ONE VOTED NO by Shao Wang
– Inspired by the real event in a village in East China
Widow Zhang wished that she had never been widowed. All her family’s trouble could be traced back to the death of her husband four decades ago – she realized this on the morning after a historic election in East China Village. When she was walking back from her Tai Chi session in the small village park, Liu Ping, the newly elected leader of the village, was chatting amicably with her neighbor. As soon as he saw Widow Zhang, Liu Ping closed his eyes, turned his back to her, and walked away.
Under normal circumstances, Widow Zhang would have just shaken her head and continued with her daily routine of gulping down a big bowl of noodle soup, eating the whites of two boiled eggs, and sipping a small glass of donkey penis wine. She didn’t care that this wine was some kind of an elixir for men. Like everyone in the village, she followed Old Party Secretary Lao Liu’s diet religiously and believed in its supreme benefits, for Lao Liu could never be wrong. He was still as strong as a tiger – according to his voluptuous secretary – which was a blessing to the citizens of East China Village.
Lao Liu had single-handedly led the once poor village to become the richest one in Asia. This narrow strip of once barren marshland along the Yangtze River was now the headquarters of four giant corporations – one of which was listed on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange – and sixty companies. In 1999, a national newspaper reported that every one of the villagers earned more money than the U.S. President Bill Clinton did. As a widow with a disabled daughter, Widow Zhang owned shares of all of the four corporations, which were worth well over a million dollars in paper value. She collected a stipend of about 200 dollars a month, and lived with her daughter’s family in a three-story American-style house with a swimming pool, which she used as a fish pond.
Widow Zhang’s son-in-law was a foreman in a textile factory and her daughter, who had a crippled arm, was an accountant for a local tourist agency. Even though it was Sunday, they both were at work, for the only holidays in East China Village were two days during the Chinese New Year. Widow Zhang, a retired kindergarten teacher, had a lot of time on her hands, and perhaps that was the source of her trouble. She just couldn’t stop thinking about why the new Party Secretary pretended that he hadn’t seen her. She knew very well the reason: it was because she had voted against him the night before during the most important election in East China Village’s history.
She cast the only “No” vote, along with an attempted abstention, in what would have been a unanimous election that passed the torch from a great father to a capable son. She could still hear the loud gasp in the hushed election room when her little pebble was dropped into the almost empty blue bowl next to the white bowl, which was piled high with stones. For a moment, the air seemed to have left the room; then, explosions of flash bulbs engulfed her as reporters shot pictures of her, the brave lone dissenter, and the symbol of Chinese democracy.
It was a terrible act that she had no way of avoiding, for she had been entrusted by Liu Ping’s father, Lao Liu, to do so, in order to save the legitimacy of this election, and she knew perfectly well that she owed Lao Liu her allegiance, and understood why she was selected to cast the only dissenting vote, because her late husband was, for a brief period, the Party Secretary of this village and everyone knew that he used to follow the order and persecute Lao Liu at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution.
Yet, like everyone else in this village, Widow Zhang adored Lao Liu and prayed to Chairman Mao’s spirit for Lao Liu to stay in office until his death, for she had personally benefited from Lao Liu’s generosity and his commitment to the welfare of East China Village. And like everyone else in the village, when she heard the news that Lao Liu was considering retirement three weeks ago, Widow Zhang was shocked. Lao Liu had said that he would like to work until he was ninety years old and then spend his last ten years enjoying his life until he was “one hundred years old,” which is the Chinese euphemism for death. Yet, he was only eighty years old now, still as robust as anyone half his age, and worked sixteen hours a day, every day of the year.
But unlike everyone else in the village, Widow Zhang decided to do something about it. She now spent much of her time in a retiree center called the “Second Youth Center” playing mahjong, watching TV, movies, and performances by local artists, and volunteering in a kindergarten with her fellow retirees. They got a free lunch every day, prepared by a chef hired from Sichuan Province. Every Chinese New Year, she received a bonus from Lao Liu based on how many grandchildren she had – she had two, and wished she had had eight, so that her reward would be quadrupled!
She washed her face carefully and put on some makeup to cover the age spots on her cheeks. At seventy-one, she looked younger than her age and healthy. She had a rosy face with deep wrinkles and a drooping mouth, but she still had clear eyes and strong teeth – thanks to the diligent doctor the village had hired from Hunan. She combed her hair, dyed jet black and piled it into a bun on top of her head. Through the window, she watched international and domestic tourists walk along the long Dragon Corridor that snaked around the village. The visitors’ eyes grew wide as they stared at the Mercedes and Volvos parked in some of the driveways.
