My sister really rounded out. Her face started to show signs of her advancing age, though she still looked younger than other women in the village. Years of manual labour had not damaged her appearance too much. Other women envied her good fortune. She was just in her thirties and her daughter was already earning enough to support the family.

Whether her fortune was good or not, only my sister knew. She didn’t bother with the gossip – she just wanted to play cards. She had become completely hooked on cards in recent years. She was so caught up in card-playing that she often forgot to eat, and even when she did eat, she didn’t leave the card table. She sometimes played overnight. In the village, we called this sort of local card game ‘running the beard’ or ‘simmering the beard.’ It consisted of eighty long strips of cards marked with numerals in capitals and in lower case, in red or black. The situation changed constantly, with layers of mystery, and Chuntian’s genius was opened up fully in the game of cards. I could easily understand the joy she found when she threw herself in the game. With cards in hand, she was in command; she was the mastermind, the field commander who had the final say. Everything she could not do in real life, at the card table, she could.

Of course, my understanding might have been off. An alternative explanation was that, perhaps now that Yihua and Yicao had grown up, they could take care of their own affairs. It was alright if the pots and stove were cold when they came home from school. They could just prepare some egg fried rice for themselves. That means they were basically at an age at which they could be self-reliant, so my sister had nothing to busy herself with at home, leaving her quite bored. At the end of the day, no matter how much a girl studied, in the end she would hit that ‘oh no’ point and just get married. My sister felt that she had gotten ahead a little now, and she could find her own entertainment. But this was just my own blind analysis. I did not truly know my sister’s mind, and she never told me what appeal gambling held for her. What I did know was that when she did not work during the day, it was boring as hell. As the sun sank over the mountains, it was so quiet it made one’s scalp crawl with goosebumps. Her nearest neighbour might yell as loud as they could, and still might not get a response. They had to walk a bit of a distance and turn a corner before they could see the light from the neighbour’s window. In the past, as soon as it got dark out, my sister would lock the doors and sleep. Later she couldn’t sleep at all, and she waited through the long night for the day to come. She listened to Yihua talk in her sleep, Yicao grind her teeth, and Zhima snore. She listened to the night bugs chirp in the dark, along with the leaves rustling. The moon was hidden, the wind was strong, and she could not see her hand in front of her face. She was bored to tears.

In short, she could not bear to be at home. At first, she would rush home before night fell. Later, she extended her playing time, then would crawl home just before midnight, and eventually it expanded to just after midnight, and it gradually kept increasing until she ended up staying out the whole night. Her face was often bloated, and her expression dark. Twice, Zhima dragged her from the card table and, when they got home, beat her until she was bruised and bleeding. But her battered flesh did nothing to discourage her. The next time, Zhima had no choice but to overturn the card table and warn the players that he would beat up anyone who played cards with my sister, and even create trouble at their houses. After that, whenever Chuntian showed up at the card table, everyone scattered; when she left, they regrouped around the table.

By the third time this happened, Chuntian started to think clearly. She would not bring harm to others, so she gave up. But cards were as addictive as drugs. When her withdrawal hit her, she grew itchy physically and mentally, and her muscles twitched. The image of cards flew in front of her eyes. Food was tasteless, and her sleep was restless. She was in a trance. Eventually, she could stand it no more. She rode a broken bicycle to a town miles away and played cards there. When her passion for gambling cooled, she went home and said that she had gone back to her girlhood home and stayed for a few nights. If playing cards was a form of military exercise in the village, then the village recreation room was a battlefield, with real knives and guns. Chuntian barely made it through. Eight times out of ten she lost, and when she lost, she would borrow money. Some people claimed she even slept with men to get the money to keep playing cards.

But in the end, the cat was out of the bag. People who saw her playing cards at the recreation room reported back to Zhima. He came to the village searching for her. However, Chuntian had won that day, and the person who lost to her was not willing to let her leave the table. There was a security officer in the village, and one must play by the rules. Zhima could do nothing but stand obediently to one side, talking nicely and begging her to go home, then pouting as he stood waiting at the door. Later, some of the players said that Zhima sitting there waiting like that affected their mood, and they finally forced my sister to leave the table. When they left the recreation room, Zhima raised a fist. Without a word, my sister just started fighting with him. A crowd surrounded them, watching the excitement; Zhima had apparently heard the rumours. He kicked her while cursing, tore her clothes, and made a wreck of her hair.

