7
Night fell as Jintong walked into the house he hadn’t seen for a year. The son left behind by Laidi and Birdman Han was standing in a canopied cradle that hung from the parasol tree, holding on to the sides. Although he was dark and very thin, he was healthier than most children of the time. “Who are you?” Jintong asked as he put down his bedroll. The dark-eyed youngster blinked and gazed at Jintong curiously. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your uncle.” “Gramma… yao yao…” The boy’s speech was muddled; slobber ran down his chin.
Jintong sat down in the doorway to wait for Mother to come out. This was his first trip home since being sent to the farm, and he was told he didn’t have to return there if he didn’t want to. The thought of all those thousands of acres of millet enraged him, because once the harvest was in, the farm workers were scheduled for a real meal. And that is when Jintong and several other young men had been cut from the workforce. A few days later, his rage lost its meaning, because just as the rightists were driving their red Russian combines out to the fields to begin the harvest, a hailstorm mercilessly pounded the ripe millet into the mud.
The little boy ignored him as he sat in the doorway. Parrots with emerald green feathers flew down from the parasol tree and circled the cradle. The bright-eyed little boy followed them as they flitted around totally unafraid. Some landed on the edge of the cradle, others perched on his shoulders and pecked him on the ears, while he mimicked their hoarse cries.
Jintong sat dully in the doorway, his eyelids drooping. He was thinking about the boat ride over, and the surprised look in the eyes of the ferryman, Huang Laowan. The Flood Dragon River Bridge had been washed away by the flood the year before, so the People’s Commune had begun operating a ferry. A talkative young soldier from somewhere down south had accompanied him on the ride across the river. The man waved a telegram under the nose of Huang Laowan and pressed him to get underway. “Let’s shove off, uncle. See here, I’m supposed to be back in my unit by noon today. At times like this, a military order can topple a mountain!” Huang Laowan’s reaction to the hurried soldier was stone-cold silence. With a shrug of the shoulders, he perched on the bow of the ferryboat like a cormorant, gazing out at the rushing river water. A while later, a pair of officials who were returning to the commune from town came aboard and sat on opposite sides of the ferry. “Say, old Huang, let’s get underway!” one of them urged. “We have to be back to pass on the essence of our meeting.” “In a minute,” Huang said in a muffled voice. “I’m waiting for her.”
She jumped aboard carrying a balloon lute and sat down across from Jintong. She was powdered and rouged, but not enough to conceal her sallow complexion. The officials eyed her wantonly. “What village are you from?” one of them asked in a superior tone.
Raising her head, she stared at the man. Her gloomy eyes, which had been downcast from the moment she boarded the ferry, suddenly emitted a wild glare of hostility, causing Jintong’s heart to shudder; the look in the eyes of this sallow-faced woman left him with the feeling that she could conquer any man she chose, and could never be conquered by any man. The skin on her face sagged and her neck was deeply wrinkled, but Jintong noticed her slender fingers and polished nails, a good indication that she wasn’t nearly as old as her face and neck made her appear. As she glared at the official, she hugged the lute to her chest, as if it were an infant.
Huang Laowan got up and walked to the stern, where he picked up a bamboo pole and pushed the ferry out of the shallows, then turned it around and headed out into the river, leaving whitecaps in its wake as it slid forward like a big fish. Swallows skimmed the surface; the chilled stench of water weeds rose all around them. The passengers sat there morosely. But the official who’d spoken to the woman could not abide the silence. “Aren’t you that Shangguan who…” Jintong responded with a look of indifference; he knew what the man had left unsaid, so he replied in the manner he’d gotten used to, “That’s right, I’m Shangguan Jintong, the bastard.” The straightforward response and self-belittling attitude created an awkward moment, as the arrogance so common to people on the public payroll came under attack. That put him off stride, and class struggle, with clear insinuations, was his way back. The official studiously avoided looking at Jintong, keeping his eyes instead on Huang Laowan’s bamboo pole. “They say those secret U.S./Chiang Kai-shek agents are all from Northeast Gaomi Township, men who once served Sima Ku. I tell you, those with the blood of the people on them were all trained by an American adviser. Huang Laowan, can you guess who that adviser was? No? Fm told you’ve seen him before. He’s none other than the tyrant who threw in his lot with Sima Ku in Northeast Gaomi County, the man who showed all the movies, Babbitt! And they say that his stinking old lady, Shangguan Niandi, even threw a banquet for secret agents and gave each of them a fancy embroidered slipper sole!”
The woman with the lute stole a glance at Jintong; he could feel her eyes on him and saw her fingers quivering on the instrument’s sound box.
The commune official was just getting started. “Young man,” he said, “now’s the chance for you soldiers to do something for your country. The day you catch one of those secret agents is the day you stand tall among your countrymen!”
The young soldier whipped out his telegram. “I knew something big was up,” he said, “which is why I put off my wedding and am rushing back to my unit.”
When the ferry drew up to the opposite bank, the young soldier was the first to jump off. The woman with the lute held back, as if she wanted to speak to Jintong. “Come with us to the commune,” the official said sternly.
“Why?” she said nervously. “Why should I?”
He ripped the lute out of her hands and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He turned red with excitement, his wormlike nose began to twitch. “A transmitter!” he bleated. “Either that or a gun!” The woman rushed up to grab it away from him, but he stepped to the side, and she grabbed only air. “Give it to me!” she demanded. “Give it to you?” He sneered. “What’s hidden inside?” “A woman’s personal item.” “A woman’s personal item? Why hide something like that in there? Come with me to the commune, madam citizen.” A fierce look appeared on the woman’s gaunt face. “I asked you nicely to give it to me, son. You can beat the mountain to frighten tigers all you want. I’ve seen this sort of daylight robbery plenty of times. People who live off of others are nothing new to me.” “What do you do?” the official asked, his confidence beginning to fade. “That’s none of your business. Now give me back my lute!” “I’m not authorized to do that,” he said. “I’d like you to come with me to the commune.” “You steal from people in broad daylight! You’re worse than the Japs!” The official turned and ran in the direction of the commune headquarters – the onetime compound belonging to the Sima family. “Thief!” the woman shouted as she ran after him. “You thug, you lousy bedbug!”
Feeling that this woman was somehow tied to the Shangguan family, Jintong ran down the fate of his sisters in his mind. Laidi was dead, and so were Zhaodi, Lingdi, and Qiudi. Though he hadn’t seen Niandi’s body, he knew she was dead too. Pandi had changed her name to Ma Ruilian, and even though she was still alive, she might as well be dead. That left only Xiangdi and Yunü. The woman’s teeth were yellow and her head looked bulky. The corners of her mouth sagged when she yelled at the official, and a green light emerged from her eyes, like a cat defending her young. It had to be Xiangdi, the one who had sold herself – Fourth Sister, who had sacrificed so much for the family. What then had she hidden inside her lute?