A village in a developing country was always associated with half-filled rice bowls, leaking roofs, mud walls, and back-breaking field work. Those conditions no longer applied to East China Village. This place was a paradise that Lao Tzu or Confucius could not have dreamed up.
Thirty years ago, the villagers ate tree bark and grass to fill their empty stomachs.
Twenty years ago, the villagers could only afford to buy meat once a month.
Ten years ago, the villagers were content to ride their new Phoenix bicycles to work.
And today . . .
Who would have imagined that Chinese farmers here live in new, three-thousand-square-foot houses with private swimming pools, and free access to community gym, tennis court and basketball court? Who would have believed that each family could own a car and every one was well-fed, healthy, and fully educated? Who would have dreamed that, instead of using outhouses where pigs would lick their asses clean, the villagers were now accustomed to marble toilets with automatic water sprayers, temperature control, and blow dryers attached to the seat so that toilet paper became obsolete? (Widow Zhang still did it the old way with the paper, though.) And who would have believed that this was simply the masterwork of one person, the great savior of East China Village, the venerable, and almost divine Old Party Secretary?
Now he was thinking of stepping aside!
What would happen to the villagers? What would happen to their houses, their cars, their stock shares, and their luxury retirement center? Most important, what would happen to their children and their grandchildren?
Widow Zhang felt an added responsibility, for she was the only party committee member in the village that was over sixty-five years old, except for the Old Party Secretary himself. She represented the senior citizens on the fifty-member committee, half of which was populated by Lao Liu’s relatives, including his five sons and the son-in-law of his only daughter. She was sure that they wouldn’t let him resign, and they alone could reject the proposal. She believed that the Old Party Secretary was just testing the waters, like smart Chinese emperors had done for centuries to check who was really loyal to him in order to cleanse the court of potential enemies before it was too late.
So this was the time for her to express her gratitude and to once again atone for what her late husband had done to Lao Liu during the Cultural Revolution – he once tortured Lao Liu, trying to force a confession from him.
She called the Old Party Secretary’s office. His young secretary told her that Lao Liu was in neighboring Plum Village discussing a possible merger of the two villages. Believing that she should be the first one to speak out, Widow Zhang trudged toward the village gate and was about to catch a bus to Plum Village when two guards stopped her by the golden-arched gate. She suddenly remembered that she didn’t have permission to leave the village compound and the guards, though they knew her well, would not budge. She turned around and decided that she should talk to Lao Liu in the evening before the daily party committee meeting so that she could be one step ahead of the others.
She returned to the Second Youth Center and resumed playing mahjong with her friends. She lost a lot that day, since her mind was not on the game – Lao Liu had specifically allowed the seniors to gamble with a limit of 20 yuan per day per person to keep their brains busy, but forbidden young people from playing the game and wasting their precious time and energy. However, Widow Zhang knew that many young people gambled a bit with their parents and neighbors at home.
At 6:00 pm, she called Lao Liu again and was told that he wouldn’t be back until 6:30 pm, which was his TV time – Lao Liu got many ideas from watching the daily news programs. His most famous business initiative was to predict correctly that there would be a steel shortage when the government announced its new development program in the early 1980s. The village made a killing by hoarding iron, steel, and coal.
Widow Zhang found herself in a dilemma. She ate her food by the window, musing. Lao Liu’s TV time was regarded as the most sacred of his day. Nobody was allowed to interrupt him while he watched the news, unless there was an emergency. At 7:00 pm, he would saunter across the street to lead the daily party committee meeting, and would listen to reports of the managers’ activities and give new directives, based on the day’s top news.
East China Village was famous for meetings and the managers were supposed to work sixteen hours a day. Widow Zhang was the only one in the meeting that enjoyed the luxury of retirement, though she provided her inputs into the decision-making process, on behalf of the old folks. She was sure that she would be given a chance to speak out against Lao Liu’s retirement at the meeting, but if she visited his house first and told him in his face, the old man would appreciate it, despite the disruption of his daily routine. They had known each other for a long time, and once many, many years ago, they were clandestine lovers, after the sudden death of her husband in a traffic accident. Lao Liu knew the secrets of every old folk in the village; unlike most of his children, who had no idea about their brief liaison and their joint past. She was sure that with Lao Liu gone, the old folks’ benefits would be dramatically cut. So when the clock struck 6:30, Widow Zhang took a deep breath, straightened her back, pulled open the door, and marched bravely towards Lao Liu’s house.
