God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [28]
Arrangements were made, and at about noon on August 16 I set out along a narrow muddy path through a vast expanse of grassland. I could see cows and packs of dogs to the far left of me in the meadow. As I approached the foot of a mountain, I heard the booming of a distant thunderstorm. Clouds as big as ships floated overhead. There had been a big storm the night before, and my dreams had been filled with disturbing images of rising waters that submerged the town and reached a mountain peak, leaving me the only survivor, jumping from mountaintop to mountaintop like a monkey.
Li lived in the old section of Dali, and Kun Peng met me at Renmin Avenue to guide me the rest of the way, down narrow alleyways, turning left and right until we reached Guangwu Street, where we stopped outside a doorway, horizontal red poster atop the faded wooden doorframe proclaiming in four prominent Chinese characters: The Blessings of God.
Kun shouted for Li from the street. A tanned woman opened the door. She was Li’s current wife. They had been married for five years. Kun led me to the middle of the tiny courtyard and introduced me to Li, who was squatting in a corner, a kitchen knife in each hand. “So nice to meet you,” Li said. “Sorry, I can’t shake hands; I’m making dumplings for you.” He went back to his chopping and slicing, and Kun took my arm, whispering, “Brother Li is little more than a bag of bones.” Surprised by Kun’s blunt remarks, I said, “He’s a little thin, but he looks quite energetic.” Li heard me and laughed. “I’m energetic because it’s a special day today. I’m very excited about your visit. That’s why I’m making dumplings. This is the first time I’ve cooked since I became ill. Who knows, it could also be my last.” Li said he was using a traditional recipe from his native Shanxi province. “I have to cut the meat and vegetables very finely. I want to treat you to an authentic Shanxi dumpling feast.” Li was soon done, and as he wiped his hands on an old cloth, we began our talk:
Liao Yiwu: How did you get sick?
Li Linshan: Hmm . . . actually, I don’t know. I think I’ve always been sick. I was born in 1963, at the tail end of the three-year famine. While she was pregnant, my mother couldn’t get enough to eat in the city. She returned to her native village in Shanxi province. According to my grandma, when I was born, I looked like a tiny pussycat, clutching myself, too weak to even cry. My parents didn’t think I would survive and had decided to abandon me, but my grandma stopped them. She said, “He’s breathing. If we wrap him up near the fire, we can probably warm him up and save him.” My father sighed and said, “We haven’t been able to feed ourselves for three years. How are you going to be able to raise this kid? Besides, he doesn’t seem to have the lungs for singing.”
Liao: Your parents were singers?
Li: They were professional singers with a local Chinese opera group. They were quite well known in Luozi opera. My parents performed with the opera group for several years, but the times were hard so they returned to their home village in Danshan Township. They thought farming would provide a stable income, but they had never been lucky. A major source of their misery was my health. I’ve been constantly tortured with all sorts of illnesses. But poor people can’t afford a doctor.
Liao: And now?
Li: I have what the doctor calls “carcinoma gastric cardia.” The cancer is here, where my throat meets my stomach. When the doctor diagnosed it in 2007, it was still at an early stage. But now, the cancer has spread. Surgery, radiation, chemotherapy—that would cost at least twenty thousand yuan. I mend clothes, one yuan to patch a hole or sew on a button. There was no way I could get that much money. Even with the surgery, the doctors said I might only get five years or so. We didn’t have money. I didn’t even have a place to borrow money. And even if I had been able to borrow enough money to extend