The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories

  the pearl jacket

  and other stories

  FLASH FICTION

  from Contemporary China

  edited and translated by

  Shouhua Qi

  Stone Bridge Press • Berkeley, California

  Published by

  Stone Bridge Press

  P.O. Box 8208

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  tel 510-524-8732 • sbp@stonebridge.com • www.stonebridge.com

  The publisher wishes to acknowledge the cooperation of Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press in the publication of this book.

  Compilation and translation copyright ©2008 Shouhua Qi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  The pearl jacket and other stories : contemporary Chinese flash fiction / translation and preface by Shouhua Qi.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-933330-62-4

  1. Short stories, Chinese—21st century—Translations into English. 2. Chinese fiction—21st century—Translations into English. I. Qi, Shouhua.

  PL2658.E8P43 2008

  895.1’30108052—dc22

  2007051844

  preface

  Flash fiction, or wei xing xiao shuo,as it is known in Chinese literature, also goes by the name of Minute Story (yi fen zhong xiao shuo) (most likely for the amount of time required to read one); Pocket-Size Story (xiu zhen xiao shuo) or Palm-Size Story (zhang pian xiao shuo) (alluding to its small size); and, perhaps most evocatively, a Smoke-Long Story (yi dai yan xiao shuo), where one can imagine the reader taking a drag from a delicious cigarette in some smoky salon, while relishing a few lines from some make-believe world.

  In the West, flash fiction can be found in the story of the boy who cried “Wolf!” on that Grecian isle over 2,600 years ago, as well as in other Aesop fables and parables. The earliest examples of Chinese flash fiction are in the remarkably “grand” creation myths of Nuwa (ca. 350 BC), Fuxi, and Pangu. The story of Pangu, for example, which first appeared in written form during the Warring States period (AD 220–63), has a word count of 350 Chinese characters.

  The stories in this anthology represent the achievements in flash fiction in modern to contemporary China, that is, early 20th century to the present day. Taking root in China’s fertile native cultural soil and drawing nourishment from influences inside and outside China, flash fiction has matured as a literary form. The birth of the Microfiction Association of China in 1992, and the popularity of literary journals devoted to such fiction exclusively, e.g., Journal of Microfiction, Journal of Short-Short Story, etc., attest to the popularity of flash fiction in China in recent years. New technologies such as text messaging and blogging and extensive (though still tightly controlled) use of the internet in China make it possible for millions of people to dally with writing their own stories and “publishing” them to family, friends, and, often, complete strangers. There is instant satisfaction when the desire to be heard, and to be known, is met (“Sir, I exist!”). Imagine a nation of tens of millions of story-tellers! The future of flash fiction, it seems, is as bright and hopeful as enthusiasm (and technology) can carry it.

  If writing flash fiction is exciting, translating such stories is just as so, if not more. Each of the stories in this book comes from a distinctive time and place; each has a distinctive beginning, middle, and end; each speaks with a distinctive cadence of voice; each showcases a distinctive style, whether simple, minimalist, folksy, erudite, ornate, or elegant. No two stories are alike. Therefore, instead of trying to conquer a 130,000-meter tall mountain (the approximate word count of the original stories in Chinese), I instead had to climb 130 1,000-meter high hills; each time I barely had time to utter “I came, I saw, I translated” before I had to plunge ahead again and start climbing the next hill, which, more often than not, revealed quite different topography altogether.

