Dream of Ding Village Read online

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Her worries laid to rest, Lingling turned and began to walk away. Then, realizing that she had forgotten to give Little Green any wedding candy, she raced back to the house and stuffed several handfuls of sweets into Little Green’s cupped hands.

  After they had rounded the corner and were about to knock at the first door on the next street, Lingling suddenly realized that, so far, she was the one doing all the work. While she had been knocking on doors, delivering the happy news, passing out cigarettes and sweets, accepting congratulations and trading small talk, Uncle had been standing behind her, grinning his lazy grin and chomping on wedding candy. She paused at the door, lowered her hand and turned to Uncle. ‘It’s your turn,’ she told him. ‘This family’s mostly men, so it’ll probably be a man who comes to the door. You should be the one to knock.’

  Uncle tried to shrink away, but Lingling grabbed his hand and dragged him to the door.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But remember what you promised. You have to call me Daddy at least a hundred times tonight.’

  Lingling’s cheeks coloured, but she nodded her head.

  Uncle grinned. ‘Maybe just once, right now.’

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Say it louder.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  Smiling, Uncle stepped forward and knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ A man’s voice rang out from the courtyard.

  ‘It’s me, Uncle. I wonder if I might borrow something of yours.’

  When the door swung open, Uncle grinned, passed the man a cigarette and lit it for him. ‘So, what did you want to borrow?’ the man asked.

  ‘I was just joking. Actually, Lingling and I are married. We just got the papers today, and she insisted we come over and give you some cigarettes and wedding candy.’

  At this, the man broke into a broad smile. ‘Congratulations, kids. That’s great news. I’m really happy for you.’

  After Uncle and Lingling had said goodbye, they moved on to the next house, which was Ding Xiaoming’s. Having mustered up his courage, Uncle was about to knock on the door when Lingling grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away.

  After Uncle and Lingling had made the rounds of the village and handed out all their candy and cigarettes, they went home to get some money so they could buy more candy and cigarettes for the residents of the school. They planned to visit the school to tell Grandpa and the others their good news. But along the way something happened: a minor incident that would have major consequences.

  As Uncle was walking into his own courtyard, he stumbled over the wooden threshold and took a tumble. His thin summer clothes were torn, his elbows and knees scraped and bloodied. It was nothing serious, some minor scrapes and a bit of blood, but the pain from his injuries was nothing compared to the pain Uncle felt in the rest of his body. The fall triggered a cold, piercing pain that radiated from his spine and caused him to break out into a sweat. Uncle felt it as soon as he sat up from the ground and began wiping the blood from his hands.

  ‘Lingling,’ he moaned. ‘It hurts all over.’

  Lingling hurried him into bed and helped him get cleaned up, mopping the sweat and blood from his face, arms and legs. Uncle knelt on the bed, shrimp-like, his head bowed and his body curled up into a ball. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead on to the bedclothes. His lips were pale and contorted, his whole body shivering with pain. He clutched Lingling’s hand so tightly that his fingernails dug into her flesh. ‘Mummy,’ he said. ‘I’m scared that I won’t have the strength to get past this.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Daddy. Just think of all the other people who got the fever when you did. They’re all dead now, but you’re still alive, right? You always make it through.’

  Uncle’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Not this time. It’s like the pain’s tearing through my bones.’

  Lingling gave him an herbal pain remedy and fed him half a bowl of soup. When the pain had subsided a bit, she sat beside him and they talked for a long time, about many things.

  ‘Do you really think you won’t get past this?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ Uncle answered grimly.

  ‘What am I going to do if you die?’

  ‘Go on living. Take every day you can get. And keep an eye on my dad and brother to make sure they dig us a big grave, roomy enough for both of us. I want it to be big and deep and wide, like a house or a courtyard.’

  ‘What about the coffin?’

  ‘My brother promised to get nice coffins for us. The good kind, made of cedar or tung, at least three inches thick.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’

  ‘He’s still my brother. No matter what, he and I are family. Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the way he threw our marriage licences on the ground? And then he yelled that you were raising all kinds of hell and signing away the family property on my account. He hates that you married me. If you die first and he doesn’t give me a coffin, or dig a big enough grave for both of us, what am I supposed to do?

