Yu Hua: Boy in the Twilight: Stories of the Hidden China

I had personally witnessed the towel’s vanquishing of the blade, and now I knew that a sodden towel could be a formidable weapon. In the days that followed I would always leave the bathhouse with a soaking-wet towel in my hand, and on the long walk home I thought of myself as bold and powerful. I even took my wet towel to school and strutted back and forth on the playground, looking out for troublemakers, and my classmates would cluster around me just as we had clustered around Kunshan. These blissful days carried on for quite some time, until I lost my towel. I never figured out how this happened. It was still dripping wet, and I think I’d hung it over the branch of a tree. All I remember is that we were running around after a ball and later we went home — I never saw the towel again. My mother, always strapped for cash, gave me a tongue-lashing, and my equally hard-up father gave me a couple of slaps on the face, leaving me with aching teeth for a whole week afterward.

Later on, I left the house dejectedly and went for a walk by the riverside, one hand scraping along the parapet. Pink clouds floated in the water, but I was glum and spent, like ashes after a fire. Just as I got to the bridge, I caught sight of Kunshan. The contusions had now gone from his face and he had regained his former air of vitality. He came swaggering along as though he owned the whole town. Suddenly I was filled with excitement, because at the very same moment I saw Shi Gang. He was approaching from the other direction. The arm that had been injured was now swinging casually by his side, and he was heading toward Kunshan.

I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me, and my heart thumped. Their stirring combat was surely about to resume. But this time there was no cleaver and no towel: their only weapons were their fists and their feet — one was wearing leather shoes, I noticed, the other sneakers. Kunshan went right up to Shi Gang, blocking his way, and I heard him say loudly, “Hey, got a cig?”

Shi Gang didn’t answer; he just stood there, eyeing his adversary. Kunshan began to pat Shi Gang’s jacket, then his hand slipped inside a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I knew he was being provocative, but still Shi Gang made no move. Kunshan extracted a cigarette, and I thought he would pass it to Shi Gang and keep the rest for himself. But instead he stuck the cigarette in his mouth, looked at Shi Gang, and handed the pack back. Shi Gang took it, extracted a cigarette, and put it between his lips. What happened next took me completely by surprise. Shi Gang slipped the pack into the other man’s pocket. Kunshan smiled. He took out his matches, lit Shi Gang’s cigarette, then his own.

That evening the two of them leaned against the bridge and there was no end to their banter, no end to their laughter. I watched as the sunset bathed them in a rosy hue, staying on until they were shrouded in darkness. They rested their arms on the parapet, their cigarettes glowing as they held them up to their faces. Though I stood listening just a few feet away, nothing they said really sank in. For a long time afterward, I kept trying to recall the brand of cigarettes they smoked first, but somehow four names would come to mind all at the same time — Front Gate, Flying Horse, People’s Choice, and West Lake.

Yu Hua is the author of five novels, six collections of stories, and four collections of essays. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages. In 2002, he became the first Chinese writer to win the James Joyce Award. His novel

Brothers

was short-listed for the Man Asian Literary Prize and awarded France’s Prix Courrier International.

To Live

was awarded Italy’s Premio Grinzane Cavour, and

To Live

and

Chronicle of a Blood Merchant

were ranked among the ten most influential books in China in the 1990s by

Wen Hui Bao

, the largest newspaper in Shanghai. Yu Hua lives in Beijing.

About the Translator

Allan H. Barr is the translator of Yu Hua’s debut novel,

Cries in the Drizzle

, and his essay collection

China in Ten Words

He teaches Chinese at Pomona College in California.