Mo Yan - Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

As he was getting to his feet, three well-dressed men rushed out of the government office building, two refined-looking young men in front, a fair-skinned, fleshy, middle-aged man bringing up the rear. They seemed almost buoyant, as if carried along by the wind. When they reached the gate, the two young men stepped aside to let their middle-aged companion walk ahead. Their movements were practiced and orderly; they were well trained. With a wave of the man's hand and a crisp order, the police backed off; the scene was reminiscent of a father breaking up a fight between his son and a neighbor boy by pulling a long face and telling his son to get the hell out of there. That done, he assumed a gentler tone in asking the crowd to disperse. Lü Xiaohu elbowed his way up front and spoke to the middle-aged man, who bent toward old Ding and said:

“Good uncle, Vice Mayor Ma is at a meeting in the provincial capital. My name is Wu, I'm Assistant Director of the General Office. Tell me what it is you want.”

Ding choked up as he gazed into the kindly face of Assistant Director Wu.

“Good uncle,” Assistant Director Wu said, “come into my office. We can talk there.”

With a sign from Assistant Director Wu, the two young men walked up and took old Ding by the arms to walk him into the building, followed by Assistant Director Wu, who was carrying his cane.

As he sat in the air-conditioned office sipping hot water that Assistant Director Wu had personally poured for him, the blockage in his throat went away, and he talked about his suffering and his troubles. Once he'd stated his case, he took out the bundle of expenditure receipts. Assistant Director Wu responded with an explanation of how things stood, then took a hundred-yuan bill out of his pocket and said:

“Ding Shifu, you hold on to those receipts. When Vice Mayor Ma returns, I'll give him a complete report on your situation. But for now, I'd like you to have this hundred yuan.”

Old Ding stood up with the help of his cane and said:

“You're a good man, Assistant Director Wu, and I thank you.” He bowed to the man. “But I can't accept your money.”

4

In the days that followed, he ignored his apprentice's advice to return to the government building to put on his act again, even though no one showed up from Vice Mayor Ma's office. His wife complained that his pride was making their lives a living hell, and scolded him by saying you can't help a dead cat climb a tree. He reacted by smashing a teacup and glaring venomously into his wife's gaunt, ashen face. The courage to stand up to him lasted only a moment. Then, lowering her head and reaching into her apron pocket to take out her badly worn black Naugahyde wallet, she put the responsibility squarely on his shoulders: “We have exactly ninety-nine yuan. When that's gone, there's no more.”

She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen, from where chopping sounds soon emerged. Preparing soup bones. A moment later, she returned. Nestled in her hand, which was covered with bone splinters, was a one-yuan coin. “My apologies,” she said gravely. “Here's another yuan. I was using it to prop up the table leg. I nearly forgot about it.”

A strange smile appeared on her face as she laid the coin down beside her wallet. He glowered at her, wanting her to look at him. All he needed was for their eyes to meet for him to have the chance to silently unload half a lifetime of discontent toward her. Because she was infertile, in his eyes she was simply inferior. But she shrewdly turned around, taking the brunt of his rage on her back. She was wearing a black synthetic blouse with yellow flowers, something she'd picked up somewhere or other and which was utterly inappropriate for a woman her age. A sunflower the size of a basin cast an aging ray onto her slightly hunched back. Raising his fist, with the idea of pounding the hell out of the wallet on the table, he stopped in midair, sighed despondently, and sat down, defeated. Any man who can't make a living and take care of his family has no right to lash out at his wife. That's the way it's always been, in China and in other places.

