by Su Tong
It is wise to avoid examining these matters too closely. How could a man like Feng Four be qualified to recognize the orphaned son of the martyred Deng Shaoxiang? One of the members of the investigative team, a college student who knew his history, even suspected that Feng had done a swap, palming off his own bastard child as the legitimate offspring of Deng Shaoxiang. It was an audacious charge that took the other team members’ breath away. Unwilling either to dismiss or endorse this theory, they wound up simply including it in the remarks column of their report as an item for consideration.
Everything centred on the birthmark. Drawing on the scientific study of heredity, the team rejected the fish-shaped-birthmark theory, announcing that the residents of the Golden Sparrow River region were all Mongoloids, who had birthmarks on their backsides. And if the birthmarks looked exactly like fish, that was mere coincidence, with no basis in science.
But the residents of Milltown hankered after things that had no basis in science. They went crazy that autumn looking for birthmarks on their bodies. At first the craze was limited to males around the age of forty, but it spread to children and then to old men, until nearly every male in Milltown was caught up in it. Walk past any public toilet, and this is what you might have seen: a man taking down his trousers or asking someone else to take his down so they could eagerly look for birthmarks on their backsides. And in public baths, it was rare for a person not to show off his birthmark, which frequently led to watery squabbles, not to mention the occasional fistfight. But despite the outrageous extremes of the birthmark craze, since people lacked eyes in the backs of their heads, they could not examine their own backsides. That, of course, was how the craze worked to some people’s advantage, for there was always someone eager to analyse the prophetic symbols imprinted there. Several of the examined backsides revealed fish-shaped birthmarks. Some were like goldfish, others resembled carp, and some actually looked like pomfrets. But not all inspections ended happily. Some of the exposed flesh was dark as ebony, some white as ivory, but could boast no birthmark. Had it faded over the years or had it never been there in the first place? Imagine the consternation this caused these unfortunate individuals, who quickly covered up and would let no one else look. Left to taste the bitter fruit of failure alone and in silence, they suffered from a crippling sense of inferiority.
As for my family, the craze took a back seat as rising winds threatened to engulf our home. I ignored the gentle and persistent entreaties of my classmates at school and refused to be caught up in the entanglements out on the street, which all centred on one thing: they wanted me to drop my trousers. My backside was not for public viewing – end of discussion! I tightened my belt and heightened my vigilance, taking a brick along whenever I visited a public toilet, and keeping my hands in my pockets when I was out walking, eyes peeled and ears alert to all sounds. By forestalling sneak attacks, I managed to preserve the integrity of my backside, but was powerless to ward off the domestic storm that had been gathering for so long. It hit, in all its fury, on the twenty-seventh of September, when the visiting team announced the startling results of their investigation. Ku Wenxuan, they concluded, was not Deng Shaoxiang’s son!
They said my father was no longer Deng Shaoxiang’s son!
The events of that day are indelibly etched on my memory. The twenty-seventh of September – coincidentally the commemoration day for the martyr Deng Shaoxiang, the day when my father ought to have been wreathed in glory – turned out to be the day of his greatest shame. I recall that my mother emerged from her propaganda broadcast studio in a daze, looking like someone who had just escaped from hell. She wore a white scarf as a makeshift mask as she pedalled her bicycle precariously down the busy People’s Avenue, weeping the whole time. People she passed noticed that the scarf was wet. Sending humans and animals scurrying out of her way, she careened into Workers and Peasants Avenue and stopped at a blacksmith’s shop, where she borrowed a hammer and chisel. People said they saw her lips quiver under the scarf, though they could not tell if she was cursing or praying. ‘Qiao Limin,’ they said, ‘what do you need those for? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing,’ my mother replied. ‘It’s just my lungs, they’re about to explode from anger!’
