fuzzy. I felt as if the special aroma of one of Aunty Wild Mule's cooked heads was floating in the air, coming at me in waves. All I had to do was close my eyes for it to settle in front of me. I stood up. ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’ I asked.
‘Where do you think?’ said Mother. ‘Where you always sleep.’
My eyelids drooped as I walked out into the yard; snowflakes fell on my face and drove away some of the sleepiness. The fire sent its light into the yard as a backdrop for the falling snow, clear and beautiful, like a dream. In the midst of this wonderful sight I saw our tractor tipped over in the yard, its load of rubbish blanketed by snow, looking like a monstrous beast. The snow had also partially covered my mortar but it had retained its shape and its metallic colour; the tube pointed into the dusky sky. I just knew it was a healthy, happy mortar and that all it needed was ammunition to move into action.
I went back inside and flopped down on the bed, hesitating a moment before stripping naked and slipping under the covers. Jiaojiao jerked away when my cold feet touched her warm skin, so I quickly pulled them back.
‘Go to sleep,’ I heard Mother say. ‘There'll be meat on the table when you wake up in the morning.’
I could tell by the tone of voice that she was in a good mood again. The lamplight was fading, leaving only the flickering light from the fire in the stove to see by. The door was open a crack to let the firelight filter in and land on the dresser. A question swirled dimly through the fog in my brain: Where are Mother and Father sleeping? They aren't going to stay up all night watching the pig's head cook, are they? The question kept me awake, and I couldn't help but hear them talk. I even covered my head with the comforter to keep out the conversation but every word made its way into my ears.
‘A heavy snowfall will guarantee a good harvest next year,’ said Father.
‘You ought to let some new thoughts into your head,’ Mother said coolly. ‘Farmers are different these days. They used to live off what they planted in the ground. It all depended on how the old master in the sky felt about things. Good winds and plenty of rain meant a bumper crop—buns in the pot and meat in their bowls. Bad winds and no rain meant soup in the pot and husks in their bowls. But things have changed. No one's fool enough to work the fields. Drenching ten acres of land with your sweat can't bring in as much as selling one pigskin…but why am I telling you this?’
‘Someone has to work the farms…’ Father mumbled under his breath. ‘That's what a farmer does.’
‘I do believe the sun is rising in the west,’ Mother said, mocking him. ‘You hardly ever went out into the field when you were home. Are you planning to become a farmer now that you're back?’
‘Farming's all I know,’ said Father, clearly embarrassed. ‘There's no more need for someone to rate cattle. Or I can go out collecting rubbish with you.’
‘I won't let you do that,’ she said. ‘You're not cut out for that kind of work. Rubbish collecting is for people with no sense of shame, no face at all. It's halfway between robbing and stealing.’
‘After the life I've led, how much face can I have left? If you can do it, so can I.’
‘I'm not a brainless woman,’ she said. ‘You're back and we've got a house, so Xiaotong and I won't go out any more. If you want to leave I won't stop you. It doesn't make sense to keep someone around who doesn't want to be there. It's better for someone like that to just leave…’
‘I said what I wanted to say earlier today, in front of the children,’ Father said. ‘I didn't do well. A poor man is short on ambition. A skinny horse has long hair. I came looking for you with a dogskin round my head, and I'm grateful you took me back. We are, after all, husband and wife. Like a bone and a tendon—if you break the bone, it's still connected to the tendon.’
‘You've accomplished something. If nothing else,’ said Mother, ‘since you've been away you've learnt how to sweet-talk a person…’