Big Breasts and Wide Hips (40 page)

The wedding banquet got underway in the newly whitewashed church at dusk. A dozen or more brilliant light bulbs hanging from the rafters turned the hall brighter than daytime. A machine in the tiny courtyard chugged noisily, sending mysterious currents of electricity through wires and into the bulbs, which emitted a strong light to drive out the darkness and attract moths, which were scalded to death the second they touched one of the bulbs and fell onto the heads of the Sima Battalion officers and gentry representatives from Dalan. Sima Ku was wearing his uniform; his face was radiant as he rose to his feet at the head table and cleared his throat. “For all you members of the militia and the local gentry,” he said, “today's banquet is being held to celebrate the marriage of our esteemed friend Babbitt and my young sister-in-law Niandi. Such a joyous event deserves a heartfelt round of applause.” Everyone clapped enthusiastically. Sitting in the seat next to Sima Ku, dressed in a white uniform, with a red flower stuck in his shirt pocket, was the beaming guest of honor himself, the young American. His blond hair, slicked down with peanut oil, was as glossy as if it had just been licked clean by dogs. Niandi, who sat in the chair beside him, was wearing a white gown, open at the neck to reveal the top half of her breasts. I nearly drooled. During the wedding ceremony earlier that day, Sima Liang and I had walked down the aisle behind her, carrying the long train of her gown, like the tail of a pheasant. She wore two heavy Chinese roses in her hair; a look of smug contentment showed on her heavily powdered face. Lucky Niandi, how shameless you were. The Bird Fairy's bones weren't even cold before you walked down the aisle with the American!

Sima Ku held out a glass that glowed red from the wine inside. “Mr. Babbitt came to us out of the sky; the heavens brought us our Babbitt. You all personally witnessed his flying demonstration, and he also rigged the electric lamps that shine above us.” He stopped and pointed to the rafters. “That, folks, is electricity, stolen from the God of Thunder. From the moment Babbitt entered our midst, our guerrilla forces have enjoyed smooth sailing. Babbitt is our Good Fortune General, come to us with a bellyful of brilliant strategies. In a few moments, he'll reveal something truly eye-opening for us all.” He turned and pointed to a white sheet covering the wall behind the podium from which Pastor Malory had once preached and which had later served Miss Tang of the demolition battalion when she spoke out for resistance against the Japanese. A veil of darkness shrouded my eyes — the electric lights were blinding me. “Now that the war has been won, Mr. Babbitt has said he wants to go home. To make sure that doesn't happen, we must do whatever it takes to keep him here, show him what is in our hearts. And that is why I've taken it upon myself to give him the hand of my young sister-in-law, more beautiful than the angels in Heaven, in marriage. Now a toast to the happiness of Mr. Babbitt and Miss Shangguan Niandi. Bottoms up!”

The guests got noisily to their feet, clinked glasses and — “Bottoms” — tipped back their heads — “Up!”

Niandi held out her glass, displaying the gold wedding ring on her finger, and clinked it against Babbitt's glass; then she clinked glasses with Sima Ku and Zhaodi. Unhealthy red spots showed on the pale cheeks of Zhaodi, who hadn't fully regained her strength following childbirth. “It's time for the bride and groom to drink up,” Sima Ku said. “Link your arms, you two.” Under his guidance, Babbitt and Niandi hooked arms and awkwardly drank the wine in their glasses, to the uproarious delight of the guests, who quickly toasted the newly-weds, before sitting down and entering the fray with their chopsticks; dozens of mouths chewing at the same time produced an irritating cacophony from greasy lips and sweaty cheeks.

Seated at our table, in addition to me, Sima Liang, Sha Zaohua, and Eighth Sister, were a bunch of little brats I didn't know. I watched them eat. Zaohua was the first to throw down her chopsticks and use her hands. With a drumstick in her left hand and a pig's foot in her right, she attacked them both, first one and then the other. In order to conserve energy, the children kept their eyes shut as they gnawed and chewed, taking a page out of Eighth Sister's book. Her cheeks looked to be on fire, her lips were like scarlet clouds; she was more beautiful than the bride. Once the children started grabbing food off the platters, their eyes snapped open; I was saddened by the sight of them tearing apart the corpses of dead animals.

