Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China by Chen Zhongshi, Jia Pingwa Read Free Book Online Page B

tidy sum, too.”
    “If Wang is doing the business,” Darky asked, “how could your dad make anything from it?”
    “Dad has a share in the business.”
    Suspicious about the family’s income, Darky persisted. “Where did he get the money to invest?”
    Her small husband’s eyes shone. “You think you’ve married an ordinary guy? My dad may not be an official, but do you know what he deals with? You may be ugly, but you have an ugly duckling’s fortune.”
    “I don’t care about the money. When I married you, you were just a poor bachelor.”
    “I know you’re afraid of our fortune. You fear you can’t be a good match for me.”
    Darky shut up. She heard her father-in-law inviting his guest to drink more. The sounds of plates hitting the floor suggested they were already a bit high. Her husband asked, “Why so silent?”
    “I’m not worried about me,” she said, “but about you. Blood money will make you bloody. You’re really not so wealthy—why did your mother ask me for the money for her coffin when we married?”
    Her small husband answered, “The money of the guy next door is not bloody; why don’t you go and live with him?”
    Darky got into bed, pulling up the quilt to cover her body from head to toe. Her eyes had closed, but her heart could not. A stream of black blood was boiling inside. She hated the poverty of the life she had come from and her failure to make herself a good match for her husband. She hated her husband for having money and, therefore, thinking himself better than her.
    When the cock crowed three times in the early morning, she fumbled for her clothes. It was time to boil feed for the pigs. The courtyard was bright with water, for the rain had not stopped.
    Suddenly, the sky above the courtyard next door flashed red. She was so surprised that she climbed the wall for a look. There was a bonfire on the neighbor’s step, and a man squatted beside the fire. A new carrying pole stood with one end under the threshold and the other end over the fire. The man bent the carrying pole with his hands, and it sprang like a bow.
    “Early bird Mu Du,” Darky shouted, “we seldom have good rain. Why don’t you sleep for a while longer?”
    Mu Du, startled, turned his head. The fire made his face look as red as pig’s blood. Seeing it was Darky, he just grinned.
    She shouted again. “It’s only a carrying pole. No need to care about it too much!”
    “If I don’t make it soft, it chafes.”
    “It is still a burden for a man,” she said. “Are you going to the Southern Mountain to carry alpine rush?”
    “Let Bald-Head in the southern courtyard do that. He makes a return trip in three days and makes no more than three yuan. I’m much stronger than he is.”
    “Some guys go out to do big things,” Darky said. “They make thousands of yuan.”
    Mu Du replied, “I don’t have a pull cart. Even if I could afford one, I don’t have the guts.”
    Darky gave a long sigh. She felt sorry for him, for he was poor and clumsy. He lived with his dad. He was over thirty but not married yet. There was no woman in his family to do needlework. When Mu Du’s pants wore out, one could see black-and-white thread twisted around the patch.
    Darky wanted to ask, “How could Bald-Head be as clever as you are? Besides, to carry alpine rush you have to walk mountain paths. A clumsy guy like you must be very careful.” But she swallowed the words.
    As she was about to go back down the ladder, Mu Du called out, “Darky, here’s a hot one for you.” His hands fumbled in the ashes and picked out something blackish. He tossed it from hand to hand with a loud exhale. He quickly stepped to the wall below her and, on his tiptoes, offered her the object. It was a fist-sized potato.
    Darky said, “No eating, I haven’t washed my face.” She went down one step but came up again and found Mu Du, with a different hand, working hard to pass the potato to her, his dark belly open to her view. She caught