To Live

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  TO LIVE

  TRANSLATOR’S AFTERWORD

  Acknowledgments

  AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT

  About the Author

  ALSO BY YU HUA

  Copyright Page

  TO LIVE

  When I was ten years younger than I am now, I had the carefree job of going to the countryside to collect popular folk songs. That year, for the entire summer, I was like a sparrow soaring recklessly. I would wander amid the village houses and the open country, which was full of cicadas and flooded with sunlight. I had a special affection for that bitter tea that farmers brew. There would always be a bucket of just that kind of tea under a tree by the ridge between the fields, and without a second thought I would ladle out enough to fill my tea-stained bowl. Once I’d filled it to the brim, I’d start bullshitting with some of the male workers. The girls would whisper among themselves and then stifle their chuckles as I’d swagger o f. I once spent a whole afternoon talking with an old man who kept a melon patch. I ate more melons that day than I ever had in my life. When I stood up to leave, I suddenly realized that I had as much difficulty walking as a pregnant woman. Later that day, I sat on the porch with a woman who had already become a grandmother. As she weaved a pair of straw sandals she sang “Ten Month Pregnancy” for me. What I loved most was sitting before the peasants’ houses just as dusk fell. As the sun’s rays came down through the delicate branches, I would watch the peasants pour well water onto the ground, cooling the hot dust and sand. Holding the fan they passed over to me, I would try the pickled vegetables, which always tasted like salt. I would watch the girls and talk with the men.

  I wore a wide-brimmed straw hat on my head and a pair of slippers on my feet. A towel hung down from my belt behind me; I made it look like a tail patting me on the butt as I walked. All day my mouth was wide open as I yawned, strolling aimlessly through the narrow trails that wove between the fields. My slippers made a funny sound, “ba da ba da,” as the dust along the trail went flying upward. It was as if a truck had sped by.

  I’d wander all over the place, not even remembering which villages I’d been to and which I hadn’t. As I’d approach the next country village, I’d often hear the children yelling, “Hey, that guy who always yawns is back!”

  And so the people in the village knew that the man who told dirty stories and sang sad songs had come back again. Actually I learned all those dirty stories and sad songs from them. I knew everything that interested them, and naturally this was also what interested me. I once came across an old man with a bloody nose and a swollen face sitting atop the ridge crying. His sadness filled his entire body. When he saw me coming he looked up, and his weeping grew louder. I asked him who beat him like this, and, scraping the mud off his pants with his fingernail, he told me with anger that it was that ungrateful son of his. When I asked him why, he kept beating around the bush but wouldn’t explain. I immediately surmised that the old man must have been putting the moves on his daughter-in-law. Then on another occasion, I was hurrying on my way at night when the glow of my flashlight fell upon a pair of naked bodies beside a pond. One was pressing against the other. When I shined my light on them, except for a hand scratching a thigh, the two bodies lay absolutely still. I quickly turned off my light and got out of there. One afternoon during the height of the farming season, hoping to get a drink of water, I walked into a house whose doors had been left wide open. A man wearing shorts and looking quite flustered stopped me and led me outside to a well. He eagerly hoisted up a bucket of water for me from the well, then like a rat scurried back into his house. These were all common occurrences, almost as common as the folk songs I heard. When I gazed at the green earth that surrounded me, I came closer to understanding why the crops here grew so vigorously.

  That summer I almost fell in love. I met an enchanting young girl, and even today her dark complexion glitters and radiates before my eyes. When I saw her, her pants were cuffed up high as she sat on the grass beside the river. Watching over a flock of large, plump ducks, she held a bamboo pole to prod them and keep them together. This timid sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl spent a scorching afternoon with me. Every time she smiled she would lower her head in embarrassment. I noticed how she secretly rolled her pants back down and hid her bare feet in the thick grass. That afternoon I spoke endlessly and irresponsibly of my plans to take her away to see the world. She was both frightened and pleased. At the time I was in quite high spirits and very sincere about what I said. During that short time with her, I was overcome by a bliss that extended throughout my body and soul—never once did I stop to think about tomorrow. Only later when her three brothers, each of whom was built like an ox, approached, did I start to get scared. I felt the best thing for me to do would be to get out of there—the faster the better—that is, unless I wanted to end up really marrying their little sister.

