Yan Lianke - Dream of Ding Village

My screams ripped a hole in the sky.

‘Save me, Grandpa, save me . .

’ Grandpa woke up. He sat on the edge of the bed in a daze, staring at the pale sunlight seeping through the curtains like milk.

It was a lucky coincidence.

The morning Grandpa was packing his things and getting ready to visit my dad in the city, my dad came to him. Dad happened to be passing through Ding Village with his team of matchmakers and decided to stop by the school. He ran into Grandpa as he was walking out of the school gate.

My dad was wearing grey uniform shorts, leather sandals, a white short-sleeved shirt and a straw hat that made him look like a farmer from somewhere down south. He was more tanned than when he’d left Ding Village, his face ruddy and healthy from the sun. When they met at the school gate, my dad handed Grandpa a paper bundle tied with string.

‘What’s this?’ Grandpa asked.

‘Wild ginseng,’ my dad answered. ‘It’s the best kind.’

The package felt heavy, too heavy, in Grandpa’s hands.

The sun was not yet overhead. It shone from the east like a burning haystack, scorching the plain below. The landscape was barren; everything had withered. Grass, wheat, people and villages were dying. Everything had dried up, and the plain was as pale as sand — the same colour as Grandpa’s face when he saw my dad standing at the school gate.

‘You didn’t run into Jia Genzhu in the village, did you?’ Grandpa asked, alarmed.

‘No, but I’m not scared of him. He can’t do anything to me.’ My dad seemed to know what Genzhu was planning, and about his conversation with Grandpa. ‘The villagers already warned me, Dad. They told me not to come back, but I came anyway, to show them I’m not afraid. And in a few days, I’m going to hold a big ceremony to celebrate my son’s wedding. When they see what I’ve got planned, Genzhu won’t dare lay a finger on me.’

Now even more alarmed, Grandpa stared at his son as if he were a stranger at the gate.

‘Qiang was only twelve. Are you really going to marry him off?’

‘I’ve already arranged it with the girl’s family.’

‘Where are her people from?’

‘They’re from the city. She’s a wealthy man’s little princess,’ said my dad, grinning. ‘Not long after her dad got promoted to governor and started organizing the county blood drive, she got some strange disease, fell into a river and drowned. She’s a few years older than Qiang, but what does age matter?’

‘How much older?’ Grandpa asked.

‘Five or six years.’

‘And you think that’s a suitable match?’

‘Her dad’s the county governor! If he thinks it’s suitable, who are we to disagree?’

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘That’s what I came to tell you. I’ll be back in a few days to remove his bones. We’re taking them to a funeral park in Kaifeng, where he’ll be buried with the girl. Their grave is on a very nice plot of land.’

My dad then told Grandpa that he couldn’t stay long because his helpers were waiting for him on the main road, south of the village. He asked a few questions about Grandpa’s health: was he eating okay? Did he have decent clothing? Was he able to draw water from the school well, or had it dried up in the drought? As my dad was about to leave, he remembered that he had wanted to visit the house on New Street, which had been vacant for many months. Instead of walking along the road, he and Grandpa cut through the dried-up wheat fields on the outskirts of the village. They walked single-file along the ridges that divided the fields until they came to the south end of the village, and to our house on New Street.

What they saw made them stop in shock.

Someone had smashed the padlock on the gate and left it lying on the ground. Both the wooden gate and the front door were gone. The wooden window frames were intact, but the panes were smashed and the courtyard was littered with broken glass. Every piece of furniture inside the house, from the chairs and tables to the curtains and washstands, was missing.

They’d robbed the house, just like they’d robbed my uncle’s grave. And the courtyard smelled of urine.

His face mottled with anger, my dad stood on the front stoop, peering into the empty house. He turned to Grandpa. ‘Who did this?’

Grandpa shook his head.

My dad kicked the wall. ‘Damn those sons of bitches! It was Genzhu and Yuejin, I know it!’

My dad’s face was pale, twitching with anger. Grandpa, afraid his son might do something rash, suddenly dropped to his knees and began pleading with him.

‘Hui, if you want to blame anyone, blame me, okay? Let’s just say I’m the one who stole the doors and furniture and urinated in the courtyard. If you have to punish someone, punish me.’

Grandpa looked up at his son like a little boy pleading with his father. My dad looked down at Grandpa with disdain, like a father who has lost patience with a misbehaving child.

After a few moments, my dad turned on his heel and left without a word. He didn’t look back.

My dad could easily have taken a shortcut, but instead he marched proudly through the centre of Ding Village, his head held high. Some of the villagers were sitting around the crossroads that marked the village centre. The weather was hot, but not so unbearable that you couldn’t go outdoors, so they had gathered at the crossroads to eat breakfast and socialize. Most of them had already finished eating when my dad arrived. He had been walking quickly, taking long strides, but as he neared the crowd, he paused for a moment to wipe off his shoes.

One of the men, Wang Baoshan, caught sight of him and shouted, ‘Ding Hui! What are you doing here, so early in the morning?’

My dad smiled and approached the crowd. ‘I was passing by the village, and thought I’d come and have a look.’

He pulled out a packet of expensive, filter-tip cigarettes, handed one to Wang Baoshan, then began passing out cigarettes to the other men in the crowd.

‘You’ve got to try these,’ my dad boasted. ‘A whole pack will set you back half the price of a coffin. Each one costs as much as a ten pound bag of salt, a bottle of liquor or one pound of pork.’ The villagers gasped in astonishment.

‘Are you serious?’ Wang Baoshan asked.

‘Smoke one and you’ll see,’ my dad answered, taking his lighter out of his pocket.

After he had lit Wang’s cigarette, he went down the line, lighting cigarettes for each of the men. But when he came to Jia Genzhu, sitting with a group of villagers on the right, he skipped right over him. My dad took one look at Genzhu and passed him by, then handed a cigarette to the next man. Genzhu’s face was discoloured and covered with dried scabs, and he was so thin and sickly that one push might have sent him sprawling on the ground. His eyes were dull and clouded, and filled with desperation. It was as if the fever had stolen not just his strength but his spirit, leaving him helpless. He had no choice but to endure the insult and try to get along with my dad as best he could. When my dad had first started passing out cigarettes, his eyes had lit up, but when my dad passed him by without a glance and handed a cigarette to the man behind him, his face had flushed deep red. Deep purplish red, the colour of liver.

After my dad had given away all his cigarettes, he said goodbye to the villagers and headed back to the main road, where his team of matchmakers was waiting for him. As he sauntered off, his head held high, my dad turned back for one last look. Genzhu was staring at him with undisguised fury. Impotent, helpless fury. The two men locked eyes. My dad narrowed his, and looked daggers at the man who had recently threatened to kill him.