In the courtyard, Fourth is sweeping the ground.
Our small compound only houses our two families. SanNe’s is larger with all red bricks and four rooms. VeVe and I have three rooms besides the kitchen and the bathroom. Facing north, SanNe’s house has better feng shui than our south-facing house. Both houses have a narrow hallway that opens to the courtyard.
The courtyard seems larger than it is because it’s empty. Other than SanNe’s ceramic flower pots strewn here and there, there are only two other fixtures: SanNe’s storage shed and the gigantic mulberry tree. The mulberry tree is tall and bushy. Normally mulberries don’t grow in the cold North, unless it’s in a shielded, temperate environment. Our compound is enclosed by tall, brick walls, which softens the harsh winter and allows the mulberry tree to thrive. The mulberries can be yellow, red, and purple, all at once.
But there is something haunting about the tree. SanNe says that a wealthy opium merchant’s wife planted it and later hung herself from its heaviest branch. I think of the story more often this summer, because the tree is acting so strangely—there is not a single mulberry on it, unlike in previous years when it was so fertile that Fourth, SanNe’s only son, and I always ate ourselves sick.
Fourth is now sweeping the courtyard with a large broom, though there is nothing to sweep. This is a way for a slow-witted eighteen-year old to earn some change, SanNe, says. In fact, it is her trick to keep him occupied. A communist cadre with extensive social connections, SanNe lacks nothing, and eats better than other families. I catch whiffs of cooked pork from her house right now.
Fourth’s dull eyes light up when he sees me. “Amei, I waited for you, waited for you,” he says, drooling.
“You are a good sweeper, Fourth. I don’t see a single twig on the ground.”
He giggles and scratches his shaved head. “Want to see? See?”
When I nod, he drops his broom, grabs my hand, and starts for the shed. We are used to holding hands, even when we are out in the alley. No one lifts an eyebrow or spits on the ground when they see us, as if Fourth’s slowness makes his sex insignificant.
The shed is a small room made of cheap wood. As soon as I step inside, a strong animal odor floods my nostrils. There are rabbits, seven of them, hopping around or nibbling the cabbage leaves scattered on the floor. Six of them are gray and one is white with red eyes. Fourth and I have agreed on naming this one Purely. He catches her and hands her to me. She easily settles in my arms.
“Is there sand in school rice? School rice?” he asks, stroking a gray rabbit’s long ears with his stubby fingers.
“There’s sand in rice everywhere,” I say. It’s true. Farmers mix sand into rice to add extra weight. VeVe has to swirl the rice in water to clean it.
“Is the mulberry tree high enough to jump off and die? Jump off and die?” Fourth asks, his thick eyelashes fluttering.
“You stop talking nonsense. I have enough on my mind.”
“On your mind?”
“A foreigner came to my school.”
“Foreign devil. Foreign devil.” He giggles. “Big nose. Big nose.”
Sometimes Fourth listens to me, sometimes he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I can say almost anything in front of him. He is my walking diary, a safe one. The only thing I can’t do is cry, because he will cry with me, only harder and more loudly.
“The foreigner is going to test my English,” I say, stroking Purely’s fur. “I don’t think he will be nice. How should I act in front of him? Should I be a meek girl casting my eyes down and twisting the hem of my shirt? Or a sassy one with both of my arms on my hips and roll my eyes once in a while? One thing I won’t do is giggle—VeVe tells me never to giggle in front of men. So tell me: should I laugh if this foreigner says something funny?”
“Should you laugh. Laugh,” Fourth says.
“I’m scared.” I give Purely back to Fourth. “VeVe is scared, too,” I murmur to myself.
Fourth lifts his head with a pitiful look on his face. “You are scared? No. No.” He starts to cry.
“Don’t cry.” I touch his cheek. “Shush.”
But his tears and snot keep running down his bumpy face. I grab Purely from his hands. “I’ll throw her out the window if you don’t stop crying.”
