stiffly, staring back at the villagers. Then, skirting the edge of the audience, he began walking towards my dad. He moved slowly and deliberately, threading in and out of the crowd, struggling under the weight of its gaze, until he had reached the back of the schoolyard and was standing face to face with his son. In the yellow glare of the light bulbs, Grandpa’s face was a mottled blue and purple; his eyes, two angry red orbs bulging from their sockets. As he glared at his son, he clenched his fists unconsciously and chewed at his lower lip, raking it with his teeth.
Dad stared back at Grandpa, his face impassive, daring him to do his worst. Father and son stared at each other coldly, stubbornly, neither willing to back down. With so many villagers watching, the schoolyard seemed to have as many pairs of eyes as trees in a forest; the atmosphere was as dense as the sandstorms that blew across the plain. The looks that passed between father and son were cold as ice, as sharp as daggers. Looks that could kill.
The moments stretched on. Grandpa was still clenching his fists, perspiration dripping down his back. The corner of his mouth began to twitch as if being tugged by an invisible string. There was another involuntary twitch, and then, with a loud cry, Grandpa attacked. Arms outstretched, he lunged forward and grabbed my dad by the neck, throwing him off balance. Before anyone could react, Grandpa had wrestled Dad to the ground and had both hands wrapped around his throat, and was choking him.
‘How would you know there aren’t any new medicines?’ Grandpa shouted. ‘How would you know? … I’ll teach you to buy people’s blood! I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!’
Still shouting and cursing, Grandpa dug his thumbs into my dad’s throat, expertly cutting off his airway. Dad lay sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, flailing his legs and trying to push Grandpa away, but Grandpa was now straddling his chest, thumbs pressing down hard on his Adam’s apple. With a sickening crunch, Dad’s windpipe collapsed, and his eyes rolled back in his head, bulging from their sockets. His kickingslowed; his feet pedlled the ground a few times and then stopped. His hands grew weak, then fell away from Grandpa’s chest.
It happened quickly, like a thunderstorm from a clear blue sky. Moments before, there hadn’t been a cloud in sight, then Grandpa had begun to strangle the life out of his son. There was no going back. This couldn’t be undone. And yet Grandpa was my father’s father, and Father was my grandpa’s son: flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, father and son trying to kill each other, fighting to the death. But that is exactly what it was: a death match.
Watching from the sidelines, my sister Yingzi was in tears, crying out first for her daddy, then for her grandpa.
Everyone else seemed to be in shock. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was something else. None of the villagers clustered around the two men had made any attempt to stop the fight. No one had spoken. It was the rapt silence of a crowd watching two bulls lock horns, the silence of spectators at a bullfight or a cockfight, the suspenseful waiting to see which side would win.
The whole village waited to see whether or not Grandpa would strangle the life out of his son.
‘Daddy, Daddy, no … !’ My sister’s screams broke the silence. ‘Stop it, Grandpa, stop it!’
Grandpa reacted to Yingzi’s cries as though he’d been struck with a blow to the back of the head. He loosened his grip on my father’s throat. His hands went slack, and then he just … let go.
It ended as quickly as it began. A passing thunderstorm; a sudden shower.
Like a man awakening from a bad dream, Grandpa shook his head and struggled to his feet. He seemed confused by the crowd of people, dazed by the glare of lights overhead. As he stared at his son sprawled on the ground, he muttered to himself in a voice
Dad stared back at Grandpa, his face impassive, daring him to do his worst. Father and son stared at each other coldly, stubbornly, neither willing to back down. With so many villagers watching, the schoolyard seemed to have as many pairs of eyes as trees in a forest; the atmosphere was as dense as the sandstorms that blew across the plain. The looks that passed between father and son were cold as ice, as sharp as daggers. Looks that could kill.
The moments stretched on. Grandpa was still clenching his fists, perspiration dripping down his back. The corner of his mouth began to twitch as if being tugged by an invisible string. There was another involuntary twitch, and then, with a loud cry, Grandpa attacked. Arms outstretched, he lunged forward and grabbed my dad by the neck, throwing him off balance. Before anyone could react, Grandpa had wrestled Dad to the ground and had both hands wrapped around his throat, and was choking him.
‘How would you know there aren’t any new medicines?’ Grandpa shouted. ‘How would you know? … I’ll teach you to buy people’s blood! I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!’
Still shouting and cursing, Grandpa dug his thumbs into my dad’s throat, expertly cutting off his airway. Dad lay sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, flailing his legs and trying to push Grandpa away, but Grandpa was now straddling his chest, thumbs pressing down hard on his Adam’s apple. With a sickening crunch, Dad’s windpipe collapsed, and his eyes rolled back in his head, bulging from their sockets. His kickingslowed; his feet pedlled the ground a few times and then stopped. His hands grew weak, then fell away from Grandpa’s chest.
It happened quickly, like a thunderstorm from a clear blue sky. Moments before, there hadn’t been a cloud in sight, then Grandpa had begun to strangle the life out of his son. There was no going back. This couldn’t be undone. And yet Grandpa was my father’s father, and Father was my grandpa’s son: flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, father and son trying to kill each other, fighting to the death. But that is exactly what it was: a death match.
Watching from the sidelines, my sister Yingzi was in tears, crying out first for her daddy, then for her grandpa.
Everyone else seemed to be in shock. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was something else. None of the villagers clustered around the two men had made any attempt to stop the fight. No one had spoken. It was the rapt silence of a crowd watching two bulls lock horns, the silence of spectators at a bullfight or a cockfight, the suspenseful waiting to see which side would win.
The whole village waited to see whether or not Grandpa would strangle the life out of his son.
‘Daddy, Daddy, no … !’ My sister’s screams broke the silence. ‘Stop it, Grandpa, stop it!’
Grandpa reacted to Yingzi’s cries as though he’d been struck with a blow to the back of the head. He loosened his grip on my father’s throat. His hands went slack, and then he just … let go.
It ended as quickly as it began. A passing thunderstorm; a sudden shower.
Like a man awakening from a bad dream, Grandpa shook his head and struggled to his feet. He seemed confused by the crowd of people, dazed by the glare of lights overhead. As he stared at his son sprawled on the ground, he muttered to himself in a voice
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