In the Lap of the Gods

by Li Miao Lovett

  His wages as a coal porter had been modest. He knew that the family could scrape by on what he earned, but he was tired of struggling. Each load of coal meant another bowl of rice on the table, and a day’s work could provide a packet of herbs for his wife’s morning sickness, or a new pair of shoes when his old ones became worn out from trudging up and down the dock ten hours a day. But this work could neither put them ahead, nor provide for their child’s schooling. Liu wanted his unborn child to get more than a fourth grade education, which had been his lot.

  On those evenings, when Liu traced the veins beneath the porcelain surface of his wife’s belly, he began to think about creating a new destiny, a new life for his family. He had broken free from his father’s grasp, and his departure was also a protest against the old, unforgiving way of life. His grandfather tilled the soil, and his father before him. They were peasants, rooted to the soil, and their lives were an ongoing battle against famine, pestilence, and floods.

  As a young man, Liu had his shot at freedom when the nation’s leaders announced a tide of reforms that opened up the economy. But the idealism of his youth was quickly tempered in Shanghai. He was a lowly construction worker paid with rice bowl wages. If he complained, the boss would say, No problem, pack your bags and we’ll find another guy to take your place. The beggars got an occasional coin from a well-heeled passerby, but he lived in the shadows of the elite, and he was invisible to them. He learned to despise authority, in all its guises, capitalist or communist, petty official or despotic manager.

  Now that they were awaiting their child’s birth, along with the impending move to new Fengjie, Liu revived his hopes for an unshackled life. He might be able to learn a trade, or apprentice himself to an auto mechanic or a ship repairman. Or perhaps, with Fei Fei’s help, he could even set up a roadside business catering to tourists. The crowds had swelled; the tour groups arrived with their uniform caps and flags. They flocked to the Yangtze to gawk at the cultural relics and deep limestone walls of the gorges before the river swallowed it all.

  And so, Liu nursed the dreams of an expectant father. But in the eighth month of his wife’s pregnancy, the tight web of their life together suddenly came apart. It snapped like the ropes that harnessed a tracker to his team, leaving him to thrash in the waves as the boat inched forward behind the toiling men. The great river brought prosperity and nurtured human dreams, but it could also take away life. When Fei Fei died, Liu found himself adrift, a young man drowning in an old man’s sorrows.

  It was Fang who had thrown out a branch to the drowning man. Liu met him soon after he moved to old Wushan that winter. He managed to stake out a spot on the hillside leading to town, where he threw up a shack in less than a day using bamboo poles and plastic sheeting.

  One night, Liu was shoveling down a bowl of egg noodles at Tai’s noodle shop, trying not to think where his next meal might come from. An old man in a distinguished gray vest with brass buttons came in and sat at the table next to his. Liu noticed that the man was staring at him, and for the first time, he looked down at his tattered cotton pants, patched in critical places but falling apart at the seams. Liu tried to ignore Fang, but the old man began to ask him questions.

  “Haven’t seen you here before. Where are you from?”

  “Fengjie. I moved here in January,” Liu replied, still gulping down his noodle soup.

  “Enjoying your noodles there? Did they just release you from a labor camp?” Fang chuckled.

  “No, I work at the dock here. Hauling coal.” Liu lowered his gaze. “Work’s been scarce lately.”

  What Liu didn’t say was that he wasn’t going back to work. Wushan had its rough parts. He had gotten into a fight with another porter the day before. The man was making lewd remarks about the prostitute he had slept with a few days ago. “A woman’s good at the end of a hard day, like a good cigarette,” he gloated. He then carried on about naughty pleasures with married women, until another porter told him that Liu had recently lost a wife. “Forget her,” the man snorted. “There’s a thousand pearls in the sea to be fished out.” Liu took him by the collar, and when the man spat back in defiance, Liu felt a great fury, the guardian of hidden sorrows, discharge from his chest and pummel the man to the ground.

  Liu told Fang he could do almost any kind of manual labor.The old man knew a contractor in town who needed another pair of hands with small construction and repair jobs. Liu worked for the man for six months, but as large segments of the population were being relocated, the work dried up. Old Wushan was being dismantled, and although money could be made from building projects right until the end, the old town would soon meet its demise.

