Two Lives
The low point in Zhou Lingtong’s life occurred in his 26th year. At 26 some of his classmates had children, and some had graduated college a few years ago and were teaching high school, while Zhou Lingtong was still studying for the college entrance exam. Then after taking it again, Zhou Lingtong disappeared. He waited a long time for the results then secretly trudged back to campus. There wild grass grew long in cracks in the cement, terribly long, and a corner of the white paper on the wall hung down as if dozing. Zhou Lingtong smoothed the paper out and read the names one by one. When he came to his own name he couldn’t help but cry out loud. When he was done crying he did not know how to go on. He wandered around – east, west – with no destination as the night grew dark like mud cruelly pouring, layer on layer, until he arrived at the river.
Its surface was full of light. From the fields he could hear all kinds of bugs having meetings. Zhou Lingtong walked straight into the cold. When he was nearly up to his neck the sound of a girl’s voice came from the grass: Lingtong, what are you doing?
Bathing, Zhou Lingtong said. Then he hunched over and swam away. When he emerged from the water he saw only a figure carrying a laundry pail, dwindling into the distance. Then a flash of lightning streaked through the sky, lighting up the mountain summit. Zhou Lingtong took a breath and went ashore. Dripping with water, he headed for the summit alone.
At the summit, there was a temple called Longquan, which was built in the late Qing dynasty. When Zhou Lingtong arrived, the paint-chipped door was shut. He didn’t knock but dropped straight to his knees. After a while, his kneecaps, numb and hurting, could no longer bear the weight of his useless body, so he lay prostrate on the ground. He stayed like that for a while. Many ghosts came behind him, many beds came before him. He lay down, lay down like a dog and fell dead asleep. Early the next morning, a rain shower swept over, waking Zhou Lingtong up. He straightened up and went back to his knees. When it got brighter the temple door squeaked open. The vitiligo-riddled monk, Deyong, walked out, head to the sky. When he saw a lump of breathing flesh kneeling in the doorway he jumped back into the door.
Zhou Lingtong slapped his head on the muddy water. What are you doing? Deyong said, pointing at him.
I want to become a monk, Zhou Lingtong said.
Deyong shouted, astonished, and shook his head violently. Zhou Lingtong went on: Master, I can’t go on living. Please take me in.
Careful not to get his cloth shoes stained, Deyong made his way across the muddy ground to inspect Zhou Lingtong. He said: You’re in the prime of life. Why do you want to become a monk?
Zhou Lingtong said: I’ve failed the college entrance exam eight years straight. I have nowhere else to go.
Hands behind his back, Deyong straightened up and said: In my opinion, you are still clouded by your senses and entangled in your obsessions. You won’t make a Buddhist.
Zhou Lingtong suddenly clung to one of Deyong’s legs, and said: Master, I’m dying. Dying.
Disgusting, Deyong said and pulled his leg free. Then he walked straight into the temple. Fuck your mother, Zhou Lingtong wanted to shout, but was completely drained. As the door squeaked shut he passed out. When he came to, bleary-eyed, it took him a long while before he managed to see the shriveled apple in front of him, which he then wolfed down. Then he caught sight of Deyong brandishing a huge door bolt at him. Away with you, Deyong said. Zhou Lingtong gathered himself up and began limply walking downhill. After walking some distance, he turned around and saw Deyong standing upright on the hilltop with a hand resting on the erect bolt. He gave another shout: Away.
At the foot of the mountain, Zhou Lingtong ate a whole field of potatoes the size of baby mice. Seeing a corner of the temple peeking out he got an itch to set it on fire, but it seemed too far away. After sitting for some time he decided to go home and give in to his parents. Then he saw a classy woman rolling down the paved road on a Phoenix bike. The woman, perm-headed and fair-skinned, threw him a disdainful glance.
What are you looking at? What the hell are you looking at? So what if I failed the exam eight years straight? Zhou Lingtong roared, raising his mudskipper face.
