Boy in the Twilight Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Translation copyright © 2014 by Allan H. Barr

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House Companies. Originally published in China as Huanghun li de nanhai, by Xin Shijie Chubanshe (New World Press), Beijing, in 1999.

  Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Selected stories in this work first appeared in the following: “Their Son” in Another Kind of Paradise, edited by Trevor Carolan (Boston: Cheng & Tsui, 2009); “Friends” in Asia Literary Review (Summer 2008); “No Name of My Own” in Dimsum: Asia’s Literary Journal 10 (Spring 2005); “Victory” in The New Yorker (August 2013); “The Skipping-and-Stepping Game” in Persimmon: Asian Literature, Arts and Culture 4.2 (Summer 2003); “Appendix” and “Timid as a Mouse” in Words Without Borders (May 2004); “Timid as a Mouse” originally appeared in Chinese in Wo danxiao ru shu (Beijing: Xin Shijie Chubanshe, 1999).

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hua, Yu, [date]

  [Huanghun li de nanhai. English]

  Boy in the twilight : stories of the hidden China / Yu Hua; Translated from the Chinese by Allan H. Barr.

  p. cm.

  Originally published in Chinese as Huanghun li de nanhai.

  ISBN 978-0-307-37936-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-307-90864-3

  I. Barr, Allan Hepburn, translator. II. Title.

  PL2940. Y9H8313 2013 895.1′352—dc23 2013017450

  www.pantheonbooks.com

  Jacket image: Untitled, 2002, oil on paper, by Zhang Xiaogang.

  Courtesy of Pace Beijing.

  Jacket design by Linda Huang

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  NO NAME OF MY OWN

  BOY IN THE TWILIGHT

  WHY THERE WAS NO MUSIC

  VICTORY

  APPENDIX

  MID-AIR COLLISIONS

  ON THE BRIDGE

  SWELTERING SUMMER

  TIMID AS A MOUSE

  THEIR SON

  THE SKIPPING-AND-STEPPING GAME

  WHY DO I HAVE TO GET MARRIED?

  FRIENDS

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Other Books by This Author

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  Yu Hua published his first short story in 1983, when he was twenty-three. In the ebb and flow of his writing career since then, the early and mid-1990s stand out as an especially productive phase. Within the space of a few short years he completed a trio of novels—Cries in the Drizzle, To Live, and Chronicle of a Blood Merchant—that firmly established him as a major figure in the Chinese literary scene. The reputation of these books, particularly To Live, which was soon adapted for the screen by Zhang Yimou, has tended to overshadow the short fiction that Yu Hua published during this same period. But the stories collected here, all written between 1993 and 1998, represent a distinctive body of work in their own way. Written in a spare, minimalist style, they sketch vignettes of everyday life in contemporary China, in keeping with the “popular realism” that characterizes To Live and Chronicle of a Blood Merchant. If there is a recurrent theme in Boy in the Twilight, it is the fractures and fluidities in human relationships during the reform era in China: marriages in crisis collapse or rebound, friendships are cemented or betrayed, in a precarious world where events may take an unexpected turn at any time. Yet Yu Hua does not entirely abandon the unorthodox stance of his earlier fiction, and comic absurdity rubs shoulders with tragedy as these stories unfold.

  NO NAME OF MY OWN

  One day, as I crossed the bridge with my carrying-pole on my shoulder, I heard someone say that Pug-nose Xu Asan had died, so I laid down my baskets and took the towel that I wore around my neck and rubbed the sweat off my face while I listened to them talk about how it had happened, how Pug-nose Xu Asan choked to death eating New Year cake. I’d heard of someone choking to death on a peanut, but choking to death on New Year cake was a first as far as I knew. It was then they called me. “Xu Asan … Hey, Pug-nose …”

  When I looked at the ground and went “Mm,” they burst out laughing.

  “What have you got in your hand?” they asked.

  I looked at my hand. “Towel,” I said.

  There were gales of laughter. “What are you doing to your face?” someone asked.