Lao Liu’s wife had passed away a few years back. He lived alone in the old part of the village. His was the shabbiest house in East China Village. The old man insisted on living there until everyone in the village had been moved to new houses. “Even an emperor could only occupy one bed at a time and eat no more than his share of the food,” Lao Liu liked to say. It was a two-story red brick house. From outside, it looked no different from the houses in the surrounding villages, but compared with Zhang’s American-style house, it was a cave.
The door was wide open, as always. After she yelled a “hello,” Widow Zhang barged in. She walked across the dining room and pushed open the door to the living room. As expected, Lao Liu was sitting on his sofa, his eyes glued to the TV, on which showed news footage of yet another tycoon, listed as one of the top ten richest men in China by the annoying Forbes magazine, being arrested for tax evasion.
“Old Secretary,” Widow Zhang called out.
Lao Liu’s whole body jutted forward as if he were being sucked into the TV screen. All of a sudden, he hit his thigh and shouted, “That bastard deserves a bullet!”
“Old Secretary.” Widow Zhang tried calling him again.
There was a moment of silence. In the dim light, Widow Zhang thought she saw a bulging vein on Lao Liu’s temple pop out and his neck expand until it almost exploded. She shivered, knowing that Lao Liu must be upset. “Don’t you ever interrupt my – ” Lao Liu stopped in his tracks. He turned to see Widow Zhang. A reluctant smile spread on his face. Widow Zhang sighed with relief. At least, he still remembered their joint history.
Lao Liu barked an order and his young secretary scurried in from a room in the back. Widow Zhang wondered why the woman was in Lao Liu’s bedroom – the room where they made love eons ago. She heard Lao Liu ask his secretary to watch the rest of the news and to brief him on it later. Then he waved his hand, and the young woman returned to the room, closing the door behind her.
Widow Zhang wondered if the bedroom had now been converted into his private study. She suddenly remembered unhappily that Lao Liu’s secretary used to be a middle school teacher. She heard Lao Liu cough, so she asked, “Lao Liu, I heard you are going to retire; is it true?”
Lao Liu stood up and walked to the door. He made sure that it was locked. He sat next to Widow Zhang on the sofa. In a whisper, he said, “You came at the right time. I was thinking about you this evening.”
Widow Zhang squirmed in her seat. She felt Lao Liu’s thigh uncomfortably pressed against hers; she could even smell the familiar cigarettes on his breath. Her heart fluttered. Not that she had never sat so close to him, but that was long ago, and seemed to have been in a different life.
“I’m proposing to retire this evening.”
“Why? You said you would lead us until you were eighty-five . . .”
“I realize now that eighty-five is too late. I need to select a successor and train him during the first several years. So, I’ve decided this is the best time to retire. Eighty years old is no longer young, Widow Zhang.”
Widow Zhang turned to study the deep creases on his rugged face and the varicose veins on his arms. She wondered if this was the same person with whom she had been madly in love forty years ago. She was young, newly widowed, and he had been relieved of his job as the County Director for following the capitalist road. Back then he was a handsome middle-aged man. The hard muscles on his chest and those powerful hands – her heart trembled as she looked at the loose skin on his neck.
“Who is going to be your successor?” Widow Zhang asked.
Lao Liu pondered for a moment and asked, “Who do you think should succeed me?”
A dangerous question, Widow Zhang thought. If she picked the wrong horse and if someone ever leaked the contents of this conversation out, her family could be in trouble. Her eyes stared at the door to the bedroom.
Lao Liu chuckled. “Nobody will hear us.”
Widow Zhang thought about Lao Liu’s children. They were named after Chinese communist leaders: Mao Ze Dong, Zhu De, Zhou En Lai and Deng Xiao Ping. His oldest son, Liu Dong, was the President of the Steel Group, the largest entity in East China Village. He was wise and cautious, but he was also a bit too old, in his sixties. Liu De, his second son, the head of the Logistics Group, was well-educated, but had a hot temper. He was not liked by the villagers. His third son Liu Lai was in charge of the Food Group, which exported eel fish to Japan and canned mushrooms to the U.S. He was quiet and almost passive, so he was not the right choice. Liu Ping, the youngest son, used to be in the army. He was recently promoted to lead the fourth group, which mainly engaged in joint product development leveraging on East China Village’s popular brand name, such as East China Village Whisky, East China Village Cigarettes, East China Village Beat-the-Viagras for men and women, and East China Village Slim Extreme Fast. His group was the most profitable. Then there was his son-in-law, who had a college degree and who was in charge of public relations.
The five men basically controlled every aspect of East China Village. She reminded herself again to be careful with her recommendations. So she asked, “Lao Liu, what’s your choice?”
“What do you think about Liu Ping?”
