The Ancient Ship. Zhang Wei

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       TWO

      The Sui clan and the old mills, it appeared, were fated to be linked. For generations the extended clan had produced glass noodles. As soon as the three siblings—Baopu, Jiansu, and Hanzhang—were able to work, they could always be found on the sun-drenched drying floor or in the steamy processing rooms. During the famine years, of course, no noodles were produced, but once the millstones were turning again, the Sui clan was back at work. Baopu was happiest when things were quiet. Over the years he had preferred to sit on a stool and watch the millstone turn. Since it was Jiansu’s job to deliver the noodles, he spent most of his time riding the horse cart down the gravel road all the way to the ocean piers; Hanzhang had the most enviable job: She spent her days on the drying floor, a white kerchief tied around her head as she moved amid the silvery glass noodles.

      But now the factory had been taken over by Zhao Duoduo, who called his workers together on his first day. “I am responsible for the factory,” he announced, “and I invite you all to stay on. Those who wish to leave may do so. If you stay, be prepared to join me in days of hard work!” Several of the workers were off as soon as he was finished. But not Baopu and his siblings, who left the meeting and went directly to their posts. The thought of leaving the business never crossed their minds, as if it was what they were destined to do, a job only death could force them to leave. Baopu sat alone in the mill, adding mung beans to the eye of the millstone, his broad back facing the door, the room’s sole window high on the wall to his right. The view out that little window was of the riverbank, the scattered “fortresses” and the lines of willow trees. Farther off was an expanse of silver under a blue sky. That was the drying floor, a place where the sunlight seemed brighter than anywhere else and where the wind was gentler. Faint sounds of laughter and singing drifted over from the sandy ground, where young women weaved in and out among a forest of drying racks. Hanzhang was one of them, and so was Naonao. Children lay on the ground around the drying racks waiting for lengths of glass noodles to fall to the ground, so they could run over and scoop them up. Baopu could not see their faces through his window, but he could sense their happiness.

      The drying floor was the scene of intense activity even before sunrise. Older women gauged the direction of the day’s wind by looking up at the cloud formations and then positioning the racks accordingly; they needed to be set perpendicular to the wind to keep the wet strands from sticking together when gusts blew. Horse carts rumbled up to deliver basketfuls of wet glass noodles; the snowy white, unblemished strands were hung over racks, where the young women spread them out and shifted them with their dainty fingers all day long, until they were dry and so light they fluttered gracefully like willow catkins with each breeze.

      People said that White Dragon glass noodles had earned their reputation not only because of the extraordinary quality of Luqing River water, but also because of the young maidens’ fingers. They touched the strands with great care, from top to bottom and from left to right, like strumming a harp. The colors of the sunset played on their faces as light retreated from the noodles until, finally, they could tolerate no colors at all; they had to be the purest white.

      As the women’s bodies warmed under the sun, one of them began to sing softly. The notes went higher, and everyone within earshot stopped to listen. When finally she realized she had a rapt audience, she stopped and was rewarded with applause and laughter. The loud est voice on the drying floor belonged to Naonao, who was used to doing whatever she wanted, even cursing at someone for no apparent reason. No one on the receiving end ever minded, knowing that was just how she was. She’d learned disco from TV, and sometimes she danced on the drying floor. And when she did, the others stopped working to shout, “More, more, more…” But Naonao never did what others wanted, so instead of dancing, she’d lie down on the hot sand and expose her fair skin to the sun. Once, as she lay on the sand, she began to writhe and said, “Day in and day out there’s something missing.” The others laughed. “What’s missing is a goofy young man to wrap his arms around you!” an elderly woman said. Naonao jumped up from the sand. “Hah!” she exclaimed. “I’m afraid that particular goofy young man hasn’t been born.” The others applauded gleefully. What a happy scene it was, with laughter all around as they turned and headed back to the noodles.

      Hanzhang generally kept her distance from the center of activity and on some days would hardly talk to anyone. She was tall and thin, and had large, dark eyes and long lashes that fluttered constantly. It was common for Naonao to slip under drying racks to run over to Hanzhang, filled with chatter. Hanzhang would just listen.

      Then one day Naonao asked, “Who’s prettier, you or me?” Hanzhang smiled. Naonao clapped her hands. “You have a wonderful smile. You always look so down in the dumps, but when you smile you’re really pretty.” Hanzhang didn’t say a word as her hands kept flying over the racks. Naonao babbled on, even took Hanzhang’s hand and held it up to get a closer look. “What a lovely hand, with such pretty little nails. You really should paint them red. Oh, have you heard? From now on, when you paint your nails, you won’t have to use oleander. Now they have oil you paint on, and your nails are red.” She lifted Hanzhang’s hand, and when she lowered her head she could see Hanzhang’s pale upper arm up the sleeve, which so unnerved her she dropped the hand. The skin was so nearly transparently thin Naonao could actually see the veins beneath the surface. She then looked at Hanzhang’s face, which was slightly sunburned. But the skin on her neck and spots covered by her bandanna were the same color as her arm. Naonao held her tongue as she studied Hanzhang, who was carefully separating two strands of glass noodles that were stuck together. “You Suis are strange people,” she said as she quietly went to work beside Hanzhang, who sensed that there were more knots in the noodles than usual, too many for her to handle. After separating several that were stuck together she looked up and sighed and noticed that Naonao was gazing off in the distance. She turned to see what Naonao was looking at. It was the mills across the river.

      “Isn’t he afraid at night, sitting there all alone?” Naonao asked.

      “What do you mean?”

      Naonao looked at her. “Your brother! They say the old mill is haunted…”

      Hanzhang looked away and straightened some strands. “He’s not afraid. Nothing scares him.”

      The sun was high in the sky, its rays reflected off the noodles, the riverbank, СКАЧАТЬ