Pow! A gunshot. Sima Ku. A black cape thrown over his shoulders, and backed up by bodyguards, he strode angrily up to the crowd in the company of Babbitt, Zhaodi, and Niandi. “Stop that!” one of the soldiers shouted. “If you don’t, there’ll be no movie.”
In fits and spurts the crowd quieted down. Sima Ku and his entourage took their seats. By then the sky had turned purple and total darkness was on its way. A thin crescent moon sent down enchanting light from the southwest corner of the sky: caught in its embrace, a single star twinkled brightly.
The horse company, the mule company, and the plainclothes soldiers had all shown up; formed into two columns, their weapons cradled in their arms or slung over their backs, they gazed at the array of women around them. A pack of lustful dogs streamed into the area. Clouds swallowed up the moon and darkness settled over the earth. Insects perched on trees set up a mournful din amid the noisy flow of the river.
“Turn on the generator!” Sima Ku ordered from where he sat off to my left. He lit a cigarette with his lighter and then extinguished the flame with a grand wave of his hand.
The generator had been set up in the ruins of the Muslim woman’s home. Black images flickered and a flashlight sent out a beam of light. At last the machine came noisily to life, the pitch alternating between high and low sounds that quickly evened out. A lamp right behind our heads lit up. “Ao! Ao!” the crowd shouted excitedly. I watched as the people in front of me spun around to look at the lamp, which turned their eyes a sparkling green.
It was a repeat of the first night, with the light searching for the screen, illuminating the moths and grasshoppers caught in its beam and projecting their huge, darting bodies on the white cloth. Soldiers and civilians gasped in surprise. But there were many more differences from the first night: to begin with, Sima Ku didn’t jump to his feet and let the beam of light shine through his ears. The darkness all around deepened, magnifying the intensity of the light. It was a humid night, with damp air from nearby fields sweeping over us. Wind whistled softly through the trees. The cries of birds gathered in the sky overhead. We could hear fish break the surface of the river, that and the snorts of mules tethered on the riverbank, animals that had transported the visitors from far away. Dog noises came from deep in the village. Green bolts of lightning flashed in the low curtain of sky off to the southwest, followed by rumbling thunder. A train loaded with artillery shells sped down the Jiaoji Line, the rhythmic clack of huge metal wheels on iron tracks wonderfully compatible with the flowing clicks of the projector. One distinct difference that night was my lack of interest in the movie playing on the screen. That afternoon, Sima Liang had said, “Little Uncle, my dad brought a new movie back from Qingdao with him, filled with images of women bathing naked.” “You’re lying,” I said. “Honest. Little Du said the head of the plainclothes soldiers went to get it on his motorcycle, and he’ll be right back.” But we wound up with the same old movie, and since Sima Liang lied to me, I pinched him on the leg. “I wasn’t lying. Maybe they’ll show this one first, and then show the new one. Let’s wait.” What happened after the bear was shot was old hat to me, and so was the scene where the hunter and the woman roll around on the ground. All I had to do was close my eyes to see every bit of it, which allowed me to turn my gaze to other people, sneaking looks here and there, and trying to see to what was going on around me.
Zhaodi, still weak from childbirth, was sitting in a red lacquered armchair specially brought out for her; a green wool overcoat was draped over her shoulders. On her left was Commander Sima, also in an armchair, his cape draped across the back of the chair. Niandi sat on his left, in a spindly rattan chair. She wore a white dress, not the one with the long train, but a tight-fitting one with a high collar. At first they all sat up straight, necks rigid, although from time to time Commander Sima’s head tilted to the right so he could whisper something to Niandi. By the time the hunter was smoking his cigarette, Zhaodi’s neck had begun to tire and a soreness had crept into her waist. She slipped down in her chair until her head rested on the back; I had only a vague glimpse of the glint from her hair ornaments and a faint whiff of camphor from her dress, but could easily hear the sound of her uneven breathing. When the big-breasted woman jumped down off the wagon and started running, Sima Ku shifted and Zhaodi was on the verge of falling asleep. Niandi, on the other hand, continued to sit up straight. Sima Ku’s left arm started to move, very slowly, a fuzzy dark shape like the tail of a dog. His hand, I saw it, his hand came to rest on Niandi’s leg. Her body stayed as it was, as if it weren’t her leg being touched. The sight displeased me, not exactly angry and not exactly afraid. My throat was dry; and I felt a cough coming on. A bolt of green lightning, crooked as a gnarled branch, split a gray cloud that hung like worn-out cotton above the marsh. Sima Ku’s hand darted in and back, lightning quick; he coughed like a little goat, and then shifted in his seat as he turned to look in the direction of the projector. I turned to do the same. Babbitt was staring idiotically at a small hole in the machine that was sending out the beam of light.
The man and woman on the screen were wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing. Sima Ku’s men were breathing heavily. Sima Ku jammed his hand roughly down between Niandi’s legs. Slowly she raised her left hand, very slowly, until it was behind her head, as if she were touching up her hair. But she wasn’t touching up her hair, she was removing a hairpin. Then the hand descended. She sat there as straight and proper as ever, seemingly absorbed in the movie. Sima Ku’s shoulder twitched; he sucked in his breath – hot or cold, I couldn’t tell. He slowly pulled his left hand back. Again he coughed like a little goat, an empty-sounding cough.