Yiyun Li - A Thousand Years of Good Prayers

“Lao Da could have done better.”

“Reckless man.”

We could have made a wiser choice than Lao Da. We would have let the dead be buried and gone on living, finding a new wife to bear a new son, working, our backs bent, to feed the wife and the children. There would be the pain, naturally, of waking up to the humiliation of being a soft persimmon, but humiliation does not kill a man. Nothing beats clinging to this life. Death ferries us nowhere.

“One man’s mistake can capsize a whole ship of people.”

“True.”

“Death of a son is far from the biggest tragedy.”

“Death of anybody shouldn’t be an excuse to lose one’s mind.”

“But Lao Da had the right to seek justice for his boy.”

“Justice? What kind of justice is there for us?”

“If one kills, one has to pay with his life. Nothing’s wrong with the old rule. The man who killed Lao Da’s son should have been punished.”

“He was punished all right. The first one Lao Da shot that night, wasn’t he?”

“Two shots in the brain. Two shots in the heart.”

“In front of his woman.”

“Well done it was.”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“When I heard the news, I felt I had just downed a full pot of sorghum wine.”

“It beats the best wine out there.”

“See, that’s what justice is.”

“True. One can never run away from justice’s palm.”

“You just have to wait for the time.”

“Heaven sees, doesn’t He?”

“But if He does see, why are we punished? What kind of justice is this?”

“I’ve told you: there is no justice for us persimmons.”

“If you kill one person, you are a murderer. If you kill a lot, you are a hero.”

“Lao Da killed seventeen.”

“Not quite enough.”

“If you’ve made a point, you are a hero. If you’ve failed to make a point, you are nothing.”

“What’s the point to make?”

“There should be an order for everyone to follow.”

“A dreamer is what you are, asking for the impossible.”

“We all asked for that at the riot, but it didn’t get us anywhere.”

“That was because we gave up.”

“Bullshit. What’s the point fighting for a dead boy?”

“True.”

“What’s the point risking our lives for a nonexistent order?”

“True.”

We all nod, eager to shoo away the tiny doubt that circles us like a persistent fly. Of course, we did what we could— after the boy was found in the water, we marched together with his little body to the county seat, asking for justice. Hoes and spades and axes and our fists and throats we all brought with us, but when the government sent the troop of armed police in our direction, we decided to go back home. Violence will not solve your problem, we said to Lao Da. Go to the court and sue the man; follow what the law says, we told Lao Da.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have put the seed in Lao Da’s mind to sue the man.”

“Had I been him, I would have done the same.”

“The same what? Going around the city and asking justice for his son’s death? His son was drowned in a swimming accident — black words on a white page in his death certificate.”

“The other boys told a different story.”

“Why would the court want to listen to the story?”

We sit and smoke and wait for someone to answer the question. A group of boys are returning to the village from the reservoir, all dripping wet. Lao Da’s boy would never have been drowned if there had been a drought last year. We don’t worry about our sons this year, even the youngest ones, who cannot swim well. But last year was a different story. Last year’s reservoir was deep enough to kill Lao Da’s son.

“But don’t you think the officials made some mistakes too? What if they gave Lao Da some money to shut him up?”

“What if they put that man in jail, even for a month or two?”

“Isn’t that a smart idea? Or pretend to put the man in jail?”

“Yes, just tell Lao Da the man got his punishment.”

“At least treat Lao Da a little better.”

“Would have saved themselves.”

“But how could they have known? They thought Lao Da was a soft persimmon.”

“Squeezed him enough for fun.”

“Squeezed a murderer out of it.”

“Lao Da was the last one you would think to snap like that.”

“Amazing how much one could take and then all of a sudden he broke.”

“True.”

“But back to my point, what’s the good losing one’s mind over a dead son and a dead wife?”

“Easier said than done.”

“True. How many times did we tell him to stop pursuing the case?”

“Sometimes a man sets his mind on an idea, and he becomes a hunting dog, only seeing one thing.”

“And now we are punished for his stupidity.”

We shake our heads, sorry for Lao Da, more so for ourselves. Lao Da should have listened to us. Instead, he was writing down the names and addresses of those officials who had treated him like a dog. How long he had been preparing for the killing we do not know. He had the patience to wait for half a year until New Year’s Eve, the best time to carry out a massive murder, when all the people were staying home for the year-end banquet.

“At least we have to give Lao Da the credit for carrying out his plan thoroughly.”

“He had a brain when it came to revenge.”

“And those seventeen dead souls. Think about how shocked they were when they saw Lao Da that night.”

“I hope they had time to regret what they had done to Lao Da.”

“I hope their families begged Lao Da for them as Lao Da had begged them for his boy.”

“You’d never know what could come from a soft persimmon.”

“I hope they were taught a lesson.”

“They’re dead.”

“Then someone else was taught the lesson.”

“Quiet! Be careful in case someone from the county hears you.”

“So hot they won’t be here.”

“The reservoir is not deep enough for them now.”

“The reservoir is really the cause of all these bad things. Think about the labors we put into the reservoir.”

We nod and sigh. A few years ago, we put all our free time into building the reservoir, hoping to end our days of relying on Heaven’s mood for the rain. The reservoir soon became an entertaining site for the county officials. On summer afternoons, they came in jeeps, swimming in our water, fishing our fish. The man was one of the judges — but what indeed was his line of work we never got to know, as we call everybody working in the county court “judge.” That judge and his companions came, all drunk before they went into the water. Something Lao Da’s son said, a joke maybe, or just a nickname he gave to the judge, made him angry. He picked up Lao Da’s son and threw him into the deeper water of the reservoir. A big splash the other boys remembered. They cried, begged, but the judges all said it would teach the little bastard a lesson. The boys sent the fastest one among them to run for help. Lao Da’s son was found later that night, his eyelids, lips, fingers, toes, and penis all eaten into bad shapes by the feasting fish.

“Remember, Lao Da was one of those who really pushed for the reservoir.”

“He worked his back bent for it.”

“The poor man didn’t know what he was sweating for.”

“None of us knows.”

“At least we don’t have to sweat this summer.”

“Of course, you don’t sweat waiting for death.”

“Death? No, not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Let me ask you — what will we feed our women and kids in the winter?”

“Whatever is left from the autumn.”

“Nothing will be left.”

“Then feed them our cows and horses.”