院子里四儿拿着一把笤帚在扫地。我们的小院里只住了两家人。三奶和四儿的比我们的大。红砖墙，有四间房。而且三奶的房子坐南朝北风水好。院子里面很空，所以看上去不算小。除了三奶的东一个西一个的大花盆，还有她的一个储藏木屋和一个高大的桑树。桑树长得很茂密。通常桑树不在寒冷的北方生长。可是我们的院子周围都是高墙，缓和了一点冬天的寒酷。这一颗桑树上的桑葚有黄的，红的，还有紫的。
关于这颗桑树三奶讲过一个让人起鸡皮疙瘩的故事。她说这棵桑树是一个很有钱的雅片商人的妻子种的。之后她在树上的最粗的树枝上上吊了。这个夏天，我老是想这个故事。因为这桑树非常奇怪。到现在还没有结一个桑椹。不像往年桑葚结的那么多四儿和我经常吃得要吐。四儿是三奶唯一的儿子。
四儿在认真的扫地，尽管除了一两个小树枝，没有什么可少扫的。这是三奶的主意，让他18岁的弱智儿挣几个零钱。实际上是是给他找个事干，他会少惹事，也不烦他她。三奶有很多的社会关系，什么都不缺。吃的比我们家好多了。我现在就可以闻到她做红烧肉的味道。
看到我四儿呆滞的眼睛亮起来。“我一直在等你在等你。”他边说嘴角边流哈喇子。
“你很会扫地啊，四儿，扫得这么干净。地上 连一个小树枝都看不到，”我说。
他笑着挠了挠他的光头，问我，“要看吗，看吗?”
我点了点头。他扔下扫帚，拉起我的手，就往小木屋走。我从来不甩开我的手，即使在里弄里也这样。看到我们这样没有人挑眉毛或往地下吐痰，好像四儿的弱智使他的性别失去的了意义。
小木屋是用碎木做成的，很小。一走进去，一股很强的动物味扑鼻而来。七个兔子在木板地上跳过来，跳过去吃白菜叶。六个灰的，一个白的。四儿和我给她起名叫雪球。四儿逮住雪球递给我。雪球在我的怀里显得很自在。
“学校的大米饭里有沙吗？ 有沙吗？“四儿忽然问。他在用粗短的手指抚摸一个灰色兔子的长耳朵。
“哪里的大米都有沙子，“ 我说。是真的。卖米的把沙子掺进米里加重。微微洗米时要花好长时间淘沙。
“桑树上跳下来会摔死吗?” 四儿又问，“会摔死吗？”他的厚厚的睫毛一眨一眨的。
“你别胡说八道了，”我说，“我的心里已经够烦了。”
“你够烦啦，够烦了，”他嘟哝着。
“我有一个外国老师，”我说。
他傻笑笑起来，“外国鬼子，外国鬼子，大鼻子，大鼻子。”
我说话四儿有时候听，有时候不听，我不在乎。我跟她他说什么都行。他成了我的会走路的日记，而且很安全。只有一件事我不能在他面前做，那就是哭。他会跟我一起哭，而且哭得更厉害，更响。
“那个外国鬼子要测试我的英文，”我边说边梳理雪球儿的白色毛发。“他不会对我好的，我在他面前应该怎样表现呢。像一个怯怯的女孩儿，眼睛往下看，用颤抖的手拧我的衣角？还是装出一副洒脱的样子，两手插在腰上，不时给他一个白眼? 我只知道我不能傻笑. 微微早就告诉我一定不能在男人面前傻笑。四儿，如果那个外国鬼子说一句很逗人的话，我笑还是不笑？”
“笑还是不笑，不笑? ” 四儿嘟哝着。
“我真有点害怕，”我把雪球塞给他。“微微也害怕啊，”我自言自语地说。
四儿抬起头来，脸上一副可怜巴巴的样子。“你害怕？不不。”他开始哭。
“别哭，”我碰了一下他的脸，“停住。”
但是他的眼泪和鼻涕一起哗哗流下他的粗皮肤的脸。我从他手里夺过雪球。“你再哭，我就把她扔到窗户外面。”