Widow Zhang’s heart sank. His youngest son had traveled to many places in China. He could be a good choice, but Widow Zhang had heard rumors that he also inherited his father’s weakness for women. In fact, it was whispered in the village that he flirted with Lao Liu’s young secretary, who at this very moment was right next door in Lao Liu’s bedroom, supposedly watching the nightly news.
“Why?” she asked.
“He’s my youngest child, the only one who still has fire in his belly.” Lao Liu paused. Then he added, “If I want a captain to keep this ship sailing, I want him to be at the helm for a long, long time.”
Widow Zhang nodded. She had to agree that it was a good idea. Young and robust, Liu Ping was like his father in many ways. Besides, he was the only one in the family, perhaps in the world, who knew of her short affair with Lao Liu, for Lao Liu used to take the little boy to her house for “poetry classes.” However, she was not sure what the young man thought of their little tryst decades ago.
She remembered that the boy had drifted away briefly and enrolled in the army. When he returned, he married the woman Lao Liu had selected for him and then tried to help the poorest villages in western China. Rumor had it that he had fathered several children there.
Like father, like son. Widow Zhang eyed Lao Liu and wondered how he could still satisfy a woman at such an advanced age. She glanced nervously at the bedroom door. Widow Zhang couldn’t even control her bladder now. She felt her face flush and her hands shiver at the thought.
“You don’t like him?” Lao Liu frowned.
As a boy, Liu Ping recited the poems of Tang dynasty she had assigned him in the living room while she made love with his father in her bedroom. The boy must have been upset, being left alone to do his homework. Did Lao Liu think that she was worried about that? Certainly not – Widow Zhang knew that Lao Liu had at least one other secret affair after theirs. A man with his success, stamina, and intelligence was admired by many and fantasized about by half of the village women.
“Of course – of course, I adore him. He is the best choice, but I don’t believe he is as good as you are.”
“You know me better than anyone,” Lao Liu patted her arm. His hand was cold and bony, no longer the warm, hungry talon that used to squeeze hot sensation into her swelling breast. She realized that he was slowly descending into the grave, just like her. They were all dying.
“If you insist, I will vote for him. Do you want me to nominate him?” she asked.
Lao Liu shook his head. “That’s not a good idea. My other sons will hate you. I will nominate him, and I am sure that he will get a unanimous vote.”
“I’m sure, too.” Widow Zhang said quickly.
“But, I have a favor to ask of you,” Lao Liu said, glancing at her sideways.
“What?”
“I want you to cast the only vote against him.” Lao Liu scratched his head.
Widow Zhang almost jumped, saying violently, “NO!”
“You must do it,” Lao Liu said. He explained that in another famous village down the Yangtze River, when the Old Party Secretary retired, he named his son to be his successor and the vote was unanimous. There was instant media uproar about a feudal family dynasty and a puppet party committee, which dared not dissent. He wanted Widow Zhang to show the world that their system was a truly democratic one where everyone could vote from his or her heart, just as Widow Zhang would do.
“But why me?” Widow Zhang cried. The vote would be open. There would be two bowls placed on a table set in the front of the voting place. One for “Yes” and the other for “No.” She was sure that no one would dare to challenge Lao Liu’s wishes, so she would be the only one and she knew why – her late husband, Lao Liu’s rival, only briefly.
“No, I will not,” she repeated.
They heard a knock on the door and Lao Liu’s secretary called from inside the bedroom that the news program had just ended and they should go to the meeting.
The old man stood up and stroked Widow Zhang’s lined face. “Don’t argue with me, sweetheart. Do as I ask.”
His soft voice instantly took Widow Zhang back forty years and she still remembered Lao Liu’s hard muscles when she rested her head on his body. She could even recall the small beads of perspiration that rolled down his skin as his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, like a spent accordion. His heartbeat was the most beautiful music to her youthful ears. She knew that she had no choice. So she said, “But Liu Ping will hate me.”
“He won’t,” Lao Liu waved his hand dismissively, “And it doesn’t matter. As long as I am around, he can’t touch you.”
But what if you die? What if we all die and he takes it out on my daughter and my son-in-law? She wanted to ask; instead, she said meekly, “Please tell him that you asked me to do so.”
Lao Liu grunted, as if to say yes.
The general election for the new Party Secretary of East China Village was held three weeks later in the mess hall. Reporters from across the country flocked there, along with some of their international colleagues. Lao Liu had stated publicly that he was following the example of China’s paramount leader Deng Xiao Ping and was ready to retire. The party committee members were upset at first, and saddened when they realized that Lao Liu would not back down from his decision. Many of them sobbed fervently as if their own fathers had just passed away.
