Shifu, You'll Do Anything For a Laugh (16 page)

Father replied, “It's gall from a
ma
[horse] and a
luan”

“A
ma
and a
luan
, you say? I know what a
ma
is, but what's a
luan?”

Unable to stop myself, I blurted out, “Grandma, it's human gall, it's from Ma Kuisan and Luan Fengshan. Daddy scooped out their bladders!”

With a shriek, Grandma fell backward onto the brick bed, dead as a stone.

Love Story

T
HAT AUTUMN THE TEAM LEADER SENT FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD JUNIOR
and sixty-five-year-old Guo Three out into the fields to man the waterwheel. Why? To wheel water. For what? To irrigate the cabbage crop. A “sent-down” city girl named He Li-ping, in her mid-twenties, was in charge of the irrigation ditches.

Once the thirteenth solar period — Autumn Beginning — arrives, the cabbage must be watered daily, or the roots will rot. In his orders, the team leader spared the three workers from mustering for duty each morning, since they had to go into the fields to water the cabbage right after breakfast. Which they did, from Autumn Beginning to Frost's Descent, the eighteenth solar period. Naturally, irrigation wasn't all they did; other tasks included spreading fertilizer, controlling pests, binding up drooping cabbage leaves with sweet potato sprouts, and so on. They took four breaks a day, each lasting half an hour or so. The city girl, He Liping, owned a watch. Frost's Descent arrived, and the temperature plunged; the cabbage curled up into balls, bringing an end to the team's irrigation duties.

They dismantled the waterwheel and transported it back to the production team compound on a handcart, where they turned it over to the storekeeper. After a cursory inspection, he sent them on their way.

The next morning, right after breakfast, they stood beneath the iron bell to wait for new orders from the team leader. He had the old-timer, Guo Three, hitch up the ox to till the bean field and sent Junior out to re-sow millet at the farthest edge of the production team land. “What about me, Team Leader?” He Liping asked. “Go with Junior. You can prepare the furrows while he spreads the seeds.”

One of the commune wags extended the team leader's orders: “Junior,” he teased, “take good aim on He Liping's furrow. Make sure you spread your seed where it belongs.”

While the crowd laughed raucously, Junior felt his heart pound against his chest wall. He sneaked a look at He Liping, who stood stony-faced, obviously unhappy. That really upset him. “Fuck your old lady, Old Qi!” he cursed his playful tormentor.

The cabbage patch was located on the east side of the village, next to the pond. Swollen with rainwater, the pond was a breeding ground for algae and moss, making it greener than green and deeper than anyone could imagine. The main reason the production team had chosen that site to plant cabbage was the proximity of all that water. There was nothing wrong with well water, of course, but it wasn't nearly as good as the water in the pond. Mounted high on the pond's edge, the wa-terwheel looked like a poolside arbor. Junior and the oldster Guo Three stood on a shaky wooden footrest and turned the iron winch handles, one up and one down, squeaking and twisting as water flowed steadily. It didn't rain from Autumn's Beginning to Frost's Descent, not once. The skies were washed clean by the glare of the sun, day in and day out, and the surface of the pond stayed placid, wind or no wind. Clouds in the sky were matched by clouds in the pond that were, if anything, clearer than those above. Sometimes Junior stared at the clouds until he was in a world of his own, and forgot to turn the winch, to Guo Three's vocal displeasure: “Wake up, Junior!” At the northern tip of the pond stood a solitary patch of marshy reeds no larger than a sleeping mat, looking like a mirage. The reeds grew yellower each day, until in the bright rays of the morning sun and slanting rays of the setting sun, they seemed brushed by gold.

Let's say a really large, bright red dragonfly lands on one of the golden leaves, forming a dreamy plateau with the pond and the reeds. Then a dozen or so ducks and seven or eight geese, all pure white, glide across the surface. From time to time the long-necked ganders mount female geese, at other times they grant similar favors to female ducks. Junior stands transfixed when the ganders do that, and of course he forgets to turn the winch, which invariably earns abuse from Guo Three: “Just what are you thinking about?” Quickly averting his eyes from the naughty ganders and ducks, he starts turning the winch extra hard. Out the water gushes, as the rickety waterwheel creaks and groans. Amid the clanks of the chain, Junior hears Guo Three gripe, “Little peach-fuzz doesn't have a man's pecker yet, but his head hasn't gotten the message!” Junior is deeply shamed. The lovely bright red dragonfly soaring above the pond has got a new name, thanks to old-timer Guo Three: Little Bride.

