Chinese Stories in English
Bronze River 01
Stories published in 《中国小小说精选》(2024), 秦俑选编
Page citation and link to online Chinese text noted after each story.
1. A Guy Who Sells Flowers 3. Artisan Street 4. Mr. Honglu Zhao
2. A Few Bad Bricks 5. All I Can Tell You
1. A Guy Who Sells Flowers (卖花汉子)
Liu Xinwu (刘心武)
I’ve known Young Guan, a guy who sells flowers, for ten years. When we first met, he was a street vendor selling cut flowers from a cardboard box outside my community’s gate. You could see that the flowers in his box were likely all discards from the flower market. He was very good at arranging them, though – he’d tie several scattered flowers into a bunch -- and he asked for a really low price, so many of the residents in my community bought from him.
I especially liked the flowers he brought around in early spring, particularly the big bunches of violets he claimed to have picked from an open space near a farmers’ village inside the city limits. They were quite rare in the regular flower shops. Also, in summer and autumn, he’d pick wild multi-headed daisies from the same open space especially for me. He laughed and said some people wouldn’t want such flowers even if they were free. I took them and offered to pay, but he wouldn’t accept the money. He said he was blessed to have a gentleman like me as a friend, someone who didn’t look down on him.
After a while I didn’t see him at the community’s gate any more. It turned out that he’d rented about ten square meters for a stall on the first floor of a shopping center a few miles away from my community. Five or six stalls in a row sold flowers, but I only bought from him whenever I went there. He was quite happy to see me every time.
Later it became inconvenient for me to go to the shopping center because of my aging legs and feet. Whenever I needed to change the arrangement in a flower vase or pot, I’d phone him and he’d gladly deliver the flowers to me.
Eventually he opened an independent flower shop on a side street near us. I passed by his little shop a couple of years ago while I was taking a stroll after dinner. I saw a small neon sign saying "Flowers and Gifts" installed on the door, flashing and creating a warm atmosphere. From outside the shop, I looked in and saw beautiful cut flowers neatly arranged for sale on several shelves. Big vases on the top two shelves all contained lilies. I remember he’d told me that lilies last a relatively long time in vases.
A young girl, probably his daughter, was bent over a small desk in a corner of the room. She was elementary school age and probably doing homework. As for him, he’d taken off his T-shirt, probably because the weather was too hot and he thought no more customers would be coming in. Shirtless, he revealed a solidly muscular body with excellent lines and clearly visible abs. Ah, he was the very picture of the old saying: "Wearing clothes makes you look thin, and taking them off makes you look muscular."
Guan saw me outside the door and called to me, "Uncle", so I went in. He started to put on his T-shirt again, but I waved my hand and told him not to. When I asked how his business was doing, he said it was okay. In the past week, though, except for the dozen sunflowers he’d sold me, only a few customers had come in to buy red roses and white lilies. That was obviously mediocre.
His wife, a plump woman with youngish eyes and eyebrows, came around from behind the flower stand. She also called me "Uncle" and told her daughter to call me “Grandpa”. I asked, offhandedly, "You sell gifts as well as flowers. What kind of gifts? Do you make money at it?"
He pointed to a shelf against the far wall and told me that after school, students from the nearby junior high, mostly co-eds, would come in to buy things. I couldn't see what they were at first, so his wife explained that they were small pendants, ornaments, stickers, hairpins, coin purses, electronic watches, ballpoint pens with animal shapes on top, and special-shaped scented erasers. They sold very well and needed to be restocked on a moment’s notice. They didn’t bring in much profit, but the accumulated income covered their daily necessities.
He also picked up a few framed handicraft items made from dried flowers and told me that his wife had been trying her hand at making them. What else could they do with unsold cut flowers when they withered? They used to throw them away, but now they let most of them dry out so his wife's skillful hands could use them in handicrafts. I thought one of the items, a phoenix with spread wings made of multicolored rose petals, was very interesting, so I bought it. This delighted the couple and the wife said, "We’ve sold eight of these items, including yours."
I’d asked Guan to send me peonies every year in the late spring and early summer. I have a thing for peonies. I’ve published many essays on them, sketched them in the garden, and drawn more than one kind in still lifes at home. I had him send me a hundred peonies at a time and divided them into two ceramic pots, a large plastic cup with a handle and five vases of different sizes. I placed them in the living room, study, bedroom and a bay window where I could enjoy their color, fragrance, beauty and charm.
