The Pearl Jacket and Other Stories. Shouhua Qi
In the box lay a butterfly.
A big black butterfly.
(1988)
Façade
Shen Hong
Her husband will go on a business trip for a week.
She pretends to care a lot and asks him many questions: Where is he going? What’s the weather like there? Shouldn’t he pack some extra clothing just in case? She talks while packing for her husband, a can’t-live-a-day-without-him look in her face. It is so touching. In reality, though, she can’t wait for her husband to go on business trips so she can go and see her lover.
She used to be a proper woman. But eight years of married life has worn her out. After a full day of busy work at the company, she yearned to be comforted by her husband when she returned home. Yet he would be tied up with work and wouldn’t be home until late in the evening. So her home was rarely brightened up with happy surprises such as her husband coming home with fresh flowers. Oh, she would be thrilled and hug him till she died. How many times had she dreamed of such a moment in her life and each time she would be disappointed. It looked like there was no way she and her husband could rekindle the kind of passion they had felt for each other while dating. At moments like this she would be hit by a nameless sadness and would feel lonely. It was around this time that a wealthy man began to pursue her. At first she was nervous and couldn’t see herself saying yes to the man. Her curiosity prevailed eventually. In the thrilling adventure that ensued she tasted passions she had never thought possible her entire life. Now, she is awash with excitement whenever she thinks of the time she spends with her lover.
At this very moment while packing for her husband, she is planning in her head. First, she and her lover go to Arc de Triomphe to savor the French food there; then they go for a ride in the lover’s shiny Nissan; afterwards, they go to the dance hall to dance cha-cha and sing karaoke. Yes, that “Meet at Midnight,” which she has sung dozens of times. Usually it is after singing that song that she and her lover walk into the night, romantic, intoxicating. . . .
She finishes packing while planning, tiptoes into the bedroom, and picks up the phone. She hears her husband’s voice from the other phone in the living room:
“ . . . I’ve already told her the business trip will take about a week. She’s still packing for me . . . don’t worry, she won’t suspect anything. Yes, we will have a fabulous time at the sea resort . . . Hey, all is clear at your end, too? Good. Okay, see you at the resort. . . . ”
Her heart tightens suddenly, the phone slipping out of her hand. . . .
(1994)
Letters
Wang Peijing
In the heart is an invisible thread that links us to our dear ones no matter where we are in the world.
This story took place over 20 years ago. At the time I was 17 years old and had just graduated from high school. I joined a Tibet Volunteers team and was working on a highway project in Xixigeli. One of my roommates was a middle-aged rustic man called Big Mount Ma. Behind his back, though, everybody called him Big Monk Ma. Here in Xixigeli, sandstorms rage on almost year round, and here in Xixigeli women and green are rarely seen. It wasn’t that bad during the day while we were busy laying stones and filling in earth. It became hard on us, however, when we lay in bed at night listening to the wind buzzing outside the Mongolian tents and wolves engaging in heart-piercing howls.
At that time communication technology was not as advanced. Even if it were, no telephone service could be established in such vast, wild desert.
Therefore, letters were the only way by which we could be linked with folks thousands of miles away. Although it would sometimes take more than two months for a letter to reach its destination, that sheet of paper carried with it the feelings between father and son, mother and son, husband and wife, and between brothers.
Big Monk Ma was illiterate. Every time he saw others’ faces light up with joy upon receiving letters, he would sit aside and puff away on his pipe. About half a year later, Big Monk Ma had a rather thoughtful, worried look on his face for days. I wondered why. Moreover, he was especially kind to me. On the construction site he would always let me do light work and during mealtime he would generously give me a portion of his vegetables and meat.
One evening he told me what had been on his mind.
“Young man, could you do me a favor? I am illiterate, you know. I bought paper, pen, and envelope a long time ago but don’t know how to use them. Could you write me a letter home? Just want to know how my kid is doing at school, and how are things at home.”
“Certainly,” I said. “Why didn’t you ask me earlier? No trouble at all. Okay, let me do it now, so it’ll catch the mail tomorrow. Homesick, wife-sick, right?” Now I knew why he had been so kind to me recently.
Once the letter was on its way, Big Monk Ma became his old self again, working tirelessly, a smile appearing on his face now and then.
A month passed. Then another. Still no letters came for Big Monk Ma. So I offered to write another letter for him.
Days passed. More days passed. Finally Big Monk Ma received a letter from home. That afternoon we were busy working when the administrative assistant came to the construction site to pass out the mail. Thrilled beyond himself, Big Monk Ma gazed at the letter for a long time, caressed it with quivering fingers, and then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Someone called out: “Uncle Ma, what does your letter say? Can you read it aloud for us?” Big Monk Ma’s face reddened, but he didn’t take out the letter.
A short while later I went to the outhouse. Big Monk Ma followed. When we reached the outhouse, he said, “Young man, could you read it for me?” I took the envelope. I tore it open and pulled out a sheet. He took the envelope and felt inside to see if there was more. I read through the letter and said:
“Let’s not read it.”
A worried look appeared on his face. “What happened? What happened? What does the letter say? Read it for me. I beg you.”
It was a rather short letter written with an unsteady hand:
Big Mount:
The kid is good. I want to sleep with you.
Kid’s Mom
I finished but Big Monk Ma’s eyes were still on my face. When I handed the letter back to him, he said: “That’s it?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s all. Your wife can write? The envelope and the letter were not written by the same hand.”
“No, she can’t. She never went to school.”
I was young and foolish then, having not tasted the full range of human feelings, and leaked the content of Big Monk Ma’s letter as if it were a joke. Many on the construction site would tease him endlessly: “I want to sleep with you! “
Not long after that I received a telegram that my grandpa was gravely ill. So I left Tibet. I haven’t seen Big Monk Ma since.
Later I realized that his wife must have worked hard on that letter. It must have taken her a whole day, or perhaps several days, to learn one single word from her young son, and then copy the words, stroke by stroke, to complete that letter. That simple letter carried with it the deep feelings of a woman in the mountains, waiting for her man thousands of miles away.
Twenty years have passed since then. I hope it’s not too late to say this to Big Monk Ma and his dear wife: I apologize for my youthful foolishness.
(2000)
Goldie
Ma Baoshang
Hai Chuan just got married. The bride’s name was Goldie.
One day that year Japanese devils came to Little Village and massacred so many folks that its river turned