Psycho, said the woman, pedaling harder. It was an unnecessary move, riding down a slope. The chain came off, and with a clank, she hit the ground. Her palms were scraped, pearls of blood oozed out. She moaned in pain. Zhou Lingtong walked over and said: Who did you just call psycho?
Frowning, the woman didn’t respond. Zhou Lingtong grabbed her by the collar, and said: Who did you just call psycho? The woman clenched her teeth, not answering. Zhou Lingtong began to drag her off the road and into the fields until they were behind a cluster of wormwood. The woman screamed for help, so Zhou Lingtong squeezed her throat. Her scream choked quiet. Zhou Lingtong started to peel off her clothes, letting her bare white flesh tremble and struggle a little. Then he pinned her down and thrust into her with brute force. Who did you just call psycho? he said.
This forced tears out of the woman. Meanwhile her head was scraping the rain-soaked soil beneath her, making a big mess. Zhou Lingtong said: Cunt, so tell me who the psycho is. In the distance came the sound of a car speeding down the paved road. Zhou Lingtong quickly covered the woman’s mouth. The car slowed down as it neared the bike, and Zhou Lingtong’s back broke out in sweat, but then it hauled away again. After quickly finishing up, Zhou Lingtong started to bind the woman’s wrists and ankles with her clothes and gag her with her panties. He found the money in her shoes and walked back to the road. He took off the bike’s chainguard, reattached the chain, and rode off. As he was pedaling through town, vendors of vegetables, meat, and steamed buns, restaurant owners, and radio listeners all turned to look at him, their mouths open, words not coming in time. Zhou Lingtong said, Do you want to say come quick and catch the rapist?
Zhou Lingtong passed through the town, panting, and continued on the run. It was an hour before the people and the police realized what had happened. By the time they hopped on two trucks, carrying guns and cleavers, to pursue him, Zhou Lingtong had already ditched the bike and boarded a ship. By the time they made phone calls to the police station on the other side of the river, Zhou Lingtong was on a truck heading farther away. The police station said the truck seemed to be a blue Liberation or a white Dongfeng. They couldn’t say for sure.
Later, the pursuit team was streamlined. Three men, led by the head of the criminal investigation unit of the county public security bureau, headed for Nanjing to continue the chase. With their green Jeep parked at Nanjing station, the four watched the crowd flowing like a school of minnows, together in one direction, then in another, stupefying them.
Amid the flowing crowd, Zhou Lingtong felt desperate and afraid. He was overtaken by the persistent fear that a powerful hand would grip his shoulder, then a voice would say, Let’s see you get away now. Every so often he looked back only to find workers, strangers to him, rushing about on their bikes. Days rolled on like this. Sometimes, Zhou Lingtong went toward the crowd, sometimes away from it. Then, exhausted from wandering about, he’d sit in the cool shade of a stone pillar and become a beggar. When the department store clock magnificently chimed, a ten-cent note floated through the air to him.
This desolate situation after a period of turbulence made Zhou Lingtong feel safe. His fear was gradually leaving him. But fear, like the tears shed that day, once gone, left one defenseless against reality. He was again overtaken by the plain, ugly truth: he’d failed the exam eight years straight and become a wanted rapist. With all hope gone, he had to kowtow and say thank you to passersby. And that was it: they walked on two legs, upright, while he was on all fours, a reptile. Two worlds.
After living as a beggar for only a few days, he noticed a problem. The concrete ground he slept on was damp and cold during the night, leaving him with severe back pain the next day. The healthy young man was helplessly sliding toward sickness and disability. The idle life of a beggar wore Zhou Lingtong out. Life was gloomy like he was slowly dying from blood loss. He thought he’d rather die right then; he’d already attempted suicide once anyway. Nevertheless, dying was not a pressing matter. Before then he’d eat soupy buns, Liuhe dry beef, and Baiyun pig feet. Having done so, he’d head to Mount Zijin to watch the sunrise. Only when he saw it would he bid farewell to this world. The Nanjing Daily he sat on read: For as far as I could see, mountains stretch away to meet the sky, green waves undulate toward the eyes. Amid endless mountains and countless woods, where can the tiny dust of the floating world rest?
