Secretary Bai was indignant, but managed to keep a smile on his face and act quiet and genial. He drove to the prefecture committee three nights in a row to battle for justice. But once the committee members had made their decision, they would not yield. Secretary Bai worked to hide his frustration whenever he faced Zheng Quanzhang.
As ordered, Zheng Quanzhang began to transfer his duties to the newly appointed vice-minister of organization.
“I’m going home,” he said to Secretary Bai with an apologetic smile. “I’ve handed over what I should.” A humiliating blush crept up his sallow face. “I haven’t been home for a long time. I . . . I ask for a few days’ leave to go back home.” His eyes were sunken so deep that the bones around them seemed to jut out from his face. His eyeballs themselves seemed to be recoiling in fear. But tears welled there when he looked at Secretary Bai. He said, “I’m going back home . . .” He stood up and left, rubbing his eyes. He was still a boy!
Secretary Bai knew that when Zheng Quanzhang walked out of there, out of the county committee courtyard on his way to his hometown, he was beginning a long and difficult journey, an ordeal no smaller than the twenty-five-thousand-li Long March in his personal life, for he’d have to face many people on his way.
As Zheng Quanzhang wheeled his bike out the gate of the county committee courtyard, he came upon Ma Zhankui, who seemed to be waiting for him. Ma was wearing his shades, his face wreathed, his bulging stomach detracting from his height, making him seem even shorter. This time Ma did not hold Zheng Quanzhang’s hands tightly; instead, he touched Zheng’s hand symbolically.
“Communist Youth League School Zheng!” he said with jeering laughter. “We are alike in being removed from office and power!”
Zheng Quanzhang came to a halt, narrowing his eyes at Ma.
“Yes, we are the same. Dismissed from office.”
“Oh, damn it!” cursed Ma Zhankui. “There is no damn truth in this world!”
“No,” Zheng Quanzhang replied, “I don’t agree with you there.”
“Back home?”
“Back home.”
“Well, see you later!” Ma said.
“Later.”
Zheng Quanzhang wheeled his bike away and Ma Zhankui waddled into the courtyard.
5
Zheng Quanzhang remained at his parents’ house.
The virtues of living in the countryside were countless: no one showed any particular concern for the intricacies of the county institutional reform; no one cared about personnel changes; nobody dwelt upon the joys and sorrows of moving up or down in the bureaucracy. Farmers had their own concerns; they minded their own business and attended to the practical things they could see with their own eyes. They were not overjoyed to have a personnel director in the village, nor were they affected by his suddenly losing the position. The villagers would neither try to butter him up nor pour scorn on him. In their eyes, he was only a cadre earning a salary; that was all. His return on leave from work inspired only minimal comment, for his family had never made a big deal of his being head of personnel. Zheng Quanzhang could now enjoy the simplicity, good-heartedness, and warmth of the country folks, as well as the fragrant fields and the joy of labor. Here was a different world, entirely separate from that of the county committee courtyard.
Zheng Quanzhang had sentimental thoughts: he should do more good for these kind people, but now he lacked the power to do so. When he was working at the county committee compound, his work had felt isolated and irrelevant. But now he could see the real significance of that work and the decisions he’d made. He heard the villagers discussing the rising fees for water and electricity; the changing costs of commodities; the complexities of merchandise production, warehousing, civil disputes—and for the first time he saw the dry procedural machinery come to life in the faces of the villagers and in the fields stretching out before him. And his grief weighed more heavily than ever on his heart, especially when he was alone.
His family did their best to care for him. His parents insisted he be offered the best food every day. His wife often urged, “Take a walk outside when you have nothing to do. Don’t stay at home all the time; it’s not good for you.”
