Frog (12 page)

Wang Gan’s one-sided infatuation with Little Lion led to many strange occurrences that were the talk of the village. He was a laughing-stock, but I never laughed at him, for he had both my sympathy and my respect. He was, in my view, a uniquely talented individual who had been born in the wrong time and place. A devoted lover, if chance had allowed, he could have composed a sentimental love poem that would be sung for millennia. During our childhood, when we were ignorant of what romantic love was all about, Wang Gan was in the first bloom of love for Little Lion. I recall how years before he had said: Little Lion is so pretty! By any standard, she was not a pretty girl, not even attractive. My aunt had once thought of introducing her to me, and I’d declined with the excuse that she was the girl of Wang Gan’s dreams. To be perfectly honest, her looks were a turn-off. But in his eyes, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. In elegant terms, it could be a case of a lover seeing in her the classical beauty Xi Shi; less elegantly, it could be seeing a green bean through the eyes of a turtle – the size and colour make a perfect match.

After posting his first love letter to Little Lion, Wang Gan was so excited he dragged me down to the riverbank to pour out his feelings. That was in the summer of 1970, soon after our graduation from the rural middle school. Grain stalks and dead critters were being swept along by raging waters over which a solitary gull flew quietly past. Wang Renmei’s father was sitting on the riverbank fishing in the calmer water close by. Li Shou, a schoolmate younger than us, was crouched down watching him.

Want to tell Li Shou?

He’s just a kid, he wouldn’t understand.

We climbed an old willow tree halfway down the riverbank and sat side by side on a branch that reached out over the water. The tip actually broke the surface, creating a series of ripples.

What do you want to tell me?

You have to promise not to tell anyone.

Okay, I promise. If I breathe a word of what Wang Gan tells me, let me fall into the river and drown.

Today I . . . I finally dropped a letter to her in the postbox . . .

Wang Gan had turned pale and his lips quivered as he spoke.

To who? The way you’re acting, it sounds like you wrote to Chairman Mao.

Why would you say that? What does Chairman Mao have to do with me? No, I wrote to her. Her.

Who is ‘her’? I started to tense up.

You promised to never tell anyone.

I promised.

She’s as far as the ends of the earth, yet right in front of your eyes.

The suspense is killing me!

Her, she . . . A strange look came into Wang Gan’s eyes. With a tone of longing, he said, She’s my Little Lion.

Why write to her? Want to marry her or something?

You and your practical view of things! Wang Gan said emotionally. Little Lion, my dearest Little Lion, the one I want to love with all my youth, with my very life . . . my love, my true love, please forgive me, for I have already kissed your name a hundred times . . .

Cold chills and goose bumps were my only reaction. Wang Gan was obviously reciting his letter as he wrapped his arms around the trunk, face pressed tightly against the bark of the tree, tears in his eyes.

. . . I fell under your spell the first day I saw you at Xiaopao’s house. From that moment till this very day, till the end of time, this heart of mine belongs to you only, and if you wished to eat it, I would unhesitatingly dig it out for you . . . I’ve fallen in love with your bright pink face, your lively nose, your soft lips, your fluffy hair, and your sparkling eyes; I’ve fallen in love with your voice, your smell, and your smile. Your laughter makes me dizzy, makes me want to fall to my knees, wrap my arms around your legs, and gaze up at your smiling face . . .

Fisherman Wang jerked his pole backward; beads of water dripped from the flashing brightness of his line, glistening like pearls in the sunlight. At the end of his hook a soft-shelled beige turtle the size of a tea bowl crashed to the ground, and was probably dizzy from the fall, lying on the ground looking skyward, its white underbelly exposed, four legs pawing the air, sad but awfully cute.

A turtle! Li Shou shouted gleefully.

Little Lion, my dearest, I am lowborn, the son of a farmer, while you are a doctor whose table is graced with top quality food. There’s a chasm between our social standings, and you may not care to even take notice of me. After you finish my letter, only laughter will emerge from your lovely mouth before you tear it to shreds. Or maybe when it reaches you, you will toss it into a wastepaper basket unread. Nevertheless, I want to say to you, my dear, my dearest one, if you will accept my love, like a tiger with wings or a fine steed with a carved saddle, I will acquire unprecedented power and, as if boosted by an injection of blood from a young rooster, my spirit will be invigorated. There will be bread and milk; with your encouragement, I will improve my social status to stand with you as someone who, like you, subsists on marketable grains . . .

Hey, what are you two doing up there, reciting passages from novels? Li Shou shouted when he spotted us up in the tree.

