Little Aunt Crane Page 5

  ‘She’s run off, I’m sure of it! Your mother and father have been feeding good tea and good rice to a she-wolf – and now she’s sleek and glossy she’s headed for the hills.’

  Erhai sat up with a grunt. He ignored Xiaohuan’s stream of sarcastic remarks, about how greedy he was for that Jap woman, and how it seemed that little slip of a girl could still whet a man’s appetite.

  Erhai hastily flung on padded trousers and jacket, asking: ‘Have you said anything to my father?’

  She kept up her tirade: seven silver dollars, and you got to sleep with her dozens of times – you got yourself a damn good deal there, and no mistake. There are several unlicensed drinking holes in town where a whore and a bed for the night would set you back dozens of silver dollars!

  Erhai glared at her. ‘You shut your mouth. What’ll we do if she freezes to death in this snowy weather?’

  He left the room. Xiaohuan yelled at his retreating back: ‘What’s your hurry? Mind your step, don’t trip yourself up and bash your teeth out, you wouldn’t want to whistle when you kissed her, would you now?’

  Erhai’s mother looked over their belongings, and found that the Japanese woman had taken nothing with her but a few corn cakes. She was wearing the clothes she had worn in the sack. They could all remember how carefully she had washed and scrubbed her Japanese trousers and shirt, ironed them flat with the iron teapot and folded them neatly; she had been preparing luggage for her escape. Her thoughts of escape must have survived all through that long winter, despite the thick blanket of snow that had covered them.

  Stationmaster Zhang said: ‘So this Jap woman doesn’t even appreciate our Chinese clothes? She’ll freeze to death, you wait and see!’

  Erhai’s mother stared into space, clutching the red padded jacket with the blue flowers. They had lived together for half a year, she had treated her almost like her son’s wife; how could she have kept her all this time without getting any loyalty in return? Two pairs of new cotton socks that had been Xiaohuan’s had been laid out on top of the jacket; the woman had no gratitude at all. Stationmaster Zhang put on his hat, ready to go out the door. Erhai hurriedly jammed his own hat on his head and shoved his feet into his shoes, ignoring Xiaohuan, who was leaning against the door frame, enjoying a leisurely smoke, a wicked smile on her face, as if watching a good play. When Erhai barged his way past her, she deliberately staggered to one side in an exaggerated fashion, so she looked like she was dodging a large farm animal that had burst out of its pen.

  Stationmaster Zhang and Erhai followed her footprints as far as the entrance to the village, where they merged with the tracks of horse and mule carts. Father and son tucked their hands in their sleeves, not knowing where to look next. Finally they agreed to split up and search. Erhai’s heart was bursting with rage, which soon turned to resentment towards his parents: they had everything they needed in life already, so why did they have to go looking for trouble? How much of the family’s precious resources had they spent on a half-dead Japanese woman? How many times had the family quarrelled over her? There was not so much as the shadow of a child to show for it, and he, Erhai, was in for a lifetime’s worth of reproaches: Zhu Xiaohuan would have the moral advantage for the rest of her days.

  He and the Japanese woman were absolute strangers to each other. The start of marital relations had done nothing to dispel this strangeness. The first time he came to her bed he had heard her crying. To begin with he thought that this was something he had to do for the sake of his parents, but once she started crying he became fierce and cruel in his turn. What was she crying for? Anyone would think he was the one bullying her. Here he was, doing his best to be considerate, and for what? He went at it softly and gently, yet she was acting all wronged, as if she was enduring his bestial behaviour. And so he might as well show her a bit of bestial behaviour. He finished very fast, while she sobbed softly. With an effort, he restrained himself from grabbing her by her hair, which was just starting to grow back, and asking her exactly how she thought she’d been wronged.

  The next few times he found her lying like a corpse, neatly attired, chin up, toes pointing to the ceiling, as if she really had died. He had to take off her clothes for her. As he was stripping her, it suddenly dawned on him that his actions towards her were disgusting, despicable. She wanted him to be despicable. She had laid herself out so neatly, lying there like a dead thing, making him feel lower than a beast as he peeled off her clothes, as if he was raping a corpse. Mad with rage, he thought: Fine then, I’ll be lower than a beast. Her father and elder brothers had been like beasts to Chinese women, this was no different.

