Authors: Carlos Rojas
After crawling out of the ravine and heading back to the furnace, I squatted in front of the entrance for a while. I failed to hear a sound, so I climbed up onto the roof, and found that the opening used for dousing the furnace with water was facing the sky like the mouth of a well. I crawled across the roof toward the opening, and when I reached it I peered inside, then immediately looked away and sat down. In the distance there were people foraging for wild seeds, and someone had already lit a fire and started to boil some soup. For several seconds, I sat dazed on the roof of the furnace, staring at the smoke in the distance, as I waited for my heart to stop racing. Then I crawled back to the opening and once again peered inside. The furnace was half as large as a normal room, and the floor of the northern portion was covered with a thick layer of dry weeds, on top of which there was an old and dirty comforter. The comforter was full of holes and old cotton stuffing was poking out.
The Musician and that man had removed their clothes and left them in a pile next to the comforter, while they themselves were cuddled beneath, with only their heads and shoulders visible. The man was on top and panting as he did his thing, like a pig, while the Musician angled her head away from him and stared upward. The object of her gaze was a small hole in the side of the furnace, in which there was a black bun. The bun was about two feet from her face, and she appeared drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The man, however, didn’t let her eat it, and instead made her focus on the task at hand. The Musician kept staring at the bun, her eyes looking as though they were about to explode. They continued like this for a while, until the man finally stopped moving. After a brief rest, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a steamed bun. He moved the black bun aside, then placed the steamed bun next to it in the same hole in the wall, as though he were turning on a lamp. He said three words to the Musician: “Pure fine grain.” He nudged the Musician’s shoulder, and she quickly got out from under the comforter and began crawling forward like a dog, such that he could then enter her from behind. As he did so, she raised her head even higher, staring intently at that steamed bun.
The man began exerting himself even more frantically. As he was rhythmically thrusting, he emitted a series of sharp, hoarse screams. The Musician, stark naked, knelt on the ground on all fours, supporting herself against the wall of the furnace with one hand, while reaching out for the bun with the other. The man struck her and shouted, “Wait a moment!” The Musician quickly pulled her hand back, and continued staring intently at that bun, as though it were a glimmer of light inside a room that was as dark as death. At this point the man began thrusting even more quickly, as though he had gone mad. I leaned over the opening in the roof, my gaze riveted by the sight below. I don’t know how long they had been secretly fornicating in that furnace, but eventually the man let out a scream and collapsed onto the comforter, mumbling to himself, “Thank God for the famine. That was fucking great!” Meanwhile, the Musician quickly grasped the steamed bun with both hands, seeming to devour it in a single bite.
Just as the Musician was about to finish eating it, the man said with slight embarrassment, “I don’t have much grain, so from now on let’s meet here only every other day.”
The Musician paused in shock, then stepped forward and said, “You are a higher-up, so you can easily ask the other higher-ups for more. Tomorrow you don’t need to give me a steamed bun. It would be fine if you just give me a breadroll.”
The man laughed and said, “You scholars from the city are even easier to manage than those peasants from the countryside.” Then he began collecting his clothes and getting dressed.
At this point, everything was calm. I slowly pulled my head away from the opening and sat under the sun on the roof. My heart was racing, and I kept remembering the Musician’s snow-white body, the way she stared at the bun while under the man, and the way she ravenously devoured it. The sky was clear, and the clouds in the distance produced a faint whistling sound as they floated forward. I looked around and saw a handful of new columns of smoke from people boiling water for grass seed soup. The smoke appeared to congeal, though in reality it continued to dissipate. This was, after all, the twelfth month and there was a heavy chill in the air, which was only barely covered by a thin layer of warmth from the midday sun. In this border between cold and warmth, the sandy ground and wild grass were shrouded in a grayish yellow light, and when the dry sand and withered grass mixed together in the sunlight, they produced a scent of water plants that had been left to dry in the sun. In this medley of odors, I detected the faint smell of steamed bun and fried soybeans. Gazing at the columns of smoke in the distance, I leaned forward and inhaled that aroma of buns and fried beans, but then heard footsteps behind me. I instinctively shrank back against the furnace, then peered down from the roof, whereupon I saw the Musician and the man walking out. After looking around, they each departed in opposite directions.
