The Ancient Ship. Zhang Wei
and washed in the moon’s rays, he realized he was being ridiculous—Leilei had clearly gotten those eyes from Li Zhaolu. Counting backward, he tried to calculate when Zhaolu had come home for the last time and then recall the date when the old tree by the mill had been struck by lightning. His heart was pounding as he relived the night of passion and joy they had shared. No detail escaped him: Xiaokui’s moans of pleasure, her frail figure, and the two sweaty bodies as lightning flashed outside the window. The night was hideously short, and he recalled Xiaokui’s cry of alarm when the sky began to lighten up in the morning. She was holding him as he lay, utterly exhausted, as if he had only minutes to live. She shook him, maybe thinking he was in mortal danger, and began to cry. He sat up but lacked the strength to jump out her window.
The rain had stopped by the time he was on his way back to his room, and that is where his reminiscences always ended. He concluded that such heart-stopping joy had to have produced fruit, a realization that made him break out in a cold sweat. Time and again he asked himself if there was a chance that he could someday claim the boy who refused to grow up.
The next emotion to torment Baopu was profound remorse. He had watched Xiaokui limp along dragging the boy with her all these years, and he’d never once offered to help, to his everlasting feelings of guilt. There were times when he turned his thoughts upside down, telling himself that Leilei was definitely not his son, and that invariably lifted an emotional burden from his shoulders.
Xiaokui wore her mourning garb for a year. Such attire had likely been outlawed in other places, but not in Wali. Rather than diminish in number, complex funeral rites and strange customs had actually increased in recent years. Where death was concerned, only the eyes of the spirits were watching. For the better part of a year, Xiaokui was seen on the streets and in the lanes clad in funereal white, a reminder to the townspeople not to forget to grieve. When Baopu saw the white garb he immediately thought of Zhaolu, who had died in the far-off northeast provinces. He did not have to be told that if the people in town knew what had happened between him and Xiaokui, he would never be forgiven, for that was what people called “stealing a man’s wife when he’s down.” Zhaolu could not experience the loathing of a man whose wife had been taken from him, for he was already in the ground. This thought made Baopu cringe. But no one in town knew, and no one could imagine that their taciturn neighbor was capable of what had happened on that stormy night. Baopu censured himself anyway.
In the end, Xiaokui shed her mourning garments, and a huge sigh of relief was let out all over town. The mill seemed to turn faster; the color returned to Xiaokui’s face. She was often seen in Zhao Family Lane with Leilei in her arms.
They met once. Her burning gaze made Baopu lower his head and hurry away. From then on he avoided the ancient lane. On another occasion he saw her deep in conversation with Sui Buzhao, who was nodding, his tiny eyes shining. Later that night his uncle came to his room and smiled as he fixed him with a stare. Baopu could barely keep himself from sending the old man away. But then his uncle said, “Tis is your lucky day. It’s time for you to have a family. Xiaokui—”
A shrill shout burst from Baopu’s throat, to his uncle’s astonishment. With a cold, hard look, Baopu said, exaggerating every word: “Don’t mention that to me ever again!”
Ever since his teens, Baopu had been unhappy with his uncle, owing mainly to the day he had tried to tempt Jiansu into going out into the river with him on a boat that immediately sank, scaring Baopu half to death. A later incident only increased his disgust for the man. Early one cold morning, during the lunar New Year holiday, Baopu and Guigui rose early to celebrate, as custom dictated. First one, then the other washed up with bath soap they kept in a small wooden box, filling the small room with a pervasive fragrance. Guigui urged him to wear the leather, square-toed shoes left to him by his father. The sky was lightening, but the streets were still deserted. In a campaign to do away with superstition, officials had forbidden the use of firecrackers and paying New Year’s calls. So Baopu summoned Hanzhang and Jiansu to his room and had Guigui go for their uncle while they placed dumplings with yam fillings on a cutting board. Guigui had not been gone long when cracking noises erupted on the street. At first they thought someone was setting off firecrackers, but Jiansu ran out to see what it was and reported that a couple of local carters were riding up and down the streets, their heads beaded with sweat as they snapped their whips in the air.
Water boiled in the wok as they waited for their uncle. But Guigui returned alone, red eyed, and said she’d pounded on their uncle’s door, but he was inside snoring away. When he finally woke up, he refused to get out of bed. Even when she told him they had prepared dumplings, he said he wasn’t getting up, not for anything or anyone. She stood there until water began dribbling out under the door onto the ground, and it took only a moment to realize that he was on the other side relieving himself. She came straight home and announced that she never wanted to see that man again. Baopu and Hanzhang were beside themselves, but Jiansu merely looked out the window and said, “That uncle of ours is really something!”
As he dumped the dark dumplings into the boiling water, Baopu summed up his view of the man: “He’s the sinful member of the Sui clan.”
Baopu’s uncle stood in his room that day wanting to continue with what he’d come to say about Xiaokui, but the determined look on Baopu’s face kept him from doing so. Caught off guard by his nephew’s attitude, he turned and left, stumbling along as always, with Baopu’s eyes boring into his back; he wondered if the old man had learned of his wretched secret.
Much later that night, Baopu was out pacing the yard. Finally, unable to restrain himself, he went to his brother’s room and knocked on the door. Wiping his sleepy eyes, Jiansu let him in and lit a lamp. “I couldn’t sleep,” Baopu said. “I have to talk to someone. I’m really depressed.”
Jiansu, dressed only in a pair of shorts, crouched down on the kang, his skin glistening in the lamplight, as if oiled. Baopu took off his shoes and joined him on the kang, sitting cross-legged. “I’ve been there,” Jiansu said, “I know how it feels. But time took care of it. If I’d carried on like you, I’d have been skin and bones by now.”
With a forced smile, Baopu said: “I guess I’ve gotten used to it. I’m in the habit of feeling sinful. I’m used to suffering.”
The brothers smoked in silence until Jiansu, pipe in hand, lowered his head and said, “There’s nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night. There are so many things on your mind at this time of night that if your thoughts take an ugly turn, you can forget about getting any more sleep. Going outside and letting the dew wet your face helps a little. Or, if your heart seems on fire, you can pour cold water over your head. I hate waking up in the middle of the night.”
Seemingly oblivious to what his younger brother was saying, Baopu asked, “Jiansu, who would you say is the most sinful member of the Sui clan?”
With a grim laugh, Jiansu replied, “Didn’t you say that’s what our uncle is?”
Baopu shook his head, tossed away his cigarette, and looked at his brother without so much as blinking.
“No, it’s me!”
Jiansu shoved the pipe back in his mouth and bit down hard. He gave his brother a strange look. “What are you talking about?” he said with an angry frown.
Baopu rested his hands on his knees and arched his wrists. “I can’t tell you now, but believe me, I know what I’m saying.”
With a bewildered shake of his head, Jiansu smiled grimly. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed. Surprised by that laugh, Baopu frowned. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Jiansu said, “and I want to keep it that way. You didn’t kill somebody, did you? Become an outlaw? All I know is that members of our clan are in the habit of making things hard on themselves right up to the day we die. If you’re a sinful man, then everybody else in Wali deserves to be killed. My days are not pleasant—sheer torture, if you want to know—and I don’t know what to do about it. I often suffer from a toothache that makes that side of my face swell up, and I have to stop myself from picking up a hammer, knocking out every last tooth, and letting the blood flow. What am I supposed