The twenty-seventh of September. I heard someone hacking away at our front gate, so I went out and saw that my mother had chiselled off the red plaque announcing that we were honoured as a martyr’s family. She weighed the plaque in her hand for a moment before stuffing it into a cloth sack. Then, before any passers-by could open their mouths, she pushed her bicycle into the yard, closed the gate behind her and sat on the ground.
When my mother said her lungs were about to explode, it was no exaggeration. Her anger was so intense that her face had lost all its colour, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. ‘Go and get the first-aid kit,’ she said. ‘My lungs are bursting, I need to take something.’
But instead of leaving, I asked, ‘Why did you take down the martyr’s family plaque?’
She removed the scarf from her face and glared at the little table my father and I had set up in the yard the day before, on which a chess board and pieces rested. Another white-hot flash of anger filled her eyes. I stood watching as she walked over, picked up my father’s chess set and flung it over the wall, as if she was dumping rubbish. ‘So you like to play chess, do you? Well, from this day on, you’re no longer a martyr’s descendant. No, you’re the son of a liar, and the grandson of Feng Four, a river pirate!’
Hearing the sound of shuffling feet outside the yard, I climbed the wall in time to see our neighbours scrabbling about on the ground, snatching up the chess pieces. Some got their hands on steeds, some on warriors; the blacksmith’s son managed to get hold of a general, which he waved proudly in my direction. I had no idea why these people had gathered outside our yard, but now they were looking at me as if their eyes held secrets, happy secrets. A slightly demented guffaw burst from the mouth of one woman. Then she became serious. ‘You!’ she screeched. ‘You gutless little boy, no wonder you wouldn’t let anybody see your backside! A guilty conscience, that’s what it was. Just whose grandson are you?’ I ignored her, preferring to watch what was happening down there from my perch on the wall and to keep my eyes peeled for my father. I didn’t see him; what I did see was a town in mutiny, now that the news had spread. I heard shouts of liberation and screams of joy from the heart of Milltown and beyond. Milltown was in uproar.
My father was not Deng Shaoxiang’s son. That was not a rumour, not hearsay. He just wasn’t. So who was the martyr’s son? The investigative team would not say, and my mother certainly didn’t know. Based on hope alone, most of the town’s residents were caught up in the birthmark craze, running around making wild guesses, with no two people able to agree. Who is Deng Shaoxiang’s son? Whose birthmark looks most like a fish? I heard several names being mentioned, including the idiot, Bianjin, whose birthmark came closest. I didn’t believe that for a second. Nor did anyone else. An idiot like Bianjin could not possibly be a martyr’s son. So who was it? No matter what anyone said, only the investigative team could provide the answer. And all they were prepared to say was that Ku Wenxuan was not the one. It was not my father.
There can be no doubt that the injustices I’ve suffered have their origin in those visited upon my father. Now that he was no longer Deng Shaoxiang’s son, I was not her grandson. Not being Deng Shaoxiang’s son meant that he was a nobody. And his being a nobody had a direct impact on my mother and on me. I too was now a nobody.
The next day I became a kongpi. And that became my nickname.
Everything happened so fast that I was caught on the back foot. On the day after the news broke, before I had chance to amend my princely ways, I ran into Scabby Five and Scabby Seven on my way to school. They were standing in front of the pharmacy with their older sister, waiting for it to open; Seven’s head was swathed in gauze stained by thick gunk that attracted hordes of flies, which encircled all three of t
hem. I stopped. ‘Scabby Seven,’ I said as I gaped at the flies on his head, ‘have you opened a toilet on your head? Is that why all those flies are landing on it?’
Their eyes were glued to me, especially Scabby Seven’s, who was looking at the buttered bun I was holding. He swallowed hungrily, then turned to his sister. ‘See!’ he bawled. ‘He’s got a buttered bun. He gets one every day!’
With a little pout, his sister shooed the flies away from his head and said, ‘What’s so great about a buttered bun? Who cares if he’s got one?’
‘Who cares?’ Seven complained. ‘I’ve never tasted one. I ought to care about something I’ve never tasted, shouldn’t I?’
