Big Breasts and Wide Hips (Arcade Classics) by Yan Mo

Author:Yan, Mo [Yan, Mo]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781611453430
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2011-12-11T16:00:00+00:00

6

The Flood Dragon River had reached flood stage; by looking out the window from my bed, I could see murky yellow water roaring along at the crest of the dike. A detachment of soldiers stood atop the dike gazing at the river as they engaged in a loud discussion.

Out in the yard Mother was making flatcakes on a griddle, while Zaohua kept the fire going. Because the firewood was still wet, the flames burned dark yellow and filled the air with dense black smoke. The sun’s rays were muted.

Sima Liang came inside, bringing with him the acrid smell of scholar tree. “They’re planning to take my dad plus Sixth Aunt and her husband back to military headquarters,” he said in a low voice. “Third Aunt’s husband and the others are making a raft to sail downriver.”

“Liang,” Mother called out from outside. “Go down to the river with your uncle and aunt and keep the others there. Tell them I want to see them off.”

The river flowed fast and dirty, carrying grain stalks, yam vines, dead animals, even — out in the deepest part — entire uprooted trees. The Flood Dragon River Bridge, three pylons of which Sima Ku had burned down, had disappeared under the raging water, its existence signaled only by swirling eddies and the loud crashing of waves. Scrub brush on both sides of the river had also disappeared, though every once in a while a branch poked through the surface, green leaves still attached. Gray-blue gulls skimmed the tips of waves, from time to time coming up with a small fish. The opposite bank looked like a black rope that kept popping in and out of view, dancing atop sprays of glistening water. No more than a few inches kept the river from swamping the dikes; in some spots, yellow tongues of water lapped seductively at the crests, formed eddies, and slithered over the outer edges.

When we reached the riverbank, Speechless Sun was holding his impressive organ in his hand and pissing into the water, the whiskey-colored liquid making bell-like sounds when it hit the surface. He smiled when he saw us, took out a whistle he’d fashioned from a cartridge, and entertained us with birdcalls: the throaty call of the thrush, the shallow moan of the oriole, and the sad wail of the lark. It was enchanting; even his warty face softened. After running through his repertoire, he flicked the saliva out of his whistle and, with a guttural gr-ao, thrust it toward me, obviously intending it as a gift. But I backed up fearfully and just looked at him. Speechless Sun, you demon, I’ll never forget the look on your face when you were cutting down people with your sword! Again he reached out toward me, followed by another gr-ao, as a look of agitation spread across his face. I backed up. He came toward me. Sima Liang, who was standing behind me, said in softly, “Don’t take it, Little Uncle. ‘The whistling mute, confronted by a brute.

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