Shifu, You'll Do Anything For a Laugh (17 page)

Junior was visited by emotions he'd never known before. He felt chilled, and the mist above the pond raised goose bumps. He didn't dare straighten up, suddenly mortified by the bulge in his pants. And, wouldn't you know it, He Liping chose that moment to walk along the embankment toward the waterwheel.

Step by step she drew near to Junior, who by then was sitting on the ground. She seemed much bigger all of a sudden, and her hair shimmered with flecks of golden light. Poor Junior's heart was beating like mad, his teeth were chattering. He rested his hands on his knees, and from there let them slide down to the tops of his feet. Finally he scooped little balls of mud out of the ground.

He heard He Liping's voice: “Where's Guo Three?”

He heard his own quaking reply: “He went to Li Gaofa's house.”

He heard He Liping walk up to the wooden plank, then heard her spit into the pond. When he looked up to sneak a peek, he found she was leaning over the waterwheel, staring at the gander and duck skimming across the pond. Her rear end stuck up in the air. The sight terrified Junior.

After a while, He Liping asked him how old he was. He told her fifteen. She asked him how come he wasn't in school. He said he didn't want to go.

Junior's face was covered with sweat as he stood in front of He Liping, who started to giggle. He didn't dare raise his head.

Every day after that Guo Three went to Li Gaofa's house to treat the black dog, and He Liping came to pass the time of day with Junior, who was no longer nervous, who no longer broke out in a sweat, who even found the nerve to peek at her once in a while. He could actually smell her.

One very hot day He Liping shed her faded blue tunic, so that she was wearing only a pink undershirt, and when Junior spotted the straps and snaps of her bra he was so happy he nearly wept.

“You little creep,” she scolded, “what are you looking at?”

Junior blushed bright red, but still had the courage to say, “I'm looking at your clothes.”

With a vinegary frown, she said, “You call these clothes? Wait till you see my nice stuff.”

“You look good in anything,” Junior said bashfully.

“Quite the little flatterer, aren't we?” He Liping said.

“I've got a skirt,” she continued, “that's the same red as those persimmon leaves.”

As if on signal, they turned to look at the persimmon tree halfway up the river embankment. After surviving several frosts, the sunlit leaves glowed like bright red flames.

Junior took off running. Halfway up the embankment he climbed the tree and broke off one of the lower branches, which was covered by dozens of glossy red leaves. One had been gnawed by an insect; he plucked it off and threw it away.

The red-leafed branch was a present for He Liping, who sniffed it for its persimmony aroma. Her face was red, maybe a reflection of the leaves.

Guo Three saw Junior give He Liping the red leaves, so when they were back on the waterwheel, he giggled, “Want me to be your matchmaker?”

Junior blushed to the roots of his ears. “Hell no!”

“Little He isn't bad,” Guo Three went on. “Nice perky tits and a good broad beam.”

“Don't talk like that,” Junior protested. “She's an educated city girl.. . ten years older than me … so tall. .. .”

“So what?” Guo Three replied. “Educated girls like doing it as much as anybody. And ten years older, for a girl, is nothing. Besides, ‘Tall girl, short boy — tits in the face, what a joy.’ Now that's living!”

This little monologue by Guo Three had poor Junior's rear end squirming and his body temperature soaring.

“The little sparrow's standing up,” Guo Three remarked. “And not so little, at that.”

From that day onward, Guo Three hardly stopped coaching Junior in certain matters, until finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Junior broached the subject of the “big teapot.” Guo Three happily obliged with a graphic description of what went on in a whorehouse.

Junior turned the waterwheel, but his thoughts were miles away: He Liping's image fluttered before his eyes. Guo Three took this as an invitation for even more salacious talk.

With a crack in his voice, Junior pleaded, “Master Three, please don't talk about things like that.”

“You dumb prick, what are you getting all weepy about? Go to her. She's itching for it, too!”

So one day Junior went into the production team's vegetable garden and stole a carrot, which he washed off and hid in tall grass until He Liping carne along. The oldster Guo Three hadn't arrived when she showed up, so Junior handed her the carrot.

She studied his face as she accepted the gift.

Junior could only imagine what he looked like at that moment, with his matted, grass-stained hair and tattered clothes.

