Unable to get our tractor started, Mother walked out into the street, perhaps to seek some advice. Would she go to Lao Lan? Perhaps, since the tractor was his castoff and he knew the thing better than anyone. She hurried back in a little while. ‘Son,’ she said, excitedly. ‘Light a fire. We're going to burn this son of a bitch!’
‘Did Lao Lan tell you to do that?’
She hadn't expected that. ‘What's wrong with you?’ She stared into my eyes. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Let's burn it.’
She went over to the wall and came back with an armload of discarded rubber, which she laid on the ground under the tractor. Then she went into the kitchen and returned with a piece of burning kindling with which she touched off the rubber, sending black, noxious smoke into the air. Over the years we'd accumulated lots of discarded rubber, which we could sell only by melting it down and making cubes out of it. Our house was in the heart of the village, and our unhappy neighbours had been quite vocal about the noxious fumes, since the black, oily residue rained down on them. Granny Zhang, who lived to the east, even showed Mother a ladleful of water as proof. Mother ignored her, but I took a look: black tadpole-like things floated on the surface, obviously bits of our ash and dust. ‘Doesn't it bother you that we have to drink water like this?’ said Granny Zhang angrily. ‘It'll make us sick!’ ‘No, it doesn't bother me, not at all!’ replied Mother, no less angrily. ‘I won't be happy until all you people who sell doctored meat are dead and buried.’ Granny Zhang thought twice about saying anything in return when she saw the red glare of fury in Mother's eyes. This was followed by a visit from some men who complained to Mother; but she rushed out into the street, bawling and protesting that she and her son were being harassed, and quickly drew a crowd. Lao Lan, whose house was directly behind ours, had the authority to approve building sites. Before my father left home, Mother had nagged him into asking Lao Lan for permission to build a house, for which he waited to have his palm greased. Father let that palm go ungreased, since he wasn't interested in building a house in the first place. ‘Son,’ he said to me when Mother wasn't around, ‘if we had meat in the house, we'd eat it ourselves. Why give it to him?’ After Father left home, Mother went over to get his permission, taking a packet of biscuits as tribute. She'd barely walked out of his door when those biscuits came flying out and landed on the street. Then, less than six months after we'd started burning rubber, we ran into him on the road to the county seat. He was riding a green, three-wheeled motorbike with the word Police on the windshield. He was wearing a white helmet and a black leather jacket. A big, well-fed hunting dog sat in the sidecar, a pair of sunglasses perched on its snout, giving it a scholarly air, until it snarled at us and my hair stood on end. Our tractor wasn't working at the time, and poor Mother was frantic, flagging down vehicles and pedestrians, asking for help but being rebuffed each time. This time she grabbed hold of the man's handlebars, without knowing who he was—until he took off his helmet. He climbed off his motorbike and kicked the tractor's rusty bumper. ‘You should get rid of it,’ he snorted, ‘and get another one.’ ‘I will,’ said Mother, ‘after I build a house.’ Lao Lan nodded. ‘I see you've got your pride.’ He got down on his haunches and helped us with the repairs, for which we—Mother dragged me over—thanked him profusely. ‘Keep your shitty thanks,’ he said as he wiped his hands on a rag. Then he patted me on the head: ‘Has your father come back home?’ I shoved his hand away and glared at him. ‘Temper, temper!’ he laughed. ‘Your father's a bastard, if you ask me!’ ‘You're a bastard!’ I replied. Mother smacked me. ‘How dare you talk to the nice uncle like that!’ she scolded. ‘That's all right,’ he said, ‘not to worry. Write to your father and tell him he can come back. Tell him I've forgiven them both.’ He climbed back on his motorbike and started it up. It coughed and black smoke belched out of the exhaust pipe. The dog barked. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ he shouted to my mother, ‘stop burning rubber. I'll let you build your house. Come over tonight and pick up the permit!’
POW! 10
The captivating smell of millet gruel fills the room. The woman takes the lid off the pot, and I'm amazed to see how much gruel there is, easily enough for three people. She fetches three black bowls from the corner and fills them with a wooden spoon that's discoloured from searing. One spoonful, a second and a third; one spoonful, a second and a third; one spoonful, a second and a third. All three bowls are filled to the brim, and there's plenty more in the pot. I'm puzzled, surprised, flabbergasted. Has all that gruel really come from those few dozen kernels of grain? That woman, just who, or what, is she? A demon? A genie? The two foxes that have taken refuge in the temple during the downpour saunter into the room, lured by the smell of the gruel, female in front, male at the back and the three furry little kits stumbling in between. They're as cute as can be, especially the silly way they walk. They say that animals tend to have their offspring when there's thunder and lightning and the sky opens up. There's truth in that saying. The adult foxes sit in front of the pot, looking up at the woman, their eyes pleading one moment and staring greedily at the pot the next. Their stomachs growl, the sound of hunger. The kits scurry under their mother's belly in search of her teats. The male's eyes are moist, its lively expression seems to indicate that it's about to say something. I know exactly what it will say if it opens its mouth and speech emerges. The woman glances at the Wise Monk, who sighs and pushes his bowl of gruel over to the female fox. Following his lead, she pushes her bowl over to the male. Both animals nod to the Wise Monk and the woman to show their appreciation, then begin to eat, carefully, since the gruel is hot, their eyes filling with tears. Imagine my embarrassment as I look down at my bowl, not knowing if I should eat. ‘Go ahead, eat,’ the Wise Monk says. I know I'd never have a chance to eat gruel this good again, so I join the foxes and we each polish off three bowls. When they finish, they belch in satisfaction and, trailed by the kits, amble out of the room. At that moment I realize that the pot is empty, that not a kernel remains. I am contrite, but the Wise Monk is already seated on the kang fingering his beads, seeming half asleep. And the woman? She is sitting in front of the briquette stove playing with an iron poker. A dying fire casts its weak light onto her face, which is as lively and expressive as ever. A smile hints at the recollection of fond memories, but perhaps also at the absence of thought altogether. I rub my slightly bulging belly as the sound of newborn foxes sucking their mother's teats drifts in from outside. The sound of kittens nursing in the tree trunk is beyond my range of hearing, but I think I actually see them suckle. Which gives rise to a powerful urge to suckle. But where is there a tit for me? I'm not sleepy, but I need to overcome the urge to suckle, so I say, ‘Wise Monk, I'll go on with my story—’