  Liu struck up a friendship with Ol’ Fang, who frequently ate at the noodle shop, smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper. One balmy afternoon, as the days were getting longer, Liu brought up his work prospects again.

  The old man thought for a moment, then said, “You know the big dam that’s going up?”

  Liu nodded, but he had paid little attention to the news reports.

  “Well, it’ll flood the Three Gorges, and it’s going to send all of us scurrying like beetles to higher ground.” Fang thought for a moment. “I know a man in the county office. His job is to manage the resettlement of nearby towns and villages. Well, you can find out when people have to leave, and when they do, your job is to pick up after them.”

  Liu caught the sly smile on the old man’s face, but he was puzzled by Fang’s suggestion. He asked if this meant more work for porters. Fang explained that the migrants didn’t need help moving; rather, they might likely wait too long and pack up in a hurry, leaving some of their possessions behind.

  “You see, this is underground stuff, my friend.” Fang leaned in close. “You’re not supposed to know what’s happening with the new dam. And neither am I. But we’ll work together on this. You find the goods, and I’ll sell them to the right people and give you your cut.”

  Liu wondered if Fang was a friend or just a smart businessman. But he could see that the wheels of the seedy old town were grinding to a halt, and this would be an opportunity to generate some income. He did not think about the contradictions, that he would be doing something on the illegal side, with the help of a government official.

  “Tell Mr. Wu that I sent you,” Fang said.

  Liu obtained the documents with little trouble, and the old man helped him decipher the map and relocation plan. He was overwhelmed by the data. There were hundreds of villages in Wushan County affected by the dam, and Liu had little interest in keeping track of the migration of tens of thousands of people. He asked Fang what he should do.

  “Stay close to home for now. You’ll find plenty of pickings above ground in this old city. When a building is condemned and the people and workers clear out, you can go and reclaim the scraps. Metal, bricks, doorknobs, all of it will be up for grabs. Until they blow up old Wushan to make way for the ships.”

  Liu became very observant as he wandered around Wushan. He learned to spot condemned buildings easily enough; the blood-red character inscribed against weathered wood and stone was hard to miss. Tsai, the command to tear down, appeared like a fiery warrior with sharp blades at the shoulders and below the belt. Liu was hardly literate, but the changes wrought by the dam were providing a practical education. “Tsai!” he would say to himself each time the symbol appeared. It was a harsh word, which sharpened his concentration with its high staccato tones. Tsai. It was a word that could take down a whole city.

  Little by little, old Wushan was becoming a wasteland. Apartment buildings, storefronts, factories, the houses and hotels for the rich—nothing would be spared from destruction. Liu saw families returning to the ragged shells of buildings where they had lived, as if they were spending time with a loved one in the final days. They sat on the broken concrete to enjoy their midday meal or play a game of cards. In the city, Liu was seldom more than a scrap collector. The city folk planned ahead, eager to abandon crusty old Wushan for the hi
gher city gleaming above the hill.

  In the fall, Liu began making forays out to the surrounding countryside. Here, especially in the villages along the river, people were reluctant to give up their last harvest, their cash crop of oranges. Some were reluctant to demolish their homes, even if the scrapped materials were valuable. Liu kept his eye on the stragglers, and stepped in when they were finally forced to leave.

  Liu accumulated some savings from his prospecting, although he had a feeling that Fang was taking a healthy cut from the dealer who bought the metal scraps. But it was through Fang’s connections that he was able to rent a small apartment in the new city of Wushan.

  From the blaring TV at Tai’s noodle shop, Liu learned that old Wushan would be destroyed in the eleventh month. The rubble would disappear beneath the Yangtze, clearing the way for ships traveling over the sunken city. As the date approached, Liu found himself walking the streets with more than a scavenger’s eye, with a kind of fascination and detached curiosity. It was the curiosity of a boy watching a colony of ants scurry about as their anthill was crushed, some carrying their load of grain or seed or dead comrade.