Guan knew about my predilection and placed advance orders with wholesalers for me, so every year I was the first person in Beijing to be provided with peonies. He’d take pains to select ones with large buds and good blooming potential, and pack them into several large bunches for me.
Peonies come in many varieties with different shapes and colors. At the end of spring this year, Guan greeted me with news of a large pink peony with a special shape that looked like a beautiful lotus flower. He could buy them for twenty yuan each and sell them for twenty-five, and asked me if I wanted some at a discount for twenty-three yuan each. I thought that, at eighty-two years of age, I could still enjoy flowers for a few more years, so I immediately ordered twenty of the peonies without the discount.
Guan told me truthfully that this kind of peony would only retain its bright color in a vase for two days. The color would start to change on the third day, turn completely white on the fourth day, and the petals would fall off on the fifth day. I still didn't hesitate to buy. As was well said in Dream of the Red Chamber: "How long can beauty remain fresh?" and "Spring dreams dissipate like clouds, and flowers fly like water flows." Beautiful things, such as youth, first love, first kiss, first marriage, and first baby.... The sweetness of such things gradually fades with the passage of time. While we live in this world, we should cherish any beauty that presents to us!
Sure enough, Guan delivered the large pink peonies to me. I admired them every day for those few days. I saw their beauty, and watched as they faded, turned white and dropped their petals before my eyes.... The flowers withered, but the aesthetic joy and philosophical enlightenment they gave me had an eternal charm!
I ordered twenty-four tulips from Guan, but he didn’t deliver them right away as he usually did. My doorbell rang last night, and I saw Guan when I opened the door. He looked elated as he handed me the tulips and told me his wife had given birth to twins, a boy and a girl.
I promptly wished them well, but at the same time I couldn't help but mutter to myself, "It'll be so hard for the two of them to raise three children with just a flower and gift shop…." He seemed to read my mind and said, as though he were making a vow, "No matter how tough it’ll be, we’ll have to raise them all to adulthood and cultivate them to become college students!"
My heart warmed as I looked at him, and my eyes grew moist.
Chinese text at《中国小小说精选》page 001. Also available here.
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2. A Few Bad Bricks Don’t Spoil a Wall (有烂砖，没烂墻)
Qiao Ye (乔叶)
My grandfather attended private school for a few years. He was “cultured”, as Grandma put it. He had good handwriting and could hold his own with an abacus as well. His good education landed him a job as an accountant at a coal mine in the mountains when he was still young. The mine boss’s kin took a fancy to him and let him marry their only daughter, my grandmother.
His education also impressed the Communist Eighth Route Army when it arrived in the area. He enlisted and saw a lot of action. He never had to travel far, though, and was able to get home once or twice every couple of years.
Grandma had two other pregnancies before my father was born, neither of whom survived. She said the two babies’ faces were wrinkled and their bodies were as small as rats, so small they could fit in a man's shoe. Both died from the "four-six wind", so-called because it typically occurred four to six days after birth. The baby’s arms and legs would twitch, and they’d grit their teeth and stare blankly. Later I learned it wasn't a virus -- it was tetanus bacteria that entered the body when the umbilical cord was cut. They didn’t know enough to disinfect back then. So ignorant.
Gangs rose and fell in the village during the chaotic wartime years. Some men joined the Red Army, some joined the Nationalist forces and some became traitors. Some lived by petty theft while others resorted to banditry, robbing and extorting money with abandon. The situation worsened in the years between the first and second liberations, that is, between the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949 and the opening up to the West in the 1970s.
Grandma served her parents-in-law diligently and respectfully while she anxiously waited for Grandpa to come home, but she was constantly on thin ice. Forget about outsiders, other members of the two clans in the village frequently bullied her. She spent many nights watching through a small hole in the window paper while familiar figures carried away the corn braids she’d hung out on the wall, or picked dates that had just turned red, or carried off their neatly stacked firewood. She held her breath, not daring to breathe. One year, when the harvest failed, the few sweet potatoes she’d planted between rows in the graveyard were completely stripped bare.
“How could you tell who dug them up?”
