Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

Zhuang acknowledged her gesture by laying a portion on her plate. “This is the best part,” he said. “You have to eat it.”

Wan’er looked down and saw that he had given her the head — dark, long, and frighteningly ugly. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; his expression gave nothing away. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and began sucking loudly. When Zhuang glanced her way, she blushed.

Xia Jie saw what was happening and was about to make a snide comment when Zhuang spoke up first. “Hey, I’ve got the pin bone!”

“Good luck seems to follow Zhidie,” Xia Jie said. “Last New Year’s I wrapped a coin in one of the dumplings I was making, and no one got it. Then he showed up. I tried to give him a plate of dumplings, but he said no. Finally I got him to try one, and, sure enough, that was the one with the coin.”

Wan’er swallowed the turtle’s head as the redness faded from her face. Not wanting to look at Xia Jie, she went into the kitchen to prepare the pork and shredded tofu.

As Zhuang drank, his head felt heavier and heavier. With the clatter of cooking in the kitchen, he said,” I can’t stand it here with that aroma in the air. I must go see what she’s doing.”

“What’s there to see?” Xia Jie said. “If you really want to see, get her to make it for you at your place. For now, sit there and let me toast you in thanks for your willingness to watch my new dance routine.”

With a smile, Zhuang accepted the toast, but he sneaked a look past the open door to the kitchen, where Wan’er was busy at the stove.

After slicing the pork, Wan’er turned on the gas stove, and as the flames popped, she let her thoughts roam. She placed a small mirror on the chopping board, which allowed her to see Zhuang in the other room. As far as looks go, he can’t be considered handsome, but it’s strange how after only just meeting him, I find him so appealing, looking better by the minute. Back home in Tongguan, Zhou Min impressed me as a smart, capable man who had some talent. But Xijing is, after all, Xijing, and next to him, Zhou Min merely looks clever . By this point in her reverie, the oil had turned hot, and she hurried to dump in the tofu. But she mistakenly tossed in some wet ginger. Pow! Hot oil spurted out of the pan and spattered on her face. “Ow!” she cried out, dropping into a crouch in front of the stove.

At the sound of the cry, Zhou Min rushed in, pulled her hands away, and saw that her face was already beginning to blister. She grabbed the mirror and burst into tears when she saw herself. The others asked what had happened. “It’s nothing; a little oil spattered on her face,” Zhou Min answered as he led her into the bedroom and applied some ointment.

“Women these days are only good at having babies,” Meng Yunfang said.

“Don’t talk like that,” Xia Jie chided him. “I haven’t given you one yet.” They laughed as Meng went into the kitchen.

“This is awful,” Wan’er whispered. “I can’t go out like this.”

“Don’t be silly,” Zhou Min assured her, “Zhuang Laoshi won’t care about something like that. I was surprised the first time I saw him. Remember I told you about that fellow who sucked milk right from a cow’s teats? Well, that was him.”

“Not caring for him isn’t the same as not caring for you and me,” she said. “For you it means being a slob, but for him it’s more like poise.”

Zhou Min went back to join the others. He split the chicken open and placed the head on Zhuang’s plate. Zhuang in turn picked up a drumstick and laid it on Xia Jie’s plate. Then he placed a wing on a plate and told Zhou Min to take it in to Tang Wan’er.

“Wan’er,” Zhou Min said, “come out here. Zhuang Laoshi has put food aside for you.”

She walked out of the bedroom. “I’m sorry, everyone,” she said, keeping a hand over her face out of embarrassment.

“Sorry about what?” Xia Jie asked.

“It’s disrespectful to show a blistered face,” she said.

This woman is quite the flirt , Zhuang was thinking.

“With skin as fair as yours,” Meng Yunfang said with a laugh, “a few blisters just make for another slight imperfection.”

Wan’er sat down, the redness on her face refusing to retreat. She responded to Zhuang’s gaze with a shy smile. Thanks to all the alcohol, his mind was beginning to reel. He excused himself to visit the toilet. By the time he was inside and had shut the door behind him, he had an erection. He couldn’t pee, not now, and with his eyes shut, he was breathing heavily, an array of fantasies coursing through his head. With the arrival of the ejaculate, his head cleared a bit. He returned to the table and resumed eating, though he was no longer in such an upbeat mood.

The meal was over at four in the afternoon. Zhuang stood to say goodbye, telling Zhou Min, who tried to get him to stick around, that he had important business to discuss with Ruan Zhifei. So Zhou saw him out to the intersection and returned home, where he found Wan’er still leaning against the doorframe. She apparently didn’t hear him when he called her name. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked. He saw that the blister had flattened out a bit and was forming a scab.

“I didn’t embarrass myself today, did I?” she asked with a pout when she regained her composure.

“Not a bit,” he said. “You looked wonderful.” He gave her a kiss. She let him, but didn’t kiss him back. “Everyone had a good time,” she said. “It was perfect. I’m just sorry that Zhuang Laoshi’s wife couldn’t make it.”

“According to Meng Laoshi,” Zhou said, “she stays home to take care of her ailing mother.”

“Xia Jie says she’s a real beauty.”

“That’s what people say. But you wouldn’t expect Zhuang Zhidie to marry an ugly woman, would you?”

Wan’er sighed and went inside to sit on her bed, where she lost herself in her thoughts.

. . .

Instead of returning to the Literary Federation compound that night, Zhuang accepted Ruan Zhifei’s invitation to join the municipal leadership in reviewing a new program, helping to rewrite the script. When he got there, the actors roped him into a card game. It was late when he got up to leave, but Ruan talked him into going home with him to have a couple more drinks. He also wanted to show off his newly decorated apartment. Once there, Zhuang took no notice of that; he just drank and drank, recalling how he had once thought of Ruan as the dissolute head of an acting troupe, a leading figure in dramatic circles who had organized the troupe, and who was always surrounded by pretty girls. In reality, his actresses were like green persimmons, far from mature, and none had a face like Tang Wan’er’s. He thought back to all that had happened earlier that day, and was pleased by how he had overindulged. He knew that Ruan’s wife was not home. He was like the man who brought firewood home; she was like the woman who burned it. They had agreed not to interfere in each other’s private life, the one condition being that they would spend Saturday nights together. So Zhuang took off his shirt and let the liquor flow, talking about everything under the sun until he was too drunk to keep going. Then he climbed onto an extra bed, where he snored the night away.

Sunlight was streaming in through the window when they awoke the following morning, and Zhuang was impressed to see how nicely Ruan had decorated his apartment. He proudly revealed that the wallpaper was imported from France, the tea-colored window glass made in Italy. He’d bought thirty-seven laminated decorative panels from Shanghai, which still wasn’t quite enough. He took Zhuang into the bathroom to show off his tub, into the kitchen to show him the liquid gas stove, and into two small rooms to see the modular cabinets. One door off the living room was locked. “My wife’s room,” Ruan explained. “Wait till you see the unique Japanese chandelier.” He took out a key and unlocked the door. Zhuang could not believe his eyes. Two people were fast asleep on a king-sized Simmons mattress: one was Ruan’s wife, the other a man with slobber on his cheek. Zhuang had never seen him before and wondered if he was dreaming, but he heard Ruan say, “That’s my wife… when did she get home? We were so sound asleep we didn’t hear them come in.” Zhuang did not know what to say, but he thought he was expected to say something. The more he tried, the more he was unable to think of anything.