Mountain Girl River Girl (4 page)

“Who knows,” Jin-lin chuckled, “maybe one day we can open our own business. It’s allowed now, you know. The government even encourages it, praising anyone who makes money. If we work hard, maybe we’ll both become boss women!”

Shui-lian smiled, feeling a buzz travelling through her nerves, anticipating the new life she had dreamed of for so long. It was all about to become real in a matter of hours, or, at most, days.

Shui-lian and Jin-lin chatted on amid the slurping of noodles. After they had washed and stretched out under the blankets—which smelled of sweat and mould—they whispered their hopes and dreams into the darkness. Behind the flimsy plastic partitions, they could hear other plans growing bigger and more extravagant, and the future burned brighter with every passing minute.

Chapter
Five

Pan-pan

“Everything is set to go.”

Dad’s voice at the doorway brought Pan-pan back to the present. “Leave the porridge for now, Pan-pan. Come out and take a look.”

Pan-pan shook her head to clear her thoughts. Quickly she dried her hands on her apron, took it off, and headed out of the kitchen. The image of the paper and bamboo house returned to her mind, along with the rigid, glass-eyed chickens. She wondered what other new and unexpected items awaited her.

The morning sun had risen over the first hill, and a rooster crowed in the distance. A couple more joined in half-heartedly. Nearby, her neighbour’s dog barked. In the centre of the front yard, Mom’s house now stood on the hard-packed earth, glowing in the pale sunlight. Before Pan-pan had a chance to look inside, a large black object protruding from the far side of the wobbling wall caught her eyes. Curious, she walked over to have a closer look.

“A paper car?” she burst out, frowning hard.

“Yes, a car!” her father, who had followed her over, responded cheerfully. “Wouldn’t your mother be pleased?”

Pan-pan felt her breath blocked in her throat. Then her eyes fell on something inside the vehicle. A man carved from wood! He had on a real black jacket and hat. His white-gloved hands were wired to a plastic steering wheel. And he was grinning from ear to ear.

“A hired driver,” her father gushed as if reading her mind. “What do you think?”

Pan-pan didn’t know what to make of it all. On the one hand she marvelled at the skill of the craftspeople who had created the house, the furniture, the car—even the chickens; on the other hand, she found herself resenting such an extravagant way of worshipping the dead. She had heard that in the past the government banned the practice, condemning it as superstitious, even counter-revolutionary. But lately, although many old customs had been swept away by reforms and changes, many had returned. The business of venerating the deceased hadn’t just made a comeback, it had become an industry. In her village, a silent war had broken out as neighbours competed to see who could come up with the most up-to-date items to offer to their relations who had left this world for the next. To save face, some families had gone deeply into debt. Each house had been larger and grander than the one before, filled with furniture and appliances, all made of colourful paper and sticks—objects that couldn’t be found even in the households of the living. But in Yunxi Village nobody had ever produced a paper car and a wooden driver.

“Awesome, isn’t it?”

Pan-pan turned to find Xin-Ma behind her, holding Gui-yang in her arms.

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?” Dad said. “They did an excellent job. Don’t you think so?”

From the corner of her eye, Pan-pan saw the eagerness on her father’s face. “Yes, they surely did,” she added. “But a driver? It’s a little spooky, Dad.”

“What’s the good of having a car with no driver to take your mother around in the afterworld? In Guiyang all the important people and rich folks have drivers,” Xin-Ma said in her husband’s defence. “It cost your father a lot of money. Be grateful.”

“I am.”

“You don’t look it.”

“How am I supposed to look?” Pan-pan muttered. She had been feeling tense for the last few days, like everyone else in the house. Ah-Po had warned her again before turning off the light the night before, “Remember, don’t let anything spoil the big day for your mother. The last thing your father needs is another row between you and Xin-Ma.”

Wonderful or not, she thought with irritation, by the end of the day, house, chickens, car, and driver will be burned to ashes. Yes, it cost Dad a fortune, and yes, she should feel grateful. But still … “It’s, it’s … marvellous,” she said, earning a smile from her father and Xin-Ma.