“I knew just by looking at their children’s rice bowls. And eating sweet potatoes made them fart a lot. People in that household constantly farted sweet potato farts those days. They didn’t grow sweet potatoes, so why else would they have sweet potato farts.”
“How’d you know they were sweet potato farts?”
“They gotta be sweet potato farts when they’re so many and so smelly, right? And besides the farts, they burped, too.”
Whenever I heard Grandma recount these old stories, I’d get so angry that my face would turn red and my neck would thicken. I’d be yelling, "I want revenge, revenge!" but Grandma would look at me and laugh up a storm. She provoked my anger, then tried to put it out by saying it was all in the past and old scores couldn't be settled. “No matter how great the grudge, it was still the local clans. Some bricks in the wall might go bad, but not the whole wall. Sheesh.”
Years later, I finally understood why Grandma sighed. Since she existed as a weaker member of the clan, she had to be accommodating as long as they weren’t robbing her in broad daylight. That was the situation at the time. Under the circumstances, if you didn't have the strength for a head-to-head showdown, you could only accommodate them and even be proud of your flexibility. That was the only way to maintain clan unity when faced with the more brutal aggression by outsiders. Even a mere provisional unity could provide you with a precious sense of security.
And the word "kin" seems inherently to lead to muddled bookkeeping. Throughout history, few have been able to keep these books straight. Of course, the uncertainty doesn't stop people from constantly seeking to settle accounts -- they each keep their own ledger and do their own calculations of profit and loss. And who’s to say? Maybe the ambiguities are precisely what make things so much more interesting.
My father was born a year after the founding of the People's Republic. Grandpa came home for a visit when Dad was almost a year old, stayed a few days, then left again with the troops. Grandma asked him, "Didn't you say everything was peaceful? Why are you leaving?"
"The situation is generally stable,” he answered. “We still have some small fires to put out, but everything will quiet down soon. Then I'll be back and never leave again, and we’ll live our lives in peace. ‘Liberation’ should be Strength’s official descriptor.”
Grandma discovered she was pregnant again two months after Grandpa passed away. She received her first and only letter from him five months into her pregnancy, and three months later the news arrived: Grandpa had been shot and killed during the battle to liberate the southwest. He was buried under a tree by the Whitewater River along with several of his comrades.
Grandma cried for two months. She only stopped when my uncle was born.
“I couldn’t just cry,” she said. “I had a child to raise.”
“I cried till my tears dried up,” she said.
My uncle's name was “Victory” and his childhood nickname was “Sweeping”. He contracted polio at the age of three and became disabled, so grandma changed his name to “Turtle”. She said, "It's good to have a lowly name, but a lowly name doesn’t mean you’re a low person."
The village determined our class status not long after that. My family was labeled “poor peasants”. A small rectangular wooden plaque nailed to the header of our front door proclaimed "Glorious Martyr's Family" in red calligraphy.
Several rich peasants in the village lost their lives at the height of the chaos. Grandma said, "Your grandfather used his own life to protect our entire family." As life began to improve, the village would send us two pounds of slab bacon every Spring Festival. I didn’t learn until much later that Grandma never touched the dishes made with those two pounds of bacon. Not even once.
Chinese text at《中国小小说精选》page 004. Also available here.
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3. Artisan Street (匠器街)
Nie Xinsen (聂鑫森)
Xiang Mountain, a large, bustling town, sits among the Yunyang Mountains of eastern Hunan. Its crisscrossing streets are lined with shops, one next to the other, creating a lively atmosphere. Artisan Street is where I linger the most.
Goldie and I used to work together at a newspaper. He retired to his old stomping grounds to enjoy life, and settled in Xiang Mountain. He often phoned to invite me to "come to Xiang Mountain to breathe fresh air and enjoy the beautiful countryside." He told me that the success of the harvest and the prosperity of life in the villages surrounding town kept the local artisans busy. Farmers with grain in their warehouses and money in their pockets sought carpenters for new houses, joiners for new furniture, cotton spinners and tailors for new cotton quilts and jackets, butchers and chefs for grand birthday and wedding banquets, paper-cutters for new window decor and lantern makers for beautiful ceremonial lighting…. The thriving business on Artisan Street proved the prosperity and happiness of rural life.
