Dream of Ding Village (30 page)

‘I came to say I’ll give her a divorce. I’ll let them be together, on one condition. You have to agree to it, and so does Ding Liang.’

‘What is it?’

‘First you have to promise.’

‘First tell me what it is.’

‘Well, I’ve thought it over, and I’m willing to give Lingling a divorce, right now, and let her marry Ding Liang. They want to make it official before they’re dead, right? Well, I can agree to that if Liang promises to write a will saying I’ll get the house and all his property when he’s dead. Once your other son leaves the village, he won’t be coming back, and his house will be empty. His house is nicer than Liang’s, anyway. You can stay in Hui’s house, so you’ll have a place to live in your old age, and Liang can leave his house and property to me.’

On one side of the path was a clump of mugwort; on the other, a deep ditch. Grandpa stood between the two, staring at his nephew, his eyes narrowed to a squint.

‘So what do you say, Uncle? If you agree, I’ll go into town tomorrow and file the divorce papers, and they can go into town the day after and apply for a marriage licence.’

Caught between a ditch and the wormwood, Grandpa continued squinting at his nephew.

‘Did you hear what I said, Uncle? You know the old saying: don’t let your fertilizer flow into a stranger’s field. Keep the wealth in the family, right? It’s better for Ding Liang to will his property to me, his own cousin, than let it go to an outsider like Song Tingting. Or worse, let the government get their hands on it.’

Ditch. Wormwood. Nephew. Grandpa caught between them, squinting.

‘When you think about it, Uncle, it makes perfect sense. What does Hui need with his stuff once he’s dead? He can’t take it with him. That’s what you should tell him. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be using it while he’s still alive. I won’t move into the house until he and Lingling are both gone. But he’s got to promise to put it in his will. Otherwise, I won’t give
Lingling a divorce, and they’ll never be able to get married. If he dies without making an honest woman of her, that’s something he’s going to take to his grave.’

In that moment, Grandpa’s vision blurred, turning what was left of the sunset – a sheet of red and gold – into a haze of blood and fog. Grass and trees, wormwood and brush, mugwort and sedge swam before his eyes, swirled around his feet and spun off into the distance. Even his nephew seemed to have receded, and was now a tiny spinning blur …

‘I’ve got to go.’ The voice sounded far away. ‘But you tell Liang about what I said, and tell him to think it over. After all, how many happy days do any of us have? You come into this world with nothing, and you leave the same way. You can’t take it with you. All you can do is enjoy it while you can. Happiness … that’s the only thing that’s real.’

With these words of wisdom, Xiaoming took his leave. He sauntered down the road and disappeared into the setting sun, leaving the wormwood and the ditch far behind him.

On the far reaches of the plain, along the western horizon, trees and villages seemed immobilized against the sunset, as static as drawings on a sheet of paper. The banks of the ancient Yellow River, now just worn-down sand dunes, were covered with patchy vegetation. Where they faced the sun, the grass grew tall, but where they lay in shadow, the surface was bare, the sandy soil encrusted like a scab over an old wound. The tops of the embankments were uniformly bald, their sand-strewn pates reflecting sunlight like gold. The thick, sweet stench of sun-baked soil and wild grass spread like molasses over the plain. At dusk, the plain was like a vast lake of salt-sweet warmth, a body of water stretching endlessly and giving off a moist, sweet stink.

A lonely goat wandered towards the village from the direction of the school, its thin bleating causing ripples in the
silence like a reed floating on the surface of a lake. A man led his cattle in single file back to the village after having taken them out to graze. Their mooing echoed through the fields, their bodies like a field of mud advancing slowly across the plain and into the dusk.

A man stood on the outskirts of the village and shouted to his neighbour working in the fields.

‘Hey there! Are you busy tomorrow?’

‘Not really. Why?’

‘My dad died, and I was hoping you could help me bury him.’

There was a moment of silence. Then the man in the fields asked: ‘When did he die?’

‘Earlier today.’

‘Have you got a coffin?’

‘Yes, Yuejin and Genzhu gave us one of the willow trees.’

‘What about the funeral clothes?’

‘My mother has had them ready for a while.’