“Why are you giving me this carrot?” He Liping asked him.

“Because I like you,” he said.

She sighed and rubbed the carrot's orange, glossy skin. “But you're still a child… .” She rubbed his head and walked off with her carrot.

Junior and He Liping went to the distant field to re-sow the millet field. Since draft animals needed room to turn around, some spots were left vacant. They arrived at a field where sorghum had just been harvested. Buds were beginning to appear on the newly planted millet, and dry sorghum stalks were stacked at the head of the patch of ground. It was late autumn by then, and getting cold. After spreading their millet seeds for a while, He Liping and Junior rested in front of a sorghum stack to soak up the warm, inviting rays of sunlight. They had an unobstructed view of the newly harvested and deserted field, over which birds circled noisily.

He Liping laid some bundles of sorghum stalks on the ground and stretched out lazily against them. Junior stood off to the side, gazing down at her. Her face shone in sunlight that was bright enough to make her squint; pretty white teeth showed between her moist, slightly parted lips.

Junior shivered; his lips felt dry, and there was a lump in his throat. “Guo Three and Li Gaofa's wife do you-know-what,” he managed to say. “Goes there every day …”

Still squinting, He Liping smiled radiantly.

“… Guo Three says bad things . .. says you …”

Still squinting, He Liping spread her arms and legs wide.

Junior took a step closer. “Guo Three says you're always thinking about doing you-know-what… .”

He Liping looked up and smiled.

Junior knelt alongside her. “Guo Three wishes I had the nerve to touch you. …”

He Liping was smiling.

Junior began to sob. Through his tears, he said, “Big Sister, I want to touch you … want to touch you, Big Sister… .”

Junior's hand was no sooner resting upon He Liping's breast than she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him… .

The following year, He Liping gave birth to twins, an event that rocked all of Gaomi Township.

Shen Garden

A
THUNDERBOLT CRACKLED ABOVE A LOCUST TREE OUTSIDE THE
bakery, sending brilliant sparks flying off a streetcar cable strung beneath the tree. The summer's first clap of thunder caught people out on the street by surprise; they quickly ran for cover under shop overhangs on both sides of the street. Those on bicycles bent low over their handlebars, hugging the sidewalks and pedaling for all they were worth. A cool wind blew amid sheets of rain slanting down. The chaos on the street grew worse as people fled from the downpour.

He and she sat opposite each other at a table in the dark bakery, soft drinks-in front of both of them, bright ice cubes bobbing in the dark glasses. Two stale croissants lay on the table, around which a solitary housefly flitted.

He cocked his head to the side to look at the chaotic scene on the street outside. Branches and leaves on the locust tree were buffeted crazily by the wind, which sent fine dust skittering across the ground. The stench of mud filtered into the shop, overwhelming the buttery smell unique to bakeries. Streetcars rolled slowly down the tracks from somewhere off in the distance, nipping at the heels of the ones in front. The heavy rain beating down on the tops of the cars created a cloud of gray mist. The streetcars were packed with passengers, many of whose heads were sticking out of open windows, only to be pelted by stinging drops of rain. The corner of a red dress, caught in one of the streetcar doors, stuck wetly to the step, like a flag of the vanquished.

“Let it pour, the heavier the better,” he blurted out through clenched teeth. “It's about time. The city's almost dried up, after six months or more without rain. If this dry spell had lasted much longer, the trees would have withered up and died.” He sounded a bit like one of the villains in a revolutionary movie. “How is it there where you are? No rain for a long time, I suspect. I watch the TV weather reports every day to stay on top of your weather there. I was really impressed with that town of yours. I hate big cities, and if not for the kid, I'd have moved there long ago. Small towns are so quiet and cheerful. I wouldn't be surprised if people in your town live ten years longer than those in the cities.”

“I'd like to visit Shen Garden,” she said.

“Shen Garden?” He turned around to look at her. “Isn't Shen Garden somewhere in Zhejiang Province? Hangzhou? Or maybe Jinhua. You know, the brain's the first to go once you reach middle age. Four or five years ago, I had a terrific memory, but no more.”

“I want to visit Shen Garden every time I come to Beijing. But I never get there.” Her eyes flashed through the darkness, and her gaunt, pallid face lit up with spirit.

