The dog ran off, leaving Ding Gou’er standing there in disappointment. If I thought things out objectively, he was thinking, I’d have to say f m a pretty sorry case. Where did I come from? I came from the county seat. What did I come to do? Investigate a major case. On a tiny speck of dust somewhere in the vast universe, amid a vast sea of people stands an investigator named Ding Gou’er; his mind is a welter of confusion, he lacks the desire for self-improvement, his morale is low, he is disheartened and lonely, and he has lost sight of his goal. Bereft of that, with nothing to gain and nothing to lose, he headed toward the noisy vehicles at the coal-loading area.
Without coincidence there can be no novel – a crisp shout rent the air: Ding Gou’er! Ding Gou’er! You son of a gun, what are you doing hanging around here?
Ding Gou’er turned to see where the shouts were coming from. A shock of black, bristly hair greeted his eyes, and beneath that a lively, animated face.
She was standing next to her truck holding a pair of grimy white gloves, looking like a little donkey in the bright sunlight. ‘Get over here, you son of a gun!’ She waved her gloves in the air as if they were a magic soul-snatching wand, drawing the investigator toward her, drawing Ding Gou’er, who was mired in a ‘depression syndrome,’ inexorably toward her.
‘So, it’s you, Miss Alkaline!’ Ding Gou’er said, like a common hooligan. As he stood there facing her, he experienced the uplifting feeling of a ship that has finally reached port or of a child when it sees its mother.
‘Mr Fertilizer!’ she said with a wide grin. ‘You’re still here, I see, you son of a gun!’
‘I was just thinking of leaving.’
‘Want to hitch another ride in my truck?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, it’s not that easy.’
‘A carton of Marlboros.’
‘Two cartons.’
‘Okay, two cartons.’
‘Wait here.’
The truck in front drove off with a spurt of black smoke, its tires sending a shower of coal dust into the air. ‘Stand aside,’ she shouted as she jumped into the cab, grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it this way and that until she stopped directly beneath the spot where the trolley tracks ended. ‘Hey, girl, you’re really something!’ sang out a young man in dark shades in heartfelt praise. ‘You can’t make a cow big with a genital blow, you can’t push a train and make it go, you can’t build Mount Tai with just rocks and some snow.’ She hopped out of the cab. Ding Gou’er was grinning from ear to ear. ‘What are you laughing at?’ she demanded.
The trolley rumbled and began to float forward like a big black turtle. From time to time, sparks flew as iron wheels scraped along the iron tracks. The black rubber cord coiled and stretched in the trolley’s wake, lively as a snake. Steely determination filled the eyes of the girl on the back of the trolley and her jaw was set, instilling in the observer a sense of respect bordering on fear. The trolley rushed headlong, like a wild tiger coming down the mountain. Ding Gou’er was afraid it would crash into the truck and turn it into a pile of twisted metal. But events proved his fears groundless, for the girl’s powers of assessment were infallible, her reactions lightning quick, her mental functions as unerring as a computer. At the very last second, she threw on the brakes, tipping the loaded trolley over and, with a whoosh, sending shiny black coal cascading into the bed of the truck – no spillage, none left behind in the trolley. With the smell of coal rising to fill his nostrils, Ding Gou’er’s mood lightened even more.
‘Got a smoke, pal?’ He reached his hand out to Miss Alkaline. ‘How about bestowing one on me?’
She handed him a cigarette and stuck one into her own mouth.
Through the misty veil of smoke, she asked, ‘What happened to you? Get mugged?’
He was too busy watching a pair of mules to answer.
Both of them watched as a wagon drawn by the mules came their way on the mine road, which was strewn with waste rock, coal dust, broken stone slabs, and rotting lumber; as it drew near, they watched the driver, in an arrogant display of power, grip the reins in his left hand and drive the mules forward with a flick of the whip he held in his right. They were beautiful black mules. The larger of the two, seemingly blind, was strapped to the shafts; the smaller mule, not only sighted, but in possession of a pair of fiery eyes the size of bronze bells, pulled at the harness. Ao-ao-ao – wu-la-la – pull pull pull – The snaking whip snapped and crackled in the air, forcing the doughty little black mule to lurch ahead. And as the creaky wagon bounded forward, disaster struck: The little black mule lost its footing and crashed to the weedy, seedy, unforgiving ground, like a collapsed greasy black wall. The tip of the driver’s whip landed on the animal’s rump; it struggled mightily to its feet, shaking uncontrollably and rocking from side to side, piteous brays tearing at the heart of all within earshot. The driver, momentarily petrified with fear, threw down his whip, jumped off the wagon, and fell to his knees in front of the mule. He reached down and lifted out a discolored hoof – green and red and white and black all mixed together – that was wedged between two stone slabs. Ding Gou’er grabbed the female trucker’s hand and took several steps toward the scene.
Cradling the mule’s hoof in his hands, the sallow-faced driver was wailing loudly.
In the traces the older mule hung its head in silence, like a participant in a wake.
The little black mule stood on three legs; its fourth, the maimed rear leg, was thumping against a piece of rotten wood on the ground, like a mallet beating a drum, but with the difference that dark flowing blood stained the wood and the ground around it red.
Ding Gou’er, whose heart was beating wildly, turned to walk away, but Miss Alkaline had a vicelike grip on his wrist; he wasn’t going anywhere.
Everyone in the vicinity had an opinion: Some felt sorry for the little mule, others felt sorry for the driver; some blamed the driver, others blamed the rough, pitted road. A flock of quarreling ravens.
‘Make way, make way!’
Stunned by the interruption, the bemused crowd parted to let two tiny, skinny people tumble in among them out of nowhere. A close look revealed that it was two women with ghostly white faces like winter cabbages. They wore spotless white uniforms and matching caps. One carried a waxed bamboo hamper, the other a wicker basket. A pair of angels, it seemed.
‘The veterinarians are here!’
The veterinarians are here, the vets are here, stop crying, little friend, the vets are here. Hand them the mule’s hoof, hurry. They’ll reattach it for you.
The women in white hastened to explain: ‘We’re not veterinarians! We’re chefs at the guest house.’
‘Municipal officials are coming to tour the mine tomorrow, and the Mine Director has ordered us to treat them like royalty. Chicken and fish, nothing special there. And just as we were worrying ourselves sick, we heard that a mule had lost one of its hooves.’
‘Braised mule’s hoof, mule’s hoof in chicken broth.’
‘Driver, go on, sell them the mule’s hoof.’
‘No, I can’t sell it…’ The driver hugged the hoof tightly, a look of affectionate longing on his face, as if he were embracing the severed hand of his beloved.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, you moron?’ one of the women in white demanded angrily. ‘Do you plan to reattach that somehow? Where are you going to get the money? I doubt if anyone could manage that on a person these days, let alone a beast of burden.’
‘We’ll pay top dollar.’
‘You won’t find a shop like this in the next village.’
‘How, urn, how much will you give me?’
‘Thirty yuan apiece. A good price, wouldn’t you say?’