Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“Of course she’s a true Buddhist adept,” Zhuang said with a laugh. “I’ve always been worried that you’ll ruin that for her.”

Meng laughed but said nothing. Troubled by something, Zhuang nearly rode the scooter into a roadside ditch. He was thinking of Huiming in her gold-foiled cassock. When they reached the north gate, Zhuang was surprised to see railroad tracks. “Isn’t this Daobei?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Where’s Shangxian Road?”

“Go east after you we pass through the gate. It’s not far.”

“Good. I’ll take you to meet a woman I know.”

“So you keep a woman here,” Meng said.

“You and your dirty mouth,” Zhuang said, before telling him about Zhong Weixian and Ah-lan’s address. “Now that we’re here, why not ask her if the letter has been posted and find out how things are in Suzhou.”

Meng praised Zhuang for his thoughtfulness. They soon reached Shangxian Road and turned down Puji Lane.

They had no idea that people from Henan congregated on the west side of Shangxian Road. The moment they entered Puji Lane, they felt as if they were in the passageway of a large building — both sides of the street were packed with houses tall and short, with either one or two rooms. Cooking stoves, earthen vats for water storage, and trash baskets were lined up under each windowsill, which made it difficult for passersby to avoid bumping into things. The street was too narrow for three people to walk shoulder to shoulder; in fact, you had to turn sideways when passing another pedestrian, and you were so close you could smell a cigarette or garlic on the other person’s breath. Zhuang looked for a safe place to park the scooter. “Put it over there, it’ll be fine,” an old woman playing cards at the entrance said. “Thieves don’t come here. This isn’t Xijing.”

“That’s strange. Does a police chief live here?”

“Police chief? Not even a regular policeman would want to live here,” she said. “See how narrow the lane is? Where’s a thief going to hide with all the facing doors and windows? And then there’s us. We have a card table on this end of the lane and a mahjong table on the other. How’s a thief going to get out?”

“A lane of people like one big family. That’s wonderful,” Zhuang said. “Do you know where a sister of Ah-lan lives? She’s from Anhui.”

“Anhui? We don’t have anyone from Anhui.”

“Isn’t Mu Jiaren’s wife from Anhui?” a second woman offered.

“Why didn’t you say she’s the wife of someone from Henan? Of course we know Mu Jiaren’s wife. She has a sister who’s been staying with her for quite some time. They’re the two flowers of this lane. Where are you from? Are you relatives or old school friends?”

“Coworkers,” Meng said.

“Number 27. Don’t forget. It’s 27, next door to 29. Don’t walk into the wrong house. There are newlyweds in 29. They’re in bed now, and wouldn’t be happy for you to walk in on them.”

They started off down the lane, laughing.

“The Mu family is very strange,” the old woman’s voice followed them. “The men in every generation are simpletons, but the wives keep getting prettier.”

The heat was like a steam bath as they walked along checking house numbers. They spotted a half-naked woman with shriveled breasts, tangled hair, and signs of prickly heat on her forehead, which was covered by a thick layer of white face powder. She was standing in front of a window with tightly drawn drapes.

“Ah-gui, are you dead, Ah-gui?” she called out, but no sound emerged from inside until a woman replied, “Ah-ah-ah-gui-is-not-not-in-in-in!”

Zhuang was puzzled by the response. Then the woman outside said, “Oh, you say Ah-gui is out? How can that be? Why did you have the drapes closed? Aren’t you afraid you’ll get prickly heat on your bellies? Oh, well, go back to what you’re doing. I’m going home. When you’re done, have Ah-gui lend me some yam paste to make noodles.”

Zhuang realized why the woman inside had talked in that voice, and the realization brought a smile to his face. They walked out to the middle of the lane, where they saw a man squatting outside number 27 doing laundry.

“Is this number 27?” Zhuang asked.

“It is.”

“Does Ah-lan live here?”

The man looked up at them. Just then a voice came from inside the house: “Who’s that out there? Yes, Ah-lan lives here.”

The man nudged his basin aside to let them pass. They went in and saw a large bed, on which sat a woman in pajamas who was clipping her toenails. She had small, slender, pretty feet with red nail polish. She looked up. It wasn’t Ah-lan. Meng took out his card and handed it to her. “This is Zhuang Zhidie, the writer. He knows Ah-lan.”

The woman slipped off the bed and looked almost furtively at Zhuang before crying out, “Ai-ya! How could such an important person be here in our house today?” She picked up a shirt and hastily put it on. “Please, have a seat. Jiaren, come see who’s here. Why are you standing there? Hurry, bring some water. This is my husband.”

Mu Jiaren, his hands covered in soapsuds, turned and smiled, displaying very white teeth against a very dark face.

“Just look at this husband of mine. All he knows how to do is wash and scrub at home. Totally worthless. Please don’t laugh at us.”

Mu blushed, adding a red tint to his dark face. Embarrassed, he could only stammer, “You won’t do the washing, so I have to.”

“Listen to you,” the woman said. “If you were as talented as Mr. Zhuang, I’d wait on you day and night so you could write. You wouldn’t have to worry about a speck of dust.”

“Do you really think I’m that special?” Zhuang said. “I often cook and do the washing at home.”

“That’s ridiculous. If so, it’s your wife’s fault. Housework might wear her out, but physical fatigue is nothing compared with mental exhaustion.”

Mu Jiaren brought them tea and moved with a smile to the side, where he sat while his wife waved a fan to create a breeze for her guests, complaining that their house was too small and that they had no electric fan. Her husband, a draftsman for the city’s construction brigade, often worked at their table while their child did his homework on her sewing machine table. An electric fan would have blown everything all over the place. Zhuang took the fan from her to cool himself, since it embarrassed him for her to do it.

“So you’re looking for Ah-lan,” she said. “I’m her second sister, Ah-can. She told me what happened when she got back that day, but I didn’t believe her. Where did she find the luck to meet a celebrity like you? When she took the letter out, I had to believe her. She said your wife gave it to her for me to send to our elder sister. Why did you want her to send it back to Xijing?”

Zhuang told her the story behind the letter. “Any news from Suzhou?” he asked.

“My sister wrote to say that a woman named Xue Ruimei, a teacher at a middle school, had been labeled a Rightist for decades. She died three years after she was rehabilitated.”

Zhuang’s heart ached at the news, for she had been Zhong Weixian’s moral support all these years. Zhong would surely fall apart if he knew she was no longer alive. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Yunfang. And you, too, Ah-can, please keep it a secret. Even a passing comment could kill Mr. Zhong. Obviously I’ll have to keep writing to him as Xue Ruimei and ask you to send my letters to your sister for her to send back with her address on a new envelope. Otherwise he would keep writing to Xue’s old address. His previous letters must have been lost, since they weren’t returned. He’d be suspicious if his letters were returned again.”