He Liping was a tall girl, taller than Guo Three, and she knew martial arts. In fact, they learned, she had performed in Europe with a team of martial arts experts. Most people agreed that she could have made quite a name for herself if not for the Cultural Revolution. Too bad. Ruined by her family background. Proof of the two most frequently heard versions — that her father was a capitalist and that he was a capitalist-roader — was not actively sought, since the difference between the two is negligible. It was enough to know that her background was bad.

He Liping was a taciturn girl who, in the eyes of the villagers, knew her place. She had been sent to the countryside with lots of other educated city kids: some ended up by going on to school, others took jobs, the rest returned to their hometowns. Only she was left behind, and everyone knew it was because of her background.

Only once did He Liping demonstrate her martial arts skills, and that was soon after showing up in the village. Junior was no more than eight or nine at the time. Back then, “Mao Zedong Thought” propaganda meetings were common occurrences. The city kids were terrific talkers and singers, and some played the harmonica or flute or two-string
huqin
. There was a lot going on in the village back then: during the day the commune members worked in the fields, and at night they made revolution. With all the excitement, every day seemed like New Year's Eve to Junior. One night, very much like all the other nights, everyone poured out of the dining hall after dinner to make revolution. On the dirt platform, which had a post stuck in both ends to support gas lamps, the city kids filled the platform with their songs and instruments. Junior recalled that suddenly the young emcee shouted above the din: “Poor and lower-middle peasant comrades, our great leader Chairman Mao instructs us: Power comes out of the barrel of a gun! Now please turn your attention to He Liping, who will demonstrate her ‘nine-stage plum-blossom’ spear routine.”

Junior recalled that everyone applauded like crazy, anticipating the arrival of He Leping. They didn't have to wait long. She came out in a skintight red outfit and white plastic sandals, with her hair coiled atop her head. All the hot-blooded young men buzzed about her pert breasts, which nearly popped out of their tight wrappings. Some said they were real, others said they weren't. One of the latter insisted that she was wearing plastic cups. She stood on the stage, striking a martial pose, red-tasseled spear in hand. With her chin held high, her back arched, and her dark eyes sparkling, she cut quite a figure. Then she began to twirl her spear, until all anyone could see on the stage was a red blur, and no one could follow the twists and turns of her lithe body. Finally she stopped spinning and stood ramrod straight with her spear, looking like a column of red smoke. The audience seemed frozen in place for a moment, no one making a peep. Then, suddenly snapping out of their trance, they clapped politely, as if physically drained.

It was a sleepless night for the young men of the village.

The next day, as members of the commune sprawled on the ground to rest, He Liping and her “nine-stage plum-blossom” were all anyone talked about. Someone said the girl's performance was like a flower stand: attractive but hardly practical; but someone else said it was like the wind, so fast she could keep four or five people at bay at the same time, and how much more practical can you get? Then someone said that anybody who took a girl like her for a wife was in for real trouble, that he'd get off lucky if all she did was beat him, that she definitely was a woman who rode her husband in bed, that no man, even one as strong as an ox, was a match for her “nine-stage plum-blossom.” At that point the tone of the discussion took a dive, and Junior, who was working with the older men at the time, was a little embarrassed and a little upset by what was being said.

He Liping performed her “nine-stage plum-blossom” only that one time. Apparently, a report was sent to the commune revolutionary committee, from which emerged a pronouncement that spears belonged only in the hands of descendants of the reddest of the red. How could anybody have allowed one to fall into the hands of someone who came from the five black categories?

Head bowed and utterly demoralized, He Liping worked silently alongside the other members of the commune. Then when all the other city kids spread their wings and flew off to their homes, she felt all alone and lonely, and that gained her plenty of sympathy. The team leader started giving her light duties. No one gave a thought to whether or not she should get married. The young male villagers hadn't forgotten her skills with a spear, and stayed clear of her.

One day she sat on the footrest of the waterwheel dangling her legs and staring at the placid green water on the pond. Junior, who was resting at the edge of the pond, couldn't keep his eyes off her darkly tanned face; high, bony nose; and eyes so dark and large there didn't seem to be any room for the whites. Her eyebrows swept sharply toward her temple hair, and there was a large, dark red mole squarely in the center of her left brow. Her teeth were very white, her mouth quite large, and her hair so thick and bushy that Junior couldn't see any of her scalp. She was dressed that day in a blue gabardine army-style tunic that was nearly white from all the washings; a snowy white wedge of skin and the lacy trim of an undershirt poked out above the unbuttoned collar of her tunic. As his gaze continued downward, Junior grew so flustered he had to turn his face toward the cabbage patch, over which a pair of butterflies frolicked. But he didn't see the butterflies, since his head was filled with images of He Liping's tunic pockets, which were thrust outward by the arching breasts behind them.