The mountain, being three or four hundred meters high, was not difficult for Zhou Lingtong to climb. At one point, he followed a group of tourists and listened with a great interest as the guide introduced the area through a megaphone: What we are going to see is Sun Quan’s grave; Sun Quan, or Zhongmou, was even admired by his enemies. At another point, he ran to an ancient tree and awkwardly put his arms around it. The tree had a huge top. He couldn’t figure it out how a snake could shake it and make it rustle. Lost in thought, carefree, he suddenly caught sight of two men beating a lanky woman over the stone steps, which reminded him of the legendary Wu Song who pounded a ferocious tiger to death. Unsatisfied with the beating, they began to pull her curly hair.
When the woman turned to face him, Zhou Lingtong saw her nostrils and the corner of her month were bleeding. Her eyes flooded with despair, the kind of despair fish on a chopping block might show when at the very last moment their eyes meet the butcher’s knife. Feeling a stab of pain at something they shared, Zhou Lingtong suddenly decided what he should live for. He thought he was going to die anyway, but it was worth it to trade his life for someone else’s, so he grabbed a rock and ran toward them. Though those Nanjing men were terribly abusive toward the woman, seeing someone charging at them with a rock, roaring, they left her alone immediately, and ran straight into the primordial forest.
Zhou Lingtong came over to help the woman up, and after several attempts, the woman managed to stand in her high heels. The woman, horse-faced, eyes unusually small, ears and nostrils huge, was a horrible sight. After a short while, several young men in suits ran over. Some shoved Zhou Lingtong aside and took hold of the woman. Others ran to the edge of the forest, standing on tiptoe, observing. As Zhou Lingtong stood, stupefied, the woman was being escorted away, leaving behind indistinct groans.
Then she stopped and asked: Got a pen and paper? Her escorts presented them right away. She jotted down a phone number, and beckoned Zhou Lingtong. She said: Thank you, If you need anything in Beijing, call me. Zhou Lingtong scurried over, took the paper, and mumbled thanks but thought to himself, You wouldn’t help me. For you, it’s just a matter of a meal. City types are all like this. They immediately forget what they’ve promised.
Zhou Lingtong came back to his senses and headed for the peak. He ran up until there was no one around and sat down to sleep. He planned to sleep until dawn, watch the sunrise, and find a way to kill himself.
When the sun hung low over the horizon, like a huge red ping-pong ball, Zhou Lingtong woke up, his body prickly and itchy from insects running wild all over him. When the sun was high in the sky, he let out three roars to summon his courage and set about looking for a supple vine. A supple vine was hard to find. After he found one, he went in search of the right tree, not too big, not too small. With everything ready, he gripped the looped vine with both hands and pulled himself up. As he was about to put his neck inside the loop, he saw four people in green police uniforms coming over from the far end of the path. One of them said in a bossy tone, I told you to find us a guide. You just wouldn’t listen. You said you’d been here once, but you’ve still managed to get us lost.
Zhou Lingtong listened and thought, Isn’t that an Eshan accent? Tumbling to the ground, he looked around for an escape route, but there was none. At that moment the head of the criminal investigation unit cried out: Zhou Lingtong, let’s see you get away now. Hearing each word clearly, Zhou Lingtong froze right there, watching the four men coming to besiege him, panting like jackals. The leader reached out his hairy arms, trying to grab him. As he was about to succeed Zhou Lingtong hardened himself and rolled down the hill. Countless little flowers, yellow and pink, and big patches of green grass started to spin, retreating toward the sky. He kept rolling down until a mound got in his way. He got up, head still spinning, and before the spinning stopped, a bullet thudded against the stone beside him, and bounced off.
Zhou Lingtong leaped behind a bush, where he could see the police coming down, hand in hand. Like a lunatic, he dashed into the darkness. He ran until there were only trees around, sunbeams slanting through leaves, insects humming out of sight. Then the pain kicked in; his left pinky toe was broken. Not daring to cry out loud, he screwed his eyes shut, letting tears trickle down. He was very sad. The sadder he got, the stronger his hatred became.
