Chronicle of a Blood Merchant by Yu Hua, Andrew F. Jones Page A

long enough! Dad, the bucket was caught under a ledge! Dad, how long was I down in the well?”
    Sanle ran eagerly forward to announce the total but was quickly and dismissively waved away by Xu Sanguan, who was stroking the water from Yile’s forehead with his other hand.
    “Sanle, didn’t I already tell you to get out of here?”
    XU SANGUAN said things like that to “the little brat” all the time.
    So did Xu Yulan.
    Even Yile and Erle told him to go away sometimes.
    And when they told him to go away, he really would go away, walking through the streets, salivating as he stood for what seemed like hours outside the candy shop, squatting alone by the river looking at the little fish and the little shrimps in the shallows, pasting himself against electrical poles to listen to the sound of the electricity rushing across the wires above, falling asleep in somebody else’s house with his arms wrapped around his knees. He would always walk and walk until he didn’t know where he was, then ask for directions until he found his way home.
    Xu Sanguan always said to Xu Yulan, “Yile’s like me and Erle takes after you. But I have no idea who that little brat takes after.”
    When Xu Sanguan said such things, what he really meant was that of the three children, he liked Yile best of all. But it was also Yile who had become someone else’s son. Sometimes Xu Sanguan would sit back in the rattan chair thinking about Yile and start to cry.
    As Xu Sanguan cried, Sanle approached, and seeing his father cry, he too burst into tears without knowing why. His father’s sadness was catching, like a yawn.
    When Xu Sanguan discovered that someone was crying even more brokenheartedly than himself, he turned his head to discover “the little brat” standing by his side. He would dismiss him with a wave of his hand. “Sanle, go away.”
    Sanle could only turn and leave. By this time Sanle was already seven years old. He carried a little slingshot in one hand, and his pockets were stuffed full of little stones. He would pace back and forth, and when he caught sight of a magpie moving along the eaves of a house or stirring among some tree branches, he would aim the slingshot and fire. Even if he didn’t succeed in actually hitting the bird, he could usually send it packing, twittering as it flew into the distance. Then he would shout, “Come back, you! Come back!”
    Sanle’s slingshot was often aimed at street lamps, at cats, chickens, and ducks. He would aim for clothes hanging from bamboo poles to dry, at bundles of dried fish hanging from the eaves of houses, at bottles, baskets, and vegetables floating in the river. One time he even hit another boy on the head with a rock.
    The boy was about the same age as Sanle himself. He was walking down the street when the rock hit his head. At first his body rocked back and forth with the unexpectedness of the blow. Then he reached out his hand to rub the spot that had been hit. Finally, he burst into tears. Still crying, he turned to see Sanle holding the slingshot and grinning in his direction. He walked over toward Sanle and extended one arm to slap him. Rather than landing on Sanle’s face, the slap somehow landed on the back of his head. Sanle, in turn, reached out and slapped the other boy. Then they traded blows, the sound of their slaps ringing out like an ovation. But the sound of their crying was even louder, because by now Sanle too was sobbing with anger and pain.
    The other boy said, “I’m gonna go get my brother. I have two big brothers. My brothers will beat you up.”
    Sanle said, “So what? I have two big brothers too. My brothers’ll beat up your brothers.”
    The two children stopped slapping each other and negotiated. They agreed that they would each fetch their brothers and meet at the same place an hour later.
    When Sanle arrived home, he saw Erle sitting drowsily inside. “Erle, I had a fight with another kid. Come out and help me.”
    Erle asked, “Who was