Big Breasts & Wipe Hips: A Novel

in front of the tables eating buns and garlic. The tops and bottoms of the fried buns were a crusty brown color; they were so hot you could hear them sputter in the men’s mouths, and so oily that red grease spurted out with each bite. None of the other bun sellers or flatcake peddlers had any customers; glaring enviously at the spot in front of Widow Zhao’s stand, they stood there banging the sides of their woks.
    As my litter passed, Widow Zhao stuck a bill on a bun, took aim at my face, and casually tossed it over. I ducked just in time, and the bun struck Wang Gongping squarely in the chest. Flashing me a look of apology, Widow Zhang wiped her hands on an oily rag. Her eyes were deep-set in her ashen face, ringed with dark purple circles.
    A tall, skinny man sidled over from the stand where live chickens were sold; the frightened hens were cackling nervously. The woman who ran the stand nodded repeatedly. The man had a peculiar walk: stiff as a board, he strode rhythmically, his shoulders shrugging with each step as if he were about to take root in the ground. It was Heavensent Zhang, whom people had nicknamed “Old Master Heaven.” A practitioner of the strange occupation of escorting the dead back to their hometowns, he had the gift of getting them back on their feet to walk home. Anytime a resident of Northeast Gaomi died away from home, Zhang was hired to bring the person back. And anytime an out-of-towner died in Northeast Gaomi Township, he was hired to take him back. How could anyone not venerate a man who had the ability of getting a corpse to walk over as many mountains and rivers as it took to get home? A strange smell emanated from the man’s body, and even the meanest dog tucked its tail between its legs, turned, and ran off when he drew near. Taking a seat on the bench in front of the widow’s wok, he extended two fingers. In the flurry of hand signals that passed between him and the woman, it quickly became clear that he wanted two trays of her buns, a total of fifty — not just two and not just twenty. So the widow hurried to serve this big-bellied customer, her face brightening, as green glares converged from neighboring stands. I hoped they’d say something, but even jealousy lacked the power to open their mouths.
    Heavensent sat quietly, eyes riveted on the widow as she worked, his hands resting tranquilly on his knees; a black cloth sack hung from his belt, but what it held no one knew. In the late autumn he’d taken on a big job — delivering a New Year’s scroll peddler who had died in Northeast Gaomi County’s Aiqiu Village back to his home in the far-off Northeast. After agreeing to the fee, the man’s son left his address and went on ahead to prepare to receive his father. Given all the mountain ranges Heavensent would have to cross, people doubted that he’d ever make it back. But he had, and by the looks of him, he’d only just returned. Was that money in his cloth bag? His straw sandals were tattered, exposing swollen toes and bony ankles.
    As Sleepyhead’s younger sister, Cross-eyed Beauty, walked past my litter with a large head of cabbage, she cast me a flirtatious look. Her hands were red from the freezing cold, and as she passed in front of Widow Zhao’s stand, the widow’s hands began to quake violently. Their gazes met, and mortal enemies’ eyes turned red. Not even the sight of the woman who had killed her husband was enough for Widow Zhao to violate the snow market ban on speaking. Yet I could see that her blood was boiling. Widow Zhao possessed the quality of letting nothing, not even rage, keep her from her work. After filling a large white ceramic bowl with the first rack of buns, she placed it in front of Heavensent, who stretched out his hand. It took Widow Zhao a moment to figure out what he wanted. She smacked her forehead apologetically, then reached into a jar, removed two large purple pungent stalks of garlic, and laid them in front of him. She then filled a small black bowl with sesame-flavored chili sauce and placed it too before Heavensent as a special treat. The reed-mat peddlers looked on with disgruntled expressions, censuring her for toadying up to Heavensent Zhang, who slowly and contentedly peeled the garlic as he waited for the buns to cool. Then he placed the white, unpeeled stalks on the table in a row by size, like a column of soldiers, now and then reaching down to switch one or two to make a perfect column. He didn’t start eating