Inwardly shocked by the sight, he turned to avoid her penetrating gaze. He heard himself say hoarsely:

“Here in Beijing we've got Yuanming Gardens and the Summer Palace, but I've never heard of a Shen Garden around here.”

She quickly reached down under the seat for her things, put two small plastic bags into a paper shopping bag, and stuffed it into her large plastic handbag.

“Leaving so soon? Aren't you on tonight's eight o'clock train?” Pointing to the croissants, he said casually, “You'd better eat that. You might not get any dinner on the train.”

Clutching the plastic handbag to her chest, she stared at him stubbornly and said with downcast insistence:

“I want to visit Shen Garden. I must go see it today.”

A gust of cold, rainy wind blew in through the door. He shuddered, rubbing his arms.

“As far as I know, there's no Shen Garden in Beijing. Oh, now I've got it!” he said excitedly. “It's clear now. Shen Garden is way down south in Shaoxing, in Zhejiang Province. I went there once, more than ten years ago. It's not far from the birthplace of Lu Xun. There's a famous carved dialogue between the separated poets Lu You and Tang Wan of the Southern Song dynasty. It goes like this: ‘Pink creamy hands,’ Yellow-labeled wine/Spring colors filling the city/Willows by the palace walls.’ If you want the truth, it's a rundown, sort of dreary garden, all covered with weeds. It's like the friend who went with me said, ‘You'll be sorry if you miss it, and even sorrier if you see it… .’”

By this time she'd stood up and was straightening her clothes. As she smoothed her hair, she said, almost as if she were talking to herself, “This time I'm going to see Shen Garden, no matter what.”

Holding up his hand to stop her, he said guardedly, “Okay, let's say Shen Garden is here in Beijing. We'd still have to wait for the rain to let up before we went, wouldn't we? And if you want to go to Shaoxing to see the real Shen Garden, we'll have to wait till tomorrow. There's only one train a day, and today's left hours ago. Airplanes won't fly in this weather, and besides, I don't think there are any direct flights to Shaoxing.”

She stepped around his outstretched hand and, still clutching her handbag, walked out the door straight into the downpour. Quickly settling the bill with the two sharp-eyed waitresses, he started after her. Standing in the bakery doorway, he stuck his head outside; the sound of rain beating down on the sheet metal eaves threw his mind into turmoil. He strained to look through the curtain of rain running off the awning like a waterfall and spotted her plastic handbag over her head as she dashed across the street. Taxis speeding past through the puddling rain soaked her skirt, which accentuated the outline of her bony figure. From where he stood under the awning, looking down the street he could see the gray apartment building where he lived and, it seemed, a kaleidoscopic flow of rain coursing down the newly installed sea-blue balcony windows. He even thought he could detect the rich fragrance of brewed tea and the sweet voice of his daughter calling out: “Come here, Papa!”

She stood across from him in the rain, trying to hail a taxi or any car that would stop for her. The blurry outline of her face brought to mind a cold, rainy day nearly twenty years before, when snowflakes swirled in the air: he stood outside the window of her dormitory, looking in at her as she sat in a chair, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, a faint smile on her lovely face as she happily played an accordion. There were times after that when he wanted to tell her about that night, when he'd nearly frozen to death, but he always suppressed the impulse to show his emotions. The young woman playing her accordion seemed to come alive again in the pouring rain, reigniting the remnants of passion deep in his heart.

He rushed out into the rain and across the street to her. In a matter of seconds, he was as drenched as she was, and just as cold. The freezing rain, now mixed with tiny hailstones, felt as if it were boring right through him. Taking her by the arm, he tried to move her over next to one of the commercial buildings, out of the rain, but she resisted, and he gave up trying. His back felt as if it were being pricked by tiny barbs, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw people under the overhangs casting furtive glances his way. Some of those faces looked familiar. But by then he knew he was stuck. If he let her walk off, his conscience would bother him from that day on.

Finally he managed to drag her over to a roadside telephone booth, where at least the upper halves of their bodies were protected from the rain by a pair of semicircular shades. He said:

“I know of a quaint little Taiwanese teashop in that lane up ahead. Let's go get a nice cup of hot tea and wait for the rain to let up. Then I'll take you to the train station.”