Paper Republic Translation Samples

• The Young Couple (from Xiaoxiao ji)

  from Xiaoxiao ji

  One evening at dinner, Huang, who had moved to X village hoping that the quiet would cure his fragile nerves, was feeling helpless in front of a dish of bloody stir-fried chicken his host had made him. Suddenly, he heard a cry from outside:
  

  “Come on, come on! Come see what they’ve caught!”
  

  The voice was urgent, as if something serious had occurred, and soon the whole village echoed with equally anxious responses. Even Huang, who had never really liked crowds, put down his rice bowl and walked out to the pond past the front gate chopsticks in hand to see what was going on.

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Them (她们)

  from Tamen

  After eating, she placed the big wooden basin in the middle of the room and made another trip to the kitchen to boil water. A grey moth settled on an oil stain on the wall. Le hui reached out and slapped at it, but the moth took off early and flew behind her. Le Hui shrugged her shoulders and suddenly the back of her neck began to itch. She scratched, but the itch moved to her back, then her armpits. A week's worth of hidden itches came out all at once.

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Snow and Raven (白雪乌鸦)

  from Bai Xue Wu Ya

  Wang Chunshen’s wife was named Wu Fen, his mistress Jin Lan. Judging by his financial and social position, he should not have had two women by his side. A houseful of wives and concubines was an extravagance belonging to the rich and powerful. Yet from the time she entered his door, Wu Fen clearly demonstrated she wasn’t fated to be a mother, her two miscarriages followed by barrenness. Wang Chunshen’s bedridden mother demanded she hold a grandson before she died, so to be filial, Wang had no choice but to take an official mistress.

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Da-Da-Da (爸爸爸）

  from Ba Ba Ba

  When he was born, he slept with tight-closed eyes for two straight days and nights, nothing to eat or drink, looking for all the world like he was dead and frightening his family halfway there. Only on the third day did he give a “Waaaaa—” and start crying. When he was able to crawl, he was teased and played with often by the other villagers, learning how to be a human. He very quickly learned two phrases, the first of which was, “Daddy,” and the second, “F-ck Mommy.” The latter was a little coarse, yet in the mouth of a child had no real meaning; you could think of it as a symbol, or even as a collection of sounds, sort of like “fa-ke-ma-mi.”
  

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Old Kiln (古炉)

  from Gu Lu

  Happy talked so much about his nephew’s wife that the others used to tease him, saying: you make her out to be such a saint, does she lay your sheets and warm your blankets when Millstone’s out, too? Yet that never bothered Happy, who just laughed and let it go.

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Xu Zechen: Running Through Zhongguancun

  They really got started, then. Kuang Xia was suddenly drinking with abandon, as though she were downing water, their glasses clinking with solemn determination. Drink, drink, she said. Two bottles later all she could say was drink, as she slowly slumped onto the table.

  "You all right?" Dunhuang asked.

  "Fine, drink. Drink." Kuang Xia spoke as if she had a fishball in her mouth. Suddenly she began to weep. "I want to go home, take me home."

  Translated by Eric Abrahamsen

• The Peddler

  from Hua Meng Lu

  The handled drum in the peddler’s hand begins to sound. A day in June, as the westward-tilting sun covers with light the white outer wall and the pagoda trees standing outside of it, their numberless layers of leaves deeply green. The metallic whine of the cicadas suddenly ceases, and a stillness follows; while no one knows how long this old estate has been around, it is still surprising to see travelers come this way. The outer door lies half-closed, as if pushed softly by the inattentive hand of someone going out. Yet here, carrying his yellow wooden crate comes the peddler, over the grassy bank of the outlying field, turns in, passes an ancient ancestral tomb and, knowing without needing to look that this is the Liu family estate, begins rotating his lifted wrist, and the beng-beng-beng of his drum comes pulsing out.
  

  Translated by Canaan Morse

• Ball Lightning Extract

  from Qiuzhuang Shandian

  The woman stood at the edge of the corridor, wind whipping at her short hair and her slender form frail-looking against the web of lightning that flickered within dense black clouds. She presented an unforgettable image as she stood motionless amid the terrible thunder.

  Translated by Joel Martinsen

• The Petitioner

  BEIJING HAS been the graveyard of hope for countless petitioners who come in their hundreds of thousands every year to seek justice. Many end up in what have become known as petitioner villages, one of the most prominent of which lies alongside the optimistically named Good Fortune Road, near Yongdingmen, on Beijing’s west side.

  They come from the four corners of the nation, descending upon the petition offices of the central government’s many ministries, hoping to air their grievances and see justice served. Few find satisfaction, though; it is estimated only about one in 500 petitions brought to Beijing results in a resolution of any kind. Many petitioners are forced to return home by “interceptors” sent by regional governments, to face punishment.

