‘Do you ever get babies washing up here?’ Kongzi asks, his mind turning to Happiness.
‘Huh! More dead babies wash up here than dead fish! But no families ever come looking for them, so the body fishers leave them to rot on the bank.’
Kongzi whisks the flies from his face and glances at the shacks above.
‘Don’t bother asking the other guys,’ the man says. ‘They’ll con you out of all your money. I doubt your mother’s here. The bodies I’ve seen recently have been either much older or younger.’
Kongzi and Weiwei return to the boat. Meili is still standing at the stern, her hand clamped over her mouth. ‘The stench is unbearable,’ she groans as the men step aboard. The brown water below is littered with white polystyrene, empty cans and dead fish. Weiwei stares down dejectedly. ‘Perhaps her body has got caught on an anchor, or under a rock on the riverbed, or perhaps it’s been swept further downstream and I’ll never find it.’
The river and sky are darkening, but the pale swathe of floating refuse is still glowing faintly. Kongzi retreats into the cabin. Meili follows him inside and says, ‘I can’t stand the smell any longer, and I’m getting bitten to death by the mosquitoes. Let’s get out of here.’
‘We should give him a bit more time,’ Kongzi replies, lighting a cigarette.
‘No, I’ve had enough. I don’t care about the money. This place is a floating graveyard. Who knows how many corpses are bobbing under the rubbish?’
‘Be quiet – you’ll upset him,’ Kongzi whispers, peeping round the door curtain at Weiwei, who’s still leaning overboard staring down at the floating debris. ‘Do we have any beer left?’ Kongzi asks.
‘No,’ Meili snaps. She wants to scream out in anger, but doesn’t dare open her mouth too wide in case the insects swarming around her fly inside.
‘Anything to eat?’ Kongzi asks tentatively.
‘No, nothing!’ Meili shouts.
Kongzi goes out onto the deck and pats Weiwei’s trembling shoulders. ‘Shall we get going, my friend? If we don’t leave this wretched place soon, we’ll have to spend the night here.’
‘Yes, let’s sail upstream and find a better place to anchor,’ Meili says, joining them outside. ‘It’s too late to go home now. Don’t worry, we won’t charge you any extra for the night.’
Weiwei reluctantly nods in agreement. Meili goes to the stern, presses a towel to her mouth and starts the engine. As the boat sets off, the breeze becomes cooler and fresher. But the backwater’s stench has infused her skin, and whenever it drifts up to her nose, she gags. They sail upstream in the dying light, and her eyes fill with tears as she wonders whether Happiness’s body is still lying on the bed of the Yangtze, or has been swept down to this backwater as well, and is decaying under the floating rubbish along with all the other rotting corpses.
‘After our second child was ripped out of Meili’s womb and murdered by the authorities, we gave him a water burial in the Yangtze,’ Kongzi tells Weiwei, crushing out his cigarette. ‘At least I know now that if he’d washed up here, the corpse fishers would have left him alone.’
Weiwei looks at him, his face seized up in horror, then buries his head into his folded arms and weeps like a child.
Meili steers the boat towards a distant mooring place below a cluster of brick shacks. In the deep dusk, the water’s surface has become as smooth as skin, tearing open as the bow cuts through it then sealing up again behind the stern.
KEYWORDS:
tortoiseshell glasses, greatest good, wet dress, preserved mustard greens, peace of mind.
KONGZI TIES THE
boat to a small wooden jetty that is coated in fine cement dust. He looks up and sees a brick shack with a wooden sign that says
GOOD FOOD RESTAURANT
. A child is squatting down for a shit next to a telegraph pole. In a shed close by, an engine is loudly chugging.
They enter the restaurant. Kongzi studies the menu and orders sweet and sour fish, spicy spare ribs, fried string beans and a bottle of rice wine. On a television in the corner, a woman in a flowery dress is singing, ‘
Your tenderness bewilders me. My fate is loneliness . . .
’ The food is brought to the table. Meili stares at the darkness outside the window, glancing occasionally at Kongzi and Weiwei whose faces soon turn red from the alcohol.
‘Don’t give in to despair,’ Kongzi tells Weiwei. ‘Death is merely a turning off of the lights. Come on, have another drink. And you too, Meili.’
Meili raises her glass and looks into Weiwei’s bespectacled eyes. She assumes he’s abandoned the search, but knows that the thought that his mother’s corpse may be lying undiscovered in the river must be torturing him. She notices his filthy collar and wishes she could pull off his shirt and scrub it clean.
