Ninth Building - Softcover

Jingzhi, Zou

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1948830752 ISBN 13: 9781948830751

Publisher: Open Letter, 2023

Synopsis

Ninth Building is a fascinating collection of vignettes drawn from Zou Jingzhi’s experience growing up during the Cultural Revolution, first as a boy in Beijing and then as a teenager exiled to the countryside. Zou poetically captures a side of the Cultural Revolution that is less talked about—the sheer tedium and waste of young life, as well as the gallows humor that accompanies such desperate situations. Jeremy Tiang’s enthralling translation of this important work of fiction was awarded a PEN/Heim Grant.

About this title

About the Authors

Zou Jingzhi is highly regarded in China as a fiction writer, poet, essayist, screenwriter, and playwright. He is a founding member of the Chinese theatre collective Longmashe. As a screenwriter, the films he wrote for Zhang Yimou and Wong Kar Wai have been well received at film festivals across the world. His plays and operas have been performed in China as well as internationally, and his poems and essays have been very influential, going into multiple reprints.

Jeremy Tiang has translated over twenty books from Chinese, including novels by Yan Ge, Yeng Pway Ngon, Zhang Yueran, Shuang Xuetao, Lo Yi-Chin, Chan Ho-Kei, and Geling Yan. His novel State of Emergency won the Singapore Literature Prize in 2018. He also writes and translates plays. Originally from Singapore, he now lives in New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

16 November 1966

Freezing today—it feels extra cold, because the weather’s just turned. At least it’s warm at home, with the heating finally on. In the morning, we sat by the courtyard wall, the south-facing corner with the piles of loose soil and torn paper, the only patch untouched by the wind.

By ‘we’ I mean myself, Zheng Chao, Zheng Xin and Yuanqiang.

 

Yuanqiang said they’d formed a unit and got Red Guard armbands printed with the official stamp, occupying a whole block in the school, shoving the desks together, sleeping there at night. They wrote slogans across the white walls of the classrooms, and even in the toilets. While correcting Teacher Hou’s thinking, they shouted a chant that Tian Shuhua came up with: ‘Hou, Monkey Hou, holding a ball in her hole/ When the monkey smiles, the ball falls.’

Teacher Hou teaches Chinese. I saw her recently, standing by the second-storey staircase. No one was paying any attention to her. As I walked past, she was singing a song about a sad maiden, something to do with resisting the Japanese.

At the time, I had a strange feeling that when she finished her song, she’d jump from the second storey. I waited, but she didn’t jump. Her son sat at the other end of the corridor, pretending to play but really watching her. She once praised me for having talent. (I should delete that last sentence—too bourgeois!)

We talked about it all morning, and decided to form a unit of our own. Yuanqiang said the place to print armbands was near Caishikou, past a place called Dazhi Bridge. There are many gangsters in that area; last trip they were robbed of three yuan. Zheng Xin said he’d bring a carving tool with him—even though it wasn’t a blade, it could still scratch open someone’s face. I felt heartened by his words.

We prepared to set off the next day, as soon as the grown-ups left for work. We had five yuan between us. I contributed one.

17 November 1966

 

Today, we took the number one bus to Xidan. I was the only one who had a ticket, the other three slipped on without one. I did too, but spent the whole journey worrying and in the end bought one before getting off. How stupid!

From Xidan we headed south. When we arrived at Dazhi Bridge, all four of us were anxious. I put my hand in my trouser pocket, which held a weight from a set of scales— hopefully this would be hefty enough to damage a gangster’s head. It sat cold and heavy in my pocket. I couldn’t warm it. Zheng Xin whistled as he strolled, his hand inside his jacket. The carving tool he held was our heartbeat.

The event we feared never happened. The wind was so strong we had to jog along.

 

After Dazhi Bridge, we waked into a rope shop to ask directions to the fabric-printing place. The old man said a name that sounded like ‘Something Hutong’.

This was the first time I smelled dye. We could detect it from some distance away. Later I learned that this was the odor of yellow. Each color has its own scent. Yellow makes me think of illness.

A young lady served us. She reminded me of Liu Naiping’s older sister from Door Three. I once went swimming with her; she wore a red swimsuit. I believed at the time that only female college students should be called young ladies, and even then only the ones like Zoya. Liu Hulan didn’t resemble one, nor did Zhu Yingtai, nor did my own sister.

She wore a face mask, only her eyes showing, but I could tell when she was smiling. All four of us were a little tense, a little awkward.

We ordered twenty-one armbands, four inches wide with gold lettering, twenty cents each. That was as many as we could afford—I think she realized that.

As she wrote out our receipt, the kettle on the stove behind her began bubbling, zzz, zzz. The room was draped with pennants displaying various words and pictures, the bright red fabric bearing down on us from all four walls.

I thought of the illustration of d'Artagnan kneeling to kiss the Empress in The Three Musketeers. The Empress’s feet are invisible beneath her long dress, her hand resting on her puffed-out skirt, d'Artagnan's lips just touching her fingertips. I always imagined I’d perform this action when I was grown up. (Strike this paragraph— too bourgeois.)

She was smiling, asking if we wanted to look inside the workshop. We said we’d like to.

 

She brought us into a room with a wet floor. The workers glanced at us. I didn’t understand anything. The printed cloths were still sodden, all red, and on each of them were the words ‘Red Guards’, over and over, covered with a layer of rice chaff. She explained that this was to protect the color. When it was dry and the chaff was removed, the yellow would be even brighter.

It was noon and we had nothing to eat, so she shared her packed lunch with us. She’d brought it from home and left it on the stove to keep warm. It contained just rice and cabbage, with some tofu—plain food.

By the time we left, she still hadn’t taken off her face mask. She was very neat. We hadn’t had a chance to see what she looked like.

Getting home on the number one bus was easy. The four of us slipped on through the doors on either side, saving the fare—we’d spend that on our return trip to pick up the armbands. Before we said goodbye, Yuanqiang asked me if I could guess the young lady’s family background? I had no idea. He said, Probably capitalist. I asked why. He said, Didn’t you see how beautiful she was, and also she was wearing a face mask, afraid of the stench of the dye. What he said made sense to me.

Edition details

• Publisher: Open Letter
• Publication date: 2023
• ISBN 10: 1948830752
• ISBN 13: 9781948830751
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 272