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Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,translated by Nicky Harman(1)

2012-04-12 09:08 来源：The Guardian 作者：Xue Mo Translator：Nicky Harman 浏览：64256710次

Old Man Xinjiang by Xue Mo,

translated by Nicky Harman（1）

It's time for Old Man Xinjiang to head home, but not before he's been to see 'her'. Xue Mo reflects on the ebb and flow of life in the Chinese countryside in this story translated by Nicky Harman

Xue Mo, translated by Nicky Harman

guardian.co.uk, Wednesday 11 April 2012 09.00 BST

'Old Man Xinjiang hoisted the carrying pole with a basket at each end onto his shoulder and headed off towards the east end of the village' ... a Chinese man in Gansu province, China. Photograph: Michael Reynolds / EPA

Old Man Xinjiang began to pack up his stall. It was still early. The sun, a dull yellowish–white lump of curd, had only just begun to move into the west. A breeze stirred the ochre earth and made the dead leaves rustle, bringing with it the smell of autumn. Old Man Xinjiang packed his fruit away then started on the eggs. His stall was nothing more than two baskets and two pieces of cardboard. The eggs were piled on one of these, the other held the pears, each one of them soft to the touch, thin-skinned and – when you bit into them – running with a sweet cold juice which was good for coughs. Eggs and pears … that was all he had, simple to lay out and equally simple to pack away. He bought the fruit by the pound, paying 40 cents and selling them for 45; the eggs he bought for 20 cents each, selling them at 22 cents apiece. He could scrape a living from it, no more than that.

Old Man Xinjiang hoisted the carrying pole with a basket at each end onto his shoulder and headed off towards the east end of the village. He was a tall, thin man and he cast a long shadow which seemed to crawl beside him like a giant millipede. He scuffled quickly along, his eyes shining bright. The villagers watched him. 'Where are you going, old man?' someone asked. 'To hers,' he answered. They didn't ask who 'she' was. 'To give her money?' A grunt of assent. 'And you'll get your leg over in return, will you?' The others laughed. Embarrassed, Old Man Xinjiang tried to leave but he was surrounded. 'You're still up to it, are you?' Old Man Xinjiang lowered his baskets to the ground and thumped his aching back. 'Don't talk nonsense. I'm an old man.' There was a burst of laughter. 'You're never too old if you put your mind to it,' said one. And another added: 'If the tool's bust, what's wrong with a hand job? A bit of rubbing should do you nicely!' That was too much for Old Man Xinjiang; he shouldered the pole again and made off as fast as he could, hopping along like a rabbit.

'Hers' was a dilapidated shack with bits of plaster flaking off the back wall like diseased skin. When he arrived, the woman was busy filling in a ditch, her clothes and face covered in dust. She put down the wooden spade and slapped the dust away. They greeted each other briefly. The old man went inside. The paper window coverings let in little light and it was very dim. There was a mud-brick bed, heated by a flue from the cooker. An old man with reddened eyes sat there, a pipe in his hand. He lit a touchpaper from the oil lamp, stuck it in the pipe bowl and breathed in till it flamed and smoke came out of his nostrils. He shifted when he saw Old Man Xinjiang and grunted a greeting. Old Man Xinjiang took a low stool and hunkered down, sitting very still.

'It's been another bad harvest this year,' said old Red-Eyes.

'Very bad,' agreed Old Man Xinjiang.

'What'll next year be like?'

'Who knows?'

'That's life, eh?'

The woman came in, slapping the dust from her clothes.

'Are you cold?' she asked, looking at him.

'Not really.'

'You should be wearing your winter jacket.'

'Yes, I should.'

'And your bedding needs a wash.'

'It does.'