“What are you crying about? You’re just making things worse,” Wang said to Ruan. “It’s getting late, we’d better leave. You can cry as hard as you want at home, but not here.” He turned to Zhuang. “Zhidie, we’re going now. Dazheng may have come because he has something to say to the two of you.”
Niu Yueqing and Zhuang tried to get them to stay longer, but they insisted on leaving. So Zhuang walked them out to the gate, where he said to Zhou Min, “Is Wan’er ill?”
“It’s nothing serious. I’ll tell her to come see you another day.”
“Let her rest, then. From what Yueqing told me, it could be indigestion. Here’s something she can take.” Zhuang handed Zhou Min a sealed medicine box.
. . .
Tang Wan’er opened the box and took out a pill bottle that contained nothing but a wrinkled piece of paper: “Take care of yourself.” She cried at the note. Since the day she had returned shamefaced from the compound, she had felt the sting of humiliation. The bigger the balloon, the more likely it is to burst, she knew, but once it gets started, it’s hard to suppress the desire and excitement to make the balloon bigger. Unable to control her feelings for Zhuang, she felt that the nicer Niu Yueqing was to her, the more guilt and apprehension she would experience; so she resolved to avoid Niu Yueqing and refrain from going to their house to meet Zhuang. It was clear why he had asked her several times whether he was a bad man. She had even said to him, “If this is too hard on you, let’s just be friends. Let’s not do that again.” It was a test, and he had not responded to her suggestion, so naturally, without thinking, they had sex every time they met. Niu Yueqing had cruelly killed the pigeon and cooked it to feed them, which canceled out Tang Wan’er’s guilt feelings. I hurt you, but you hurt me, too. We’re even, we don’t owe each other a thing, and now we’re like strangers, she thought on her way back that day; a sense of tranquility washed over her when she was back home. Suddenly feeling industrious, she cleaned the house and did the laundry. That night she said to Zhou Min, “Why aren’t you in bed already?” He was writing the book that would not bear his name, after coming home from playing his xun, so he said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” He put away his paper and pen, heated some water to wash up, and came to bed in high spirits, only to find her asleep and snoring. She stayed in bed and did not get up for three days; she had such a terrifying dream that she was drenched in sweat when she woke up. Unable to recall the details, she remembered only that she had felt profoundly lonely and forsaken; she thought of herself as a fish roasting in a pan. Three days later, she struggled to sit on the edge of the bed before moving to a sofa, where she sat for a long while before going back and sitting up in bed. Thinking she heard the cooing of a pigeon, she tiptoed outside and leaned against the pear tree, where she looked into the high, cloudy sky — there was no pigeon. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Zhuang lived in the same city, but no street connected them, and now even their conduit in the air had been cut off. The yard was littered with fallen leaves; more were drifting down from the branches. Autumn was in the air, and the cicadas had grown quiet. Night winds had turned the lush pear tree scrawny, and she sensed that her hips were losing their shape and her face had become gaunt. Life seemed to have lost its meaning, to the point that only the sighing wind was left to disturb the bamboo curtain at the door.
When Zhou Min came home from work, she wouldn’t let him go play his xun at the city wall. Instead she told him to play it under the pear tree, saying she was had no objection to his playing; in fact, she liked it. He looked at her quizzically. “I told you it had a pleasant tone, but you said you didn’t like it. Well, now you finally appreciate its sound.” He began to play. He winked and raised his brows to please her. Leaning against the door and listening, she had a hunch that she should go to the bridge outside the south city gate, where she would find a certain tree. She believed in her presentiment, because Meng Yunfang had once read her palm and told her that she had the hand of someone with strong premonitions. Now she was seized by a thought: with her routes to him cut off, she would have to wait for him under that tree if she wanted to see him again. So she went in, applied some makeup, changed clothes, and put on the pair of heels.
“Are you going out?” Zhou Min asked. “Where to?”
“I’m going to buy some sanitary napkins. I’m having my you-know-what.” Saying it actually made it happen, and she had to put some paper in her panties before hurrying out.
“It’s late. I’ll go with you.”
“Are there wolves and leopards in the city? Why would you need to come with me? You stay home and write that book.” She walked down streets bustling with traffic and pedestrians. When she reached the stone bridge, there was no sign of Zhuang, not even after she waited until midnight. It was so late that the area was deserted, except for her, who had only menstrual blood to show for the wait. Her hands were stained with blood when she changed the napkin, which gave her the idea to smear them with blood and leave her handprints on the railing, the tree, and a rock on the tree. The last one came out clearly enough to show the handprint lines. Meng had also told her that a handprint was the map of life. Zhuang Zhidie, if you show up here, you will be able to recognize this map of my life; I’ve waited for you here.
For several days in a row she waited by the tree, but she never saw him. She thought he must be unable to leave the house and no longer had control of his actions. So when he finally sent a message through the medicine box, she had a good cry and vowed to herself: I must see him, even if it’s for the last time in my life.
. . .
Liu Yue was set to be married on September twelfth. On the day before, she and Niu Yueqing prepared food and drinks for the people who would come get her. Saying that the expense was too much for them, Dazheng’s mother wanted to send food over, but Niu Yueqing wouldn’t hear of it. Liu Yue was not her own daughter, nor her sister, but she had gained a great deal of face when the mayor’s family said that they considered her and Zhuang to be their in-laws and then sent the dowry to their house, giving invited guests the impression that it was from her and Zhuang. Naturally, she would offer the best Maotai to accompany dishes with chicken, duck, fish, and pork. After everything was ready, she told Liu Yue to bathe, while she dragged her aching feet to the mayor’s house. Still worried about the actual details of the ceremony, she wanted to double-check everything with Dazheng’s mother. After Niu Yueqing left, Liu Yue went into the bathroom to draw a bath. When Zhuang heard the running water from the living room, a myriad of thoughts welled up inside and sent him silently into his study to chain-smoke.
Suddenly the door to his study was pushed open, and in walked Liu Yue, draped in a bright red bathrobe, her damp hair gathered in the back in a white kerchief, her freshly washed face smooth with a red glow. But she had painted her brows, applied eye shadow, and put a thick layer of crimson red lipstick on her lips, which looked as full and round as an apricot. She’s incredibly pretty, Zhuang said to himself, particularly after a hot bath on the night before she’s to become a bride. He smiled before lowering his head to smoke. He took a long drag on his cigarette, making the red glow of the tip move swiftly downward, though the long ash hung on.
“Are you feeling down again, Zhuang Laoshi?” she asked.
He didn’t reply. It would have been pointless to say he was.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. Aren’t you going to wish me happiness one more time?”
“I wish you nothing but happiness.”
“Do you really think I’ll be happy?”