Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“I don’t want any roasted chicken. I want tongue.”

“You’re so bad. I’m not going to give you any.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “We can’t today,” she said softly. “He’ll be back soon. He said the magazine is sending him on an overnight trip to Xianyang to help sell the latest issue. An order from on high told them to destroy all copies of the magazine. About eighty percent were sold to retailers, so they’re sending people out of town to help sell the rest and avoid a huge loss of revenue.”

“When will he be back?”

“Tomorrow around noon. I said, ‘Why not spend another day in Xianyang and take in the sights?’ but he said it was Mr. Zhong’s idea, and that could cause problems if people in the Department of Culture got wind of it.”

“This is a godsend. Come to room 13 on the fifth floor in the building to the left of the nunnery. I’ll wait for you there.”

“Whose house is that?”

“Ours when we’re there.” He got up to leave. After he left, she washed the coffee mug and hastily put her stuff in a bag before searching in the wardrobe for her new skirt.

. . .

At dinner that night, Liu Yue said to Niu Yueqing, “Is Zhuang Laoshi really not coming home again tonight?”

“He can go wherever he likes over the next few days. Meng Yunfang is such a show-off that your Zhuang Laoshi has to spend the night whenever he’s there.”

“Does Meng Laoshi have a big enough place for that?”

“Who cares?” Niu Yueqing sighed. “We’ve run into some bad luck this year, with all sorts of unpleasant things. His birthday is next Wednesday. In our family, we only celebrate my mother’s birthday. But this year I’ve been thinking about a celebration. Maybe the festivity of a birthday party can wash away the bad luck.”

Sensing Niu Yueqing’s determination, Liu Yue added her thoughts: “It’s so weird. The magazine was only trying to promote Zhuang Laoshi, and Zhou Min wanted to repay his kindness. How could a simple article cause so much trouble with Jing Xueyin? Before that was over, he hurt his foot in a fall, but he has never had a single accident on his scooter. Most people recover quickly from something like that, but he hobbled for days and days. Then the trouble with the secretary-general came just when his foot was getting better. Don’t you think that’s weird? The old mistress’s odd behavior is nothing new, but Zhuang Laoshi has changed. He’s no longer as easygoing as when I first got here.”

“You need to understand that all these problems have put him in a bad mood. It’s normal for a writer to be moody. And he’s the sensitive type, which is why he can act like a child even in his forties. We’ve been married for over a decade, so I’m used to it. I’m just glad he doesn’t smoke opium or fool around outside, so we have to tolerate some of his problems at home. That day you and I wrongly accused him of infidelity because of the letter, he was boiling mad. But the angrier he got, the more secure I felt. Being married to someone like him, I have to be both wife and mother.”

A good wife, but a bit foolish, too , Liu said to herself. “People often say the wife is the last to know when her husband is having an affair,” she said to Niu Yueqing. “You’re his wife and his mother.” She smiled. “But you also have to be his daughter and his courtesan.”

“What nonsense is that? A wife is a wife. How can she be a courtesan? What kind of man would he be, and what kind of woman would that make me? If anyone outside heard what you just said, they’d surely look down on our family.”

Liu Yue stuck out her tongue and said, “I know nothing. Just some rubbish.”

“You know too much, and often what you shouldn’t know. You little tart, whoever marries you will be tormented to death within a year.”

After dinner, she told Liu to get a pen and paper to write out a guest list for the birthday party. When she finished, Niu Yueqing checked the list: Wang Ximian, Gong Jingyuan, Ruan Zhifei, Meng Yunfang, and Zhou Min and their wives, Zhao Jingwu, Hong Jiang, Niu Yueqing’s cousin and her husband, Mr. Wei, the deputy chair of the League of Writers and Artists, Ding at the Artists’ Association, Wang Laihong from the Dancers’ Association, Zhang Zhenghai of the Writers’ Association, as well as Mr. Zhong, Li Hongwen, and Gou Dahai from the magazine. More than two tables.

“Will the banquet be held at a restaurant or here at home? I can’t cook for that many people.”

“The ambience at home is better,” Niu Yueqing said, “and of course you won’t have to cook. My cousin’s husband is a chef who will do the cooking, while old Meng can take care of the noodles and buns. You and I will take handle the invitations and the shopping.”

They proceeded to look up everyone’s number in the phone book and wrote them all down for Liu Yue to call; Niu Yueqing would personally invite those without phones. Then they moved on to the shopping list for food, cigarettes, and liquor, as well as utensils and a coal-burning stove that needed to be purchased.

A melodious call sounded beyond the door: “Junkman! Collecting junk and scraps!”

“The junkman is here, Dajie. Let’s sell him the empty bottles and old newspaper under the rear window so the house will look neat and clean when the guests arrive.”

Niu Yueqing nodded and went with her to bring out the scrap. In the light from the streetlamp at the entrance, they saw the old junkman lying face-up on the straw mat in his cart smoking, clearly enjoying himself as he puffed and blew smoke rings.

“Isn’t it a bit late to be collecting scrap?” Niu Yueqing asked.

Without looking at her, he blew a smoke ring and said, “It’s late, have any scrap?”

Liu Yue burst out laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” Niu Yueqing chided. “Silly girl.”

“We have so many worries, but look at him, he’s enjoying life. I’ve heard he’s good at making up doggerel. Let’s ask him to sing.” She turned to the old man, “Hey, sing for us and we’ll sell you this scrap cheap.”

Still ignoring the women, he exhaled a column of smoke that rose up to the streetlight, where it dispersed like a cloud and highlighted mosquitoes.

“You sleep on a springy mattress, but it feels like a straw mat; I sleep on a straw mat, but it feels like a springy mattress. Two cranes soar in the clouds.”

Liu Yue chattered something in response to the strange words.

“Be more serious, Liu Yue,” Niu Yueqing said. She turned to the old man. “You’ve worked hard today. Where will you stay tonight?”

“I stay where the wind stays.”

“It’s late. Have you eaten?” Niu Yueqing asked.

“What you ate I ate.”

“Go inside and bring out a couple of buns, Liu Yue.”

Reluctantly, she went inside. Without thanking her or stopping the girl, the old man jumped off his cart to weigh the scrap and counted out the money. Niu Yueqing wouldn’t take it, but he kept counting.

“Everyone says you’re good at making up doggerel, old uncle. I have a favor to ask,” Yueqing said. He abruptly stopped counting. Seeing that he was listening, she gave him a brief description of her husband, who worked on cultural propaganda and had had an article published to help someone one out during the People’s Congress election. The former chair was not reelected, and now people were plotting against him. She wondered if the old man could come up with something to spread around that would help her husband appeal the injustice. He did not respond. Liu Yue came out with the buns and handed them to the old man, who offered the coins with one hand and took the buns with the other. Niu Yueqing still would not take his money, so the coins littered the ground as he left with his cart. Niu Yueqing sighed, wishing she hadn’t wasted an explanation on him, but just as she was about to enter the yard, she heard the old man reciting words, one by one, from the far end of the dim alley.