Yu Yan Chen (陈瑜燕) is an award-winning poet and literary translator. She won Singapore’s Golden Point Award in 2015 and garnered the top prize at the Flushing Poetry Festival in 2019. Her first poetry collection, entitled Small Hours, was published by the NYQ Books in 2011. Her second poetry Grandma Says (祖母说), was published in 2017. Her translation of The Chief Cellist, a children’s book by Taiwanese author Wang Wenhua, was published by the Balestier Press in 2015. She currently resides in Singapore and has translated short stories, essays and poems by Yi Sha, Mai Jia, Li Juan, Han Dong, and Zheng Xiaoqiong.
Li Juan (李娟) was born in 1979 in Xinjiang Province. She spent her childhood in remote towns in both Sichuan and Xinjiang. She used to work on the assembly line, but became a government employee at a later time. In 2007 she resigned to write full time. Her works center on her sensitive meditations while living among the Kazakh nomads of the Altay region. Her prose collections include Nine Chapters of Snow, Corners of Altay, My Altay, Please Sing Out Loud while Traveling through the Night, and Remember Little, Forget More. Corners of Altay has been translated into French and Korean. She has also won a number of prestigious awards including the People’s Literature Award, Zhu Ziqing Prose Prize, Mao Dun Literature Prize, and Shanghai Literature Prize, among others. She currently lives in Altay, Xinjiang.
The Strange Bank at Kawutu
Li Juan
(translated by Chen Yu Yan)
The Kawutu township government consists of a row of little red-roofed houses in the forest to the west of the village. There is nothing official or serious about it, since there are sparrows and wild pigeons all over the place. There is even a group of Gula chickens calling gula gula in the bushes right outside the window. The dudu sound of the woodpeckers comes from high in the trees, while crows take this opportunity to roam about with their hulala calls.
On the contrary, the Kawutu post office is an elegant house made of red bricks, complete with a bright yellow roof and a snow-white wooden fence. Unfortunately this lovely place has never opened its doors for business. Rumour has it that the postmaster bought a house in a more urban area and moved away with his family; since then he’s become a city man and has never returned to Kawutu, yet he is still somehow considered as the postmaster.
Aside from him, there is another staff member at the post office. He’s normally our bricklayer and handyman. From time to time (when he suddenly recalls his duty as a postman) he will deliver the mail from one house to the next. There was one occasion when he went to each household to ask if anyone would like to subscribe to magazines. We happily subscribed to two, but to this day we have yet to see any trace of them. However, you can still get stamps and envelopes from him – not in that fairytale-like red brick house, but in his own home. I went through nearly half the village one day, going through all its nooks and crannies, in order to find his abode. After I told him the purpose of my visit, he pulled up one corner of the felt blanket on his bed and searched inside with his hands for a while, eventually dragging out a stack of old newspapers in Kazakh. The government stamps and envelopes were stacked inside, along with crochet samples from his grandmother.
Though we all call it a bank, the Kawutu Bank is actually a small credit union. Located right across the road from my house, it is simpler than the government building and the post office. It’s a one-story house made of red brick with its eaves heavily covered in wild grass, and there is a small yard at the front surrounded by a short and tidy wooden fence. About a dozen tall willow and poplar trees have been planted in single file along it. The entrance archway is very short, with a copper sign hanging on the fence. A narrow gravel path leads straight to the front steps. There are a few roses scattered about, as well as a couple of tall sunflowers. A well can be found at one corner, its lip smooth and shiny, while a wooden shed at the other corner is filled with coal. Actually, it’s not much different from any other household in this area, if you were to tie up a dog inside the yard.
There are also ropes between several trees, which I assumed were used for laundry because the location has the best sunlight exposure. So after I washed my clothes I walked over and hung them on the ropes, resulting in several rows of brightly-coloured clothing drying in the sun. The garments that didn’t fit were draped haphazardly on branches. Just as I thought I’d found the perfect place, the head of the bank erupted in fury. He dragged down the bedsheet and crossed the streets, brandishing it. When he reached my house he let out a torrent of angry words. We couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, except that drying my laundry there was not allowed. This was surprising – if it wasn’t permitted, why did they put up the ropes?
