第十八章 (Chapter Eighteen)

Old Li's melancholy grew deeper with each passing day. He felt his life was like a withered leaf drifting on water, surrounded by darkness, with no shore, no light.

At the yamen, he carried out his duties as usual, but his heart felt empty, like an old bag with nothing in it. Elder Brother Zhang was still as enthusiastic, Little Zhao as annoying, Wu Taiji as laughably upright. Nothing had changed, yet Old Li felt everything had altered-perhaps it was he himself who had changed.

As for home, it was even worse. Since his wife started socializing with those other ladies, her way of speaking, her gait, even her cough seemed to have changed. She learned to sigh and also learned to wake Old Li in the middle of the night to interrogate him, "Who are you calling out to in your dreams?" Old Li knew he hadn't called out to anyone, but he couldn't be bothered to explain.

His two children were his solace, but this solace came with thorns. He loved them, and they needed him. Yet precisely because he loved them, he felt even more his own worthlessness. How pitiable it was to have such a father as their parent!

poetic sentiment, ideals, revolution-where had all these fine-sounding words gone? Sometimes, lying awake at night, Old Li wondered: if he set fire to the yamen, burned down his home, and perished in the flames, wouldn't that be more satisfying? But when the sun rose the next day, he still had to go to the yamen, still had to return home, still had to face his wife in her blue cotton-padded gown and those bound feet that have been unbound.

The image of Young Mrs. Ma kept flickering in his mind. That lightness, that vivacity, that independent spirit… but he couldn't think of a second thing to say. Last time, asking "What is your maiden surname?" was foolish enough. Could he possibly run to her and say, "Let's run away together?"

Run away? Where to? Old Li laughed at himself. Beiping was so vast, yet there was no place for him to hide. The world was so large, he simply had nowhere to go. He was like a bird in a cage, clearly seeing the sky outside, but unable to fly out.

Elder Brother Zhang came to advise him again, "Old Li, take your wife to see a movie. Movies, they're great! Civilized, interesting!" Old Li hemmed and hawed in agreement, but didn't go. He knew his wife didn't like movies, and besides, the men and women in films were so beautiful. Coming home to compare them with his own wife would only make him sadder.

Little Zhao seemed to have become more subdued, perhaps brewing some new trick. Old Li could see that Mr. Qiu's wife and Wu Taiji's wife had become Mrs. Li's strategists. The alliance among women was more solid than the League of Nations. Poor Old Li had no choice but to surrender, not even daring to declare "neutrality."

The Dragon Boat Festival was approaching. On the streets, there were vendors selling zongzi and gourds, and the children clamored for them. Old Li bought a few small gourds for Ying and Ling, and seeing them jump for joy, he felt comforted for a moment. But when he thought of himself as like a gourd, hollow, hanging, swaying with the wind, that comfort turned sour.

Rain began to fall at night. Old Li listened to the sound of rain, unable to sleep. He wanted to write something, poetry or prose, as if the things in his heart were full and about to overflow. But when he picked up the brush, only a few drops of ink fell on the paper, not a single word. His thoughts were like the rain, scattering, but all seeping into the ground, leaving no trace.

Ling cried out in her dream. Old Li hurried over to look. She turned over and slept again, tears still on her face. He gently wiped them away and stood by the bed for a long time. Is this what life is? Crying once, laughing once, dreaming, waking, then growing old and dying?

He suddenly thought of his father in the countryside. His father had farmed all his life, honest, suffering, but with a root in his heart, planted in the soil, not drifting aimlessly like this. And himself? He had learned a few characters, come to Beiping, become a clerk, and ended up like duckweed!

The rain stopped, the moon came out, and light appeared on the window paper. Old Li sighed and returned to his own bed. His wife was sleeping soundly, her breathing even. He looked at her and thought to himself, "You've had it hard too." Yes, she had it hard too, coming from the countryside to Beiping, trying hard to learn to be a "lady," but ending up somewhat awkward. Both were pitiable, but neither could help the other.

Tomorrow, he still had to go to the yamen. Old Li closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but his mind was as clear as if washed with water. In the distance, a rooster crowed; dawn was approaching. The new day, like the old ones, was gray, cold, boring. He had to get up, had to live, had to bend his back for five dou of rice. Poetry? That was something from a past life.