I followed Goldie to visit a narrow tailor shop on Artisan Street one rainy spring afternoon. The silver-haired owner, who doubled as a seamstress, and her two female apprentices were busy taking measurements, cutting fabrics with various patterns and using their sewing machines. Goldie, an old acquaintance of the owner, politely asked, "You're so busy! I'd like to order a short Chinese jacket for summer. Can I cut in line?"
"Farmers are particular these days,” the owner replied. They come in to custom-order tailored clothes that fit them perfectly. They say you can see the difference when they leave! Cutting in line won't do. I have to treat everyone equally, regardless of my relationship with them."
Goldie replied, "That’s okay!"
That evening I wrote a poem, "A Countryside Tailor, in the style of Huan Xi Sha":
"She measures the body and cuts cloth accurately.
“Light shirts and thick jackets are like family to her.
“Sewing machine’s sounds play off her white hair,
“Her labors christen the broad breasts and lapels,
“Winter or summer decide the collars and sleeves.
“An ordinary ruler brings comfort to her neighbors.
White snow and crimson plum blossoms created a peaceful scene in Xiang Mountain. The Spring Festival was just around the corner when the Minor Cold (the first two weeks of the twelfth lunar month) ended. Goldie had his son drive me there to experience the vibrant pre-Festival atmosphere in the countryside. I hadn't expected the locals to be so eager to buy special decorations and foods for New Year's. Baskets in hand, they laughed and chattered as they crowded the butcher shops, produce markets and variety stores.
Goldie said: "Let's go to Artisan Street later. There’s a good story behind every shop. You’re sure to find it interesting.”
I remembered he’d taken me to a paper-cutter’s shop, “Gold-Cut Red Flowers”, on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival. A fortyish peasant woman, Grain Blossom, did triple service as the shop owner, clerk and paper-cutter. My eyes had been dazzled by the examples of her work that hung on the walls amid certificates of honor and awards from municipal and provincial exhibitions.
Blossom’s grandmother and mother had been locally renowned paper-cutters. She kept her eyes and ears open in her youth and eventually inherited their skills. She married a robust man, strong as an ox, who came to despise her because her frail health prevented her from doing the heavy work of plowing and harrowing the fields.
Her husband made all the decisions for the household, and he swore at her whenever he saw her making paper-cuts. After Xiang Mountain became a popular tourist destination, however, the local government offered her three years rent-free to get her to open a shop in town. Her son was a student in the town's junior high at the time, so she took a deep breath and decided to do it. Now her business was doing pretty good.
Goldie asked her , "How does your husband treat you now?"
"He's incredibly strong, but I have great skills and earn more money than him. He's learned to respect me and consults with me on everything. It's become sort of a democracy. I can hold my head up high now!"
Her story moved me deeply. Rural prosperity and alleviation of poverty have changed many old attitudes and given self-esteem and respect to vulnerable people. I couldn't resist writing another poem in the Huan Xi Sha style and asked Goldie, a master calligrapher, to write it down as a gift for Blossom:
"Short strips cut for the sun's rays and moonlight,
“Make fish, insects, and plants all the more vivid.
“Embroidered clothes and fair wrists; paper is her field.
“A true man respects a guest he’s asked to his hall,
“A proud woman advises on household affairs.
“A cock’s crowing, a shadowy dream by Magpie Bridge."
Artisan Street was bustling with activity in anticipation of the Lunar New Year. Goldie took me on a tour of shops specializing in cultural and tourism products. I had no idea paper-cuts, lanterns, oil-paper umbrellas, New Year paintings, straw pendants and traditional toys were so popular. On a whim, I bought a few paper-cuts and New Year paintings to give to friends.
We walked toward a lantern shop. A crowd had gathered at the entrance and the sounds of a heated argument came from inside. As we approached, we saw a vast array of lanterns hanging in the spacious hall. Colored paper painted with festive designs covered each lantern’s bamboo frame: goldfish lanterns, fruit lanterns, pagoda lanterns, dragon and phoenix lanterns, flower lanterns, revolving lanterns, as well as rocket, airplane, spaceship, and icebreaker lanterns. The designs were truly imaginative and ingenious.
A pleasant-looking old man stood behind the counter. A loud-voiced middle-aged man faced him on the other side.
"Your lanterns are superb, Master Zhao. I want forty of them, and I'll pay double the price. Why won't you agree? My daughter’s bringing her husband from the capital to celebrate the New Year with us, and I need to keep our villa brightly lit every night!"
