Zhang Jianguo returned on the evening of the third day.
He learned the news from someone who had gone into town. He didn't finish his shift; he ran back from the county town, taking forty miles on a borrowed bicycle. When he flew into the village entrance, his shirt was soaked through with sweat, the bicycle bell clanging all the way.
He pushed open the courtyard gate. Chen Xiulan was hanging clothes in the yard, her back to him. When she heard the gate, she turned around. Their eyes met.
Zhang Jianguo stopped. The bicycle tilted, nearly falling. He propped a foot against the ground, gasping for air, looking at the woman before him. The wound on her temple was still there, the new skin pink, like a tiny petal.
"Xiulan-" He dropped the bike. It hit the ground with a clatter, the back wheel still spinning. He walked up to her, reached out to touch her face. She didn't dodge. She just stood there, letting his hand reach her cheek. His hand was rough, covered in calluses from the machinery factory, the friction rasping against her skin.
"I'm sorry I came back too late."
"Not too late." She gently dodged his hand. She turned and continued hanging clothes. The blouse had been washed very white, water droplets falling onto the ground.
"Don't hang those. Let's go." Zhang Jianguo grabbed her hand. "I'll take you to the commune to press charges. I want to break that animal's legs."
"The case has already been handled. The commune people came and investigated. Liu Mancang has confessed."
"Confessed?" Zhang Jianguo froze. He didn't seem to believe it. Then he laughed-a hollow laugh, cold enough to drop the temperature of the whole yard. "Ha. What's the use of that bastard confessing? I'll go find him myself."
"Jianguo." Chen Xiulan grabbed him. Her voice was low, urgent, almost inaudible. "Let it go."
He turned around, looking at her. She had never used that tone with him before. She had never grabbed him before, never summoned that kind of look in her eyes-a look that wasn't hurt, wasn't anger, but something else, something he couldn't name, something that chilled him. As if she was the one begging him, not for justice, but for silence.
"Why?" Zhang Jianguo's eyes narrowed.
"Because if you don't let it go, I can't keep living in this village anymore."
"Then we'll leave this village. I brought you here from your parents' home-I'll take you wherever you want to go."
Chen Xiulan shook her head. She released her grip on his arm. She walked to the clothesline and reached up to smooth the already straightened blouse, her fingers tracing the seam, folding a wrinkle flat. The touch was too gentle, like she was stroking a secret.
"Jianguo, I'm tired. Let me rest."
She walked toward the main room. The threshold was high; she lifted her foot high to cross it. Zhang Jianguo watched her back, suddenly realizing that he had been away too long, and too long away from her. He didn't know the person she had become.
That night, Zhang Jianguo sat in the corridor, drinking alone.
He drank three bowls. He had never drunk so much before. The firewater burned his throat, burned his stomach, burned his eyes.
Chen Xiulan opened the door and came out, sitting on the other end of the doorstep. She sat facing the courtyard gate, her gaze forward, but she wasn't looking at the gate. She was looking at the opposite roof, at the smoke curling from neighboring chimneys.
"Xiulan," Zhang Jianguo called her name, his voice already starting to slur. "I'm going back to the county tomorrow."
He said it, waiting for her response. She didn't respond.
"I can't stay. If I stay, I'll want to kill someone. I can't look at your face without wanting to kill someone." Zhang Jianguo poured another bowl. "I know. I was wrong. I should have come back. I shouldn't have stayed away for six months without returning. I failed you as a husband."
Chen Xiulan turned to look at him. The lamplight reflected off the oil stains on his face. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn to work, the front still shiny from the machinery. In six months, he had lost weight. The collar of his shirt was frayed. She reached out and touched the back of his hand. He grabbed it, but his grip was too tight, hurting her.
"Let go." She said it gently, as if coaxing a child.
He let go.
"Go to the county. Make some money. Life still goes on," she said. Then she stood up and walked inside.
Zhang Jianguo sat alone in the corridor, the wine bowl still in his hand. The moonlight fell on him, sketching his outline but not filling in his features.
Before dawn the next morning, Zhang Jianguo was gone.
Chen Xiulan got up to find that the main room table had been swept clean, with twenty yuan and a note placed on it. The note had only one sentence: "I'll be back for you."
She read it, folded it, and put it in her pocket. Then she went to the kitchen to start the fire, carrying the twenty yuan to the small store at the village entrance to buy a new pair of sandals. She was still wearing the borrowed ones from Wang Cuiying, and her feet had rubbed blisters that had only just healed.
She chose the cheapest kind, a pair of plastic sandals, and put them on right there. She walked around the village twice. The soles pattered against the ground, soft and familiar.
The grain was in, the wheat field was bare. The entire village's wheat was piled in the compound yard, waiting for the purchasing station to come. She walked past the threshing ground and saw Zhao Youcai's courtyard gate tightly shut. She heard a woman crying inside-Zhao Youcai's wife. The crying built and subsided, like waves, ebbing and flowing.
She stood at the gate for a moment, then walked away.
At the school, the students had already arrived. She walked into the classroom. Twenty-two children sat upright, reading their texts. The sound of reading was loud and messy, each word hitting the air with force. She walked to the lectern, opened the textbook, and wrote today's lesson on the blackboard. The chalk traces spiraled in the sunlight, drifting and vanishing.
Then she saw it.
On that squarish piece of chalk, there was a thin red line-someone had written on it with a red pen, like a thin scar.
She stared at that line, the chalk in her hand tracing a white dot on the blackboard, which was left her hand suspended in the air, unable to continue.