Lao Liu declared that he put Liu Ping’s name on the ballot only because of his youth. There was no opposition, not even from Lao Liu’s other sons. After an awkward silence, Lao Liu turned to ask his eldest son, Liu Dong, for his opinion. As expected, the eldest son immediately praised Lao Liu’s wise decision, and the rest of the committee members followed suit, declaring that Liu Ping was the superb choice. The villagers stood in the back of the brightly lit mess hall with blank faces.
After Lao Liu nodded, his secretary brought out two big bowls, a blue one for “No” votes and a white for “Yes” votes, and fifty stones. She placed the bowls on the table and distributed the stones among the committee members. Lao Liu stood up and encouraged his committee members to exercise their democratic right and cast a vote for the villagers they represented. Then he put his stone in the white bowl.
Liu Dong threw a stone into the same bowl after his father, and there was a loud cracking sound. The villagers laughed. Liu De, the second son also expressed his support. Liu Lai, the third son, stood up and studied the two bowls. He turned to survey the committee members and gently placed his stone in the empty space between the two bowls.
There was commotion in the room, but Lao Liu coughed; after a moment, he said sharply. “Either vote yes or no. There’s no third choice.”
Liu Lai ignored his father and stormed out. Liu Ping bolted up, grabbed the stone, and threw it into the blue bowl. “Refusing to vote yes, means no to me,” he said sternly, his eyes sweeping the rest of the committee members.
Widow Zhang’s heart shuddered at Liu Ping’s steely voice. She knew that Liu Lai was not on speaking terms with Liu Ping because rumor had it that Liu Ping had seduced Liu Lai’s mistress, a retired local opera starlet. Liu Lai had also bragged that he was the smartest person in this family. In fact, licensing East China Village’s name to make business profits was his idea. He was also the only person in the family that dared to argue with his father. He had a few supporters, who had for years called for a competitive election in the village.
Liu Ming, Lao Liu’s son-in-law shuffled up to the table. Everyone now stared at him. Widow Zhang knew that Liu Ming, who had changed his last name after he married Liu’s daughter, was a drinking buddy of Liu Lai. She watched with rising anticipation. Liu Ming dangled his stone in the air, and, for a moment was about to cast a “No” vote. Lao Liu suddenly stood up and walked to his side.
“Use your own judgment, Liu Ming,” he said. “Vote from your heart.”
Liu Ming’s hand trembled, and as if by accident, the stone slipped out of his fingers and landed in the white bowl. Liu Ping smiled and exhaled with a long sigh.
After that, it was a breeze. Everyone voted “Yes.” So the white bowl filled up quickly, and the blue one remained empty, except for that one annoying stone.
Widow Zhang waited until the last minute. She tried to get a signal from Lao Liu, but the retiring party secretary was busy talking with his eldest son. When she realized that everyone in the room was watching her, she crept towards the table. The flash bulbs blinded her for a moment.
She didn’t know what to do. Now that there already was a “No” vote, perhaps hers was not necessary? She couldn’t afford to offend any of the Lius. She knew that a wrong move could mean the destruction of her family.
Last week, when her friend was visiting her cousin, Widow Zhang asked her son-in-law to step in and play mahjong for an hour. It happened that Lao Liu’s secretary came to her house to deliver an emergency meeting announcement and caught them red-handed. “Don’t you know Lao Liu’s rule that only seniors can play mahjong?” she asked harshly and left. Widow Zhang blamed herself for that mistake. Lao Liu had not come to her house since he had ended their affair, at her request, because the rumors had begun to haunt her. She was sure that his secretary had reported her transgression and knew that if Lao Liu had wanted to kick them out, he could easily have done so, because his word was law.
A year ago, Widow Zhang’s old neighbor was caught selling handmade quilts at the county fair and she was driven out of her new house, her benefits were cut off and her shares in the village were relinquished. To avoid corruption there was a clear rule that any employee of East China Village could not have a second job. One day, her neighbor lived like a queen, and the next day, she was homeless. The poor woman begged at the village gate and blamed herself for the stupidity. She kept saying that she would never do it again.
Now, Widow Zhang was sure that if she voted the wrong way tonight, Lao Liu was going to remember the incident and the same tragedy would happen to her family. She looked to Lao Liu for a signal, but he ignored her. Worse, the old man stood up and pulled his eldest son to the window.
With no guidance, Widow Zhang decided that she should follow the predetermined route. She was about to cast her “No” vote when she heard a surprised murmur come from the audience. A hush followed. Everyone in the room was staring at her now and the flash bulbs froze her in a white haze. Her hand trembled. She heard a soft gurgle and turned to the left, only to see the dark stare of Liu Ping, who bit his lip and nodded, as if to say, “If you dare to do this, I will let you know how much this No vote will cost you.”
