A number of important events occurred in our family round the Spring Festival. The first was on the afternoon of the fourth day of the new year, that is, the day after Lao Lan had dinner at our house, even before we had a chance to clean the tableware and furniture we'd borrowed for the occasion. Mother and Father were having a casual conversation as they washed dishes. Actually, it was anything but ‘casual’, since the talk did not stray far from Lao Lan, returning to him every two or three sentences. Once I'd heard enough, I went outside, where I peeled back the tarp covering the mortar, took out a packet of grease, and, for the last time before it was moved into the storeroom, laid on a protective coat. Now that the family had re-established friendly relations with Lao Lan, I no longer had an enemy. But that didn't remove the need to keep my weapon in good working order, if for no other reason than to remain alert to something my parents said over and over during that talk: ‘No one stays an enemy for ever, and no friendships are eternal.’ That is to say, an enemy today could become a friend tomorrow, and today's friend could turn into tomorrow's enemy. And there's no enemy as savage and full of loathing as someone who was once a friend. That's why it was important to keep my mortar in good working order. If the need to use it ever arose, I could put it into action immediately. I'd never consider selling it to a scrap dealer.
I began by wiping off the old coat of dust-covered grease with cotton yarn. Starting on the tube and moving down to the bipod, then from there to the gun sight and, finally, to the base plate, I cleaned it with painstaking care, reaching into every nook and cranny, including the tube, for which I used a stick wrapped in cotton yarn, back and forth hundreds of times, since my arm would not fit inside. The now-greaseless mortar had a dull, gunmetal-grey finish, and the spots eaten away by rust over the years lay exposed. Too bad, really too bad, but there was nothing I could do about that. I'd tried sanding the rusty spots with a brick and sandpaper but was afraid that I'd scrape off so much metal it would no longer be safe to fire. After removing the old grease, I spread on a new coat with my fingers, smooth and even. Every nook and cranny, of course. I'd bought this packet of grease at a little village near the airport. The villagers there, who'd steal anything, with the possible exception of an aeroplane, told me it was aeroplane-engine grease, and I believed them. A protective coat of that grease made it a very lucky mortar indeed.
My sister watched me while I tended to it. I didn't have to look to know that she was following my every move, wide-eyed. Every now and then she'd come up with a question: ‘What is that thing?’ ‘What's a mortar used for?’ ‘When will you fire it?’ and so on. I answered all of them because I was so fond of her. It also gave me pleasure to play the role of teacher.
I finished applying the grease but just as I was thinking of putting back the tarp, a pair of electricians from the village strolled into the compound. With startled faces and flashing eyes, they warily approached the mortar. Though they were in their twenties, their childlike expressions made them look like awkward little boys. They asked the same sorts of questions as Jiaojiao, but they were far less sophisticated. In fact, they were ignorant, ill-informed dopes, at least as far as weapons were concerned. Which is why they didn't receive the patient responses I'd given Jiaojiao. I either ignored them or teased them. ‘How far can this mortar reach?’ ‘Not far—about as far as your house. Don't believe me? No? Let's give it a try. I'll bet I can flatten your house with one shell.’ My teasing didn't get the rise out of them I'd hoped for. Instead, they bent over, cocked their heads and squinted down the tube, as if it contained a mysterious secret. So I smacked the tube with my hand and shouted: ‘Ready—aim—fire!’ They nearly fell all over themselves as they scuttled away, like frightened rabbits. ‘Scaredy cats!’ I shouted. ‘Scaredy cats!’ echoed Jiaojiao. They laughed sheepishly in response.
My parents came into the yard and rolled up their sleeves, exposing pale arms for Mother and dark for Father; if not for his swarthy skin as a contrast, I'd never have realized how pale Mother's were. Their hands were red from steeping in cold water. Unable to remember the men's names, Father hemmed and hawed but Mother knew who they were. ‘Tongguang, Tonghui,’ she greeted them with a smile, ‘it's been a long time.’ Turning to Father, she explained: ‘They're the sons of the Peng family, both electricians. I thought you knew them.’