An Evening on Peaceful Quiet Street
by M. Marie Shank
Posted: May 31, 2007
The hawkers' cries herald the beginning or the
winding down of any given day here. Now it's half past five o'clock
p.m., and the sound of their sonorous voices as they walk up and
down Peaceful Quiet Street stretches into its forte.
"Buy a newspaper!"
"Need your shoes cobbled? Need them polished?"
"I can fix your computer, your refrigerator, your microwave!"
"Sharpen your knives! Fix your broken porcelain!"
"I'll buy your recyclables!"
With their old P.L.A.-issued green canvas shoes firmly planted
to the
cooling cracked pavement, they sing their promises to the skies.
From
where they stand, it is possible to hear, from the windows of the
apartment buildings above, the sound of garlic hitting the oil,
but
the sharp smell is first to descend. The chopping sound of knives
on
innumerable cutting boards ring throughout the neighborhood as though
yet another construction project was underway. On the neighborhood
playground, more than a dozen children in brightly colored clothing
play. Some also sit on its surrounding stoops, looking with wonder
at
their new summer sandals that have yet to be broken in.
On Victory Road, which connects this tiny neighborhood street to
the
rest of the city, the traffic gears itself up for the rush home.
The
rumble of buses, the squeak of horns and the buzz of construction
coming from Victory Road provide the backdrop for the children's
screams and laughter. The rush of traffic almost sounds like a steady
wind or a rain. The constant presence of anything makes it a natural
one.
One of the hawkers, Aunty Wang, an old widow, has made enough selling
recyclables and sharpening knives during the day that she may buy
a
slice of watermelon at the neighborhood fruit stand. She sucks the
juice with a ferocious enjoyment and chats with the fruit seller
about
the price of eggs. It seems things get more expensive every year,
she
says. It must coincide with our China's development. She is glad,
she
tells the fruit seller, that her children are already full grown
with
families and that they are able to take care of themselves. The
fruit
seller, a woman by the name of Mrs. Liu, the mother of a 6-year-old
boy named Long Long, agrees that parenting is difficult work. The
two
lose themselves in silence as they watch the people coming home.
With bags of vegetables and boxes of milk, people parade up this
street that winds its way up a mountain like a thin black dragon.
Women clutch mobile phones to their ears, men cigarettes to their
mouths. The sky has been overcast all day, as though it will rain.
The
air is cooler now than it was during mid-day. The smell of ozone,
the
gray skies and the humidity seem to absorb the clarity of the
evening's activities. The moist air smudges words on their way as
people call out greetings:
"Off work?"
"Going home?"
"Have you eaten yet?"
A waiter and a waitress who work at the restaurant next door to
the
fruit stand take turns kicking a plastic bottle up the street where
an
old Muslim couple's grill emits a great fume of gray smoke. The
portly
Muslim wife turns the skewers with one hand as she sprinkles fennel
with the other. The lamb fat's juice dribbles onto the coals, and
she
squints and purses up her mouth. Waiting customers quietly speculate
among themselves in quick whispers whether she does this because
the
smoke bothers her or whether it is due to her confusion with Mandarin
Chinese, as she is from a far off province with a separate tongue.
The
sweet, slightly pungent smell beckons a young high school couple
wearing matching t-shirts and track pants to stop and buy a few
skewers. They do not join the conversation or seem to take notice
of
the other people waiting. In the meantime, the waiter has kicked
the
bottle clear from the street, and the waitress laughs as he runs
to
fetch it. Young couples everywhere are fond of games and treats.
A young boy, Xiao Li, 10, has brought his soccer ball out to play.
Unfortunately, the other children of his age on the playground are
all
girls, wearing delicate little shoes and lace lined dresses. The
only
other boys wobble on yet unsteady legs.
"Babies," sniffs Li.
Down the street, Mr. Huang, a middle-aged man with a middle-aged
girth, has just finished his dinner at a street side café.
He pushes
back his empty bowl and picks the cilantro out of his teeth with
a
toothpick. Soon, he must get back into his cab to cruise for
straggling post dinner passengers. He slaps his belly before rolling
his t-shirt up over it. The air-conditioning in his cab has been
broken, and he suffered in the stuffiness of its interior all day.
According to his wife, air-conditioning is adverse to good health
anyway.
"I'll have one more beer before I go," he tells the owner
of the restaurant.
The hawker and the vegetable seller turn their attention to the
small
boy, Xiao Li, kicking his ball repeatedly against the wall of an
apartment building parallel to their tiny street. It hits the plaster
peeled façade with a dull thump before half-heartedly rolling
back to
him. He received the ball for a birthday gift, and over the course
of
the months that have followed, it has been well loved, or at least
well used.
"No one to play with," says the old hawker.
"No one to play with," repeats the fruit seller.
She looks at her own son, curled up on a sofa that stands outside
the
shop. He intently reads a comic book. Long Long is a quiet little
boy,
bird-boned and brooding. She believes he is far too serious for
a boy
so young, but her attempts to bring him out of whatever little place
that his mind goes have all but proven futile. For some time his
father maintained it was a matter of him eating too much fruit and
not
enough meat, but the child stubbornly resisted any change to his
diet.
"He'll find a way," the fruit seller says quietly, turning
back
towards the little boy playing soccer.
"Kids, they always find a way," says the old hawker.
"He can play all
by himself quite happily. Look at him kick that ball."
The waiter descends the hill alone. He sports one of this year's
fashionable hair cuts – short and spiky in the front, long
and smooth
in the back. He walks with the sort of confidence young men have
when
a woman loves them for the first time.
"Where'd your girlfriend go?" Yells the fruit seller.
"She went home," replies the young man, smiling puckishly.