"You’re a processed foods entrepreneur. If a customer has ordered goods and is about to pick them up, could you take them from him just because another customer offered more money? That would be a breach of trust and a blow to your reputation!"
"Have all these lanterns already been sold?"
"Of course. The lanterns we’re still working on at home are also reserved. If you don't believe me, you can sit here and watch."
"Oh." Boss Liu sighed.
Goldie squeezed through the crowd and bowed to Mr. Zhao. "Good luck, Mr. Zhao!” he proclaimed. “I'm here to plead for Boss Liu. Your Zhao family is a large one, whose men and women alike are skilled in lantern making. Why not have them work a few extra nights to make these dozens of lanterns? His son-in-law is from out of town, you see, so Boss Liu has to show some respect. This will also promote Xiang Mountain."
Mr. Zhao said, "He's rich and famous. How could he speak to me like that?"
Boss Liu quickly stepped forward, bowed, and said, "Mr. Zhao, Mr. Gold, thank you for your forgiveness. I will definitely change my bad temper."
Mr. Zhao said, "Boss Liu, come here to pick up the goods in five days. If you’re short one lantern, I won't charge you a penny." Warm applause broke out inside and outside the store.
After leaving the lantern shop, I said to Goldie: "The name ‘Artisan Street’ is really good! The craftsmen have both ingenuity and craftsmanship.
Goldie couldn't help laughing.
Chinese text at《中国小小说精选》page 007. Also available here.
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4. Mr. Honglu Zhao (赵鸿胪)
Hou Deyun (候德云)
Mr. Zhao was a historian and literary scholar -- in his spare time. He’d wanted to be a professional, perhaps working in a museum or cultural center, and felt that he’d be considered a professional if he worked in such an organization. His immediate superiors didn't think much of museums, however, and Mr. Zhao, in his own words, spent half his life "unfulfilled in his ambitions."
Once, when he was still young, he mentioned his desire to transfer to another position to his section chief. The man felt he had to act interested, even though it was none of his concern, so he stared at Mr. Zhao and asked, "Is that so?"
Mr. Zhao nodded and said, "Yeah."
The section chief's grin widened as he went from silence to loud laughter, and from loud to resounding. His shoulders and fingers shook. He held a cigarette between his fingers and it began to shake, too, until the ashes from the butt fell and landed on his pants. He screamed when his pants started to smoke, and that was the end of his laughter.
Mr. Zhao wanted to buy the section chief a new pair of pants, but the man waved him off. However, he didn't object when Mr. Zhao offered to host a dinner to calm him down. While they ate, he patted Mr. Zhao’s shoulder and told him, "Don't go anywhere, young man. Spend your life writing memoranda for me. I guarantee you a path to success." Then he patted his own wife and said, "I just like honest people like this young fellow."
He did stay with his section chief and worked diligently at writing official documents. Every time the section chief was promoted, Mr. Zhao followed along. He continued writing materials later on, when he himself was promoted to deputy director. Only then did he realize that the section chief had laughed the way he did for his own good.
He wrote basically two types of materials: official documents and scholarly essays. He wrote the former for the government, but the latter he wrote for himself. He always wrote meticulously no matter who he was writing for. He stopped writing official documents when he retired as deputy director but continued to work on literature and history.
His literary and historical narratives mostly revolved around the area called Lushunkou, a district of today’s Dalian [Port Arthur] in Liaoning province. It’s said that "Lushunkou is half of modern history." Its importance couldn’t be denied, so Mr. Zhao felt he should write about it.
The essays he wrote were later compiled into three books: "Travel Guide", "Viewing the Sights" and "Traveling Around". It's not an exaggeration to say he was a walking map of Lushunkou.
One of his historical essays concerned Honglu Well. He recounted how Tang Dynasty Emperor Xuanzong, in the first year of his Kaiyuan reign (712 or 713), "dispatched the Honorable Cui Xin to serve as Imperial Corps Commander and Acting Minister of Honglu". It referred to Cui Xin’s promotion from the fourth rank of officialdom to the third rank. He was to travel to the remote Kingdom of Zhen in the Mudan River basin in northeastern China and confer the title of Prince of Bohai on its leader, Dae Jo-yeong. Dae Jo-yeong accordingly renamed his kingdom Bohai and abandoned its former name, Mohe.
