Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,translated by Nicky Harman（3）

Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,

translated by Nicky Harman

Old Man Xinjiang got home and put down his baskets. They were considerably lighter now, and he felt a twinge of annoyance. But he shook it from his head. That's just how it was. You needed to be smart in this life, he thought to himself.

His house was small. There was a bed and a mud-brick stove, and a tall narrow window. The beams and walls were blackened with smoke, the paper covering the window was yellowed with age and the room was dark. That was the way he liked it. He lived alone. It was cosy and he could shut out the world just by shutting the door. A warm feeling stole over him. This house was good. It kept out the wind and the rain, and there was no one to pester him with questions. He was afraid of their questions. After all these years, he'd put it all behind him. Their questions brought back the memories and the distress.

Old Man Xinjiang poked the fire, rinsed a yam and cut it into pieces on his chopping board. Yams were good. A few minutes in the pan and they were soft – he could swallow them easily. His teeth had all gone years ago. Chewing other sorts of vegetables was hard work and gave him indigestion. He chopped the yam into largish pieces so they would soften quickly but would be easy to pick up with his chopsticks. His hands did not shake but they were getting clumsy.

The chopping board was a small one, only five inches across. He'd had it for half a lifetime and was used to it. Fruit wood was really good. You could cut anything on it without leaving marks. Chen the carpenter had wanted to make him a new one but he didn't see why he needed another. He was on his own and this one was enough. Over the years, other people changed their chopping boards, but he'd stuck with this one. Yes, fruit wood was really good. After all these years, it had only got a little thinner. That was good too. It made it lighter. Small though it was, it had been heavy. Now he was old, he was glad it was lighter.

When he had finished chopping the yam, he had a look at the stove. These mud–brick stoves were easy to use, they fired up quickly. He put a small pan on top and took out the can of oil. He wrapped the chopsticks in a rag, dipped them and oiled the bottom of the pan. It gave off a good smell. This was sesame oil, which he liked better than rapeseed oil. Though when he had no sesame oil, he'd use the rapeseed oil and it smelled just as good. And if that was gone, he did without oil. He always had noodles and yams, so that was all right. Apart from the Three Years of Famine, when they hadn't had yams, or anything else, and he'd had to live on sow thistles.

 Anyway, the good thing was that he hadn't starved to death. So many had. He was lucky. Very lucky. He'd come through without any major illness or other disaster. But then, you take what life throws at you, good or bad …

The house was quite still, the only noise his occasional mumbles. The bits of yam sounded good as they went into the pan. It was a nicer sound than the songs that came over the village loudspeakers. Not that there was anything wrong with those women's voices, but what he really liked was Shaanxi opera, with its high–pitched singing and fiery rhythms. He'd never bought a radio of his own so he hadn't listened to it for years. But the hissing sound of the hot yam sounded good too. Pity it didn't last long, then you had to add the water.


Old Man Xinjiang ladled out a potful of water. That was all he used at each meal. It wasn't a big pot, the size of a bowl, but that amount of water was enough for one meal. It floated in the water-jar all day, bobbing gently from side to side apparently at whim. This was something else he'd had for decades. It had no lip, but that was all right. It had started out with a lip but one day he'd had it on the stove-top to heat some water and the cat with the white nose had sent it flying. It was still useful though, as a ladle. His bowl was no good for that because you couldn't get it through the neck of the water jar. But the lip-less pot was fine. It was hard to explain things in this life; a lip-less pot was good for some things and a lipped pot was good for others. And who was to say which use was more important?

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

 (The Guardian Wednesday 11 April 2012 )