The Real Story of Ah-Q (12 page)

‘Can’t hear a thing – what’s wrong, d’you think?’ Lifting his bowl of rice wine, Red-Nosed Gong made a face in the direction of next door.

‘Ah, give it a rest,’ Blue-Skinned Ah-wu muttered, putting down his own bowl to punch him hard on the back.

Back in those days, Luzhen was still an old-fashioned backwater of a place: by around seven in the evening, most of the town had locked their doors and taken themselves off to bed. Only two establishments kept their lamps burning into the small hours. One was the Universal Prosperity, where a few comrades in cups clustered around the bar to eat, drink and generally be merry; the other the home of one Mrs Shan, a young widow of two years’ standing, who lived next door. Rude economic necessity – the need to make a living from spinning for herself and her three-year-old son – also kept her up late.

But for the last few days, no spinning had been heard. Since only two adjoining establishments stayed awake into the night, only Gong and his fellow drinkers would hear any noise that was to be heard from Mrs Shan’s; or fail to hear it, in its absence.

After submitting to the blow, Gong took a great, easy slug of his wine, and began crooning a popular love song.

At this moment, Mrs Shan next door was sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling her son, Bao’er, as the spinning wheel stood silently by. The dingy lamplight illuminated the pallor beneath his crimson flush. She had drawn lots, she had beseeched the gods, she was thinking to herself; she had even given him medicine. What else was there left for her to do? The only person she hadn’t yet tried was Dr Ho Xiaoxian. But maybe Bao’er was
always
worse at night; once the sun came up, his fever would subside, his breathing get easier – it was often like that with illnesses.

Mrs Shan was a simple, uneducated sort of a woman, the sort who didn’t understand the terrifying powers of the word ‘but’: its marvellous ability to transform the bad into good, and to perform the same trick in reverse. Not long after the sentimental cadences from next door died away, the darkness began to pale over to the east, and the first, hopeful silver light of dawn crept in through a crack in the window, drawing the short summer night to a close.

Mrs Shan found waiting for dawn much harder than other people: each of Bao’er’s laboured breaths seemed to last a year. But eventually the brightness of day overpowered the lamplight. Bao’er’s nostrils, she now saw, shuddered with each intake and out-take of breath.

She let out a faint cry of terror; he looked worse than she had feared. What can I do? she thought to herself. I have to take him to Dr Ho. Although she was a simple, uneducated sort of a woman, she was capable of taking a decision. Standing up, she removed from her wooden cupboard the thirteen silver dollars and hundred and eighty coppers that daily economies had enabled her to stockpile. Pocketing them, she locked the door and rushed off towards Dr Ho’s, carrying Bao’er in her arms.

Even though it was still early, the doctor already had four patients waiting for him. Four silver dollars bought Bao’er fifth place in the queue. Ho Xiaoxian uncurled two fingers – both nails a generous four inches long – and felt his pulse. Surely this man can save Bao’er, marvelled Mrs Shan to herself.

‘What’s wrong with Bao’er, doctor?’ she asked nervously.

‘His stomach’s blocked.’

‘Not serious, is it? He – ’

‘Take two of these.’

‘He can’t breathe properly, his nostrils shake every time he takes a breath.’

‘That’s because his Fire is vanquishing his Metal.’

His verdict delivered, Ho closed his eyes; Mrs Shan felt it would be rude to press him further. A man in his thirties, seated opposite the doctor, had already scribbled out a prescription.

‘You won’t get the first item, the Baby Life-Saver Wonder Pill,’ he said, pointing at one line of characters, ‘anywhere except Jias’ Welfare Pharmacy.’

Mrs Shan took the prescription and walked off with it, thinking to herself. Though she was only a simple, uneducated sort of a woman, she knew that Dr Ho’s surgery, the pharmacy and her own home formed the three corners of a triangle; naturally, her most expeditious course would be to buy the medicine before going on home. And so that was where she headed. The shop assistant, his warped fingernails as overextended as the doctor’s, slowly read the prescription then, just as slowly, wrapped the medicine. As Mrs Shan held Bao’er in her arms while she waited, the boy suddenly tugged on a tuft of his dishevelled hair, a movement she had never seen him make before. She was stupid with terror.

