Diamond Anniversary

Author: Li Peifu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-01-01
Features: Li Peifu, born in 1953 in Xuchang, Henan, is currently a member of the Standing Committee of the China Writers' Association, Vice President of the Henan Federation of Literature and Arts, and Vice President of the Henan Writers' Association. His main representative works include the novels The Gate of Sheep, The Li Family, The Lights of the City, The White Paper of the City, The Color of the Bottom, and Li Peifu's Collected Works (4 volumes). His works have won various literary awards, and some have been translated into English, Japanese, Korean, and other languages. His childhood memories began with a blade of grass. Back then, he didn't have a proper name. He only knew: Grandpa was called "Bundan," Dad was "Sheng," and he was "Bian'er"—all called out by the throat. He remembered that his mother often tied him to a rope while working in the fields. One end was tied to her, and the other to him. She would cut beans in front, while he crawled behind in the bean field, a living earth child. When she cut too far, she would untie the rope and let him crawl with it. The rope was long, so he wouldn't wander too far and get into trouble. That's how he crawled and eventually stood up. He didn't learn to walk from anyone; he learned it from falling on the field ridges. He crawled around the fields, and after crawling for a while, he started walking. Then he fell into a field of sorghum and landed near a small blade of grass. He lay there like a toad with a bloated belly, unable to stand up for a long, long time. Before his eyes swayed a blade of grass. For the entire morning, he lay there staring at the grass. That blade of grass had left a strong impression on him, so even as an adult, he still remembered its state. It was a very thin and frail blade of grass, its stem green but slightly tinged with gray and a hint of white. There were faint, small black spots on the nodes, making it look heart-wrenching. He couldn't explain why he was afraid, but he was. He was afraid of such a weak blade of grass. Later, as time passed, he slowly reached out and grabbed the grass. When he held it in his hand, he found that the grass had already disintegrated. It broke into pieces on its own, and what he held was just fragmented sections. Why? Why did it disintegrate? This question might have been just a signal, a lingering message in his small mind, that suddenly shattered in an instant, leaving a lingering doubt in his thoughts. It wasn't until much later, when he was older and became a child who cut grass, that he learned it was called "Failing Node Grass." At that moment, "Failing Node Grass" became a memory signal in his life, and he thus remembered it. However, memory extends, and it was linked to a sound. Without that sound, it wouldn't have been so profound. It was actually a single word. In that field of sorghum, he also picked up a word. He heard someone say, "Tu!" That word seemed to fall from the sky suddenly, carrying an undeniable decisiveness, abrupt and forceful. The word was dry and hard, bursting out in a hoarse voice, as if it squeezed something tightly, squeezing out a shocking orange-red terror. The word also scattered a rustling sound and a sweet, cloying, and foul smell. "Tu!" It was vivid, hitting his eardrum with a loud "dōng"! Later, his memory kept modifying this word, adding and subtracting details time and time again. Over the following days, he repeated this "tu" word countless times, secretly reciting it in the wheat stalks, "Tu, tu-tu-tu-tu!" The word was so vivid that the moment he recited it, he would laugh, experiencing joy and a colorful, lustrous richness, which gave him a feeling of "bright and shiny." This word was organically linked to "bright and shiny," creating even more depth. Over time, "bright and shiny" expanded infinitely, until it was defined. Then, in a green field of sorghum, he saw Five-Mole Wu and Elder Sister Yao. Was this repetition of memory, or was it still that "tu" word? This "tu" word finally connected with "bright and shiny." Thus, "tu" became his childhood toy, a word he played with in his mind. "Two tu" and "one tu" were different. One tu was just a single word, crisp and brittle; two tu was a group of words, a yin-yang sound. In that green field of sorghum, the leaves rustled with a "" sound, and those words exploded onto his head like bursting beans. "Tu." "Guisheng." "Cao." "Hongye's father." "Cao." "Hongye's father." "Cao!" These words needed time to translate. What he saw was a scene: Elder Sister Yao, with a dusty sweatshirt draped over her shoulder, standing bare-chested, her mottled, sweat-soaked face tilted. Elder Sister Yao carried a bundle of grass on her back, her blue-and-white checkered headscarf covering her head, her head bent deeply, and then the bundle of grass slowly fell to the ground. Next, Elder Sister Yao suddenly took off her blue-and-white checkered headscarf. In an instant, she bent half over, her hands swishing swiftly, brushing a bunch of leaves onto the sorghum stalks around her, laying them on the ground. Then, she took off her clothes one by one, standing naked on the sorghum leaves, bathed in the setting sun's light, a silent, bright and shiny moment. Later, over time, through repeated chewing and playing, he faintly understood the meaning of that group of words. First, he felt the depth of "tu" in the tone. He felt that it wasn't just a word but an irresistible force. Why did "tu" mean "tu"? Why couldn't others make Elder Sister Yao "tu"? On the village street, he witnessed Elder Sister Yao pour a bowl of rice onto the stone roller because the roller had gently tapped her buttocks when she wasn't looking. The roller was so sturdy, but it still scared her away. Of course, after learning some words, he first understood this "tu" word. He believed that the true meaning of "tu" was speaking with the body. How vivid! Next, he gradually understood the broader implications of those words. In a specific context, he tasted defiance in that group of words. "Tu" was a command, and "Guisheng" was resistance, a step-by-step resistance. In the first "cao," he tasted humiliation; in the second "cao," disdain; in the third "cao," a disdain laced with a threatening tone. He had long been puzzled about what "Hongye's father" meant and how it related to the matter. Gradually, he tasted the intensity of the defiance in that field of sorghum—this was Elder Sister Yao's most fierce act of resistance! Guisheng was Elder Sister Yao's husband, and the corresponding word was "cao." In sheer desperation, Elder Sister Yao invoked "Hongye's father." Hongye was undoubtedly a girl, yet she had such a lovely official name: Hongye. Who was Hongye? And who was Hongye's father? This was a code, a secret signal. After breaking it down, he concluded that it wasn't from Dali Village. However, her strength still couldn't resist Five-Mole Wu, and her corresponding word was still "cao." Though simple, it seemed, Elder Sister Yao had no choice but to emphasize "Hongye's father." The final "cao" shouted by Five-Mole Wu was extremely rich in meaning, containing everything that could look down upon everything in the plains. But what was that?