On his return journey, Cui Xin passed through the town now known as Lushunkou. There he dug two wells and carved stone tablets to commemorate the event. He did this because of a Tang Dynasty directive that an envoy sent anywhere had to leave a memorial along the way, either a stele or a pavilion. Cui Xin's well digging was a unique way to comply with this rule. Later generations named the two wells after Cui Xin's official title, Hong Lu [Great Expiator].
One of the Honglu Wells still exists today in a military restricted area at the northern foot of Huangjin Mountain. It’s commemorated by a stone tablet reading "Honglu Well Remains". Despite the military’s restrictions, Mr. Zhao managed to visit the site twice by pulling some strings. The other well was at the eastern foot of the mountain. A pavilion without a tablet stands there now, and a small park has been designated the Honglu Well Ruins Park.
Old Zhao lived not far from there. He strolled through the park almost every day, rain or shine, after he retired. He sat for a bit in the stone pavilion every time, with his eyes fixed on the well. The well’s edge is just red bricks stacked half a meter above the ground, covered by a cement manhole cover. So what was the attraction?
It gave him opportunities to talk about his favorite subject. Not many people visited the park, and those who did were mostly nearby residents about Mr. Zhao’s age who were out for a stroll. Occasionally a middle-aged or elderly man or woman would stand by the pavilion and stare blankly at the well. Mr. Zhao would approach them to ask, "Do you know the history of this well?"
Most likely, they didn't. Great! Old Zhao would immediately start talking, recounting the story of the well. He began with Cui Xin's diplomatic mission. A large delegation departs the capitol city Chang'an with beating drums and hoisted flags. Their horses’ hooves thunder all the way to Dengzhou Port on the Shandong Peninsula, from whence they sail across the Bohai Strait to Lushunkou. They meander north along the Yellow Sea coast, sail up the Yalu River and, at a certain point, abandon their ships and proceed on land, thundering all the way to the capital of the Kingdom of Zhen. They retrace their steps after the ceremony and, when they arrive at Lushunkou, they leave behind this precious relic.
At this point, Old Zhao would raise his right arm, spread out his index and middle fingers and make a circle with the rest, and tap the air twice. He’d sigh, "Old Cui and his troop had been on the road for two years. They suffered a lot."
If his audience was still interested, Mr. Zhao would continue with a brief history of the Bohai Kingdom. It was called "Sushen" before the Qin and Han dynasties, "Yilou" in the Eastern Han, Wei and Jin dynasties, "Wuji" in the Southern and Northern Dynasties, and "Mohe" in the late Southern and Northern Dynasties. Mohe had reached its heyday by the Tang Dynasty, which is when the Bohai Kingdom was established.
After all that talking, Old Zhao always came around to a stone described as "big as a camel". He’d pronounce from memory the words inscribed on it, not missing a single one: "By Imperial Edict and Proclamation, Two Wells are Verily Documented for Eternity by Cui Xin, Commanding Envoy to Mohe and Minister of Rites, on the Eighteenth day of the Fifth Month in the Second Year of the Kaiyuan Reign".
Six other inscriptions appear around Cui Xin's words on this naturally huge boulder. One of them is unclear, and the rest are carvings from the Ming and Qing dynasties. The boulder itself is now in the Imperial Palace East National Gardens in Tokyo. The Japanese claimed it as a "trophy of the Russo-Japanese War."
In 1908, Japanese Vice Admiral Tomioka Sadakyo served as the commander of the Port Arthur Garrison. He’s the one who stole the inscribed boulder. Whenever his name was mentioned, Mr. Zhao started cursing and kept at it until his facial features became distorted. His reputation grew over time, and people gave him the nickname “Honglu”. Mr. Honglu Zhao.
Mr. Zhao wrote to the Japanese Emperor many times, strongly protesting the theft and demanding the unconditional return of the inscribed boulder.” He finished each letter with: "I will not close my eyes, even in death, unless the inscribed stone is returned." Many people know about this. Some give him a thumbs-up, while others are noncommittal.
A winery, seeing a business opportunity, created a new wine called Honglu and sought out Mr. Zhao to be its spokesperson. The conversation at the banquet naturally centered around the Honglu Well and the stone inscriptions. Mr. Zhao became the center of attention, enjoying a lively conversation as they drank. Halfway through the toasts, the young winery manager, whether in jest or sincerity, asked him, "If you really get the inscribed stone back, will you sell it to me?"
