now on.” That elicited no response from Hanzhang, who looked across the river at the old mill. Evening mist rose from the river, through which the silent mill gave anyone who saw it an uneasy feeling.
The old mill stood silently, but if you listened carefully, you heard a low rumble, like distant thunder, settling over the wildwoods beyond the riverbanks and into the autumn sunset. The millstone turned slowly, patiently rubbing time itself away. It seemed to put people increasingly on edge; maybe one day, sooner or later, it would infuriate the town’s young residents.
The young heir of the Li clan, Li Zhichang, fantasized that he could find a way to turn the mill by machine. Not much given to talking, he entertained a host of fantasies in his head. And when he related one of them to Sui Buzhao, his only confidant, the two of them would get excited. “That’s an interesting principle!” the older man would say with an approving sigh. Li Zhichang’s favorite pastime was reading up on math and physics, memorizing formulas and principles. Sui Buzhao never could remember the things Li Zhichang told him, but he was drawn to the word “principle” and would submit these principles to his own unique interpretations. He urged Li Zhichang to share his plans for revamping the mill with a geological survey technician, also surnamed Li.
“Can do,” Li replied. So, by putting their heads together, the three men came up with a workable plan. Now all that remained was to build and install the machinery. Belatedly, it occurred to them that they needed Zhao Duoduo’s approval before anything could be done. So Sui Buzhao went to see him.
At first Zhao said nothing. But after thinking it over, he said, “Go ahead, mechanize one of the mills. We’ll give it a try.”
Li Zhichang and Sui Buzhao were thrilled, as was Technician Li. They went right to work. Any parts they needed they had made in the town’s metalwork shop, billing the factory for the costs. The last item was the motor. Zhao Duoduo gave them the least workable diesel pump in the factory. Now the question was, which mill should they target for the new equipment? Sui Buzhao recommended the one run by his nephew. Baopu, who seemed pleased by the news, called his ox to a stop, unhooked the tether, and took it out of the mill.
Work began. For days the mill was the scene of bustling activity, observed by crowds of local residents. Sui Buzhao was in perpetual motion. One minute he’d be bringing oil or a wrench, the next he’d be moving the gawkers back. Finally, the motor sputtered to life, and when it was running at full speed, the millstone began to turn. The rumble was louder than usual, as if thunder had drawn near. They added a conveyor belt to feed the soaked mung beans into the eye of the millstone at a constant rate. The liquid poured out and flowed down the revamped passage into the sediment pool. It was immediately obvious to everyone that the age of feeding the beans with a wooden ladle had come to an end. But someone was still needed to spread the beans evenly on the belt, so Baopu continued sitting in the old mill, as before.
Now, however, it was no longer possible for him to enjoy the quiet solitude, since a steady stream of town residents dropped by to see how the motor did its job and were reluctant to leave. The praise was practically unanimous. The sole exception was an odd old man named Shi Dixin, who was generally opposed to anything new and unfamiliar and, for added measure, was feuding with Sui Buzhao; he was particularly unhappy about anything accomplished with Sui’s participation. He watched for a while and then spat angrily on the rumbling motor before storming off.
Women from the processing room were frequent visitors; that included Naonao, who stood there sucking on a piece of hard candy and smiling. When she was around, the motor noise didn’t seem as loud as at other times, since it was nearly drowned out by her shouts. If she was in a good mood curses flew from her mouth. She cursed the millstone; the millstone did not curse back. She cursed people; they just smiled. She ran around, touching this and rubbing that, and sometimes stomping her foot for no apparent reason.
One day she reached out to touch the conveyor belt; Baopu ran up, wrapped his arms around her, and dragged her over to a corner, where he pushed her away as if singed by her touch. Naonao looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Then, in a shrill voice, she said, “Shame on you, how dare you.” Turning to look at him one last time, she ran out of the mill. Everyone present laughed, but Baopu, acting as if nothing had happened, went back to his stool and sat down.
As time passed, fewer people came around. Then one day, as Baopu sat alone looking out the window, he saw Xiaokui, basket in hand, and her undersized son, Leilei, standing on the riverbank and gazing at his place. He faintly heard the boy ask his mother, “What’s a machine?” That sent a charge through Baopu, who jumped up and shouted through the window, “Come over here, boy, the machine’s right here!” There was no response.
Whenever Sui Jiansu returned from making a delivery he went into the mill to keep his brother company. Maybe because he was so used to driving his cart all over the landscape, he simply could not understand how a healthy young man could sit quietly all day long, like an old codger. His brother wouldn’t say a word, almost as if he had no interest in anything that occurred outside that room. So Jiansu sat and smoked his pipe awhile before walking back outside, feeling he’d carried out his sibling responsibilities. When he gazed at Baopu’s broad back, it looked as heavy as a boulder. What was stored inside that back? That, he figured, would always remain a mystery. He and Baopu had the same father but different mothers, and he did not think he’d ever understand the eldest son of the Sui clan.
When he returned from the drying floor that day Jiansu told Baopu how Zhao Duoduo had yelled at Hanzhang and Xiaokui. Baopu didn’t stir. “Just you wait and see!” Jiansu said callously. “The Sui family will not carry their whip forever.”
Baopu glanced at his brother and said, more to himself than anything, “Making glass noodles is what we do, it’s all we do.”
Jiansu cast a cold glance at the millstone and said, “Maybe, maybe not.” What he wanted more than anything was to get Baopu out of that hard-luck mill and see that his brother never stepped foot inside it again. Baopu may have been born to make glass noodles but not to sit on a stool and watch a millstone turn.
Everyone agreed that Baopu was the best glass noodle maker in town. What no one knew was who he had learned the art from, and they all figured that it was the Sui clan’s natural calling. A few years earlier, when they had suffered a spoiled vat, Baopu had left a lasting impression on the people. On that unfortunate morning, a strange smell emanated from the processing room, after which the starch produced no noodles. Eventually, some finally emerged, but in uneven thicknesses that broke up when they touched cold water. Finally, even the starch stopped coming out. The shop losses were substantial, and up and down Gaoding Street, the village area within the confines of Wali, shouts of “Spoiled vat! Spoiled vat!” were heard. On the fifth day, a master noodle maker from the other side of the river was sent for at great expense. As soon as he entered the room he frowned. Then, after tasting the paste he threw down his fee and ran off. The Gaoding Street Party secretary, Li Yuming, an honest, decent man, was so upset by this development that his cheeks swelled up overnight. At the time, Baopu was sitting in the mill woodenly feeding mung beans into the eye of the millstone. But when he heard there was a spoiled vat he threw down his ladle and went into the processing room, where he hunkered down in a corner and smoked his pipe, observing the looks of panic on the people there. He saw Secretary Li, whose face was distorted—thin above and thick below—attach a piece of red cloth to the door frame to ward away evil spirits. Unable to keep crouching there, Baopu knocked the ashes out of his pipe, got up, and went over to the sediment vat, where he scooped out some of the liquid with a spoon. Everyone stopped and gaped at him. Without a word, he scooped the liquid out of one vat after another. Then he went back to his corner and crouched down again. Later, in the middle of the night, he started scooping again. Someone even saw him drink a few mouthfuls of the starch. The diarrhea hit him at daybreak, when he held his hands against his belly, his face a waxen yellow. Nonetheless, he went back and crouched in the corner. That is how it went for