  “Rubbing the sweat off,” I said.

  I don’t know why they were so happy. They were laughing so hard they swayed back and forth like reeds in the wind. “Wow, he can even say ‘sweat’!” one of them spluttered, hand on his belly.

  Another man was leaning back against the railing. “Xu Asan! Pug-nose Asan!” he cried.

  Twice he said that, so I went “Mm” twice, too. “Who is Xu Asan?” he asked, clutching his gut.

  I looked at him, and then at the other people next to him. Their mouths were gaping—their eyes too. “Yeah, who is Pug-nose Xu Asan?” they asked.

  “Xu Asan is dead,” I said.

  Their goggling eyes blinked shut, but their mouths opened even wider. How loudly they laughed—louder still than the clang of iron in the smithy. A couple of them sat down on the ground, and after laughing helplessly for a while one asked me with a gasp, “Xu Asan is dead. So who are you?”

  Who am I? I watched as they laughed fit to bust, unsure how to answer. I’ve got no name of my own, but as soon as I walk in the street I’ve got more names than anybody else. Whatever they want to call me, that’s who I am. If they’re sneezing when they run into me, they call me Sneeze; if they’re coming out of the toilet, they call me Bum-wipe; when they want my attention, they call me Over-here; when they wave me away, they call me Clear-off … then there’s Old Dog, Skinny Pig, and whatnot. Whatever they call me I answer to, because I’ve got no name of my own. All they need to do is take a few steps in my direction, look at me and call out a greeting, and I answer right away.

  I thought of what to say. What people call me most often is Hey! So, hoping this was a good answer, I said, “I am … Hey!”

  Their eyes widened. “Who are you?” they asked.

  Perhaps I’d said the wrong thing. I looked at them, not daring to say more.

  “Eh, what’s that?” one asked again. “Who did you say you were?”

  I shook my head. “I am … Hey.”

  They looked at each other and laughed, ha ha ha. I stood there and watched them laughing, and I began to laugh myself. People who were crossing the bridge saw us all laughing so loudly, and they joined in. Someone wearing a bright-colored shirt called out to me, “Hey!”

  “Mm,” I went.

  The man in the bright shirt pointed at someone else. “Did you go to bed with his wife?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Mm.”

  The other man started cursing. “You son of a bitch!”

  Then he pointed at the man in the bright shirt. “You had a good time in bed with his wife, didn’t you?” he said.

  I nodded. “Mm.”

  Everybody had a big laugh. They often asked me this kind of thing, or asked if I’d slept with somebody’s mother. Many years ago, when Mr. Chen was still alive—before Mr. Chen died, like Pug-nose Xu Asan—Mr. Chen, standing under the eaves, pointed his finger at me. “The way you people carry on,” he said, “don’t you realize you just end up making him look good?
If you’re to be believed, it would take several truckloads to carry all the women he’s gone to bed with.”

  As I watched them laughing, I remembered what Mr. Chen said. “I went to bed with both your wives,” I told them.

  When they heard this, their smiles vanished right away and they stared at me. In a moment the man in the bright shirt came over, raised his fist, and hit me so hard my ears were buzzing for minutes afterward.

  When Mr. Chen was still alive, he would often sit behind the counter of the pharmacy. There was a huge array of open or unopened little drawers behind his head and he would hold a little set of scales in those long, thin hands of his. Sometimes Mr. Chen would walk to the door of the pharmacy, and seeing me answer to any name I was called, he would say something. He would say, “It’s such a sin, what you people are doing, and still you get a kick out of it. There’ll be a price to pay sooner or later. Everybody has a name, and he’s got one too, his name is Laifa.”

  When Mr. Chen mentioned my name, when he said I was Laifa, my heart would skip a beat. I remember when my dad was alive, how he’d sit on the threshold and tell me things. “Laifa,” he’d say, “bring the teapot over here.”

  “Laifa, now you’re five …”

  “Laifa, here’s a satchel for you.”

  “Laifa, you’re ten already, but still in first grade, damn it.”