His sister paused, glancing at the bun in my hand, and sighed. ‘They cost seven fen,’ she said. ‘We can’t afford that. I’ve never tasted one either, so let’s just pretend we don’t care.’
But Seven was having none of that. Stiffening his neck, he said, ‘His father isn’t Deng Shaoxiang’s son and he’s not her grandson. So how come he gets a buttered bun?’
His sister’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re right, he’s a nobody. Who said he can eat that for breakfast? He’s mocking us.’
The siblings exchanged glances, and in that brief moment I had a premonition that something bad was about to happen. But not ready to trust my instincts, I stood there, unafraid. Then, as if at an agreed signal, they all rushed at me. Holding the bun over my head, I said, ‘How dare you try to steal my food?’ They ignored me. Seven jumped up and, like a crazed animal, grabbed my wrist. Then his sister prised my fingers apart, one at a time, until she could snatch the bun, now squeezed out of shape, from my grasp.
I was fifteen at the time. Scabby Five and Scabby Seven were both younger than me, and shorter. And their sister, well, she was just a girl. But by ganging up on me, they easily snatched the food out of my hand. For that I have only lack of preparation to blame, thanks to my princely habits, not ability or physique. Someone riding past on a bicycle turned to look at me and then at the brothers and sister. ‘Stealing food,’ they said. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
They weren’t. Scabby Seven’s sister watched with a sense of pride as he took big bites. ‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘Don’t eat so fast, you’ll choke on it.’
After a long moment I began thinking logically. This incident was tied up with my father. Since he was not the martyr’s son, Scabby Seven was free to steal my bun, and bystanders could look on without lifting a hand. I understood what was going on here, but I refused to take it lying down. I pointed at Scabby Seven. ‘How dare you eat my bun!’ I shouted. ‘Spit it out!’
He ignored me. ‘What are you shouting about?’ his sister said. ‘I don’t see your name on it. Buns are made of flour, and that comes from wheat, which is planted by peasants. Our mother’s a peasant, so some of this belongs to her.’ She dragged her younger brother over to the wall and used her body as a shield. ‘Hurry up!’ she demanded. ‘Finish it. He won’t be able to prove a thing once it’s in your stomach.’ Apparently she was getting worried, though she put on a brave front as she searched the faces of the people near the pharmacy. Then she looked at me again. ‘What are you complaining about? You eat a bun every day, but my brother has to settle for thin gruel. That’s not fair, it’s not socialism! It gives socialism a bad name.’
She walked off, dragging Scabby Seven along with her and followed by Scabby Five. I took a few menacing steps towards them. ‘Is this a rebellion?’ I said. ‘Well, go ahead and rebel. Eat up. Today the bun is my treat; tomorrow I’ll bring you shit to eat!’
She raised her arm and gave me a threatening look. ‘To rebel is right! Chairman Mao says so! Don’t you dare come over here! If you do, you’re thumbing your nose at Chairman Mao. Shit this, piss that. How about cleaning out that filthy mouth of yours? See those people? Are they coming to help you? The people’s eyes are too bright for that. Your dad has fallen into disgrace, and you’re nothing, a nobody, nothing but a kongpi!’
No doubt about it, that was a big loss of face. But I can’t avoid the fact that, thanks to that girl, I had a new nickname. I was now Kongpi. I can still recall the glee on the faces of the crowd that had gathered at the sound of those two syllables. In wonderful appreciation of his sister’s quick-witted sarcasm, Scabby Seven burst out laughing so hard he nearly choked. ‘Kongpi! Kongpi! That’s right, now he’s a kongpi.’ Their glee infected everyone within hearing. People around the pharmacy, early-morning passers-by on the street, and those standing beneath the family-planning billboard echoed their gleeful laughter, and within seconds I could hear those two syllables swirling triumphantly in the air all over Milltown.
Kongpi, Kongpi, Kongpi!