  Among these stories are a few not so contemporary ones by the great masters of modern fiction such as Lu Xun, Lao She, Guo Morou, and Yu Dafu, all of which are exemplary in freshness of idea, depth of meaning, and intensity of feeling, as well as in execution (flow of story, character development, use of language). Other writers, such as Shen Congwen, known for his vernacular style of writing that blends the strong influence of both classical Chinese and Western literature, and Wang Meng (1934–), the writer and essayist and one of the first to experiment with the stream of consciousness technique in Chinese fiction, serve as the anchoring point for works to be written generations later. The absence of stories since the great masters (until around 1980) can be attributed to China’s turbulent history: The Great Proletariat Cultural Revolution of 1966–76 nearly wiped Chinese literature off the map. Then, in the 1980s, flash fiction re-emerged on China’s literary scene with a vengeance. Among my favorite of the stories produced since the 1980s are: “A Hawk in the Sky,” “A Serious Speech to Promote Mark Twain’s Humorous Speeches,” “White Gem,” “To Kill the Sister-in-Law,” “Precious Stone,” “Immortality,” “Straw Ring,” “Merchant of Wills,” “Concerned Departments,” “Floral Shorts,” “Mosquito Nets,” “‘Oh, Isn’t This General Manager Gao?’” “The Same River Twice?” “A Caterpillar on Your Shoulder!” and “The Outside World.” Some of these stories are traditional in their narrative mode and appear to be politically innocuous enough, but embedded in them are critical barbs no reader familiar with Chinese irony and satire will miss. In Ling Dingnian’s “Cat and Mouse Play” (2004), the historical lesson the General taught his Second-in-Command may, ostensibly, have to do with China’s distant imperial past, but the story’s political subtext, its pungent satire directed at the political life of modern China, especially what Mao Zedong did to his Long March comrades-in-arms during the Cultural Revolution, becomes apparent when one considers the fact that “Using Ancient History to Satirize the Here and Now” has been a favorite trope among Chinese writers (and dissident intellectuals) since time immemorial.

  Some of the stories treat their historical source material rather playfully and give well-known, classic stories a postmodern twist with delightful, refreshing effect. Such is the case of “To Kill the Sister-in-Law” by Jia Pingwa, a writer known in the West for his Turbulence (2003), Fei Du (Defunct Capital, which was banned in China when first published in 1993), and other fictional works. Jia draws from the classic Chinese novel Water Margin (Shuihuzhuang): the story of Wu Song—the tall, handsome hero famed for having killed a fierce tiger with his bare hands—avenging the death of his ugly, midget brother poisoned by his sister-in-law Pan Jinlian (the infamous Golden Lotus) and her rakehell lover Ximen Qing. The heroic and righteous Wu Song, who had earlier rebuffed the adulterous advances of the ravishingly beautiful sister-in-law, never wavers for a second in meting out justice. Here, Jia adds a playful revisionist twist.

  Whether drawing from the here and now of contemporary China or from the nation’s collective memory of its long and distant past, whether traditional, experimental, or avant-garde in their narrative modes, these and many other stories resonated with me intellectually and emotionally while I was trying to render them into English. They not only capture the pulse of life of a given time and place but also have something profound to say about the human condition, which transcends the bounds of time and place.

  Of the stories featured in this book, nineteen (some of which are undated in the anthology) are from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau. These stories enrich the thematic, emotional, and stylistic tapestry of the anthology in no small ways. If I feel the “yang” force
pulsing restlessly in stories from mainland China, I find myself drawn to the quiet “yin” force in these stories, pleased by their well-tuned sensitivity, ease of flow, and the satisfying yet disquieting sensation that lingers long after the reading. Stories such as “My Bride,” “Wrong Number,” “Feelings,” and “Time” read like prose poems, too. “Parrot,” the last story in this book, is fable, myth, and nightmare all in one.

  The stories in this anthology tell the truth; a tall order indeed. Truth, big or small, emotional as well as intellectual, gives each story life and makes the minutes (the time it takes to finish a smoke, for example) spent by the reader a fascinating and rewarding experience.

  Finally, I want to say that as a translator of these stories I have invested enough time, effort, and emotions in them to feel they have become my stories, too. Therefore, any imperfections readers may find are as much mine as the original authors’.

  relationships

  Door Forever

  Shao Baojian

  An old town in the South. A small compound with an old well. Inside the compound live eight or nine ordinary families. The same old-styled one-story houses, the same configurations for many years, despite the addition of modern gadgets inside the houses recently.

