Free The Real Story of Ah-Q by Lu Xun Page A

she urged again, moving to leave.
    Her companion sighed and began listlessly collecting together the dishes of food. After a final, brief hesitation, she slowly walked off, still muttering, ‘What are they doing here?’ to herself.
    After a couple of dozen paces, a loud caw broke the silence behind them. They looked back, their skin prickling: its wings spread, the crow crouched for take-off, then flew off, straight as an arrow, towards the horizon.
    April 1919

TOMORROW
     
    ‘Can’t hear a thing – what’s wrong, d’you think?’ Lifting his bowl of rice wine, Red-Nosed Gong made a face in the direction of next door.
    ‘Ah, give it a rest,’ Blue-Skinned Ah-wu muttered, putting down his own bowl to punch him hard on the back.
    Back in those days, Luzhen was still an old-fashioned backwater of a place: by around seven in the evening, most of the town had locked their doors and taken themselves off to bed. Only two establishments kept their lamps burning into the small hours. One was the Universal Prosperity, where a few comrades in cups clustered around the bar to eat, drink and generally be merry; the other the home of one Mrs Shan, a young widow of two years’ standing, who lived next door. Rude economic necessity – the need to make a living from spinning for herself and her three-year-old son – also kept her up late.
    But for the last few days, no spinning had been heard. Since only two adjoining establishments stayed awake into the night, only Gong and his fellow drinkers would hear any noise that was to be heard from Mrs Shan’s; or fail to hear it, in its absence.
    After submitting to the blow, Gong took a great, easy slug of his wine, and began crooning a popular love song.
    At this moment, Mrs Shan next door was sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling her son, Bao’er, as the spinning wheel stood silently by. The dingy lamplight illuminated the pallor beneath his crimson flush. She had drawn lots, she had beseeched the gods, she was thinking to herself; she had even given him medicine. What else was there left for her to do? The only person she hadn’t yet tried was Dr Ho Xiaoxian. But maybe Bao’er was
always
worse at night; once the sun came up, his fever would subside, his breathing get easier – it was often like that with illnesses.
    Mrs Shan was a simple, uneducated sort of a woman, the sort who didn’t understand the terrifying powers of the word ‘but’: its marvellous ability to transform the bad into good, and to perform the same trick in reverse. Not long after the sentimental cadences from next door died away, the darkness began to pale over to the east, and the first, hopeful silver light of dawn crept in through a crack in the window, drawing the short summer night to a close.
    Mrs Shan found waiting for dawn much harder than other people: each of Bao’er’s laboured breaths seemed to last a year. But eventually the brightness of day overpowered the lamplight. Bao’er’s nostrils, she now saw, shuddered with each intake and out-take of breath.
    She let out a faint cry of terror; he looked worse than she had feared. What can I do? she thought to herself. I have to take him to Dr Ho. Although she was a simple, uneducated sort of a woman, she was capable of taking a decision. Standing up, she removed from her wooden cupboard the thirteen silver dollars and hundred and eighty coppers that daily economies had enabled her to stockpile. Pocketing them, she locked the door and rushed off towards Dr Ho’s, carrying Bao’er in her arms.
    Even though it was still early, the doctor already had four patients waiting for him. Four silver dollars bought Bao’er fifth place in the queue. Ho Xiaoxian uncurled two fingers – both nails a generous four inches long – and felt his pulse. Surely this man can save Bao’er, marvelled Mrs Shan to herself.
    ‘What’s wrong with Bao’er, doctor?’ she asked nervously.
    ‘His stomach’s blocked.’
    ‘Not serious, is it? He – ’
    ‘Take