Kongzi lifts his eyes to the ceiling and sighs. ‘The ancient philosopher, Laozi, said: “The greatest good is like water: it gives life to the ten thousand things, but does not strive. It flows in places men reject and so is like the Tao . . .” But this Xi River doesn’t give life. It’s a flowing cemetery of bodies, pollution and waste . . .’
‘The Taoist philosophers were attempting to come up with principles to govern human conduct,’ Weiwei replies. ‘But who’s interested in principles now? When his mother passed away, the Taoist sage, Zhuangzi, beat his drum and laughed. His mother died a natural death, so he could regard it with equanimity. But my mother was driven to her death by a government that has washed its hands of the sick and the poor. I can’t help giving in to despair. Since the Tiananmen Massacre, this country has lost its conscience. Money is the only religion.’ Weiwei puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights up, but chokes at the first puff.
‘Don’t smoke if you’re not a smoker,’ Meili says, taking the cigarette from him. She sucks a puff then keeps it held between her fingers, tapping it against an empty cup when the ash becomes too long.
‘You’re right,’ Kongzi says. ‘I never dare discuss such things with my wife, but mark my words: one day the official verdict on Tiananmen will be reversed. My old teacher, Mr Zhou, is convinced of it. A toast, Weiwei: “Friends from afar meet but rarely. Let us raise our glass in joy and drown our sorrows!” Since you didn’t find your mother today, we won’t charge you anything for this trip. Come on, now. It’s not often I get to sit down with a graduate. Let’s test our wits. We’ll take turns to recite a line of ancient poetry that contains a character connected to water. Whoever slips up must drink a shot.’ At the back of the restaurant, two men covered in cement dust are drinking beer. The only light in the room is coming from the single bulb overhead and the glowing television screen. A rusty electric fan on the cashier’s desk slowly stirs the air. Mosquitoes and flies flit from the plates of food to one of the six forearms pressed on the table.
‘Fine, let’s toast the Xi River and give it a go!’ Weiwei says. He undoes the top button of his shirt, then, glancing at Meili, quickly does it up again.
‘“The white sun sinks behind the mountain as the Yellow River glides towards the sea,”’ Kongzi recites, tapping the line’s rhythm on the table.
‘“A low ray of sun spreads across the water which is emerald along one side, and red along the other,”’ Weiwei chants, rubbing the edges of his tortoiseshell glasses.
‘I said the line should contain a word with a watery connection, not the word “water” itself. You lose! Drink up!’
‘If you insist,’ Weiwei sighs, and empties the glass. ‘But next time, if I manage to replace “water” with another word, while retaining the sense, you must let me off.’
‘All right, I’ll agree to that. Ready? “The bright moon rises from the sea; at different edges of the sky, we admire the same view.”’
‘“I at the head of the Yangtze River, you at the tail, we drink—”’ The next word is “water” but Weiwei stops himself just in time and says, ‘No, make that “we mourn our loved ones who rest on the river’s bed.”’
‘A fine line,’ Kongzi says, the image striking at his heart. He pauses to wipe a tear from his eye, then continues the game. ‘“The moon follows the river’s waves for ten thousand li; in spring, its radiance overflows the banks.”’
‘“The mountain pass is hard to breach; who feels sorrow for the man who has lost his way?” Weiwei says, pushing his glasses further up his nose.
‘No water connotation!’ Kongzi shouts out, banging the table. ‘You’ve lost again!’
‘But the character “sorrow” contains the water radical on the left.’
‘You need two radicals for it to count, I’m afraid. You’ve definitely lost, brother. Drink up!’
Once the men empty the last dregs from the bottle, Meili whispers to Kongzi that they should return to the boat to sleep. Kongzi ventures out into the dark to find a toilet. Weiwei settles the bill then returns to the table and says to Meili, ‘Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she answers, staring at the fish bones on the plates, wondering, with a shudder, whether the fish they’ve just eaten once fed on the corpse of Weiwei’s mother. More flies gather on the plates and crawl over the leftovers.
‘You looked so beautiful when you were driving the boat,’ Weiwei says. ‘Kongzi is a lucky man.’ As she looks up at him, he glances out of the window, too embarrassed to meet her gaze, and they hear a loud, grating rumble outside that sounds like a truck emptying rubble onto a boat. Meili’s heart begins to thud. This is the first time that any man apart from Kongzi has told her that she’s beautiful. Not knowing what to say, she looks down again and stares at the plates and at Weiwei’s watch.
