guifang closed the kitchen door and told Yuying and Yuxiu to go outside. The last thing she wanted was for the other girls to hang around the house. Except for Yumi, not one of her daughters knew how to behave around people.

While Yumi was lighting the fire, Peng Guoliang gave her a second gift. The first gift, in accordance with age-old customs, had to be a bolt of fabric, some knitting yarn, or something along those lines. But he also presented her with a second set of gifts, proving that he was different from others. He gave her a red Hero fountain pen and a bottle of Hero blue-black ink, a pad of forty-weight letter paper, twenty-five envelopes, and a Chairman Mao pin that glowed in the dark. There was a hint of intimacy attached to all of the gifts, each of which also represented a cultured and progressive spirit.

He placed them all on top of the bellows next to his army cap—its star shining bright and deep red. With all these items arrayed on the bellows, silence spoke more loudly than words. Peng Guoliang worked the bellows, each forceful squeeze heating up the fire in the stove. Flames rose into the air like powerful pillars each time he brought his hands together. For her part, Yumi added rice straw to the pillars of fire, moving in concert with Peng Guoliang as if by design and creating a moving tableau.

When the straw fell from the tongs onto the flames, it leaped into the air first, then wilted and turned transparent before finally regaining color, creating both heat and light. Their faces and chests were reddened rhythmically by the flames; the rising and falling of their chests, too, had a rhythmic quality that required some adjustment and extra control. The air was so hot and in such constant oscillation it was as if private suns hung above their heads and all but baked them joyously in a sort of heated tenderness. Their emotions were in chaos, rising and falling in their breasts. There was at least a little confusion, and there was something in the air that could easily have led to tears, here one moment and gone the next. Yumi knew she was in love, and as she gazed into the fire, she could not stop the flow of hot tears. Peng Guoliang noticed, but said nothing. Taking out his handkerchief, he placed it on Yumi’s knee. But instead of using it to dry her tears, she held it up to her nose. It smelled faintly of bath soap and nearly made her cry out loud. She managed to hold back, but that only increased the flow of tears. Up to that moment they had not exchanged a single word and hadn’t touched one another, not even a finger. That suited Yumi perfectly. This is what love is supposed to be, she told herself, quietly sitting close but not touching—remote but in silent harmony. Close at hand, though longing in earnest and calling to mind some distant place—all as it should be.

Yumi’s glance fell on Peng Guoliang’s foot, which she could see was a size forty-two. No question about it. She already knew his sizes, all of them. When a girl falls for a boy, her eyes become a measuring tape. Her gaze stretches out to take measurements and then, when that’s done, snaps right back.

Custom dictated that Peng Guoliang not stay under the same roof with Yumi before she became his wife. But Wang Lianfang was used to breaking rules and was dedicated to transforming social traditions. “You’ll stay here,” he announced, for he took pleasure in seeing Peng Guoliang walk in and out of the yard; his presence created an aura of power around the house and brought Wang high honor.

“It’s not proper,” Shi Guifang said softly.

Wang Lianfang glared at her and said sternly, “That’s metaphysical nonsense.”

So Peng Guoliang took up residence in the Wang home. When he wasn’t eating or sleeping, he spent his time behind the stove with Yumi. What a wonderful spot that was. A sacred spot for village lovers. He and Yumi were talking by this time, though the strain on her was considerable, since words in the standard Beijing dialect kept cropping up in his speech. She loved the way it sounded, even if she didn’t always understand it, because those few added words conjured up distant places, a different world, and were made for talk between lovers. On one particular evening the fire in the belly of the stove slowly died out and darkness crept over them, frightening Yumi. But this sense of fear was augmented with hard-to-describe hope and anxiety. Budding love is cloaked in darkness, since there is no road map to show where it’s headed; neither partner knows how or where to start, which usually makes for awkward situations. Absorbed in this anxiety, they had maintained a respectful distance out of fear of touching each other.

Then Peng Guoliang reached out and took Yumi’s hand. At last they were holding hands. She was a little frightened, but this was what she’d been waiting for. Letting Guoliang hold her hand instilled in her the satisfaction of a job well done. A sigh of relief emanated from the depths of her heart. Strictly speaking, she was not holding his hand; her hand was caught in his. At first his fingers were stiff and unbending, but slowly they came to life, and when that happened, they turned willful, sliding in between hers, only to back out, unhappily, seemingly in failure. But back they came. The sensitive movements of his hand were so new to Yumi that she had trouble breathing. Then, without warning, he put his arms around her and covered her lips with his. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that by the time she realized what was happening, it was too late. But she did manage to keep her lips tightly shut.

Oh, no, he’s kissed me! But then her body felt electrified, and it was as if she were floating on water, wave-tossed, weightless, and buoyant—isolated and completely surrounded. She tried to free herself from Guoliang’s arms, but they only held her more tightly, and she had no choice but to give in. She was gripped by fear, and yet she was still at ease. Yumi knew she could not hold out much longer. Her lips weakened, then parted slightly, cold and quivering. The tremors quickly spread through her body and infected Peng Guoliang. Their two bodies trembled as they pressed together, and the longer they kissed, the more they could not help feeling that they weren’t kissing the right place. They kept trying to find that place, only to fail. All the while their lips were actually right where they were supposed to be. The kiss seemed to last all evening, until Shi Guifang cried out from the courtyard, “Yumi, dinnertime.” Yumi’s acknowledgment of the summons brought the kiss to an end. It took her several moments to catch her breath. She flashed Guoliang a tight-lipped smile to show that their actions had gone unnoticed. They stood up from the pile of kindling straw, but Yumi’s knees buckled, and she nearly fell. She pounded her leg as if it had gone to sleep, telling herself that falling in love was hard work.

Yumi and Guoliang moved out into the open, where they brushed pieces of straw off of each other. She carefully removed every piece from his clothes, no matter how small, making sure that nothing marred his uniform. When she was finished, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, feeling as if she had stored up great quantities of a mysterious liquid that flowed through her body in all directions. She was approaching the point of sentimentality. In her mind she was now his woman. He had kissed her, so she belonged to him, she was his. That does it, she said to herself. Now I’m Guoliang’s wife.

The following afternoon Peng Guoliang reached under Yumi’s blouse. Before she realized what he had in mind, he was already cupping one of her breasts, terrifying her, though the chemise kept his hand from her skin. How daring she felt. They had reached an impasse, but what can stop a hand capable of flying an airplane into the sky? The way Guoliang touched Yumi had her gasping for breath. She threw her arms around him, holding him so tight that she was dangling from his neck, nearly suffocating him. But then his fingers crept under her chemise, and this time there was nothing between his hand and her bare breast. “Don’t. Please don’t,” Yumi pleaded, grabbing his wrist.

His fingers stopped moving, but then he whispered in her ear, “Dear Yumi, I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.” That melted her resolve and saddened her at the same time. She began to weep silently as a cloud of gloom settled over her heart. Within seconds she was crying openly, but managed to choke out, “Elder Brother.” Under normal circumstances she would have never called him that, but now that was what the situation called for. As she released his hand, she said, “Don’t let anything keep you from wanting me, Elder Brother.”

By then he was crying too.

“Dear Little Sister, don’t let anything keep you from wanting me.”

Even though he’d simply echoed her plea, the fact that he’d said it made it sound so much sadder; that worried her. Straightening up, she quietly gave herself to him. He lifted her jacket, exposing nicely rounded, lustrous breasts. Taking the left one in his mouth, he detected a salty taste. Suddenly, Yumi’s mouth fell open as she arched her back and grabbed him by the hair.

