The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories Page 6

  The child shook his head. He told the child to look harder.

  The child looked again and said, “I don’t know you.”

  “I’m your pa,” he said.

  “You are not my pa,” the child said.

  “I am your pa.”

  “You aren’t my pa.”

  “I am your pa,” he insisted.

  The child stopped arguing with him. He ran into the inner room, came back with a small wooden box, and handed it to him: “My pa is in it.”

  He opened the box.

  In the box lay a butterfly.

  A big black butterfly.

  (1988)

  Façade

  Shen Hong

  Her husband will go on a business trip for a week.

  She pretends to care a lot and asks him many questions: Where is he going? What’s the weather like there? Shouldn’t he pack some extra clothing just in case? She talks while packing for her husband, a can’t-live-a-day-without-him look in her face. It is so touching. In reality, though, she can’t wait for her husband to go on business trips so she can go and see her lover.

  She used to be a proper woman. But eight years of married life has worn her out. After a full day of busy work at the company, she yearned to be comforted by her husband when she returned home. Yet he would be tied up with work and wouldn’t be home until late in the evening. So her home was rarely brightened up with happy surprises such as her husband coming home with fresh flowers. Oh, she would be thrilled and hug him till she died. How many times had she dreamed of such a moment in her life and each time she would be disappointed. It looked like there was no way she and her husband could rekindle the kind of passion they had felt for each other while dating. At moments like this she would be hit by a nameless sadness and would feel lonely. It was around this time that a wealthy man began to pursue her. At first she was nervous and couldn’t see herself saying yes to the man. Her curiosity prevailed eventually. In the thrilling adventure that ensued she tasted passions she had never thought possible her entire life. Now, she is awash with excitement whenever she thinks of the time she spends with her lover.

  At this very moment while packing for her husband, she is planning in her head. First, she and her lover go to Arc de Triomphe to savor the French food there; then they go for a ride in the lover’s shiny Nissan; afterwards, they go to the dance hall to dance cha-cha and sing karaoke. Yes, that “Meet at Midnight,” which she has sung dozens of times. Usually it is after singing that song that she and her lover walk into the night, romantic, intoxicating. . . .

  She finishes packing while planning, tiptoes into the bedroom, and picks up the phone. She hears her husband’s voice from the other phone in the living room:

  “ . . . I’ve already told her the business trip will take about a week. She’s still packing for me . . . don’t worry, she won’t suspect anything. Yes, we will have a fabulous time at the sea resort . . . Hey, all is clear at your end, too? Good. Okay, see you at the resort. . . . ”

  Her heart tightens suddenly, the phone slipping out of her hand. . . .

  (1994)

  Letters

  Wang Peijing

  In the heart is an invisible thread that links us to our dear ones no matter where we are in the world.

  This story took place over 20 years ago. At the time I was 17 years old and had just graduated from high school. I joined a Tibet Volunteers team and was working on a highway project in Xixigeli. One of my roommates was a middle-aged rustic man called Big Mount Ma. Behind his back, though, everybody called him Big Monk Ma. Here in Xixigeli, sandstorms rage on almost year round, and here in Xixigeli women and green are rarely seen. It wasn’t that bad during the day while we were busy laying stones and filling in earth. It became hard on us, however, when we lay in bed at night listening to the wind buzzing outside the Mongolian tents and wolves engaging in heart-piercing howls.

  At that time communication technology was not as advanced. Even if it were, no telephone service could be established in such vast, wild desert.

  Therefore, letters were the only way by which we could be linked with folks thousands of miles away. Although it would sometimes take more than two months for a letter to reach its destination, that sheet of paper carried with it the feelings between father and son, mother and son, husband and wife, and between brothers.

  Big Monk Ma was illiterate. Every time he saw others’ faces light up with joy upon receiving letters, he would sit aside and puff away on his pipe. About half a year later, Big Monk Ma had a rather thoughtful, worried look on his face for days. I wondered why. Moreover, he was especially kind to me. On the construction site he would always let me do light work and during mealtime he would generously give me a portion of his vegetables and meat.