Old Zhao's eyes widened at the thought. He tapped the factory director with his chopsticks and said, "On your word? Can you afford it? I believe you could afford the rock, but could you afford the Tang Dynasty relic?"
He opened his mouth and laughed like his old section chief when he said it, from silence to loud and loud to explosive. His shoulders and fingers shook from laughing.
When he saw that he’d made Mr. Zhao laugh so hard that his face turned blue, the young director never mentioned such matters to his spokesperson again.
In the following days, whenever Mr. Zhao went to Honglu Well Ruins Park, he’d laugh so hard that he’d shake. Any people there at the time would gather around him to watch the rare sight.
Translator’s note: In 1983, a Chinese scientist supervising a group working on China’s satellite program told me that he’d wanted to major in classical literature in college, but the Party directed him to major in science.
Chinese text at《中国小小说精选》page 010. Also available here.
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5. All I Can Tell You (我所能告诉你的一切)
Yu Debei (于德北)
I tutored a child on Sunday. When I told him about the chapter "Dragon Palace Treasure Hunt" from the novel "Journey to the West", he blurted, "Let’s go to the zoo! There's a 'Journey to the West Show' going on right now. Tang Seng and his disciples will be there, and a bunch of demons, too. They'll jump out from the corners and pull on you to take their picture, and even give you a magic weapon." He paused briefly and tilted his head. "All the kids want to see it."
He looked so expectant, I only thought for a moment before I agreed. He was elated and asked, "Is Sun Wukong from Kazakhstan?"
I thought he was spouting nonsense from excitement. I joked, "No, he's from Addis Ababa."
His eyes lit up. "No. That’s Zhu Bajie."
That piqued my curiosity. "Addis Ababa?"
He nodded and continued even more confidently. "Sun Wukong is from Kazakhstan, and Sha the Monk is from Buenos Aires." I nodded in agreement, playing along with the absurdity.
"So, let's go to the zoo,” he urged. I nodded.
We were walking to the zoo hand in hand along a busy road when we saw the Queen of the Kingdom of Women selling liquor. Her stall was filled with a wide variety of foreign liquors, but French wine and Russian vodka were the most popular. She had a dog with her that had just given birth to four puppies. As a new mother, it was very wary. It bared its teeth and let out a low growl at anyone who got too close. It even bit the Queen's shoelaces and pulled them open.
Then I saw Sha the Monk coming out of the zoo’s west gate with his daughter. They were arguing about some presumably urgent issue in a foreign language. The daughter, about five or six years old, was smiling broadly but Sha wore a serious expression.
The girl began each sentence with "Daddy" and then batted her eyes or stepped back as she made her point. For some reason, when they reached the entrance to the liquor shop, she took off her cloak and stood still in the wind wearing only a single layer of clothing. I shouted to Sha, "The child will catch a cold!"
He waved his hands at me and bellowed "No!" in English. The girl started to run off, holding a fig branch in her hand that she’d picked up from somewhere. Sha looked at the Queen in despair, and the Queen gave her dog a hard kick.
The child I brought with me was probably the most well-behaved of his peers. No matter what he asked for, he’d gaze timidly and deeply at you for an inordinately long time. His expression was heartbreaking. I noticed that his pupils were sometimes green, sometimes blue. For example, when he asked me, "Can I go to the zoo?" I was certain they were blue.
Something was amiss today, though. When he saw Sha's daughter, he seemed excited and agitated, as if his mind no longer held any offensive thought. He broke free from my hand and ran toward the girl, quickly removing his coat just as she had. The two coats -- his green and hers red -- fluttered harmoniously on the snow, highlighting their natural colors. The Queen's dog tried to take the two coats, but the Queen stopped it.
"What should I do?" Sha moaned as he walked toward me. He told me the zoo was holding an auction to sell off items like Tang Seng's robes and crescent- shaped shovel, Zhu Bajie's rake, and, of course, Sun Wukong's golden cudgel. Tourists flocked to the auction site, crowding the area so tightly that not even a drop of water could get through. A group of Mongolian tourists and a Turkish couple got into a bidding war for the golden cudgel, which drove the price up inch by inch. Others sat in the stone grotto, experiencing the joy of silence.