  There was just one exception. One night he had used up all his strength violating her; his first thought had been to roll off her body and jump straight down from the kang, but he suddenly felt the need to take a breather, to catch his breath. He felt one of her hands come up to rest on his back, stroking gently, a soft, timid hand. He thought of the first time he saw her, of that pair of childish hands with their short fingers. Yet more strength drained out of him.

  By now Erhai had reached the gate of the Anping town primary school. It was still early, and the playground was empty. Without any hope of a result he enquired of the caretaker whether he had seen a Japanese girl pass this way.

  The caretaker said he did not know whether it was a Japanese girl or not, but he’d seen a young person with a head like a feather duster walking away from the village. Wearing clothes with a collar like a monk’s? Yes, just that kind of collar. Cut-off trousers? Yes.

  Erhai returned home at dusk. Stationmaster Zhang had paid a visit to the Security Corps, to find out where the other dozen Japanese women had ended up. Two had been sold to neighbouring villages, and Stationmaster Zhang had gone there to make enquiries. He learned that both Japanese women had ended up living with poor bachelors, but for better or worse they had stayed, and both had a child on the way. It appeared that they could not have had any contact with the Zhang family’s escapee.

  In the following days, Erhai and Stationmaster Zhang visited several of the more distant villages, but with no result. On the evening of the sixth day, Xiaohuan came back from visiting a female friend in town, and saw a black shadow standing at the gate. She went up to her, grabbed her by her shirt and stormed into the yard, shouting at the top of her voice: ‘She’s back, she’s back! Food’s hard to come by outside, now she’s starved off her fat she’s come back to us for something to feed on!’

  The little Japanese woman could not understand what Xiaohuan was saying, but her voice was as noisy as the celebrations at New Year. She stopped resisting and allowed Xiaohuan to drag her all the way to the main room.

  Erhai’s mother was sitting by herself, fiddling with mah-jong tiles and smoking, but when she heard Xiaohuan kicking up a fuss she put on her socks and jumped down from the kang. She walked up to the girl, but when she saw how thin she had become, the hand she had raised to slap her fell back down by her side.

  ‘Xiaohuan, go to the station, tell your father, tell him to come home right now!’ Erhai’s mother ordered her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Stay right where you are, don’t you dare come in! You know you’ve done something shameful, don’t you?’ Xiaohuan said to the little Japanese woman.

  At that moment Erhai came over from the west room. His mother said quickly: ‘Come on, that’s enough, if she’s going to be scolded or beaten, that’s for your father to decide.’

  At supper time Stationmaster Zhang came back. He took out a piece of paper, and said to Erhai: ‘Now then, write: Why did you run off? Those Japs all know our writing.’

  Erhai did as he was told. The Japanese woman glanced briefly at the characters on the paper, but she did not move, save to lower her eyelids.

  ‘She probably doesn’t understand,’ Erhai said.

  ‘She certainly does understand …’ said Stationmaster Zhang, his eyes fixed on her face beneath its thatch of hair.

  ‘Don’t ask. Do you need to ask? She must
be missing her own mother and father,’ said Erhai’s mother. She picked up a big chunk of fat meat in her chopsticks and put it in the Japanese woman’s bowl, then her chopsticks moved without a pause to a larger piece, which she deposited in Xiaohuan’s bowl. It was like she was toying with an invisible pair of scales, with one of Erhai’s two women on each side.

  Stationmaster Zhang said: ‘Erhai, this time write: Why did you come back?’

  Erhai wrote down his father’s question, a stroke at a time.

  When the Japanese woman had finished reading, she remained motionless, eyelids lowered.

  Xiaohuan said: ‘I’ll say it for her: I was starving, the corn cakes I’d stolen are all gone, so I came back. Have you made any more corn cakes? Make me some more, this time I want to take them off to Harbin, munching all the way.’

