© Columbia University Press
Loud Sparrows: Contemporary Chinese Short-Shorts
Paper, 272 pages, 34 illus.
ISBN: 978-0-231-13849-9
$18.95
/ £10.95
November, 2006
Cloth, 272 pages, 34 illus.
ISBN: 978-0-231-13848-2
$26.50
/ £15.50
Read in pdf format | Fad by Zhang Zheng
* Learning to Talk by Wang Meng
*Cloth Shoes by Ah Cheng
* Horse Talk by Mo Yan
Fad
Zhang Zheng; Translated by Julie Chiu
Tang Ying was obsessed with the thought that her clothes weren't hip enough. She spent five or six renminbi a month subscribing to magazines like L'Officiel, Fashion, and Haut Couture but still felt dissatisfied with her personal style. Hep, maybe, but not hip. When she got off work, she stood in front of the big dressing mirror and felt just, well, bummed out.
When it actually happened she couldn't recall, but one day she discovered a whole new continent! Some two hundred meters from where she lived, a British girl, in the prime of her youth, had moved in. Blonde, green-eyed, this girl wore clothes that, let's face it, had never been seen in China before. Not by Tang Ying, not even by those stupid editors of Fashion who, compared to this girl, were real dingbats. What was she wearing that day? The top was some sort of bat cut. Its folds were tucked neatly at the waist but spread in rays all the way down to the heels. A non-jumpsuit jumpsuit. Ultra cool! The outfit was made with a decent silk fabric which, as the girl walked, rustled, and showed off her slim figure and her lovely buns and thighs. Tang Ying was mesmerized! This girl's my height and build! How can I claim to be a modern woman? Tang felt as if someone had rubbed red chili peppers on her cheeks!
So every day she waited at the street corner by the park so she would walk up to British Girl from the opposite direction. She made sure she'd come face to face with the girl, and would openly look her up and down. That was far from being polite, for sure, but she didn't care!
Somehow Tang Ying felt that British Girl also looked her up and down, with a faint, mysterious smile on her face. Tang Ying spoke no English and had no intention of striking up a conversation. All she wanted was to figure out those super-moda outfits!
Tang Ying was a smart girl. She shut herself in one Saturday night and the whole next day. Big mirror in front of her, she worked for twenty-five solid hours, cutting, checking, madly treadling the sewing machine. And so the real thing was born, a trendy outfit that would turn British Girl's green eyes red. Tang even sewed a vivid, velvety panda on the chest. Sell it at a hawker's stall, and you could ask at least two hundred renminbi.
The next morning Tang Ying was up at five o'clock. She put on the outfit, which had been placed under the mattress and pressed for the night. She carefully did her hair, letting it hang gracefully on her shoulders. She drew on eyebrows and put on light makeup. Here's a face that could fell a city! Even Tang herself was charmed. Yes, beauty is right here! Tang could feel her heart pounding. Ah, that's bliss, that's joy! Thus have psychologists explained abnormally fast heartbeats at moments like this.
At 7:40 British Girl walked out of her apartment complex and headed for the subway to go to work. All full of herself, Tang walked toward British Girl. Crisp, familiar footsteps echoing in her ears, Tang straightened up and tried to keep her steps slow and steady.
God!
When their eyes met at the street corner by the park, Tang and British Girl both put their hands to their mouths. They stood there stiffly, five or six meters apart, staring at each other, insuppressible cries of shock bursting from their lips. British Girl was wearing a lotus-colored qipao exactly like the one Tang had just changed out of. Even the peach-blossom pattern was the same!
***
Learning to Talk
Wang Meng; Translated by Aili Mu
When Lao Wang's grandson started to talk, he created many original expressions. For example, he called his mom "Momsy," his dad "Heady," a horse "ah-ohs," a train "hoot-toot," milk "white-white," and an apple "chubby." For a while the whole family, young and old, changed their accustomed way of speaking accordingly. Unanimously they addressed the mother as "Momsy," the father as "Heady," a horse they called "ah-ohs," a train "hoot-toot," and so on. The grandson's language became their language. Feeling its originality and creativity, they were all ecstatic and eager to use it.
Before long the boy started kindergarten and learned to talk from his teacher. All his "mistakes" were addressed: he now called his mother "Mommy," his father "Daddy," a horse "a horse," milk "milk," and an apple "an apple."
While his grandson was experiencing healthy growth, Lao Wang felt lost and was bored stiff.