Thinking back, it was rather funny that I tried to dry my underwear and a bedsheet patterned with red flowers and green leaves in front of a bank.
Given that it is such an unassuming bank, there is probably not much money available. Neither have I seen anyone who looks like a client going inside. On top of that, the few bank employees look drunk every day, and go around asking for credit at different shops. For example, Dawulie left his leather hat as collateral at our store last year, but hasn’t come back to reclaim it this winter. He’s probably in a bind: if he wants the hat, he’ll have to pay back his debts, but if he doesn’t get it back, how will he get through the winter? He’d need to spend money to buy a new one… In the end, he’ll have to spend money no matter what.
All the local children like to play in the bank yard without their trousers in summer, because a creek with lots of small fish passes through it. The trees inside grow especially well, and are perfect for climbing: the kind with lots of branches and trunks grown into curls within curls, with bulges big enough for a person to stand on while holding onto something else. As a result, they are always full of children. Whenever you call out in that direction, all the heads and eyes turn in unison. The one doing the shouting is usually the head of the bank, and the tree – that was laden with children one second ago – will drop them like fruits the next. Putong, putong. In the blink of an eye they all fall off, and leaves scatter all over the ground.
The bank is always quiet during the summer. It must be relaxing to work there; you don’t have to do much except guard the building. With all those trees, it must be cool and comfortable. My house is hot as an oven. Without a single tree around, it stands naked under the sun. Even sitting inside, our sweat drops like rain. I would go across every day to get water from the well, watching the sunflowers growing taller, their leaves becoming denser as they climb. It would have been lovely for us to live there; I love the creek, its clear water rimmed with yellow dandelions.
As soon as winter arrives, the bank employees tend not to come to work. They aren’t the only ones, though. The Kawutu business bureau, tax bureau, and town cooperatives all shut down. They’re so lucky. We often see knee-height snow inside the yard with one deep set of footprints in it. The staff who do occasionally go in (they really have no choice) use the same path, leaving behind the same set of footprints. These footprints are a fixed scene in front of the bank for the entire winter.
When the long winter finally ends after nearly six months, my mother prepares to follow the herdsmen north into the mountains. Of those doing business in our region, most will operate a roaming grocery shop with the sheep flocks. It is profitable to do business in the pasture, but we don’t have enough capital to buy merchandise to last the entire summer. With her mind set on that bank, my mother went for a loan one day.
How on earth was she able to get the loan? As far as I know, the bank only has one type – the agriculture loan given out before the spring planting – but she is neither a farmer nor a local resident; we’ve only been operating the store in Kawutu for over a year. Nonetheless, my mother was able to get it. Maybe it was because we were neighbours, and the fact that we couldn’t avoid seeing each other all the time made them embarrassed to say no.
Indeed, just because there are no customers for the entire year doesn’t mean that the bank isn’t full of noise and people on the two days when agricultural loan is accepting applications. Even before it opens in the morning, people are already waiting in line. Villagers from several hundreds of kilometres away come by (Kawutu township is very long: even though it’s only a few kilometres from east to west, it spans several hundred kilometres from north to south). The wooden fence surrounding the yard is obscured by horses, and the road outside has clumps of people engaging in heated discussions about the loan. Perhaps because this type of loan has only been around for two years, the locals see it as money distributed by the government for everyone to spend. Even if they don’t need the money, they want to get it just in case. At least that was what we gathered.
My mother asked, “Are you thinking about not returning the loan?”
Someone replied, “Why not? We will return it whenever we have the money.”
But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. The oddest thing was how my mother was able to get a loan.
She’d been standing in line for the entire morning. When lunch time came around I went to look for her. As I pushed through the crowd, I was shocked when I met a sea of heads.
When you first pass through the front door you’re forced to descend a few steps to get to the bank interior proper, which consists of a tiny lobby with a red brick floor and colourfully-foiled ceiling, and a counter surrounded by a metal barricade. Of course, I could barely make out any of these, nor the green-painted wooden windowsills, because of the crowd packed into the barely ten-meter-square space, even though I was standing at the highest point at the top of the steps. However, I could see over the entire crowd, and I searched eagerly for my mother. I couldn’t identify the back of her head amid the chaos, and had to call out several times before she finally turned around. She was waving an envelope in mid-air, pushing onward through the wave of people, trying her best to leave the counter.
