The narrow lane seemed to go on forever. There were no lights to show the way, but dim starlight at least lent form to the walls alongside him. Snow and rain fell more heavily in the dark night, accompanied by a soft, heart-warming rustle that hinted at pine and cypress beyond the walls, and symbolized the ghosts of individuals sacrificed over the years in this place. If tens of thousands could be martyred for the good of the people, is there any form of suffering the living cannot cast aside? By paraphrasing this famous line by Mao, the pain in his heart abated a bit. The lights of Yichi Tavern had been swallowed up behind several layers of buildings, the lane sandwiched between two stone walls had been swallowed up by his tangled thoughts; time passed inexorably, the dark night pressed onward through the icy rain and the rustlings; the barely discernible barking of a dog somewhere added to the sense of mystery in this town in the darkness of night. Without being aware of it, he emerged from the small cobblestone lane, and was greeted by the hiss of a gas lamp up ahead. He headed straight for it, like a moth drawn to the light.
A portable stand selling wonton was framed in the halo of lamplight; flashes of gold leaped from an oven where kindling crackled and popped, and sent burning cinders into the air; he detected the odor of charred beans and heard the gurgling of wonton boiling in a pot. Its fragrance tugged at his soul He couldn’t begin to calculate how long it had been since he’d last eaten, but his coiling intestines complained loudly, and his legs were too rubbery to support him any longer. He shuddered, cold sweat dotted his forehead, and he collapsed face-down in front of the wonton stand.
As the old wonton peddler was picking him up by the arms, he said:
‘Gramps, I need some wonton.’
The old fellow sat him down on a campstool and handed him a bowl of wonton. Grabbing the bowl and the spoon, and not caring whether it was hot or cold, he wolfed it down. But with one bowlful nestling in his stomach, his sense of hunger was stronger than ever. Even four bowlfuls failed to satisfy his hunger, but when he looked down, some of the wonton cut loose from his stomach and made the return trip.
‘More?’ the old fellow asked.
‘No more. What do I owe you?’
‘No need to ask,’ the old fellow answered with a sympathetic look in his eyes. ‘If it’s convenient, you can give me four cents. If not, just count it as my treat.’
Stung by the patronizing reply, the investigator fantasized that he had a crisp new hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, its edges sharp as a razor, which he would flick with his finger to make it snap, then fling it at the old man, before flashing him a superior look, turning on his heels, and walking off whistling, the sound slicing through the vast night like a dagger, teaching the old man a lesson he’d never forget. Unhappily, the investigator was broke. When he wolfed down the wonton, he simultaneously wolfed down his embarrassment and awkwardness. One piece after another, the wonton rose from the investigator’s stomach, only to be chewed up and sent back down. Now, finally, he could taste them. With a sense of deep sadness, he thought, I’ve turned into an animal that chews its cud. Anger welled up as he recalled the scaly little demon who had stolen his wallet, wristwatch, cigarette lighter, papers, and electric shaver; recalled the oily Diamond Jin; recalled the bizarre lady trucker; recalled the celebrated Yu Yichi. And as he recalled Yu Yichi, he envisioned the lady trucker’s firm, voluptuous body, and the green flames of jealousy burned anew. Hurriedly he extracted himself from these dangerous recollections and returned to the awkward scenario of having eaten a vendor’s wonton without being able to pay for it. For a measly four cents, I’ve descended to the level of a beggar. A hero brought low by a few coins. He turned his pockets inside-out - no money, not a cent. His shorts and T-shirt were both hanging from the chandelier in the lady trucker’s place, which he’d fled like a rat running from danger. The cold night air chilled him to the bone. With nowhere to turn, he took out his pistol and laid it gently in a white ceramic bowl with blue flowers. Light glinted off the blue steel barrel. He said:
‘Gramps, I’m an investigator sent down by the province. I ran into some bad people who stole everything I had, all except for this pistol. This ought to prove I’m not someone who goes around eating food without paying for it.’
The old fellow, slightly flustered, picked up the bowl with both hands.
‘A man of action,’ he said eagerly, ‘a real man of action. It’s my good fortune that you’ve chosen my wonton. Now please take this thing back, it scares me.’
After retrieving his pistol, Ding Gou’er said:
‘Old fellow, since you only wanted four cents, you must have known I was penniless. Supplying me with all the wonton I could eat, even though you knew I was penniless, can only mean that you took me for a bad person who could put you out of business if he felt like it. You didn’t serve me that wonton because you wanted to, and I can’t let this misunderstanding go unchecked. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll leave my name and address, and if you ever find yourself in a pickle, look me up. Do you have a pen?’
I’m an illiterate old wonton peddler. Why would I have a pen?’ the fellow said. ‘Besides, Boss, I know you’re an important person, here on an undercover assignment. You don’t need to leave your name and address. All I ask is that you spare my life.’
“Undercover assignment? Bullshit! I'm the unluckiest man alive. And I'm going to find a way to pay for that wonton, come hell or high water. Tell you what…’
Pushing a release button on his pistol, he removed the ammunition clip, took out a single bullet, and handed it to the old fellow.
‘You can keep this as a souvenir,’ he said.