The monk’s bolt, the classy woman’s disdainful look, the leader’s bullet made him go on living. He returned to bustling Nanjing. During the day he had his head down, begging. He slept awhile in the evening, then emerged in the alleyways after midnight, waiting with a brick for lone passersby. First he’d slap the brick on the person’s shoulder, and say: Give me your money. The person would dig out ten-yuan notes, five-yuan notes, and change. Then he would say: Run. The person would run right away.
After some of these guerilla war games, Zhou Lingtong battled to Zhenjiang, Wuxi, Suzhou. When he was convinced that he’d shaken the pursuit team off, he decided to settle down on the street as a beggar and endure whatever life had to offer. To his surprise, Suzhou was under Hygienic Cities evaluation and vagrants were often rounded up in trucks and put into shelters. This put Zhou Lingtong in a dire situation again. That day the beggars at the far end of the street suddenly jumped to their feet, immediately followed by the rest, all fleeing. Ravenous, Zhou Lingtong couldn’t make it far before he tumbled over. A uniformed young man rushed over and grabbed his arm. He had long thought about the scenario. If he were put into the shelter and sent back to his hometown he’d be sent straight to jail. With a rape and resisting arrest to his name, he could be shot. So he made a sudden snap at the man’s wrist, biting through his sleeve and injuring his wrist. Then he dashed off down the lane. When he reached the end he turned back to see seven or eight uniformed men rushing toward him. He made haste again and turned down an alley. Having run in circles for a while, and with no one in sight, he flipped up the lid of a dumpster and squeezed in. He didn’t come out until it got dark. Moonlight shone upon the stone road. The walls stood tall and formidable, warding him off. He plodded along miserably, feeling cold and hungry, tortured and frightened. He felt the world, vast as it was, offered no place for a person as insignificant as him. To console himself he began to recite a poem: When you hoist the sails to cross the sea, you will ride the winds and cleave the waves. You will ride the winds and cleave the waves, when you hoist the sails to cross the sea.
He recited it all the way to a corner shop at the end of the lane. Under the light bulb, he saw six words: long distance calls, domestic and international. He dug all his money out and piled it up. Then he took out the paper from Mount Zijin and dialed the number. The phone went beep, beep, beep for a while – no one answered. He wondered what she could possibly do to help him. She may just say thank you, or politely lecture me with clichés like, There’s always hope in life, don’t give up, young man. He asked the shop owner: Do you charge if it doesn’t connect? The shop owner scornfully waved a hand in disgust.
Just then, a voice in the receiver said, Hello?
Zhou Lingtong said: It’s me.
The woman said: Who are you?
Zhou Lingtong said: The one with the rock on Mount Zijin.
The woman said: Ah, my lifesaver. How have you been lately?
Zhou Lingtong burst into tears and said: Miss, I can’t go on living.
The woman said: Why can’t you go on living?
Zhou Lingtong said: I’m about to starve to death.
The woman said: Where are you now?
Zhou Lingtong said: In Suzhou. He tilted his head and wiped away the tears to read the street sign and said: I’ll be in the dumpster beside the second electric pole north of Changrui Lane.
Wait for me right there. Don’t move, the woman said and hung up.
After paying for the phone call and a biscuit, all of Zhou Lingtong’s property was gone. He reclined on the dumpster and felt his throat grow bigger and bigger, stronger and stronger. He could hardly control his urge to swallow the biscuit whole. Hand trembling, he reached his lips toward the biscuit and licked it. His lips began to tremble, then his whole body did. The licking went on for a long time until only crumbs were left. Then he felt sorrow. The little biscuit was like bait, luring the big, fat, hungry monster out of him. He dug into the dumpster and found radishes. He started eating the leaves. When he got to something that couldn’t be chewed he pulled it out – a plastic bag.
