Jiang Yan · Conversa

The noon sun beat down mercilessly, making the cicadas in the old locust tree at the village entrance shriek as if their lives depended on it. Jiang Yan was squatting under the tree, his undershirt rolled up to his armpits, revealing a strip of bronze-toned waist and abdomen forged by the sun. He had a piece of foxtail grass clamped in his mouth, squinting at ants moving house, when he heard a flurry of soft footsteps and muffled laughter behind him. It was Widow Liu from the east end of the village and Widow Sun from the west end. Both were in their early thirties, without husbands, and usually loved to gossip together. Jiang Yan had sharp ears; he heard Widow Liu say in that hook-laden tone unique to women: "Did you see him? The new teacher who arrived, tsk tsk, that face is so fair, even fairer than the steamed buns we make for the New Year." Widow Sun chimed in, laughter suppressed in her throat: "Isn't that the truth? His posture is so straight too. You can tell at a glance he's a city boy, nothing like these mud-legged fellows in our village." Widow Liu added: "Handsome, truly handsome. How many years has it been since Red Flag Village saw such a handsome young man?" The foxtail grass in Jiang Yan's mouth stopped moving. He slowly straightened his back, took the grass stem from the corner of his mouth and flicked it onto the ground. He turned his head and shouted, his voice as loud as a gong: "Handsome? Handsome my ass!" The two widows were startled by his outburst. When they turned and saw it was him, their expressions soured. Widow Liu rolled her eyes: "Jiang Yan, what kind of madness are you spouting? We weren't even talking about you." "Doesn't matter who you're talking about." Jiang Yan stood up. At one meter eighty-three, he stood there like half a tower. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and tilted his chin up: "What do you women know? You call that handsome? That's just sickly pale from never seeing the sun—the kind of stuff that falls over in a breeze. Have you ever seen what real handsomeness is?" He slapped his sun-bronzed arm, his bicep tightening like a rock: "What do you call this? This is what a man looks like. Those city pretty boys are just empty vases filled with straw—all for show and no substance. Someone like me—" Before he could finish, he caught a glimpse of someone standing on the path on the other side of the locust tree. White shirt, blue trousers, holding a mesh bag containing an enamel basin and a few books. It was the new volunteer teacher. The two widows had sharp eyes; they immediately shut their mouths, grabbed their sleeves, and hurried away. That left Jiang Yan standing there alone, his mouth still half-open, the second half of "someone like me" stuck in his throat—neither to be swallowed nor spat out. Anyone else would have been so embarrassed they’d be looking for a hole to crawl into. But Jiang Yan was not anyone else. He only froze for the blink of an eye before stiffening his neck and lifting his chin even higher. He stared straight at the newcomer, his tone even more aggressive than before: "What are you looking at? I was talking about you. You're that new teacher, right? You look like you were molded out of flour; I bet a gust of wind in these parts could blow you away. You believe me?" He didn't know why he felt so guilty. It made Jiang Yan feel incredibly uncomfortable. He clenched his fists and added: "What are you staring at? You got a problem with that?"