The oldster Guo Three was not a true farmer. Junior had heard people say he once worked as a “big teapot” in a Qing-dao whorehouse when he was young. Junior didn't know what a “big teapot” did, and he was too shy to ask.

Guo Three, now wifeless, lived a bachelor's existence, although there was talk that he had something going with the wife of Li Gaofa, who wore her glossy hair pulled straight back above a large fair-skinned face. Broad in the beam, she waddled like a duck when she walked. She lived close enough to the pond so that Junior and Guo Three could see her yard when they worked the waterwheel. A large, black, and very mean dog prowled the area.

They had been irrigating the cabbage patch for four days when the Li woman came over to the pond carrying a straw basket. She sidled up to the edge of the pond, a little at a time, until she was right beside the waterwheel. “Ge-ge-ge-ge,” she tittered.

“Third Uncle,” she said to Guo Three, “the team leader gave you the best job.”

Guo Three giggled. “It may look easy, but it's not. Just ask Junior.”

After working the wheel for several days in a row, Junior had noticed that his arms were, in fact, starting to ache. He just grinned and looked down on the Li woman's greasy, swept-back hair, and had a funny feeling. He didn't like her, not at all.

“That gimpy devil I'm married to was sent on a rock-gathering expedition to South Mountain,” the Li woman said. “He took his bedroll, since he won't be back for a month. I think the team leader's out to get me. With all the able-bodied young bachelors around here, why'd he send the gimpy devil?”

Junior noticed that Guo Three was blinking nervously and heard a dry chuckle rattle around in his throat. “He was showing how much he valued you folks,” he said.

“Hah!” the Li woman snorted angrily. “The old jackass is just out to get me.”

This time the oldster Guo Three held his tongue. The Li woman stretched lazily and squinted up at the sun. “Third Uncle, it's nearly noon. Time for a break.”

Guo Three shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up at the sun. “Yes, I guess it is.” He let go of the winch handle and shouted into the field, “Little He, break time!”

“Third Uncle,” the Li woman said, “that dog of ours has been off his feed the last few days. How about taking a look at him for me?”

Guo Three glanced at Junior. “After I've smoked a pipeful,” he said.

As she walked off, the Li woman looked over her shoulder and said, “Don't be too long.”

“I know, I know,” he replied with affected agitation, as he took out his tobacco pouch and his pipe. “How about you, lad?” he said to Junior with uncharacteristic warmth. “Smoke?” Then he stuck the pipe into his mouth without waiting for an answer. Junior watched him light it. “I'm getting old,” he said as he thumped his waist with his fists. “It doesn't take much for these old bones to start aching.”

Guo Three walked off in the footsteps of the Li woman. But instead of watching either of them, Junior turned back toward the cabbage patch, where He Liping was standing stock still on a field embankment, hoe in hand. The sight saddened Junior. The water in the pond, polluted by the leather scoops of the waterwheel, turned muddy and rank-smelling. He could almost taste it. The metal pipe gave out a hollow cough, the chain clanked once or twice, the handlebar turned backward a time or two, and the water drained back into the pond. The waterwheel fell silent.

As he sat on the wooden plank and let his legs dangle over the edge, Junior noticed that his hands had rubbed the rust off the handlebar. On that sunny day, water flowing sluggishly down the furrows in the cabbage patch caught the sun's rays and shone like splintered silver. The plants seemed frozen in place, and so did the high riverbank at the far end of the cabbage patch and the persimmon tree atop it, whose leaves were already starting to turn a fiery red. Junior looked westward just in time to see Guo Three stride into the yard of the Li home, where the big black dog barked once, then wagged his tail in welcome. Guo Three and the dog went inside together. Purple flowers were blooming on lentils climbing a trellis in the yard. Ripples rose on the surface of the pond, where a duck quacked and a goose honked. Two pairs of wings flapped against the water. The white long-necked gander pushed the duck under the water, and when they surfaced, he was riding on her back. Junior jumped to the ground, scooped up a handful of mud, and flung it at the gander. But it was, after all, just mud, which fell apart before it even hit the water, raising only some tiny splashes. The duck, still mounted by the gander, sped around the pond.