Some people tried to discourage him. Zhima said, ‘What the fuck do you people have to do with me beating up my woman?’

It was only when a great number of people had seen my sister’s exposed body that Zhima was satisfied. She did not cry, but just pulled the rags across her chest and, puckering her lips as tight as a chicken’s arse, left the crowd’s field of vision. Zhima, pushing the rickety bicycle, followed her, spitting betel nut juice at intervals.

When all was done, Chuntian still sat on the back of Zhima’s bike and went home, as if nothing had happened. She continued along, very proper and honest, for a week. But her old ailments returned, and she pedalled into town and continued playing cards. After some time, Yicao was also less anxious to come home to eat fried rice, and was likewise too lazy to do her homework, so she started fooling around with boys on the sly.

Zhima realised he could do nothing about Chuntian, so he went to my father to complain. My father rained curses on him. My mother said, ‘Whether or not you can manage your own woman is your own affair. Don’t come knocking on our door about this sort of thing again.’

Zhima had no ally. He decided he could only leave Chuntian to her own devices. He cursed her, saying, ‘I hope you die at that damned card table.’

Once, Chuntian did not go home for two consecutive nights. At ten in the morning, Zhima showed up in the gaming hall. The whole place was full of smoke. Chuntian sat, face dark, in that tobacco-filled room, the floor covered with cigarette butts and betel nut dregs. She glared at him with black-ringed eyes, pulled her mouth into the usual chicken arse shape and looked at the cards in her hand.

Zhima said, ‘Go home. Something’s happened.’

Chuntian did not say anything. Zhima patiently repeated himself twice.

Upset, my sister asked, ‘What happened? Who died?’

Zhima hesitated, then said, ‘That’s right. Your uncle died.’

My uncle and aunt did not have children. My uncle had always liked my sister, and had even wanted to adopt her when she was small. My aunt did not agree; she wanted a son. Chuntian had many adversaries in her life. Had it not been for this sort of aunt, she would have been my uncle’s little princess. My uncle was very good to Chuntian, and she always went to visit him on holidays, receiving gifts or cash on such occasions. Later, when she complained of my father’s coldness and violence, she always raised my uncle’s kindness and affection as a point of comparison.

My uncle died of a cerebral haemorrhage. Chuntian did not get to see him one last time. When she arrived, the coffin had already been sealed. My aunt leaned on it, howling. The candles, incense and even firecrackers all reeked of the smell of death and burial. My father’s face showed the restraint it required for him not to scold; he was furious with my sister for being improperly late. If it had not been for the special occasion, he would have certainly taken the opportunity to unpack all his old grievances against her and air them. Chuntian had married into another family so long ago, but he had never let go of his right to teach her a good lesson.

My mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nieces were all there in mourning apparel. Yicao’s eyes seemed very seductive. She was developing, with small blossoms beginning to show on her chest. She was intrigued by this new scene. Her fascination had nothing to do with death; at first, she was even chewing gum. My mother dug it out of her mouth and threw it away and said, ‘You don’t learn from good examples. You’re acting like a hooligan.’

My mother liked Yicao. She had a sweet tongue. When she went to our house, she would pester my mother to make her delicious snacks. None of us siblings were sweet talkers, so with just this tactic alone, Yicao captured my mother’s heart. A character like Yicao’s was at complete variance with ours. No one like her was to be found in either the Li or the Liu house. At this moment, she supported her old grandmother, comforting her with care.

As soon as the funeral gun sounded, the firecrackers exploded hysterically. The sixteen people who carried the coffin let out a sudden cry and raised it onto their shoulders. The crowd around it was in a commotion. But before they could move from the terrace, the coffin suddenly cracked. My uncle’s head drooped from the crack in the coffin. My aunt had bought the coffin and, hoping to leave a little more money for herself to live on, she had chosen the cheapest. She had never imagined the wickedness of the coffin-maker, that he would do a shoddy job and make the coffin loose. It was too late to change it, so the people stuffed my uncle’s body inside once more, but the quality of the coffin was too poor, and it was too thin and short. The top of my uncle’s head and his heel pushed against the ends of the coffin and the gaps could not be closed, so the people just tried to nail the coffin shut forcefully. The long nails penetrated my uncle’s head and feet. The wood around each nail was soaked in blood.

After so many frustrations, my uncle was finally laid to rest in his grave. The crowd dispersed, and the grass started to grow on the grave.

For a very long time, my sister did not go into town to play cards.