Widow Zhang reckoned that Lao Liu shouldn’t be worried about the appearance of an undemocratic process, since there was already a “No” vote. So she moved to the right and was about to drop the stone into the white bowl when she heard Lao Liu burst into a coughing spasm. She turned to the window and saw Lao Liu’s face darken with rage. No one had ever opposed him unscathed. She was about to cry, not knowing what to do. Finally, she decided to follow Lao Liu’s order, so her hand slowly shifted to the blue bowl.
Then again she peered at Liu Ping, who folded his arms and fixed her with an intense gaze. Her eyes stayed on his whitening knuckles. She trembled.
As if pulled by a mysterious power, the stone in her hand slipped and hit the edge of the white bowl, and mysteriously bounced and dropped into the blue bowl with a ding. “It’s . . .” she stammered, hoping that someone in the mess hall could exonerate her mishap by pointing out that she had actually intended to vote “Yes.” It was just an act of God, not of her own will.
“Widow Zhang, do you want to recast your vote?” She heard Liu Ping ask her.
She hesitated, her hand automatically reached out. Then she felt the icy stare of Lao Liu.
“No – no, that’s okay,” she said. “I’m a bit dizzy.” She heard a chuckle in the crowd and was relieved that it was all over.
Lao Liu sauntered to the middle of the table and solemnly declared that there were 48 “Yes” votes and 2 “No” votes. Comrade Liu Ping was formally elected the Party Secretary of East China Village. Everyone gave Liu Ping a standing ovation. Widow Zhang applauded enthusiastically. After a few seconds, Liu Lai returned to the room and clapped his hands to show his consent of defeat and shook hands with Liu Ping. The camera flashed and clicked. To her horror, Widow Zhang thought she saw Liu Lai giving his little brother a conspiratorial wink.
Liu Ping then bowed to his father and promised that he would work extremely hard to carry the torch forward. He then walked down from the podium and shook hands with all the committee members in the room.
Widow Zhang found herself sweating and trembling when Liu Ping stood in front of her with the two reporters focusing their cameras on them. He seemed to be saying something, but his lips barely moved. He grabbed Widow Zhang’s hand and squeezed it so hard that her knuckles cracked. She winced.
Liu Ping gave her a toothy smile and left.
One by one, the party committee members departed. Someone turned the lights off, leaving the dazed Widow Zhang alone in the mess hall, as if she were an invisible ghost. She regretted that she hadn’t cast the “Yes” vote, because she was sure everyone would think that she was against the new Party Secretary. Then she convinced herself that Lao Liu would tell his son the truth, and Liu Ping would realize that she was trying to provide legitimacy to his election, just like his brother Liu Lai had done, and would forgive her, if not thank her.
The next day, Widow Zhang found her name and picture in the local and national newspapers. The commentators praised the election as open and fair. Reporters flocked to her door to interview her as if she were a heroine and the symbol of democracy in rural China.
Through his office, Liu Lai issued a statement saying that he supported his younger brother and always thought that he was very well qualified. He cast an abstaining vote to show his respect for his other brothers, and his father, since he was adamantly opposed to Lao Liu’s early retirement. He believed that his father could live to be a hundred and twenty years old and, therefore, he should not retire until he was a hundred years old.
Lao Liu was absent for the first time in his life from the party committee meeting that evening and Liu Ping declared that his father had reaffirmed his intention to retire and had said that henceforth he would no longer attend any committee meetings. He would merely function as an advisor. If he had an important idea, he would ask his secretary, who now sat in for him, to deliver it to the committee. Liu Ping also announced that Lao Liu had given him the power to reorganize the leadership of the party committee so that he could get the most out of his management team.
With that said, he stated that he maintained his confidence in the existing managers and asked them to remain in their posts with a proposed salary increase of 500 percent. He said that he was also aware of the toll the hard work had taken on the villagers, especially the seniors. He had never realized how tired his father was until the day Lao Liu told him that he was exhausted and wanted to have a rest. With respect to the old comrades who deserved a peaceful retirement, he proposed that the party committee members should retire before they reached seventy years old.
All eyes stared at Widow Zhang, since she was the only one in the room above the new age limit. Liu Dong, the new Party Secretary’s eldest brother was sixty-four years old. The room was now quiet and everyone waited for Widow Zhang to make a rebuttal. She stood up and wrung her hands. “I – I am very grateful for the Party Secretary’s concern about our health. I second the proposal.”