And every time his beautiful, healthy wife went out, she’d return with some bit of news to entertain him with. “Sheshe’s wife quarreled with her mother-in-law and called her names again! His wife is really a bloody nuisance. Her brother-in-law beat her and her husband, so Sheshe hit him back. I scolded Sheshe that he should keep his shrew wife on a leash and not turn a deaf ear when she shouts abuse to his mother in the courtyard! So Sheshe pushed his wife into the room and took out a handkerchief and swatted his wife on the leg. I asked him if it was enough for him to dust his wife’s pants.”
Zheng Quanzhang laughed.
When he was overcome with regret, humiliation, and gloom, he went to labor in the fields. If there was no work to do, he would walk in the fields.
One clear day after a rainfall, he stood at noon on the main road outside the village. It was early summer; the sun was shining, and the rain-soaked wheat stretched to the far horizon. The rain-freshened northern mountains stood out crisp and clear. The scene was awash in light blues and deep blues, and the beauty of it brought joy to Zheng’s heart, exalted his vision, and took his mind off his problems.
A bay colt appeared on the road. He kicked up his heels and ran off into the distance, then turned back from afar and dashed away again. He seemed determined to revel in the joy of life and youth. Apparently he knew he was being watched, for he played tricks the next time he dashed off. He tilted his body and veered into a stand of poplars beside the road, taking a corner gracefully before dashing out toward the main thoroughfare.
Just then the colt stepped into a roadside puddle, his forehooves skidding so that he fell to his knees. He recovered quickly, standing up and walking onto the main road—sheepishly and slowly now, looking only down at the earth. Soon a truck appeared on the road, heading toward him. He swished his tail, turned around slowly, and stood still on the road, facing away from the oncoming truck. He seemed to be trying to save face with this daring act. His sharp ears were pricked up attentively, the rims turned backward. The truck came nearer, bearing down as the colt slowly began to move. The truck horn was blaring and the earth was shaking. Finally the colt skittered away, his feet barely touching the ground. Careering for a few steps until out of danger, he suddenly remembered his dignity and resumed walking, slowly and princely, marching in step.
Zheng Quanzhang laughed heartily.
That evening, Secretary Bai came to see him. The wise leader, glancing around at Zheng Quanzhang’s shack kitchen, said, “I don’t want to offer any sympathetic words, for they are useless. What I want to say is, congratulations! For I believe it is a good thing for a young man to fall sometimes; then he has the opportunity to pick himself up and go on and learn lessons from his fall. If an old man falls down, he might break his bones and never get up. But a young man’s bones are fresh and strong, and a little stumble does no harm. That’s all. You may have a rest. I’m leaving now.”
That night, Zheng Quanzhang couldn’t sleep. He was remembering his three years in the central school of the Communist Youth League—his aspirations and ambition, the expectations of the central leadership. He remembered his classmates dispersing all over the country and the news they shared in their letters. It seemed that no one was proceeding smoothly or without a hitch. Were there strong hindrances to progress in China? Yes! But so many young men, intellectuals, cadres, party members—people with lofty ideals, or just ordinary people—were trying their best to push the country forward and help bring about progress. The country was progressing; this was the general trend. Retreating led to death.
The most important thing—Zheng had known it back then and he reminded himself now—was to never lose hope, to maintain the spirit of enterprise when faced with misfortune. Refuse neither fine wines nor bitter ones.
“What is the matter
with you?” his wife said, lying next to him. “Since Secretary Bai’s visit, you’ve been a circus monkey answering to the gong. You’ve been nervous all night, turning over, restless . . .”
“I’m not old enough to wet my pants,” he replied.
The next day, Zheng Quanzhang went back to work.
Translated by Wen Hui
Jing Fu (1942–2008)
Jing Fu, the pen name of Guo Jingfu, was born in Shangzhou, Shaanxi, and educated in Shangzhou Teachers Training School. Before becoming a professional writer in 1985, he was a teacher. His works include short stories, novellas, novels, and essays. Collections include The Deep Footprints: The Selected Stories of Jing Fu and A Book from Heaven. Jing Fu’s longer works of fiction include The New Girl, The Intellectual Circle, The Story of Love and Hatred in Eight-Li Town, Hongniang the Go-Between, and The Cries of Deer. He is also the author of The Seashells, a collection of essays. His works have received many awards. His short story “The Walking Stick” won the National Excellence Award for Short Stories.