  One evening he told me what had been on his mind.

  “Young man, could you do me a favor? I am illiterate, you know. I bought paper, pen, and envelope a long time ago but don’t know how to use them. Could you write me a letter home? Just want to know how my kid is doing at school, and how are things at home.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “Why didn’t you ask me earlier? No trouble at all. Okay, let me do it now, so it’ll catch the mail tomorrow. Homesick, wife-sick, right?” Now I knew why he had been so kind to me recently.

  Once the letter was on its way, Big Monk Ma became his old self again, working tirelessly, a smile appearing on his face now and then.

  A month passed. Then another. Still no letters came for Big Monk Ma. So I offered to write another letter for him.

  Days passed. More days passed. Finally Big Monk Ma received a letter from home. That afternoon we were busy working when the administrative assistant came to the construction site to pass out the mail. Thrilled beyond himself, Big Monk Ma gazed at the letter for a long time, caressed it with quivering fingers, and then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Someone called out: “Uncle Ma, what does your letter say? Can you read it aloud for us?” Big Monk Ma’s face reddened, but he didn’t take out the letter.

  A short while later I went to the outhouse. Big Monk Ma followed. When we reached the outhouse, he said, “Young man, could you read it for me?” I took the envelope. I tore it open and pulled out a sheet. He took the envelope and felt inside to see if there was more. I read through the letter and said:

  “Let’s not read it.”

  A worried look appeared on his face. “What happened? What happened? What does the letter say? Read it for me. I beg you.”

  It was a rather short letter written with an unsteady hand:

  Big Mount:

  The kid is good. I want to sleep with you.

  Kid’s Mom

  I finished but Big Monk Ma’s eyes were still on my face. When I handed the letter back to him, he said: “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s all. Your wife can write? The envelope and the letter were not written by the same hand.”

  “No, she can’t. She never went to school.”

  I was young and foolish then, having not tasted the full range of human feelings, and leaked the content of Big Monk Ma’s letter as if it were a joke. Many on the construction site would tease him endlessly: “I want to sleep with you! “

  Not long after that I received a telegram that my grandpa was gravely ill. So I left Tibet. I haven’t seen Big Monk Ma since.

  Later I realized that his wife must have worked hard on that letter. It must have taken her a whole day, or perhaps several days, to learn one single word from her young son, and then copy the words, stroke by stroke, to complete that letter. That simple letter carried with it the deep feelings of a woman in the mountains, waiting for her man thousands of miles away.

  Twenty years have passed since then. I hope it’s not too late to say this to Big Monk Ma and his dear wife: I apologize for my youthful foolishness.

  (2000)

  Goldie

  Ma Baoshang

  Hai Chuan just got married. The bride’s name was Goldie.

&
nbsp; One day that year Japanese devils came to Little Village and massacred so many folks that its river turned bloody red. The Japs’ atrocities lit the fire of hatred in the hearts of the villagers. That same evening, a group of young men, led by Yang, were ready to go into the mountains to join the guerrillas.

  Hai Chuan, however, didn’t want to leave his newly married bride behind. Disappointed, Goldie said: I thought I had married a real man, not a chicken-hearted sissy.

  His face reddening, Hai Chuan said: All right, just you wait for the day I’m back with a few Japs’ skulls for you to pee in.

  A smile blossomed on Goldie’s face: That’s my man! You go and join the guerrillas and I’ll wait for you, eight years, ten years, a lifetime, no matter.

  So Hai Chuan went with Yang and the group of young men into the mountains.

  Eight months later Goldie gave birth to a son and named him Little Chuan.