‘All right, then. I’ll come over early tomorrow morning.’

And the plain fell silent again, as still as a lake on a windless day.

I, Ding Liang, being of sound mind and body, agree to give Ding Xiaoming all my property after Xia Lingling and I have passed away. Ding Xiaoming is to inherit the house, courtyard, trees and all the items in the house, as well as the half-acre of irrigated farmland located north of the old river path between the Zhang and Wang family fields. The main property consists of one three-room house of brick and tile, two adjacent buildings (a kitchen and a storeroom), and a courtyard with three paulownia trees and two cottonwoods, which Xia Lingling and I promise not to cut down or sell during our lifetimes. Household items and furnishings include one standing wardrobe, one long table, two wooden trunks,
one coat rack, one washstand, four red-lacquered chairs, five stools, two benches, one double bed, one single bed, two large water vats and four clay storage jars. Xia Lingling and I pledge not to sell, give away, destroy, damage or remove any of these items from the premises.

As my verbal agreement with Ding Xiaoming is not legally binding, I have written down the terms of our agreement in this letter, which should be considered my last will and testament. I entrust this document to my younger cousin Ding Xiaoming, until such time as it becomes effective after my and Lingling’s deaths. My father, Ding Shuiyang, is not to contest this will or otherwise lay claim to any of my property.

Signed: Ding Liang
On the *th day of the *th month of the year 19**

When Uncle went to Ding Xiaoming’s house to deliver the letter, his last will and testament, they met at the courtyard gate. Uncle stood outside, unwilling to set foot in an enemy courtyard; his cousin stood just inside the gate, unwilling to step outside, into unprotected territory.

‘There! Take it!’ said Uncle, flinging the letter in Xiaoming’s face.

It fluttered to the ground and Xiaoming bent down to pick it up. After he had scanned the contents, he said: ‘Cousin, you’re the one who stole my wife.’ He sounded wounded. ‘You’ve got no call to treat me like this.’

Uncle and Lingling got married. They had made it official: they were husband and wife. Now, finally, they could move into Uncle’s house.

On the day of the move, they borrowed a cart, and in two trips, managed to move everything from the threshing ground back to the village. By the time they arrived at Uncle’s house, Lingling was perspiring heavily. But there was still work to be done: there were quilts and kitchenware and furniture and boxes to be unloaded and arranged in the house. By the time they had put everything in order, Lingling was drenched in sweat. She stripped off some of her clothes and went outside to take the air. Her sweating subsided, but by evening she began to feel parched and feverish again, as if her whole body were burning up. Thinking she was coming down with a cold, Lingling took some medicine and a draught of ginger tea, but neither brought down her fever.

A fortnight later, she realized what was happening.

It wasn’t a fever, but
the
fever. Her disease was full-blown. She was dying.

She hadn’t a bit of strength left in her body. She didn’t have the energy to eat, or even to lift a bowl. One day, Uncle made her some ginger tea to help bring down her fever, but when he raised the bowl to her lips, she refused to drink it. She stared in alarm at his gaunt face and the several new spots that had appeared on his forehead.

‘When did you get those spots on your face?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’

‘Take off your clothes.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Uncle, with his usual careless grin.

‘If that’s true,’ Lingling raised her voice, ‘then take off your clothes and show me!’

As Uncle removed his shirt and loosened his trousers, Lingling saw the angry rash of red bumps that stretched around his midriff. The blisters were fierce and shiny, as if they were bursting with blood. Uncle had stopped wearing his leather belt because it chafed the rash, and had instead replaced it with a long, cloth sash threaded through the belt loops of his trousers. Lingling hadn’t noticed the sash before, because Uncle had always been careful to cover it with his shirt. Now, with the ends of the sash dangling from his waist, Uncle looked like one of those old-time peasant-farmers who tied their trousers with whatever bit of cloth they could find.

As she gazed at the rash on Uncle’s waist, Lingling’s eyes filled with tears. Then, despite her tears, she began to laugh.

‘It’s probably better this way,’ she said, chuckling. ‘That both of our fevers have flared up at the same time. Just a few days ago, I was worried that I’d die first, and you’d end up getting back together with Tingting.’