5
JING FU
The Walking Stick
If my two little grandchildren hadn’t used the walking stick as a weapon in their play fight, I would have forgotten about it. When we moved back to Beijing and unloaded the family belongings, it was brought into the small storeroom and laid among the odds and ends. I told myself to remember to move it into my bedroom, but soon I became preoccupied with other things. After returning to the city, I no longer needed it. In Beijing I rely on cars for travel and use elevators for moving up and down inside buildings. No longer do I take walks on dirt roads. So the walking stick has remained in the pile of odds and ends.
Its sudden appearance with my grandchildren made my heart beat faster and reminded me of him. Had he received the gifts I’d sent him? I’ve worried that perhaps I did the wrong thing in leaving those gifts for him. In my mind’s eye I see him stubbornly turning his back on the gifts and walking angrily away, muttering to himself, not looking back a single time. He was always like that.
In the autumn of 1974, for unexplained reasons, I was banished to a remote county in the hill country. The county was thousands of li away from my home in Beijing. It was arranged for me to live in a sanatorium, a rest home for retired cadres.
It was just past midautumn when the rainy weather set in. It rained constantly. Having just arrived, I hadn’t adjusted to these new conditions. With no experience to rely on, I hadn’t bought and stored enough firewood. My family was on the brink of having no firewood for preparing meals. The institution was quite a distance from town—one li. On rainy days, firewood was scarce in the town market—and to make matters worse, the road leading to town was muddy. Even if wood were available, how could I trek the muddy road to get it ordered? How would the seller get it back to us?
After breakfast the next morning, as I was worrying about our firewood problem, I heard from the courtyard the call of someone selling chopped wood. I rushed out and saw an old man standing in the autumn rain. It seemed as though the falling raindrops were countless threads hanging from the sky.
On the old man’s shoulder was a carrying pole with a bundle of wood at each end. On his head slouched a dark-brown straw hat that looked like an enormous mushroom. Rainwater leaked through it, trickling along the deep wrinkles of his face and forming tiny waterfalls at his jaw until finally falling to his chest. His ragged black coat was soaked and clung tightly to his body. The legs of his trousers were rolled up above the knees, exposing his mud-spattered legs, and his traditional kudzu-fiber shoes were so plastered with wet earth that they looked like two muddy straw mattresses. His wizened face, with its sunken rainwater-blurred eyes, was aimed at my door.
I walked up to him to help him remove the heavy load of firewood.
“Step aside!” he said. “Watch out for the mud and rainwater!” He headed toward the stairs.
With a brief shake of the pole, he lowered one bundle to the ground, and with a foot on the bundle, he pulled out the pole. Then he turned, straightened up, and put down the other bundle. He placed the carrying pole against the wall; I marveled at his enormous, bony hands. The old man took off his heavy straw hat and wiped the rainwater from his face. He narrowed his eyes to scrutinize me. After looking me up and down, he smiled a toothless smile.
I said to him, “Let’s go in the house and get out of the rain!”
“What’s with the heavens!” he said. “When rain is needed, it never rains. But when we don’t need it, it rains endlessly! The crops are rotting in the field. Aiee!” He sighed. The old man remained standing on the stairway, gazing disapprovingly at the heavy gray sky. A puddle of muddy water formed under his feet.
“Sit down and have a cigarette.” I sat on a small stool near his feet and offered him a smoke.
He didn’t take the cigarette. He went over to the wall and unfastened a shabby cloth bag from the carrying pole, and then came back to sit on the stool.
“Do you have any hot water?” he asked, untying the strings of the bag.
I poured him a bowl of hot water. “You’re such an old man to be out in this weather. Why are you still coming around to sell firewood in the rain?”
