Bi Feiyu - Three Sisters

“I don’t,” he said.

She was already in tears the next time she said it. “You mustn’t hate me, Elder Brother.”

Peng Guoliang looked up, as if to say something, but all he said was, “Yumi.”

She shook her head.

With one last military salute to Yumi, Peng Guoliang left. His retreating back was like an airplane rising into the clear blue sky, leaving no trace behind. When he disappeared behind an embankment, Yumi’s thoughts scrolled backward.

Peng Guoliang is gone. We just met, just got to know each other, and now he’s gone.

She stood there like a simpleton, but now something was stirring in the pit of her stomach, stronger and stronger, more and more aggressive—a willfulness that was impossible to keep at bay. But there were no tears; her eyes were as empty as the cloudless sky. She hated herself and was filled with heartbreaking regret. She should have said yes, should have given herself to him. How important was keeping that last stronghold from being breached? What was she saving herself for anyway? Who was she saving herself for? If the meat turns mushy in the family pot, what difference does it make which bowl it goes into?

“How could I have been so stupid?” Yumi demanded of herself. “He was in such agony, why did I refuse him?” She looked behind her. The crops were green, the trees dried up, and the roads yellow. “How could I have been so stupid?”

Youqing’s wife had been under the weather for a couple of days. She could not pinpoint the cause, but something was making her listless. So she did the laundry, scrubbing clothes to pass the time. Then she washed the sheets and the pillow covers. And still she wasn’t satisfied, so she dug out her summer sandals and brushed them clean. That done, she suddenly felt lazy, not wanting to move. She was bored. Wang Lianfang wasn’t there. Peng Guoliang had no sooner left than Wang had to attend a meeting. She’d feel better if he were here. Anytime she was restless or bored, going to bed with Wang reenergized her. Youqing had stopped touching her, refusing even to sleep in the same bed. She was shunned by the village women, which left her nothing, nothing but Wang Lianfang. From time to time she was tempted to seduce one of the other men, but that was too risky. Wang was such a jealous lover he frowned if he even saw her having a pleasant conversation with another man. He was, after all, Wang Lianfang. But what does a woman live for? All that makes life interesting is a little pleasurable roughhousing in bed. And it’s not a pleasure she can simply call up whenever she wants. Everything depends on whether or not the man is in the mood.

The sight of all that fresh laundry depressed her even more, since now she had to rinse it out. Too sore at first to bend over, she finally summoned energy from somewhere and carried a few articles of clothing over to the pier. She had barely rinsed the first piece, one of Youqing’s jackets, when she spotted Yumi crossing the concrete bridge, coming her way. One look at her distant gaze and ashen face told her that Yumi had just said good-bye to Peng Guoliang, for she appeared weightless, like a shadow on a wall. It took a special girl not to just go sailing off the bridge into the river.

Yumi cannot go on like this, Youqing’s wife said to herself. It could ruin her health. So she walked up the bank, stood at the foot of the bridge, and greeted Yumi with a smile.

“Gone, is he?”

Yumi looked down, but her gaze was a puff of smoke, ready to be blown away by the first gust of wind. She acknowledged Youqing’s wife despite her callous feelings toward her, nodding as she walked past.

Youqing’s wife wanted to say something to make her feel better, but Yumi was clearly in no mood to accept kind words from her. So she just stood there watching the girl’s back take on the appearance of a moving black hole. Absentmindedly, Youqing’s wife asked herself, Why are you trying to make her feel better? No matter what you say, she’ll soon be an aviator’s wife—the pain of separation eating at her represents something worthwhile, a stroke of luck, a woman’s good fortune. And what do you have? No need to do anything.

After Yumi left, Youqing’s wife ran behind the pigpen, bent over, and retched. It was lumpy and watery; she threw up more than she’d eaten that morning. Then she leaned against the wall of the pen and opened her eyes; dewy tears hung from her lashes. I must be sick, she said to herself. There’s no reason I should be this nauseous. But as she thought back she realized that her discomfort over the past couple of days had been just that: nausea. She bent over again and emptied a puddle of bile. With her eyes closed, she laughed at herself.

You sorry piece of goods, you’re acting like you’re carrying a little Party secretary inside you, she said to herself. It was this self-demeaning comment that got her thinking. Her little relative hadn’t visited her for a couple of months, but she hadn’t given it a thought, hadn’t dared to. She laughed again and said sarcastically to herself, Not a chance. Do you really buy the idea that you’re productive outside and lazy at home?

“Yes,” the doctor said.

“How can that be?” she asked.

He just smiled and said, “I’ve never seen such a woman. Go home and ask your husband.”

So she counted back. Youqing had been at the irrigation site that month. She stared straight ahead. He might be a fool, but he’s no idiot. I can trick heaven over this, and maybe earth as well, but I’ll never trick him. So do I keep it or not? It would be her decision, hers alone.

Youqing’s wife made a bowl of fried rice for her husband and watched him eat. She shut the door, picked up the clothes beater that she kept behind the door, and laid it on the table. “Youqing,” she said, “I’m not barren.” Not understanding what she was trying to say, he kept eating. “Youqing,” she said, “I’m pregnant.” She added, “It’s Wang Lianfang’s.” This time he understood.

“I can’t have another abortion. If I do, that might really keep me from having your child.” She paused. “Youqing, I want to have this one.

“Youqing, if you say no, I’ll die with no complaints.” She looked down at the clothes beater on the table. “If you can’t swallow that, then go ahead, beat me to death.” As he sat there with the last bite of food in his mouth, Youqing banged his chopsticks down on the table. His neck and his gaze were rigid and straight. Then he got to his feet and picked up the beater. His arm was bigger around than the beater and harder. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them again, her husband was gone.

Confused and panic-stricken, she ran out to look for him and found him in her mother-in-law’s shed, where she stood in the doorway and watched as he got down on his knees in front of his mother and said, “I’ve failed my ancestors, I don’t have what other men have.” He still hadn’t swallowed the last mouthful of rice, which now littered the floor around him, yellow and glossy. His wife shivered as she looked into the eyes of her mother-in-law. Then she backed out of the doorway and went home, where she dug an old length of rope out of a basket. After tying a noose, she flung the rope over a roof beam and checked to see if it would hold her weight. Then she climbed onto a stool, looped the noose around her neck, and kicked the stool out from under her.

Youqing’s mother burst into the room. A clever and perceptive woman, she had seen the look in her daughter-in-law’s eyes and had known that something bad was about to happen. Grabbing her daughter-in-law’s legs, she pushed upward. “Youqing,” she shouted. “Hurry. Hurry!”

Youqing stood there in a fog, oblivious to all that had happened over the past few minutes. He just kept looking around, trying to figure out what was going on. Finally, he cut his wife down. His mother shut the front door, then rushed over excitedly, squatted down, and opened her arms. She began slapping her own buttocks, her hands like a pair of magpies.