Prologue

Early morning, Yuhe Zhang tossed a ladle of leftover rice into the aluminum stock pot, poured water, cut in some thinly sliced cabbage, boiled it on high heat, salted it, stirred, replaced the lid, and let it simmer for ten minutes into a favorite southerner dish, which they call cabbage soup rice. The cabbage ought to have been fried in oil first for flavor; however, harshened by the low life, she was accustomed to crudeness and haste. Then, a cube of tofu cheese from a glass jar – that was breakfast. She ate it hurriedly, rinsed her mouth, brushed her short hair roughly with a comb, not bothering to check herself in the mirror, for she knew she couldn't kick her dreary look however she tried. She picked up her black pleather purse, locked her door, and went out of the administrative dormitory.

The wind rose, whistling through the parasol trees that flanked the road, rustling the leaves. Having been apart from the city ten years, when she returned to urbanity, she felt that the old trees along the road were the only things that remained unchanged.

Autumn of 1978, Yuhe stepped out of the prison gate. This was not a surprise to many, for among her anti-revolutionary charges, the gravest was her malicious defamation of the great flag-bearer Madame Mao. In October 1976, the flag-bearer toppled, and with that came Yuhe's chance of being released from prison. A year later, the S Provincial Court pronounced her "acquitted on all counts" and returned her to the city. The Public Security Bureau was to work on her exoneration, and the provincial Department of Culture held an assembly for those liberated from unjust accusations. She was the last to speak at the assembly; everyone thought she'd sob out her countless thanks shedding hot tears of joy, yet all she said was, "At least I walk on the road where there is light; unfortunately, more have died where light doesn't shine." The Public Security representative's face darkened at once.

The Department of Culture was in charge of Yuhe's rehabilitation, and had appointed someone to talk to her. She told the manager of the personnel department, "I have two requirements. Firstly, I'm not going back to the opera troupe – they took me from there ten years ago. Secondly, I want to live in the administrative dormitory; just one room'll do. There's a canteen there, and I don't feel like cooking."

The manager thought about it and said, "I'll see what I can do."

Yuhe said softly, "If you don't give me a room, I'll come live at your place."

"Will you, now?"

"Try me. I've been in prison, don't you forget."

The highest-ranking official in the Department of Culture was the department director. This term's director was Bai Wu, the nephew of a nationally renowned authoress; he liked dabbling in writing, and the provincial newspaper often contained his prose pieces – not too long, not too short – about well-known scenic spots or literary maestros. He told Yuhe in consolation, "I'll give you half a year off, you go travel around a bit. By the time you're back, your job and housing should be settled."

"Alright, I'll wait."

Yuhe went to Nanjing, Suzhou, Shanghai, Hangzhou, and back. Certainly, Director Wu had kept his word. The job was settled – she was to be a civil servant at the Program Office in the Department of Culture; it was a laid-back position, an objective breeze. Work was sipping tea, reading the news, and making chit-chats. If there was a dance, an opera or a music performance, then she'd while away an evening at the auditorium or the theater. The next day, the Program Office would evaluate the performance; Yuhe would lower her head and read the instructions over and over. When her colleague asked for her input, she'd say, "I just got out of jail, I don't know anything except fight and lie and steal. I'd forgotten how to do this sort of things."

This, unsurprisingly, ticked off of the Head of the Program Office. He said to Director Wu, "Post her somewhere else; it doesn't make a difference whether or not she's here."

Director Wu shot him a glance. "She was in jail ten years, we ought to thank heavens she's not mad. By the time she gets herself together again, you'll be running to catch up."

Yuhe's housing was settled, too, at a "three no's" flat in the administrative dormitory that nobody wanted. The three no's were: no bathroom, no kitchen, no sunlight. The last one was the main reason why nobody would live there; they shunned that the sun never shone there at any time of day, and they called it a coffin house. Without a word of complaint, Yuhe took her roll mat and moved in. She didn't shun it, it was way better than her prison cell. She didn't buy new furniture; rather, she looked for some in the administrative warehouse – there were old desks and chairs, old wardrobes, old bookshelves, everything. Yuhe picked a few and dragged them to her "coffin house", boiled a large pot of water, threw in some washing soda, soaked all the old furniture, scrubbed them with a brush, left them to dry, and started using them. So what if the furniture's old? She'd carried corpses before; she had no qualms about reusing a dead man's things.

The old Yuhe loved to talk, to laugh. Yet – who could've known? – all the chatters, taunts, complaints, the outdated, reactionary things she'd said in passing, were exposed unreservedly during the Cultural Revolution. She worked for an opera troupe, and when the actors exposed her, they furnished all sorts of caricatures and dramatizations; some even mixed in a little performative interpretation. A sentence that was at first ordinary and bland, after their reenactment, became a venomous arrow aimed at socialism and the Party, brimming with malice. Having been released from prison, she determined to learn her lesson.