Everyone followed Liu Ping’s lead and applauded.
Widow Zhang’s daughter and son-in-law were horrified when they heard the results of the election. They pestered her and asked why she voted the way she did. She could give no reason for her action. They urged her to explain to the authorities that she was confused on the election day and the stone slipped from her hand into the wrong bowl. She had intended to cast a yes. She should be given another chance. They reminded her that, unlike his father, Liu Ping had a small heart and a long memory.
Widow Zhang found herself standing in front of Lao Liu’s house that evening, but she sensed that something was wrong, for there were no lights inside and the usual TV sounds had disappeared. The house was silent. She wondered if Lao Liu was on a trip or had already gone to bed.
All of a sudden, she heard glass shattering and Lao Liu’s angry voice. He was crying.
Oh, poor man!
Widow Zhang stumbled into the house and saw Lao Liu standing in the middle of the dining room in his patched pajamas. He had never looked so old. His sparse hair was snow white; his beard soiled with drops of food and soy milk, and he smelled like dried fish. He slouched towards the door, as if his head was too heavy for his frail body. With his hands scratching the air, he looked disoriented.
A dim light streamed in from the TV room. She turned on the wall switch and the room became bright. Seeing blood dripping from his hand, she took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his wound.
“What happened, Little Liu,” she asked, not realizing that she was calling him by the name she used to call him when they were young.
“Motherfucker, I can’t see my news – my TV broke, and the mechanic was supposed to arrive at 6:30.”
Widow Zhang glanced at the old clock on the wall: it was 7:15. She wondered if the broken TV was a coincidence.
“Where is your secretary, Lao Liu?” she asked.
“That whore! Yesterday she said that Liu Ping asked her to do some work for him and never returned.”
Widow Zhang helped Lao Liu into the TV room. He collapsed onto the sofa, panting. “They forget you as soon as you are of no use to them. That’s why I never wanted to retire.”
Widow Zhang found a thermos on the floor and poured some hot tea in a cup and asked, “Why did you?”
“My doctor said that I had a serious condition and needed surgery, so I was persuaded by Liu Ping to retire. Now, I suspect that the doctor must have been bribed by him.” He stopped and gestured for Widow Zhang to sit next to him. She hesitated for a split second before she obliged. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and sighed. “I hear that they drove you out of the party committee. Now, the two of us have been left out in the cold.” He choked back the tears that dripped down his puffy face.
Widow Zhang fumbled for her handkerchief, then she realized that it was on Lao Liu’s injured hand, so she wiped his eyes with the back of her hand. Tenderness swept her like ocean waves as she remembered the short, torrential love affair they had years ago – like a yellowed picture from another time. He was still the same vulnerable, lonely hero. On impulse, she leaned over and kissed the tears from his face.
Lao Liu froze; his hand brushed Widow Zhang’s sagging breast. Reluctantly, he pushed her away and groaned, “Old lady, you are the only person I can trust now.”
Widow Zhang was ashamed of her sudden show of affection. She stood up and straightened her shirt.
“Why don’t you talk with Liu Ping?”
“He’s cancelled the daily meeting and I can’t find him and my other sons anywhere. They are always busy.”
Widow Zhang’s heart sank.
“So you never told Liu Ping about my vote?”
Lao Liu wiped his face and waved his rugged hand as if he were driving away a mosquito. “It’s useless, the ingrate hates me, now I know that. Whatever I tell him will have the opposite effect.”
“But – but what will happen to me – to my family?” Widow Zhang asked, almost in tears. “I won’t survive if I am expelled from East China Village.”
“Don’t worry,” Lao Liu said gallantly, pulling her down on the sofa. “I can protect you. Remember when you were first widowed with a little daughter, and the neighborhood hooligans tried to take advantage of you?”
Widow Zhang smiled. Of course, she remembered. She had been a beauty. Lustful single men swarmed outside her windows almost every evening. Lao Liu was then Little Liu, who had just been demoted from the position of County Director to the Party Secretary of East China Village. He was depressed and angry and lived alone – his wife refused to leave her better life in the county seat, Hua Yang City. When she begged him to intervene after she was almost raped one night, he took a rifle and shot the hooligan’s ear off, and made sure that the whole village knew that she was under his protection – even though they were not close then because her late husband had opposed him. Their love affair began to blossom after he had settled down and re-established his authority in the village. By then, he would take his youngest son, Liu Ping, to her house for tutoring in classic poems . . . They even talked about getting married . . . but she begged off, because she knew that it was impossible for him to get a divorce and it would hurt his political future. Even then she was sure that he was not an ordinary man and that he would one day become very famous with his pictures in every newspaper in China – a prediction that eventually came true. Yet it took him another thirty years of struggle before East China Village became the richest village in the nation.