  Goldie waited for eight years. Hai Chuan didn’t return, saying he had to go on to fight Chiang Kai-shek now that the Japs were gone. So Goldie waited for another three years. Still Hai Chuan didn’t return, saying he had to go to Korea to fight the Americans. So Goldie waited for a few more years. Then, she was told that Hai Chuan, now a general, didn’t want her any more even though she had waited for him for so many years; he had married a modern city girl.

  Goldie cried for three days and nights. On the fourth day she went to the village river to wash her tears and sorrow. She buried her anger and sadness deep down and placed all her hope on bringing up her son as best she could. As time flew by like water in the river, Goldie’s world began to shine with hope and promise. Whenever folks praised Goldie, they would have a few unkind words about the heartless Hai Chuan. It was in such an environment that Little Chuan finally grew up, got married, and became a father himself. One day, his son asked him:

  “Pa, everybody else has a grandma and grandpa, why me, only grandma, but no grandpa?”

  Little Chuan muttered angrily: “Grandma is all we need. Who cares about Grandpa!”

  Now, General Hai Chuan finally retired. Every day he walked with his birds and watered his flowers while reliving his past in his mind. All the fierce battles he had fought, big and small, became a blur gradually as the dust of time settled in his memory. In their place re-emerged the picture of a little village where he grew up, a little river that had nourished him, and a bride he had left behind many years ago. Sorrow would hit him and hit him hard. Goldie must be in her 70s now. And the son. Yes, the son must be about 50 years old, too. The old general missed his home village badly. One day he returned, with a deep sense of guilt, and stood in front of Goldie.

  “Goldie, I’ve wronged you. . . . ”

  Goldie was calm as the cloudless autumn sky. She called in her son, and then her grandson, to meet the guest. “This is your grandpa,” she said to her grandson. The old general burst into tears. He didn’t dare to say anything tender to Little Chuan, but gathered his grandson in his arms and kissed him like mad.

  The old general had been used to being treated like an important guest, but being treated like this in his own “home” made him feel awkward and heavy-hearted. He was especially saddened by the coldness his own son, Little Chuan, showed him. During dinner that evening wine was served. After a few cups, the old general didn’t feel well and turned in early. When he woke up, the light was still on in the outer room. Someone was saying something. It was Goldie:

  “Listen to me, Little Chuan, your pa stepped forward when our country was in grave danger. He fought in so many wars, going into battles with his head in his hand, not knowing whether he would live or die the next instant. He is a real man. If he owes anything to anyone, he owes it to me alone. Whatever he owed to you, I made it up on his behalf long ago. If you treat your pa like that again, I won’t let you get away with it. . . . ”

  Tears gushed down his cheeks as the battle-hardened old general lay on the kang and listened. He thought, “Goldie is a piece of real, genuine gold! How in the world could I have abandoned her?”

  (2001)

  Straw Ring

  Jinguang

  Minzi and Erniu were high school classmates. They were good friends. Upon graduation, Minzi asked his family to go to Erniu’s to propose. Soon afterwards the two good friends were engaged.

  Minzi’s family was poor. He had several brothers. The family of eight squeezed together in a simple shingle-roofed house which had only three rooms. But Erniu didn’t mind. Poverty, she said, didn’t mean Minzi had no potential and prospect. As long as they loved each other and worked hard, they would be happy.

  One thing Minzi’s family had plenty of, though, was manpower. During harvest time his parents would tell him to go and help Erniu’s family. One day, Minzi came to Erniu’s to help harvest wheat. The two of them worked for hours on the Red Soil Slope under a scorching sun. Then Erniu urged Minzi to take a break under a big persimmon tree and drink some water. So Minzi sat down, drank some water, and the two of them chitchatted. Before long Minzi reached for the sickle and was ready to go back to work. Erniu grabbed his arm and said: “What’s the hurry? Want to work yourself to death?” Minzi smiled and sat down again.

  Erniu said: “So, Minzi, what will our life be like when we get married, with no house of our own and no money, either?”