Their last night together—Peng Guoliang had to return home early the next day and report back to his unit—they abandoned themselves to desperate kissing and touching, their bodies pressed together, writhing in agony. For days they’d been engaged in alternating attack and defense. Yumi now knew that love was not a matter of words but of deeds, the mouth giving way to the body. From holding hands they had moved to kissing and from there to touching; now the barriers were falling. Yumi advanced cautiously, and Peng Guoliang took advantage of every step to go further as Yumi yielded. She could not have stopped if she’d wanted to, and in truth, she did not want to. Finally, inevitably, Peng Guoliang told Yumi he wanted to “do it.” By then she was close to fainting, but sensing a critical moment, she forced herself to be clearheaded and firm. As she grabbed his wrists, their two pairs of hands pushed and pulled atop Yumi’s belly.

“I’m in agony,” Peng Guoliang pleaded.

“I am too,” Yumi replied.

“Do you know what I mean, dear Little Sister?”

“Of course I know, dear Elder Brother.”

Peng Guoliang was falling apart. So was Yumi, but she was not going to give in this time, no matter what he said. This stronghold could not be breached. It was her last defense. If she was going to hold on to this man, she needed to keep at least one fire of desire burning in him. Wrapping her arms around his head, she kissed his hair and said, “Don’t hate me, Elder Brother.”

“I don’t,” he said.

She was already in tears the next time she said it. “You mustn’t hate me, Elder Brother.”

Peng Guoliang looked up, as if to say something, but all he said was, “Yumi.”

She shook her head.

With one last military salute to Yumi, Peng Guoliang left. His retreating back was like an airplane rising into the clear blue sky, leaving no trace behind. When he disappeared behind an embankment, Yumi’s thoughts scrolled backward.

Peng Guoliang is gone. We just met, just got to know each other, and now he’s gone.

She stood there like a simpleton, but now something was stirring in the pit of her stomach, stronger and stronger, more and more aggressive—a willfulness that was impossible to keep at bay. But there were no tears; her eyes were as empty as the cloudless sky. She hated herself and was filled with heartbreaking regret. She should have said yes, should have given herself to him. How important was keeping that last stronghold from being breached? What was she saving herself for anyway? Who was she saving herself for? If the meat turns mushy in the family pot, what difference does it make which bowl it goes into?

“How could I have been so stupid?” Yumi demanded of herself. “He was in such agony, why did I refuse him?” She looked behind her. The crops were green, the trees dried up, and the roads yellow. “How could I have been so stupid?”

Youqing’s wife had been under the weather for a couple of days. She could not pinpoint the cause, but something was making her listless. So she did the laundry, scrubbing clothes to pass the time. Then she washed the sheets and the pillow covers. And still she wasn’t satisfied, so she dug out her summer sandals and brushed them clean. That done, she suddenly felt lazy, not wanting to move. She was bored. Wang Lianfang wasn’t there. Peng Guoliang had no sooner left than Wang had to attend a meeting. She’d feel better if he were here. Anytime she was restless or bored, going to bed with Wang reenergized her. Youqing had stopped touching her, refusing even to sleep in the same bed. She was shunned by the village women, which left her nothing, nothing but Wang Lianfang. From time to time she was tempted to seduce one of the other men, but that was too risky. Wang was such a jealous lover he frowned if he even saw her having a pleasant conversation with another man. He was, after all, Wang Lianfang. But what does a woman live for? All that makes life interesting is a little pleasurable roughhousing in bed. And it’s not a pleasure she can simply call up whenever she wants. Everything depends on whether or not the man is in the mood.

The sight of all that fresh laundry depressed her even more, since now she had to rinse it out. Too sore at first to bend over, she finally summoned energy from somewhere and carried a few articles of clothing over to the pier. She had barely rinsed the first piece, one of Youqing’s jackets, when she spotted Yumi crossing the concrete bridge, coming her way. One look at her distant gaze and ashen face told her that Yumi had just said good-bye to Peng Guoliang, for she appeared weightless, like a shadow on a wall. It took a special girl not to just go sailing off the bridge into the river.

Yumi cannot go on like this, Youqing’s wife said to herself. It could ruin her health. So she walked up the bank, stood at the foot of the bridge, and greeted Yumi with a smile.

“Gone, is he?”

Yumi looked down, but her gaze was a puff of smoke, ready to be blown away by the first gust of wind. She acknowledged Youqing’s wife despite her callous feelings toward her, nodding as she walked past.

Youqing’s wife wanted to say something to make her feel better, but Yumi was clearly in no mood to accept kind words from her. So she just stood there watching the girl’s back take on the appearance of a moving black hole. Absentmindedly, Youqing’s wife asked herself, Why are you trying to make her feel better? No matter what you say, she’ll soon be an aviator’s wife—the pain of separation eating at her represents something worthwhile, a stroke of luck, a woman’s good fortune. And what do you have? No need to do anything.

After Yumi left, Youqing’s wife ran behind the pigpen, bent over, and retched. It was lumpy and watery; she threw up more than she’d eaten that morning. Then she leaned against the wall of the pen and opened her eyes; dewy tears hung from her lashes. I must be sick, she said to herself. There’s no reason I should be this nauseous. But as she thought back she realized that her discomfort over the past couple of days had been just that: nausea. She bent over again and emptied a puddle of bile. With her eyes closed, she laughed at herself.

You sorry piece of goods, you’re acting like you’re carrying a little Party secretary inside you, she said to herself. It was this self-demeaning comment that got her thinking. Her little relative hadn’t visited her for a couple of months, but she hadn’t given it a thought, hadn’t dared to. She laughed again and said sarcastically to herself, Not a chance. Do you really buy the idea that you’re productive outside and lazy at home?

“Yes,” the doctor said.

“How can that be?” she asked.

He just smiled and said, “I’ve never seen such a woman. Go home and ask your husband.”

So she counted back. Youqing had been at the irrigation site that month. She stared straight ahead. He might be a fool, but he’s no idiot. I can trick heaven over this, and maybe earth as well, but I’ll never trick him. So do I keep it or not? It would be her decision, hers alone.

Youqing’s wife made a bowl of fried rice for her husband and watched him eat. She shut the door, picked up the clothes beater that she kept behind the door, and laid it on the table. “Youqing,” she said, “I’m not barren.” Not understanding what she was trying to say, he kept eating. “Youqing,” she said, “I’m pregnant.” She added, “It’s Wang Lianfang’s.” This time he understood.

“I can’t have another abortion. If I do, that might really keep me from having your child.” She paused. “Youqing, I want to have this one.

“Youqing, if you say no, I’ll die with no complaints.” She looked down at the clothes beater on the table. “If you can’t swallow that, then go ahead, beat me to death.” As he sat there with the last bite of food in his mouth, Youqing banged his chopsticks down on the table. His neck and his gaze were rigid and straight. Then he got to his feet and picked up the beater. His arm was bigger around than the beater and harder. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them again, her husband was gone.

Confused and panic-stricken, she ran out to look for him and found him in her mother-in-law’s shed, where she stood in the doorway and watched as he got down on his knees in front of his mother and said, “I’ve failed my ancestors, I don’t have what other men have.” He still hadn’t swallowed the last mouthful of rice, which now littered the floor around him, yellow and glossy. His wife shivered as she looked into the eyes of her mother-in-law. Then she backed out of the doorway and went home, where she dug an old length of rope out of a basket. After tying a noose, she flung the rope over a roof beam and checked to see if it would hold her weight. Then she climbed onto a stool, looped the noose around her neck, and kicked the stool out from under her.

Youqing’s mother burst into the room. A clever and perceptive woman, she had seen the look in her daughter-in-law’s eyes and had known that something bad was about to happen. Grabbing her daughter-in-law’s legs, she pushed upward. “Youqing,” she shouted. “Hurry. Hurry!”

Youqing stood there in a fog, oblivious to all that had happened over the past few minutes. He just kept looking around, trying to figure out what was going on. Finally, he cut his wife down. His mother shut the front door, then rushed over excitedly, squatted down, and opened her arms. She began slapping her own buttocks, her hands like a pair of magpies.