I waited until they were long gone, then climbed down, and when I entered the furnace I saw that the comforter they had been using was carefully folded and placed in a nook inside the furnace, where it was shielded from the wind and rain. The higher-up had covered it with a pile of weeds, and when I pulled off the weeds and unfolded the comforter, I was immediately assaulted by a nauseating odor. Ignoring the stench, I shook the comforter and picked out the handful of soybeans and grains of wheat that fell to the ground. I quickly scooped them into my mouth and swallowed, then refolded the comforter and covered it again with the dried weeds. When I walked out of the furnace, I saw the man in the military uniform heading back to the ninety-eighth and the Musician heading toward the ninety-ninth. Her light red uniform was walking by the side of the road, like a glowing ember.
I myself also headed back to the ninety-ninth.
When I arrived at the compound, everyone who had gone in search of grass and seeds had not yet returned. As a result, the compound was as quiet as a graveyard. The Child’s door was still tightly closed, and there was now a lock on it. Needless to say, he had gone to the headquarters in town. I urgently wanted to see the Child as soon as possible, to tell him what I had witnessed. I knew that if I told him, he would give me half a handful of fried soybeans, but if I wrote it out he would give me an entire handful. I urgently wanted to tell someone and reveal why the Musician still had a ruddy complexion. I knew, however, that the affair between the Musician and the man was not yet over. I knew that what I had witnessed was only an opening act of a larger play. Given that it was the beginning of the story, I should follow this narrative thread wherever it might lead. As long as I did so, I would be able, like the Musician, to obtain some breadrolls, steamed buns, and fried soybeans.
By this point the sun was already in the west, and people would soon begin returning from foraging for roots and seeds. I stood in the middle of the compound, absorbing the silence around me. I instinctively headed toward the women’s dormitory, but as I rounded the corner I saw the Musician coming out of the Scholar’s building. After quickly ducking from sight to wait for the Musician to pass, I then headed over to the Scholar’s. Given that virtually no outsiders ever came to the compound, and furthermore that none of the criminals had anything worth stealing to begin with, no one other than the Child bothered to lock their door.
I went into the Scholar’s dormitory and proceeded to his bedside. I saw that his comforter was the only one in the room that had been neatly folded into a square and placed at the head of his bed. However, it looked like this had been done recently, and the puffy areas had not yet flattened out. I suspected that it was the Musician who had folded it when she came in. My gaze came to rest on the neatly folded blue comforter. I reached in and, as I expected, found a cloth bag that was as wide as someone’s arm. I opened it and found a couple of handfuls of fried soybeans inside. I grabbed some and quickly gulped them down, while placing the remainder into my pocket. Then I unfolded the Scholar’s comforter, leaving the bed unmade like everyone else’s.
I left the Scholar’s room and proceeded directly to mine.
The next day, I again followed the Musician to the ninety-eighth, which was about eight or nine
li
away. I again saw her plant the stick at the front of the field, whereupon the uniform-wearing man again emerged from the compound. After the two of them had done their thing, I followed the Musician home. This time I found half a steamed bun inside the Scholar’s neatly folded comforter. It had been half a year since I had eaten any flour and rice, to the point that I had already forgotten what it tasted like. I grabbed the bun and didn’t even take a moment to look at it before immediately stuffing it into my mouth. It was so hard I initially started to choke, but then my saliva began to soften it and the flavor of fried sesame flooded into my mouth, making my gums, my tongue, and even my entire body tremble in ecstasy. I didn’t stop to savor the taste, and instead quickly began shoveling the rest of the bun into my mouth. After I had eaten half of it, I paused, and decided that the flavor of the pieces of bun caught in my teeth was actually not sesame, but rather a combination of wheat starch and peanut oil. Savoring that taste now, I stared blankly at the Scholar’s bed. I finished the bun and felt a keen sense of regret, as though I had lost something very valuable. I then proceeded to mess up the Scholar’s sheets, leaving them looking as though he had just rolled out of bed in the morning. Then I left the room.