  Petitioning is a Chinese custom that dates back centuries; as early as the Zhou dynasty (1045BC to 256BC) people were banging drums and kneeling before visiting mandarins’ carriages to draw attention to their plight. The tradition lives on because it’s the only recourse for ordinary people unable to vote and in a corrupt system full of legal loopholes. By appealing to a higher level of bureaucracy, petitioners hope for resolutions denied them in their home provinces. The practice is also rooted in the belief that absolute power does not corrupt and only a powerful wise man or benevolent leader can hand down justice.

  Every year, more than 500,000 petitioners travel to the capital – the vast majority from the impoverished countryside – in search of a “saviour”. Also, untold thousands head to provincial seats of government but those who converge on the mainland’s cities and towns are only the most visible of the country’s aggrieved; the State Bureau for Letters and Calls, the government body handling petitions nationwide, receives more than 10 million annually.

  Nearly 80 per cent of the petitions allege mismanagement within local government. The stories behind the petitions – a selection of which have been documented by The New York Times photographer Du Bin and published in the Chinese-language book The Petitioner – Living Fossil Under Chinese Rule by Law – are varied and often tragic. They encompass family and land disputes, official corruption, legacies of the Cultural Revolution, forced relocation, cruel punishment and murder.

  However, more often than not, petitioners are treated as enemies of the state. Many have been locked up for weeks in unofficial prisons; some of the most recalcitrant have been committed for life to a mental institution. Nearly all think the officials designated to meet with them pass the buck when they can get away with it.

  In recent weeks, Beijing has been trying to pass that buck back to the local level. Partly to put an end to a system so obviously flawed and partly to maintain peace and order during the celebrations for the 60th anniversary of the People’s Republic of China, the central government last month issued an edict demanding provincial officials resolve petitions locally and swiftly. Communist Party legal officials will visit areas with a high number of petitioners who come to Beijing and will accept cases on the spot, according to Xinhua news agency. The edict may also lead to petitioning in the capital being made illegal.

  Edict or no edict, the majority of petitioners hold out little hope of ever being heard by Beijing officials. And yet many have lingered for years in the capital, in de facto exile. Petitioning has become their raison d’être…

  [Originally published in the South China Morning Post magazine]

  Translated by Violet Law

• Memoirs of Dr. Gao Yaojie

  IN THE 1980s, when I heard of AIDS, I mistook it for the exclusive domain of drug addicts and the promiscuous, because that was what the media and the government reported. But facts on the ground would soon change my view of how AIDS was being transmitted in China.

  Sometime during the mid-1990s, I began to run into patients who had contracted AIDS through blood transfusions.

  They were all innocent women. I was stunned. When I came into contact with even more HIV carriers and Aids patients, I realized this was in fact a nationwide epidemic.

  As a doctor I couldn’t turn a blind eye; I had a responsibility to do all I could to prevent this epidemic from spreading. However, at the time, I was unaware of the unfathomable forces underlying the widespread transmission of HIV. Had I known, I might not have been able to muster the courage. It’s been 12 years since I threw myself into this work and since then I’ve been on a treacherous path to raise the awareness of people both in and outside the country…

  [Originally published in the South China Morning Post magazine]

  Translated by Violet Law

• Common Sense

  from Changshi

  Essays from the outspoken Hong Kong-based journalist, Leung Mantao.

  Translated by Nicky Harman

• Happy

  from Gaoxing

  A novel setting for Jia Pingwa's latest work, focussing on the lives of migrant workers.

  Translated by Nicky Harman

• Screwed

  Han Dong's surreal and rudely funny new novel, due out April 2010.

  In 1968, Xiaofei, like millions of other high-school students (‘educated youth’) is sent down, on Chairman Mao Zedong’s orders, to a remote vil- lage to ‘learn from the poor and lower middle peasants’. The village has just one ox, Girlie, faithfully cared for by a peasant so poor that he can’t afford to marry and shares the ox’s accommodation, the cowshed. Bored by the monotony of country life, the students start mischievous rumours that they have been screwing Girlie the ox. This schoolboy joke goes wrong when Girlie falls sick: the ‘educated youth’ are accused of sabotaging pro- duction by raping the animal and causing her to break down. The blame is pinned on Xiaofei…

  Translated by Nicky Harman

• The Silent Majority

  from Wo de Jingshen Jiayuan

  But if all speech is only a payment of tax, then we’re in trouble. What can all that speech be used for? It’s talk, not money; it can’t be used to build dams, nor power stations. Once paid, it can only be left there to rot, to be mocked by future generations. Of course, I shouldn’t concern myself about the uses of expropriated speech; perhaps it has other uses I’ve not thought of. What I want to say is, the collection of the speech tax has been going on since ancient times. Those who speak have always known of the need to pay it. Th at need has been absorbed into their blood, and realised in their mouths.

  [First published in the Asia Literary Review]

  Translated by Eric Abrahamsen