The night was cool and breezy. In the air he could still hear the sound of her hanging up. Click. The voice of the living person cut off, his connection disappeared. The woman would take her shower, go to bed, and pretend that she had forgotten all about it when she woke up. But he also knew he had to wait. In fact, he had no other options but to wait. He pushed open the steel box, shoved the filth aside, and fell asleep in the stench. He woke several times in the middle of the night and clambered out. In the lane was only the wind leaping down the houses’ roofs and darting over the stone road. The corner store’s light was out too; there was nothing.
At dawn Zhou Lingtong faintly heard the dumpster being kicked. Not trusting his hearing, he went back to sleep. As he was slipping into a deeper slumber, he suddenly got up. Zhou Lingtong clambered out of the dumpster and looked around the lane. But there was still nothing. Rubbing his eyes, he looked again and saw a lanky figure walking past the corner shop.
Is that you? Zhou Lingtong shouted. The other stopped. Zhou Lingtong shouted again: It’s me. The other turned around. Zhou Lingtong continued to shout: Rock, rock.
The woman walked over to him and said: It’s me.
Zhou Lingtong felt as if a string of firecrackers went off at once in his heart. Bleary-eyed, he saw a black bag reach toward him. Inside were the things he’d always wanted: roast duck, ham, bread. . .endless food and Coca-Cola. He snatched the bag, tried to tear the packets open with his hands but failed, so he ripped them with his teeth, which worked. He began to eat ferociously with both hands. When his throat was clogged with pieces of bone he force-swallowed them down.
Zhou Lingtong finished the food and shook the bag. There was nothing. He glanced up at the woman. The woman shook her head. As they stared blankly at each other the woman tapped one of her high heels on the road and said they should go. Zhou Lingtong rose obediently. Before setting off the woman bent over to pick up that black genuine leather bag and carefully toss it onto the dumpster.
Zhou Lingtong wanted to say thank you, but couldn’t get the words out. He followed her out of the lane and into the street where a worker was sweeping the ground with a bamboo broom. The rustling sound gave him the uncanny feeling of entering the world of ghosts. Zhou Lingtong knew that in his world, there were people with kidney problems, so there were those who tricked people into drinking, got them drunk, gave them an anesthetic, and cut out their kidney while they were still alive. Zhou Lingtong looked at the rear silhouette of the unknown woman and felt suspicious. But he also figured dying is just dying. He had long been dead; at least he was full now.
The woman led him all the way to a hotel. At the entrance, there was a guard in a red woolen uniform. He first bowed to the elegant-looking woman, then to the ragged, stinking Zhou Lingtong. At that moment Zhou Lingtong knew he was hers. After checking in, the woman led Zhou Lingtong to a room. She ran a hot bath, tested the temperature, and said: You have three hours to wash up.
Zhou Lingtong looked in the mirror: a ghost. He jumped in the bath and scrubbed himself hard. The water turned completely black, then it turned completely white. Again he scrutinized himself in the mirror: looking like a human now. He repeated this process several times until there was nothing left to wash. Only then did he realize he had nothing to wear. He ran to the door and listened. There was no sound outside. He gently opened the door a crack and saw a pile of clean underwear, a shirt, and pants in the doorway.
Zhou Lingtong got dressed, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the fluffy carpet. The strong morning sun shone like a projector on the woman, leaving a shadow on the white bedding.
The woman was facing the sunlight, smoking a cigarette. Her long, soft fingers tapped ashes into the trash can like a pianist’s. At that moment, Zhou Lingtong could see her warmth, misty, forming layer by layer from her elegant back and bare upper arms, and suddenly broke into tears. He fell to his knees and said: I love you. I love you, Mom.
At 26, Zhou Lingtong also went from the bottom to the very top. That Beijing woman, Zhang Xina, who represented an impossible utopia, an impossible Bodhisattva, absolutely let Zhou Lingtong hold her hand, bite her tongue and became the guardian angel of his money and life.