"What should I do?" Sha asked again.
I said, "How about a drink?" He looked at me as though he’d lost all hope.
Sha told me about the "Journey to the West Show." Four of them, all masters or apprentices, had been invited to attend. They’d been accompanied by fireworks every day. They’d originally been placed apart from the demons, but now they were sharing the stage. What a ridiculous thing! For example, Sun Wukong showing off his skills with his cudgel....
The mention of Sun Wukong and his cudgel led him to talk about how the Tiger-Slayer Wu Song wielded a cudgel in the novel "Water Margin". The original text read: "The wine had begun to rise in him. Afraid he might act improperly, he stood up, thanked the husband and wife, and walked out the door under the front veranda. When he opened the door, he realized he couldn't sleep due to the alcohol. He went to his room, removed his shirt and scarf, and took his whistling cudgel to the center concourse. He swung the cudgel more than a dozen times under the bright moon, wheeling around several times. When he looked up at the sky, he saw it was around three o'clock in the morning."
Sha recited this passage from memory, then continued with examples. “When Sun Wukong displays his skill with a cudgel, seven spider spirits take the stage with him. It’s truly embarrassing to watch. Another example: the zoo invited the Queen of the Kingdom of Women to be an actress, but she said it wasn’t a trifling matter and she had to respect her inner feelings. She ended up opening this liquor stand outside the west gate of the zoo to sell liquor by the drink and bottled foreign liquor to passers-by.
"He pointed to the Queen's dog and asked, "Do you know whose dog that is?" I shook my head.
He whispered, "You must know of the god Erlang's Sky-Howling Dog, right? The dog’s wife gave birth to four pups. If they weren't recognized by the god, they might end up as ordinary people.” He lowered his voice even more. "It's said that the zoo already wants to sign a contract for the Queen to sell them at least one of the pups to use in promotions. No matter what, it's something to keep an eye on.”
I asked: "What does the Queen say?" Sha glanced at her and didn’t answer one way or the other. I tried hard to look at the dog, but its image became increasingly blurry.
Some ways away, the two children were passionately discussing their dreams, which turned out to be remarkably similar. In their dreams, Sun Wukong was from Kazakhstan, or perhaps from India. He might even possibly be from the same hometown as Zhu Bajie, who, in their dreams, was born in Addis Ababa.
The girl said, "I'm from Buenos Aires. A blind writer there has compiled many interesting stories." That’s when I finally understood why the child I brought had said Sha the Monk was from Argentina. Their dreams were quite free, free enough that one of them could just randomly pair up people in a life-long relationship and the other would instantly approve. How incredible that was to us.
Sha pointed at the girl and said, "She calls me dad for some reason, and I wholeheartedly believe that she is my daughter. You know, I shouldn't have a daughter." I smiled happily.
Now, the two children had begun talking about viruses, colds, and the relationship between heat, cold and disease. They were wearing nothing but their uniform shorts.... The girl’s was, of course, a short skirt.... They danced around a newly planted fig tree sprout and sang songs that only they could fully understand, painting the cloudless sky with joy.
The Queen held a tissue on top of her head. Her dog had gone off to nurse her babies.
I told Sha the stories about the koi fish that blew up the dam in the zoo; my encounter with dinosaurs in the jungle; the windmill that stood alone in outer space; and the ant that climbed bravely up to Mars.
Sha said, "I have to get back. If they don't find me soon, they'll get mad again.” He bid adieu to the Queen, but she didn’t see him. He called out to the girl, who shouted, "Go on back, Daddy! The plane that's going to take me home will be here soon!"
I gave myself the once-over. A novelist in his fifties, of medium build, with a round face, leopard eyes, and a full beard. I was happily married, but I had a lover I couldn't let go of. I used to get drunk seven days a week and had been hospitalized three times for gastric bleeding. The last time The doctor declared me critically ill.
The child asked me, "Are you going home or going to the zoo with me?" I turned to face Sha's back as he disappeared in the noisy air that shimmered from the heat.
I said, "I guess I’ll go to the zoo with you."
“You don’t have to worry about the illegitimate child,” the child said. He looked me straight in the eye. “Go on home.”
Translator's Confession: I don't understand this story at all.
Chinese text at《中国小小说精选》page 013. Also available here.