  “Laifa, forget about school, help your dad carry coal.”

  “Laifa, just another few years and you’ll be as strong as I am.”

  “Laifa, your dad’s not got long to live, not long now—the doctor says I’ve got a tumor in my lung.”

  “Laifa, don’t cry. Laifa, when I’m gone you won’t have your mom, or your dad either.”

  “Laifa, Lai … fa, Lai …, Lai … fa, … Laifa, your dad is dying … Laifa, feel here, your dad is getting stiff … Laifa, look, your dad’s looking at you …”

  After my dad died, I made my rounds and walked the streets, delivering coal to people all around town. “Laifa, where’s your dad?” they would ask.

  “He died,” I said.

  They would chuckle. “Laifa, what about your mom?”

  “She died,” I said.

  “Laifa, are you a halfwit?”

  I nodded. “I’m a halfwit.”

  When my dad was alive, he would say to me, “Laifa, you’re a simpleton. You were in school for three years, but you still can’t recognize a single character. Laifa, it’s not your fault, it’s your mom’s fault. When she was giving birth, she squeezed your head too tight. Laifa, it’s not your mom’s fault either. Your head was too big, you were the death of her …”

  “LAIFA, HOW DID YOUR MOM DIE?” they asked.

  “She died in childbirth,” I said.

  “Which child was that?” they asked.

  “Me,” I said.

  “How did she give birth to you?” they asked again.

  “With one foot in the coffin,” I said.

  Hearing this, they would laugh a good long time. “What about the other foot?”

  I wasn’t sure about the other foot. Mr. Chen didn’t tell me—all he said was, when a woman gives birth she has one foot in the coffin. He didn’t say where she puts the other one.

  “HEY, WHO’S YOUR DADDY?” they shouted.

  “My daddy died,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” they said, “your daddy’s alive and well.”

  I looked at them, eyes wide. They came over, close to me, and whispered in my ear. “I’m your daddy.”

  I looked down and thought for a moment. “Mm,” I went.

  “Am I your daddy?” they asked.

  I nodded. “Mm.”

  I heard them chortle. Mr. Chen came over. “Pay no attention to them,” he said. “You’ve only got one dad. Everybody’s only got one dad. If people had lots of different dads, how would their moms manage?”

  · · ·

  AFTER MY DAD DIED, the people in the town, no matter how old they were—the men, I mean—practically all of them told me they were my dad. With so many dads, I started having lots of names, and I didn’t have enough fingers in the evening to count all the new names they gave me during the day.

  Only Mr. Chen still called me Laifa. Every time I saw Mr. Chen and heard him call my name, my heart would skip a beat. Mr. Chen would stand in the doorway of the pharmacy, watching me with his hands inside his sleeves, and I would stand there and look at him back. Sometimes it made me snicker. After a while Mr. Chen would wave me away, saying, “Off you go. Look, you’ve still got a load of coal on your back.”

  One time, I didn’t go off. I just stood there. “Mr. Chen,” I went.

  Mr. Chen’s hands came out of his sleeves and he stared at me. “What did you call me?”

  My heart was thumping. Mr. Chen came over. “What did you say just now?”

  “Mr. Chen,” I said.

  He smiled. “You’re not so dumb, after all,” he said. “You know to call me Mr. Chen, Laifa.”

  He called my name again and I smiled just as Mr. Chen had done. “Do you know that Laifa is your name?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Let me hear you say it.”

  “Laifa,” I said quietly.

  That made Mr. Chen laugh very hard, and I opened my mouth and joined in. After a little more laughing, Mr. Chen said, “Laifa, from now on, unless people call you Laifa, just don’t answer them, do you understand?”

  I smiled. “I understand,” I said.

  Mr. Chen nodded. Then, looking at me, he called, “Mr. Chen.”

  “Mm,” I went.

  “When I call my own name, why do you answer?”

  I didn’t know Mr. Chen was calling his own name. I thought it was funny, so I smiled. He shook his head. “You’re still a simpleton, it seems.”

