Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

dared make a sound with the tip of my staff, then to jerk it back quickly, pulling the person’s tongue out with it.
    I spotted Mother, First Sister, and Eighth Sister in the crowd of people releasing their silent screams. I also saw others, such as Sha Zaohua and Sima Liang. My goat had been fitted with a mask over its mouth; fashioned out of white cotton in the shape of a cone, it was held on by a white cotton strap looped around the ears, for the proscription against making a sound was heeded not only by the Snow Prince’s family, but by its goat as well. I waved my staff in the direction of my family, all of whom greeted me in return by raising their arms. Sima Liang made circles with both hands and raised them to his eyes, as if looking at me through binoculars. Zaohua’s face was radiant, like a fish deep in the ocean.
    All variety of things were sold at the snow market. The first stop by my silent honor guard was the shoe market. Only straw sandals were displayed, all made of softened cattails, the kind of footwear that Northeast Gaomi residents wore throughout the winter. Hu Tiangui, the father of five brothers who had survived the war and then been sent into forced labor, stood holding a willow branch, icicles hanging from his chin, white cloth wrapped around his chin; wearing only a tattered burlap sack, he was bent over, two grimy fingers extended as he bartered with Qiu Huangshan, a master sandal-maker. Qiu stuck out three fingers and laid them over Hu’s two. Hu stubbornly reextended his two fingers; Qiu quickly countered with three. Back and forth they went — three, four, five times — until Qiu pulled back his hand and, with a pained look to show his frustration, untied a pair of inferior sandals made of the green tips of cattails from his string of wares. Hu Tiangui’s open mouth was a silent expression of his angry reaction. He thumped his chest, looked heavenward, and then pointed to the ground. What he meant by all this was unclear. With his staff he dug through the pile of sandals, settling upon a superior pair the color of beeswax with thick, sturdy soles, made from cattail roots. Qiu pushed Hu’s staff away, stuck out four fingers, and held them unflinchingly under Hu’s nose. Once again Hu looked heavenward and pointed to the ground, his burlap sack shifting with each movement. He bent down and untied the pair of sandals he’d selected, gave them a squeeze, and shifted his feet; his tattered shoes, with rubber soles that were barely attached to the tops, now lay on the ground in front of him. Supporting himself by his staff, he slipped his trembling feet into the new sandals, then took a crumpled bill out of his patchwork pocket and tossed it at the feet of Qiu Huangshan. With rage written all over his face, Qiu uttered a silent curse and stomped angrily on the ground; but he picked up the frayed bill, flattened it out, held it by one corner, and waved it in the air for the benefit of people nearby. Some shook their heads sympathetically, while others wore silly grins. Inching his way along with the help of his staff, Hu Tiangui walked off on legs that were stiff as boards. I was disgusted with Qiu Huangshan, he with the skillful mouth and nimble fingers, and deep down hoped that his anger would get the best of him, causing him to blurt out something; that way, with my temporary authority, I could jerk that long tongue out of his mouth with my staff. But he cleverly saw what I was thinking and tucked the pink bill into a pair of sandals hanging from his carrying pole. When he took down the sandals, I saw they were nearly stuffed full of brightly colored paper money. One by one he pointed to the sandal-makers around him, who looked at me with fawning expressions and then slowly pointed to the money in his sandals. Once he’d finished, he reverently flung the sandals to me; they bounced off my gut and landed on the ground in front of me. Several of the bills, with images of dumb fat sheep seemingly waiting to be sheared or slaughtered, fell out. As I moved forward, several more pairs of sandals stuffed with money came flying my way.
    In the food market, Fang Meihua, the widow of Zhao the Sixth, was anxiously frying stuffed buns in a flat-bottomed wok. Her son and daughter sat on a straw mat with a blanket wrapped around them, their four eyes rolling nonstop. She had set up a number of rickety tables in front of her stove, and at the moment, six burly reed-mat peddlers were squatting