Mother was opposed to Sixth Sister's marriage to Babbitt, but Sixth Sister said, “Mother, I've never told anyone that you killed Grandma.” That silenced Mother, who looked like a withered autumn leaf, and she washed her hands of the wedding plans. The banquet proceeded along predictable lines: conversations between and among tables ended as drinking games got underway. The supply of liquor seemed unending, dishes streamed from the kitchen, with white-uniformed waiters trotting up to the tables, arms lined with platters of food. “Make room — here come braised meatballs — Make room — here come grilled capons — Make room — stewed chicken and mushrooms —”

The guests at our table were all “clean-plate generals.” Make room — glazed pork loin — a glistening pork loin barely landed in the center of our table before several greasy hands reached out for it. Hot! They sucked in their breath like poisonous snakes. But that could not stay their hands, which reached back out and tore off chunks of meat; if the meat fell to the table, they picked it up and crammed it into their mouths. No stopping now. Stretching their necks, they swallowed — mouths open, frowning, teardrops squeezed out of the corners of their eyes. In no time, the platter was empty of skin and meat, nothing but silvery white bones. Then even they were snatched off the platter — time to gnaw at joints and tendons. Green lights emerged from the eyes of those who came away empty-handed and were forced to lick their fingers. Bellies swelled like little leather balls, skinny legs hung pitifully beneath the benches. Green bubbles rose from stomachs that made purring sounds. Make room — sweet-and-sour fish. A big-bellied, stumpy waiter with sagging jowls and flabby cheeks, dressed in white tails, came out carrying a large wooden tray with a white ceramic platter on which lay a huge, seared yellow fish. He was followed by a dozen other waiters, each taller than the one before and all dressed in white tails, carrying identical wooden trays with identical white ceramic platters on which lay similar huge, seared yellow fish. The last one out looked like a utility pole. He placed the tray in the center of our table and made a face at me. He looked familiar somehow. He had a crooked mouth, one of his eyes was closed, and his nose was creased with wrinkles. Fd seen that face somewhere, but where? Had it been at the wedding of Pandi and Lu Liren of the demolition battalion?

The side of the sweet-and-sour fish was scored with a knife from head to tail, the gaps filled with sour orange-colored syrup. One opaque eye was hidden beneath a bed of emerald green onions; its triangular tail hung miserably off the edge of the platter, as if still flapping slightly. Greasy little claws reached out in tentative probes, and since I did not have the heart to watch the fish disfigured, I looked away. Over at the head table, Babbitt and Niandi stood up, each holding a tall-stemmed glass of wine, their free arms linked. With a sort of feminine grace, they approached our table, where all eyes but mine were fixed on the disfigured corpse of the poor fish, the top half of which had been reduced to a bluish backbone. One little claw grabbed the backbone and gave it a shake, freeing the bottom half of its edible portions. Shapeless, steaming piles of fish lay on every other plate at the table. Like young wild beasts, the children dragged their kill to their dens to feast in leisure. Now only a bulging fish head, a handsome, slender tail, and the backbone that connected them remained. The white tablecloth was a mess, everywhere but in front of me, a spot of purity amid the litter, in the center of which stood a glass filled with red wine.

“Bottoms up, my dear little friends,” Babbitt said genially, holding out his glass.

His wife also held out her glass; some of her fingers were bent, others were straight, like an orchid, a gold ring gleaming in the center. A cold white glare rose from the exposed upper half of her breasts. My heart was pounding.

My tablemates clambered to their feet, mouths crammed full of fish, their cheeks, the tips of their noses, even their foreheads, glistening with oil. Sima Liang, who was next to me, wolfed down his mouthful of fish and picked up a corner of the tablecloth to wipe his hands and mouth. I had smooth, fair hands, my outfit was spotless, and my hair had a glossy sheen. My digestive system had never been called on to process the corpse of a living animal, my teeth had never been told to chew the fibers of any vegetation. A line of oily claws held out their glasses harum-scarum and clinked them against those held by the newlyweds. I was the sole exception; I stood in a daze, staring at Niandi's breasts, gripping the edge of the table with both hands to keep from rushing over and suckling at the breast of my sixth sister.

A look of astonishment filled Babbitt's eyes. “Why aren't you eating or drinking?” he asked. “Haven't you eaten a thing? Not a bite?”

Niandi came briefly down off her cloud and regained some of what had made her my sixth sister. She rubbed the back of my neck with her free hand and said to her new husband, “My brother's the next thing to an immortal. He doesn't eat the food of common mortals.”

