Shifu, You'll Do Anything For A Laugh Part 8

Junior blushed to the roots of his ears. "h.e.l.l no!"

"Little He isn't bad," Guo Three went on. "Nice perky t.i.ts and a good broad beam."

"Don't talk like that," Junior protested. "She's an educated city girl.. . ten years older than me ... so tall. .. ."

"So what?" Guo Three replied. "Educated girls like doing it as much as anybody. And ten years older, for a girl, is nothing. Besides, 'Tall girl, short boy - t.i.ts in the face, what a joy.' Now that's living!"

This little monologue by Guo Three had poor Junior's rear end squirming and his body temperature soaring.

"The little sparrow's standing up," Guo Three remarked. "And not so little, at that."

From that day onward, Guo Three hardly stopped coaching Junior in certain matters, until finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Junior broached the subject of the "big teapot." Guo Three happily obliged with a graphic description of what went on in a wh.o.r.ehouse.

Junior turned the waterwheel, but his thoughts were miles away: He Liping's image fluttered before his eyes. Guo Three took this as an invitation for even more salacious talk.

With a crack in his voice, Junior pleaded, "Master Three, please don't talk about things like that."

"You dumb p.r.i.c.k, what are you getting all weepy about? Go to her. She's itching for it, too!"

So one day Junior went into the production team's vegetable garden and stole a carrot, which he washed off and hid in tall gra.s.s until He Liping carne along. The oldster Guo Three hadn't arrived when she showed up, so Junior handed her the carrot.

She studied his face as she accepted the gift.

Junior could only imagine what he looked like at that moment, with his matted, gra.s.s-stained hair and tattered clothes.

"Why are you giving me this carrot?" He Liping asked him.

"Because I like you," he said.

She sighed and rubbed the carrot's orange, glossy skin. "But you're still a child... ." She rubbed his head and walked off with her carrot.

Junior and He Liping went to the distant field to re-sow the millet field. Since draft animals needed room to turn around, some spots were left vacant. They arrived at a field where sorghum had just been harvested. Buds were beginning to appear on the newly planted millet, and dry sorghum stalks were stacked at the head of the patch of ground. It was late autumn by then, and getting cold. After spreading their millet seeds for a while, He Liping and Junior rested in front of a sorghum stack to soak up the warm, inviting rays of sunlight. They had an un.o.bstructed view of the newly harvested and deserted field, over which birds circled noisily.

He Liping laid some bundles of sorghum stalks on the ground and stretched out lazily against them. Junior stood off to the side, gazing down at her. Her face shone in sunlight that was bright enough to make her squint; pretty white teeth showed between her moist, slightly parted lips.

Junior s.h.i.+vered; his lips felt dry, and there was a lump in his throat. "Guo Three and Li Gaofa's wife do you-know-what," he managed to say. "Goes there every day ..."

Still squinting, He Liping smiled radiantly.

"... Guo Three says bad things . .. says you ..."

Still squinting, He Liping spread her arms and legs wide.

Junior took a step closer. "Guo Three says you're always thinking about doing you-know-what... ."

He Liping looked up and smiled.

Junior knelt alongside her. "Guo Three wishes I had the nerve to touch you. ..."

He Liping was smiling.

Junior began to sob. Through his tears, he said, "Big Sister, I want to touch you ... want to touch you, Big Sister... ."

Junior's hand was no sooner resting upon He Liping's breast than she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him... .

The following year, He Liping gave birth to twins, an event that rocked all of Gaomi Towns.h.i.+p.

Shen Garden.

A THUNDERBOLT CRACKLED ABOVE A LOCUST TREE OUTSIDE THE bakery, sending brilliant sparks flying off a streetcar cable strung beneath the tree. The summer's first clap of thunder caught people out on the street by surprise; they quickly ran for cover under shop overhangs on both sides of the street. Those on bicycles bent low over their handlebars, hugging the sidewalks and pedaling for all they were worth. A cool wind blew amid sheets of rain slanting down. The chaos on the street grew worse as people fled from the downpour.

He and she sat opposite each other at a table in the dark bakery, soft drinks-in front of both of them, bright ice cubes bobbing in the dark gla.s.ses. Two stale croissants lay on the table, around which a solitary housefly flitted.