  As soon as Xiaohuan spoke, the Japanese woman lifted up her head and looked at her. She had a pair of very attractive, very bright eyes. When she looked at Xiaohuan it seemed like she understood her well, and more than that, like she actually admired her a great deal. Xiaohuan’s mouth had never stood still from the day she first saw her; when bringing her a headscarf, she would say: ‘Not as good as the headscarves you Jap devils use, right? You’ll just have to make do, won’t you? Would I have given up a good one for you?’ If she gave her a pair of padded shoes, she would scold: ‘There you go, a free pair of shoes, they’re old but you can make do, don’t turn up your nose at them. If you want to wear new ones, make ’em yourself.’ Each time, the Japanese woman’s eyes would brighten; she would watch her venting her spleen with verve and enthusiasm – and then she would bow from the waist, thanking her for her gift.

  No one managed to get anything at all out of the Japanese woman that evening. The following day at supper time, she respectfully laid a sheet of paper on the table in front of the family. On it was written: ‘Takeuchi Tatsuru, 16. Parents, elder brother, younger brother, younger sister, all dead. Tatsuru pregnant.’

  Everyone was stunned. Erhai’s mother, who could not read, jabbed Stationmaster Zhang with her elbow, but he did not say a word. She nudged him again, with increasing impatience.

  Xiaohuan said: ‘Ma, she’s got a bun in the oven. That’s why she came back.’

  ‘… Is it our Erhai’s?’ she asked.

  ‘How can you say such things?’ Erhai retorted angrily at his mother.

  ‘Erhai, ask her, how many months?’ His mother was afire with impatience.

  ‘She must only just have got pregnant,’ Stationmaster Zhang said. ‘She ran off, realised she was having a baby and came straight back.’

  ‘I’ve not seen her feeling sick, or throwing up, or anything like that …’ said Erhai’s mother, not daring to believe it.

  ‘She must have known deep down,’ Stationmaster Zhang said.

  Xiaohuan glanced at Erhai. She knew how soft-hearted he was, and how troubled he would be at the words ‘Parents, elder brother, younger brother, younger sister, all dead’. The little Jap woman called Zhunei Duohefn1 was an orphan, and only sixteen years old, no more than a girl.

  ‘Quick, child, have something to eat.’ Erhai’s mother rubbed a bit of bean sauce on a steamed sorghum bun, added a strip of snow-white onion, and crammed them into Duohe’s hands. ‘You have to keep eating when you’re carrying a child, whether you feel like it or not!’

  The family picked up their chopsticks, one after another. None of them felt like talking, though all of them wanted to say: ‘And we have no idea how her family died.’

  That evening, Xiaohuan and Erhai felt that a burden had been lifted from their shoulders. Now that there was a child on the way, Erhai did not have to go to the Japanese woman’s room any more. That night Erhai took Xiaohuan in his arms. Xiaohuan struggled unconvincingly, swatting him away and protesting half-heartedly, saying that the Jap woman might have whetted his appetite, but she, Zhu Xiaohuan, was the one who could satisfy his hunger.

  Erhai stayed awake long after Xiaohuan was asleep. He was thinking that ‘Duohe’ was a peculiar name, but it looked nice written down. Maybe in future the name would trip more easily from his tongue. He turned over. The moon shone down, casting a patch of white onto the window. He thought to himself that once this Japanese woman had given birth to his child, it would be easier to get to know her better.

  The child was born at midnight in the first month of the new year. It was a girl, and a very easy delivery; they had hired a midwife from the county hospital who knew a little Japanese. Employing someone from the hospital was a calculated move on Stationmaster Zhang’s part: he did not want the locals to know exactly whose belly the child had come from. As soon as Duohe’s pregnancy started to show, she hid herself at home and did not leave the courtyard. Xiaohuan went back to her parents’ to stay for four or five months, and did not come back until the child was a full month old. When people next saw Xiaohuan, she was swaggering through the streets with a baby in her arms, wrapped up in a pink cloak. When asked where she had got the baby she would reply: Do you need to ask? I picked her up this morning when I was out collecting dung! Or else she would say: I dug her up while searching for ginseng! If they said the child was pretty, then she’d respond: You’re dead right there, looks like the ugly mother’s turned out a pretty girl. If someone were to say unkindly: Xiaohuan, how come the little girl doesn’t look like you? she’d reply: How could she look like me? If she took after me the matchmaker would be eating her heart out with worry, wouldn’t she? How many idiots like Zhang Erhai are there in the whole world?

