Big Breasts and Wide Hips (56 page)

This was the Snow Prince's divine moment, as a dozen men in black-and-red uniforms stepped forward; although they held nothing in their hands, they assumed the posture of musicians with trumpets,
suonas
, bugles, and brass cymbals. The cheeks of some puffed out as if they were trumpeting loudly. Once every few paces, the cymbalist raised his left hand to shoulder height and pretended to strike his cymbal with his right hand; the silent clangs were carried far off in the distance. The Wang brothers bounced and swayed on springy legs as the citizenry ceased their silent transactions and stood straight, eyes gaping, arms at their sides, to watch the procession of the Snow Prince. The colors of those familiar and unfamiliar faces were enhanced by the glare of the snow: reds like dates, blacks like charcoal briquettes, yellows like beeswax, and greens like scallions. I waved my staff of authority in the direction of the crowd, momentarily sending them scurrying in confusion; their hands now swung wildly in the air and their mouths were open, as if screaming. But no one dared or was willing to make a sound. One of the sacred duties bestowed upon me by Taoist Men was to stop up the mouth of anyone who dared make a sound with the tip of my staff, then to jerk it back quickly, pulling the person's tongue out with it.

I spotted Mother, First Sister, and Eighth Sister in the crowd of people releasing their silent screams. I also saw others, such as Sha Zaohua and Sima Liang. My goat had been fitted with a mask over its mouth; fashioned out of white cotton in the shape of a cone, it was held on by a white cotton strap looped around the ears, for the proscription against making a sound was heeded not only by the Snow Prince's family, but by its goat as well. I waved my staff in the direction of my family, all of whom greeted me in return by raising their arms. Sima Liang made circles with both hands and raised them to his eyes, as if looking at me through binoculars. Zaohua's face was radiant, like a fish deep in the ocean.

All variety of things were sold at the snow market. The first stop by my silent honor guard was the shoe market. Only straw sandals were displayed, all made of softened cattails, the kind of footwear that Northeast Gaomi residents wore throughout the winter. Hu Tiangui, the father of five brothers who had survived the war and then been sent into forced labor, stood holding a willow branch, icicles hanging from his chin, white cloth wrapped around his chin; wearing only a tattered burlap sack, he was bent over, two grimy fingers extended as he bartered with Qiu Huangshan, a master sandal-maker. Qiu stuck out three fingers and laid them over Hu's two. Hu stubbornly reextended his two fingers; Qiu quickly countered with three. Back and forth they went — three, four, five times — until Qiu pulled back his hand and, with a pained look to show his frustration, untied a pair of inferior sandals made of the green tips of cattails from his string of wares. Hu Tiangui's open mouth was a silent expression of his angry reaction. He thumped his chest, looked heavenward, and then pointed to the ground. What he meant by all this was unclear. With his staff he dug through the pile of sandals, settling upon a superior pair the color of beeswax with thick, sturdy soles, made from cattail roots. Qiu pushed Hu's staff away, stuck out four fingers, and held them unflinchingly under Hu's nose. Once again Hu looked heavenward and pointed to the ground, his burlap sack shifting with each movement. He bent down and untied the pair of sandals he'd selected, gave them a squeeze, and shifted his feet; his tattered shoes, with rubber soles that were barely attached to the tops, now lay on the ground in front of him. Supporting himself by his staff, he slipped his trembling feet into the new sandals, then took a crumpled bill out of his patchwork pocket and tossed it at the feet of Qiu Huangshan. With rage written all over his face, Qiu uttered a silent curse and stomped angrily on the ground; but he picked up the frayed bill, flattened it out, held it by one corner, and waved it in the air for the benefit of people nearby. Some shook their heads sympathetically, while others wore silly grins. Inching his way along with the help of his staff, Hu Tiangui walked off on legs that were stiff as boards. I was disgusted with Qiu Huangshan, he with the skillful mouth and nimble fingers, and deep down hoped that his anger would get the best of him, causing him to blurt out something; that way, with my temporary authority, I could jerk that long tongue out of his mouth with my staff. But he cleverly saw what I was thinking and tucked the pink bill into a pair of sandals hanging from his carrying pole. When he took down the sandals, I saw they were nearly stuffed full of brightly colored paper money. One by one he pointed to the sandal-makers around him, who looked at me with fawning expressions and then slowly pointed to the money in his sandals. Once he'd finished, he reverently flung the sandals to me; they bounced off my gut and landed on the ground in front of me. Several of the bills, with images of dumb fat sheep seemingly waiting to be sheared or slaughtered, fell out. As I moved forward, several more pairs of sandals stuffed with money came flying my way.