The sun was now high in the sky. Walking along with the medicine and a fidgeting child in her arms, Mrs Shan began to feel the weight of them; home began to seem ever more distant. Eventually, she sat down to rest at the threshold of one of the village’s better establishments, her clothes clinging clammily to her – she suddenly realized she was covered in sweat. Bao’er seemed to have fallen asleep. Up she got, and went slowly on her way.

‘Let me take him!’ said a voice – remarkably similar to Ah-wu’s – in her ear.

Turning, she discovered a drowsy-looking Blue-Skinned Ah-wu behind her.

Although Mrs Shan had indeed been hoping that Heaven would send down a guardian angel of some kind, her strong preference would have been for someone other than Ah-wu. But here he was, and after a few attempts to demur, she submitted. Out stretched his arm, insinuating itself down between her bosom and her child, until Bao’er was secured. Mrs Shan’s breast surged with heat, the flush spreading across her face, and back to her ears.

Side by side they walked along, about two or three feet apart, Ah-wu making desultory attempts at conversation, most of which Mrs Shan chose to ignore. His gallant cravings quickly satisfied, Ah-wu soon handed the child back into his mother’s arms, muttering something about some lunch engagement made the day before. Fortunately, she was no longer far from home – she could see old Mrs Wang from over the way sitting at the side of the road.

‘How is he?’ Mrs Wang called out. ‘Have you seen the doctor?’

‘Just been. You must have seen a lot of this kind of thing over the years, Mrs Wang. Would you take a look at him for me?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘What d’you think?’

‘Hmmm.’ Mrs Wang took a long, hard look, nodded twice, then shook her head twice.

It was past noon by the time Bao’er had had his medicine. Mrs Shan studied his face, which now seemed much more peaceful. Early in the afternoon, he suddenly opened his eyes, cried out ‘Mama’, then closed them again, as if about to drop off to sleep. Not long after, seedpearls of sweat seeped through on to his forehead and the tip of his nose, sticking to Mrs Shan’s hand like glue. Frantically, she felt his chest and burst into uncontrollable sobs.

As Bao’er’s breathing steadied, then stopped, Mrs Shan’s sobs graduated into full-blown wails. A crowd of interested parties swiftly gathered: Mrs Wang, Ah-wu and a few others barged into the room, while the manager of the tavern loitered outside with Gong and company. Quickly assuming command, Mrs Wang gave orders for a chain of paper money to be burnt, then relieved Mrs Shan of two stools and five items of clothing, as security for borrowing two silver dollars – the funeral helpers were going to need feeding.

The first problem was the coffin. Mrs Shan handed over what jewellery remained to her – a pair of silver earrings and a gold-plated silver hairpin – to the manager of the Universal Prosperity as surety for a coffin, to be bought half with cash, half on credit. Ever willing to help, Ah-wu stuck out a hand, too, but Mrs Wang appointed him coffin-bearer instead, to which honour Ah-wu responded by scowling and swearing at her. The manager went off on his own, returning that evening to report that the coffin would have to be made specially, and wouldn’t be ready till dawn.

By seven o’clock, the hired help had finished their dinner and – Luzhen being an old-fashioned kind of a place – taken themselves off to bed, leaving only the usual hardcore of Ah-wu drinking at the bar, with Gong wailing his songs.

Mrs Shan was sitting on the edge of her bed, crying, Bao’er stretched out next to her; the spinning wheel stood silently by. When eventually her tears declared themselves spent, she stared perplexedly around her. How unreal it all was. It must be a dream, she was thinking to herself; just a dream. Tomorrow, she would wake up from a good, long rest, with Bao’er still fast asleep next to her. Then he would open his eyes, call out to her, and jump off the bed – full of life, ready to play.