“I’m glad you’re pregnant,” she said in a soft voice. “Go ahead, have this one. It’s wonderful you’re not barren.”

A spring wind is wild—as a spring wind ought to be. There is an old saying that “A spring wind can cleave rocks, so wear a hat if you don’t want a split forehead.” That, in essence, is the power of a spring wind. Where cold weather is concerned, neither the third nor the fourth nine-day period after the winter solstice ranks as the coldest. For that, one must wait for deep autumn or early spring. The ground splits during the winter months, but since people protect themselves with padded clothing and seldom go out into the fields, the effects of the cold are seldom felt. That is not the case in deep autumn or late spring, when hands and feet have chores to do and cannot be constricted by heavy clothes. The harder the work, the more a person sweats, and thin clothes are the only answer. Winds seldom rise up in deep autumn, but early in the morning and late in the afternoon the ground is covered by chilled dew—a silent cold, but especially bitter. What makes early spring different is the wind. While not particularly biting, it blows with great force; but most important is its patience as it meticulously whistles and howls past every bare branch from morning to night, each limb of a fine tree like a new widow. The chill of an early spring day owes its existence to the unpredictable winds.

The vast fields of wheat were green and appeared full of life. But on closer examination, every shivering tassel gave off an icy chill. In the springtime there is nothing worse than frost. Three frosty days inevitably lead to spring rains; old-timers like to say that “Rains come three days after a frost.” Spring rains are as precious as oil, but only for crops; for humans they are sheer misery. It will rain for days on end. Different from normal rainfalls; not a downpour, but a mist that wraps around you so that you cannot hide. Everything is wet, the air and the ground; even pillows retain a dampness that makes the days cold and dirty.

There was water everywhere in Wang Family Village; moisture filled the air, the wind blew. People went to bed early and slept in late, and those who knew how to economize got by on two meals a day, a tradition passed down by their forebears. During the period between harvests and plantings, they slept a lot, finding hunger easier to stave off horizontally than vertically. With less food in their bellies, it was only natural to slack off, and the pigs in their pens suffered. Unlike humans, pigs were incapable of lying down to sleep when they were hungry. And so they made loud, noisy complaints—ear-assaulting sounds, unlike the happy clucking of chickens and the barking of dogs, which have an almost serene quality, especially from a distance. Those were comforting sounds. But who can stand the noise of pigs when they sound like the transmigrated souls of hungry ghosts? Day in and day out they gave cacophonous voice to their grievances.

No sun in the sky and no moon. Darkness brought tranquillity to Wang Family Village. The sky turned dark, and Wang Family Village was once again stilled.

Then something really big happened.

There had been no warning signs before Wang Lianfang was caught in Qin Hongxia’s bed. Wang Family Village was quiet, all but the sows and boars in their pens, complaining of hunger. Dinners were cooking on stoves whose chimneys sent smoke into the air to merge with the evening fog; steam rose from countless treetops. All in all, it felt like a peaceful night lay ahead until the stillness was shattered when Wang Lianfang and Qin Hongxia were caught in bed, thanks to Qin’s foolish mother-in-law. When it was over, people called her a dimwit, a simple-minded woman. Why all the shouting? Shout if you must, but “Help, murder!”? What was that all about?

If the mother-in-law had been a woman with her head on straight, Wang Lianfang would have gotten away just fine. Unfortunately, he was dealing with a simpleton. Everything was progressing just fine when Qin Hongxia’s mother-in-law began shouting, “Help, murder! Help, murder!” Her shouts traveled far in the moist air and rang clear, alerting neighbors, who picked up whatever was handy and ran into Qin Hongxia’s yard. Her husband, Zhang Changjun, an artilleryman stationed in Henan province, had resolved his organization problem—in other words, his application to join the Party—the year before and was scheduled to be discharged in the fall. Since he was away from home, Qin Hongxia’s neighbors helped out whenever they could, so when her mother-in-law bellowed “Help, murder!,” how could they not come to her rescue? She stood in the middle of the yard, so breathless that she could only point to the window that she’d thrown open. The door, on the other hand, was tightly shut. Neighbors filled the yard. One crept cautiously up to the window, carrying pole in hand, while another, emboldened by the rake he held, kicked the door open. Wang Lianfang and Qin Hongxia were frantically getting dressed, but the way their buttons were misaligned showed that they were wasting their time. Wang tried to appear unruffled, but he’d been caught in the act, and there was no getting out of it. Losing his customary calmness, he took out a pack of Flying Horse cigarettes and said, “Have a cigarette, there’s enough for all of you.”

Did he really think this was the time to smoke?

It was a grim situation. Most of the time, if someone offered Wang a cigarette, he checked the brand before he accepted it. Now here he was offering everyone a Flying Horse, and there were no takers. Yes, a grim situation.

The deathly stillness that night was so acute you’d have thought a murderous rampage had wiped out the village. By that time, Wang Lianfang was in town, standing in front of the commune Party secretary’s desk. Wang Lianfang’s superior was livid. Under ordinary circumstances he and Wang Lianfang had a special relationship, but now he was pounding the table. “What were you thinking?” he roared. “How could you be so stupid?”

Wang Lianfang went soft; his eyes were closed and he was slumping badly.

“Maybe I should be placed on probation,” he said prudently.

That ratcheted up Commune Secretary Wang’s anger. He banged the table again. “Stop mouthing shit,” he shouted. “The wife of a soldier on active duty? This is high voltage stuff! This time the law’s involved.”

The situation had turned even more grim. Wang Lianfang knew instinctively that unless he thought of something quick, the law really would be involved. Nothing had happened to him the first time—or the second, for that matter—but he wouldn’t be so lucky this time. Everything changed when his superior said the law was involved. The commune secretary unbuttoned his tunic and stood with his hands on his hips, his elbows raising the back of the tunic high above his waist. This was how leading officials invariably reacted to a crisis, even in the movies. Wang Lianfang’s eyes were glued to the secretary’s back as he threw open the window and thrust out his arms: “They caught you in the act, so tell me, what am I supposed to do? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Punishment was meted out with the same speed that the incident had been discovered. Wang Lianfang lost both his job and his Party membership. Zhang Weijun took over as branch secretary. Wise decisions across the board. Wang Lianfang met them with silence, and there was nothing members of the Zhang clan could say.

Events followed a logical course, slow when they needed to be and fast when that was required. Wang Lianfang’s family crumbled in a matter of days. On the surface, of course, everything seemed normal: the bricks and tiles remained in place, needles and thread stayed by the bed where they belonged. But Yumi knew that her family had unraveled. Happily, Shi Guifang had said nothing about Wang Lianfang’s affairs from the beginning, not a word. Her only reaction was to dissolve into belches. This time, she had lost face as a woman on two levels, so she took to her bed and slept for days. When she finally got up, she was a study in languor, but not the sort of languor that had followed Little Eight’s birth. That had been accompanied by a sense of pride, for it had been her own doing, happily floating with the current. This time she sailed against the tide, and she had to find the strength to deal with it. That would take hard work and perseverance. Now, when she opened her mouth to speak, a foul odor emerged.

Yumi avoided talking to her mother as much as possible, for whatever Shi Guifang said came out like a belch; obviously, the words had steeped inside her for too long. And Yusui turned out to be a huge disappointment. The little whore was old enough to know better. Yusui actually had the nerve to kick a shuttlecock around with Zhang Weijun’s daughter and made matters worse by losing to a girl who was tiny all over: tiny face, tiny nose and eyes, and thin, haughty lips. The Zhangs were shoddy goods, all of them. And the shuttlecock? A bunch of lousy chicken feathers. Yusui was born to betray her family—why else would she let someone like that beat her? Now Yumi saw her sister’s true character.

