She mailed her letter, after which she looked for something to keep herself busy; but she found nothing. So she decided to simply rest, and as she sat in a chair, she fell asleep.
During the days that Yumi waited for a return letter, she turned Hongbing over to Yusui, since she wanted to wait for the postman at the bridgehead. She fretted over the contents of Peng Guoliang’s return letter. If he was going to tell her he no longer wanted her, that letter must not fall into the hands of anyone else. She was prepared to take a knife to anyone who even attempted to open her letter. That would be too great a loss of face. So she waited at the bridgehead, but no letter came. What arrived in its place was a bundle that included Yumi’s photographs and all the letters she’d sent to Peng Guoliang. All those ugly missives in her own hand. As she looked down at her photographs and handwritten letters, the anguish she’d anticipated did not materialize for some reason. What she felt instead was a crippling embarrassment, such a deep-seated embarrassment she felt like jumping off the bridge.
And then, at that very moment, Youqing’s wife appeared. Wanting to hide the contents of her bundle, Yumi carelessly let something fall to the ground. It was her photograph. It lay there, a base, shameless object that had the audacity to smile. Youqing’s wife saw it before Yumi could grind it into the roadway with her foot, and the look on her face revealed that she knew everything. Yumi was ashamed to even look at Youqing’s wife, who bent down and picked up the photograph. But when she straightened up she saw danger in Yumi’s eyes. Fierce determination showed in those eyes, the composure of someone unafraid to face death. Youqing’s wife grabbed Yumi by the shoulders and dragged her off to her house, where she led her into the bedroom, a poorly lit room in which Yumi’s gaze appeared unusually bright and extraordinarily hard. Emerging from a face that was otherwise blank, that brightness and hardness had a terrifying effect. Taking Yumi by the hand, Youqing’s wife pleaded with her, “Yumi, go ahead and cry, for my sake at least.”
That comment softened Yumi’s gaze, which slowly shifted toward Youqing’s wife. As her lips twitched, Yumi said softly, “Sister Fenxiang.” Though barely audible, those two words seemed to spray from her mouth like flesh and blood, like beams of blood-tinged light. Youqing’s wife was stunned, never expecting Yumi to call her that. In all the years since marrying into Wang Family Village, what, in effect, was she, Youqing’s wife? A sow, maybe, or a bitch? Who had ever actually viewed her as a woman? Being addressed as Sister Fenxiang by Yumi knocked over her emotional spice bottle and filled her with even greater sadness than Yumi felt. She could not contain herself; a shout burst from her throat as she flung herself onto Yumi’s body and smothered her sobs on the girl’s breast. As she did so, there was a sudden movement in her belly. It was, she knew instinctively, a kick from the tiny Wang Lianfang. Thoughts of what was inside her took the edge off her emotional turmoil and kept her from sobbing or making any more sounds. If not for Wang Lianfang, she and Yumi could well have enjoyed a close sisterly relationship. But the girl was Wang’s eldest daughter, an inescapable fact that closed off all possibilities. Youqing’s wife could say nothing. And so, after steadying her breathing, she managed to get her emotions under control.
As Youqing’s wife raised her head and dried her tears, she saw that Yumi’s gaze had settled on her. The absence of any observable emotion behind that look threw a fright into her. Yumi’s face was ashen, but there was nothing unusual about her expression, and Youqing’s wife found that hard to imagine. But there it was, not something that could be faked. “Yumi,” she said warily.
Yumi pulled her head back. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to kill myself. I want to see what happens next. You can help me by not saying anything to anybody about this.”
She actually smiled when she said this, and although the smile lacked the appearance of mockery, the intent was unmistakable. Youqing’s wife knew that Yumi was chiding her for being nosy. Yumi took off her jacket and wrapped the photographs and letters up in it. Then, without a word, she opened the door and walked out, leaving Youqing’s wife alone and frozen in her bedroom.
See what I’ve done, she said to herself. I wanted to help out but wound up being a busybody. If any of this gets out, Yumi will hate me even more.
Yumi slept through the afternoon. Then in the quiet, late hours of the night she went into the kitchen and lay down behind the stove, where she unbuttoned her blouse and gently fondled her breasts. Although it was her hands that were moving, the sensation was the same as if Peng Guoliang were fondling her. What a shame it had to be her own hands. Slowly she moved them down to the spot where she had stopped him. But this time she was going to do for him what she had not allowed him to do. She lay weakly on the straw, her body gradually heating up, hotter and hotter, uncontrollably, feverishly hot, so she forced herself to stir. But no matter how she moved, it didn’t feel right. She hungered for a man to fill her up and, at the same time, finish her off. It didn’t matter who, so long as it was a man. In those quiet, late hours of the night, Yumi was again consumed by regret. And as remorse took over, her fingers abruptly jammed their way inside. The sharp pain actually brought with it enormous comfort. The insides of her thighs were irrigated by a warm liquid. You unwanted cunt, she thought to herself, what made you think you should save yourself for the bridal chamber?
Unhappy women are all subject to the same phenomenon: Marriage comes with unanticipated suddenness. During the three months of summer, the busiest season, farmers are fighting for time with the soil. Yumi shocked everyone by getting married during these busy days. Acres of wheat had turned yellow under a blazing sun, spiky awns reaching up to reflect light in all directions like static fountains. At this time of year the sun’s rays are fragrant, carrying the aroma of wheat as they light up the ground and cast a veil over the villages. But for farmers, these are not pleasure-filled days, for the feminine qualities of the earth are heaving with the passion of ovulation and birthing, passions beyond their control as they grow soft in the sunlight and exude bursts of the rich, mellow essence of their being. The earth yearns to be overturned by the hoe and the plow, and thus be reborn, and to let the early summer waters flow over and submerge it. Moans of pleasure escape at the moment the earth is bathed and slowly freed from its bindings, bringing contentment and tranquillity. Exhausted, it falls into a sound, blissful sleep. The earth takes on the new face of a watery bride. With her eyes shut, a blush rises and falls on her face, a silent command and a silent plea: “Come on, more, I want more.” The farmers dare not slack off; their hair, their sleeves, and their mouths are covered with the smell of new wheat.
But, filled with elation, they put that smell aside, muster their strength, and rush about, picking up seedlings and planting them in the ground, one at a time, each in a spot that satisfies the earth. Bent at the waist, the farmers never cut corners, for every seedling that enters the ground depends on their movements. Ten acres, a hundred, a thousand, vast fields of seedlings. At first the little plants are strawlike, pliant, bashful, and because of the water, narcissistic. But in a matter of days the earth becomes aware of the secret it possesses and is at peace. It is languid; soft snores emerge from its sleep.