***
Cloth Shoes
Ah Cheng; Translated by Aili Mu
Wang Shulin bought two pairs of cloth shoes each year: one unlined, the other lined with cotton. The former he wore from April to November, the later from November to March.
Since the unlined pair had to last longer, he needed to be extra careful, so he went barefoot when it rained, carrying his shoes in his hand. Rain was really hard on shoes. Letting the shoes soak in rainwater and washing them with water were different, even though in both cases they came in contact with water. The logic behind this was over Wang Shulin's head, but he knew he'd better not let his shoes soak in rainwater.
Here's how cloth shoes are made: you paste worn-out pieces or odd bits of cloth in layers on a wood board, dry the cloth under the sun into the so-called cloth crust, peel the crust off the board, cut it into smaller pieces according to a sample sole, stack four or five of the cut pieces together, and stitch them with hemp thread in thick lines, to form the sturdy sole of a shoe. There is, of course, still the work of hemming and putting on the heel, etc. The front uppers of shoes require strong cloth. They need hemming, too: black inside, white outside.
Wang Shulin's grandmother had to make six pairs of shoes each year, three unlined and three lined, for Shulin and his two sisters. The unlined shoes for girls even had straps. In fact, shoes come off boys' feet more often because they run and jump a lot. But for some reason they don't have straps. The girls looked pretty in their cloth shoes with black uppers and white edges.
Before Grandma made the shoes, she had to first make the hemp thread by twisting two thin fibers into one. She would roll her trouser leg up and rub the hemp fibers on her thigh with her palm. That made her thigh as smooth as jade. After a while, her thigh would turn pink. If she needed to attend to something, she always let down her trouser leg before she stood up and walked off. Later on, Shulin's eldest sister helped Grandma with making the thread on her own thigh. When she needed to attend to something, she didn't let down her trouser leg first. She simply stood up and left. Grandma would shout, "Let down your trouser leg. Don’t you know how that looks!" Shulin was puzzled: Why was it okay to show your thigh sitting but not standing?
To make a sole, Grandma first bored a hole with an awl for the needle and thread, then wrapped the thread around the handle of the awl a couple of times and pulled hard. She always said her wrist and shoulder hurt after making a few pair of shoes. Twelve pairs!
A hole in the front upper of a shoe was usually mended with a piece of leather; a nearly worn-out sole would be resoled. Retiring a pair of shoes was a major affair. When the elder sister outgrew a pair of shoes, they went to the younger sister. Shoes too small for both sisters would have their straps cut off and go to Shulin. Shulin's schoolmates always made fun of him.
On the afternoon of August 17, 1966, Shulin's school notified all students and teachers to gather at Tiananmen Square that evening. When Wang Shulin got home, he clamored for a new pair of shoes, saying there was an important event that night. After thinking it over, Shulin's mother let him try on the new unlined shoes Grandma had just made for him for the next year. Grandma said, "Stamp on the floor to see if they fit." Shulin stamped his feet a couple of times, said they fit well, and left for school.
On the night of August 17, hundreds of thousands of people were gathered in Tiananmen Square. They sat on the ground at assigned locations, frequently singing revolutionary songs. There was a constant stream of people going to the makeshift toilets. Later on, the revolutionary masses grew tired and sleepy. They lay down and went to sleep. In the morning on the 18th, when people began waking up, trips to the toilets resumed. The Square came alive gradually, with occasional revolutionary songs.
At daybreak, people with sharp eyes spotted figures on Tiananmen's gate tower. The rosy clouds of dawn were glowing in the east. Word from the area around Golden Water Bridge came to Wang Shulin: "Chairman Mao is on the gate tower!" He turned around and relayed "Chairman Mao is on the gate tower" to the people behind him. He turned back and gazed for a long time without being able to tell which one was Chairman Mao, until he heard "Chairman is in an army uniform." "The East Is Red" started up, a million or so people seethed with excitement, shouts of "Long live Chairman Mao!" resounded through the skies, and the news reached the whole world.
Later on, the million or so people surged to Tiananmen's gate tower. Then they left the Square to march along Changan and Qianmen boulevards. Roughly fifty thousand pairs of shoes were trod off people's feet and abandoned in the Square, among them the pair of next year's unlined cloth shoes belonging to the first-year middle-school student Wang Shulin.
