The Dark Road (23 page)

Waterborn, Waterborn, she whispers, looking down at her bulge. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, you’re my flesh and blood, and I will love and protect you. Although the last thing I wanted was another child, now that you’re here, it all seems right. I have everything ready: scissors, antiseptic, muslin sheets, a plastic basin, nappies – the expensive disposable ones. I’ll give birth to you on the boat. You may not know this now, but in this country having a child can be a crime. That’s why we’ve had to hide in this wretched place. Your brother Happiness was about the same size as you are now when he was torn from me . . . In the centre of a vast field far below stands a frail, spindly tree that no one would notice were it not for the large crow’s nest in its upper branches. Indistinct figures are burning paper offerings on a grave mound in its shade. Meili thinks of her mother and grandmother. When she lived in Nuwa Village, she always longed to leave her family, but now that she’s so far from home, she wishes she could be with them. She’d like to comb her mother’s hair now, or scratch her back for her. She’d like to carry her frail grandmother into the garden and let her sit in the sun, or find a wheelchair and push her along the banks of Dark Water River or up to the temple on Nuwa Mountain. She forgets how many times she went up there on her grandmother’s back, clinging to her neck and bumping up and down as her grandmother struggled up the hundreds of stone stairs and finally stepped over the high threshold of the temple entrance.

Meili sees the ducks waddle downhill and head into a swathe of tall reeds. She pushes herself up onto her feet and chases after them, as fast as she can. At the foot of the hill the ground becomes soft and boggy. Through a gap in the reeds she glimpses a sparkling pond, with a cloud of white termites hovering above it. Termites, Meili whispers. That means a storm is brewing. The ducks at the front of the flock have already jumped into the water. Meili pushes through the reeds and tries to drive them out, but when her herding pole approaches their heads, they dive out of the way. What if I can’t get them out, or worse still: what if a farmer breeds fish in this pond? She picks two ducks up by the neck, but the rest of the flock are in the pond now, squawking, diving, splashing. She stands rooted to the ground, paralysed by fear. What if the farmer turns up and demands I pay compensation? The flock drifts towards the centre of the pond, beyond her pole’s reach. Waterborn swirls in the amniotic fluid. Meili’s belly contracts; she breaks into a sweat. Then the ground beneath her judders, and although the sky above is a brilliant blue, suddenly everything around her goes black. She senses someone staring down at her exposed belly. She wants to sink into the water and hide . . .

KEYWORDS:
hot draught, umbilical cord, fetal grease, windless swamp, jellified residue, red cable.

THE VILLAGE DELIVERY
room is in Sister Mao’s house. Her brother is a family planning officer, and for five hundred yuan, which she splits with him, she is willing to deliver unauthorised babies. For a supplementary fee she will also break the baby’s limbs, if the parents wish. As soon as the farmer came to the hut yesterday to say that Meili had fainted near his pond, Kongzi rushed to her side and carried her straight here. When she woke in the delivery room, in the early stages of labour, she said she wanted to give birth in the boat, but by then Kongzi had already paid Sister Mao’s fee.

Her waters have broken and the contractions are coming faster. As another wave of pain approaches, she passes out and sees Happiness’s face hover before her, one eye closed, the other staring at her impassively. She lifts her head and looks at herself lying on the metal table, her hands gripping the sides. From the blood-filled hole below her black pubic hair she notices a small arm reach out. A human life is struggling to emerge. The moment has come. This time, the baby will not be murdered upon arrival, though. She will make sure of that. As soon as it’s born, she’ll grab hold of it and kick anyone who tries to come near. All she needs to do now is go down on all fours, push as hard as she can, and everything will be fine . . . But like the jellied residue of a fish stew heated in a pan, she liquefies and evaporates, and finds herself drifting up to the ceiling and looking down on her body below. She sees her face contort and turn purple, her teeth bite into her lower lip. At last, she hears a slithery plop and sees a mass of human flesh slipping out from between her legs in a stream of fluid that becomes soiled with pubic hair and dirty tissues . . . Echoing voices slowly drag her back into her body . . . ‘A good size. Chubby, even.’ The room is stiflingly hot now; the wrinkles on Sister Mao’s face are filled with sweat. A whirring electric fan in the corner blows a hot draught into the stuffy air. Sister Mao’s assistant, Ying, opens the baby’s legs and sighs. ‘A girl! What bad luck! That’s the second we’ve had today. Ugh, the placenta smells disgusting . . .’

