Boy in the Twilight (21 page)

As he turned his head, Shi Gang went into action. He lashed Kunshan’s face with the dripping towel and we heard a huge, resounding slap, louder by far than the sound of a hand hitting a face. Kunshan gave a yelp, and the cleaver fell to the ground. He clutched his face with his right hand and stood rooted to the spot. Shi Gang took two steps back and twisted the towel tightly once more, then fixed his eyes on his opponent. When Kunshan spread his arms, we saw that beads of water now spotted his face; his left eye and cheek were bright red. He bent down to pick up the cleaver, grasping it in his right hand while clutching his face with his left. Brandishing the cleaver he flailed out at Shi Gang and, when Shi Gang took evading action once again, Kunshan kicked him in the leg, forcing him to beat such a hasty retreat that he almost slipped and fell. No sooner had he regained his footing than the cleaver was again arcing toward him. With no time to get out of the way, Shi Gang raised the arm encased in the boiler suit. Kunshan’s
cleaver thudded into his arm, and at the same moment Shi Gang’s towel smacked Kunshan in the face.

I have never seen such a ferocious fight. Time and again the cleaver thudded into Shi Gang’s arm, and time and again the towel whacked Kunshan’s face. The canvas boiler suit served as Shi Gang’s shield; when he couldn’t dodge he could at least raise his arm. Kunshan used his left hand to ward off Shi Gang’s weapon: when the soaking towel whipped toward his face, it just as often hit his hand. The two men leapt back and forth between the sunlight and the shade, like fighting crickets in the thick of mortal combat. Again and again we heard howls of pain, and their hoarse pants grew heavier and heavier, but they showed no signs of stopping and seemed to want to fight to the bitter end.

During the course of the battle, my bladder got so bloated I had to pee. I couldn’t find a toilet in the refinery, so I dashed out into the boulevard and had to run practically all the way to the ferry wharf before I found one. On my return I forgot about the old man’s sentry duty at the entrance, and when I raced in through the gate I thought I heard him shouting and cursing behind me, but I couldn’t care less. When I finally made it back to the bathhouse they were still engaged in their unremitting struggle, thank God.

I have never seen such a protracted fight or such tireless protagonists. The way they jumped back and forth, they must practically have run the marathon. Some felt they couldn’t afford to wait for the final outcome and left, only to be replaced by others on their way to the night shift, who eagerly seized plum spots where they had a good view of the action. Twice I noticed Shi Gang’s towel was so dry it had become a soft and feeble weapon. Each time friends promptly handed
him a newly soaked replacement. Shi Gang would then lash Kunshan’s puffy face so that it swelled all the more, while Kunshan’s cleaver sliced the boiler suit on Shi Gang’s arm into ribbons of cloth, like the end of a mop. It was then we heard the sounds of stir-frying from the cafeteria next door and I noticed people were clutching mess tins.

Shi Gang’s wet towel struck Kunshan’s right hand, knocking the cleaver to the ground. This time he stood motionless, looking at Shi Gang as though in a daze. His eyes and face were red and swollen, and it seemed he couldn’t see Shi Gang clearly, because when Shi Gang took two steps to his right Kunshan continued to look at the spot where he had been standing. After a moment or two, he took a corner of his jacket and cautiously rubbed his sore eyes. Shi Gang stood to one side, his arms hanging loose, his mouth half open, panting as he watched. A minute later, the towel dropped from his hand, and after eyeing Kunshan a moment longer, Shi Gang raised his right hand and gingerly removed the boiler suit from his left arm. That thick canvas suit was now a bundle of rags. Shi Gang took it off and threw it on the ground. We could then see that his left arm was badly cut up. Clutching his left arm with his right hand, he turned and walked off, several of his friends falling in behind. Kunshan was no longer rubbing his eyes—he was simply blinking, as though to test his vision. It was then I saw the sky had reddened with the glow of sunset.

I had personally witnessed the towel’s vanquishing of the blade, and now I knew that a sodden towel could be a formidable weapon. In the days that followed I would always leave the bathhouse with a soaking-wet towel in my hand, and on the long walk home I thought of myself as bold and powerful. I even took my wet towel to school and strutted back and
forth on the playground, looking out for troublemakers, and my classmates would cluster around me just as we had clustered around Kunshan. These blissful days carried on for quite some time, until I lost my towel. I never figured out how this happened. It was still dripping wet, and I think I’d hung it over the branch of a tree. All I remember is that we were running around after a ball and later we went home—I never saw the towel again. My mother, always strapped for cash, gave me a tongue-lashing, and my equally hard-up father gave me a couple of slaps on the face, leaving me with aching teeth for a whole week afterward.

Later on, I left the house dejectedly and went for a walk by the riverside, one hand scraping along the parapet. Pink clouds floated in the water, but I was glum and spent, like ashes after a fire. Just as I got to the bridge, I caught sight of Kunshan. The contusions had now gone from his face and he had regained his former air of vitality. He came swaggering along as though he owned the whole town. Suddenly I was filled with excitement, because at the very same moment I saw Shi Gang. He was approaching from the other direction. The arm that had been injured was now swinging casually by his side, and he was heading toward Kunshan.

I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me, and my heart thumped. Their stirring combat was surely about to resume. But this time there was no cleaver and no towel: their only weapons were their fists and their feet—one was wearing leather shoes, I noticed, the other sneakers. Kunshan went right up to Shi Gang, blocking his way, and I heard him say loudly, “Hey, got a cig?”

Shi Gang didn’t answer; he just stood there, eyeing his
adversary. Kunshan began to pat Shi Gang’s jacket, then his hand slipped inside a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I knew he was being provocative, but still Shi Gang made no move. Kunshan extracted a cigarette, and I thought he would pass it to Shi Gang and keep the rest for himself. But instead he stuck the cigarette in his mouth, looked at Shi Gang, and handed the pack back. Shi Gang took it, extracted a cigarette, and put it between his lips. What happened next took me completely by surprise. Shi Gang slipped the pack into the other man’s pocket. Kunshan smiled. He took out his matches, lit Shi Gang’s cigarette, then his own.

That evening the two of them leaned against the bridge and there was no end to their banter, no end to their laughter. I watched as the sunset bathed them in a rosy hue, staying on until they were shrouded in darkness. They rested their arms on the parapet, their cigarettes glowing as they held them up to their faces. Though I stood listening just a few feet away, nothing they said really sank in. For a long time afterward, I kept trying to recall the brand of cigarettes they smoked first, but somehow four names would come to mind all at the same time—Front Gate, Flying Horse, People’s Choice, and West Lake.

Yu Hua is the author of five novels, six collections of stories, and four collections of essays. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages. In 2002, he became the first Chinese writer to win the James Joyce Award. His novel
Brothers
was short-listed for the Man Asian Literary Prize and awarded France’s Prix Courrier International.
To Live
was awarded Italy’s Premio Grinzane Cavour, and
To Live
and
Chronicle of a Blood Merchant
were ranked among the ten most influential books in China in the 1990s by
Wen Hui Bao
, the largest newspaper in Shanghai. Yu Hua lives in Beijing.

About the Translator

Allan H. Barr is the translator of Yu Hua’s debut novel,
Cries in the Drizzle
, and his essay collection
China in Ten Words
. He teaches Chinese at Pomona College in California.

Also Available in eBook Format from Yu Hua

Brothers •
978-0-307-37798-2
China in Ten Words •
978-0-307-90693-9
Chronicle of a Blood Merchant •
978-0-307-42526-3
Cries in the Drizzle •
978-0-307-48340-9
To Live •
978-0-307-42979-7

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