The Interior

At one o'clock the bell rang in the factory. Before the machines had fully wound down, the women began filing out of the room. Hulan, Peanut, Siang, and hundreds of other women emerged out into the sunshine and headed back toward the dormitory. The festival was over and so completely cleared away that, except for a few eddies of spent firecrackers that had yet to be swept up, the courtyard seemed back to normal. Hulan had expected an air of release, but the women just seemed tired after their week's work. Once inside, Siang ducked into her room, while Hulan and Peanut continued on to theirs. Hulan pulled out the bag she'd brought with her on Thursday and slung it over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Peanut asked. "I thought you weren't from here."

"I'm not, but you know I have a friend in the village. I can stay with her."

"I wish I had somewhere to go," Peanut said as she stripped off her pink smock, threw it on the floor, and climbed up to her bunk.

"At least you can come to the village," Hulan said. "Get a bowl of noodles, walk around."

"I've seen that village. What's there? Nothing I haven't seen a hundred times before in my own village. No, I'd rather stay here and save my money." Peanut sighed and rolled over to face the wall. "See you later."

Hulan stared at Peanut's back, knowing that she probably wouldn't be returning. "Okay," she said, then added, "take care of yourself."

Without turning, Peanut held up an arm and waved as if to push Hulan out the door. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Back in the courtyard, the men who worked in the warehouse waited for the gate to open, while about fifty women and girls boarded the bus, their attitude very different from those left behind. Going back to their families, if even for a day and a half, gave them a buoyancy, a sense of expectation. Hulan took the seat next to Siang, and the bus drove out of the compound. Neither spoke and Hulan chose not to push it.

Just outside Da Shui Village several barefoot children waited for their mothers. After a flurry of hugs, they set off toward their homes, perhaps stopping at the meat shop to pick up a few slivers of pork with their hard-earned salaries. Siang said good-bye and turned down one of the alleyways. Hulan adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then hurried back onto the road.

A half hour later, she cut down into a cornfield. She called out that she was there, and Suchee called back so that Hulan might come toward her voice. A minute later they were face to face. Suchee's shirt was wet with sweat, and her face was streaked with the red earth that had dusted up as she'd hoed a furrow.

"I go back to Beijing today to follow the story," Hulan plunged in. "Before I leave, I want to see Miaoshan's belongings from the factory and ask you a few more questions."

Suchee set down her hoe and led the way along the furrow back to the house. From under Miaoshan's kang Suchee pulled out a small, unopened cardboard box. "The factory sent a message to me through the men in the village that I should go and pick this up," Suchee said, holding the box on her lap. "I haven't opened it." Her lips trembled, then she brusquely set the box down and went outside.

Hulan found a knife and slit open the tape that held the box closed. On the top was folded a black miniskirt and a little lace blouse. The label said THE LIMITED, and Hulan had a vague memory of that chain of mall stores in California. She set these aside and pulled out a pair of Lucky Brand jeans and a T-shirt with a Wal-Mart tag. She'd seen these T-shirts before, since they were manufactured in China and often pirated out of factories by employees or the seconds were sold off in free markets, but the jeans brand was new to her and she wondered where they'd come from. Unzipping a toiletry bag, Hulan found a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush, gel, and hairspray, Maybelline mascara and eye shadow, and a bottle of White Shoulders perfume. Then she flipped through several glossy magazines filled with colorful photographs, looking for hidden papers or notes but encountering none. Some underwear littered the bottom of the box. Tucked into the sea of cotton was something wrapped in tissue and tied with silk ribbon. Hulan opened the package and found a bra and panty set of pink silk edged with black lace. Things like this could certainly be found in China, but not in Da Shui Village or even Taiyuan. Hulan looked for the label and read NEIMAN MARCUS.

Hulan repacked the box and slid it back under the kang. She went outside, stopping at the shed to pick up a hoe, and waded into the field to find Suchee. Once she reached her friend, she eased into the space next to her and began working the soil around the base of the corn. She hadn't done this in more than twenty years, but the movement came back to her as though it had been yesterday-the chop into the soil, the quick jerk to lift it up, and then going back into the mound to aerate. Occasionally she bent down to pull out a weed. Soon sweat ran down her face, and the hand that had been punctured throbbed. Her shoulders, already sore from the factory, burned from a combination of her exertions and the sun's rays coming through her cotton shirt. She knew her discomfort was compounded by her pregnancy, but at the same time realized that peasant women never stopped working for such an insignificant reason. At the end of the furrow, the two women crossed over to the next row and bent once again to their labors. Hulan's mind was filled with questions she wanted to ask, but she was reticent, not knowing how to bring up Miaoshan's sexual activities. But soon enough Hulan lost awareness of proper conduct, time, and even of the heat as she glided into the ancient rhythm of human and soil.

Two hours later, as they reached the end of yet another row, Suchee stepped out of the field to where she'd left a basket. She set down her hoe, squatted down on her haunches, and motioned for Hulan to join her. Suchee reached into the basket and pulled out a thermos. She poured hot tea into the tin cup that served as the thermos top and handed it to Hulan. The bitter green liquid cut through the dust that coated her throat. She gave the cup back to Suchee, who noisily sipped the last of the liquid, then refilled the cup.

Hulan looked at her hands. On Thursday morning her hands had been those of a Red Princess and an investigator at the Ministry of Public Security-smooth, pale, with tapered fingernails. After three days in the countryside her hands were scratched, her nails cracked and ragged, and her palms a mass of broken and unbroken blisters. The bandage that covered the deep gouge was caked with dirt but still protected the wound, which hadn't stopped throbbing. Hulan longed for the cool shower she knew awaited her at the hotel, at the same time realizing that Suchee would never waste water on such a frivolous luxury. Hulan remembered back years ago to the Red Soil Farm and how in the morning people would wash their faces and brush their teeth in the communal water trough, then return at night to wash their hands, faces, feet, and teeth in the same water, which was changed only every three or four days.

"You have questions about Miaoshan," Suchee said at last, "but your ma