The redolence emerging from her body threw my heart into a frenzy. In rebellion against my wishes, my hands reached out and grabbed her breasts. Her silk dress was slippery smooth. She yelped in alarm and flung her wine into my face. Her face was scarlet, and as she straightened the twisted bodice of her dress, she cursed: “Little bastard!”

The red wine slipped down my face, a nearly transparent red curtain lowering over my eyes. Niandi's breasts were like red balloons that crashed together noisily in my head.

Babbitt patted my head with one of his big hands. “Your mother's breasts belong to you, youngster,” he said with a wink. “But your sister's breasts belong to me. I hope we become friends one day.”

I drew back and glared hatefully at his comical, ugly face. The agony I felt at that moment was beyond words. Tonight, Sixth Sister's breasts, so glossy, so soft, so sleek, as if carved from jade, peerless treasures, would fall into the hands of that fair-skinned, down-covered American, to grab or stroke or knead at will. Sixth Sister's milky white breasts, filled with honey, a gastronomical treat unrivaled anywhere, land or sea, would be taken into the mouth of that ivory-toothed American, to bite or nibble or suck dry until only fair skin remained. But what incensed me was the fact that this is what Sixth Sister wanted. Niandi, you slapped me just for tickling you with a grassy tassel, and you flung wine in my face when I barely touched you. But you'll happily tolerate it when he strokes or bites you. It isn't fair. You bunch of sluts, why can't you understand the pain in my heart? No person on earth understands, loves, or knows how to protect breasts the way I do. And you all treat me like a jackass. I cried bitter tears.

Babbitt made a face and shrugged his shoulders. Then he took Niandi by the arm and headed over to toast the other tables. A waiter came up with a tureen of soup with egg drops and something that resembled dead man's hair floating on the top. My tablemates took their cue from the next table by scooping up the soup, the thicker the better, with white spoons, blowing on it to cool it a bit before sipping. At our table, the soup sprayed and splashed everywhere. Sima Liang poked me. “Try some, Little Uncle,” he said. “It's good, at least as good as goat's milk.” “No,” I said. “None for me.” “Then sit down. Everybody's looking at you.” I looked around. No one was looking at me.

Steam rose from the center of every table, curling up near the electric lamps, where it turned to mist before dissipating. The tables were a jumble of plates and glasses, the guests' faces blurred, and the air inside the church stifling with the smell of alcohol. Babbitt and his wife were back at their own table. I watched as Niandi leaned over to Zhaodi and whispered something. What did she say? Was it about me? When Zhaodi nodded, Niandi leaned back, picked up a spoon and dipped it into the soup, then put it up to her mouth, wetted her lips, and drank it elegantly. Niandi had known Babbitt little more than a month, but she was already a different person. A month earlier, she'd been a common porridge-slurper. A month earlier, she'd been as noisy as anyone when she spat or blew her nose on the ground. I'd found her disgusting; but I'd admired her too. How could anyone change so quickly? Waiters came out carrying the main courses: there were boiled dumplings and some of those wormlike noodles that had ruined my appetite. There were also some colorful pastries. I can't bring myself to describe how the people looked when they ate. I was upset and I was hungry; Mother and my goat must have been waiting anxiously. So why didn't I get up and leave? Because after Sima Ku's proclamation, and after the meal, Babbitt was going to demonstrate once again the material and cultural superiority of the West. I knew he was going to show a moving picture, which, according to what I'd heard, was a series of live images projected on a screen by electricity.

Finally, the banquet ended, and the waiters came out with bushel baskets, spread out, and swept the tables clean of glasses and dishes, dumping it all noisily into the baskets. What went into the baskets was perfectly usable dinnerware; what they carried away were shards of glass and pieces of ceramic. A dozen or so crack troops ran in to lend a hand, each grabbing a tablecloth, folding it up, and running off with it. Then the waiters returned to spread out fresh tablecloths, on top of which they laid out grapes and cucumbers, watermelons and pears from Hebei; there was also something called Brazilian coffee, which was the color of sweet potatoes and gave off a strange odor — one pot after another, more than I could count. Then one cup after another, also more than I could count. The guests, still belching from all the food, came out to sit down again and take some tentative sips of the Brazilian coffee, as if it were some sort of Chinese medicine.