Nothing escaped Yumi’s eyes, and she staunchly kept her composure. Even if Peng Guoliang never flew a People’s Liberation Army airplane, she would not stoop to Yusui’s level of contempt. If people look down on you, it’s probably your fault. Since Yumi had found the strength to keep Peng Guoliang from breaching that last stronghold, she had to fear no one; as usual, she spent her days strolling around the village with Wang Hongbing in her arms. She behaved no differently now than when Wang Lianfang had been the local Party secretary.

Yumi found all those foul females beneath contempt. Back when her father was sleeping with them, they were blocks of stinky tofu, ripe to have holes punched in them by a chopstick. But now they were acting like proper ladies, like chunks of braised pork.

The rotten piece of goods Qin Hongxia returned to the village with her child after spending two weeks at her parents’ home. With nice rosy cheeks, she looked as if she’d gone home for a postpartum lying-in. To think she had the nerve to come back at all! The river stretched out in front of her, but she lacked the courage to jump in and wouldn’t even fake an attempt for show. She affected a bashful look as she crossed the bridge, as if all the village men wished they could take her for a wife. Some of the women sneaked a look at Yumi when Qin Hongxia reached the foot of the bridge, and Yumi knew that their eyes were on her. How was she going to deal with this? What was she going to say or do to this woman? As Qin Hongxia passed by, Yumi stood up, switched Wang Hongbing from one arm to the other, and went up to her. “Aunty Hongxia,” she said with a smile, “you’re back, I see.” Everyone heard her. In days past, Yumi had always called Qin Hongxia “Sister,” but now it was “Aunty,” a change pregnant with dark hints that made any response all but impossible. At first the gathered women did not realize what was happening, but one look at Qin Hongxia’s face told them what Yumi was up to. She had mischief in mind, but was clever and experienced enough not to give it away. The way Qin Hongxia smiled at Yumi was unbearably awkward. No woman with a sense of self-awareness would have smiled under those circumstances.

Wang Lianfang decided to learn a trade. After all, he had a family of ten to feed, and from now on, at the end of fall, no more perks would come his way. He lacked the constitution to farm alongside the commune members; but mainly it was a matter of face. He had no illusions about himself. He considered the loss of his position as Party secretary an acceptable price to pay for having slept with so many women. But to start hauling manure with men who had been his underlings—or digging ditches, or planting and harvesting—would have been a crippling disgrace. Learning a trade was the way to go. He gave the matter serious thought. Standing in front of his maps of the world and the People’s Republic of China, a cigarette in one hand, the other resting on his hip, he narrowed his choices to: cooper, butcher, shoemaker, bamboo weaver, blacksmith, painter, coppersmith, tinsmith, carpenter, or mason.

Now it was time to synthesize, compare, analyze, study, choose the refined over the coarse, the honest over the fraudulent, examine things inside and out, and study appearance versus essence. Given his age, his strength, and the prestige factor, he settled on painter. He made a list of the qualities of the trade he found appealing.

1. It’s not a very taxing job, certainly one he could manage.

2. It’s relatively easy to master—how hard can slapping on enough reds and greens to cover wood be?

3. Hardly any capital is involved—all you need is a brush. A carpenter, on the other hand, needs a saw, a plane, an axe, a chisel, a hammer, and dozens of different tools.

4. Once he started work, he’d spend his time outside instead of hanging around the village all day. What he didn’t see couldn’t hurt him, and that would improve his mood.

5. Painting is viewed as a respectable profession. For someone with his background, the villagers would look at him with a jaundiced eye if his job was slaughtering pigs. But not painting houses. Some red here, some green there, and from a distance it might look like he was engaged in propaganda work.

Once he’d made up his mind, he couldn’t help feeling that his plans could properly be classified as being in line with the concept of materialism.

Wang Lianfang hadn’t visited Youqing’s wife for many days—not a long time, but dramatic changes in the situation had occurred. One day, after drowning his sorrows from noon until three in the afternoon, he stood up and decided to get a little exercise on Youqing’s wife’s body before leaving home. He could not be sure if he was still welcome in the beds of the other women, but Youqing’s wife was his private plot, a place where he could always enjoy some of her husband’s dumb luck.

Wang opened the door and walked in as Youqing’s wife was snacking on dried radishes, her back to him. She immediately smelled the liquor on his breath. “Fenxiang,” he said in full voice, “you’re all I have.” However bleak that sounded, she could not help but be moved by it; it had a warm quality. “Fenxiang,” he went on, “the next time I come over you can call me painter Wang.”

She turned to face him and saw that he was not only drunk but also apparently in a terrible mood. She wanted to say something to make him feel better. But what? The incident with Qin Hongxia had cut deeply, yet she could not bear to see Lianfang in such a depressed emotional state. She knew what he’d come for and, if she hadn’t been pregnant, would have been happy to oblige. But not this time. No, not this time. With a stern look, she said, “Lianfang, let’s not do it anymore. I think you’d better go.”

He didn’t hear a word she said. Instead, he went into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed into bed. He waited. “Hey!” he shouted impatiently. He waited a while longer. “Hey!”

Not a sound came from outside the room, and so, holding up his trousers, he went to see what was wrong. Youqing’s wife was long gone. This was not how he’d expected things to turn out.

As he stood there holding his trousers with both hands, cord in place, suddenly sober, he realized how quickly human relations can change. All right, he said to himself, I see you’ve decided to erect a chastity archway for yourself at this particular moment, not a day earlier or a day later. Well, that’s fine with me.

“Shit!” he cursed with a sneer as he walked back into the bedroom.

He stripped again and climbed into bed, where he began singing a revolutionary opera at the top of his lungs. It was Shajiabang. He sang all the parts—Aunty A-qing, Hu Chuankui, and Diao Deyi. His voice was rough and loud until he came to Aunty A-qing’s part, which he sang in a tinny falsetto. Unable to hit the high notes, he switched to Hu Chuankui’s male role. The entire village could hear Wang’s operatic offerings, but no one came over; instead they acted as if they hadn’t heard a thing. Wang transported an entire act to Youqing’s bed, every word of it, with no mistakes. After the final scene, he imitated the sounds of drums and gongs, put on his clothes, and left.

Youqing’s wife had been hiding behind the kitchen door the whole time, so amazed and frightened by what Wang Lianfang was doing that she could hardly breathe. Once she’d managed to calm down, she was struck by a bone-chilling sadness, overcome by feelings that for the past six months she’d lived the life of a lowly dog. Her fingers and toes felt uncommonly cold as she rested her hands on her belly, wishing she could somehow dig what was in there out with her fingers.

No, she’d never do that. She shivered and looked down at her belly. “You bastard,” she said, “you mangy bastard, mangy bastard, lousy mangy bastard!”

At the age of forty-two, Wang Lianfang left home to learn a trade, leaving the family in the hands of Yumi. It was a daunting responsibility, and she suddenly understood the saying that “Only the head of a household realizes the true cost of rice and kindling.” The large issues are hard on the head of the household, of course, but so are the small ones, which can be trivial, bothersome, fragmentary, and piddling, but cannot be avoided and must be met head-on. Dismissing them with a pat on the behind simply won’t cut it. Take Yuye, for instance, a girl not yet eleven, who only days before had broken a window at school. The teacher demanded to speak with the head of the household. Then on the heels of that incident, Yuye knocked over a classmate’s inkwell and splashed ink all over the girl’s face; again the call went out to the head of the household. None of this seemed like a big deal to Yuye, who wasn’t much of a talker, but thanks to busy hands and feet, frequently got mixed up in all sorts of trouble. In the past, the teachers might have given Yuye the benefit of the doubt, since there are two sides to every issue. But now her teacher was caught in a bind. Yumi was summoned to school as head of the household. She didn’t say much after the first incident, just nodded when she heard the story, then went home and got ten eggs, which she took back and placed on the teacher’s desk. The second time she was sent for, she grabbed Yuye by the ear when she heard what had happened and dragged her over to the office, where she gave her sister a resounding slap in front of all the teachers. Yuye’s cheek swelled up and twisted her face out of shape. This time, instead of eggs, Yumi went into the sty, selected a white Yorkshire hog, and took it to school. With this escalation, the principal now got involved.

