We paddled across the main channel and moored at a small island in the middle of the river. I felt dizzy as the sun was blazing on us. Sitting on the white sand, I saw the city across the water appear smaller — the concrete buildings looked like toy houses, as smokestacks at the paper mill were spitting greenish fumes. Along the other shore, parasols were bobbing a little like clusters of mushrooms. The breeze was warm and fishy.
Manshan said timidly, “Do you still hate me?”
I didn’t know how to answer, puzzled by the question. My heart was racing. She was so pretty — elegant, I should say. A bang of hair curved on her smooth forehead, and her nose was so straight and so high that it looked like sculpture. Her buckteeth propped up her lip a little, but to me, her teeth were also beautiful. I stretched out my hand, stroking her cheek and small ear, wondering if this slender girl sitting beside me was the same person I’d followed so many times from the night college to the dark alley.
With her toes she pried her white sandals off and buried her feet in a small pile of sand. “Do you still hate me?” she asked again without raising her head.
“Stop that!” I snapped. Somehow the question troubled me. A wind passed by, throwing up waves on the river like endless tiles.
I hooked my arm around her shoulder; to my amazement, she didn’t turn away. Instead she was peering at me, her eyes moonstruck and her pointed chin so exquisite that I almost wanted to bite it. As my mouth moved to touch her lips, my heart began jumping and my hands grew bolder.
She didn’t resist me and merely said she was afraid of getting pregnant. That was what I wanted. I thought that if she got my baby, she’d never leave me. So I told her, “That will be good. I’ll take care of you and the baby. I love kids. Don’t be scared.”
So on our first date I secured our union, but I wasn’t very happy. The whole thing had been too easy, easier than swimming across the river. I was disappointed to some extent. Manshan seemed no longer like the girl who had always made me feel so humble and so unworthy.
A month later we got married. After the wedding the Pans sold their small house and moved into my apartment. I bought a lot of expensive things for my bride, like a ring, a diamond wristwatch, fourteen pairs of leather shoes and boots, a Flying Horse moped, six pairs of earrings, and a gold necklace. In fact, I got thirty gold necklaces, all twenty-four-karat, and put them into a porcelain jar, which I sealed and then buried under a linden in the small park behind our apartment building. I may lose everything at any time; the city can confiscate my business and savings just by issuing an order, so I’d better hide some wealth away. Because nobody is allowed to buy gold bars, which are under the state’s control, I bought those expensive necklaces and buried them away, even though I knew I might never be able to sell them if I need money. If I’m turned into a capitalist — a reactionary element of our society — who would dare to buy anything from me?
Manshan has become a business partner of mine. Now that she works on the train to Shanghai, she directly brings back some expensive goods, which can be ruined by the postal service. Also, this saves time and expenses — we don’t have to pay for the shipping fee and the insurance. I give her thirty percent of the profits made from what she helps bring back. She seems happy and looks even younger, like a teenager. But her youthful face bothers me, because I want her to be the mother of my children. For some reason I can’t get her pregnant, no matter how hard I try. I don’t know what to do and dare not go to the hospital to check it out, afraid to lose her if it turns out to be my problem. In our neighborhood there used to be a college teacher whose sperm couldn’t crack his wife’s eggs, so she left him for a sailor. She desperately wanted to be a mother. Sometimes I can’t help wondering whether Manshan is on the pill, but so far I haven’t found any evidence.
I still hate my mother-in-law. Her pumpkin face often reminds me of a banker’s wife I saw in a movie about the old Shanghai. One night I got drunk and slapped her, but she didn’t tell her daughter about it. Since I became her son-in-law, she’s been so patient that she never loses her temper. In the morning, when Manshan is not home, I often light a few banknotes in her mother’s presence to kindle the kerosene stove, which has twelve wicks. But she’s never angry. I feel that her calmness means she despises me.
I read in Law and Democracy the other day that an entrepreneur in Henan Province had slept with both his wife and her mother in the same bed to revenge his humiliation — the mother had called him “hooligan” when he was a butcher, but later when he founded his own chicken farms and became a rich man, she had given him her daughter. I wish I could do the same to my old bitch of a mother-in-law, but for the time being I must work harder on giving Manshan a baby.
Flame
A letter was lying on Nimei’s desk. She was puzzled because the envelope did not give a return address. The postmark showed the letter came from Harbin, but she knew nobody in that city. She opened the envelope, and the squarish handwriting looked familiar to her. She turned to the end of the letter to see who the sender was. As she saw the name Hsu Peng, her heart began palpitating, and a surge of emotion overcame her. She had not heard from him for seventeen years.
He wrote that through an acquaintance of his he had learned that Nimei worked at the Central Hospital. How glad he was that he had at last found her. He was going to attend a conference at the headquarters of Muji Military Sub-Command at the end of September. “For old time’s sake,” he said, “I hope you will allow me to visit you and your family.” Without mentioning his wife, he told Nimei that he had three children now — two girls and one boy — and that he was the commissar of an armored division garrisoned in the suburbs of Harbin. In the bottom left-hand corner of the second page, he gave her the address of his office.
Nimei locked the letter away in the middle drawer of her desk. She glanced across the office and saw nobody, so she stretched up her arms. Again a pain tightened the small of her back, and she let out a moan.
It was already early September. If she would like to meet Hsu Peng, she should write him back soon, but she was unsure why he wanted to see her.
The door opened and Wanyan, a young nurse, came in. “Nimei,” she said, “the patient in Room 3 wants to see you.”
“What happened?” she asked in alarm.
“I’ve no idea. He only wants to see the head nurse.”
The patient in Room 3 was the director of the Cadre Department at the Prefecture Administration; he had been operated on for gastric perforation two weeks ago. Although he no longer needed special care, he had to remain on a liquid diet for at least another week. Nimei got up and walked to the door while slipping on her white robe. She stopped to pat her bobbed hair, then went out.
When she arrived at Room 3, the patient was sitting in bed, his shoulders hunched over a magazine, a marking pencil between his fingers. “Director Liao, how are you today?” Nimei asked pleasantly.
“Fine.” He put the magazine and the pencil on the bedside cabinet, on which stood two scarlet thermoses and four white teacups with landscapes painted on their sides.
“Did you have a good nap?” she asked, resting her hand on the brass knob of a bedpost.
“Yes, I slept two hours after lunch.”
“How is your appetite?”
“My appetite is all right, but I’m tired of the liquid stuff.”
She smiled. “Rice porridge and egg-drop soup don’t taste very good.”
“They’re not bad, but it’s hard to eat them every day. Can I have something else for a change?”