Of the dozens of tenants from the Department of Culture, she never paid attention to anyone, except for two. The first was the lunch lady, Mrs Huang. Lunch, supper, no matter the meal, Yuhe went early to the canteen. She'd hold two large enamel bowls, waiting. Whichever window Mrs Huang sold at, that was where she stood. As soon as the little glass door opened, Yuhe would call out with a smile, "Mrs Huang!" Then, still smiling, she'd look at the steaming hot rice and the luscious-scented fried pork as they were ladled into her bowls. After that, she never forgot to say with a smile, "Thanks!" With time, the chit-chats grew in length between them, and Yuhe often asked her, "How do I make good pork liver soup?" "That garlic fried sausage – how'd you make it?" Every Sunday, the administrative canteen closed, and Yuhe cooked for herself. On Monday, she actively reported her culinary learnings to Mrs Huang. The two became bosom friends, and Mrs Huang always portioned more food to her than to others. In reality, Yuhe knew well how to cook, but played dumb to curry favor. This was a habit she brought with her from prison; all the prisoners fawned over the cooks, so that they might have a couple more bites of food.

The other person Yuhe bothered with was Mr Li, who worked at the mailroom at the Department of Culture. The Program Office had only the provincial newspaper, and this Province News she'd read in jail for a full ten years, so much so that it'd formed a reflex arc: just seeing the nameplate made her dizzy. Ever since middle school, she'd been fond of browsing through newspapers and magazines. At home, her parents had subscribed to Guang Ming Daily, Wen Wei Po, and China Youth Daily, and the subscriptions lasted over ten years, until the house was searched during the Cultural Revolution and they were kicked out. Newspapers and magazines from other provinces were also found at the Department of Culture, but they were reserved for higher-ranking officials.

Yuhe darted to the mailroom, calling out warmly, "Mr Li!" Then she discussed with him, "Could you let me take a little look at the Wen Wei Po and Guang Ming Daily every morning, before you send them off to the Film Division Director and the Art Division Director?"

Mr Li asked, "Those two papers – how long do you want with them?"

"Half an hour tops." Mr Li nodded; allowed it, essentially.

With a light thud, Yuhe chucked a bag of Shanghai milk candy on his three-drawer desk.

At work, Yuhe sometimes came across Bai Wu unexpectedly in the hallway of the department office building. Director Wu liked to chatter with her. One afternoon, when work was almost done, they met on the cement path in front of the office building. The path led to a yard; the Department of Culture had built a small, quaint yard, where flowers bloomed every season. This was so that the workers could take a nice stroll after their work-break exercises.

Bai Wu said, "I heard you're single."

"I am," said Yuhe.

"Not too young, are you? Thirties?"

"That's understating it; 'pretty old' is what I am."

"You'd better find somebody soon! And have a kid, too."

"I don't want to get married."

"Why? Mind telling me?"

Yuhe gazed up at the sky and said, "No reason, I like being single."

Bai Wu shook his head, "Give it some time, you'll change your mind."

The Director hurried off, leaving Yuhe alone on the little path. Before, she found the yard convivial – gaudy, too: one day it'd bloom with pink flowers, the next with yellow ones, and the scent of nature filled the place. A saunter in the slightly further-off pine copse was especially rejuvenating. But now things were different: the foliage had grown thin, the hues had darkened, and the sun slanted in terribly askew, that the shifting light seemed a truant child slinking into the woods, then quickly slinking away again. The hint of sun vanished without a trace, much like the youthful times she'd bid adieu... Yuhe picked up her pace and left the yard, to evade the welling melancholy. By the time she returned to her office, work was finished; she hurriedly packed up her pen, notebook, and a copy of Lectures on Aesthetics by Hegel that she pored over.

As she walked to the gate, Mr Li called out to her, "Yuhe Zhang, your letter. From the farm!"

It must be her, it must be her now – Yuhe's heart clenched tight immediately.

Who is she?

Her name is Jintu Zou. The woman that had kept Yuhe "single" until then.

Yuhe stood at the gate, opening the letter in a frenzy. As expected, it was from Jintu. The paper was thin, the letter curt, since there were rules at the prison: each letter could only contain one to two hundred words, and must be addressed to a relative.

Yuhe Zhang:

Jintu Zou

Yuhe didn't return directly to the dormitory; rather she went to the cinema and bought a ticket to an old Indian movie, Awaara. She wanted to chase away the memory of prison with the story of Raj and Rita. But when she'd returned to the dormitory and laid down in bed, Jintu slipped into her mind.

Her heart grew ruffled, even before her eyes had shut.