  It was just as summer arrived that I met an old man named Fugui. That afternoon I made my way over to a tall tree with lush foliage to get some relief from the blistering sun. The cotton in the fields had already been harvested. A few women wearing scarves were collecting the cotton stalks—every now and then their asses would wiggle as they removed the mud from the stalk roots. I took off my straw hat and, reaching for the towel behind me, wiped the sweat from my face. Next to me there was a pond, which had turned golden under the radiance of the sun. As I sat against the tree trunk facing the pond, I suddenly felt like I needed a nap. I lay down on the grass under the shade of the tree. Covering my face with my straw hat and using my backpack as a pillow, I closed my eyes.

  This “me” of ten years before lay down amid the leaves and long grass and slept for two whole hours. During this time a few ants crawled up my leg, but even in my deep sleep my finger accurately flicked them o f. I felt as if I had come to a shore, and the echoing shouts of an old man poling a bamboo raft seemed to reach my ears from far away. I awakened from my dream, and the voice calling out was actually crisp and clear. After I turned around I saw an old man in one of the nearby fields patiently trying to coax an old ox into working.

  The ox, probably already exhausted from plowing the field, stubbornly lowered his head and refused to move. The bare-chested old man leaned on the plough behind his beast, seemingly frustrated by the ox’s attitude. I heard his bright voice say to the ox, “Oxen plough the fields, dogs watch over the house, monks beg for alms, chickens call at the break of day and women do the weaving. Have you ever heard of an ox that didn’t plough the land? This is a truth that has been with us since ancient times. Come on, let’s go.”

  The weary old ox, after hearing the old man’s lesson, raised his head as if admitting his mistake. Pulling the plow, he began to move forward.

  I noticed the old man’s back was just as black as the ox’s. Even though the pair had already entered the twilight of their lives, they still managed to noisily plough the rugged land, the earth breaking up like a wave crashing on the shore. Afterward I heard the old man’s hoarse yet moving voice sing an old folk song. First he sang a long introductory melody, then came two lines of verse:

  The emperor beckons me; he wants me to marry his daughter. The road to the capital is long and distant; I don’t want her.

  Because the journey is long, he is unwilling to be the emperor’s son-in-law. The way the old man seemed to relish his own cleverness made me burst out laughing. The ox seemed to be slowing up, so the old man once again began to urge him on, “Erxi, Youqing, come on, let’s not be lazy. Jiazhen and Fengxia are doing a good job. Hell, even Kugen does okay.”

  Just how many different names can one ox have? My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to the edge of the field. As I approached the old man I asked him, “How many names does
this ox have?”

  The old man, using the plow to support himself, straightened up. After looking me over he asked, “You a city boy?”

  “Uh huh,” I nodded.

  The old man seemed pleased with himself. “I could tell right away.”

  “Just how many names does this ox have?” I repeated.

  “He’s got only one,” the old man replied. “He’s called Fugui.”

  “But just now you called him a whole bunch of names.”

  “Oh . . .” The old man smiled and gestured cryptically for me to move closer. As I neared him it seemed as if he wanted to say something but stopped. When he saw the ox raise its head, he gave him a reprimand, “No eavesdropping! Lower your head!”

  The ox did lower his head, and then the old man whispered to me, “I’m afraid he’ll discover he’s the only one working the field, so I call out some other names to fool him. If he hears that there are other oxen around working the fields, he’ll work harder and won’t feel so depressed.”

  Seeing the old man’s dark face smiling in the sunlight was quite moving. The wrinkles on his face moved about happily. They were caked with mud, just like the small dirt trails that ran through the fields.