  Minzi picked up a stalk of wheat, removed the grain-bearing top, gestured with the remaining stem as he said: “We may not have money, but we have spirit and will. Remember I was good at writing in school. I’ll continue to write and write my way into the city. Then, I’ll bring you over to the city with me.”

  Erniu was surprised: “Really? Is that possible? Will you still want me when you are in a big city?”

  Minzi said: “Hey, I am not worth a cent now and you still like me so much. I am not that kind of man, you know.”

  At this Erniu rested her head on Minzi’s arm happily.

  Minzi twisted the straw in his hands a couple of times and said: “Give me your hand.”

  Erniu looked up and saw a ring made of the straw. She gave him her hand. Solemnly Minzi put the ring on Erniu’s finger. Erniu gazed at the ring for a long while as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then she turned, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Minzi was indeed a goal-driven young man. During the next two years he read and wrote whenever he had time and published over 30 short stories and essays here and there in regional newspapers. Soon he became a well-known freelance writer in the county. When the County Writers Association needed another artist in residence to strengthen its program, Minzi was the one chosen. So he went to the city and became a full-time writer there.

  Soon after he started at the County Writers Association, Minzi wrote two feature stories about the Tobacco Company. Its general manager was thrilled by the stories and promised to help if he needed anything. So Minzi asked the manager if he could arrange for Erniu to work in his company. The manager beat his chest and said: No problem. I’ve done it so many times before. One more time is nothing. So, within two months, Erniu started to work at the Tobacco Company as a full time employee.

  The day Erniu moved to the city Minzi celebrated in a fancy restaurant called “Fortune Food.” When the last drop of a big bottle of wine was gone, Minzi, somewhat tipsy, said: “Honey, we’ve made it into the city finally.”

  Erniu held his hand and said: “Yes, thanks to my man’s can-do spirit and hard work.”

  Rubbing Erniu’s hand in his own, Minzi said: “What a beautiful hand you’ve got here. I’ll buy you a ring when I’ve made more money. Then you get to taste what it is like to live like city folks.” With that he lifted her hand and kissed it like the romantic he was.

  Minzi was a man of his word. If he promised something, he would deliver no matter what. Since that day the idea of buying Erniu a ring had been firmly lodged in his mind. However, given the low salary from the County Writers Association, Erniu giving birth to a baby daughter, which meant so much
more to take care of at home, and his endless writing assignments and other work, the idea sank deeper in his mind, day by day, and year by year, until he had completely forgotten.

  In the blink of an eye their tenth wedding anniversary had arrived. That day Erniu prepared ten delicious dishes at home and placed a bottle of good wine on the table. When Minzi came back from work, he was surprised. He patted his forehead and exclaimed: “Oh my, today’s our tenth wedding anniversary! How could I have forgotten?”

  With that he turned to go. Erniu grabbed his arm: “Where are you going?”

  Minzi said: “I promised to buy you a ring, but haven’t delivered yet. I have to go now before they close shop. . . . ”

  Erniu said, still holding his arm, “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ve a ring already.”

  Minzi was surprised once again: “Already have one? When did you buy it?”

  Erniu turned, opened a trunk, took out a red silky pouch, and handed to Minzi.

  Confused, Minzi took over the pouch and gazed at Erniu. With a smile blossoming on her face, Erniu said: “Open it.”

  So Minzi opened it with careful fingers, layer after layer. When he reached the last layer, Minzi’s hands quivered. So Erniu opened it for him. There on Minzi’s palm was the same straw ring he had given her many years ago.

  Minzi sighed with disappointment: “Ah, I thought it was a real one. Why are you still keeping this?”

  Erniu said: “A ring is only a token. Straw ring or gold ring, it won’t make any difference if you wear it in your heart. This ring from you I’ve always worn it in my heart. It’s more precious than gold.”

  Minzi was touched beyond words. All he could do was to gather Erniu in his arms and hold her tight.

  (2001)

  Marriage Certificate