That was it. She was able to get a loan of 3,000 yuan. But we didn’t pay it back for a long time. It was embarrassing.
According to my mother, the head of the bank moved away, so she had no idea who to return the money to, and no one came to ask us about it. Besides, we moved several times ourselves since then.
In the summer of 2006, we finally paid it back. One of the bank employees went to a summer ranch to visit his relatives. He got lost on the way, and ended up at our house by accident.
~
喀吾图奇怪的银行
李娟
喀吾图的乡政府是村子西边树林里的一排红屋顶小房子。那里一点儿都不严肃，到处都是麻雀和野鸽子。还有一群呱啦鸡整天在政府办公室窗外的树丛中“呱嗒呱嗒”地东突西窜，啄木鸟不停地在高处“笃笃笃”啄着木头，乌鸦也“呼啦啦”到处乱飞。
喀吾图的邮政所则是一个较为精致的红砖房子，还有黄艳艳的木头屋顶和雪白的木头栅栏。可惜这么漂亮的邮政所从没见开门营业过。听说邮政所的所长很多年前在县城买了房子，举家搬走了，从此成为城里人，再也没回过喀吾图。但说起来仍然还是喀吾图邮政所的所长。真是奇怪。
除了所长，邮政所还有一个工作人员，但平时是村里的泥瓦匠，谁家有活干就去帮着打打零工。偶尔仿佛某天突然记起来了才挨家挨户送一次信。还有一次他挨家挨户上门征订杂志，我们就很高兴地订了两份，但是直到现在也没见着一本。不过在他那里还是能买上邮票和信封的，但却不是在邮政所那个童话般的红房子里，而是在他自己家里。那天我打听了半个村子才拐弯抹角找到他家，他把他家床上的毡子揭起一角，伸手进去摸了半天，终于摸出来一沓子哈文旧报纸。公家的邮票和信封就在里面夹着，居然和他老祖母的绣花毡的花样子放在一起。
喀吾图的银行 其实只是个小信用社而已，但我们都称之为银行就在我家门口的马路对面。比起乡政府和邮政所，银行朴实了许多，也是红砖的平房，屋前的小院子围着整齐低矮的木头栅栏，沿着木头栅栏一溜儿栽着十来棵高大的柳树和杨树。院门低矮，栅栏边挂着信用社的小铜匾。一条碎石小路从院门直直地通向红房子台阶下，红房子屋檐上长满了深深的野草。院子里稀稀拉拉种着些月季花和两三棵向日葵；院子一角有一眼井，井台又滑又亮。另一个角落的小木棚里堆满了煤 如果在院子里再拴一条狗的话，就和一般人家的院子没什么区别了。
院子里那几棵大树之间牵了好几根绳子，估计是用来晾衣服的，而那一片也正是坦阔向阳的地方。于是我洗了衣服就端一大盆过去，花花绿绿地晾了几大排。晾不下的就东一件西一件地高高搭在树枝上。我还以为自己找到了好地方，结果可把他们的行长给气坏了。他拽下我晾着的大床单，一路挥舞着穿过马路跑到我家来，啊啊呀呀，嚷嚷半天也没说清楚什么 总之就是不能在那儿晾。
真是的，不让晾衣服的话，牵几根绳子在那儿干啥？
后来再想想，又有趣。我居然在银行门口晾内衣和红花绿叶的床单。
这个银行这么小，这么不起眼，里面也肯定没什么钱的。而且，我几乎从没见有人进去过。再而且，银行上班的那几个伙计每天都一副醉醺醺的样子，到处赊账。银行的达吾列在我们家商店抵押的那顶皮帽子从上个冬天一直放到了这个冬天都没有来赎呢。他一定很矛盾吧 想要帽子的话，得还债；不赎吧，冬天得戴帽子呀，另外买帽子的话还是得花钱……反正怎么着都得花钱。