***
Horse Talk
Mo Yan Translated by Aili Mu
It was like a big, thick, bristly brush whisking across my face, waking me from my dream. A lofty shadow swayed before my eyes like a massive black wall. A familiar smell made my heart pound. I suddenly came to my senses. The backdrop of modern life behind me quietly withdrew; the sun shown brightly over that dingy yellow earthen wall. On top of the wall, withered grass rustled; a brightly feathered rooster stretched its neck and crowed heartily. A haystack in front of the wall was crumbling. A flock of hens was digging for food in the scattered hay. There were also several oxen tethered to posts along the wall, all bending their heads and chewing their cud, as if deep in thought. The crooked wooden posts were coated in ox hair, the dirt wall covered with ox dung. I was sitting in front of the haystack. I could reach out and touch the hens; leaning over a little, I could also stroke the oxen. But I didn't touch the hens or stroke the oxen. I looked up at her—my close friend—that old mare, black, worry-laden, with "Z99" branded on her flank, blind, reportedly retired from a field army, currently the wheel horse for our production team, known throughout town for her limitless strength and "all-work, no-complaints" attitude.
"Horse, it’s you!" I jumped up from the haystack and wrapped my arms around her, embracing her strong, thick neck. The warmth and powerful smell of grease from her neck brought a surge of emotions and hot tears that rolled around on her smooth skin. The horse straightened her ears, which looked like whittled bamboo, and said, in a tone of experience and wisdom: "Don't cry, young man, don't cry. I don't like crying. There's no need to cry. Sit up and listen to me." As the horse clicked her neck, I was lifted from the ground like a feather and then landed on my backside by the haystack. I could reach out and touch the hens; leaning over a little I could stroke the oxen.
I studied this old friend I hadn't seen for more than thirty years. She hadn't changed: enormous head, tall and strong body, slender limbs, azure-colored hoofs, downy tail, and tightly closed eyes that for unknown reasons had become blind. Images of the past flashed before my eyes.
I had often plucked hairs from her tail to make bows, and she'd just stood there, silent as a wall. I had often sat on her broad, smooth back reading picture storybooks, and she'd remained motionless as a stranded ship. I had often whisked away the flies and gadflies that were sucking her blood, and she'd remained cold and unfeeling as a stone statue, without any expression of thanks. I had often showed her off to kids in neighboring villages, telling stories about her glorious past and boasting how she had charged into battle with a regiment commander on her back, distinguishing herself under fire, and, like a piece of cold steel, she would utter no sound. I had often asked the village elders about her past, especially how she had become blind, but no one would tell me. I had often tried to guess; caressing her neck, I'd implore: "Horse, horse, dear horse, please tell me how your eyes were blinded. Were they hit by shrapnel, was it a result of an eye disease, or were they pecked out by a hawk?" But even though I asked you thousands of times, you would never answer.
"I'll answer you now," said the horse. When she spoke her soft lips flapped clumsily from time to time, showing snow-white teeth, worn down by grain and straw. The odor of rotting grass from her mouth nearly knocked me over. Her voice was very low, as if emerging from a long winding tunnel. The voice captivated me, intoxicated me, frightened me. It was as if I was hearing the sound of nature. I dared not but listen closely.
The horse said: "You should know that in the country of Japan there is a famous story about eyes. When Chunqin, a female Qin performer, was disfigured and blinded, her disciple Zuozhu, who was also her lover, poked out her own eyes. And another ancient story relates how Oedipus, upon learning that he had killed his father and married his mother, poked out his own eyes out of remorse and shame. And there was Ma Wencai from your village, who could not bear parting from his new wife. To avoid the draft, he blinded himself by rubbing lime in his eyes. All these tales show that, in the world, there is a category of blind people who willingly blind themselves to escape, to possess, to achieve perfection, or to punish themselves. I know, of course, that you are not interested in them. What you really want to know," the horse muttered, "is why I became blind." The subject obviously had evoked extremely bitter memories. I waited. I knew that at this moment words were unnecessary.
The horse said: "A few decades ago I was, in fact, an army horse. The brand on my flank is proof. The pain of being branded with a red-hot iron is fresh in my mind, even today. My master was a gallant officer. Not only was he talented and handsome, but he was also a skillful military strategist. I was passionately devoted to him, like a lover. One day, to my surprise, he allowed a woman, emitting the offensive odor of rouge and powder, to ride on my back. I was infuriated, became distracted, and ran into a tree as I was passing through the woods; it knocked the woman to the ground. The officer beat me with his leather whip and cursed: 'You damned blind horse!' At that moment, I decided never to open my eyes again...."
"So, you are only pretending to be blind." I leaped to my feet from beside the haystack.
"No, I am blind...." With this, the horse turned and walked unhesitatingly down the endless dark road.
***
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