‘Quick! Cut the umbilical cord. And bung those sheets in the washing machine. Don’t touch the cloth – there’s shit on it. Just flick it into the bin.’

Once her senses have fully returned, Meili opens her eyes and scans the foul-smelling room. During the final stage of labour, Sister Mao pressed a cloth-covered brick against Meili’s anus, but the last push was so strong that her shit still sprayed out onto the wall.

‘Look, she’s opening her eyes,’ Ying says, wrapping the baby in a towel and wiping her little red face. ‘She still hasn’t cried yet, though.’

‘Slap her bottom, then!’ Sister Mao is the only plump woman in the village. When she looks down, the fat beneath her chin bulges out in thick folds.

Meili watches Ying unwrap the baby, swaddle her in white muslin and mutter into her ear. At last, the baby opens her mouth and lets out a feeble wail. You’re alive! Meili says silently. We can go back to Kong Village now – your rightful birthplace! She is certain that she’s not dreaming any more: she has given birth. After nine months of living in her womb – no, the government’s womb – Waterborn has finally come out into the world, and Meili is now a mother of two.

The delivery room has a dropped ceiling with a round fluorescent light that is as bright as a full moon. The curtain hanging over the door has an image of a red crane flying across a blue sky. A red cable dangling from the ceiling sways in the draught from the fan.

Meili feels limp and sapped of energy. She remembers that when she gave birth to Nannan at home she squeezed the metal bars of her bed frame so hard during the final push that they became twisted together. But the excruciating labour pains she endured just now, the splitting of bones and tearing of flesh as Waterborn’s head pushed through her pelvis, have already been forgotten and reabsorbed into her flesh. Immersed in a peaceful numbness, she watches the baby who was once part of her body adapt to her new surroundings. She senses that although the umbilical cord has been severed, an invisible thread still binds her to her daughter. They can never become one again, but neither can they ever be truly apart.

‘The arm came out first, the waters broke early, the labour was long and arduous: everything was pointing to a male birth,’ Ying sighs. During Meili’s labour, she said she was convinced the baby was a boy, and is clearly annoyed to have been proved wrong.

‘My daughter!’ Meili croaks, gesturing for the baby to be brought to her. She tries to think how she’d feel if the baby had been a boy, but just like her amniotic fluid, her imaginative faculties seem to have slipped out of her. I don’t mind what sex the baby is. She’s mine, and I’ll look after her just as I do Nannan. ‘Waterborn,’ she whispers, taking hold of the baby, a proud glow spreading across her damp face. Waterborn’s hands tremble and her head droops to the side. Her fine hair is caked with creamy white fetal grease.

‘Boy or girl, it’s still one more pair of hands to help out on the fields,’ Sister Mao says. ‘The placenta has been fully ejected. Scoop it up, Ying.’

Waterborn struggles floppily up Meili’s breast, as though searching for the warm wetness from which she’s been expelled. When at last her mouth becomes filled with Meili’s engorged nipple, her tiny body twitches with relief. ‘Drink my milk, little one. Keep sucking. That’s right.’ Meili’s tear-drenched cheeks flush a deep red.

‘Now that the baby’s born, you should return to your husband’s village,’ Sister Mao says. ‘I’ve seen that windless swamp where you’ve been camping. There are mosquitoes everywhere. It’s no place to bring up children.’

‘But we haven’t a home to return to,’ Meili says. ‘A family planning squad pulled down our house. Besides, my husband said we can only go home if the baby’s a boy.’ Meili sees her placenta lying in a plastic bowl on top of the washing machine. Flies swoop down and perch on the surface. Ying coils up the severed umbilical cord and places it beside the bowl.

‘So, is it a boy or a girl?’ Kongzi bellows, charging into the room, reeking of diesel. His legs and arms are lacerated from the glass panels he delivered last week. This morning he transported boxes of human hair to an illegal soy sauce factory. He’s brought four packets of instant noodles with him and a tin of processed ham.

‘A girl,’ Meili answers, trying to sound offhand as she squeezes her nipple back into Waterborn’s mouth.

Kongzi walks over to her, lifts the swaddling cloth and examines the baby for himself. His face scrunches in anger. ‘So I paid five hundred yuan for you to give birth to
that
!’ he shouts, then storms outside and lights a cigarette. Meili breathes a sigh of relief. The government and her husband are powerless now. Her baby will live. Looking down again, she catches sight of Waterborn’s left hand and cries out, ‘My God! Sister Mao, come and look! She’s got six fingers!’