In the food market, Fang Meihua, the widow of Zhao the Sixth, was anxiously frying stuffed buns in a flat-bottomed wok. Her son and daughter sat on a straw mat with a blanket wrapped around them, their four eyes rolling nonstop. She had set up a number of rickety tables in front of her stove, and at the moment, six burly reed-mat peddlers were squatting in front of the tables eating buns and garlic. The tops and bottoms of the fried buns were a crusty brown color; they were so hot you could hear them sputter in the men's mouths, and so oily that red grease spurted out with each bite. None of the other bun sellers or flatcake peddlers had any customers; glaring enviously at the spot in front of Widow Zhao's stand, they stood there banging the sides of their woks.

As my litter passed, Widow Zhao stuck a bill on a bun, took aim at my face, and casually tossed it over. I ducked just in time, and the bun struck Wang Gongping squarely in the chest. Flashing me a look of apology, Widow Zhang wiped her hands on an oily rag. Her eyes were deep-set in her ashen face, ringed with dark purple circles.

A tall, skinny man sidled over from the stand where live chickens were sold; the frightened hens were cackling nervously. The woman who ran the stand nodded repeatedly. The man had a peculiar walk: stiff as a board, he strode rhythmically, his shoulders shrugging with each step as if he were about to take root in the ground. It was Heavensent Zhang, whom people had nicknamed “Old Master Heaven.” A practitioner of the strange occupation of escorting the dead back to their hometowns, he had the gift of getting them back on their feet to walk home. Anytime a resident of Northeast Gaomi died away from home, Zhang was hired to bring the person back. And anytime an out-of-towner died in Northeast Gaomi Township, he was hired to take him back. How could anyone not venerate a man who had the ability of getting a corpse to walk over as many mountains and rivers as it took to get home? A strange smell emanated from the man's body, and even the meanest dog tucked its tail between its legs, turned, and ran off when he drew near. Taking a seat on the bench in front of the widow's wok, he extended two fingers. In the flurry of hand signals that passed between him and the woman, it quickly became clear that he wanted two trays of her buns, a total of fifty — not just two and not just twenty. So the widow hurried to serve this big-bellied customer, her face brightening, as green glares converged from neighboring stands. I hoped they'd say something, but even jealousy lacked the power to open their mouths.

Heavensent sat quietly, eyes riveted on the widow as she worked, his hands resting tranquilly on his knees; a black cloth sack hung from his belt, but what it held no one knew. In the late autumn he'd taken on a big job — delivering a New Year's scroll peddler who had died in Northeast Gaomi County's Aiqiu Village back to his home in the far-off Northeast. After agreeing to the fee, the man's son left his address and went on ahead to prepare to receive his father. Given all the mountain ranges Heavensent would have to cross, people doubted that he'd ever make it back. But he had, and by the looks of him, he'd only just returned. Was that money in his cloth bag? His straw sandals were tattered, exposing swollen toes and bony ankles.

As Sleepyhead's younger sister, Cross-eyed Beauty, walked past my litter with a large head of cabbage, she cast me a flirtatious look. Her hands were red from the freezing cold, and as she passed in front of Widow Zhao's stand, the widow's hands began to quake violently. Their gazes met, and mortal enemies' eyes turned red. Not even the sight of the woman who had killed her husband was enough for Widow Zhao to violate the snow market ban on speaking. Yet I could see that her blood was boiling. Widow Zhao possessed the quality of letting nothing, not even rage, keep her from her work. After filling a large white ceramic bowl with the first rack of buns, she placed it in front of Heavensent, who stretched out his hand. It took Widow Zhao a moment to figure out what he wanted. She smacked her forehead apologetically, then reached into a jar, removed two large purple pungent stalks of garlic, and laid them in front of him. She then filled a small black bowl with sesame-flavored chili sauce and placed it too before Heavensent as a special treat. The reed-mat peddlers looked on with disgruntled expressions, censuring her for toadying up to Heavensent Zhang, who slowly and contentedly peeled the garlic as he waited for the buns to cool. Then he placed the white, unpeeled stalks on the table in a row by size, like a column of soldiers, now and then reaching down to switch one or two to make a perfect column. He didn't start eating — more like inhaling — the buns until my litter had been carried way over to the cabbage market.

