On the first day of the year, Mother went with New Year’s greetings to her aunt. She told her what had happened to Laidi and Zhaodi. This elderly aunt of hers, a woman of vast experience, said, “Where the romantic affairs of sons and daughters are concerned, you must let them take their course. Besides, with sons-in-law like Sha Yueliang and Sima Ku, your worries are over. Both those men are high-flying hawks.” “What worries me is that they won’t die in bed,” Mother said. Her aunt replied, “It’s usually worthless people who die in bed.” Mother tried to keep arguing her case, but her aunt waved her off impatiently, sweeping away Mother’s complaints like shooing a fly. “Let me have a look at your son,” she said. Mother lifted me out of the cloth pouch and laid me on the bed. I was frightened by the tiny, deeply wrinkled face of Mother’s aunt, especially her radiant green eyes, set deep in their sockets. Her sharply jutting brow was completely hairless, while the spots around her eyes were covered by fine yellow hairs. She mussed my hair with a bony hand, then tweaked my ear, pinched my nose, and even reached down between my legs to feel my little pecker. Disgusted by her humiliating groping, I strained to crawl over to the corner of the bed. But she grabbed me and yelled, “Stand up, you little bastard!” Mother said, “Aunty, how can you expect him to stand up? He’s only seven months old.” “When I was seven months old I was already going out to the chicken coop to fetch eggs for your grandma,” the old woman said. “That was you, Aunty. You’re a special person.” The old woman said, “I think this little devil is special too! Too bad about that fellow Malory.” Mother’s face reddened, then paled. I crawled to the back of the bed, grabbed hold of the window ledge, and pulled myself up onto my feet. “See there?” the old woman clapped her hands and said. “I told you he could stand, and he did! Look at me, you little bastard!” “His name is Jintong, Aunty, so why do you keep calling him little bastard?”
“Whether he’s a bastard or not only his mother knows. Well, is he, my dear niece? Besides, to me that’s a pet name – little bastard. So are little turtle spawn, little bunny rabbit, little beast. Walk over here, little bastard!” I turned around on shaky legs and looked at Mother’s teary eyes. “Jintong, my good little boy!” Mother said as she reached out for me. I threw myself into her waiting arms. I was actually walking. “My son can walk,” Mother muttered as she hugged me tightly. “My son can walk.” “Sons and daughters are like birds,” her aunt said. “When it’s time for them to fly, you can’t hold them back. And what about you? What I mean is, what would you do if they all died?”
“I’d be fine,” Mother replied.
“That’s what I want to hear,” the old woman said. “Always let your thoughts rise up to heaven, or go down into the ocean, and if all else fails, let them climb a mountain, but never make things hard on yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “I understand,” Mother said. When they were saying good-bye, the old woman asked, “Is your mother-in-law still alive?” “Yes,” Mother said. “She’s rolling around in donkey shit.” The old woman said, “That old witch was a tower of strength her whole life. I never thought she’d one day fall so low!”
If not for that private conversation on the first day of the new year, I’d never have been able to walk at seven months, and Mother wouldn’t have been interested in taking us outside to look at the lanterns, which would have meant a very boring Lantern Festival for us; the history of our family might well have been very different. The streets were teeming with people, but none of them looked familiar. An air of stability and unity existed among residents. Children waved sparklers – what we called golden mouse droppings – that sizzled and popped as the children threaded their way through the crowds. We stopped in front of Felicity Manor to gaze at the gigantic red lanterns on either side of the gate, their ambiguous yellow light illuminating the gilded words “Felicity Manor” carved into a hanging signboard. Bursts of noise emerged from the brightly lit courtyard within. A crowd had gathered outside the gate, where they stood silently, their hands tucked up their sleeves, as if waiting for something. My big-mouthed third sister, Lingdi, asked the person next to her, “Are they going to hand out some porridge, uncle?” The man merely shook his head, but someone behind her said, “They don’t do that till the eighth day of the twelfth month, young lady.” “Then why are you all standing around here?” she turned and asked. “Because they’re going to put on a modern play,” he said. “We’re told that a famous actor from Jinan has come to town.” Mother pinched her before she could say any more.
Finally, four men emerged from the Sima compound, each carrying a black metal object on a tall bamboo pole. Flames licked out of whatever they were, turning the area around the gate from night to day – no, even brighter than daylight. Pigeons roosting in the dilapidated bell tower of the church not far from the compound were startled into flight; they cooed noisily as they flew past us into the dark night. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Gas lamps!” From that moment on, we knew that in this world, in addition to bean-oil lanterns, kerosene lamps, and firefly lanterns, there was such a thing as gas lamps, and that they were blindingly bright. The husky lamp bearers formed a square in front of the Felicity Manor gate, like four black pillars. Some more men walked noisily through the gate carrying a rolled-up straw mat. When they reached the space created by the four men with their gas lamps, they tossed down the mat, undid the ropes around it, and let it spread out on its own. They then bent down, picked up corners of the unrolled mat, and began churning their dark, hairy legs. Because their movements were so quick, and because they were in the light of gas lamps, our eyes were filled with dark blurs that made it seem as if they all had at least four legs, connected seemingly by translucent cobwebs. And that image created the appearance of beetles caught in a spider’s web, struggling to break free. Once the mat was laid out the way they wanted it, they stood up, faced the crowd, and struck a pose. They all had painted faces, like shiny masks made of animal skins: a panther, a spotted deer, a lynx, and one of those raccoons that feeds on temple offerings. They then went back inside, executing a two-steps-forward, one-step-backward dance.
Amid the sizzle of four gas lamps, we waited silently; just like the new straw mat. The four men holding the lamp poles were transformed into black stones. But then the crisp sound of a gong energized us, and we turned to gaze at the gateway, though our view inside was blocked by a whitewashed wall on which the gilded word “fortune” was carved. We continued to wait, an eternity, it seemed, until the master of Felicity Manor, the onetime head of Dalan, and the current head of the Peace Preservation Corps, Sima Ting, appeared, looking downcast. He was holding a badly beaten brass gong, which he struck reluctantly as he made a circle of the area. He stopped in the center of the straw mat and announced, “Fellow township residents – grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, boys and girls – my brother has achieved a glorious victory in bringing down the steel bridge. This news has traveled far and wide, and we have been visited by friends and relatives who have presented us with more than twenty congratulatory scrolls. To celebrate this glorious victory, my brother has invited a troop of actors to perform today. He himself will mount the stage in full costume in a new drama intended to educate all township residents. While celebrating the Lantern Festival, we must not forget our heroic war of resistance and cannot allow the Japs to occupy our town. I, Sima Ting, am a son of China, and will no longer serve as head of the puppet Peace Preservation Corps. Fellow residents, as Chinese, we cannot serve those Japanese sons of bitches.” When he finished his rhythmic harrangue, he bowed to the crowd, turned, and ran back to join the musicians – a fiddler, a flutist, and a balloon guitarist – who were just then walking out with their stools.