  Among the eight or nine households, two of them have only one resident each: old bachelor Zheng Ruokui and old maid Pan Xue’er.

  Zheng lives right next door to Pan.

  “Morning,” he greets her.

  “Leaving?” She replies and passes him, not slowing one step.

  How many times have the neighbors seen the two passing each other in the compound but heard only those two words? They are disheartened by the simple, emotionless repetition.

  Pan is a bit over 40. Slim, oval face, pale skin, dressed simply but tastefully. She can still be considered charming. She works at the florist down West Street. The neighbors have no idea why such a charming woman would want to remain single. They only know that she is entitled to love yet has never married.

  Zheng moved into the compound five years ago right after Pan did. He is an art worker for a movie theater, a painter more conscientious and careful than talented, it is said. He looks much older than his age of 45 or 46. His hair, dry, messy, faded, shows no benefit of being combed often. His back humps visibly. Thin face. Thin and narrow shoulders. Thin hands. Only that pair of large eyes always glint with light of youth, and of dreams.

  When he returns home, he often carries a bunch of fresh flowers, roses, crabapple, wintersweet, and so on, in all four seasons, and places the fresh flowers in a tall and translucent blue vase.

  He isn’t in the habit of visiting the neighbors. Once home, he stays inside. Sometimes he comes out to wash clothes, dishes, and that tall, translucent blue vase. He then fills the vase with clear well water and carries it home with extreme care, his mouth pouting.

  A thick wall stands between his bedroom and that of Pan’s.

  Next to his bed is an old bamboo bookshelf, the height of an adult, set against the wall. Atop the bookshelf on the right is the permanent place for this blue vase.

  Besides this are some paintings, hanging here and there, some Chinese, some foreign, some by others, some by himself.

  It would be apparent from the configuration of furniture and the film of dust that has gathered, that this household misses the presence of a woman, the aura of warmth only a woman can create.

  Yet the vase is always cleaned spotless, the water inside always crystal clear, and the flowers always fresh and in full bloom.

  The neighbors have once cherished a fond hope that the flowers he carries home would one day appear inside the house of his next-door neighbor, Pan Xue’er. Yet this miracle never happened. Naturally they began to develop a sweet and gentle feeling of sympathy for Zheng.

  It drizzled one early morning in fall.

  Zheng, holding an umbrella, greeted Pan as usual: “Morning.”

  Pan, also holding an umbrella, replied as ever before: “Leaving?”

  The rain stopped in the evening. She returned home from work, but he didn’t.

  Word came that Zheng, while painting in the studio of the movie theatre, had a heart attack and fallen to the ground. He died upon arriving at the hospital.

  Some in this ordinary compound sobbed.

  But Pan did not cry, though her eyes were red.

  Wreathes were brought in, one after another. That big one decorated with all kinds of fresh flowers but without an elegy band, was from her in memory of him.

  In this ordinary compound the sudden absence of an ordinary man, an old bachelor who had not been favored by love, was felt keenly and with regret.

  A few days later Pan Xue’er moved away. Sudden and unexpected.

  While packing up Zheng’s things one day, the neighbors couldn’t help being amazed: That blue vase looked like it had been cleaned recently; the white chrysanthemum in it had not faded.

  Everyone’s eyes popped when they moved the old bamboo bookshelf.

  A Door! On the wall was a finely crafted purple-red door with a brass handle!

  Their hearts were tossed into turmoil: So that’s what was going on!

  The neighbors grunted and sneered. The sorrow and respect they had felt for this old bachelor only a few days ago was gone, replaced by an anger that could not be described or uttered.

  Then, someone reached to pull the door open, but cried out—the brass handle was flat, and the door and its frame were as smooth as the wall.

  A door painted on the wall!

