Big Breasts and Wide Hips (52 page)

At her urging, the people got to their feet and continued on their way.

Mother wrapped the pills in a bandanna and tucked them away in her pocket. Then she draped the strap around her neck and picked up the handles of the cart. “Come on, kids, let's go.”

The evacuation procession lengthened until we couldn't see either end, front or back. We walked until we reached Wang Family Mound, but there was no hot water there, nor any oil, and certainly no salted vegetables or scallions. The donkey company had left by the time we reached the village; the ground was littered with patches of straw and donkey droppings. People lit bonfires to cook dry food, while some of the boys dug up wild garlic with spiked tree branches. As we were leaving Wang Family Mound, we saw the mute and a dozen or so of his production team members coming toward us to reenter the village. Instead of dismounting, he took two half-cooked sweet potatoes and a red-skinned turnip out from under his shirt and tossed them into one of the baskets on our cart. It nearly cracked open the head of Little Mute. I took special note of the grin he flashed at First Sister. He looked like a snarling wolf or a tiger.

When the sun fell behind the mountain, we dragged our lengthening shadows into a bustling little village, where dense white smoke poured out of every chimney. Exhausted citizens lay strewn all over the streets, like scattered logs. A group of spirited officials in gray were hopping up and down amid the local villagers. At the head of the village, people crowded around the well to fetch water. The crowd was made even denser by the addition of livestock; the taste of fresh water roused the villagers. My goat snorted loudly. Laidi, carrying a large bowl — apparently a rare ceramic treasure — tried to jostle her way up to the well, but was pushed back time and again. An old cook who worked for the county government recognized us and brought us a bucket of water. Zaohua and Laidi rushed over, got down on all fours, and banged heads as they began lapping up the water. “Children first!” Mother scolded Laidi, who paused just long enough for Zaohua to bury her face in the bucket. She lapped up the water like a thirsty calf, the only difference being that she held the sides with her filthy hands. “That's enough. You'll get a bellyache if you drink too much,” Mother said as she pulled her away from the bucket. Zaohua licked her lips to get every last drop, as her moistened insides began to rumble. After drinking her fill, First Sister stood up; her belly stuck way out. Mother scooped up some water for Big Mute and Little Mute. Eighth Sister sniffed the air and made her way over to the bucket, where she knelt down and buried her face in the water. “Want to drink a little, Jin-tong?” Mother asked me. I shook my head. She scooped up another bowlful of water as I let go of the goat, which would have run over to the water long before if I hadn't wrapped my arms around its neck. The goat drank thirstily from the bucket and didn't look up once as the water sloshed down its throat and swelled its belly. The old cook showed his feelings, not with words, but with a long sigh, and when Mother thanked him, he sighed again, even louder.

“What took you so long to get here, Mother?” Pandi asked critically. Mother didn't give her the satisfaction of responding. Instead she picked up the handles of the cart and led us, goat and all, twisting and turning through the crowd, into a small courtyard ringed by a rammed-earth wall; we suffered no end of curses and complaints as we wound our way through tiny spaces amid the crowd of people. Pandi helped Mother take the little ones off the cart in order to leave the cart and goat outside the courtyard, where the donkeys and horses were tethered. There were no baskets and no hay, so the animals fed on the bark of the trees. We left the cart in the lane, but took the goat inside with us. Pandi gave me a look, but didn't say anything, since she knew that that goat was my lifeline.

Inside the house, a dark shadow swayed in the bright lamplight. A county official was bickering loudly about something. We heard Lu Liren's hoarse voice. Armed soldiers were loitering in the courtyard, nursing their sore feet. Stars twinkled in the deepening night. Pandi led us into one of the side rooms, where a weak lantern projected ghostly shadows onto the walls. An old woman, dressed in funeral clothes, lay in an open coffin. She opened her eyes when we entered. “Do me a favor, kind people, and put the lid on my coffin,” she said. “I want this space to myself.” “What's this all about, old aunty?” Mother asked her. “This is an auspicious day for me,” the old woman replied. “Do that for me, will you, kind people?” “Try to make the best of it, Mother,” Pandi said. “It's better than sleeping in the street.”

