That Unfinished Bowl of Douzhi‘er

The midday sun was vicious, baking the asphalt until it seemed to steam. Old Wang, Wang Dexing, was carrying his chipped enamel mug, ambling his way home. He'd just finished a bowl of Douzhi'er with a couple of Jiaoquan'r at "Old Zhang's" at the mouth of the hutong. This Douzhi'er, ah, it's like life itself. Smells foul, but once you get used to it, miss a day and your whole body feels out of sorts. He smacked his lips, the taste – sour with a hint of sweet, sweet with a hint of rancid – still lingered at the back of his tongue. Satisfying!

"Grandpa Wang, you're back?" The young wife from across the way, having just hung out bedding, called out to him when she saw him. "Ai, back," Old Wang lifted his eyelids slightly and responded. Under this sun, one felt too lazy to move, let alone talk much.

Entering the courtyard, his own little room felt like a steam basket. Old Wang wasn't in a hurry to go inside. He grabbed a small stool, sat down under the old locust tree by the door, took out his pipe, and slowly packed it with tobacco shreds. Just as he struck a match, he heard "Loudspeaker" Li Sima next door starting to shout at the top of her lungs.

"Aiyowei! Have you heard? Big news! Huge news!" Li Sima's voice arrived before she did, like an opera singer. Old Wang took a drag from his pipe, ignoring her. This Li Sima, all day long it was nothing but gossip about this family or that, her mouth louder than a cracked gong.

But Li Sima didn't care if anyone was listening. She plopped herself down next to Old Wang, her cattail fan whishing loudly: "Brother Wang, guess what? Someone spent a fortune, a real fortune, and bought five tons of rice!" "Five tons?" Old Wang blew a smoke ring. "What for? Opening a grain store?" Five tons, how many sacks was that? Old Wang calculated inwardly – enough to feed him for a good chunk of his life.

"What grain store!" Li Sima slapped her thigh with the fan. "They're panning for gold! Panning for gold particles from those five tons of pristine white rice!" Old Wang froze, his pipe nearly falling to the ground. "Panning for gold? Using rice to pan for gold? This... isn't this wasting grain!" He remembered the famine times, when even chaff was scarce. And now people were using rice to pan for gold? What kind of nonsense was this!

"Isn't it just!" Li Sima grew more animated. "They say they panned out over half a jin! Called... 'Gold Rice'! Supposedly it sells for a high price! It was in the papers, they called it creativity! Performance art!" "Perform-what?" Old Wang furrowed his brow tightly. "What's this performance art? Wasting things is wasting things, why give it so many fancy names!" His chest felt tight, as if something was stuck there, unable to go up or down. Five tons of rice, how many lives could that save? Just for those few ounces of "Gold Rice"?

"Who's saying it isn't!" Li Sima sighed, her voice lowering a bit. "But they're rich, they do as they please, what can we do? I heard many people even went to watch the spectacle!" "Watch the spectacle?" Old Wang's voice trembled slightly. "What spectacle? Watch how they throw away white rice like skipping stones on water?"

He thought of the bowl of Douzhi'er he just had, and those two Jiaoquan'r. They were made from grain. He ate them carefully, afraid to waste even a crumb. But over there, five tons of rice, wasted just like that, and it even became "art," became "news." Old Wang felt the world was a bit off-kilter, like that bowl of Douzhi'er he'd just drunk hadn't fermented properly – sour enough to set his teeth on edge, rancid enough to churn his stomach.

"Ai," Old Wang knocked his pipe bowl against the sole of his shoe and stood up. "This world... I really don't understand it anymore." He didn't want to hear Li Sima ramble on about that "Gold Rice" anymore; it made his heart uneasy.

He slowly shuffled back to his little room. It was even hotter inside, but he had no inclination to turn on the creaky old electric fan. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the empty enamel mug on the table. A faint grey-green residue of Douzhi'er clung to the bottom.

He suddenly remembered that bowl of Douzhi'er from earlier – he hadn't finished it. Why not? Was he dizzy from the sun? Or preoccupied with something? No, neither. It was hearing Li Sima shouting about those "five tons of rice" that had suddenly filled his chest, blocked it, making that last mouthful of Douzhi'er impossible to swallow.

Five tons of rice, gleaming white, piled up like a mountain. Then, a crowd of people surrounding it, like ants moving house, swishing and splashing as they panned, water flowing everywhere, rice scattered about, all just to find those tiny, invisible, intangible "gold particles." Old Wang hadn't seen this scene with his own eyes, but just thinking about it sent a chill through him, colder than standing in the wind on the coldest day of winter.

How was this panning for gold? This was clearly panning away people's conscience, the very foundation of life, bit by bit, washing it clean away, leaving only that glittering, ice-cold, inedible, undrinkable "Gold Rice."

Old Wang sat there blankly. Outside the window, the sun remained vicious, the cicadas shrieked themselves hoarse, grating on the nerves. He felt like a fool, himself, guarding an unfinished bowl of Douzhi'er, struggling against this bizarre, kaleidoscopic world. But what was the use of struggling? They had money, they had "art," they had "news." What did he have? Only a bellyful of outdated notions, and that unfinished, slightly unsettling bowl of Douzhi'er.

He sighed, a long sigh, as if trying to expel all the sour, rancid air from his heart. Maybe, tomorrow, when he went back to "Old Zhang's," he'd have to ask them to fill the bowl fuller, drink it all down in one go while it was still warm, leave none behind. Better than staring at a half-empty bowl, constantly brooding over these lawless, senseless matters. Ai!