Gong’s singing had stopped: lights out at the Universal Prosperity. Mrs Shan went on staring, still unable to take it all in. A cockerel crowed; over to the east the darkness began to pale, the silver-white gleam of dawn creeping in through a crack in the window.

The new light gradually turned crimson; the sun was now shining directly on to the roof beams. Mrs Shan went on sitting blankly. When the banging on the door began, she started up and ran over to open it. A strange man stood outside the door, an object on his back, Mrs Wang behind him.

It was the coffin.

Because Mrs Shan wouldn’t stop crying and wanting to take one last look at her son, because she refused to give up hope, the lid didn’t get nailed down until the afternoon. In the end, Mrs Wang mercifully lost patience with her and yanked her away, as a confusion of hands scrabbled to fasten the lid.

Mrs Shan did everything properly. On the day of the death itself, she had burnt a chain of paper money; the following morning, forty-nine scrolls of Buddhist incantations were consigned to the flames. Bao’er had been placed in the coffin wearing his newest clothes, with his favourite toys laid on the pillow next to him – a clay figurine, two small wooden bowls and two glass bottles. One by one, Mrs Wang ticked everything off on her fingers.

Since Ah-wu failed to show up, the manager of the Universal Prosperity hired two bearers – at a cost of two hundred and ten coppers each – on Mrs Shan’s behalf, to carry the coffin to its final resting place in a pauper’s grave. Mrs Wang then helped her prepare food for anyone who had moved a muscle or said a word in contribution. Slowly, the sun turned the colour it turned when it was about to slip behind the western hills, the diners all turned the colour they turned when bedtime approached, and went home to bed.

A terrible dizziness seized hold of Mrs Shan. A rest left her feeling steadier, but she couldn’t shake off a sense of the utter strangeness of it all. Something had happened to her that had never happened before, that should never have happened – and yet still had. The longer she thought, the more she noticed the curiously excessive silence of the room.

Getting up, she turned on the lamp. Now the room seemed even quieter. She closed the door and returned to the edge of the bed, as if in a trance, the spinning wheel standing silently by. She looked around her, unwilling either to sit or stand: the room was too quiet, too big, too empty – an enormous void enveloping her, bearing down on her, stifling the breath out of her.

Bao’er, she now realized, was dead. She blew out the lamp and lay down; she no longer wanted this room before her. She thought, as she wept: she thought about how Bao’er had sat next to her while she spun, eating aniseed beans, his eyes wide open, thinking things through. ‘Daddy used to sell dumplings, didn’t he?’ he had said. ‘So when I get bigger I’ll sell dumplings too. I’ll make lots of money and give it all to you.’ At that moment, every inch of cotton she was spinning had seemed almost alive with meaning. But now? Mrs Shan hadn’t even begun to think about what would happen now. She was a simple, uneducated sort of a woman – as I may have already mentioned. What
could
she think about? Only that this room of hers was too quiet, too big, too empty.

But however simple and uneducated Mrs Shan was, she knew that the dead cannot come back to life; that she would never see her Bao’er again. ‘Come back to me in a dream,’ she sighed to herself. ‘You can’t be far away.’ She closed her eyes, urging sleep upon herself, in the hope of catching sight of Bao’er. Her breathing rasped through the empty quiet around her.

But at last she drifted off to sleep; and the silence claimed the room. Gong and his red nose staggered out of the Universal Prosperity, working up to a shrill falsetto encore:

‘Oh, my darling!… Poor you… All alone…’

Ah-wu grabbed at Gong’s shoulder, and the two of them zigzagged off down the road, laughing and pushing at each other.

With Mrs Shan asleep, and Gong and his fellow drinkers gone, the Universal Prosperity locked its doors. Silence descended on Luzhen. Only the darkness remained, agitating to become tomorrow’s first light, concealing within itself the howls of the village dogs.

June 1920