  Afterward the old man and I sat down under that lush tree. And on that bright afternoon, he began to tell me about himself.

  Forty years ago my dad would often stroll back and forth across this land. He would be wearing a black silk outfit and would always have his hands clasped behind his back. Just as he went out, he’d tell my mother, “I’m going out to take a walk around the property.”

  The moment the workers saw Dad strolling around his land they would hold their hoes with both hands and respectfully call out, “Master.”

  When my dad went into the city, all the city people would call him “sir.” My dad was of very high social status, but every time he squatted down to take a shit he was just like a poor man. He never liked relieving himself in the house on the chamber pot next to the bed. Just like the animals, he liked shitting out in the open. Every day as dusk would near, dad would let out a belch— the sound was almost exactly the same as that croaking sound that frogs make. Then he would step outside and slowly walk toward the manure vat.

  When he got there he’d be annoyed that the side of the vat was dirty. He’d raise his leg and climb up, squatting on top. My dad was old and his shit was getting older with him; it was harder and harder to force out. Our whole family would hear his grunting and groaning coming all the way from the vat.

  For decades my dad always shit like this. When he got to be over sixty he was still able to climb up there and squat for a long time. His legs had as much strength as the talons of an eagle. My dad liked to watch the sky gradually change color until the darkness enveloped his farmland. When my daughter, Fengxia, was three or four she would often run out to the edge of the village to watch grandpa taking a shit. Dad was really old by then. When he squatted up on the manure vat his legs would tremble a bit, and Fengxia would ask him, “Grandpa, why are you shaking?”

  “It’s just the wind blowing,” Dad would reply.

  At the time our family circumstances had yet to take a turn for the worse. Our family had over one hundred mu 1 of land. The land from here all the way to the factory’s chimney over there was owned by my family. Near and far, my father and I were known as the old and young rich masters. When we walked, the sound our shoes made was like the sound of coins clanking against each other. My wife, Jiazhen, was the daughter of the owner of the rice store in the city. She was also born into a rich family. A wealthy woman marries a wealthy man—it’s like piling all the money up. The sound of money pouring down on top of money—it’s been forty years since I’ve heard that sound.

  I’m the prodigal son of the Xu family—or, as my dad would say, I’m a bastard. I studied for a few years at an old-style private school. When the schoolteacher, wearing the traditional long gown, called on me to read a paragraph aloud, it was my happiest moment. I stood up, holding my string-bound edition of “The Thousand Word Essay,” and announced to my teacher, “Listen good now! Daddy’s going to read to you!”

  The next time he saw my father, my teacher, who was really getting on in years, told him, “I guarantee you that when that son of yours grows up, he’ll be nothing but trouble.”

  Ever since I was little I’ve been hopeless, as my father would say. My teacher used to say I was a rotten piece of wood that could not be carved. Now that I think about it, they were both right. But at the time that’s not how I saw things. I thought, I’ve got money, I’m the only flame the Xu family still has burning. If I’m extinguished, the Xu family will be finished.

  When I was in private school I never walked anywhere—our family had a hired worker who would carry me on his back. When school got out he would already be waiting there, respectfully bent over. After I climbed on, I’d hit him on the head and say, “Changgen, let’s go!”

  Our worker Changgen would start to run. I’d be on top, bobbing about like a sparrow on the branches of a tree. Then I’d say, “Fly!”

  Changgen would take longer strides and jump as if he could fly.

  When I got older I started to build up a taste for going into town. Sometimes I wouldn’t come home for ten or fifteen days. I wore a white silk shirt, and my hair was smooth and shiny. Standing in front of the mirror and seeing my head of black, flowing hair, I knew that I looked like a rich man.

