The spring of 1992 had just begun.
The dirt road at the village mouth had not dried out yet.
It had rained a little in the night.
A film of wet mud clung to the road.
Beads of water hung on the blades of grass along the verge.
The sun had not shown its face.
The sky was a gray-green.
People came out of the alley.
Carrying woven sacks on their backs.
The sacks bulged.
Quilts and changes of clothes stuffed in tight.
The handle of an enamel mug stuck out of a sack's mouth.
White with red flowers.
A chip of paint missing from the rim.
As the man walked, the mug knocked against the sack.
Clinking.
The one in front walked fast.
The one behind kept close.
No one spoke.
Feet came down on wet earth.
Clots of mud flew up.
Flew onto trouser legs.
One after another.
Out past the village mouth.
Onto the dirt road.
Toward town.
Zhao Dehou stood at the village mouth.
Hands clasped behind his back.
His padded jacket unbuttoned.
The hem lifted a little in the wind.
Someone came up before him.
Stopped for a moment.
"Uncle Dehou, I'm off."
Zhao Dehou answered with a grunt.
"Write when you get there."
The man nodded.
Hitched the sack higher on his shoulder.
And went.
Then another came.
A young fellow, barely past twenty.
Head freshly shaved.
Bluish scalp.
A red mark on the back of his neck where the razor had scraped.
He stood in front of Zhao Dehou.
Bowed at the waist.
"Uncle Dehou."
"Write when you get there."
The young man nodded.
Jogged a few steps.
And caught up with those ahead.
Seven or eight left over the morning.
For each one,
Zhao Dehou said the same thing.
"Write when you get there."
The same tone every time.
Neither heavy nor light.
Like a charge.
Or like an instruction.
A woman of forty-odd followed behind her husband.
They reached the village mouth.
The man carried a big pack.
The woman held a bundle wrapped in flowered cloth.
When the woman saw Zhao Dehou,
her steps slowed.
"Brother Dehou, we're off."
"Write when you get there."
The woman looked back at the village.
The man tugged her arm.
"Hurry up. The bus won't wait."
He Erniu squatted beneath the old locust tree east of the road.
His heels braced against a root that jutted out of the ground.
Both hands resting on his knees.
Watching the village mouth.
Someone would come.
He would look.
The person would pass in front of him.
He would look again.
Some he knew.
Some he could put a name to.
Some he had only nodded to.
Some he had never exchanged a word with.
Three went in the morning.
Four in the afternoon.
Toward dusk, one more.
All day, ten or so people passed beneath the old locust tree.
He Erniu kept squatting.
His legs went numb.
He did not move.
The sun slid from east to west.
The tree's shadow swung from west to east.
He was still squatting.
At noon,
Zhao Dehou went home and drank a bowl of thin porridge.
Then came back to the village mouth.
He Erniu did not go home for lunch.
His sister-in-law stood on tiptoe at the mouth of the alley and called him twice.
He Erniu waved a hand.
Did not get up.
A young man came along with a bedroll on his back.
The bedroll was wrapped in plastic sheeting.
Two lengths of hemp rope cinched around it.
The rope ends knotted off in a dead knot at the back.
"Uncle Dehou, I'm off."
"Write when you get there."
The young man took two steps.
Then turned around.
"Uncle Dehou, if my father asks, say something for me."
Zhao Dehou nodded once.
"Your father knows."
The sun was nearly down.
The last group came out of the village mouth.
Sacks on their backs.
Walking fast.
One looked back.
Two did not.
They turned onto the dirt road.
Their shadows stretched long.
Then they were out of sight.
Night fell completely.
The village mouth went quiet.
Wind stirred the dead grass along the road.
A rustling.
The road lay empty.
Only a few footprints remained.
Pressed here and there.
Zhao Dehou was still standing at the village mouth.
It was too dark to make out faces.
His pipe was unlit.
Clenched in his hand.
He Erniu rose from beneath the locust tree.
His knee cracked.
He slapped his trouser legs twice.
Dry dust fell from the weave of the cloth.
He glanced toward the village.
Then at Zhao Dehou.
Said nothing.
Head down, he walked into the village.
His footsteps were heavy.
One, then the next.
Zhao Dehou stood at the village mouth a little longer.
Then turned.
And walked into the village.
Two men, one behind the other.
Both heading into the village.
Dozens of paces between them.
The houses on either side of the dirt road had shut their doors.
A few windows glowed with kerosene lamps.
Lamplight wavering on the paper panes.
He Erniu reached his own gate.
Pushed open the wooden door.
The hinge cried out.
He went in.
Did not bar the door.
Left it half open.
After a while,
a lamp was lit inside.
The wick turned down low.
A line of light squeezed out through the crack of the door.
Zhao Dehou did not go home.
He walked toward the blockhouse.
Stopped at its foot.
Lifted his head.
The blockhouse stood there.
Wind from high up came through the gun slits.
Like a whistle.
Low and thin.
Zhao Dehou stood beneath the blockhouse.
At last he got his pipe lit.
The ember brightened in the wind.
Then dimmed.
He drew once.
The smoke did not come out in a breath.
It leaked slowly from his nose and the corners of his mouth.
He stood until very late.
Still he had not left.
The next morning, at first light.
The sky had only just brightened.
He Erniu came out of his house.
Walked toward the village mouth.
Reached the old locust tree.
Stopped.
There was a new length of straw rope on the ground.
New straw, yellow and glossy.
Braided with three knots.
One beside the next.
The knots pulled tight.
It lay beside the root.
Not in the way.
Not conspicuous either.
He Erniu looked down at it.
His hand did not reach out.
His body did not bend.
He stepped over the straw rope.
And went on toward the fields.