The principal, who was an old friend of Wang Lianfang, looked first at the teacher and then at Yumi, and did not know what to say to keep from offending either one. So he looked down at the hog and laughed. “Yumi,” he said, “what’s this all about? Are you enrolling him in gym class?” Then he turned to the janitor and gestured for him to take the animal back to where it belonged.

The principal’s genial attitude put Yumi on her best behavior. “When we slaughter the pig,” she said, “we’ll save the liver for you, Uncle.”

“I can’t let you do that,” he said.

“Why not? If Yuye’s teacher can eat the eggs, what’s to keep the principal from eating a pig’s liver?” The words were barely out of her mouth before the teacher’s eyes grew to the size of a hen’s eggs and her face the color of a pig’s liver.

Back home, Yumi took out her forty-weight stationery to write a letter to Peng Guoliang, intending to tell him how hard things had gotten for her. At this point she pinned all her hopes on him, but she stopped short of telling him what had happened at home, since she did not want him to think badly of the family. She had to tread very carefully. If Guoliang moved up through the ranks in the military, her family was assured of a second chance. “Guoliang,” she wrote, “you must set your sights on getting regular promotions.” But then she reread what she had written and felt it was too direct. So she tore up the letter and, after wrestling with her thoughts, wrote: “Guoliang, listen to your superiors and keep making progress.”

The commune’s movie team returned to the village. For days Shi Guifang had been complaining of heartburn, so Yumi chose not to go see the movie, even though it was one of her favorite pastimes; her mother never went to a movie and that always made Yumi grumble. How come, when someone gets to a certain age, they lose interest in everything, even movies? But now she understood that her mother simply wanted to avoid crowds. Besides, movies are so phony, nothing but groups of people passing their days on a white sheet. What does a white sheet know about keeping warm or getting cold? Such thoughts had Yumi wondering if she too was getting old and if her heart was turning cold. When that happens, age is obviously creeping up. People get old gradually, step by step, a slow death of the heart. Aging has little to do with the calendar.

As soon as dinner was over, Yuxiu sneaked a handful of sunflower seeds and was on her way out when Yumi stopped her. She had good reason for not wanting her sister to get away so early because Yuxiu was in the habit of rushing over to get a good seat for the movie. Even before the white sheet had been hung up, Yuxiu would bring a stool up to a spot in front of the projector, one of the best seats available. In truth, ability had less to do with her success in getting a good seat than the willingness of the others to let her have it. But now it would be tactless for her to expect anyone to let her take the best seat, and it could easily lead to an argument. Yumi wasn’t afraid of arguments, but given the current state of affairs, the fewer the squabbles the better. So she tried to keep her sister from leaving early, stressing the need for a little decorum.

But Yuxiu would have none of it. “Don’t be such a nag. Do you see a stool anywhere?” Being no dummy, Yuxiu knew exactly what to do at times like this.

“Then take Yuye with you,” Yumi said.

“Why should I? She’s got legs; she can walk there by herself.”

“Either you take her or you don’t go.” No doubt about it, Yumi was now the boss. Her word was law. This time Yuxiu did not talk back. Instead, she scooped up another handful of sunflower seeds. In the end, third daughter Yuxiu took fifth daughter Yuye, second daughter Yusui took sixth daughter Yumiao, fourth daughter Yuying went on her own, and seventh daughter Yuyang stayed home in bed. Now that this had been settled, Yumi lit a lantern and carried Hongbing into their mother’s bedroom. Their mother had lost weight, which showed not in the outline of her face but in its many wrinkles, row upon row of them, like tracks of flowing water; it was a wrenching picture of sadness. Yumi held a plate of the newly roasted sunflower seeds out to her mother.

“Don’t roast any more, Yumi.”

“Why not?”

“It’s disgraceful to be seen eating them.”

“Ma,” Yumi said, raising her voice, “you have to eat them.”

“Why?”

“To show people.”

Shi Guifang smiled. Instead of saying what was in her heart, she laid her hand on Yumi’s and gave it a couple of pats. To Yumi it was clear that her mother was trying to pacify her and, more important, to remind her that people must accept their fate.

Yumi stood up. “Pretend they’re medicine, Ma, for our sake.”

Shi Guifang patted the side of her bed for Yumi to sit down. Although she spent all day every day in the same house as Yumi, a casual talk with her daughter was a rare treat. Whatever else might be going on, having a daughter like Yumi to talk to helped put her mind at ease and dissolve some of the bitterness inside. It was a quiet, peaceful night, the kind that keeps one’s heart tranquil and dispels desire. After listening for a while, Shi Guifang detected the sort of quiet that belongs to widows and orphans. Wang Hongbing was asleep in Yumi’s arms, looking as adorable as ever. She took him from Yumi and gazed into his face for a very long time. He was at peace with the world, worry free and innocent. Shi Guifang looked up at Yumi, half of whose face was framed in lamplight; she had a lovely profile that was enhanced by the light. The other half, bathed in darkness, was denied a fullness of expression, leaving her with an enigmatic, incomplete look. A burst of wind carried in the crackle of a cinematic gun battle. By leaning over and cocking an ear, Yumi could distinguish between the dive bombers and the ground fire. Shi Guifang could tell what Yumi was thinking. “Go on,” she said, “go watch the movie.”

But Yumi just stared dreamily at the glowing lamp wick. Shi Guifang sighed heavily, her breath bending the wick and making it seem as if it were trying to hide from her. Yumi’s thoughts began to wander as if they were being transported away on an airplane. The room darkened slightly, and so did the illuminated half of Yumi’s face. Her mother sat up abruptly and belched several times before smacking the bed with her open hand. “This is better,” she said. “Yes, it’s better this way.” This abrupt outburst startled Yumi, who watched as her mother blew out the lamp.

“Time to sleep,” she said.

By the time Yusui returned home with Yumiao, Yumi had dozed off. Yuying was the next to come home. Yumi woke up and sat on the edge of the bed to watch the girls wash up. The sister she was really waiting for was Yuye, a lazy little tomboy who would not wash up unless she was forced to. When she got into bed and her feet warmed up, the stench was nearly overpowering. Only Yumi was willing to sleep with her; the other girls all complained that she smelled bad.

The movie was over, and Yuye was still not home, which could only mean that she was with Yuxiu, who was probably up to no good. Yumi knew Yuxiu well. Since Yuye was with her, she could dump all the blame for coming home late on her younger sister. Yumi waited until it was all quiet outside, and there was still no sign of Yuxiu and Yuye. Finally, having run out of patience, she threw a jacket over her shoulders, slipped on a pair of shoes, and stormed out the door.

Her search took her to a haystack beside the threshing floor, where she found her sisters among a crowd of moviegoers who had lingered around a blazing lantern.

“Yuxiu!” she shouted.

“Yuye!”

No answer, although all the heads turned to see who it was. Disembodied faces silhouetted in the light of the lantern lit up the surrounding darkness, creating a strange tableau of dark and light. Not a word emerged from the expressionless faces carved into the ghostly night. As Yumi stood dazed by the sight, a premonition of dread burst from her chest. The crowd parted for her as she walked up to where Yuxiu and Yuye sat dumbly on a bed of straw, both naked from the waist down. Straw clung to their bodies, stuck to their hair, and poked out from between their teeth and the corners of their mouths. The only movement from Yuxiu was the rapid blinking of eyes that were virtually lifeless. Yumi, who knew at once what had happened, stood there staring at her sisters, her mouth hanging slack. Now that Yumi was among them, the crowd left the lantern where it was and drifted off. The outlines of their backs bled into the darkness. There was no one left, but it felt as if no one had left.