  IN THE LAST DAYS OF WUSHAN, THE REMAINING RESIDENTS shuffled about in a frenzy of activity. Men carried two-by-fours and wooden suitcases stacked up and tied to their shoulder poles. Women scudded along with overstuffed bags, dragging their young children behind them. Liu bumped into a grandmother carrying a baby in the deep wicker basket strapped to her back. She seemed to be the only person moving with a slow gait, and Liu noticed a pensive look in her eyes. When he asked her where they were relocating, she merely replied, “Far away.” She blinked, and then stared at him with her tired, sunken eyes. “I would rather die and be buried here, but this will be a town of ghosts.”

  On the prescribed day, the residents of old Wushan climbed to vantage points all around the city to witness the final demolition. Liu found a spot on the hill leading up to new Wushan. It was a hazy day, and only the sound of cicadas chirping broke the stillness.

  All eyes in new Wushan were turned toward the abandoned city. Old Wushan had a lawless, soulless element, and not many seemed sorry to let it go. In its last days, it was as good as the skeleton of a fish, stripped of its flesh and heart and gills, all of which had been scoured and picked clean despite the rot within.

  Just then, a few boys darted down the hill, sending up dust and scaring lizards into the brush.The youngest walked up to Liu. “Hey Mister, whatcha doing?”

  Liu removed his cigarette and exhaled. “Waiting for the fireworks.”

  Moments later, a great explosion rocked the hillside. The old city trembled, and then it began to tumble to the earth—tall buildings tottered and fell like drunken men, shells of low-rises crumbled and turned to dust. The resounding roar flushed birds out of the cemetery’s trees, their raucous cries drowned in the din of dynamite that shook the entire valley.

  Smoke rose from the city in torpid black clouds as explosion after explosion went off. Old Wushan had become a ship tossed at sea, and when the storm subsided, the city would sink into a remorseless, watery grave.

  The boys whooped and cheered as they watched the destruction. Liu puffed away on his cigarette, watching the rivulets of smoke trail out toward the valley of dark clouds below. He had little to lose, but an empty feeling gnawed at his stomach, although he had just eaten. He thought of the old woman’s words, he thought of Fei Fei and their home in Fengjie, and when he could no longer stand the emptiness, he got up and made his way back to new Wushan.

  7

  LIU SAT DOWN AT HIS OLD TABLE IN TAI’S NOODLE SHOP, RELIEVED to get away from the apartment at last. He had found a willing babysitter in Mrs. Song, a widow whose only son lived far away in Shanghai. She had little to keep her busy other than her knitting, a favorite soap opera, and her shameless snooping on the neighbors.

  The proprietor, a broad-faced man in his fifties, walked up swiftly to greet him, in spite of a pronounced limp. “Liu, where’ve you been, ol’ brother?” Tai Shongzi sat down with his lame leg outstretched and patted Liu on the back.

  Liu responded with a good-natured punch on the arm. “Well, the new lake caught me in its clutches. I’ve been swimming for the past week, looking for treasure.”

  “Come on, Ol’ Liu,” said Tai. “Tell the truth, what’s kept you away?”

  Liu trusted his friend, but there were other patrons around, so he lowered his voice. “I found a baby by the riverbank. I carried her away when the water was rising. Ol’ Fang was going to take her to the orphanage, but our car broke down. So I decided to keep her.”

  “You kept her? Son of a gun.” Tai slapped the younger man on the knee. “Didn’t think you had that father streak in you, taking care of a whining kitten all by yourself.”

  “Well, she’s a handful. She bawls a lot. Usually she’s hungry or she needs her diapers changed. She likes to kick just as I’m pinning her up.” Liu pulled up his sleeve, revealing a new scar.

  Tai reached out to inspect it. His hand bore a scar as well, a two-inch gash. It was old but severe looking, like the burls of an oak tree. “Oh, she’s a baby, you say? Just wait till she gets older. She’ll be running the show. All women do, you know, and they start at a young age.”

  Liu was unmoved; he knew that Tai was really criticizing his own wife, who had a sharp, unrelenting tongue. “Yeah, she’s a little tiger. But she needs a home. And I guess I can use a little company.”