Frantically waving off the gesture, the old fellow said:
‘No, I really can’t. A few bowls of inedible wonton, Boss, what can it be worth? Just the opportunity to meet a good and decent man like you is my great fortune, enough to last me three lifetimes, no, I really can’t…’
Unwilling to let the old fellow prattle on and on, the investigator grabbed his hand and forced him to take the bullet. The old man’s hand was hotter than blazes.
Just then he heard a snicker behind him, like the sound of an owl on a tombstone, which scared him into hunching his head down into his shoulders. Another spurt of urine ran down his leg.
‘Some investigator!’ It was an old man’s voice. ‘I see an escaped convict!’
Trembling with fear, he turned to see who it was. There beside the trunk of a French kolanut tree stood a skinny old man in a tattered army uniform, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at him; a long-haired tiger-striped dog sat motionless and menacingly on its haunches beside him, eyes like laser beams. The dog frightened the investigator more than the man did.
‘Gramps Qiu, I’ve disturbed you again,’ the peddler said softly to the old man.
‘Liu Four, how many times have I told you not to set up shop here? And still you refuse to listen to me!’
‘Gramps Qiu, I didn’t mean to anger you, but what can a poor man do? I have to come up with my daughter’s tuition. I’ll do anything for my kids, but I don’t dare go into the city, because they’ll fine me if they catch me, and there goes half a month’s income.’
Gramps Qiu waved his shotgun in the air. ‘You there,’ he said sternly, ‘toss that pistol over here!’
Like an obedient child, Ding Gou’er tossed the pistol over to to where Gramps Qiu was standing.
‘Put your hands up!’ Gramps Qiu demanded.
Slowly Ding Gou’er raised his hands, then watched as the skinny old man whom the aging wonton peddler had called Gramps Qiu held his shotgun in one hand to free up the other. Then, bending his legs while keeping his upper body straight - so he could shoot if necessary - he picked up the six-nine service pistol Gramps Qiu studied the gun from every angle, before announcing disdainfully, ‘A beat-up Luger!’ Ding Gou’er, seeing his opportunity, said, ‘I can tell you’re a weapons expert.’ The old man’s face lit up. In a high and scratchy yet infectiously powerful voice, he said, ‘You’re
right there. I’ve handled at least thirty, maybe even fifty different weapons in my time, from the Czech rifle to the Hanyang, the Russian submachine gun, the tommy gun, the nine-shot repeater … and that’s only the rifles. As for handguns, I’ve used the German Mauser, the Spanish Waist-Drum repeater, the Japanese Tortoise Shell Mauser, the Chinese Drumstick revolver, and three kinds of Saturday-night specials, not counting this one here.’ He tossed Ding Gou’er’s pistol into the air and caught it on its way down, in a nimble practiced fashion that belied his years. He had an elongated head, narrow eyes, a hooked nose, no eyebrows and no sideburns; his deeply wrinkled face was dark as a tree trunk that’s been charred in a kiln. ‘This pistol,’ he said scornfully, ‘is better suited for women than for men.’ The investigator replied evenly, ‘It’s very accurate.’ The old man examined it again, then said authoritatively, ‘It’s fine within ten meters. More than that, it isn’t worth shit.’ To which Ding Gou’er replied, ‘You know your business, Gramps.’ The old man stuck Ding Gou’er’s pistol into his waistband and snorted contemptuously.
The wonton peddler said, ‘Gramps Qiu is a veteran revolutionary. He’s in charge of Liquorland’s Martyrs’ Cemetery.’
‘No wonder,’ Ding Gou’er said.
‘What about you?’ the old revolutionary asked.
‘I’m an investigator for the provincial Higher Procuratorate.’
‘Let’s see your papers.’
‘They were stolen.’
‘You look like a fugitive to me.’
‘I know I look like one, but I’m not.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Call your Municipal Party Secretary, or your Mayor, or your Police Chief, or your Chief Prosecutor, and ask if they know a special investigator by the name of Ding Gou’er.’
‘Special investigator?’ The old revolutionary couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘Where’d they find a dogshit special investigator like you?’
‘I was brought down by a woman,’ Ding Gou’er said. Intending to laugh at himself, he was surprised by the heart stabs this simple admission produced. Falling to his knees in front of the wonton stand, he began pummeling his already bloody head with his already bloody fists and screeching, ‘I was brought down by a woman, by a woman who slept with a dwarf…’
The old revolutionary walked up, poked Ding Gou’er in the back with his shotgun, and demanded:
‘Get your ass up!’
Ding Gou’er looked up through his tears at the dark, elongated head of the old revolutionary, as if seeing a friend from home or like an underling looking at his superior or, most fitting of all, like a son laying eyes on his father for the first time in years. In the grip of strong emotions, he wrapped his arms around the old revolutionary’s legs and said tearfully, ‘Gramps, I’m a useless sack of shit to have been brought down by a woman …’
The old revolutionary jerked Ding Gou’er to his feet by his collar. His shiny, tiny eyes bored mercilessly into the wretched man for about half as long as it takes to smoke a pipeful, before he spat on the ground, drew the pistol from his waistband, and threw it down at his feet. Then he turned and swaggered off without so much as a grunt. The big yellow dog followed on his heels, also without a grunt, its damp fur glistening like a coat of tiny pearls.