He c.o.c.ked his head to the side to look at the chaotic scene on the street outside. Branches and leaves on the locust tree were buffeted crazily by the wind, which sent fine dust skittering across the ground. The stench of mud filtered into the shop, overwhelming the b.u.t.tery smell unique to bakeries. Streetcars rolled slowly down the tracks from somewhere off in the distance, nipping at the heels of the ones in front. The heavy rain beating down on the tops of the cars created a cloud of gray mist. The streetcars were packed with pa.s.sengers, many of whose heads were sticking out of open windows, only to be pelted by stinging drops of rain. The corner of a red dress, caught in one of the streetcar doors, stuck wetly to the step, like a flag of the vanquished.

"Let it pour, the heavier the better," he blurted out through clenched teeth. "It's about time. The city's almost dried up, after six months or more without rain. If this dry spell had lasted much longer, the trees would have withered up and died." He sounded a bit like one of the villains in a revolutionary movie. "How is it there where you are? No rain for a long time, I suspect. I watch the TV weather reports every day to stay on top of your weather there. I was really impressed with that town of yours. I hate big cities, and if not for the kid, I'd have moved there long ago. Small towns are so quiet and cheerful. I wouldn't be surprised if people in your town live ten years longer than those in the cities."

"I'd like to visit Shen Garden," she said.

"Shen Garden?" He turned around to look at her. "Isn't Shen Garden somewhere in Zhejiang Province? Hangzhou? Or maybe Jinhua. You know, the brain's the first to go once you reach middle age. Four or five years ago, I had a terrific memory, but no more."

"I want to visit Shen Garden every time I come to Beijing. But I never get there." Her eyes flashed through the darkness, and her gaunt, pallid face lit up with spirit.

Inwardly shocked by the sight, he turned to avoid her penetrating gaze. He heard himself say hoa.r.s.ely: "Here in Beijing we've got Yuanming Gardens and the Summer Palace, but I've never heard of a Shen Garden around here."

She quickly reached down under the seat for her things, put two small plastic bags into a paper shopping bag, and stuffed it into her large plastic handbag.

"Leaving so soon? Aren't you on tonight's eight o'clock train?" Pointing to the croissants, he said casually, "You'd better eat that. You might not get any dinner on the train."

Clutching the plastic handbag to her chest, she stared at him stubbornly and said with downcast insistence: "I want to visit Shen Garden. I must go see it today."

A gust of cold, rainy wind blew in through the door. He shuddered, rubbing his arms.

"As far as I know, there's no Shen Garden in Beijing. Oh, now I've got it!" he said excitedly. "It's clear now. Shen Garden is way down south in Shaoxing, in Zhejiang Province. I went there once, more than ten years ago. It's not far from the birthplace of Lu Xun. There's a famous carved dialogue between the separated poets Lu You and Tang Wan of the Southern Song dynasty. It goes like this: 'Pink creamy hands,' Yellow-labeled wine/Spring colors filling the city/Willows by the palace walls.' If you want the truth, it's a rundown, sort of dreary garden, all covered with weeds. It's like the friend who went with me said, 'You'll be sorry if you miss it, and even sorrier if you see it... .'"

By this time she'd stood up and was straightening her clothes. As she smoothed her hair, she said, almost as if she were talking to herself, "This time I'm going to see Shen Garden, no matter what."

Holding up his hand to stop her, he said guardedly, "Okay, let's say Shen Garden is here in Beijing. We'd still have to wait for the rain to let up before we went, wouldn't we? And if you want to go to Shaoxing to see the real Shen Garden, we'll have to wait till tomorrow. There's only one train a day, and today's left hours ago. Airplanes won't fly in this weather, and besides, I don't think there are any direct flights to Shaoxing."

She stepped around his outstretched hand and, still clutching her handbag, walked out the door straight into the downpour. Quickly settling the bill with the two sharp-eyed waitresses, he started after her. Standing in the bakery doorway, he stuck his head outside; the sound of rain beating down on the sheet metal eaves threw his mind into turmoil. He strained to look through the curtain of rain running off the awning like a waterfall and spotted her plastic handbag over her head as she dashed across the street. Taxis speeding past through the puddling rain soaked her skirt, which accentuated the outline of her bony figure. From where he stood under the awning, looking down the street he could see the gray apartment building where he lived and, it seemed, a kaleidoscopic flow of rain coursing down the newly installed sea-blue balcony windows. He even thought he could detect the rich fragrance of brewed tea and the sweet voice of his daughter calling out: "Come here, Papa!"

