I am currently ploughing through Brothers, Yu Hua’s tragi-comic epic of Chinese life from the cultural revolution to the reform era. A translation of Brother’s into English has already been published. But for those who might not have picked up a copy, here is my translation of the first couple of pages:
‘Our town’s richest man, Liu Guangtou, prone to wild flights of fancy, planned to spend $20m to travel to Russia and take a tour into space. Sitting on his famous gold plated toilet seat, Li Guangtou’s mind had already drifted into orbit, from where he looked down on the world. Then, unbidden, tears started to well up in his eyes, as he realised for the first time that he had no friends or family in the world.
One upon a time he had a brother, Song Gang. Older than him by one year and taller by him than a head, kind, honest and stubborn, Song Gang had left this world three years ago, and his ashes now resided in a little wooden box. Thinking of how few the ashes of his brother were, Li Guangtou was deeply moved, reflecting on how the ashes of a tree were greater in number than the ashes of his brother.
When Li Guangtou’s mother had still been alive, she was fond of saying to her son: ‘different fathers produce different sons.’ With these words, she referred to Song Gang, honest, sincere, and kind, from the same mould as his father, like two melon’s from the same vine. When she was talking about Li Guangtou, she didn’t use these words, but would just shake her head and say that he and his father had walked different roads. At least that was what she said till a fourteen year old Li Guangtou was caught peeping at women’s bottoms in the public lavatory. At that point, his mother finally knew that Li Guangtou and his father were also melons from the same vine. Li Guangtou clearly remembered his mother averting her eyes in horror, wiping the tears from her eyes, saying: ‘with that kind of father, you are bound to have that kind of son.’
Li Guangtou had never seen his flesh and blood father. On the day of Li Guangtou’s birth, his father had made his stinking and notorious exit from the world. His mother had said that his father had died from drowning. Li Guangtou had asked how he had downed, in a lake, or a pond, or a well? Later on, after he had been caught peeping in the public toilet, the scandal had spread round the town, and his notoriety was widespread, only then did he discover the real reason for the death of his papa: drowned in shit after himself attempting to sneak a peek at women’s bottoms in the public lavatory.’
For anyone confused about the mechanics of peeping in pre-reform era toilets, I believe the public toilet was essentially a plank with holes in suspended over a sewage pit, with men’s and women’s sections separated by a divide. Instead of sticking their posterior into the holes too make use of the facilities, Li Guangtou and his less fortunate father appear to have stuck their heads through to peer at the women’s bottoms protuding through the plank on the other side of the divide. Li Guangtou’s father evidently lowered himself down too far into the hole, lost his grip, and fell into the sewage pit below.
The opening paragraphs capture the bawdy physical humour with which Yu Hua deals with the extremely sensitive, and occassionally horrific, subject matter of life during the cultural revolution.
Culture, History