We did not sleep well that night. The bickering in the main room continued late into the night, and the moment it stopped, gunfire erupted out on the street. That disturbance was followed by a blazing fire in the village, the flames licking skyward like red silk banners, lighting up our faces and that of the old woman lying comfortably in her coffin. At sunrise she was no longer moving. Mother called out to her, but she didn't open her eyes. A check of her pulse showed that she had died. “She's a semi-immortal,” Mother said as she and First Sister placed the lid on.

The next few days were even harder on us, and by the time we reached the foot of Da'ze Mountain, Mother's and First Sister's feet were rubbed raw. Big and Little Mute had both developed coughs, while Shengli had a fever and diarrhea. Reminded of the pills Fifth Sister had given her, Mother took out one and gave it to Shengli. Poor Eighth Sister was the only one who wasn't sick. It had been two full days since we'd last seen Pandi or, for that matter, any county or district officials. We'd seen the mute once, as he carried a wounded soldier on his back, a man whose leg had been blown off, and whose blood dripped off his torn, useless pant leg. He was sobbing. “Do a good deed, Commander, finish me off, the pain's killing me, oh dear Mother …”

It must have been on our fifth day on the road when we saw a tall, white, tree-covered mountain rise up out of the north. A little monastery sat on its peak. From the bank of the Flood Dragon River, behind our house, this mountain was visible on clear days; but it had always shown up dark green. Seeing it close up, its shape and clean, crisp smell made me realize how far from home we had traveled. As we walked along a broad gravel-paved road, we met a detachment of troops on horseback coming toward us; the soldiers were dressed the same as those of the 16th Regiment. It was clear, as they passed us, heading in the opposite direction, that our home had become a battlefield. Foot soldiers were the next to come down the road, followed by a detachment of donkeys pulling artillery pieces, the muzzles sporting bouquets of flowers; soldiers perched on the big guns had smug, confident airs. After the artillery detachment passed, stretcher bearers and two columns of wagon troops came down the road; the wagons were loaded with sacks of flour and rice, plus bales of hay. We hugged the roadsides timidly to let the troops pass.

Some of the foot soldiers stepped out of line with their Mausers and asked what was going on. At this point, Wang Chao, the barber, who had joined the procession with his smart-looking rubber-tired cart, ran into trouble, as one of the wooden-wheeled provisions carts broke an axle. The driver flipped the cart over, removed the axle, and examined it closely until his hands were black with grease. His son was no more than fifteen or sixteen, with sores on his face and an ulcerated mouth. He was wearing a shirt with no buttons and a belt made of hemp. “What happened, Dad?” he said. “The axle's broken, son.” Father and son took the wheel off of the axle. “Now what, Dad?” His father walked to the side of the road and wiped his greasy hands on the rough bark of a poplar tree. “Nothing we can do,” he said. Just then a one-armed soldier in a thin army uniform, rifle over his back and a dogskin cap on his head, stepped out of the line of carts ahead and ran over.

“Wang Jin!” he shouted angrily. “What are you doing out of line? What's the idea? Are you trying to make our Iron and Steel Company lose face?”

“Political Instructor,” Wang Jin said with a frown, “we broke an axle.”

“You couldn't let it happen a little earlier or a little later, could you? You had to wait till we were going into battle, didn't you? I told you to check your cart carefully before we left, didn't I?” He slapped Wang Jin angrily.

“Ouch!” Wang Jin yelped as he lowered his head; blood trickled out of his nose.

“Why did you hit my father?” the gutsy youngster asked the political instructor.

The political instructor froze. “I didn't do it intentionally,” he said. “But you're right, I shouldn't have bumped him. But if the provisions don't get there in time, I'll have you both shot.”

“We didn't break the axle on purpose,” the youngster said. “We're poor and we had to borrow this cart from my aunt.”

Wang Jin pulled some ratty cotton filling out of his sleeve and stuffed it up his bloody nose. “Political Instructor,” he muttered, “please be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” the political instructor said menacingly. “Getting provisions up to the front lines is reasonable. Not getting them there is unreasonable. I've had enough of your prattling. You're going to transport these two hundred and forty pounds of millet up to Taoguan Township if you have to lug it on your backs!”