She stood across from him in the rain, trying to hail a taxi or any car that would stop for her. The blurry outline of her face brought to mind a cold, rainy day nearly twenty years before, when snowflakes swirled in the air: he stood outside the window of her dormitory, looking in at her as she sat in a chair, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, a faint smile on her lovely face as she happily played an accordion. There were times after that when he wanted to tell her about that night, when he'd nearly frozen to death, but he always suppressed the impulse to show his emotions. The young woman playing her accordion seemed to come alive again in the pouring rain, reigniting the remnants of pa.s.sion deep in his heart.

He rushed out into the rain and across the street to her. In a matter of seconds, he was as drenched as she was, and just as cold. The freezing rain, now mixed with tiny hailstones, felt as if it were boring right through him. Taking her by the arm, he tried to move her over next to one of the commercial buildings, out of the rain, but she resisted, and he gave up trying. His back felt as if it were being p.r.i.c.ked by tiny barbs, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw people under the overhangs casting furtive glances his way. Some of those faces looked familiar. But by then he knew he was stuck. If he let her walk off, his conscience would bother him from that day on.

Finally he managed to drag her over to a roadside telephone booth, where at least the upper halves of their bodies were protected from the rain by a pair of semicircular shades. He said: "I know of a quaint little Taiwanese teashop in that lane up ahead. Let's go get a nice cup of hot tea and wait for the rain to let up. Then I'll take you to the train station."

The upper half of her body was all but swallowed up by the semicircular shade, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. About all he could see was the dark skirt clinging to her legs to reveal her unattractive, protruding kneecaps. She didn't make a sound, as if his suggestion had fallen on deaf ears. Fewer and fewer cars pa.s.sed up and down the street, but she kept hailing them, taxis and non-taxis alike, trying to get one of them to stop.

After the rain died down a bit, they finally managed to flag down a red Xiali taxi. He opened the door and let her in first. Then he climbed in and closed the door. "Where to?" the cabbie asked impa.s.sively.

"Shen Garden!" she said before he could answer.

"Shen Garden?" the cabbie replied. "Where's that?"

"Forget Shen Garden," he blurted out. "Take us to Yuan-ming Gardens."

"No, Shen Garden!" she said in a flat but insistent voice.

"Where is Shen Garden?" the cabbie asked again.

"I said, forget Shen Garden," he repeated. "Take us to Yuanming Gardens."

"Would you make up your minds?" the cabbie said impatiently.

"I told you we want to go to Yuanming Gardens, so take us there." He was beginning to sound shrill.

The cabbie turned back to look at him. He nodded to the gloomy driver. Three times she repeated her desire to go to Shen Garden, but the driver sped down the wide-open street without a response, sending water spraying to both sides. A strange sense of tragic solemnity overcame him as he sat there. Sneaking a look at her, he saw what looked like a pouting smile on her lips. He also noticed that her hand was shaking as she gripped the door handle, as if she were trying to make up her mind to do something rash. He held her right hand tightly to keep her from opening the door and jumping out of the taxi. The hand was cold and clammy, like a dead fish. But it didn't seem as if she wanted to pull it back, since it didn't even twitch. He held it tight, anyway.

The taxi turned onto a narrow street cluttered on both sides with light-colored trash, with the occasional glint of green watermelon rind. Colorful sheets of flypaper draped in front of roadside diners fluttered in the wind and rain. Coa.r.s.e, dirty women in revealing blouses leaned against doorways, cigarettes dangling from their mouths beneath bored expressions. The sight took his thoughts vaguely back to the town where she lived. "Driver," he said anxiously, "where are we?"

The driver didn't reply. The interior of the taxi was steaming up; the sound of the winds.h.i.+eld wipers snapping back and forth was unnerving.

"Where are you taking us?" He was nearly shouting.

"Take it easy!" the driver shot back angrily. "You said you wanted to go to Yuanming Gardens, didn't you?"

"Why are you taking us this way?"

"Which way would you like me to take you?" the driver asked coldly as he slowed down. "Come on, tell me, which way do you want to go?"

"How should I know? But this way seems wrong." Then, softening his tone of voice, he said, "You're the driver, you know the way better than I do."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," the driver replied scornfully. "This is a shortcut. It'll shorten the trip by at least three kilometers."

"Thank you," he said.

"I was going to knock off for the day to go home and get some sleep," the driver said. "Who in his right mind would be out in weather like this? I just felt sorry for you folks... ."

"Thank you," he repeated. "Thank you."