‘Yes, there is one too many,’ Sister Mao concurs. ‘Let me check her right hand. Fine. And her feet. Normal too, thank goodness. Don’t worry. One extra finger isn’t a calamity. You know what they say: a sixth finger signifies a sixth talent. But if it bothers you, I can chop it off. No extra cost.’

Meili shudders at the thought, and feels the little finger of her own left hand begin to throb. ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she blurts.

‘But the baby does seem a little slow to me. Take her to the district hospital in a month to have her checked. And keep a record of how much milk she drinks, the colour and frequency of her stools. These days there are so many pesticides on our crops, so much formaldehyde in our homes, it’s rare to see a baby born without a brain defect, cleft palate or other deformity. Make sure you regularly clear the duck shit from your enclosure. That sixth finger suggests to me that you caught toxoplasmosis during your pregnancy – it’s a disease caused by a parasite that lives in animal dung. A baby I helped deliver last week was born with no nose and no limbs, so you should consider yourself lucky.’

Meili’s heartbeat returns to normal and a rosy glow suffuses her face. She can’t find the strength to close her legs. Her womb feels like an opened cellar, with hot air wafting in and cold blood streaming out. ‘Sister Mao,’ she says, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Babies don’t remember pain, do they? So can you get it over and done with, please, and chop off the sixth finger now?’

KEYWORDS:
paralysis, water on the brain, fishing net, male chauvinism, good by nature, soft spot.

THE EVENING SUN
turns the papaya tree and dead banana trees behind the hut golden green. Moths swirl around the hut’s doorway. Kongzi sits on a cracked enamel washbasin, his head in his hands. By his feet, a line of yellow ants are marching across an opened tin of lychees. Since the sluice gates were raised last week, foamy floodwaters have engulfed the creek, risen to the pond and are lapping at the base of the willows a few metres from the hut. Half the ducks have died. Kongzi said the pollution in the floodwater must have killed them, but Meili thinks they were poisoned by the contaminated rice he’s been adding to their feed. Each time they swallow a grain, their heads jerk back in discomfort. When Meili steams the rice for supper, it turns yellow and gives off the smell of rotten tree roots.

Nannan is standing barefoot among towering water weeds, singing, ‘
Four, six, seven, eight. The farmer stands by the gate. Too many ducks to count. For dinner he’ll be late . . .
’ A white fishing net hangs over the boat’s bow like a bridal veil. Last week, when Kongzi saw that the flooded creek was teeming with dead fish, he bought the net so that he could scoop them out and sell them in the village. He’d heard that once the poisoned fish are gutted, salted and dried, the chemical taste is barely noticeable.

The stink of pollution and decay in the sweltering August air makes Nannan’s eyes water. When Waterborn is unable to latch on to Meili’s engorged nipples, she cries herself into a purple frenzy. Kongzi has noticed her eyelids are swollen, her mouth hangs open, and that she has a blood-filled lump on her crown, and suspects she might be mentally handicapped. He couldn’t afford the 800-yuan cost of a check-up at the district hospital, but with the help of a contact at the Radiance Hair Company, he was able to bribe one of the hospital’s doctors a hundred yuan to visit them at the hut. The doctor was a recent graduate and looked no more than twenty-two. After examining the lump on Waterborn’s crown and palpating the soft spot above her forehead, he said, ‘Her skull shouldn’t be this big. She might have a tumour, or water on the brain. If the head grows any larger, she could suffer paralysis and severe brain damage.’

Ever since then, Kongzi and Meili have been quarrelling over what to do with her. Kongzi wants to sell her, but Meili won’t hear of it. He raises the subject again now, and Meili charges out of the hut holding a greasy wok lid in one hand and Waterborn in the other, and shouts, ‘Over my dead body! She’s my flesh and blood. I’ll never let you take her away from me.’ Nannan, who’s sitting on a plastic crate eating a banana, kicks her legs about, sending the mud on her bare feet flying into the air.

‘Just think things through, Meili!’ Kongzi says, wiping his wet face on his T-shirt. ‘The brain surgery alone would cost thirty thousand yuan. And even if it’s successful, she’ll still need full-time care for the rest of her life.’ He flinches as his tongue touches the two large ulcers on his gums, which cause him so much pain he hasn’t dared have a cigarette all day.