"She doesn't work tonight?"
"No, she doesn't work tonight. She promised her mother she'd
call home
tonight."
Looking toward the old hawker, the fruit seller quietly says, "She's
from outside of the city. Some village town. A country girl."
In the meantime, the young man has focused his attention on Xiao
Li,
whose resigned kicks demonstrate that he has already grown tired
of
playing with the wall.
"Hey little friend," he says. "Mind if I kick that
around with you?"
Long Long doesn't look up from his comic book to watch the young
man and the Xiao Li pass the soccer ball back and forth. He has
arrived on page 60, in which he will finally discover exactly who
tried to poison the young emperor's food. He nestles back into the
old sofa, which smells of mold and grapes and brings the book closer
to his narrow brown face. His mother has said to his father she
has suspected for some time that he needs glasses.
In her apartment at the top of the mountain, the waitress discusses
with her four roommates whether it is the right time to tell her
mother that she has a boyfriend and they hope to marry. They sit
on
their bunk beds and work over the possibilities while they eat their
dinner of instant noodles. Before she calls, she pours herself a
glass
of boiled water and unbraids her long thick black hair. Tonight
is her
only night off, but if she were back home, she wouldn't even be
afforded this luxury. She brushes her hair with the tiny wooden
comb
that her boyfriend bought for her, and she chews on her bottom lip.
When he is angry, Mr. Huang's mouth gets tight. His mouth is tight
now.
"Why do you charge two yuan for rice," Mr. Huang asks
the owner of the
café. "Every other place charges one. It's unreasonable."
His face is red, partially because he is angry, partially because
of
the two bottles of beer that he drank with his dinner.
"Watch out!" The fruit seller yells at the young man
and the little
boy. The soccer ball has been kicked into her fruit stand, tumbling
over a cardboard box of oranges and taking a few pineapples in its
wake. "People are trying to make a living here!"
The young man rushes over, apologizing profusely. The little boy
follows with his head down. They help clean up the fruit.
"Well, it seems there's no damage here," the fruit seller
says. "But
be careful. Otherwise I'll tell that girlfriend of yours that you're
no good."
She laughs, and the young man and the Xiao Li head down the street
farther away from the fruit stand to resume play.
"We have to be careful of the cars here little friend,"
says the young
man. "They come fast off that big street sometimes."
The little boy solemnly agrees, eyeing his soccer ball with great
concern.
"Yes, my parent's gave me this ball for my birthday."
"Mama?" The waitress breathes a little faster. "I
have something to tell you."
Huffing, Mr. Huang starts up his cab in a fury.
"All people care about is money these days," he says
aloud to himself.
People who work alone all day become accustomed to talking to themselves.
"No culture. No respect for human beings."
One of the little girls has brought her pet chick out to play.
The
other little girls on the playground pull the ribbons out of their
hair and make a leash for its neck. It peeps frantically as they
pull
it up and down the length of the brick walk. They giggle excitedly,
and their hair wildly falls around their flushed faces. The sun
has
begun to set, and the sky is a brilliant hue of pink.
"Finished!" Long Long says aloud to no one in particular,
putting his
comic book down in his lap. "But who could have thought that's
the way
it would turn out?"
The little girls use a red ribbon to tie the chick to the
teeter-totter and pump it up and down. A toddler holding his mother's
hand looks on with fascination.
"That's a chick," the mother instructs her child.
Up the street, the Muslim man fans his fire. The bulk of their
customers come around eight or nine p.m. after they've been drinking
beer for a few hours. They don't have long to wait. His wife sets
more
meat on the grill.
"Perhaps one more slice," says the old hawker, fiddling
through her
pockets for change.
"Of course," says the fruit seller, handing one to her
and one to Long
Long who has already begun to reread his comic book from the
beginning.
The soccer ball rolls slowly across the street as Mr. Huang swings
his
cab onto it. The ball bursts with a tiny explosive sound, but Mr.
Huang, in his fury, hears nothing and races on, looking out for
people
with a hand up for a ride.
"Two yuan for rice," he continues to mutter.
Xiao Li's face registers the event with a quiet mouth and big eyes
before he turns to run home.
In the distance, an electronic version of Beethoven's Fifth rings
from
a mobile phone.
The young man picks up the ball and turns it over. It looks completely
unsalvageable.
"Fuck. What a waste," he mumbles under his breath.
He looks after where the boy has run, but Xiao Li is already out
of
sight. He walks across the street and places the ball on the steps
to
the playground. The little girls continue to entertain themselves
with
the by now subdued chick. He lights a cigarette, takes a look at
the
hazy pink sky and sets off down the street.
Neither the fruit seller nor the hawker says much about the little
boy
and his ball. So many sad things in life aren't really worth
discussing.
The waitress hangs up the phone, and walks to the window. From
here
you can see almost the entire street as it winds down from the
mountain. People are going out again to take a stroll. The quiet
chatter of darker hours has commenced. The waitress can hear someone
crying, but she cannot make out whether it is a child or an adult,
a
man or a woman. When people cry, they almost all sound the same.
Laughter, on the other hand, has a more individualistic imprint.
The children are called in to bed. They pull the limp chick behind
them on their way. A truck full of migrant construction workers
rattles by on Victory Road. The breeze picks up. The darkness falls.
Two young women on the playground swings pump their plump legs back
and forth as they hum pop song melodies. From the Muslim couple's
grill, men's voices laden with heavy sailor's accents intermittently
rumble amidst the clink of beer bottles. It is nearly nine o'clock.
If someone watches carefully, it is possible to see the lights in
the thousands of apartment building windows on Peaceful Quiet Street
slowly going out, one by one, like stars. Sometime, deeper into
the night, the rain falls.
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