“Political Instructor, you're always saying how we need to be practical and realistic. Two hundred and forty pounds of millet… he's just a boy … please, I beg you …”

The political instructor looked up into the sunny sky, then down at his watch, and surveyed the area. His gaze fell first on our wooden-wheeled cart, then on Wang Chao's rubber-tired cart.

Wang Chao was a bachelor, a practiced barber who had made plenty of money, some of which he spent on his favorite food, pig's head. Well fed, he had a square face, big ears, and a healthy complexion. Nothing like a farmer. In his cart he carried a box with his barber's tools and an expensive quilt wrapped with a dog's pelt. The cart was made from the wood of a scholar tree, coated with tung oil that made the wood shine. It was a good-looking, good-smelling cart. Before setting out, he'd pumped up the tires, so that the cart bounced lightly on the hard surface of the road, hardly disturbing its contents. A strong man, he was never without a flask of liquor, from which he drank regularly as he moved spryly, singing little ditties and having a grand old time. Among us refugees, he was royalty.

The political instructor's dark eyes rolled in his head as he headed over to the side of the road with a smile on his lips. “Where are you people from?” he asked pleasantly.

No one answered him. Then his glance shifted to the face of Wang Chao and his smile vanished, replaced by a look as formidable as a mountain and as forbidding as a remote monastery. “What do you do for a living?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Wang Chao's big, oily face.

Wang Chao rather stupidly looked away, tongue-tied.

“By the looks of you,” the political instructor said, “if you're not a landlord, you're a rich peasant, and if you're not a rich peasant, you're a shop owner. Whatever you are, you certainly don't make a living by the sweat of your brow. No, you're a parasite who lives by exploiting others!”

“You've got me all wrong, Commander,” Wang Chao protested. “I'm a barber, a man who makes a living with his hands. I live in two run-down rooms. I've got no land, no wife, and no kids. If I eat my fill, no one in the family goes hungry. I eat for today, and let tomorrow take care of itself. They checked my background at the district and gave me a label as an artisan, which is the same as a middle peasant, basic work.”

“Nonsense!” the one-armed man said. “As I see it, you may have a clever mouth, but a parrot can't talk its way through Tong Pass. I'm commandeering your cart!” He turned to Wang Jin and his son. “Take down the millet and load it on this cart.”

“Commander,” Wang Chao said, “this little cart cost me half a lifetime of savings. You're not supposed to appropriate poor people's possessions.”

The one-armed man replied angrily, “I gave one of my arms in the cause of victory. Just how much is one little cart worth? Our frontline troops are waiting for these provisions, and I don't want to hear any protests from you.”

“You and I are from different districts, sir,” Wang Chao said. “And different counties. So what authority do you have to commandeer my cart?”

“Who cares about county or district,” the one-armed man said. “This is support for the front lines.”

“No,” Wang Chao, “I can't let you do that.”

The one-armed man knelt down on one knee, took out a pen, and removed its cap with his teeth. Then he laid a slip of paper across his knee and scribbled something on it. “What's your name?” he asked. “And which county and district are you from?”

Wang Chao told him.

“Your county head, Lu Liren, and I are old comrades-in-arms. So here's what we'll do. After the battle's over, you give this to him, and he'll see that you get a new cart.”

Wang Chao pointed to us and said, “That's Lu Liren's mother-in-law, sir. That's his family.”

“Madam,” the one-armed man said, “you'll be my witness. Just tell him that the situation was critical, and that Guo Mofu, political instructor of the Eighth Militia Company of the Bohai District, borrowed a pushcart belonging to the villager Wang Chao, and ask him to take care of it for me.”

Then he turned back to Wang Chao. “That'll do it,” he said as he pressed the slip of paper into Wang's hand. Then he turned and said angrily to Wang Jin, “What are you standing around for? If we don't get these provisions there in time, you and your son will taste the whip, and me, Guo Mofu, I'll taste the bullet!” He turned to Wang Chao. “Unload your cart, and be quick about it!”

“What am I supposed to do, sir?” Wang Chao said.