The wonton peddler laid the shiny bullet down next to the pistol, picked up his stand, turned down the gas lantern, hoisted the whole rig onto his shoulder, and walked off without a sound.
Standing petrified in the dark, Ding Gou’er watched the man’s retreating back until all he could see was pale yellow lamplight, flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp; the canopy of the French kolanut overhead kept the raindrops off him and made a rustling sound that seemed louder now that the other people had left, taking the lamplight with them. In a state of utter stupefaction, he managed to stay upright; he had the presence of mind to pick up his pistol and the bullet. The night air was cold and damp, he ached all over, and he was a stranger in a strange land; he felt as if his day of reckoning had arrived.
The menacing look in the old revolutionary’s eyes had implied that Ding Gou’er was not up to snuff, and felt a need to pour out his heart to the man. What power could, in such a short time, transform a man so tough he could eat nails and shit springs into a mangy cur who had lost his soul? And was it possible that an ordinary-looking woman could possess that power? The answer was no, so putting all the blame on her was unfair. Something mysterious was going on here, and the old man who patrolled the night with his dog was at the heart of that mystery. Sensing that great wisdom was contained in that elongated head, Ding Gou’er made up his mind to go looking for him.
He set out on legs that had turned stiff, heading in the direction the old man and his dog had taken. From off in the distance came the sound of night trucks driving across a steel bridge, a steady clang-clang that deepened the night and its mystery. The road rose and fell beneath his feet, and at the top of one particularly steep hill, he sat on the ground and slid down. When he looked up, he saw a pile of broken bricks in the halo of a streetlight. A layer of white, like frost, blanketed the pile. A few steps more, and he was standing beside an ancient gateway. A light burning in the window of the battlement above illuminated a wrought-iron gate and a white placard on which red letters proclaimed:
LIQUORLAND MARTYRS’ CEMETERY
He rushed up to the gate and grabbed hold of the steel rods rising above the gate, like a man in jail; they were sticky enough to peel the skin right off his hands. The big yellow dog ran up to the gate, barking frantically, but he held his ground. Then the loud, scratchy voice of the old revolutionary emerged from the other side of the battlement; the dog stopped barking and hopping around, then hung its head and wagged its tail. The old revolutionary appeared before Ding Gou’er, shotgun slung over his shoulder, the brass buttons on his overcoat emblematic of his commanding authority,
‘What the hell are you up to?’ he demanded sternly.
With a loud sniffle, Ding Gou’er replied tearfully, ‘Gramps, I really am a special investigator for the provincial Higher Procuratorate.’
‘What are you here for?’
‘To investigate a very serious matter.’
‘What serious matter might that be?’
‘A gang of cannibalistic dignitaries are cooking and eating infants.’
Til kill every last one of them!’
‘Don’t go off half-cocked, Gramps. Let me in and I’ll tell you the whole story.’
The old revolutionary swung open a small side gate. ‘Squeeze in through there,’ he said.
Ding Gou’er hesitated, because he’d spotted some fine yellow hairs stuck in the corner.
‘Are you coming in or not?’
Ding Gou’er bent down and slipped through the gate.
‘Stuffed bellies like you can’t hold a candle to my dog.’
As Ding Gou’er followed the old revolutionary into a gate house, he was reminded of the gate house at the Mount Luo mine and the gateman with the wild mop of bristly hair.
The gate house was ablaze with light, the walls a snowy white. A fire-heated brick bed occupied half the room’s space; a wall as wide as the bed separated it from a stove on which a wok rested. Pine kindling kept the fire roaring and filled the air with its fragrance.
The old revolutionary unstrapped his shotgun and hung it on the wall, removed his overcoat and tossed it onto the bed, then rubbed his hands and said:
‘Burning firewood and sleeping on a heated bed is my one special privilege.’ He looked at Ding Gou’er and asked, ‘After decades of making revolution, which left me with seven or eight scars the size of ricebowls, don’t you think I deserve it?’
So mellowed by the pervading warmth that he was about to doze off, Ding Gou’er replied, ‘Yes, of course you do.’
‘But that rotten son of a bitch Section Chief Yu wants to have me start burning acacia instead of pine. I’ve made revolution all my adult life, even had the head of my prick shot off by the Jap devils
- I’ll never have sons or grandsons to carry on my line - so what’s the big deal in burning a little pine in my old age? I’m already eighty, how many pine trees can I use up in the years left to me, hm? I tell you, if the King of Heaven came to earth, he couldn’t stop me from burning pine!’ Waving his arms and slobbering, the old fellow was getting increasingly agitated.’What was it you said just now? Something about people eating infants? Cannibals? They’re worse than animals! Who are they? Tomorrow I’ll go kill every last one of them! I’ll shoot ‘em first and make my report later. At worst I’ll get a demerit or two. I’ve killed hundreds of people in my lifetime, all of them bad - traitors, counterrevolutionaries, invaders - and now that I’m old, it’s time to kill a few cannibalistic animals!’