Yumi knelt down on the straw and put her sisters’ pants back on. Both girls’ crotches were soaked in blood that was mixed with another sticky substance. A strange and eerie odor rose from their pants. After cleaning them off with handfuls of straw, Yumi took each of them by the hand and led them home in the darkness. The lantern remained on the ground, throwing its light on the haystack, a mound of gold ringed by inky darkness. A passing breeze tossed Yumi’s hair, which nearly covered her face. Yuxiu and Yuye shivered. They looked like a pair of wobbly scarecrows. Yumi stopped suddenly, turned, and grabbed Yuxiu by the shoulders.

“Tell me, who did this?” she asked, shaking her. “Who did it?” she shouted. The shaking sent her own hair flying. “Who…” she screamed.

It was Yuye who answered. “I don’t know. Lots of them.”

Yumi sat down on the ground—hard.

Even though he was far away from the village, news of the incident still managed to reach Peng Guoliang. His next letter was but a single sentence: “Tell me, did someone take you to bed?” The accusatory tone was obvious to Yumi more than one thousand li away and ushered in a dramatic change in her situation. That one sentence knocked the wind out of her; suddenly, she felt cold, her strength gone. Fear gripped her. She saw a hand circle over Yuxiu and Yuye before slowly turning to point at her. Even though the sun lit up the area, she could not identify the hand as it vanished into total darkness. Not only had her fellow villagers read Peng Guoliang’s letters, but they had also written to him for her. How was she going to answer him now? How could she tell him what had happened? She thought and thought until her brain virtually stopped functioning. Peng Guoliang was the family’s last potential mainstay. If this airplane flew away, Yumi’s sky would fall. She took out her packet of stationery and laid it on the desk. After crumpling up several sheets and ripping up several more, she began to see herself as a sheet of paper floating in the air, and no matter where the winds took her, the result was always the same—she was either ripped to shreds or trampled into the ground. Which of those passing feet would willingly pass up the chance to step on it? The curiosity of feet would determine the fate of the sheet of paper. As a veil of silence settled over the deepening night, Yumi picked up her red Hero fountain pen with its iridium nib, not to write a letter, but to start a conversation with Peng Guoliang, even though she knew it was an empty gesture. She dawdled for the longest time until she discovered that she had actually written something, lines that she found utterly shocking. When had she written that? How incredibly brazen it was—and incredibly self-indulgent. This is what she’d written: “Elder Brother Guoliang, I hold you fast in my heart. No one is closer to me. You are the love of my life.” Already sensing that she was not overburdened with shame, Yumi was surprised to discover that she had the nerve to write such things.

When she wrote them a second time, she felt her chest swell. Her eyes fell on the lantern wick, which would now take Peng Guoliang’s place. His warmth and brightness were arrayed before her. “Elder Brother Guoliang, I hold you fast in my heart. No one is closer to me. You are the love of my life,” she wrote again; it was the only thing she was able to write, since nothing else came to her. They were, after all, words that had been hidden in the deepest recesses of her heart, and it took all the courage she possessed to bring them out into the open. Now, for the first time ever, she found the boldness to “say” them. What else was there for her to say at this point? Only this, over and over, just these few words. And so she filled five sheets of paper with them and would have filled more if she’d had them. Five sheets of paper all covered with those few words. The next morning she read every word on those five sheets of paper several times until she could no longer bear it and bathed all five with her tears. If Guoliang cannot hear the words that fill my heart, she told herself, then everything I say will fall on deaf ears, separated as we are by tall mountains and long rivers.

She mailed her letter, after which she looked for something to keep herself busy; but she found nothing. So she decided to simply rest, and as she sat in a chair, she fell asleep.

During the days that Yumi waited for a return letter, she turned Hongbing over to Yusui, since she wanted to wait for the postman at the bridgehead. She fretted over the contents of Peng Guoliang’s return letter. If he was going to tell her he no longer wanted her, that letter must not fall into the hands of anyone else. She was prepared to take a knife to anyone who even attempted to open her letter. That would be too great a loss of face. So she waited at the bridgehead, but no letter came. What arrived in its place was a bundle that included Yumi’s photographs and all the letters she’d sent to Peng Guoliang. All those ugly missives in her own hand. As she looked down at her photographs and handwritten letters, the anguish she’d anticipated did not materialize for some reason. What she felt instead was a crippling embarrassment, such a deep-seated embarrassment she felt like jumping off the bridge.

And then, at that very moment, Youqing’s wife appeared. Wanting to hide the contents of her bundle, Yumi carelessly let something fall to the ground. It was her photograph. It lay there, a base, shameless object that had the audacity to smile. Youqing’s wife saw it before Yumi could grind it into the roadway with her foot, and the look on her face revealed that she knew everything. Yumi was ashamed to even look at Youqing’s wife, who bent down and picked up the photograph. But when she straightened up she saw danger in Yumi’s eyes. Fierce determination showed in those eyes, the composure of someone unafraid to face death. Youqing’s wife grabbed Yumi by the shoulders and dragged her off to her house, where she led her into the bedroom, a poorly lit room in which Yumi’s gaze appeared unusually bright and extraordinarily hard. Emerging from a face that was otherwise blank, that brightness and hardness had a terrifying effect. Taking Yumi by the hand, Youqing’s wife pleaded with her, “Yumi, go ahead and cry, for my sake at least.”

That comment softened Yumi’s gaze, which slowly shifted toward Youqing’s wife. As her lips twitched, Yumi said softly, “Sister Fenxiang.” Though barely audible, those two words seemed to spray from her mouth like flesh and blood, like beams of blood-tinged light. Youqing’s wife was stunned, never expecting Yumi to call her that. In all the years since marrying into Wang Family Village, what, in effect, was she, Youqing’s wife? A sow, maybe, or a bitch? Who had ever actually viewed her as a woman? Being addressed as Sister Fenxiang by Yumi knocked over her emotional spice bottle and filled her with even greater sadness than Yumi felt. She could not contain herself; a shout burst from her throat as she flung herself onto Yumi’s body and smothered her sobs on the girl’s breast. As she did so, there was a sudden movement in her belly. It was, she knew instinctively, a kick from the tiny Wang Lianfang. Thoughts of what was inside her took the edge off her emotional turmoil and kept her from sobbing or making any more sounds. If not for Wang Lianfang, she and Yumi could well have enjoyed a close sisterly relationship. But the girl was Wang’s eldest daughter, an inescapable fact that closed off all possibilities. Youqing’s wife could say nothing. And so, after steadying her breathing, she managed to get her emotions under control.

As Youqing’s wife raised her head and dried her tears, she saw that Yumi’s gaze had settled on her. The absence of any observable emotion behind that look threw a fright into her. Yumi’s face was ashen, but there was nothing unusual about her expression, and Youqing’s wife found that hard to imagine. But there it was, not something that could be faked. “Yumi,” she said warily.

Yumi pulled her head back. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to kill myself. I want to see what happens next. You can help me by not saying anything to anybody about this.”

She actually smiled when she said this, and although the smile lacked the appearance of mockery, the intent was unmistakable. Youqing’s wife knew that Yumi was chiding her for being nosy. Yumi took off her jacket and wrapped the photographs and letters up in it. Then, without a word, she opened the door and walked out, leaving Youqing’s wife alone and frozen in her bedroom.

See what I’ve done, she said to herself. I wanted to help out but wound up being a busybody. If any of this gets out, Yumi will hate me even more.