“N
AN
-
MO
-
OMI
-
DA
-
FO
. Nan-mo-omi-da-fo.” The monks’ monotonous chanting and praying, along with the clang of gongs and thump of drums went on all morning, with breaks only for snacks, which the monks gobbled up as if noisemaking were hard labour. Leaning against the kitchen door frame, Pan-pan watched them for a while. All twelve, in their black robes with strips of black cloth tightly wrapped around their ankles and little caps, sat around the square dinner table. Mom’s framed photograph had been placed in the centre, surrounded by burning red candles and smoking incense sticks projecting from bowls of sand. From time to time the monks rose sombrely, shuffled outside in single file, and tramped around Mom’s house, droning their prayer songs. Little Gui-yang tottered after them, round and round, shrieking with delight.

Shortly after lunch, as Pan-pan returned home from her family’s vegetable plot, a hoe over her shoulder and a basket of
qing-cai—
green cabbage—dangling from its end, she saw Gui-yang scampering toward her, his face bright with enthusiasm. The toddler lost his balance and fell headlong into the dirt. Pan-pan dropped her hoe, rushed over, and swept him up, cuddling him and cooing as she brushed soil from his button nose. Unconcerned, her half-brother giggled and strained to wriggle free, reaching toward the droning monks.

“Pan-pan! How many times do I have to tell you not to hold Gui-yang in your arms?” Xin-Ma appeared in front of her, a broom in her hand.

“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Pan-pan said, feeling the familiar hot flush of irritation rise to her face. Turning to pick up her hoe and basket, she cursed behind her teeth, “Why can’t I carry my own brother the way I want to?”

Half an hour later, when Pan-pan was hunkered down beside the family’s well at the back of the house rinsing the vegetables she had picked so that Ah-Po could stir-fry them with shreds of pork for the monks’ dinner, a shadow fell across the washbasin. Quietly Xin-Ma put a low stool on the ground and sat down next to Pan-pan.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“You’re his mother. You make the rules,” Pan-pan shot back, refusing to meet Xin-Ma’s eyes. “But for once I’d like to know what your problem is! Why can’t I hold my brother the way I want?”

“Lower your voice!” Xin-Ma hissed, taken aback by Pan-pan’s uncharacteristic burst of anger. “I don’t want your father or Ah-Po to hear us. I’ll explain. But now isn’t the time. I’ll tell—”

“Now!” Pan-pan said it louder. “I won’t wait.” She looked up, staring at Xin-Ma. Her eyes shone with determination.

Xin-Ma lowered her head and heaved a monumental sigh. “All right. But you must promise me that you won’t raise your voice again and won’t get angry at me. Not today at least. And you must never let your father or Ah-Po know that I’m the one who told you this.”

“Fine,” Pan-pan answered grudgingly, shaking the water off the cabbage leaves before placing them in a basket. “I promise.”

“The reason you can’t carry Gui-yang in your arms is because … I’m sorry to say this … because you have very strong body odour. From your armpits. Where I come from, people call it ‘fox stink.’ Around here I don’t know what it’s—”

“I have what?” Pan-pan screeched and, despite herself, burst out laughing. “Are you telling me that my armpits smell like a fox? Is that another dumb story you’ve picked up from your rock-smashing co-workers?” she sneered.

Then she noticed the unusual expression on her stepmother’s face. Sheepish. Almost guilty—and a look she had never seen Xin-Ma wear before. But most of all, it was Xin-Ma’s silence in the face of Pan-pan’s ridicule that spoke loud and clear. Pan-pan’s attempt at humour gave way to a crushing humiliation, and she was swamped by a sense of shame as she realized that everybody except her must have known about her flaw.

“It’s just an expression, as far as I know,” Xin-Ma lamented, breaking the brief silence, stumbling over her words. “Some also call it dog or pig stink. I guess because those are the animals they’re familiar with. I’m really sorry, Pan-pan. These are harsh words. And cruel. But you forced me to tell you.”

“But I don’t smell anything different about myself!” Pan-pan protested, a warm flush again rising to her face. Unconsciously, she clamped her arms against her ribcage. “Do you?”

“I’m afraid I do. Especially when you have your period.”

Pan-pan jumped to her feet, knocking the basket over and scattering the cabbage on the ground. “I don’t believe you. Everybody smells during the curse,” she shouted, “including you!”

“Keep your voice down,” Xin-Ma pleaded, looking up at Pan-pan, then in the direction of the house. “Listen to me. I’m not making this up. You’re different. It’s a very distinct odour. It’s not an illness if that’s what you’re worried about. How can I put it?” She bit her lower lip, blinking her eyes rapidly. “It’s … it’s something you’re born with. Some people believe it’s also highly contagious, passed from person to person by touching, sharing clothes, even by mixing laundry.”