  Tai squinted at Liu through his pouchy eyelids. “Sure you don’t really need a woman around? Not an old witch like mine, but a good woman to keep you warm at night.”

  Liu became quiet. His old longings were seldom made known, even to a friend like Tai. He clenched his fists. “Listen, I can manage, all right?”

  “Did I offend you, ol’ brother? Come on, you’re a man. How long can you hold out?”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Liu, looking away. He ordered his usual, beef noodle soup, and lit up a cigarette.

  Tai got up awkwardly, favoring his bad leg, and shuffled back toward the kitchen. “Guo, ol’ brother, an order of beef noodle!” he called out to the cook. “Fill it up for my friend.”

  Liu stared after him, his temples throbbing, his fists still clenched. It was a tension he used to feel in his loins, but nowadays, only anger seethed like a low fire. His friend meant well, but couldn’t understand what it was like to lose a woman like Fei Fei. She did more than warm my bed at night, Liu thought. She carried our child, my flesh and blood. No, Fei Fei hadn’t completely died; her spirit still moved about. And perhaps that’s why Rose was more than a test of endurance. The infant girl had that same spark, an unquenchable force that reminded him of Fei Fei. And when death loomed, that willingness to fight tooth and nail for life.

  IN THE WAKE OF FEI FEI’S DEATH, LIU WASN’T SO MUCH A drowning man as a survivor sinking into quiet desperation. At first, he’d sought out the company of other coal porters in old Fengjie. A round of bai jiu or beer, a hair-raising or ribald tale followed by another round of drinks. Those were the things that kept Liu going in the early days soon after her death. They shared stories of surly ship captains and bumbling tourists. They winked at pretty maidens from the countryside, and took pity on the toothless hawkers who sold toothbrushes and chewing tobacco.

  When he moved to old Wushan, Liu lost touch with his former buddies, who had scattered to the winds. After his fight with the lewd coal porter, he began keeping to himself. Each subsequent job sank Liu into a deeper state of isolation; construction work did not inspire him to seek out a new set of friends, and scavenging was by nature a lonely affair.

  New Wushan was hardly more tolerable. This was a town for the fortunate ones who had wives and children, a future to look forward to. The advertisements in the central square lured onlookers with the promise of new cars, stylish clothes, and sexy women. Liu rarely walked through the plaza, and when he did, he felt a knot of repulsion rather than envy. Hurried throngs pushed past on the main street—wo
men in black stockings with skirts above the knee, men sporting suits and shoes of fine leather; even the cabbies and shoe shiners and storekeepers had a more polished, dusted-off appearance. This was the new face of Wushan, which seemed seductive to everyone except Liu.

  Liu could not say that he felt lonely; he had been alone much of his adult life, aside from six years of marriage. He missed Fei Fei, not only as a spouse and companion. She was a kindred soul who didn’t care to conform, as much as was possible under the law of the land. She was content in solitude, but when the urge for adventure arose, she could tease Liu out of his stay-at-home ways.

  Perhaps scavenging was a way for Liu to keep Fei Fei alive. She had a childlike curiosity for the unknown, and as a little girl she had begged to travel with her father aboard his cargo ship, which carried coal, lumber, and commercial goods up and down the Yangtze between Chongqing and the Three Gorges. The grand old pagoda in Shibao Block caught her imagination; its red twelve-story structure seemed to grow right out of the cliffs, and Fei Fei would rush to the deck whenever she spotted its multi-storied roofs with the corners sloping up, like the wingtips of a hawk pointed toward the sun.

  Her father told her that the pagoda was a treasure trove of miracles. Rice once flowed magically out of a hole at the very top, and through another hole in the stone floor, one could toss in a duck and see it reappear hundreds of feet below on the Yangtze River.

  “Just like that?” Fei Fei had asked. She was nine at the time.

  “Yes, and if the hole were large enough for a man, why, I would leap in too.”

  Young Fei Fei imagined herself as the tossed duck, sailing down, down through a dark tunnel, then feeling that first slap of water on her wings, which buoyed her on the brown silt blanket of the Yangtze, swift flowing and cool on a summer day.