Yan Lianke - Dream of Ding Village

Uncle and Lingling sat outside enjoying the pleasant evening, the soft breeze and, even more, their own pleasant company.

‘Come and sit over here, by me,’ said Uncle.

Lingling moved her chair closer, so that she was sitting in front of him.

There, outside their little house in the centre of the threshing ground, they sat face to face, gazing at one another. They leaned forward in their chairs, so that their faces were almost touching. Their features were clearly visible; in the moonlight, their noses cast a faint shadow on their faces. Had either of them exhaled a long breath, the other would have felt it on his or her face.

‘Did you like the noodles I made?’ Lingling asked.

‘They were great,’ Uncle answered. ‘A hundred times better than Tingting’s.’

As he spoke, Uncle took off his shoes and rested his feet on Lingling’s thighs. Sighing with pleasure, he tipped his head back and gazed up at the vast, starry sky. Playfully, flirtatiously, he began rubbing his feet over Lingling’s body, pinching her skin between his toes. Then, with another sigh of pleasure he said: ‘It would have been better if you and I had got married years ago.’

‘Better how?’

‘Better in every way.’

Uncle sat up straight and stared into Lingling’s eyes, looking deeply into them, like a man searching for something at the bottom of a shadowy well. She sat very still, allowing him to gaze at her. With the moonlight illuminating her from one side, she looked like a woman posing for a portrait. Her features were composed, but her hands were busy massaging Uncle’s legs, kneading his skin, giving him all the comfort she had to offer. Everything she had to offer. Although it was hard to tell in the moonlight, her face had a slight pink flush. She seemed bashful, as if she had been stripped naked by Uncle’s gaze.

‘It’s lucky we both got the fever,’ said Lingling.

‘How so?’

‘Otherwise, I’d still be married to Xiaoming and you’d be with Tingting. We’d never have had a chance to be together.’

Uncle pondered this. ‘I suppose not.’

For a moment, both felt almost grateful for the fever that had brought them together. They pushed their chairs even closer, and Lingling continued massaging Uncle’s feet and legs.

After she had finished, Lingling removed Uncle’s feet from her lap and helped him put his shoes back on. Then she kicked off her shoes and swung her legs on to his lap, primly and properly, without any naughty games of footsie. He began to vigorously massage her calves, moving down to her ankles before slowly working his way back up again over her calves, knees and thighs.

Each time he increased the pressure, he would ask, ‘Is that too hard?’

‘A little,’ she would answer.

‘How’s this?’

‘Too soft.’

Gradually, Uncle got a feel for what Lingling meant by ‘not too hard and not too soft’, and a sense of where to apply more pressure and where to apply less. When he rolled up the legs of her trousers, her calves gleamed in the moonlight like two smooth, bright pillars of jade. Her legs were pale and supple, soft and moist, free of sores or any other marks of the fever. Ardently, clumsily, Uncle kneaded and stroked her legs, all the while inhaling the alluring perfume of her flesh.

‘Does that feel good?’ he asked.

Lingling smiled. ‘Very good.’

Uncle’s expression turned solemn. ‘Lingling, I want to ask you something serious.’

Lingling raised her head. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, as their eyes met.

‘But you have to tell the truth,’ Uncle added.

‘So ask me.’

Uncle thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I’ll live through the summer?’

Lingling gave a little start. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘I’m just asking.’

‘But don’t people in the village say that if you live through the winter, you can live through another year?’

Uncle resumed massaging her legs. ‘The last few days, I’ve had dreams where I hear my mother calling me.’

Surprised, Lingling sat up a little straighter in her chair. She swung her legs off Uncle’s lap, slipped on her shoes and peered at him intently, as if she were searching his face for clues. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said even though it’s summer, she gets cold when she sleeps. She said since it’s not my father’s time yet, she wants me to come and sit by her bed and warm her feet.’

Lingling was silent, thinking about what Uncle had said.

Uncle was silent, thinking about what his mother had said to him in his dream.

The lonely silence seemed to stretch on and on. After a while, Lingling raised her eyes to look at Uncle.

‘When did your mother die?’

‘The year the blood-selling started.’

‘Same as my father-in-law.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘Hepatitis.’

‘Did he get it from selling blood?’

‘I’m not sure.’

The two fell silent. It was a deathly silence, a silence of the dead. As if there were not a human being left on earth, not even themselves. As if everyone were dead and buried. As if all that remained were sand and soil, crops and trees, the chirping of insects on a summer’s evening, and the moon that shone above. In the silvery light, the faint chirping of insects carried from the fields. The movement of worms and insects could be heard from underground, as if burrowing through the cracks in a coffin. It was a standing-at-a-graveside sound, a noise that sent a chill up your spine and seeped into your bones. Like a trickle of ice-cold wind, it got between the cracks and joints, worming its way into your bone marrow. Most people would have shivered at the sound, but Lingling and Uncle barely quivered: they had talked about death so much, they were no longer afraid of it.

They looked at one another.

‘It’s getting late.’

‘Let’s go to bed.’

They went into the house, into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Soon, the bedroom was warm with their scent. As cosy as starched, freshly washed sheets; as joyous as the bed of newlyweds.

It had been a pleasant early summer evening, crisp and cool. Lingling and Uncle had enjoyed the evening as much as anyone else in the village. As they were making love in the candlelit room, Lingling suddenly asked: ‘Liang, am I the only person you’re thinking of right now, the only one in your heart?’

‘Of course you are.’

‘I don’t think I am.’

‘I’d be a fool to think of anyone else.’

‘I think I know a way to get your mind off your mother and your dreams of dying, so that you only think of me.’

‘What is it?’

‘Think of me as your mother, not as Lingling. If you call me “Mother”, maybe you’ll stop dreaming about her, and stop worrying about dying.’

Uncle stopped what he was doing and stared at her.

Lingling extricated her body from beneath his and sat up in bed.

‘My dad died ten years ago,’ she said, looking into his eyes, ‘just like your mum. Both of us lost our parents. From now on, you be my daddy, and I’ll be your mummy.’ Lingling blushed a deep red. She wasn’t bashful about what they’d been doing, but because she’d finally spoken her mind. It wasn’t a blush of embarrassment, but of earnestness. Although Lingling was shy around other people and often spoke with lowered head, Uncle knew that her true character was different. When they were alone, her shyness disappeared, and was replaced by a wild, adventurous streak. At times, she was even wilder than Uncle.

Because she was still young, barely in her twenties.

Because she was going to die soon.

Because every day, every second, every bit of happiness mattered.

Lingling threw off the covers, exposing Uncle’s naked body. She sat at the edge of the bed, smiling mischievously, like a child playing a game. ‘From now on, Liang, you can call me “Mummy”. I’ll love you like a mummy would, and do anything you ask me to, even wash your feet. And I’ll call you “Daddy”, and you have to love me like a daddy and do anything I ask you, just like my daddy did when he was alive.’