  MR. CHEN DIED a long time ago, and Pug-nose Xu Asan died just a few days ago, and a lot of people died in between. People around the same age as Xu Asan have white hair and white beards, and these days I often hear them saying they’ll soon be dead, so I think I’ll be dead myself soon, too. They tell me I’m older than Pug-nose Xu Asan. “Hey, idiot,” they say, “who’s going to collect your body once you’re dead?”

  I shake my head. I really don’t know who’s going to bury me once I’m dead. I ask them who will bury them when they’re dead, and they say, “We’ve got sons and grandsons, wives too. Our wives aren’t dead yet. What about you? Have you got sons? Have you got grandsons? You don’t even have a wife.”

  I said nothing. I haven’t got any of those people, so I put my load on my back and went on my way. But Xu Asan had all those people. The day that Pug-nose Xu Asan was cremated, I saw his son and grandson and all the women weeping and wailing as they walked along the street. I followed them to the crematorium with my empty load on my back. It was a lively scene all the way, and I thought how nice it would be if I had a son and a grandson and other family. I walked along next to Xu Asan’s grandson. The kid was crying louder than anyone, but he asked me as he wept, “Hey, am I your daddy?”

  PEOPLE ABOUT THE SAME AGE as me are tired of being my dad now. They used to give me all kinds of names, but sooner or later they put the question to me point-blank, they ask me what my name is. They say, “What is your name? When you die, we want to know who it is has died … Think about it: when Xu Asan died, all we needed to do was to say Xu Asan died, and everyone would understand, but what do we say when you die? You’ve got no name at all.”

  I know what my name is. My name is Laifa. It used to be that Mr. Chen was the only person who remembered my name, and once he died, nobody knew my name. Now they all want to know what I’m called, but I won’t tell them. They roar with laughter and they say: An idiot is just an idiot pure and simple. He’s an idiot in life and an idiot when he’s lying dead in his coffin.

  I know I’m an idiot. I know I’m getting old and will die soon. Sometimes I think: It’s true what they say. I don’t have a son or a grandson, and when I die nobody will weep and w
ail and see me off to my cremation. I still don’t have a name of my own, and once I’m dead they won’t know who has died.

  These days I often think of that dog I used to have, that skinny little dog that later grew up to be big and strong. They used to call it Dummy, too. I knew they were cursing it when they called it Dummy. I didn’t call it that. I called it Hey.

  In those days streets weren’t as wide as they are now, and houses weren’t as tall. Mr. Chen would stand in the doorway of the pharmacy. His hair was still black then. Even Pug-nose Xu Asan was young in those days. It was before he was married. “A man like me, in his twenties …,” he would say.

  But my dad was dead. I had been delivering coal on my own for years by then. As I walked along the street, I’d often see that dog, so small and skinny, mouth open, tongue hanging out, licking this and that, wet all over. I’d seen it around a lot, so when Pug-nose Xu Asan lifted it up and showed it to me that time, I recognized it right away. Xu Asan had stopped me in the street. He and a few other people were standing outside his house, and Xu Asan said, “Hey, do you want to get married?”

  I stood on the other side of the street and watched them snickering, and I snickered myself. “The dummy wants a woman,” they said. “He smiled.”

  “Do you want to get married or not?” Xu Asan asked.

  “What for?” I said.

  “What for? To live with you … sleep with you, have meals with you … Would you like that or not?”

  I nodded. That’s when they brought out the dog. Xu Asan picked it up by the scruff of its neck and thrust it toward me. Its four legs were scrabbling around and it was barking madly. “Hey, hurry up and take her. She’s yours,” he said.

  They stood there, roaring with laughter. “Come on, dummy! Come and collect your mate.”

  I shook my head. “That’s no woman.”

  Xu Asan shouted at me, “If it’s not a woman, what is it?”

  “It’s a dog, it’s a puppy,” I said.

  They roared with laughter. “This dummy knows about dogs … He knows about puppies.”

  “Rubbish.” Xu Asan glared at me. “This is a female, look here …”