Yumi slept through the afternoon. Then in the quiet, late hours of the night she went into the kitchen and lay down behind the stove, where she unbuttoned her blouse and gently fondled her breasts. Although it was her hands that were moving, the sensation was the same as if Peng Guoliang were fondling her. What a shame it had to be her own hands. Slowly she moved them down to the spot where she had stopped him. But this time she was going to do for him what she had not allowed him to do. She lay weakly on the straw, her body gradually heating up, hotter and hotter, uncontrollably, feverishly hot, so she forced herself to stir. But no matter how she moved, it didn’t feel right. She hungered for a man to fill her up and, at the same time, finish her off. It didn’t matter who, so long as it was a man. In those quiet, late hours of the night, Yumi was again consumed by regret. And as remorse took over, her fingers abruptly jammed their way inside. The sharp pain actually brought with it enormous comfort. The insides of her thighs were irrigated by a warm liquid. You unwanted cunt, she thought to herself, what made you think you should save yourself for the bridal chamber?

Unhappy women are all subject to the same phenomenon: Marriage comes with unanticipated suddenness. During the three months of summer, the busiest season, farmers are fighting for time with the soil. Yumi shocked everyone by getting married during these busy days. Acres of wheat had turned yellow under a blazing sun, spiky awns reaching up to reflect light in all directions like static fountains. At this time of year the sun’s rays are fragrant, carrying the aroma of wheat as they light up the ground and cast a veil over the villages. But for farmers, these are not pleasure-filled days, for the feminine qualities of the earth are heaving with the passion of ovulation and birthing, passions beyond their control as they grow soft in the sunlight and exude bursts of the rich, mellow essence of their being. The earth yearns to be overturned by the hoe and the plow, and thus be reborn, and to let the early summer waters flow over and submerge it. Moans of pleasure escape at the moment the earth is bathed and slowly freed from its bindings, bringing contentment and tranquillity. Exhausted, it falls into a sound, blissful sleep. The earth takes on the new face of a watery bride. With her eyes shut, a blush rises and falls on her face, a silent command and a silent plea: “Come on, more, I want more.” The farmers dare not slack off; their hair, their sleeves, and their mouths are covered with the smell of new wheat.

But, filled with elation, they put that smell aside, muster their strength, and rush about, picking up seedlings and planting them in the ground, one at a time, each in a spot that satisfies the earth. Bent at the waist, the farmers never cut corners, for every seedling that enters the ground depends on their movements. Ten acres, a hundred, a thousand, vast fields of seedlings. At first the little plants are strawlike, pliant, bashful, and because of the water, narcissistic. But in a matter of days the earth becomes aware of the secret it possesses and is at peace. It is languid; soft snores emerge from its sleep.

Amid this flurry of activity, Yumi’s wedding got under way. Viewed in retrospect, she was in too big a hurry to get married, much the same as Liu Fenxiang. But Yumi’s wedding easily outstripped Fenxiang’s. She was fetched in a speedboat reserved for the exclusive use of commune officials, on which two red cut-out “double happiness” characters were affixed to the windshield.

Yumi’s match had been arranged by her father. Shortly after the Qingming festival had passed and the weather began to warm, just as farmers were soaking their seeds, Wang Lianfang returned to Wang Family Village to pick up some clothes for his use elsewhere. After supper, having no place to go, he sat at the table smoking a cigarette. Yumi stood in the kitchen doorway and called to him. She did not say “Papa,” but called him “Wang Lianfang.”

Hearing his daughter call him by name struck Wang Lianfang as unusual. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked slowly into the kitchen, where Yumi was looking down at the floor, hands behind her back as she stood against the wall. Wang Lianfang pulled up a stool, sat down, and lit a second cigarette. “So,” he said, “what do you want?”

Yumi did not reply immediately; but after a moment, she said, “I want you to find me a man.” Wang Lianfang just sat there; sensing what had happened with Peng Guoliang, he chose not to say anything. Instead, he took seven or eight drags on his cigarette, the tip of which flared up as it burned down, creating a long ash that hung from the end. Yumi tilted her head up and said, “I don’t care what he’s like. I have only one condition: He must be a man who wields power. Otherwise I’ll stay single.”

The meeting phase of Yumi’s courtship proceeded in total secrecy and had a number of new twists—scheduled to take place in the county movie theater, it would be unique from start to finish. The commune speedboat came for her at sunset, a magnificent scene witnessed by many villagers from their vantage point on the stone pier. The speedboat sent waves rushing madly to the banks, fearlessly provocative as they tossed the pitiful farmers’ skiffs. Yumi stepped grandly into the speedboat, but no one who saw her knew why she was leaving. All anyone in Wang Family Village knew was that Yumi was “on her way to the county town.”

Yumi arrived in town for the meeting. The man she was to meet did not work there, but at the commune. Guo Jiaxing, deputy director of the revolutionary committee, was a ranking official in charge of the People’s Militia. Aboard the speedboat Yumi had silently congratulated herself for making that vow to her father in absolute terms, a break from traditions that would have denied her such an opportunity. She was going to be a second wife, so she did not expect Guo Jiaxing to be a young man, and for that she was well-prepared. As the saying goes: “A knife is not sharp on both edges; sugarcane is not sweet at both ends.”

On a personal level this made no difference to Yumi, for whom power was the key to living well. So long as the man she married possessed that power, a new beginning was assured for her family, and once that happened, no one in Wang Family Village would ever again send their stench her way. On this point she was more determined than even her father, who, she assumed, had been concerned about the difference in age, for he’d hemmed and hawed, obviously reluctant to tell her. She stopped him before he could speak, since she already knew what he wanted to say, and she didn’t give a damn.

Night had fallen when Yumi entered the county town for the first time, and thanks to the blazing lamps along both sides of the street, the town appeared quite prosperous. Like a headless housefly, she was emotionally disoriented as she walked down the street. Despite the fact that her confidence was in tatters, she was driven to fight for what she wanted, to win what she’d come for, and to spare no effort to reach her goal. No longer the Yumi of the past, she had narrowed her aspirations, but was more determined, more stubborn than ever. She paused in front of a shop where fruit was suspended in the air. She had to stop for a long moment before she figured out that she was seeing a reflection in a mirror. Then she saw her own reflection and was struck by the contrast between her homely attire and the finer clothes of the shop clerk. I should have worn Liu Fenxiang’s costume. Thinking she wanted a piece of fruit, the boat skipper insisted on buying it for her. She reached out and pulled him back.

“Our young commune member has a strong arm,” he said with a laugh.

Yet another moment of truth had arrived when Yumi found herself in front of the New China Cinema, where a red banner stretched across a high wall proclaimed: FERVENT CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SUCCESSFUL OPENING OF THE COUNTY PEOPLE’S MILITIA WORKING CONFERENCE!

Yumi now understood that Guo was attending a conference in town. The skipper handed her a cinema ticket.

“I’ll wait for you out here,” he said.

You definitely know how to toady up to your superiors, Yumi thought. Who asked you to wait? I’m not married yet. But then she had a change of heart. Go ahead, wait, if that’s what you want. I’ll put in a good word for you if I get the chance.

The movie had already begun when Yumi parted the curtain. The theater was pitch-black in front of an enormous color screen on which a policeman was smoking a cigarette, his nostrils, it seemed to her, as big as open wells. She had trouble believing what she saw. How was it possible to make someone as big or as small as you wanted? Gripping her ticket tightly, she looked around and started to feel nervous, unsure of what to do next. Fortunately, an usher with a flashlight walked up and showed her to her seat.

Yumi’s heart raced. Happily, this was not the first time she was to meet a prospective mate, a thought that had the desired effect. Calmly she sat down between a man in his fifties to her left and one in his sixties to her right. Both seemed absorbed in the movie. Not knowing which of the two she’d come to meet, she sat stiffly without sneaking a look in either direction. The man, whichever one it was, obviously carried himself in a way that you would expect from a commune official, keeping his composure in the presence of a woman. If her father had been able to do that, they wouldn’t be in the state they were in now. Yumi told herself that Guo Jiaxing must have his reasons for not speaking to her in public, so she’d be wise to keep her eyes trained straight ahead.