. . . If you won’t accept me, my dear, I’ll not retreat, not give up, but will quietly follow you, trail you wherever you go, going down on my knees to kiss your footprints, I will stand outside your window to gaze at the lamplight inside, from first light to last – I want to turn into a candle and burn for you until there is nothing left of me. My dear, if I spit up blood and expire, I will be content if you favour me by coming to my gravesite for a brief look. If you can shed a tear for me, I will die with no regrets – your tears, my dear, a magic elixir that will bring me back from the dead . . .

The goose bumps on my arms were gone, and I was starting to be moved by his recitation of infatuation. I’d never dreamed he could fall for Little Lion and fall
that
hard, or that he had the literary talent to write such a plaintive letter. At that moment I felt that the doorway to adolescence was rumbling open for me, and that Wang Gan was leading the way. I knew nothing about love, but its splendour would draw me dashing recklessly towards it, like a moth to the flame.

The way you love her, I said, she has to love you back.

Do you think so? He gripped my hand, his eyes blazing. Will she really love me?

She will, absolutely. I gripped his hand back. If it doesn’t happen, I’ll ask my aunt to act as matchmaker. Little Lion will do anything she says.

No, he said, no, no, no. I don’t want to rely on anyone else. A melon won’t be sweet if you yank it off the vine. I want to win her heart with my own effort.

Li Shou looked up. What goofy stuff are you guys up to? he asked.

Fisherman Wang grabbed a handful of mud and threw it at us. You’re scaring the fish with all that jabbering.

A motorised red and blue boat chugged towards us from downstream, the sound of its engine instilling in us a hard-to-describe sense of anxiety, panic even. The boat was straining against the rapid flow, its bow throwing up whitecaps and ploughing thin ridges right and left that filled back in little by little. A layer of blue mist floated atop the surface of the river, the smell of diesel fuel spread to our lips. A dozen seagulls glided along behind the boat.

The boat belonged to the commune’s family-planning group, that is, Gugu’s boat. Little Lion was aboard, of course. County officials had assigned the boat to Gugu to aid her in keeping residents from exceeding the family-planning quotas through illegal pregnancies and other unanticipated problems, and to keep the bright family-planning banner flying even when passage across the swamped stone bridge was interrupted during flood season. The small cabin had a pair of faux leather seats; a twelve-horsepower diesel motor was attached to the stern and loudspeakers were mounted on the bow to broadcast a lilting popular Hunan song, a paean to Chairman Mao that was soft on the ear. The bow turned towards our village and the music ended. A brief moment of silence intensified the motor noise. Then: The Great Chairman Mao has instructed us, Gugu announced hoarsely, that humanity must proceed with planned population growth . . .

Wang Gan went silent at the moment Gugu’s boat hove into view. I saw that he was shaking, that his mouth hung open, that his moist eyes were fixed on the boat. As it passed by us it listed to one side, drawing a cry of alarm from Wang Gan. He tensed, and it seemed to me he might jump into the river. Farther up in the slow current, the boat turned and sped lightly towards us, the sound of its motor settling into a rhythmic hum. Gugu had arrived. So had Little Lion.

The boat was piloted by a familiar figure – Qin He. In the latter days of the Cultural Revolution, his older brother had been restored to the post of commune Party secretary, while he had been reduced to begging in the marketplace; no matter how civilised his begging methods were, he was as an embarrassment to his brother. We’d heard that he had asked his brother to assign him to work in the obstetrics ward at the commune health centre – You’re a man, how can you work in an obstetrics ward? – There are lots of men in obstetrics wards – You have no medical skills – What do I need those for? – and so Qin He was made pilot of the family-planning boat. In the weeks and months that followed, he hardly ever left Gugu’s side. On days when a boat was required, he went out onto the river; on other days he sat idly in the cabin.

His hair was parted down the middle, like the young men in movies set in the May Fourth period, and even in the dog days of summer he wore his blue gabardine student uniform, still with two pens in the breast pocket: a fountain pen and a two-colour ballpoint pen. His face seemed darker than the last time I’d seen him. He manoeuvred the boat slowly towards the riverbank, up near the twisted old willow. The motor slowed, ramping up the loudspeaker volume, making our ears ring. The commune had built a temporary pier west of the willow tree for the exclusive use of the family-planning boat. Crossbars had been fixed with wire to four thick posts in the water and overlaid by planks. After securing the boat to the pier, Qin He stood at the prow. The motor shut down and the loudspeakers went silent, reintroducing us to the splash of the river and the cries of gulls.