In the fervor of love, he almost quit his political career to become an average farmer so that he could live with her forever. But she reminded him that without power, he could neither protect himself nor her. The best thing he could do was to stay the boss of the village. He reluctantly consented and left her when his wife returned to the village with his other children. She had never remarried; and he had made sure that she lived comfortably. He even found a husband for her disabled daughter.
“Remember, you used to ask Liu Ping to stand outside reciting a long romantic Tang poem while we made love in the bedroom – what was that poem?” He tried to recall the words, but his memory had faded.
She tried to help him, but her brain was wrapped in dense fog. She only remembered it was about two birds and some trees. “I always felt that you were with me,” Widow Zhang said. “It was worth all of my love to be with you back then.”
“And all the years while I was having a great time running this village.” Lao Liu wrapped his arm around Widow Zhang. “I am sorry, really sorry,” he said.
Widow Zhang patted the back of his parched hand, “Don’t be. I’m very happy now.”
“Let’s get married tomorrow,” Lao Liu said.
“Now?” Widow Zhang turned to look at the octogenarian sitting next to her. She couldn’t believe her ears.
“Why not? At least we can spend a few years openly together, not living like a couple of thieves. Marrying me could also provide protection for your family.”
Widow Zhang hung her head.
Lao Liu propped her chin up and found that she was weeping.
“Why are you crying?”
“Do you know how many nights I have dreamed of this day, Lao Liu?” Widow Zhang covered her face with her hands. Lao Liu stared at the loose skin on her small, stick-thin arm.
“It’s my fault. All this glory was for nothing. Look at me now!”
“Will your children approve of our marriage or will they call me a gold-digger?”
Lao Liu laughed. “What gold do I have? My bank account is smaller than that of most of the villagers here, and my house is a dump. Gold, you are my piece of gold! Even my secretary disappeared like a rat from a sinking ship, and you think I have gold? I don’t need to worry about my reputation any more, and my vanity is gone. I only need a companion that I can trust. I don’t need to listen to anyone but myself, so don’t worry about gossip.”
Widow Zhang stood up. “This is too fast. I have to talk with my daughter.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long, old widow. I want us to have the most luxurious wedding ever seen in this village. I will invite the Premier of China to preside over our ceremony.”
Widow Zhang knew he could do that. She felt that her legs were about to melt. She stumbled out of the house, trying to convince herself that she was not walking on clouds. She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
The next morning, Widow Zhang combed her hair and took out her treasured red satin dress, which she reserved for the Chinese New Year. It took tremendous control to withhold the news of her wedding from her daughter and son-in-law. She decided to go back to make sure that Lao Liu really meant what he had said before she revealed the engagement to her family.
As she reached Lao Liu’s house, she saw an ambulance and a crowd of people. Liu Ping was barking orders to his deputies. His face fell when he saw Widow Zhang. “What are you doing here, Old Widow?” he asked sharply.
“I’m meeting Lao Liu.” She looked at the ground, embarrassed to be wearing her red dress.
Liu Ping said, “The old man dropped dead of a heart attack last night. Someone said you had stayed with him for a very long time.” After a pause, Liu Ping asked, “What the fuck did you do? Teach him romantic poems?”
The bystanders laughed, but stopped when Liu Ping stared coldly at them.
Widow Zhang’s face turned pale. She almost fainted. A neighbor caught her before she fell.
The funeral was grandiose. Officials from Beijing and the provincial capital came to pay their tribute to the model communist cadre. Everyone in the village attended it, except one person. The Vice-Premier in charge of agriculture delivered a short eulogy. Liu Ping, wearing a black band on his arm, presided over the ceremony. With tears in his eyes, he vowed to carry out the Old Party Secretary’s unfinished business and make the village a sustainable communist Utopia. The day ended with a ten-course banquet and a bikini fashion show to entertain the VIP guests.
That night, someone found that Widow Zhang had hung herself in Lao Liu’s house. When he heard the news from Lao Liu’s former secretary, a half-drunk Liu Ping squeezed her swelling breast and sighed, “I’ve never thought that she had loved him so much that she would defy him and vote against me.”
“I’ve never heard him talk about her,” the secretary whispered.
“Do you know which Tang poem she had me memorize?” Liu Ping laughed, then he recited it in a high-pitched boy’s voice:
“If we ever go to heaven
We shall be a pair of soaring birds
If we ever go to underworld
We shall be the roots that connect two trees . . .”
Shao Wang’s stories have appeared in Zyzzyva.