A tiny hut stood silently at the base of the pagoda, one devoted to no particular god or deity. The subtle fragrance of burning incense wafted out the door. A large wooden cauldron standing in front of the incense burner was filled with virgin snow. Behind it was a wooden stool — the “Snow Prince” throne. Taoist Men lifted the gauze curtain that separated the silent hut from the outside, walked in, and covered my face with a piece of white satin. I knew from his instructions that while carrying out this duty I was not to remove the veil. I heard him slip quietly out of the hut, so that only the sounds of my soft breathing, my faint heartbeat, and the tiny sizzle of burning incense remained. Gradually, I heard the gentle crunch of snow as people walked toward me.

A girl with dainty steps walked in. All I could see through my veil was the outline of a large girl whose body reeked of burnt pig bristles. Not likely a girl from Dalan, and quite possibly from Sandy Ridge Village, where a family ran a handicraft business of making brushes. But wherever she came from, the Snow Prince was obliged to be impartial. So I stuck my hands into the snow in the cauldron to cleanse them of impurities. Then I stretched them out to her. The custom was for all women wanting to bear a child in the coming year and those who wanted milk to fill their young, healthy breasts to lift up their blouses and expose their breasts to welcome the outstretched hands of the Snow Prince. It happened just as it was supposed to: two spongy mounds of flesh pressed toward my icy hands. My head spun as warm currents of joy passed through my hands and quickly suffused my body. The woman panted uncontrollably as her breasts brushed my fingertips and then, like a pair of heated doves, flew away.

I'd barely felt the first pair of breasts, and now they were gone. My disappointment gave way to desire as I thrust my hands back into the snow to cleanse and purify them once again. I waited impatiently for the arrival of the next pair, which I was not going to let get away so easily. When they came, I grabbed them and wouldn't let go. They were small and exquisite, neither too soft nor too firm, like steamed buns fresh from the oven. Even though I couldn't see them, I knew they were snowy white, smooth, and glossy, their tiny tips like button mushrooms. As I grasped them, I said a silent prayer of good wishes. One squeeze: May you have pudgy male triplets. Two squeezes: May your milk gush like a fountain. Three squeezes: May your milk be as wonderfully sweet as morning dew. She moaned softly before pulling away, to my considerable disappointment. My feelings plummeted, and shame set in. To punish myself, I buried my hands in the snow until my fingertips touched the slick bottom. I didn't pull them out until the numbness reached halfway up my arms. The Snow Prince raised his purified hands in benediction to the women of Northeast Gaomi Township. I was feeling glum until a sagging, shifting pair of breasts brushed up against my hands. They cackled like stubborn hens as fine bumps rose up on the skin. I pinched the two weary nipples, then pulled my hands back. Rusty puffs of air from the woman's mouth penetrated the gauzy veil and struck me on the face. The Snow Prince does not discriminate. May your wishes be fulfilled. If you desire a son, may you have a boy; if you desire a daughter, may you have a girl; and may you possess all the milk you desire. Your breasts will be healthy always, but if it is a return to your youth that you desire, the Snow Prince cannot help you.

The fourth pair of breasts were like explosive quails, with brown feathers, unyielding beaks, and short, powerful necks. Those unyielding beaks kept pecking at the palms of my hands.

Two hornets' nests seemed hidden in the fifth pair of breasts, for they began to buzz the moment I touched them. The surface heated up from all the insects trying to break out, making my hands tingle as they bequeathed their blessings.

That day I fondled at least a hundred and twenty pairs of breasts, gaining layer upon layer of feelings and impressions of women's breasts, like turning the pages of a book. But the unicorn shattered all those crisp impressions. She was like a thrashing rhino, an earthquake rumbling through the storehouse of my memory, a wild bull crashing into a garden.

I had stretched out my hands, by then swollen and all but desensitized, intent on carrying out the duties of the Snow Prince as I awaited the next pair of breasts. I heard a familiar giggle, but there were no breasts. Red face, red lips, tiny dark eyes — all of a sudden, the face of this flirtatious young woman floated into my mind's eye.