"I'm not out to cheat you," the driver said. "Just give me an extra ten yuan. It was your good luck to run into an honest man like me. Now if... if you think you're paying too much, get out now and you don't owe me a cent."

As he looked out the window at the gray sky, he said: "It's only an extra ten yuan, isn't it, driver?"

The taxi sped out of the small street and turned into an even more deserted dirt road with deep muddy puddles. The car raced madly along, splas.h.i.+ng water on the roadside trees. The driver was cursing under his breath, either at the road or at the people, hard to tell. Meanwhile, he sat there biting his tongue, his mind filled with ominous premonitions.

The taxi forged its way off the dirt road and onto a gleaming asphalt street. With one last curse, the driver swerved around another corner and screeched to a halt in front of an open gate.

"Is this it?" he asked.

"It's a side entrance. The Western Garden is down the way a bit," the driver said. "I could tell that's what you two wanted to see." He looked down at the meter, added ten yuan to the amount, and handed it through a hole in the wire divider.

"I can't give you a receipt," the driver said.

He ignored him as he opened the door and got out. Then he held the door for her, but she climbed out the other side.

The cabbie turned his car around and drove off. He cursed softly to himself, but once the curse was out, instead of harboring ill thoughts toward the driver, he actually felt grateful to him.

It was still raining. Leaves shone on the roadside trees, clean and incredibly appealing. She stood there in the rain, her face pale as she gazed blankly off into the distance. Taking her by the arm, he said: "Let's go, dear. Here's your Shen Garden."

Submissively, she let him lead her through the gate into the garden, where peddlers manning stalls along the way shouted out invitingly: "Umbrellas, umbrellas here. Beautiful, st.u.r.dy umbrellas . .

He walked up to one of the stalls and bought two umbrellas, a red one and a black one. Then he walked up to the ticket counter, where he bought a pair of admission tickets. The ticket seller had a large, doughy white face. Her penciled eyebrows looked like two thick green worms.

"What time do you close?" he asked her.

"We never close," doughface replied.

Holding their umbrellas over their heads, they walked into Yuanming Gardens, he in front holding the black umbrella, she following with the red one. The rain beat a steady tattoo on the plastic skins. Cl.u.s.ters or pairs of people pa.s.sed by in front of them. Some were strolling casually, gaudy umbrellas in hand, while those without umbrellas were scurrying along in the downpour.

"I thought we'd be the only miserable souls...." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. So he quickly changed directions. "But this is special. If it weren't raining so hard, the place would be packed. It always is."

He felt like saying, "Today Yuanming Gardens belong to just you and me." But he caught himself just in time. Together they strolled along the winding path, which glistened like gla.s.s. Half-grown lotus leaves and cattails floated on top of the pond off to one side, where frogs leaped along the water's edge.

"Wow, isn't that something!" he shouted excitedly. "Now if only there were a water buffalo grazing by the pond and a flock of white geese gliding on the surface, it would be perfect." Lovingly, he looked at her pale face and said, his voice filled with emotion, "You always sense what's best. If not for you, I'd never have had a chance to see Yuanming Gardens like this."

With a heavy sigh, she said: "This isn't my Shen Garden."

"You're wrong, this is your Shen Garden." He felt like a stage performer. In a tone of voice pregnant with meaning, he added, "Of course, it's my Shen Garden too. It's our Shen Garden."

"How can you have a Shen Garden?" The sudden sharpness in her eyes made him feel as if he had no place to hide. She shook her head. "Shen Garden is mine, it's mine. Don't you dare try to take it away from me!"

The excitement of a moment before turned to ashes; the scenery around him lost its appeal.

"You're squas.h.i.+ng them!" she shrieked in alarm.

Instinctively, he jumped to the side of the path, as she cried out even more shrilly, "You're squas.h.i.+ng them!"

When he looked down, he saw an army of tiny jumping frogs. No bigger than soybeans, they were fully formed, little pocket-sized amphibians. Countless numbers of the little things lay squashed on the path, forming perfect outlines of his footprints. She squatted down and moved the little carca.s.ses around with her finger, which was nearly bloodless, with a gray fingernail and an acc.u.mulation of dirt. Feelings of disgust, like dregs of filth, welled up from the bottom of his heart.

"Little miss," he said mockingly, "I didn't squash any more than you did. That's right, you didn't squash any fewer than I did. Sure, my feet may be bigger than yours, but you take more steps, so you squashed at least as many as I did."