Uncle, too, began to laugh. ‘I was afraid to tell you, but my fever flared up first. The day I stopped wearing my belt, I thought, “Oh God, please let Lingling’s fever get worse, too. Don’t let me drop dead and leave her here, alive and well.”’

Uncle smiled, a wicked smile. Lingling reached out and gave him a little pinch.

‘I haven’t touched you in weeks,’ said Uncle, setting the bowl of ginger tea on the bedside table. ‘It’s been weeks since we did anything in bed. Didn’t you notice, and think my fever was getting worse?’

Lingling shook her head and smiled. After that, they had a lot to talk about.

‘Well, isn’t this great?’ said Lingling. ‘The minute we move into the house, we both get sick.’

‘If we have to die soon, at least we’ll die together.’

‘I hope I’m the first to go, so you can give me a nice funeral. But you have to promise to buy me some decent clothes. I don’t want to be buried in one of those horrible black funeral outfits. I want a dress – no, two dresses, one bright red. Ever since I was small, I’ve loved bright red. As for the other one – something plain, a lighter colour. That way, I’ll have a change of clothes in the afterlife.’

‘And I’ll buy you a pair of red high heels, the sexy kind, like the ones city girls wear.’

For a long time, Lingling was silent. She scrutinized Uncle’s face, as if she were unsure about something.

‘Forget it. It’s better if you die first. Otherwise, I’d worry too much,’ said Lingling.

‘But I’d give you a great funeral. I’ve got my dad and brother to take care of mine. But if I’m not around when you die, who’s going to make sure you get a proper burial?’

‘You say that now,’ said Lingling, with tears in her eyes, ‘but I’d still worry about you.’

‘What, don’t you trust me?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

After a few more complaints about what Uncle might do if left to his own devices, Lingling said: ‘I think it’s best if we die together.’

‘No, let’s not. If I die first, you should be free to enjoy the time you have left. And if you die first, I should be able to do the same.’

‘You’re not thinking about me, you’re thinking about yourself.’ Lingling pouted. ‘What you really mean is that
you
should be free to enjoy the time you have left.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘That’s exactly what you meant.’

They continued to argue, like two children playing at being angry, until Uncle turned around and accidentally knocked the bowl of ginger tea from the bedside table. It fell to the floor with a crack and shattered into pieces.

The fighting stopped.

Lingling and Uncle stared at the broken bowl. Both knew that breaking a bowl of medicine was a bad omen. It meant that a person was going to die soon – so taking medicine was pointless. They stared at each other in silence. The room grew still, the atmosphere oppressive. They could feel themselves beginning to sweat, like buns in a bamboo steamer, or peas boiling in a pot. Both of them had grown thin, so very gaunt and thin. Lingling’s once-voluptuous bosom seemed to have collapsed. The breasts that Uncle had adored now hung from her chest like two sacks of withered flesh. Her moist and rosy skin, which had maintained its glow despite the many rashes and spots, had turned ashen, marred with discolouration like patches of rust.

Her eyes were sunken, the hollows as large as hen’s eggs. Her cheekbones jutted out like the poles of a funeral tent. Her person was so shrunken, so diminished, that she seemed hardly a person at all. Her dry, dull hair, which hadn’t been combed in days, lay on her pillowcase like a tangle of rust, a clump of wormwood that had sprouted from the pillow. As for Uncle, he still managed to put away as much food as ever, but Lord only knows where it went. His square face had become hatchet-like, his cheekbones sharp as knife-blades. His eyes held none of their former light: the pupils had shrunken, leaving too much white.

After breaking the bowl, he stared for a long time at the ceramic shards that littered the floor.

‘Lingling, when I said I wanted you to die first, I wasn’t being selfish. I was only thinking of what’s best for you. If you don’t believe me, I’ll kill myself right now.’

‘Kill yourself how?’

‘I’ll hang myself.’

‘Go ahead, then.’ Lingling sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Her expression was calm and composed. ‘We’re both going to die soon, anyway. Go get some rope. When I see you stand on a stool and put your head in the noose, I’ll put my head in another noose and we’ll both kick the stools away at the same time. If we can’t live together, at least we can die together.’