Thirty or more corpses were dragged up onto the bridge, including the old Jap, who had been stripped of his general’s uniform by the Leng Detachment soldiers.
‘You women look away,’ Granddad announced.
He took out his short sword, split open the crotches of the Jap soldiers’ pants, and sliced off their genitalia. Then he ordered a couple of the coarser men to stuff the things into the mouths of their owners. Finally, working in pairs, the men picked up the Japanese soldiers – basically decent men, perhaps, maybe handsome at one time, virtually all in the prime of their youth – and, one two three, heaved them over the side. ‘Jap dogs,’ they shouted, ‘go back home!’ The Japanese soldiers flew through the air, carrying the family jewels in their mouths, and landed in the river with a splash, a whole school of them caught up in the eastward flow.
The faint rays of dawn found the villagers too exhausted to move. The fires along the banks were dying out beneath the still-dark sky. Granddad told the villagers to hitch the animals up to the front bumper of the undamaged rice truck.
The animals strained, the ropes were yanked taut, and the axles groaned as the truck crawled forward like a clumsy beetle. The front wheels kept veering from side to side, so Granddad halted the animals, opened the door, and slid into the cab to try his hand at steering. The ropes snapped taut as the animals strained forward again, and Granddad wrestled with the steering wheel until he began to get the hang of it. Now the truck was heading straight, the terrified villagers fell in behind it. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Granddad felt around the dashboard with the other. He snapped on a switch, sending two rays of light shooting out the front.
‘It opened its eyes!’ someone shouted from behind him.
The headlights lit up the road ahead as well as the hairs on the animals’ backs. Feeling very good about things, Granddad pushed and turned and twisted and pulled every button and switch and lever and knob he could find. A shrill noise rang out, and the horn began to blare. So you haven’t lost your voice! Granddad was thinking. Deciding to have a little fun, he turned the ignition switch; a rumbling emerged from its belly as the truck shot forward crazily, knocking down mules and oxen, and bumping horses and donkeys out of the way, scaring Granddad so badly he was drenched with sweat, front and back. Having climbed onto the tiger’s back, he didn’t know how to get down.
The dumbstruck villagers watched the truck knock the animals down and drag them along. It travelled a few dozen yards before careening into a ditch west of the road and coming to a shuddering halt, the raised wheels on one side spinning like windmills. Granddad smashed the glass and climbed out, his hands and face smeared with blood.
He stood looking at the demonic creature, a grim smile on his face.
After the villagers had unloaded the rice from the back of the remaining truck, Granddad blasted holes in the gas tank and once again ignited the gasoline with a torch. The flames licked the heavens.
8
FOURTEEN YEARS EARLIER, Yu Zhan’ao, a bedroll over his back, and dressed in clean, freshly starched white pants and jacket, stood in the yard of our home and shouted: ‘Mistress, are you hiring?’
With a hundred thoughts running through her mind, Grandma’s natural instincts deserted her. Her scissors dropped to the kang, and she fell backward onto the brand-new purple comforter.
His nostrils filled with the odour of fresh whitewash and a delicate feminine fragrance, Yu Zhan’ao’s courage mounted. He barged into the room.
‘Mistress, are you hiring?’
Grandma lay face up and blurry-eyed on the comforter.
Yu Zhan’ao threw down his bedroll and slowly approached the kang. At that moment his heart was like a warm pond in which toads frolicked while swifts skimmed the surface. When his dark chin was only about the thickness of a piece of paper from Grandma’s face, she slapped him on his dark, shiny scalp, then sat up quickly, picked up her scissors, and screamed, ‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing? How dare you barge into a strange woman’s room!’
Startled, he backed up and said, ‘You… you really don’t know me?’
‘How dare you talk like that! I lived a cloistered life at home until my wedding day, less than two weeks ago. How would I know you?’
‘Okay, if that’s the way you want it,’ he said with a smile. ‘I hear you’re shorthanded at the distillery, and I need work to put food in my belly!’
‘All right, as long as you don’t mind hard work. What’s your name? How old are you?’
‘My name’s Yu Zhan’ao. I’m twenty-four.’
‘Take your bedroll outside,’ she said.
Yu Zhan’ao obediently walked outside and waited under a blazing sun. Traces of burned leaves remained in the yard, and he relived the memory of what had happened there recently. He waited for about half an hour, growing more restless by the minute, and was barely able to keep from rushing inside and settling accounts with the woman.
After murdering Shan Tingxiu and his son, he had not run away, but had hidden in the field near the inlet to watch the excitement. Even now he sighed in wonder over Grandma’s amazing performance. She might be young, but she had teeth in her belly and could scheme with the best of them. A woman to be reckoned with, certainly no economy lantern. Maybe she was treating him like this today just in case there were prying eyes and ears. He waited a bit longer, but still she didn’t come out. The yard was silent except for a calling magpie perched on the ridge of the roof. In the grip of anger, he was rushing towards the house, prepared to make a scene, when he heard Grandma’s voice through the window. ‘Report to the eastern compound.’
Realising his mistake in not following the proper etiquette, Yu Zhan’ao let go of his anger and walked over to the eastern compound, where he saw rows of wine vats, piles of sorghum, and a crew of hired hands working inside the steamy distillery. He strode into the tent and asked a worker standing on a high stool feeding sorghum into a bucket above the millstone, ‘Hey, who’s in charge here?’
The man looked at him out of the corner of his eye. When he had fed all the sorghum into the bucket, he jumped down off the stool and backed away from the millstone, holding a sieve in one hand and the stool in the other. Then he gave a shout, and the mule, wearing a black blindfold, began turning the millstone. Its hooves had worn a groove in the ground around the stone. A dull grinding sound emerged as crushed grain poured like raindrops from the space between the stones into a wooden pan below. ‘The foreman’s in the shop,’ the man said, pursing his lips and pointing with his chin to the buildings west of the main gate.
With his bedroll in his hand, Yu Zhan’ao entered through the back door and spotted the familiar figure of an old man sitting behind the counter working his abacus, occasionally taking a sip from a small, dark-green decanter beside it.
‘Foreman,’ Yu Zhan’ao announced, ‘are you hiring?’
Uncle Arhat looked up at Yu Zhan’ao and reflected for a moment. ‘Are you looking for permanent or temporary work?’
‘Whatever you need. I’m interested in working for as long as I can.’
‘If you want to work for a week or so, I can do the hiring. But if you’re interested in a permanent job, the mistress has to approve.’
‘Then you’d better go ask her.’
Yu Zhan’ao walked up and sat on one of the stools as Uncle Arhat lowered the counter bar and walked out the rear door. But he turned and came back in, picked up a crudely made bowl, half-filled it with wine, and set it on the counter. ‘Your mouth must be dry. Have some wine.’
Yu Zhan’ao’s thoughts were on the woman’s remarkable schemes as he drank. ‘The mistress wants to see you,’ Uncle Arhat said when he returned. They went over to the western compound. ‘Wait here,’ Uncle Arhat said.