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

The boy looked at Sun Fu, then thrust his head forward and yelled with all his might, “I’m a thief!”

Sun Fu saw how the blood vessels on the boy’s neck pro-traded. He nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s the way you need to shout.”

All afternoon the autumn sun bathed the boy in light. His two hands were tied behind his back and the rope was coiled around his neck, so it was impossible for him to lower his head. He had no choice but to stand there stiffly, his eyes on the highway. Beside him lay the fruit that he had coveted, but with his neck fixed in place he could not even give it a glance. Whenever someone walked by — any passerby at all — at Sun Fu’s insistence he would shout, “I’m a thief!”

Sun Fu sat behind the fruit stand on his stool, watching the boy contentedly. He was no longer so indignant about losing an apple and had begun to feel pleased with a job well done, because he had captured and punished the apple thief, and the punishment was still not over. He made sure the boy yelled at the top of his voice every time somebody walked by. He had noticed the boy’s shouts were drawing a constant flow of people to his fruit stand.

Many looked with curiosity at the yelling boy. They found it strange that a trussed-up captive would cry “I’m a thief” so vigorously. Sun Fu filled them in on the story, tirelessly explaining how the boy had stolen an apple, how he’d been caught, and how he was being punished. “It’s for his own good,” Sun Fu would add.

And he’d make clear the thinking behind this. “I want him to understand he must never steal again.”

Then Sun Fu would turn to the boy. “Are you going to do any more stealing?” he barked.

The boy shook his head vehemently. Because his neck was clamped so tight, he shook his head only slightly, but very quickly.

“Did you see that?” Sun Fu said triumphantly.

All afternoon long, the boy shouted and yelled. His lips dried and cracked in the sun and his voice grew hoarse. By dusk, the boy was unable to come out with a full-blown shout and could only make a scraping noise, but still he went on crying, “I’m a thief.”

The passersby could no longer make out what it was he was shouting. “He’s shouting ‘I’m a thief,’ ” Sun Fu said.

After that, Sun Fu untied the rope. It was almost dark now. Sun Fu transferred the fruit to his flatbed cart, and when everything was in order he untied his prisoner. Just as Sun Fu was placing the coiled rope on top of the cart, he heard a dull thump behind him and looked round to find the boy had crumpled to the ground. “After this,” he said, “I bet you won’t dare to steal again, will you?”

As he spoke, Sun Fu mounted the bicycle at the front of the cart and rode off down the broad highway, leaving the boy sprawled on the ground. Weakened by hunger and thirst, he had collapsed as soon as he was untied. Now he just went on lying there, his eyes slightly ajar, as though looking at the road, or as though not looking at anything at all. He lay motionless for some minutes, and then he slowly clambered to his feet and propped himself against a tree. Finally, he started shuffling down the road, toward the west.

Westward the boy headed, his puny body swaying slightly in the twilight as he made his way out of town one step at a time. Some witnessed his departure and knew he was the thief Sun Fu had caught that afternoon, but they didn’t know his name or where he had come from, and of course they had even less idea where he was going. They saw how his middle finger dangled against the back of his right hand, and watched as he trudged into the distant twilight and disappeared.

That evening, as usual, Sun Fu went to the little shop next door to buy a pint of rice wine, then cooked himself a couple of simple dishes and sat down at the square dining table. At this hour of the day the setting sun shone in through the window and seemed to warm the room up. Sun Fu sat there in the twilight, sipping his wine.

Many years ago, he had shared the room with a pretty woman and a five-year-old boy. In those days the room was constantly buzzing with noise and activity, and there was no end of things for the three of them to talk about. Sometimes he would simply sit inside and watch as his wife lit a fire outside in the coal stove. Their son would stick to her like toffee, tugging on her jacket and asking or telling her something in his shrill little voice.

Later, one summer lunchtime, some boys ran in, shouting Sun Fu’s name. They said his son had fallen into a pond not far away. He ran like a man possessed, his wife following behind with piercing wails. Before long it was all too clear that they had lost their son forever. That night they sat together sobbing and moaning in the darkness and the stifling heat.

Later on still, they began to regain their composure, carrying on their lives as they had before, and in this way several years quickly passed. Then, one winter, an itinerant barber stopped outside their house. Sun Fu’s wife went out, sat in the chair that the barber provided, closed her eyes in the bright sunshine, and let the barber wash and cut her hair, clean her ears, and massage her arms and shoulders. She had never in her life felt so relaxed as she did that day: it was as though her whole body was melting away. Afterward she stuffed her clothes into a bag and waited until the sky was dark, then set off along the route the barber had taken.

Sun Fu was alone now, his past condensed into the faded black-and-white photo that hung on the wall. It was a family portrait: himself, his wife, and their son. The boy was in the middle, wearing a cotton cap several sizes too big. On the left, in braids, his wife smiled blissfully. Sun Fu was on the right, his youthful face brimming with life.

When the time comes to have lunch or dinner, my friend Horsie observes the following routine. He approaches the table with his mouth slightly ajar (though there’s a big difference between that and a smile). He sits himself down and lowers his head until it is parallel with the table. Then he begins to eat. He makes very little noise as he chews, conveying food into his mouth at a rapid pace without once raising his head, maintaining that parallel relationship throughout the proceedings. If you try talking to him, he will answer you with his head down.

That’s why, when Horsie eats, we describe him as dining. Dining is a serious business: to do it you need to dress appropriately, sit at a proper table, and eat nourishing food in the right way — there’s quite a technique to it, in other words. But eating is altogether a more casual proposition: you can eat at a table or you can eat in the doorway, or you can take your bowl and go round and eat at the neighbor’s — that’s what we often used to do when we were small. Sometimes we’d even take our bowls into the toilet, eating as we had a crap.

In Horsie’s case, he never eats but always dines. From the time I first knew him — we were only ten then — he had already begun to dine, and he took it as seriously as a homework assignment. He would lower his head — even then his head already maintained a parallel relationship to the table — and eat very deliberately, with rapt attention. When he’d finished, his bowl would be as clean as if he had washed it, the table in front of him would look as though it had already been wiped, and the fish bones would be lying in his plate as neatly as a fish itself.

That’s Horsie for you. We tend to walk hurriedly along the street, as though we always have a train to catch, but Horsie’s never in a rush, he’s always just strolling, hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on a point way ahead in the distance, walking along at a calm and leisurely pace. That’s the way he is, never in a hurry no matter what he’s doing, and meticulous too. When he’s talking, for example, he enunciates every word clearly, with balanced phrasing, and expresses himself with care.