Xin-Ma stumbled on, offering one explanation after another, but Pan-pan’s mind had gone somewhere else. Suddenly certain events started to make sense, including changes that had occurred in the past year, particularly Ah-Po’s odd behaviour, such as announcing one night shortly after Pan-pan started her period that Pan-pan should sleep on a cot by herself because she “wasn’t a girl anymore,” and constantly reminding Pan-pan that she must wash her clothes separately from everyone else’s. “Don’t ever soak your laundry with mine,” Ah-Po had admonished without explanation, leaving Pan-pan frustrated and confused.

But nothing had puzzled Pan-pan more than the night she woke up to find Ah-Po standing at the end of her cot, sniffing Pan-pan’s cotton-padded jacket. The old woman had held up the coat with her fingertips as fearfully as if a monster were hidden in the sleeves, ready to jump out and bite off her nose. A week later Ah-Po came home from the market with a strange present for Pan-pan: a tin filled with a sweet-smelling white powder. An image of a chubby baby’s face was printed on the front, and the words
Heat Rash Powder
below it.

“What’s this for?” Pan-pan had asked, giggling and turning the tin over in her hand, puzzled. “It’s not even the rainy season yet. Besides, I’m a bit old for this, aren’t I?”

“It’s not just for infants,” Ah-Po had replied defensively. “Anyone can use it. See?” She pulled open the lid. “It has such a nice smell. I heard that it’s good for young skin.” She then gave Pan-pan detailed instructions on how to clean her armpits properly: wash at least once a day with soap and a good rinse, and then dust with lots of powder. The unwelcome tin had been sitting on the window sill above the stone sink ever since.

“Why didn’t somebody tell me?” Pan-pan asked Xin-Ma. “All of you must have known that keeping this from me was like trying to hide fire inside a paper bag.” Pan-pan felt another wave of humiliation in her stomach. “Is this why the girls in the village have been acting so strange toward me? And giving all kinds of stupid excuses to stay away from me? They all know, and they’re all afraid that I’ll pass it on to them!”

Pan-pan started to cry as the weight of realization further crushed her, her tears falling onto the front of her new jacket. “That’s why I’m not allowed to hold your precious little boy! That’s why I can only carry him piggyback.” She managed a sneer as she mimicked Xin-Ma’s accent.

Xin-Ma opened her mouth, but no words came out. She shook her head and looked away. Pan-pan too fell silent, until a thought crossed her mind. “Since fox stink is infectious, why did you say that I was born with it? Oh, I don’t understand it at all! Why me? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

“Nobody, especially your Ah-Po, wanted to hurt your feelings. And your father—well, you know him. He doesn’t like to face unpleasant things. We’ve all been afraid of your reaction. Especially after what happened to your mother—” Xin-Ma quickly clapped her hand over her mouth.

“My mother? What’s all this got to do with her? Are you telling me Mom also had fox stink?”

A loud shout interrupted Pan-pan’s flood of questions. Her father poked his head out of the back door. “Hey, you two! It’s time!”

“Listen, Pan-pan,” Xin-Ma whispered worriedly, hastily gathering up the vegetables. “I’m already in deep trouble for telling you this. Go now. The final ceremony is about to begin. I beg you, save your questions for tomorrow.”

Inside the house, a small, square mat had been laid on the floor in front of the table where the monks had been sitting and praying for hours. Bowls of freshly cooked meat and vegetables, steamed rice, roasted peanuts, and sunflower seeds were arranged before the photograph of Pan-pan’s mother. Her smiling eyes seemed to set on Pan-pan the moment Pan-pan stepped into the room and to follow her every movement. Standing, the monks took up their chant again. When her name was called by the head monk, Pan-pan walked up to the edge of the rug and got down on her knees the way her father had done a moment before.

“One
ke-tou,”
the monk intoned. Pan-pan placed one hand on each side of the mat and lowered her forehead until it touched the cold concrete floor. Following the commands of “two
ke-tou,
three
ke-tou,
” Pan-pan repeated the action as she struggled to hold back her tears, overwhelmed by the ache that her mother’s absence always brought to her heart. The head monk had warned her earlier that tears would chase away the soul of the deceased, which was present during the ceremony. Mom, Pan-pan wept inside, why didn’t you tell me that I had a terrible smell? Was that what you meant by calling me your imperfect child?