I was slightly surprised. This person's hand was not as bony and sinewy as I had anticipated, it was even rather soft. I took another look at that face the size of a palm, at its eyes with their extraordinarily big black pupils, which possessed an air of delicate prettiness as they fluttered open and shut, and which struck me as somewhat out of the ordinary.

We followed this person to the command office to help edit a quick report. On the way, we heard people address this person as "Teacher Wan," "Brother Wan," but on the whole this person wouldn't reply, would at most nod in the direction of the speaker, or give a faint smile. "This guy's got top form," my companion Educated Youth muttered to me, not expecting Teacher Wan/Brother Wan, a few meters away, to catch what he said. Wan turned, came to a halt, fixed shiny black eyes on my companion as a silent warning, scoured me with a sharp, knifelike stare, as a punishment to warn me off future transgressions, then steadily walked away.

We hadn't imagined this person's ears would be so sharp, nor that the return fire would be so swift or fierce. This struck us as a bad omen: you had to be extra careful around someone like this.

It wasn't until that afternoon that we discovered this Wan person was actually a woman. When he went off to relieve himself, my companion saw that as Wan took off the cotton cap, a head of long black hair rolled out. My companion was so surprised he didn't even visit the toilet hut but ran straight back to report, holding in his urine. Amazed by this, I also went to have a look and saw that Wan Whoever-it-was, squeezed in among a table of men, really had started out life a baby girl. According to local rules, women didn't eat at the table. As time went on, we got used to this rule, to the way things should look, and we actually found the discovery of a woman's face in front of a dining table surprising, even discomforting, as if someone had rubbed sand in our eyes.

It was only later that I discovered Wan was from Zhangjia Mill. Her full name was Wan Shanhong, and she'd taught in a locally run school for two years but hadn't wanted to stay there, so she returned to the village to study agriculture for two years-she could even plough just like a man. She was a proper high school graduate and a member of the commune youth group propaganda committee; whenever there was anything important to be done in the commune, they'd generally ask her to come and help write or add things up, people said they even wanted to train her to be a successor to someone or other. Because of this, people still respectfully called her "Teacher Wan" or "Propaganda Committee Wan." She didn't like the young men calling her "Brother Wan" but her objection was only one voice against many and popular feeling couldn't be resisted, so as time went by she had to put up with this name. I must admit that Brother Wan without her cap was not half bad looking: she had a good figure and there was a strong line to her jaw, from ear to chin. She walked back and forth through crowds of men like a sharp scythe cutting back and forth through the grass. But she didn't seem to be much of a talker: during a winter spent with us repairing the highway, she did little more than fling instructions at us in her slightly raspy intonation, a few "okays," "no goods," "let's eats"; and when she spoke, her face was as expressive as a papaya.

Strange to say, the brusquer her words, the more authoritative they became, and the harder it was for anyone else to put up any resistance. As Maqiao people would put it, this was called having sha, or "clout." Sha implied authority or extreme competence, a homonym for the word meaning "kill"; it also meant completion. People with "clout" could be understood as those who had the last word, the ones who had the deciding vote in conversation. Brother Wan's was the only female face with clout that I came across down in the countryside.

In the presence of such clout, any interaction was pretty much no interaction at all; however well you knew her, you still seemed to be separated by 108,000 li. If she bumped into us, she acted as if she'd bumped into thin air; the gleam in her black eyes instantly skimmed over the tops of our heads, landing on some unknown spot in the distance. To begin with, we found this hard to get used to: offering an awkward greeting didn't feel right, but neither did offering no greeting at all; as time went on, however, we saw she acted the same toward everyone, so we accepted it as normal and didn't take it to heart. When I mentioned her name to people from Zhangjia Mill I came across, they'd smile: it's not just Maqiao Bow, there's no one even in the same village, the same stockade who's made friends with her, no one can make her out. She lives near us, but it's like she doesn't exist.

So: it seemed she couldn't get close to anyone.

She just represented official business, a concept, a symbol called Brother Wan that lacked any flicker of a smile, of emotion, warmth, or understanding, and so to many people she had an unreal quality; if you shut your eyes and thought about her, she was no more than an illusion, as if there, but not there. Some said she had a complicated past, that she was the illegitimate child of an important official, the seed of a work team leader planted during land reform; ten or so years later, her mother had brought her to the city, wanting to have a blood test and to voice her grievances. This had left her distinguished father with no choice but to keep her in the county seat and send her to high school, secretly providing for her living and education costs. I don't know how much truth there is in this. Some also said that when she'd been making noisy "Cultural Revolution" a few years ago in the county seat, she'd been a famous student leader who'd got to Beijing and Shanghai, who'd carried a rifle and gone to prison, who'd even been taken to a meeting in a car sent by the provincial military organization, who'd had her picture taken with some big cheese from the Central Committee. I don't know how much truth there is in this, either. Others said although there'd been no talk of marriage for Sister Wan even by the time she was twenty-five or twenty-six, in fact she had a long-term boyfriend, a former classmate of hers who'd joined the army. Every year she'd go to Guangdong for a time to see her boyfriend, people said. Unfortunately, the young lad had been misguided enough to join Lin Biao's clique in the 1971 coup d'etat; after it failed, he was thrown into prison and for several years no word of him was heard; his family and Brother Wan (who'd never been carried over the threshold) only received news after he'd died from illness in prison. Again, I don't know how much truth there is in this.

To me, she'd forever be the stuff of stories and rumors. Her youth washed away amidst such stories and rumors, gradually acquiring the darkened complexion of middle age.

Once, seeing her walking along the road, some uncouth young men decided to pick on her, to provoke her by singing low songs. Seeing that she was turning a deaf ear, they took revenge with filthy catcalls:

"Hey, why so stuck-up? Reckon you're so chummy with the higher-ups, don't you?"

"What kind of a flower d'you think you are, anyway? You must've been knocked up by that army guy ages ago, broken by that dead devil, or else how'd your tits get that big?"

"Forget her missy-prissy act, I don't believe she doesn't want it. Look at how she walks, bum sticking out up to the sky, isn't she just asking for it?"

A wave of laughter.

She acted as if she hadn't heard.

When Maqiao's Zhaoqing heard about this, he laughed at the lads, said they must've been really woman-crazy to pick on Brother Wan. They didn't even think who she was. D'you think you'd be able to stick (see the entry "Stick(y)") a woman with as much form as that?