THE GEE BROTHERS UNLOADED THE BROKEN terra-cotta statue in the workshop, which also served as kitchen and living space for Ming and his bā ba.
A plastic clothesline stretched across the room. It sagged under the weight of the damp green garments that hung over the stove. Along one wall were shelves heaped high with basins, bowls, and books. A desk stood against the opposite wall.
Ming brushed transistor tubes and various electronic parts to one side of the desk and carefully set the head down. He picked up a worn stub of pencil and a pad of paper with the big bold heading XI'AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE, 1958–1974. After clearing his throat, he delivered the instructions he had dictated many times since he had turned thirteen, a year ago.
"Please write down your name and address so my father can contact you. You will be compensated if your discovery is valuable." Even though Ming already had the Gee brothers' information, he wanted to maintain the formality of the transaction.
"Of course it's valuable! You tell Old Chen it's worth at least fifty bags of rice!" As the youngest brother snatched the pad and pencil from Ming, his broad shoulders knocked loose one of the shirts hanging from the clothesline. It fell to the ground with a plop.
None of the brothers bothered to pick it up.
"Hey, I just washed that!" Ming protested.
"Oh, look, he can do women's work!" the middle Gee brother sneered.
The three men chuckled.
Bristling, Ming angrily pushed aside the youngest brother, who was laboriously writing on the paper. Ming picked up the shirt and tossed it back over the line.
The youngest Gee threw the pencil and paper onto the desk. His hand paused in midair, then reached for a red pin with Chairman Mao's profile. Below Mao were gold characters proclaiming "Serve the People," wèi rén mín fú wù, 为人民服务. The pin was a rare edition Ming's bā ba had brought home from Xi'an.
Eyes flaring with anger, Ming quickly grabbed it and swept it into the desk drawer.
Deprived of the pin, the youngest brother clenched his hand into a fist. "Don't try to cheat us!" he snarled. "We'll be back for our money!" As he stormed out, his feet pounded the floor with enough force to kick up chunks of dirt. His brothers followed, muttering in agreement.
Ming closed the door behind them, relieved to shut out both their grating voices and the chilly early-spring air. He took a few deep breaths to gather his thoughts and then walked into the back room, which served as storage space as well as the bedroom. The government had built it onto the back of the house when Ming's bā ba became the museum's representative. Along with the addition, they had given him an official document, declaring that anything unearthed in the village was the property of the Xi'an museum.
Ming filled a small bamboo basket with egg-size pieces of coal and returned to the front room. He tossed a few of them onto the low-burning fire, then fanned the flames. After setting an aging kettle on the stove, he sat down near the desk, gazing curiously at the broken soldier. Where did it come from? Could it be from a tomb? Would it be enough to convince the government to keep the office open and resume paying his bā ba's salary?
Ming had prayed to gods known and unknown, to ancestors named and unnamed, and even to Chairman Mao that his bā ba would make an incredible discovery that could lift them out of this backward village. How he missed the movie theaters in the city. And the indoor bathrooms-they were warm even during the worst snowstorms! More than anything, Ming missed his friends in Xi'an. Ever since he and his bā ba had arrived in the village of Red Star, the kids had treated him with a hostility he did not understand. He often wondered if it was because he was from the city and represented a world they didn't know.
Ming spotted a small square piece from the military chess game that he and his bā ba liked to play. He picked up the rough, handmade tile from under the desk and tossed it into the desk drawer, smiling. He had memorized the wood-grain pattern on the back of his bā ba's important pieces. Ming had learned that if he could find his bā ba's general and assassinate it with one of his precious bombs, he was guaranteed victory. But last night, Bā ba had removed both generals from the field, smiling knowingly at Ming. "The generals need some rest. The colonels will lead the battle tonight."
Somehow, Ming had still managed to win the game. This morning, before departing, his bā ba had patted Ming on the shoulder and said, "The colonel will be in charge in the general's absence."
Ming glanced at the clay head-and froze. Had the nose just twitched? It couldn't have! He leaned closer, staring intently.
This time, the eyes seemed to follow him.
Impossible! Ming shook his head, annoyed at himself for entertaining such silly thoughts. He reached over and picked up a bronze arrowhead from the floor, rubbing off the dirt with his thumb and forefinger. The edge pressed into his skin, still razor-sharp beneath the grime.
Maybe he should sell the arrowheads as scrap metal for food, like other village boys. If he was lucky, he might even get enough money to buy two hard-boiled eggs. He quickly shook off the idea, imagining his bā ba's disapproving look.
Ming gazed outside, where the sun was peeking out from behind fast-moving clouds. He felt as if someone was staring at him. He quickly looked around the room. Again he caught sight of the head. He could have sworn that the eyes blinked and the ears wiggled, but when he turned on the plastic desk lamp, the head bore the same blank expression as before.
Ming shook his head in exasperation and wondered if the changing light from outside was playing tricks on him. He picked up the head and held it under the bulb, squinting at the 田 character inscribed on the nape of its neck. Could it be someone's name?
"Hello, young man! Are you going to assemble me?"
With a loud yelp, Ming dropped the head and jumped back, pressing himself against the wall.
The head landed face-first on the desk with a dull thunk.
Ming stared at it with a mix of terror and fascination. It slowly rolled sideways, until one ear rested on the desk and the other faced up.
"Hey! I'm delicate! How would you like it if I tossed your head around?" The head raised its eyebrows in mock curiosity. The gravelly voice took on a commanding tone. "Clumsy boy, come over here and put me upright!"
Ming glanced at the door behind him.
"Come on. I won't bite!"
Ming was rooted to the spot, as stiff as a frozen fish.
"If you help me," the head coaxed, "I shall tell you some exciting stories about me and my friends-and maybe even a few secrets about the tomb we live in. Does that sound like a fair deal?"
Hesitantly, Ming crept forward. He gingerly righted the clay head.
"Much better! Now, sit down," the head ordered.
Ming pulled up a wicker chair with a shaking hand and plopped down.