我们这里的小孩子到了夏天都喜欢光着屁股在银行院子里玩，因为经过银行院子的小水渠里有很多小鱼苗子游来游去。另外银行院子里的树也长得挺好，是那种最适合让人去爬的 枝枝丫丫特别多，树干长得曲里拐弯，随便一个鼓出来的大树蔸上都能攀着站个人。于是，这些树上便总是人满为患，抬头冲那里喊一声，所有脑袋转过来，所有眼睛看过来一般来说，喊的人当然是银行行长。于是，这棵栖满了孩子的树在下一秒钟内，像掉果子一样，扑扑通通，转眼间就一个也没了。只剩一地的树叶。
一整个夏天，这个银行安安静静的。我想，在那里上班一定很惬意，大约什么也不用干，把房子守好就行了。而且那里树又多，肯定很凉快。而我们家店里热死了，周围一棵树也没有，光秃秃袒露在阳光下，坐在房间里挥汗如雨。我天天到银行院子里的那眼井里提水，看着向日葵一天一天高了，叶子越抽越密。唉，要是我们住在那里面就好了。我很喜欢院子里的那条小渠，水总是很清，水边长满开着黄花的蒲公英。
冬天的时候，银行的那几个职工几乎就不怎么上班了。不仅如此，喀吾图工商所的、地税所的、供销社的……统统都不上班。这些人真幸福呀。因此作为对街邻居，我们经常可以看到的情景是：银行院子里平整地铺着没膝厚的积雪。雪上深深地陷着一串脚印偶尔回单位办点事的职工进去时都只踩着同一串脚印聪明地(其实是毫无办法地)进去。因此整个冬天里银行门口就只有那一串脚印。
长达半年的冬天结束之后，我妈就开始做准备，要随牧民进山了。凡是我们这里做生意的人，夏天大都会开流动的商店跟着羊群走，夏牧场上做生意利润很高的。我们也想那样做，但要准备充分的商品的话，我们资金又不够。于是我妈把主意打到银行那里了，有一天她去贷款……
天啦，她是怎么把款贷到手的！要知道我们这个小银行的贷款只有一种，就是春耕前的农业贷款。可是她不但不是农民，连本地人都算不上 我们才来喀吾图开店一年多时间，甚至连富蕴县人都算不上，虽然来到富蕴县快二十年了，但仍然没有当地户口……反正她后来就贷上了……
总不可能因为大家都是邻居，抬头不见低头见，不好意思不贷给我们吧？
对了，这家银行一年到头冷冷清清的，可是到了农业贷款发放那两天却热闹非凡。一大早还没上班，人们就在门口排队等待了。几百公里以外的老乡也赶来了(喀吾图乡地形狭长，东西不过几十公里，南北却长达好几百公里)，银行院子周围的木栅栏上系满了马。马路上也三三两两聚拢着人，热火朝天地谈论着有关贷款的话题。有趣的是，大概这种贷款在当地发放没两年的原因吧，当地人对“贷款”这一概念的认识模糊到 居然以为那就是国家发给大家随便用的钱，哪怕家里明明不缺钱也要想法子贷回家放着。起码我们了解到的是这样的……
我妈问他们：“难道不想还了吗？”
那人就很奇怪地回答：“为什么不还？什么时候有了什么时候还嘛……”
这还不是最奇怪的，最奇怪的是我妈，她怎么贷上款的？
那天她去排了一上午的队，中午快吃饭时我去找她回家。穿过银行院子里热闹的人群，好容易挤进门去，一脚踏进去就傻眼了：黑压压一片人头……
银行屋里的情形是陷在地里半米深的，一进门就是台阶，所以我所站的门口位置是最高处。但居高临下扫视了半天，也认不出我妈究竟是哪个后脑勺。里面闹哄哄的，喊了好几嗓子，才看到她回过头来，高举着一个信封，努力地挤在人堆里，想要离开柜台。
那是我第一次瞧见银行内部的情形。很小很小，焊了铁栏杆的柜台外不过十几个平方的空地。红砖铺的地板，金色的锡纸彩带编成一面天花板绷在上方，木头窗台刷了绿漆。
就这样，钱贷到手了，虽然不过3000块钱，但是不好意思的是……好长时间都没有还。据我妈的说法是：那个银行的行长调走了，实在是不知道该还给谁……也从来没人找上门来提这事，而且后来我们又搬了好几次家。
2006年夏天，那笔钱到底还是还掉了。因为那个银行的一个工作人员到夏牧场走亲戚，在深山老林里迷了路，不小心竟撞进了我们家……