For a long time Zhou Lingtong kept his beggar’s instinct. When he went with Zhang Xina to Beijing he gripped her hand, afraid she would run away. Even with his penis inside her he didn’t feel secure. Not till the day when Zhang Xina couldn’t help but lick it like an ice pop did he completely relax physically and psychologically. He caressed her hair and said, Don’t, babe, don’t do that.
The first time they paid a visit to Zhang Xina’s father, Zhou Lingtong was a bit nervous. He just perched on the edge of the leather sofa, not daring to meet the formidable eyes across from him. Having observed Zhou Lingtong for a long while, the old man held up his tea mug, took a few gulps and asked, Where you from, little Zhou?
Zhou Lingtong blushed and said: Anhui.
The old man waved a hand and said: I already knew that. I’m asking if you’re from the city or the country.
Zhou Lingtong felt a little insulted, said softly, From the mountains.
The old man said: Speak up. Where?
The mountains, Zhou Lingtong shouted, humiliated. Then he heard a clap. The old man began to laugh. The laughter made Zhou Lingtong’s whole body tremble, then suddenly the laughter stopped. The old man said: The mountains. I really like mountain folk. Down to earth. Then the laughter started all over again. Zhou Lingtong also started to laugh.
At dinner, the old man pressured Zhou Lingtong into drinking a lot. When he saw his face turn red the old man patted his shoulder and said: Down to earth.
After dinner, Zhou Lingtong thought he shouldn’t stay long and started looking for an excuse to leave. Meanwhile, the old man went to the sofa, made a phone call, slowly spoke a few sentences, and hung up. The old man looked at cautious Zhou Lingtong, said, Come here, son-in-law, I’ll give you a company to run.
Those were the words Zhou Lingtong wrote over and over in his general manager’s office: Come here, son-in-law, I’ll give you a company to run. Things were that unimaginable. Yesterday he was in the dumpster with plastic bags and dead rats, and now he had his feet up on a giant, glossy mahogany desk – twinkling, swaying.
Later, the company opened a branch in Malaysia. The first time Zhou Lingtong went there he checked into a hotel and asked a trusted assistant to make some calls. Soon prostitutes from England, France, Germany, Russia, America, Japan, Italy, and Austria came to his room. They bowed at once, smiling, then said in Chinese: Hello boss.
Zhou Lingtong pointed at them, counting, and said: Back then you guys were the eight allies that invaded my country’s capital, Beijing. Now I’m going to set you straight. He spoke sternly. The eight girls looked at each other, not understanding his Chinese, and laughed loudly. They quickly took off his polished leather shoes and creased trousers, pulled the thing out, and tasted it one at a time. Soon the fluid was coaxed out. Zhou Lingtong got flustered and said, Really not fucking worth it.
For eight years Zhou Lingtong’s life rolled along smoothly and peacefully. But one day as he was leaving his office he saw several men barging in, calling Lingtong, Lingtong. Security couldn’t hold them back. He recognized their Eshan accent, panicked, and shouted: I have a gun too.
The leader grinned and said: It’s not that, not just that. You just got slandered back then.
Zhou Lingtong took another look at them. They were all smiling flatteringly. Only then did he relax and wave for them to sit. After sitting and talking a little he understood they worked in Eshan’s Beijing office and wanted someone to pull strings to get Eshan’s status changed from county to city. Zhou Lingtong dismissed the idea, saying he had no sway. The director and deputy director immediately understood and said, Someone claimed you raped someone – what rape? Where’s the evidence? We were after the wrong person.
Zhou Lingtong just offered them good tea, then offered them good alcohol, but didn’t answer. A few days later, the head of the county criminal investigation unit, now Deputy Secretary of the Eshan County Political and Legal Committee, hurried over behind the head of the county, patted his chest and made a note that finally made things clear. When Zhou Lingtong was drunk, he shook the deputy secretary’s shoulders and said, You were a good shot back then. The deputy secretary turned white and changed the subject: You and I are related on your mother’s side. I’m just thinking about everything Auntie and Uncle went through.
