Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

detected a complex mixture of smells. All in all, I felt like I’d wound up in a vast, new world; I was eagerly looking forward to tomorrow.

40

Pang Chunmiao Sheds Pearl-like Tears
Lan Jiefang Enjoys a Taste of Cherry Lips
    Over a period of six years, I virtually flew up the official ladder: from director of the County Supply and Marketing Cooperative Political Section to deputy Party secretary of the cooperative, and from there to concurrent head and Party secretary of the cooperative, and then from there to deputy county chief in charge of culture, education, and hygiene. There was plenty of talk regarding my meteoric rise, but my conscience was clear. I had no one to thank but myself: my hard work, my talents, contacts among colleagues that I established, and a support base among the masses that I’d organized. In a higher-sounding vein, let me add that, of course, I was nurtured by the organization and received help from comrades, and I didn’t try to curry favor with Pang Kangmei. She certainly didn’t seem to care much for me, for not long after I’d assumed office, we met by accident in the County Party Committee compound, and when she saw there was no one around to hear her, she said:
    “I voted against you, you ugly shit, but you got the promotion anyway.”
    That hit me like a fist in the gut, and I couldn’t speak for a moment. I was a balding forty-year-old man with a potbelly. She was the same age, but had a girlish figure and a radiant young face; time seemed not to have left its mark on her. I watched her walk away, my mind a blank. Then the image of her tailored brown skirt, brown medium-height heels, tight calves, and thin waist left my mind in a hopeless tangle.
    If not for my affair with Pang Chunmiao, I might well have climbed higher up the official ladder, either as a county chief somewhere, or a Party secretary. At the very least I’d have made it to the National People’s Congress or the People’s Political Consultative Conference and been assigned as someone’s deputy, enjoying life to its fullest into my late years. I wouldn’t have wound up as I did, with a sullied reputation, badly scarred, and trying to get by in this tiny spot I call home. But I have no regrets.
    “Looked at from one angle,” Big-head said, “just knowing you have no regrets earns my respect as a man.” He laughed, almost a giggle. The expression of that dog of mine began to emerge on his face, as if developed from the negative of a photograph.
    Not until the day Mo Yan brought her to my office did the full meaning of “time flies” hit me. I’d always thought I was close to the Pang family and that I saw them often. But as I thought back, the impression of her that I’d come away with was of a girl doing a handstand in the entrance to the Cotton Processing Plant Number Five.
    “You . . . you’re all grown up,” I said as I looked her over, like an old uncle. “That day, your legs . . . straight up in the air . . .”
    The fair skin of her face reddened; a drop of sweat dotted the tip of her nose. That was Sunday, the first of July 1990. It was a hot day, so I’d left the window of my third-floor office open. Cicadas in the lush canopy of the French parasol tree outside my window were chirping like falling rain. She was wearing a red dress with a modestly plunging neckline and lacy piping. She had a thin neck above prominent collarbones, highlighted by a tiny green piece of jewelry, maybe jade, attached to a red string. She had big eyes and a small mouth with full lips; she wore no makeup. Her front teeth, ivory white, seemed slightly pressed together. Like an old-fashioned girl, she wore her hair in a braid, which caused a stirring in my heart.
    “Please, have a seat,” I said as I poured tea. “Time really does fly, Chunmiao. You’ve grown into a lovely young woman.”
    “Please don’t bother, Uncle Lan. I ran into Mr. Mo Yan on the street, and he treated me to a soft drink.” She sat demurely on the edge of the sofa.
    “Don’t call him uncle,” Mo Yan said. “Chief Lan and your elder sister were born in the same year. And his mother was your sister’s nominal mother.”
    “Nonsense!” I tossed a pack of China brand cigarettes on the table in front of Mo Yan. “Nominal mother, normal mother, those vulgar views of relationships never played a role in our family” I placed a cup of Dragon Well tea in front of her. “Call me whatever you like. Don’t listen to this guy. I