  (1986)

  The Moonlit Window

  Deng Kaishang[1]

  The moon, pale as jade, peeked from behind translucent clouds, drifted in through the delicate window, and fell onto the small writing desk in the room. The tenant’s exquisite writing brush, breathing in the fragrance of fresh ink, rested on a small, finely-carved wood stand.

  Five water chestnuts. No, four and a half, to be more exact: one of them having been bitten in half by the tenant. The remaining half, its stem still intact, lay upright on the small desk. Basking in the pale, pure moonlight, it looked like a miniature pyramid.

  A small piece of square-shaped marble, exquisite, pure as a beam of frozen moonlight. Underneath the rock was a stack of manuscript paper, words written in graceful penmanship, its title: “Revision Suggestions for On Spring Vistas in Mountainous Villages (Three Volumes).”

  Underneath the stack of manuscript paper was a family letter, which cracked visibly somewhere along the lines where it had been folded; the V-shaped rupture rippled with moonlight, shiny like a dagger. The visible portion of the letter showed words written with both resolve and feminine sensitivity:

  Full moon beaming in the sky, stars sailing to the west, but woe welling up in my heart: A full moon is not as good as a full family! ‘Once a couple, forever a couple,’ and we had that ‘once’ for 12 years! My conscience, a woman’s conscience, tortures my soul to this very day that we have been washed apart by the currents of life. My soul cries in pain; my soul is bleeding. Oh, let’s get married again! I beseech you. The only thing I will ask of you is to quit this editor’s job. What did you get in return for ‘making bridal dresses’ for others half of your life? Ten years of cold wind and rain, a head of frosty hair. So listen to me this time!

  The letter closed with: “I beg you to quit smoking.” In a corner of the letter were two red, bean-sized marks: two drops of blood having soaked deep into the paper. Next to them was a line from the tenant after reading the letter: “Endless will flow this feeling of love!” It was taken from Bai Juyi’s poem “Endless Sorrow;” only that the tenant had replaced “sorrow” with “love.”

  A gentle breeze murmured a serenade. It drifted into the moonlit window, caressed a sheet of manuscript paper, the ink on which was still fresh, and dropped on it a strand of frosty hair. The page number read: 109.

  (1981)

  Nest of Oat Stalks

  Cao Naiqian

  All is quiet under the
sky. The bright Moon Granny shone on the threshing ground. On the side of the oat stalks stack facing Moon Granny he made a nest for her and himself.

  “After you.”

  “After you.”

  “Then let’s get in together.”

  Together he and she crawled in. The nest collapsed. The collapsed stalks fell over their heads.

  He raised his arms to hold the stalks. “Forget about them. It’s not bad.” She nestled in his arms and said: “Ugly Brother must hate me so.”

  “No, I don’t. Darkie Kiln is richer than I am.”

  “Who cares about his money? All I want is to save money so Ugly Brother can marry a woman.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “But I want to save for you.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You have to want it.”

  He could hear she was on the verge of crying and didn’t say another word.

  “Ugly Brother,” she said a while later.

  “Yes?”

  “Ugly Brother, give me a smooch.”

  “Don’t do this to me.”

  “I want to.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “I want to.”

  He could hear she was on the verge of crying again and bent to kiss her cheek. Silky, soft.

  “Wrong place. Here!” she pouted. He bent and kissed her lips this time. Cool, moist.

  “What does it taste like?”

  “Oat cake.”

  “Wrong, wrong. Why don’t you try again.” She pulled his head low.

  “Still like an oat cake,” he considered and said again.

  “Nonsense. I’ve just had candy. Try again!” She pulled his head low again.

  “Candy! Candy!” He exclaimed right away.

  Neither said anything for a long while.

  “Ugly Brother.”

  “Yes?”

  “How about . . . how about me doing that with you today.”

  “No, no. Moon Granny is watching outside. That won’t be right. Our Weng Kilnville girls never do that.”