Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,translated by Nicky Harman（2）

Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,

translated by Nicky Harman（2）

Outside in the chill wind, his nose began to itch and he sneezed. He had the odd feeling there was a bug in his nostrils trying to squirm its way out. He needed that jab, he thought, wiping his nose. But it was just a cold – he couldn't complain, he hadn't been ill this year. He gave another loud sneeze.

There was hardly anyone at the doctors, just two men and a child. He picked out one of the pears, gave it to the child, and sat down. He waited for the men to say something but they sat silent, watching the child eating the pear and slurping dribble and juice. He wouldn't give away his pears to them, he thought, that wouldn't do at all. But the men helped themselves from his basket anyway, first one, then the other.

'Help yourselves!' Old Man Xinjiang said, 'Ripe pears are good for fever!'

When it was his turn, he said to the doctor: 'I want a jab. Give me penicillin, will you? That's the only one I know.'

The doctor smirked. 'You should be resting when you've got a cold. No more running after women or you'll exhaust your yang and that'll be the end of you!'

Old Man Xinjiang went red. 'What nonsense! You're an educated man, Doctor, not a pig–ignorant villager …'

'Is it true you haven't been getting any?' asked the doctor, composing himself.

'How could I? When a woman's married to someone else, it's wrong!' Old Man Xinjiang felt a bead of sweat at the end of his nose. 'What counts in this life is loyalty to your friends.'

The doctor looked at him as he felt his pulse: 'But she was your wife first. There'd be nothing wrong with sleeping with her.'

'She …she …' Old Man Xinjiang stuttered, turning pale in his agitation.

'How old were you when the press–gang got you?'

'Twenty.'

'Was it really the morning after your wedding night?'

'Uh–huh.'

'And you really made it all the way back from Xinjiang on foot? You didn't get a ride?'

'Uh–huh.'

Old Man Xinjiang did not feel inclined to say anything more. He'd been asked the same questions hundreds of times, by this person and that, he was fed up with it. Yes, he was twenty, or perhaps a bit more. It was all so long ago – his memories had gone hazy, like a dream. What he did remember was that Xinjiang was very far away, and he'd been forced to go. There had been so many of them, they hadn't even roped them together. Press-gangs really did come and drag you out of your house and take you to the army camp. He'd been on the march for years … When people asked 'What's Xinjiang like, then?' he just said: 'I don't know. All I thought about was my wife.' He hadn't even had time to see her face properly, but she was still his wife. So he deserted. The first few times, he'd been caught and flogged half to death. At the fifth attempt, he'd made it back home. How far was that? He had no idea. He just remembered how he'd kept going, day and night, half-asleep sometimes. He might have been a month on the road, or it might have been a year. He couldn't remember and what did it matter anyway? When he got home, his wife had married another man. His elder brother couldn't afford to keep her and thought he was dead. So he sold her, and now Old Man Xinjiang's wife belonged to another man. Old Man Xinjiang hadn't had any money to buy her back again so that was that. The other man was well off in those days so she went with him, hoping for a better life. That was that. But people kept on asking, on and on …

'That was really hard on you,' said the doctor, 'Just getting one go with her.'

Old Man Xinjiang smiled and thought to himself, I didn't even get that. She had her period.

'Aren't you angry with your brother?'

'What's the point in being angry? You take what life throws at you.'

'Why didn't you marry again?'

'Why bother? You take what life throws at you.'

Old Man Xinjiang squinted at the sky outside the window, at the trees under the sky, and the yellow leaves blowing down in the autumn wind. His face might have been carved out of wood. As if this whole story had nothing to do with him.

The doctor took a look at his arm. 'Undo your trousers,' he said. Old Man Xinjiang pulled his trousers down, revealing a pair of skinny buttocks.

'Give me the jab into the flesh,' he said. 'Last time you hit the bone and I couldn't sit down for a week.'

The doctor laughed. 'You haven't got any flesh,' he said. 'I can only get hold of a few inches of skin, that's all there is. You should feed yourself better, instead of giving every cent you get to her.    She's married to someone else. Why are you bothering with her?' Old Man Xinjiang said nothing. 'You take too much on yourself,' the doctor went on. 'It's not doing you any good.'

'There you go again,' Old Man Xinjiang said. 'And you, an educated man …' The doctor pinched the skin and injected him. 'It went into the flesh this time,' said Old Man Xinjiang. 'It only hurt a bit.'

The doctor laughed and slapped his rump as if he were a horse: 'You can get up now, but mind you don't crack the bed boards with those sharp bones of yours.'

'Ah-ya,' complained Old Man Xinjiang, 'that hurt.'

'Huh,' said the doctor, 'Those old bones of yours ring like a monastery bell.'

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/apr/11/old-man-xinjiang-xue-mo-story

 (The Guardian Wednesday 11 April 2012 )