Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

red-tasseled whip danced in the air —
pa pa pa
— as he sang out,
haw haw haw.
Without warning, he jerked the reins, the horses whinnied as they stiffened their legs, and the wagon skidded to a halt. Clouds of dust that had followed them quickly swallowed up the wagon, the horse, and the driver. Once the dust had settled, Laidi saw the Felicity Manor servants run out with baskets of liquor and bales of straw, which they loaded onto the wagon. One burly fellow stood on the steps of the Felicity Manor gateway, shouting at the top of his lungs. One of the baskets fell to the ground with a thud, the pig-bladder stopper fell out, and the fine liquor began to spread on the ground. When a pair of servants rushed over to pick up the basket, the man in the gateway jumped down off the step, swirled his glossy whip in the air, and brought the tip down on their backs. They covered their heads and hunkered down in the middle of the street to take the whipping they deserved. The whip danced like a snake coiling in the sun. The smell of liquor rose in the air. The wilderness was vast and still, wheat in the fields bent before the wind, waves of gold. On the watchtower the man shouted, “Run, run for your lives …”
    People emerged from their houses, like ants scurrying around aimlessly. Some walked, others ran, and still others stood frozen to a spot; some headed east, others headed west, and still others went in circles, looking first in one direction, then another. The aroma drifting across the Sun compound was heavier than ever, as a cloud of opaque steam rolled out through the front door. The mutes were nowhere to be seen, and silence spread throughout the yard, broken only by an occasional chicken bone sailing out the door, where it was fought over by the five black dogs. The victor would take its prize over to the wall, to huddle in the corner and gnaw on it, while the losers glared red-eyed into the house and growled softly.
    Lingdi tugged at her sister. “Let’s go home, okay?”
    Laidi shook her head. “No, we’re going down to the river to catch shrimp. Mommy will need shrimp soup after our baby brother is born.”
    So they walked single file down to the river’s edge, where the placid surface reflected the delicate faces of the Shangguan girls. They all had their mother’s high nose and fair, full earlobes. Laidi took a mahogany comb out of a pocket and combed each of her sisters’ hair; pieces of straw and dust fluttered to the ground. They grimaced and complained when the comb pulled through the tangles. Finished with her sisters, Laidi then ran the comb through her own hair and twisted it into a single braid, which she tossed over her back; the tip fell to her rounded hip. After putting away the comb, she rolled up her pant legs, revealing a pair of fair, shapely calves. Then she took off her blue satin shoes, with their red embroidered flowers; her sisters all stared at her bare feet, which had been partially crippled from the bindings. “What are you gawking at?” she demanded angrily. “If we don’t bring home lots of shrimp, the old witch will never forgive us!”
    Her sisters hurriedly took off their shoes and rolled up their pant legs; Qiudi, the youngest, stripped naked. Laidi stood on the muddy bank looking down at water grasses swaying gently at the bottom of the slow-flowing river. Fish frolicked there, while swallows skimmed the surface of the water. She stepped into the river and shouted, “Qiudi, you stay up there to catch the shrimp. The rest of you, into the water.”
    Giggling and squealing, the girls stepped into the river.
    As her heels, accentuated by the bindings she’d worn as a little girl, sank into the mud, and the underwater grasses gently stroked her calves, Laidi experienced an indescribable sensation. Bending over at the waist, she carefully dug her fingers into the mud around the roots of the grasses, since that was the best place to find shrimp. Without warning, something leaped up between her fingers, sending shivers of delight through her. A nearly transparent, coiled freshwater shrimp the thickness of her finger, each of its feelers a work of art, lay squirming in her hand. She flung it up onto the riverbank. With a whoop of joy, Qiudi ran over and scooped it up.
    “First Sister, I got one, too!”
    “I got one, First Sister!”
    “So did I!”
    The task of retrieving all the shrimp was too much for two-year-old Qiudi, who stumbled and fell, then sat on the dike