Standing in the middle of the empty courtyard, I reminisced about the taste of that bun. I suddenly remembered my eighteen ears of wheat that were even bigger than ears of corn. It occurred to me that whoever had those ears of wheat would be able to survive this famine simply by enjoying that distinctive wheat scent.
On the fifth day, when everyone went out to forage for food, I left with them. As everyone else headed northwest, I alone headed southeast. After reaching a small depression, I squatted down and waited for the Musician to emerge from the compound, take the stick from the side of the road, and plant it at the front of the field. But even after the sun was high in the sky, she had still not emerged from the women’s dormitory. Concerned that she might have passed without my noticing, I—under the guise of looking for wild seeds—proceeded to the furnace where she and the man in the military uniform would have their secret rendezvous. Inside, the comforter had been moved into a sunlit area, but the comforter was still neatly folded and covered in grass and sticks, as though no one had touched it.
Evidently, the Musician and the middle-aged man had not been here.
I returned to the compound, walking straight to the second door of the women’s dormitory, and when I entered I found the Musician washing her clothes, and specifically the pink underwear I had seen her wearing. Standing in the doorway, I asked her, “Do you by any chance have a needle?” The Musician quickly shook her hands dry and went to fetch her sewing kit from her drawer. “What have you torn? Would you like me to mend it for you?” As she handed me the kit, which was recycled from an old medicine package, I clearly saw her face’s ruddy glow. Even though it was not the color of a ripe peach, it was at the very least the color of a normal woman’s face.
“You didn’t go out foraging for wild seeds?”
“I don’t feel very well today.”
“Would you like me to go collect some for you?”
Shaking her head gratefully, she explained that the past few days she had found a lot of seeds, and still had enough for another meal. Things were left at that, and she didn’t ask me why I myself had returned so soon, and I naturally couldn’t ask her why she hadn’t gone to the empty furnace for her regular rendezvous. But on the sixth and seventh days she still didn’t go meet the man. Instead she once again started going out with everyone else to forage for roots and seeds. When everyone was drinking their wild seed soup, however, I noticed that she would take only a few sips, and then would suddenly duck into a ravine, where she vomited it all back up. I suspected that this was not because she was pregnant, but rather because she had gotten used to eating the grain that the man brought her every day, to the point that she could no longer tolerate this grass soup that everyone else had to drink. Hidden from the others who had come to this reed-filled area to boil their soup, I watched from a distance as the Musician threw up, then curled up on the ground in a fetal position. I very much wanted to go over and pat her on the back, but in the end I stayed where I was.
After vomiting, the Musician lay on the ground for a while, staring at where there once had been countless furnaces along the riverside. She reflected for a moment, then dumped out the soup she had boiled in the tea cup and headed back toward the district. Given that many people were already so famished that they were more dead than alive, most people didn’t pay much attention to each other. Everyone saw the Musician pour out her soup and leave, but no one was interested in what she planned to do afterward. No one, that is, but me. I wanted to know why she had stopped meeting that man, so that I could make a record of her whereabouts and her secrets. After handing over this record, I would be awarded some grain and food. I quickly gulped down my soup, which felt like a saw going down my throat, and came up with an excuse to follow her.
When I reached the compound, I saw something I found even more startling, and felt as though I were witnessing a most inappropriate plot in a play. This is how the play proceeded. On that day the Child had returned from the headquarters, whereupon the lock that had been hanging on his door suddenly disappeared, and the original chain was again there as before. I think this must have been near the end of the twelfth lunar month, which is to say January or February, but I do remember that the sun was unusually bright. This had been a dry winter with little snow, and every day the sun would rise right on schedule and hover high in the sky. All of the trees had been chopped down for the steel-smelting furnaces, and during the ensuing famine all of the wild roots had gotten dug up. As a result, the sandy earth lay bare under the sky, and the slightest breeze would kick up enormous clouds of dust, creating a vast yellow canopy that blanketed the sun. But on days when there was no wind, the air would be so clear that you could see a tiny leaf floating in the sky like a feather.