  I loved to go up to the whorehouse to listen to those loose women moaning and groaning all night long. Listening to those sounds was just like scratching a good itch. Once the day comes that a man starts to go whoring, gambling can’t be too far behind. Whoring and gambling are just like a pair of arms or legs: inseparable. Later I began to like gambling even more—whoring was just to loosen up a bit. Whoring is like drinking a lot of water and needing to relieve oneself, or, said bluntly, it’s like taking a piss. But gambling is completely different. Gambling made me both happy and tense. And it was especially that sense of tension that brought me an almost indescribable feeling of comfort. I was like a monk caught up in his daily routine of ringing the bell, completely listless. Every morning I’d wake up with my only worry being how I should spend the day. My father would sigh in despair, reprimanding me for failing to bring honor to our ancestors. I would think that bringing honor to our ancestors wasn’t my job alone. I would say to myself, why should I give up my days of fun to worry about boring stuff like honoring the ancestors? Moreover, when my dad was young he’d been just like me. Our family used to have over two hundred mu of land, but once my father got his hands on it he managed to lose over half. I said to my father, “Don’t worry, my son will honor the ancestors.”

  We should leave something good for the next generation anyway. My mom laughed when she heard this, and later she secretly told me that Dad had once said the same thing to my grandfather. I thought, you see, he forces what he doesn’t want to do onto me. Why should I listen to him? At the time, my daughter, Fengxia, was just four years old, and Jiazhen was pregnant with our son, Youqing. Because she was six months pregnant, Jiazhen was naturally no treat for the eyes. When she walked it looked like she had a pair of steamed buns stuffed down her pants. Her legs didn’t go forward when she walked, but side to side. I remember being so annoyed by her appearance that I even said to her, “Look at you. As soon as the wind blows your stomach doubles in size.”

  Jiazhen would never contradict me. But after hearing me insult her, she couldn’t have been very happy and quietly retorted, “The wind didn’t blow that hard.”

  Actually, after I started gambling I really did want to honor my ancestors. I wanted to win back that one hundred mu of land my dad lost. When my dad asked me what I was doing playing around in the city, I said to him, “I don’t play around anymore. I’m doing business.”

  He asked, “What kind of business?”

  As soon as he heard he lost his temper. When he was young he had said the same thing to my grandfather.
When he found out I was gambling he took off his cloth shoes to hit me. I dodged to the left and ducked to the right. I thought after he hit me a few times it would be over. I was surprised to find that my father, normally only active when coughing, became increasingly violent as he flailed me. I wasn’t a fly that was going to remain still while he tried to swat me. I restrained his hand and shouted, “Dad, what the fuck is wrong with you? If it weren’t for the fact that you’re the one who brought me into this world, I’d beat the hell out of you! Fucking relax!”

  I held back his right hand, but Dad used his left hand to take off his right shoe. He was still bent on hitting me. I held on to his left hand so he couldn’t get close enough to strike. He was so angry that he trembled for a long while before crying out, “Bastard!”

  “Go to hell!” I told him.

  I pushed him with both hands, and he fell down into the corner against the wall.

  When I was young, I ate, drank, whored and gambled—I took part in every disreputable thing there was. The House of Qing was the whorehouse I used to go to. There was a fat prostitute there who really won my affection. When she walked, her fat butt was just like the two lanterns that hung outside, shaking from side to side. When she lay in bed she would wobble around. When I was pressed on top of her it felt like being asleep on a boat, rocking back and forth as I floated down a river. I would often have her carry me piggyback to go shopping—riding on her back was just like riding on the back of a horse.

  Mr. Chen, my father-in-law, who was the owner of the rice store, always stood behind the counter wearing a black silk shirt. Whenever we were passing by his shop, I would pull that prostitute’s hair to tell her to stop. Then I would take off my hat and pay my respects to my father-in-law. “How have you been feeling lately?”

  As I asked, my father-in-law’s face would look like a preserved egg. Me, I’d just giggle and continue on my way. Later my dad told me that on a few occasions my father-in-law was so angry with me it made him physically sick.