For Yumi, the movie was an excruciating experience, since she got so little out of it. But it was dark inside, so eventually she felt bold enough to observe her neighbors out of the corner of her eye. From what she could see, the fifty-year-old looked a little better, and if she’d had a voice in the matter, he’d be her choice. But there was no movement from that side. If only he’d brush his foot against hers, she’d know that she was right. As she watched the action on the screen, she began to worry that the meeting might not take place at all. She was tense and growing anxious. Can’t you touch my foot? What’s wrong with that?

Still, even if it was the sixty-year-old, Yumi was prepared to accept the match. As they say, “After this village there will be no more inns.” There were few bachelors among the official ranks, though she would still have preferred a man in his fifties. Like a raffle player looking for a bit of luck, she sat through the movie, so fatigued at the end that she was nearly gasping for breath. She had no idea what the film had been about, although the ending was pretty predictable: The man who looked to be the bad guy turned out to be just that and was taken into custody by a member of the Public Security Bureau.

The lights came on; the movie was over. The man in his fifties got up and walked off to the left, the one in his sixties walked off to the right, both leaving Yumi sitting where she was. What a surprise that was. Neither one had said a word. Yumi wondered why. But then the truth hit her: Whoever it was, he must not have liked what he saw while she sat there foolishly trying to pick him out in the dark. She was mortified. No wonder the skipper said he’d wait outside. He knew what was going to happen all along.

Yumi walked out of the theater, her confidence shredded. The skipper was waiting by one of the posts, and she could not bear to look him in the eye.

“We’re ready,” he said. Yumi was so spent all she wanted was to lie down somewhere.

“I guess you can take me home now,” she said, despite her embarrassment.

“I do what Director Guo tells me to do,” he said with no observable expression.

When she was settled into Room 315 of the People’s Guesthouse, her mind was in a fog, and she quickly fell asleep, although it didn’t feel much like sleep to her. Maybe she was dreaming. At around ten o’clock there was a knock at the door.

“Are you in there?” a voice asked. “It’s me, Guo.”

Yumi wondered if she was hallucinating. Another knock at the door. Knowing how unwise it would be to hesitate, she flipped on the light and opened the door a crack. A man she’d never seen before pushed open the door and walked in, his face cold, devoid of expression. Fortunately for Yumi, she spotted the conference ID badge pinned to his lapel with his name: Guo Jiaxing. Overjoyed, she felt as if she’d been rescued from a desperate situation and been given a new lease on life. He hadn’t gone to the cinema after all.

Yumi lowered her head, only to recall that she wasn’t fully dressed. She glanced up at Guo Jiaxing, thinking she’d get dressed, but she did not like what she saw. This was not a man who had come to meet a prospective mate; he seemed more like a passerby. Yumi’s heart was in her throat.

“I’d like some water,” Guo said as he sat down in one of the chairs. Yumi didn’t know what else to do, and for that reason, she did as he said. He took the water from Yumi, who stood there feeling foolish; by then she’d forgotten all about getting dressed. Guo neither looked at Yumi nor averted his eyes as he sat there, teacup in hand. He had brown eyes, she saw, which were focused on a spot directly ahead, but with a look of indifference. He drank his water slowly, one sip after another, until the cup was empty.

“Some more?” she asked. He responded only by setting the cup on the table—his way of saying no, apparently. Unable to think of anything more to say, Yumi just stood there, not sure if she should get dressed or not.

How could anybody be that calm, that unruffled? He says nothing, he does nothing, his face has all the expressiveness of a conference hall. Her anxieties increased. Well, that’s it, she said to herself. He doesn’t like what he sees. But wait, he may not seem thrilled, but he doesn’t look dissatisfied. Maybe he’s already decided it’s a workable match.

Officials are expected to act like this. As long as they think something’s okay, then it’s okay, and there’s no need to say any more. But this was different; Yumi was, after all, a young woman, not a block of wood. Besides, they were alone, so he had no reason not to do something. She stood there feeling foolish until she too grew increasingly calm.

How strange, she said to herself. All of a sudden I’m as calm as if I were attending the conference. But that did nothing to lessen her fear of Guo Jiaxing.

“Time to rest,” Guo said.

He stood up and began taking off his clothes, as if he were in his own home with members of his own family. “Time to rest,” he said a second time. She knew what he had in mind, since he was now sitting on the bed. While that unnerved Yumi, it also shifted her brain into high gear. Whatever may or may not have been settled, this was inappropriate. Guo had undressed slowly, but then how long can it take to remove a few articles of clothing? Now naked, he lay back on the bed where Yumi had been sleeping only moments before.

She still hadn’t moved.

“Time to rest,” Guo said for the third time. There was no outward change in tone, but she could tell he was getting impatient.

Yumi didn’t know what to do. She actually wished he’d rip her clothes off her body; rape would be better than this. She was still a virgin, and it would be unseemly for her to get naked and climb into bed just so she could marry the man. How was she supposed to do something like that?

Guo Jiaxing never took his eyes off Yumi, who, in the end, got naked, climbed into bed, and slipped under the covers. To her, what she’d stripped off wasn’t clothes, it was her skin. But she did what she had to do. Liu Fenxiang had once said that a woman can be proud but mustn’t be arrogant. Yumi was naked; so was Guo Jiaxing. A subtle smell of alcohol clung to his body, a hospital smell. As Yumi lay on her side under the covers, Guo motioned with his chin for her to roll over onto her back. She did, and the lovemaking began. Too tense to move, she let him do all the work. It hurt at first—a little, not much—and it was not long before it began to feel natural. If she was reading the signs right, he was satisfied with her. He’d muttered “good” during the lovemaking, and after it was over, he said it again. Yumi could breathe easier now.

But there was a hitch. Guo checked the sheets and didn’t see any discoloration. “So you’re not,” he said.

Such a hurtful comment! She was still a virgin since the lack of a spot on the sheets was a result of her own hand, not the actions of a man. She wondered briefly if this was just a technicality. Since she had done with her hand what she wouldn’t let her pilot do, perhaps it was all the same. But she knew it wasn’t. She needed to clear things up. But how? Treating it lightly wasn’t the answer, but neither was overdoing it. She must be careful not to ruin everything, and all she could think to do was sit and get dressed, which accomplished virtually nothing except to make her feel better. She was empty inside and nearly in tears. But crying, she knew, would be a mistake. Guo Jiaxing lay in bed with his eyes closed. “That’s not what I meant.”

Yumi undressed again and climbed back into bed and lay beside Guo, blinking rapidly. Convinced that things had worked out this time, she’d have been perfectly content if she hadn’t suddenly thought of Peng Guoliang. She could have willingly given in to him, but had saved herself until now, saved herself for this. An overpowering sense of self-pity filled her heart. But she forced herself to bear up under it, for she had achieved what she sought, and that was all that counted. Guo smoked a couple of cigarettes before climbing back on top of Yumi.

This time the movements were much slower, more relaxed, as he slid back and forth like a drawer in his desk. Saying as he did so, “Stick around for a few more days.”

She knew what that meant, and her confidence rose. As she lay there, her head pressed against the pillow, she turned to the side and bit her lip. She nodded. “Someone I know is in the hospital,” he said, more words at one time than she’d heard so far.

“Who?” she asked in order to keep him talking.

“My wife.”

Yumi jerked her head around and looked wide-eyed at Guo.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he said. “She’s in the last stages. A few months at best. You’ll move in when she’s gone.”

The smell of alcohol washed over Yumi. She felt as if she were the “last stages” wife, pinned beneath Guo Jiaxing. She was terrified. Guo covered her mouth with his hand before she could scream. Her body was rocking wildly under the blanket.

“Good,” he said.