One sunny morning, he put away his cane and walked out the door. With the sun's blinding rays stinging his eyes, he felt a bit like a mole that's come out into the light after years in a dark hole. A rainbow array of automobiles passed slowly in front of him, with motorcycles shuttling in and out among them, like defiant jackrabbits. He wanted to cross the street, but didn't have the nerve to weave his way through the stream of cars. A vague memory of an overpass somewhere nearby surfaced, so he started walking down the sidewalk, with its newly laid, colorful cement tiles. He may have lived in the city for many years, but he discovered that he wasn't even as brave as a common villager he spotted riding an unwieldy bicycle down the street. The man was carrying a gas can with sweet potatoes baking inside; with steam pouring off the back of his bike, even fancy sedans gave way to him. A pair of villagers with saws and axes over their shoulders strolled down the street, whistling; the shorter of the two, wearing a corduroy jacket, carefree as can be, swung his ax at the trunk of an Oriental plane tree. Old Ding shuddered, almost as if he had been the target of the chopping blow. Peddlers’ stands filled the tree-lined street, one every few paces, and nearly every one of them hailed him as he passed by. They displayed a motley array of wares, as large as electric appliances and as small as buttons, and everything in between. One of them, a dark-skinned man with slanted eyes, was squatting beneath a tree, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a pair of fat little piglets on tethers.

“Old uncle, how about a nice piglet?” the peddler asked fervently. “They're real Yorkshires, the finest breed you can find. They make great pets, clean and neat, much better than dogs or cats. In the West they're more popular than dogs and cats. A United Nations study has proved that the only animals smarter than pigs are people. Pigs can recognize words, they can paint pictures, and if you've got the patience, you can even teach them to sing and dance.” He took a crumpled newspaper clipping out of his pocket, stuck the tethers under his foot to free both hands, and pointed to the clipping. “Old uncle,” he said, “you don't have to believe me, it's right here in black and white. See here — an elderly Irish woman raised a pig, and it was the same as hiring a nanny. Every morning, after bringing in the paper, it went out and bought her some milk and bread. Then it scrubbed the floor and boiled water, but most amazing of all, one day the old woman had a heart attack, and that smart little pig went straight to the local clinic for an ambulance. It saved that old woman's life….”

Thanks to the peddler's honeyed words, the sort of good mood he hadn't enjoyed for a very long time settled upon Ding. He cast a warm, tender gaze down at the piglets, which were tethered by their rear legs and huddled closely together, like a pair of inseparable twins. Their bristles glistened like silver threads, their bellies sported black spots. Their snouts were pink, their little eyes like shiny black marbles. A pudgy little girl with pigtails that stuck straight up waddled up and squatted in front of the piglets, entering old Ding's field of vision. Frightened by the little girl, the piglets pulled in opposite directions, squealing like a couple of puppies. Next to enter his field of vision was a young woman with a radiant face who reached out both arms — her skin milky white — and scooped up the little girl, who kicked and howled so much that the woman had to put her back down on the ground. Showing no fear at all, the little girl went right up next to the piglets, which squeezed up against each other. She reached out with her dainty little hand, and the piglets squeezed together even tighter and began to quake. Finally, she touched one of them. It squealed, but didn't try to get away. Looking up at the young woman, the girl giggled. The peddler saw it was time to put his three-inch weapon of a tongue into play. He repeated his earlier sales pitch, this time spicing it up even more. The woman kept her eyes on him, a captivating smile frozen on her lips. She was wearing an orange-colored dress, bright as a flaming torch and so low-cut that when she bent over, her full breasts crept into view. Old Ding couldn't help glancing over at her, much to his embarrassment, as if he'd done something he really shouldn't have done. He noticed that the pig seller had his eyes glued on the exact same spot. Every time the woman tried to pick up the little girl, her plan was shattered by the little girl's tantrum. Old Ding noticed a heavy gold necklace around the woman's neck and deep green jade bracelets on both arms. And he couldn't miss the woman's heavy fragrance: sweeter smelling than the jasmine tea he'd been given in the factory reception room, sweeter smelling than the perfume the factory secretary wore, so sweet smelling it made him giddy. Knowing instinctively where his sale was coming from, the peddler zeroed in on the little girl, regaling her with all the advantages of raising pigs and holding his little piglets right up in front of her, despite their noisy struggles to keep a distance between them and her. Scratching one pig's belly, then the other's, he said to the little girl in the sweetest tone of voice he could manage, “Go ahead, little sister, touch the two little cuties.”