  ‘And another thing, coffin prices have skyrocketed. You used to be able to get a decent coffin for four or five hundred yuan, but now they sell for seven or eight. If your brother were to give us both nice coffins, it would come to about one thousand five hundred yuan. Do you really think he’s willing to part with that kind of money?

  ‘Seriously Liang, if your brother decides not to give me a coffin, there’s not a thing I can do about it. If anyone has to die first, it should be me. That way, you can make sure they dig the grave big enough for both of us, and give us two fancy coffins, as nice as houses. So you’ve got to go on living, Daddy, okay? If one of us has to go first, let it be me.’

  They talked without stopping, hardly pausing for breath. They talked long into the night, until the pain was nearly forgotten. Tonight was supposed to be the night when Lingling called him Daddy, again and again, a hundred times over. She’d promised to wait on him, to serve him any way he liked, to let him sit back and enjoy. But now the fever had taken hold of him. Pain had grown roots. If it weren’t for Lingling’s voice, he wouldn’t have been able to stand it. What had begun as a flesh wound, just broken skin, now went deeper, because of his body’s inability to fight back. Having lost his ability to resist pain, the tiniest twinge became an agony in his joints and in his bones. A pain that seeped into the marrow like hot knives plunging into his joints, digging and gouging. Like metal rods prying his bones apart, or a rusty needle, threaded with twine, passing up through his spine. The pain was inhuman. Uncle clenched his jaw until his teeth ached and sweat poured down his face like rivulets.

  The night was as endless as a path across the plain. Pale, milky moonlight seeped through the curtains; crickets chirped outside the window. It was stifling. The pain made Uncle feel as if his soul were on fire, a heap of burning coals. Like an iron forge, hot enough to smelt metal. It was impossible to find a comfortable position. First he knelt, shrimp-like, in the middle of the bed, with his backside sticking up into the air. Then he tumbled sideways on to the sheets and lay in a foetal position, like a dead shrimp curled up into a ball. Or he tried lying prostrate, hugging his knees to his chest, like a dead shrimp lying on its back. Like a shrimp that had been dead for some time. It was the only position that took away some of the pain. Some of the pain, but not all of it. Not enough to stop him from crying out.

  ‘God, I can’t stand it any more. Lingling, I’m dying. Mummy, give me something to stop the pain.’

  He screamed and cried and clutched the sheets until they were wadded up into a ball. He was drenched in perspiration, sticking to the sheets. Lingling tried to wipe away his sweat, keeping up a steady stream of conversation, a collection of things she knew he loved to hear. Anything to try to ease his pain; anything that might get through to him. If he didn’t like what he was hearing, he would beat the pillow with his fists and cry: ‘The pain is killing me, and you say that to me?’

  And Lingling would mop
up his sweat with a damp towel and change the subject.

  ‘Daddy, don’t get mad, but I want to ask you something.’

  Uncle turned his head to look at her. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  ‘Who would you guess Tingting’s new boyfriend is, back in her hometown?’

  ‘Come on, Mummy, aren’t I in enough pain already?’

  Lingling smiled. ‘Well, no matter who he is, there’s no way they’re happier than us.’

  Uncle’s gaze softened.

  ‘I’ll bet Tingting doesn’t call her man Daddy, like I do. And I’m sure he’s never once called her Mummy.

  ‘I’m your real wife now, Daddy. But even before that, I was your wife anytime you wanted. In and out of the school, out in the wheat fields or in our little house at the threshing ground. Anytime, day or night, whenever you wanted. All you had to do was ask, and I never once told you no. I always gave you what you wanted.

  ‘If you wanted something sweet, I made you something sweet. If you wanted something salty, I made you something salty. I never let you near the stove, and never made you get your hands wet doing laundry. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?’

  Before he could answer, Lingling said: ‘Yes, I did all those things as your wife.’