Gugu was first out of the cabin. The boat rocked, so did she. Qin He reached out to give her a hand but she pushed it away. She jumped onto the pier; though now on the heavy side, she was nimble as always. A bandage on her forehead emitted a harsh light.

Little Lion was next. Short and squat to begin with, she was dwarfed by the oversized medicine kit on her back. Though much younger than Gugu, her movements were clumsier. It was she who caused Wang Gan to wrap his arms tightly around the branch, his face pale, his eyes filling with tears.

Huang Qiuya was the third person to emerge. In the years since I’d last seen her, she’d become noticeably stooped; her head was thrust forward, her legs were no longer straight, and her movements were laboured. She rocked with the motion of the boat, arms in rapid motion to keep from losing her balance. All that kept her from crossing to the pier were legs that seemed incapable of leaving the boat. Qin He watched her impassively. No helping hand was offered. So she leaned forward and reached out to embrace the structure with both hands, like an orangutan, but stopped when Gugu said gruffly, Old Huang, why don’t you stay aboard? Without even turning her head, she continued, Watch her carefully. Don’t let her run off.

Gugu’s order was directed at both Qin He and Huang Qiuya, since Qin immediately bent down to look inside the cabin. The sound of a woman’s sobs soon emerged.

Once ashore, Gugu strode quickly along the riverbank heading east, Little Lion trotting to keep up with her. Blood had stained the bandage on Gugu’s forehead. Her face was set, her gaze intense, her expression unrelentingly firm, almost menacing. Naturally, Wang Gan was not looking at Gugu; no, his gaze followed Little Lion. He was muttering something under his breath. I sort of felt sorry for him, but more than that I was moved. I could not understand how a man might lose his head over a woman.

We later learned that Gugu’s injury had come as a result of being clubbed by a man who’s wife was pregnant with their fourth child in Dongfeng Village, the birthplace of many bandits in the pre–Liberation era. The man, Zhang Quan, who had bovine eyes and a solid family background, was feared by all the men in the village. Every woman of child-bearing age in Dongfeng Village who had given birth twice had had their tubes tied off if one of them had been a son. If they’d had only girls, Gugu said she’d taken village customs into consideration, and chosen not to force the women to have their tubes tied; however, they were required to insert IUDs. After a third pregnancy, even if they were all girls, the tubes had to be tied. Zhang Quan’s wife was the only woman in any of the more than fifty commune villages who had neither had her tubes tied nor used an IUD, and she was pregnant again. Gugu’s boat had travelled to Dongfeng Village during a downpour expressly to get Zhang Quan’s wife to go to the health centre for an abortion. While Gugu was on her way, Party Secretary Qin Shan phoned the branch secretary of Dongfeng Village, Zhang Jinya, ordering him to take all steps and use any force necessary to deliver Zhang Quan’s wife to the health centre. When Gugu reached the village, Zhang Quan was standing guard at his gate with a spiked club; eyes red, he was shouting almost insanely. Zhang Jinya and a team of armed militiamen were watching from a distance, not daring to get close. Zhang’s three daughters were kneeling in the doorway, noses running, tears flowing, as they cried out in what seemed to be practised unison: Merciful elders and uncles, mothers and aunts, brothers and sisters, spare our mother . . . she has a rheumatic heart. If she has an abortion she will die for sure – if she dies, we will be orphans.

Gugu said that the effects of Zhang Quan’s sympathy-seeking ruse were excellent – many of the women watching were in tears. Of course, some were resentful. As women with two children and IUDs, or three without a son, had had their tubes tied, they had no sympathy for Zhang Quan’s wife. A bowl of water must be carried level, Gugu said, and if we let Zhang Quan’s wife have a fourth child, those women would skin me alive. If Zhang Quan prevailed, the red flag would be lowered, but that would be nothing compared to a halting in the progress of family planning. So I gave the signal, Gugu said, and walked up to Zhang Quan with Little Lion and Huang Qiuya. Smart, courageous, loyal Little Lion, moved in front of me in case Zhang used his club. I pulled her back behind me. The petty bourgeois intellectual, Huang Qiuya, was fine for a bit of technical help, but when push came to shove, she was so scared she nearly fell apart. Gugu strode straight up to Zhang. The language he used on me, she said, was worse than you could imagine, and if I repeated it, the words would dirty your ears and my mouth. But my heart was hard as steel then, and my personal safety was not a concern. Go ahead, Zhang Quan, call me any insulting thing you want – whore, bitch, murderous devil – I don’t care. But your wife is going with me. Going where? To the health centre.