He didn’t answer me but proceeded to take pieces of coarse-looking greenish-brown cake out of the bag. He broke them into little bits and soaked them in the hot water. Then he asked for a pair of chopsticks and set about eating.
“My teeth are gone, so I have to soften the cake with water.” He opened his toothless mouth and poured the soggy pieces of cake down his throat as if he were eating gruel. “The stomachs of hard laborers could handle iron pieces.” He absently said whatever was on his mind. “You are running out of firewood, aren’t you? This place you live in was hard to track down. I took several detours before I finally got here.”
He had come especially to bring me the firewood? But how had this half-deaf, thin old man learned about me?
“Are you used to living here yet?” he asked. “Can the kids stand the climate and the life here? Is the coarse food hard to swallow? Let me tell you, you’d better add a bit more soda to your hominy grits, and cook it a long time. Pickled vegetables would be tasty if you stir-fry some hot peppers to go along with them as seasoning. Meals are of first and foremost importance. You must take good care of your health.” He looked steadily at me without blinking an eye, but gave no ear to any of my replies.
“Get me an ax,” he said. “Well, this one is OK. Don’t stop me! I can chop the firewood in no time, but it’s no easy job for you!” Carefully the old man untied the two bundles of firewood and began to cut the long sticks into short pieces and the thick sticks into thin pieces.
“It’s a very long way from here to Beijing,” he continued. “No matter the distance—we common people know what’s going on there in the capital. Good people suffer more hardships. That’s been true throughout history, from ancient times to the present. You must eat well! Old people rely more on good eating. I was born on Double Ninth Day, the festival of mountain climbing on the ninth day of the lunar month. We were born in the same year, you and I, but you are not as strong. You’ve got high blood pressure. You walk with caution. We common people who work with our hands can eat and do labor until we collapse. Once we fall down, that’s when our life goes out like a lamp running out of oil. But things are different with you people who work with your minds. Though you are advanced in years and have your share of infirmities, a broken pot outlives a good pot. You should move around often. Don’t sit too long. Staying in motion promotes the circulation of blood. It broadens your mind, too. I’m telling the truth.”
I thought about all the man’s assertions. The Chinese commoners of the older generation have been living a life as simple and humble as dirt and mud. They’ve grown used to eating coarse food and wearing ragged clothes. They have endured poverty and hardship. Theirs has been a generation forged by miseries, which also shaped their characters. They have adhered to deep moral values, and they’re
known for their wisdom. This thin and bent old man was sharing that wisdom and offering a philosophy of life—the philosophy of the ages. Though his words seemed simple and commonplace, they stirred my heart and set me to thinking.
I asked him to stay for dinner, but he declined with a wave of his hand. He said that before going back home, he had to go to the main street to buy medicine for the pigs he raised. He had to get home before dark to feed and pen them up. If no one was around after dark, the pigs might be attacked by wild animals from the woods.
I handed him a five-yuan bill, which he was hesitant to take. I waved my hand to tell him he didn’t need to give me any change. He thought for a moment and then took it as he slung his pole on his shoulder and disappeared into the autumn rain.
Quite to my surprise, he soon returned, panting. I thought he’d come back for something he had forgotten, but instead he took out three crumpled slips of paper money from his inside pocket. They were three one-yuan notes. Smoothing out the notes and placing them on my table, he hurried away again.
He must have sensed I was chasing him, for he turned around and said, “My firewood was at the old price!” Gazing at his gradually disappearing figure, I realized that now I too was out in the rain.
Ten days later, just when the firewood was almost used up, the old man returned carrying two more bundles of wood. But this time, a white wooden walking stick was hanging from his shoulder pole. The walking stick looked quite unusual. I assumed he must need it for his return trip. After all, he was sixty-seven years old! But he unfastened it from the pole and said, “I come too late. I’m to blame for your fall. Was it serious?”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 12