  On the evening that Xiaohuan had returned to the Zhang home, she had gone straight to her room. Erhai’s mother had come tripping in with self-satisfied little footsteps, and called Xiaohuan to come quickly and see the fat month-old baby girl.

  ‘Is Erhai at her place?’ Xiaohuan asked.

  Erhai’s mother knew what her daughter-in-law meant, and had made a hasty retreat. After a while Erhai was called in.

  ‘All that effort for nothing, you’ve got yourself a girl. It’ll cost you more to raise her than you’ll ever get back from her dowry,’ Xiaohuan had said.

  Erhai had intended to take her by the hand to see the child with a heart overflowing with joy, but the words she came out with held him back at the door. He turned round and was about to leave, when Xiaohuan called out: ‘Where are you off to now?’

  He said, without a backward glance: ‘To carry on making an effort!’

  Xiaohuan dragged him back, and glared ferociously into his half-closed eyes. He just let her stare.

  Xiaohuan stared for some time, then slapped his face. But she was not really hitting him; there was an element of flirtatious enquiry, mingled with accusation and resentment. Erhai slapped her right back without a word in response. Xiaohuan understood that her husband had not fallen in love with Duohe: he had the confidence of a man who feels that right is on his side and has no intention of putting up with an undeserved slap.

  In the following days, Xiaohuan did not go to see the child. From her window she could see Duohe coming and going in the yard with rapid steps, head held very low, apparently doing nothing but carrying buckets of dirty water outside, and basins of hot water in. Duohe’s chest was very heavy, and her face was as white and soft as buttermilk. Her body language was just the same as before the baby, she was forever bowing from the waist, but Xiaohuan felt that her expressions were completely different from the way they used to be. This was a Jap woman who felt she had someone to back her up, bustling and scurrying about with small steps in her wooden shoes like a woman who was her own master, giving herself airs of importance, walking all over the Zhang family courtyard and making it her own, like it was occupied territory.

  One afternoon the sun came out, in a way you only see after rain. Xiaohuan got out of bed around ten, as was her habit, and sat on the kang smoking her first pipe of the day. From the yard came the sound of wooden shoes passing from the north room over to the boiler room. After that nothing moved for a long time. Only Du
ohe and Xiaohuan were at home, two women – two and a half if you counted the little girl of barely a month old. Xiaohuan got dressed, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and carefully combed her hair. Then she walked into the courtyard, whipped off the shawl and shook off the loose hairs and dandruff. Just at that moment she heard somebody humming a little tune in the boiler room. A Japanese tune. She moved closer to the boiler-room window and saw, rising out of clouds of snow-white steam, two balls of pink flesh, a big one and a little one. Duohe’s bathtub was in fact a Japanese Army-issue aluminium cooking pot, abandoned by the Japanese at the railway station after the surrender. The pot was deep enough, but not particularly broad, and Duohe had set a bench above the tub, so that it spanned from side to side. She sat on it, the child in her arms, and scooped out water from the tub to wash herself and the child. Holding a ladle made out of a gourd, she poured water first onto her left shoulder, and then her right. The water must have been very hot – with each ladleful, she would flinch away with a small, happy motion, a squeak would bubble up in her little song, like a little girl being tickled, and a smile would send her tune out of key. The water did not fall onto the child’s body until it had passed over hers and adjusted to her temperature, so the water did not startle the child at all. Of course the child would not be afraid; she had spent nine months bathing in a bag of warm water inside her mother’s womb. The ten o’clock sun was still in the east, and was shining through the hole left in the wall from where they had taken away the chimney at the end of winter, becoming a pillar of dazzling light that made a moon-shaped patch of brightness on the floor. The child clung to her mother’s breast, peaceful and serene. Duohe’s body was round and bulging, and it was not just her two breasts that were so full of milk they seemed about to explode: her whole body was full and round with milk, as if it might come flowing out at a touch. How many portrayals of this image of mother and child had there been over the generations? Pinched in clay, modelled in dough, fired into pottery …