‘I’ve put you both to so much trouble today,’ Weiwei says, gripping his empty glass. ‘“Where will I be when I wake from my drunken sleep? / On the willow banks, in the dawn breeze, under a fading moon.” That would work. “Drunken” and “banks” both have watery connotations . . .’
‘It’s been no trouble at all. So, how many children did your mother have?’ Meili wants to tell Weiwei that with his round tortoiseshell glasses he looks just like the university professors who give lectures on television.
‘Four boys and one girl. I’m the eldest. Tell me your name again.’
‘Meili.’
‘As in “Beautiful and Pretty”? How apt.’
‘How common, you mean. Every woman in the countryside is called Meili. But my “Mei” is the dawn “Mei”. I was born in the morning.’
‘Ah, that’s different, then. “Beautiful Dawn”, or “Beautiful Beginning”. Very poetic.’
Meili thinks of her mother, and remembers her lying asleep on a chair while breastfeeding Meili’s brother, her milk tricking down his cheek. She wonders whether her grandmother is still well enough to walk about and go out into the garden. ‘When our parents are alive, we’re young,’ she says. ‘But as soon as they die, we become old.’
‘You’re right,’ Weiwei says, looking down. ‘When our parents are alive, they stand in front of us, blocking our view of death. But once they’ve gone, we find ourselves at the cliff edge. Whether we jump now or later doesn’t make much difference. The next step we take will be the end.’
‘Don’t be so negative. Perhaps your mother didn’t throw herself into the river after all. Perhaps she’ll turn up at your home one day. You only have one life: you must be kind to yourself.’
‘Yes, we’re only here once. We’re unlikely to cross paths again.’ Weiwei returns his blank gaze to the window. The only sign of the river now is the trail of light from a passing boat. The flies and mosquitoes swarming the night air are only visible once they hit the glass pane.
‘You have a long life ahead of you, a son who’s off to university . . .’ Meili says, glancing at the educational programme being broadcast on the television now. Moths flit around the bulb above. One of them breaks a wing, falls to the table and flutters about in distress.
‘Somehow, I’d prefer to find out that she was dead. It’s the uncertainty that’s so unbearable. I know now that there is no greater torture in life than to have someone you love go missing.’ Weiwei spots a mosquito on his arm and slaps it.
‘No, you men have no idea. The greatest torture any human being could suffer is to be pregnant with a child and not know which day it might be torn from you; and then, when it is taken from you, to have to watch it being strangled before your eyes. My aborted son often appears to me in my dreams, lying dead in a plastic bag, his face all swollen and purple. If he were alive now, he’d probably call you “Uncle Glasses” . . .’ She sinks her face into her hands and weeps.
‘You’re a good mother, Meili, don’t cry,’ Weiwei says, handing her a paper napkin. ‘My mother had a hard life too. She married at the height of the Land Reform Campaign, when the Party was encouraging the masses to kill rich landowners. The day after her wedding, her father was dragged to the village hall and hanged in public, and my parents were made to watch. My mother told me that as his dead body swung from the ceiling, the peasants whipped it with ropes so fiercely that scraps of his flesh splashed onto her face. I was there too at the time, inside her womb. For the next two years, my parents had to remain “empty-handed”.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It meant that when they left the house they couldn’t take anything with them, no bags or wallets. And in summer, they weren’t allowed to wear socks or long trousers. The authorities were afraid they’d conceal weapons on their bodies and try to avenge her father’s death. Many of the victims’ family members committed suicide during those years. But my mother struggled on, for my sake. I was born three months prematurely. I weighed just three pounds. When I was six she taught me the
Three Character Classic
and the English poetry she learned at her missionary school. For my sake she clung to life, and now for my sake again she has killed herself.’ Weiwei takes off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubs his tear-filled eyes.
Meili searches for words of comfort. ‘I’m not a good mother,’ she says at last. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve had an IUD fitted. I don’t want to have any more children. I want to work hard, make money, and live the kind of life where I can eat my meals at a proper table and wash my clothes in a machine.’
Weiwei looks up. ‘That shouldn’t be hard to achieve. Times have changed. Any woman can set up her own business now, become her own boss. But not every woman can be as good a mother as you . . .’