  It was as if she had not expected him to answer, as if she had posed the question to herself. ‘But when you wanted me to be your mummy, I hugged you and rocked you, put my breast in your mouth and patted you on the back, like putting a little baby to sleep. And when you wanted me to be your daughter, I called you Daddy at least ten times a day, just like you were my real dad. I didn’t tell you, but one day I counted how many times I called you Daddy, and it was at least fifty times. But you only called me Mummy once that day, and that was just because you wanted me to wash your feet. But that was enough for me. I was happy to wash your feet and empty out the water afterwards. And once you even woke me up in the middle of the night to give you a bath. So you tell me, Liang, was I really good to you, or was it all fake?’

  Lingling stared at Uncle as if he’d wronged her somehow.

  ‘You tell me, Daddy . . . was I really good to you, or was I faking it?’

  Uncle knew she’d been good to him. He thought he’d been good to her as well, but from the way she talked, he could tell that he must have done something to upset her, or to hurt her in some way. He couldn’t think what it might be. Or maybe it was several things. All he could do was try to look apologetic, like a man facing an angry wife, a complaining mother or a grumbling sister.

  Lingling, wearing only shorts and a thin cotton gown, sat on the edge of the bed, holding Uncle’s hand. She spread his fingers apart, pinching them one by one as if she were counting. She seemed almost unaware of what she was doing. As she gazed at him, colour flooded into her cheeks. Although she had grown very thin, a rosy glow was thick upon her skin. She looked like a bashful young girl, sitting close to a boy for the very first time, sharing her first intimate conversation. The lights were low, giving the room a soft, gentle glow. Earlier that evening, mosquitoes had buzzed around the room, but now they were perched, invisible, listening to the sound of Lingling’s voice. Their absence made the room feel soft and quiet.

  A gentle stillness, warm and soft, had settled over them.

  Uncle was no longer huddled, foetal or curled up like a shrimp. He lay on his side, legs outstretched, head resting on his pillow, not complaining about the pain or about the room being too hot, but listening to Lingling talk. He was like a child listening to his mother tell a story, or a boy hearing tales about things he had done long ago and forgotten.

  ‘I’ve been so good to you, Daddy. So why do you keep saying you’re not going to make it? Why do you keep telling me you’re not going to survive? Of course you’re going to survive. Think about all the people who’ve died from the fever. It’s always the ones with liver problems who die first, then the ones with bad lungs or stomach trouble. If all you have is a fever, it takes a long time to die, and with bone pain, it takes even longer. Your lungs and stomach are fine, and I’ve never heard you complain about your liver. So what makes you think you’re going to die soon?

  ‘I know you’re in pain, but everyone says bone pain takes the longest to kill you. So when you yell that you’re dying, does that mean you don’t want to live? I mean, isn’t that just asking for death, hurrying it along? You shouldn’t call death to your bedside. Why would you do that? Is it because I haven’t been good enough, is that why you want to leave me so soon? Or do you just think that since you have the fever, living is pointless?

  ‘Just look at me, Daddy. The minute we got our marriage licences, the fever I’d had for two weeks disappeared. It went away, and now I’m as good as new. And do you know why? Because I love you. I love being married to you. It’s like we’re on our honeymoon. I mean, we just got our licences, so this is our first day of really being married. We haven’t even slept together yet, at least not officially. So how can you talk to me about dying?

  ‘Liang, don’t you love me any more? Because if you do, Daddy, if you still care about me like you used to, please stop talking about dying. Stop saying you’re not going to make it. Just keep thinking about me, and calling me your mummy, and letting me take care of you. I’ll do anything you want – feed you and dress you, and even help you in bed.

  ‘Now that we’re married, we’re officially a family. I’ve called you Daddy so many times, but I still haven’t had the chance to call my own father-in-law Dad. Professor Ding is my dad now, too. Tomorrow, I want to go to the school and invite him to live with us. I can take care of you both. I’ll cook and clean and wash your clothes, and when I’ve got my strength back, I’ll knit sweaters and woollen pants for both of you. You’ve never seen how well I can knit. Back home, all the neighbours used to come and ask me to make them sweaters.’