Zhou Lingtong thought, What the hell kind of relative are you? but didn’t want to seem unfilial so instead asked, How are my mom and dad?
Not long after you left they died, the deputy secretary said sorrowfully. Zhou Lingtong looked around, stunned, picked up a napkin, and rubbed it back and forth a dozen times till his eyes were red. Everyone flocked around him: Don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s been years. Only then would you say Zhou Lingtong began to cry.
Having fled his hometown eight full years ago, Zhou Lingtong returned for the first time. He did not take a plane or a train. He asked the driver to go slow in the Lincoln limousine with him and Zhang Xina in the back. When the car was a kilometer from the Eshan border he saw the secretary of the Eshan City Party Committee and the mayor waiting respectfully at the roadside, a throng of local officials and a fleet of Santanas behind them.
In the city proper were red banners on every building and red inflatable arches at the entrance to every street to celebrate the upgrade in status from county to city. Hydrogen balloons floated in the sky, firecracker residue carpeted the ground, Eshan citizens flooded the streets and lined up outside the public toilets. As the convoy went by countless hands reached for the jet-black limousine, ignoring the police cars honking at them to get out of the way. Zhou Lingtong sat in the limousine in his suit and leather shoes and watched pairs of bulging eyes rush toward him. They couldn’t see him, but he could see them, see right in their hearts.
After attending some meetings in the city, giving some speeches, Zhou Lingtong got sick of it and figured he’d just go tend the grave in his hometown and then go back to Beijing and never come back.
His wife was having a migraine, so Zhou Lingtong went alone in the county head’s car to Zhou Village in Toushan Town. He handed a stack of red envelopes filled with money to the village head to distribute among the villagers for him. Then he went to look for his parents’ grave. He looked a long time. Everyone bashfully said it was the one without a stone. Zhou Lingtong said, Oh, then tossed some cash to a couple cousins to take care of it.
After a few cups of Gushao baijiu at lunch, Zhou Lingtong left Zhou Village. Halfway back, he suddenly thought of something and asked the driver to head for the mountain. The 2000 Santana reached the foot in 15 minutes. Zhou Lingtong got out of the car and looked at the paved ramp and dry potato field, sighing, overcome by emotion. Then he told the driver, I’m going up the mountain to burn some incense. The driver wanted to go with him, but he refused – going alone was more sincere.
Zhou Lingtong was nastier than eight years before. Though he was fatter, he walked faster like he was burning with anxiety, in a hurry to find something. Only when he was soaked in sweat and discarded his jacket did he reach the summit. He stood where he’d knelt eight years before, in a patch of shade, looking at the dilapidated Longquan Temple. The temple door was shut. Wisps of steam rose through the tiled roof. Zhou Lingtong went and pounded on the door, shouting: I’m back.
The voice from behind the door answered, Coming, coming. Zhou Lingtong thought it sounded familiar but couldn’t think of who it was. When the door squeaked open he couldn’t help but take a few steps back. The monk’s reaction was similar. He stumbled and fell on his butt. Zhou Lingtong watched the bald monk fall in his long robe, string of prayer beads around his neck.
Somehow he and the monk looked exactly the same.
Zhou Lingtong started to open his mouth, and the monk opened his mouth too. Zhou Lingtong let him speak first. The monk put his palms together and said, Amitabha. When the voice came, strange mold grew over the familiar face until finally they were completely different. The monk was the monk. Zhou Lingtong was Zhou Lingtong. The humble was humble. The noble was noble.
Zhou Lingtong relaxed and asked meanly, Where’s Deyong?
My master passed away 8 years ago, the monk said then nodded and bowed. When he raised his head, his eyes gleamed with unconcealable envy. Zhou Lingtong tried swinging his Rolex hand to the right – the eyes followed it, swinging right. Zhou Lingtong said, Come touch it. The monk, embarrassed, came and touched it all over.
Zhou Lingtong said: What did Deyong say when he was dying?
The monk said: He cursed me. He said the temple could only feed one mouth. Me coming made him starve to death.