The third lamp threw its light on an old man, a young one, and a boy near the forge. The sound of steel on rock rang from the masons’ worksite, where chisels gave off sparks as they chewed up rock. The men worked hard. The mason took off his jacket; his red athletic shirt shone like a lit torch. The younger women sat around their gas lamp, their minds filled with pleasant fancies. At times they laughed out loud, and at times they whispered among themselves amid the intermittent cracks of breaking rock. The sound of the flowing river filled gaps between the noises they made. Juzi lay down her hammer, stood up, and stole toward the river. She cast a long shadow on the sandy ground. ‘Watch out some hot-blooded bachelor doesn’t grab you,’ a woman behind her called out. She walked quickly out of the circle of light. Each ray appeared to her as a bright white ball with thorns stretching toward her, but falling short. The tips of the thorns were red, and soft. Later she walked back toward the light; she had a sudden desire to see what Hei-hai was doing. Avoiding the lamplight, she stepped into the shadow of the first bridge pylon.
There she spotted him, moving like a little sprite, the radiant light spreading across his bare back like a coat of glaze. His skin resembled smooth rubber, elastic yet tough, durable and impenetrable. He appeared to have put on weight, for now there was something between his skin and his ribs. And no wonder, since she brought him lunch from the kitchen every day. He went home to sleep at night, but seldom to eat, and some nights he didn’t go back at all — one morning she saw him emerge from under the bridge with straw in his hair.
He pumped the bellows so smoothly it was as if it were moving his hands rather than the other way around. His body rocked back and forth, his head looking like a watermelon floating on a lazy river. Bright glints in his black eyes bobbed up and down, like dancing fireflies.
The young blacksmith stood in his customary pose next to the chisels, holding his sledge in both hands, head cocked to the side, his good eye staring straight ahead, like a contemplative rooster.
The old blacksmith removed a heated chisel from the forge; Hei-hai took a ruined one and laid it in its place. The heated chisels were white tinged with green. The old blacksmith laid the chisel on the anvil and tapped the side of the anvil with his ball-peen hammer. The younger man lazily raised his sledge, twirled it in the air, as if it were a jute stalk, and let it fall gently onto the hot steel, sending sparks of molten steel flying in all directions. They burst into smaller sparks as they hit the wall. Some landed on Hei-hai’s slightly bulging belly, bouncing off softly and tracing lovely arcs of light before falling to the ground. As the sparks met his belly and fell to the ground, their friction with the air created heat and sound. After the first strike with his sledge, the young blacksmith flexed his muscles, as if he’d been suddenly awakened, and began to move faster. Juzi saw strange shadows dancing on the rocky wall and heard the clang, clang, clang of metal on metal. The blacksmith’s ability to shape steel was exceptional, and the hammer in the old man’s hand had nothing to do but tap the anvil. The young man knew precisely where to aim. The old master turned chisels on the anvil, his eyes and thoughts lighting on the spots to strike, and the young man’s sledge landed there an instant later, sometimes anticipating the older man.
Juzi was awestruck by the young man’s skill, though she also kept an eye on the boy and the old blacksmith. Hei-hai stood numbly by when the hammering was at its most impressive (eyes shut, breathing in time with the bellows); that was also a sad moment for the old blacksmith, as if each swing of the young man’s sledge was aimed not at the chisels but at his dignity.
When the chisel was shaped, the old man turned to quench it in the bucket. He cast a meaningful glance at the younger man, the corners of his mouth turning down disdainfully. The younger man watched his master’s every move. The woman saw the older blacksmith test the water with his hand, then raise the chisel to examine it before bending over, shrimp-like, looking closely at the water in the bucket, and tentatively dipping in the tip. The water sizzled and sent a fine steam into the air, where it enveloped the old man’s red nose. After a moment, he again raised the chisel to his eyes, as if preparing to thread a needle, as if a wonderful design were painted there. He was obviously happy with what he saw, as the wrinkles on his face filled with pleasure. He nodded, seemingly having received the response he’d hoped for, then buried the chisel in the water. Steam billowed, a mushroom cloud that filled the bridge opening, turning the gaslight red and the other objects into a shifting blur. All returned to normal when the steam dissipated: Hei-hai still dreamily pumped the bellows; the young blacksmith remained in his customary contemplative rooster pose; and the old blacksmith — his date-like face, black enamel eyes, and arms with scars like dung beetles — had not moved.
The old blacksmith picked up a second chisel, and everything began again, right up to the moment when he was about to quench it — then something changed. After testing the water, he added cold water, and looked satisfied. Just as he was about to put the chisel in, the young blacksmith bounded over to the bucket and stuck his right hand in. Without a second thought, the old man thrust the chisel against the younger man’s right forearm. The smell of burning flesh surged from under the bridge, straight into the woman’s nostrils.
The young blacksmith screeched in pain, straightened up, and, with a nasty grin, shouted, ‘It’s been three years, Master!’
The old man dropped the chisel into the bucket, roiling the water inside and once again filling the opening with steam. Juzi could not see their faces in the mist, but she heard the old man say: ‘Remember this!’
She ran off before the mist cleared, clamping her hand over her mouth to keep down the bitter juices churning in her stomach. As she sat before the rock pile, one of the women teased her: ‘You’ve been gone a long time, Juzi. Out with that boy in the jute field?’ Juzi did not respond, letting the ridicule pass. She pinched her throat with two fingers to keep from making a sound.
The whistle to stop work blew. Juzi had been caught up in her thoughts for three hours. ‘Thinking about a man, Juzi? Let’s go,’ they called to her. But she sat there watching figures move in the hazy light.
‘Juzi.’ The young mason was standing behind her. ‘Your cousin asked me to give you a message. She wants you to spend the night at her place. I’ll go with you, all right?’
‘Go? Who are you talking to?’
‘I’m talking to you. What’s the matter? Are you sick?’
‘Is who sick?’
‘I’m talking about you.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Shall we go?’
‘OK.’
The water passed noisily under the bridge. Juzi stopped. The mason was only a step away from her. Turning to look, she saw light emerge from the opening at the westernmost pylon. The other two gaslights had been extinguished. She began walking toward the floodgate.
‘Looking for Hei-hai?’