Zhao had finished off three pots of strong tea, and Xiaoyi had still not come down. Liu cracked melon seeds and chatted with him. Her husband, who was at the gate, shouted: “Hey, you crazy old man. Do you buy wastepaper? We have a pile of used toilet paper. You can have it for free.”
Zhao heard a hoarse chant:
Clipped to the belt is a BP, held in the hand is a walkie-talkie, in the diner a roasted chicken to enjoy, and at a hotel a streetwalker to bed with me.
“Great! That was wonderful.” Liu’s husband laughed heartily.
“Would you stop sparring with that old junkman, Fatso,” Liu grumbled.
Ignoring her, he called out, “Do you collect used women? If you do, I guarantee you that every man on this block would give you his and get a new one.”
Liu Yezi ran out and dragged her husband inside by the ear. “You want to get a new spouse? If something like that could be done, I’d be the first to get a replacement for a scabby pig like you.”
Instead of trying to mediate, Zhao sat there enjoying the junkman’s distant shouts: “Junkman! Collecting junk and scraps!”
The scuffle between husband and wife went on for a while. “Is he is still up there?” she asked Zhao.
“Why don’t you go take a look?”
Liu went out into the yard and shouted up, “Gong Xiaoyi, haven’t you enjoyed yourself enough? Gong Xiaoyi!”
Startled out of his hallucinations, Gong came downstairs. Still immersed in his heroic fantasy, he grumbled, “What are you hollering for? Need some sex?”
“Bullshit!” Liu woke him up with a savage slap. His legs were too weak to hold him up. He fell to the steps. She reached out to snatch the scroll away.
“Good sister, we have an agreement. You can’t have that unless you sell me twelve packets.”
Liu laughed and handed him twelve small packets, receiving a roll of money in return.
“Zhuang Zhidie is a good friend of my father’s, but I wouldn’t trade the scroll to him. Now I’m pretty much giving it away.”
“Go on home. Go.” She shoved him out and shut the gate.
. . .
With Mao’s “Everlasting Sorrow” calligraphy in hand, Zhuang went to friends in the media and artistic and literary circles, inviting them to a press conference for a gallery he owned jointly with a friend. He was received with little enthusiasm; another art gallery was a hard sell, even though his name made it somewhat more interesting. There was simply too much news about galleries and bookstores. Mention of a piece of authentic calligraphy by Mao Zedong changed their minds. That was newsworthy. They were awestruck when they saw it, and some readied stories for immediate publication once the press conference was announced. Private press conferences were expensive, so Niu Yueqing got Zhao and Hong together to talk about financing the event. Hong brought out his books and managed to come up with three thousand. He complained about the difficulty of running a bookstore. Niu Yueqing said that was precisely why they were opening an art gallery. The bookstore would be part of the gallery, which would be the main source of revenue. She asked Hong to help Zhao as much as possible; he was unhappy to learn that that he would no longer be in charge, but could find no reason to object. “Sure thing. Jingwu is more resourceful than I am, so I’ll do whatever I’m asked to do. Since I can’t sit still, I’ll run errands. I’m no rear-echelon commander, but I can be a good front-line soldier.”
“Hong Jiang admires you, Jingwu, so respect his views and talk things over with him.”
As they were leaving, she let Zhao walk out first before stuffing a piece of fabric into Hong’s hands. “Someone brought this from Shanghai for me,” she whispered. “It will be perfect for a blazer for Xiaoka. Put it away so Jingwu won’t see it, or he’ll be unhappy with me.”
The gallery kept Zhuang too busy to visit Tang Wan’er for several days; she was as anxious as an ant in a frying pan. There were changes in her body: she had no appetite, her eyelids were puffy, and bile kept rising up. Suspicion sent her to the hospital, where a test confirmed that she was pregnant. After arriving in Xijing, Zhou Min had insisted that there be no children as long as they lacked a permanent home. He took precautions every time, keeping her safe from pregnancy. But after beginning her affair with Zhuang, she had begun taking birth control pills. She could not carry them with her all the time, and when an opportunity arose, her desire for intimacy trumped the need for contraception. Luckily she hadn’t gotten pregnant after a few of those episodes, which had so emboldened her that she stopped taking them altogether. Now she knew that the physical signs would give her away sooner or later; it was all she could do to hold off until Zhou left home before throwing up. She couldn’t wait to tell Zhuang, hoping he’d come up with a solution and give her courage; she was desperate to tell him how miserable she was. But he did not show up after she sent the pigeon twice with a message. She became suspicious, wondering if he was avoiding her or had been detained by something else. Looking him up at his house was out of the question, so she could only shed private tears. The baby would not be born, she was sure of that. Even if Zhuang still loved her, she would have to have an abortion after he came to see her. But when would he come? Why not take care of the problem herself, instead of suffering all that fear and anguish? She congratulated herself for coming up with the idea. The pregnancy was proof that Zhuang was not infertile; taking care of it herself meant that she would not look pampered or cause him any trouble. He would surely feel she was better than his wife and would love her even more. So one morning after Zhou left for work, she went to a clinic for an abortion. A woman waiting her turn was so frightened by the bloody mess, she began to cry. The woman disgusted Tang.
“Where’s your husband? Why isn’t he here with you?” the doctor asked.
“He’s waiting outside in a hired car,” she replied, but was sad when she walked out of the treatment room. After sitting in the lounge for a while, she calmed down and, feeling strangely relaxed, smiled and said to herself: “I, Tang Wan’er, could swallow a brick and shit fine tiles.”
She got up to go home. When she walked past Meng Yunfang’s lane, she was thirsty, though she felt fine. She decided to stop in for a drink of water and to ask about Zhuang’s whereabouts. Meng wasn’t home; Xia Jie was inside feeling bored.
“I was going to get you to go out with me, and here you are. A see-all, know-all fox fairy.”
“Yes, a fox fairy. And I smelled a stinky fox fart way over here,” Wan’er said. “Look at you. Has someone made you unhappy?”
“Who else?”
“Are you upset that Meng Laoshi went with Zhuang Laoshi? You’re not a child anymore, so why act like you have to tie your man to your belt?”
“Zhuang Laoshi has been too busy with the gallery to find time for him. I wouldn’t be so upset if they were just sitting somewhere talking. There’s this guy from Xinjiang who seems to know everything but isn’t good at anything. Yunfang treats him like a god and keeps inviting him over. He even got his son to be the man’s disciple. I was so mad I sent them away. I don’t want to talk about him. What’s wrong, Wan’er? You’re so pale.”