  Lingling noticed that Uncle’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Did you doze off, Daddy?’

  ‘My eyelids feel heavy.’

  ‘Is the pain any better?’

  ‘Yes, it’s like it’s gone. Doesn’t hurt at all.’

  ‘Then close your eyes again and go to sleep, and everything will be better in the morning. Tomorrow we’ll have a lie-in, maybe stay in bed all day. We’ll sleep until the sun is shining on our backs, and then we’ll have breakfast for lunch.’

  As she was talking, Uncle’s eyes fell shut again, as if they were weighted down with bricks. She thought he might be asleep, until he mumbled: ‘It doesn’t hurt, but I feel hot all over, like my chest is on fire.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Maybe you could wipe me down with a wet towel.’

  Lingling dipped a towel in a basin of tepid water and used it to wipe Uncle’s chest and back. ‘Is that any better?’ she asked when she was finished.

  ‘My chest is still burning,’ Uncle answered, without opening his eyes. ‘Maybe you could get me some icicles.’

  Although it was the middle of the night, Lingling went out to the village well and drew some icy cold water. When she came back, she soaked the towel in the cold water and used it to moisten Uncle’s skin. ‘Feeling any better?’ she asked.

  ‘A little,’ answered Uncle, opening his eyes. But soon the towel grew warm, heated by the contact with his skin. Uncle rolled over peevishly and curled up into a ball again.

  ‘I’m burning up. Please, get me some icicles.’

  Lingling thought for a moment, then stripped off her light summer clothes, hung them from the bedpost and went outside with the damp towel. It was well after midnight, and the chill was rising from the ground, seeping in from the fields. A bitter wind swirled through the courtyard, turning it as cold as a deep, dark well. The moon was nowhere to be seen, leaving only the stars overhead and a distant haze that hung over the western plain. The chill silence of the village seeped into the courtyard, piling up against the walls. Standing stark naked in the centre of the courtyard next to the bucket of water, Lingling began to ladle water ov
er her body. Again and again, she poured the cool water over her skin, until she was drenched and shivering with cold. Shaking uncontrollably, she towelled herself dry, stepped back into her slippers and raced into the house. She got into bed next to Uncle and pressed her cold flesh to his burning flesh, like a human icicle.

  ‘Does this feel better, Daddy?’

  ‘You’re so nice and cool.’

  Lingling held Uncle as he slept, allowing his heat to be absorbed into her cool flesh, siphoning away his fever. When the heat from his body had been transferred to hers, he began to complain that he was burning up again. Lingling ran into the courtyard, doused herself with cold water until she was coughing and shivering, towelled off and rushed back to the bedroom to press her body against Uncle, taking in all his heat and fire. Again and again, she hopped out of bed, raced into the courtyard, doused herself with water and got back into bed, shivering and coughing. By the sixth time, the fever seemed to have left Uncle’s body and he fell into a peaceful slumber, snoring loudly.

  4

  Uncle was snoring like a bellows. His snores muddied the room like run-off from a farmer’s field. It was late morning, and the sun had been up for hours. When Uncle awoke from his dreams, his fever was gone and his body felt limp and tender, as if he’d just emerged from a hot shower after a long day’s work in the fields. He opened his eyes and saw that Lingling was not sleeping next to him. The last thing he remembered, she’d been lying close to him, her nude body as smooth and pleasantly cool as a pillar of jade. He’d fallen asleep embracing her coolness, but when he awoke, she wasn’t in bed.

  She wasn’t in bed because she hadn’t slept in the bed. She was lying, fully dressed, on a straw mat on the floor.

  The night before, after Uncle had dozed off, Lingling had spread a brand-new straw mat on the floor and selected a nice outfit to wear: a pale blue skirt, a light pink cotton blouse and, although it was midsummer, a pair of silk stockings. She had got dressed and combed her hair neatly, as if she were getting ready to go out. The flesh-coloured stockings, moon-coloured skirt, and her blouse the shade of a winter sunset were well-chosen and well-matched, fresh and cool and pleasing to the eye. Pleasing to Uncle’s eyes, which is why she had chosen them.