People may not know that kongpi is a Milltown slang term that dates back hundreds of years. It sounds vulgar and easy to understand, but in fact it has a profound meaning that incorporates both kong, or ‘empty’, and pi, or ‘ass’. Placed together, the term is emptier than empty and stinkier than an ass.
River
IN THE winter of that year I said goodbye to life on the shore and followed my father on to a river barge. I didn’t know then that it was to be a lifetime banishment. Boarding was easy, getting off impossible. I’ve now been on the barge for eleven years with no chance of ever going back.
People say that my father tied me to the barge, and there were times when I had to agree, since that provided me with the justification for a life of sheer tedium. But in the eyes of my father, this justification was a gleaming dagger forever aimed at his conscience. At times when I could not contain my displeasure with him, I used this dagger as a weapon to injure, to accuse, even to humiliate him. But most of the time I didn’t have the heart for that, and while the procession of barges sailed downstream, I gazed over the side at the water and felt that I’d been bound to the river for eternity. Then I looked at the levees and houses and fields on the banks and felt that I was bound to them as well. I saw people I knew there, and others I didn’t; I saw people on other barges, and couldn’t help feeling that they were the ones who had bound me to the barge. But when we sailed at night, when the river darkened, when, in fact, the whole world darkened, I turned on the masthead lamp and watched as the hazy light cast my shadow on to the bow, a tiny, fragile, shapeless watermark of a shadow. The water flowed across the wide riverbed, while my life streamed on aboard the barge, and from the dark water emerged a revelation. I discovered the secret of my life: I was bound to the barge by my shadow.
Traces of the martyred Deng Shaoxiang criss-crossed the towns and villages on the banks of the Golden Sparrow River. The year I came to the fleet, my father’s view of his bloodline was unwavering; he was convinced that the investigative team had viewed him with enmity and prejudice, and that their so-called conclusion was nothing more than murder by proxy, a crazed incident of persecution. The way he saw it, he was in the bosom of the martyr Deng Shaoxiang as he sailed the river with the other barges, and that invested him with an enormous, if illusory, sense of peace. Once, when we sailed past the town of Phoenix, he pointed out a row of wooden shacks – some tall, some squat. ‘See there?’ he said. ‘The memorial hall, that one with the black roof tiles and white wall, that’s where your grandmother hid the weapons.’
I gazed out at the town and at the building with the black roof tiles and white wall, which I’d never seen before. ‘Memorial hall? So what!’ I said. ‘What about the coffin shop? Where’s that?’
He erupted angrily. ‘Stop that nonsense about a coffin shop. Don’t listen to people who just want to smear your grandmother. She was no coffin girl. She relied upon coffins to smuggle weapons and ammunition to serve the needs of the revolution, that’s all.’ He pointed insistently at the ruins. ‘It’s there, behind that row of buildings. Don’t tell me you can’t see it!’
Well, I couldn’t, and I said so. ‘There’s no memorial hall!’
That infuriated him. After swatting me across the face, he said, ‘Your grandmother fought a battle for that p
lace. Now do you see it? If not, you must be blind!’
My father moved his commemoration of Deng Shaoxiang to the river. Each year, at Qingming – the fifth day of the fifth lunar month – and on the twenty-seventh day of the ninth month, he unfolded a banner on our barge with the slogan:
THE MARTYRED DENG SHAOXIANG WILL
LIVE FOR EVER IN OUR HEARTS.
Several months separated the two dates, and as I recall how the seasonal winds snapped at the red cloth on those holidays, I am visited by disparate and unreal visions: autumn winds billowing Father’s banner cover our barge with a heavy pall, as if the martyr’s ghost were weeping on the river’s surface; she reaches out a moss-covered hand and grabs our anchor. ‘Don’t go,’ she says. ‘Don’t go. Stop here!’ She is, we can tell, dispirited as she tries to prevent our barge from sailing on, so that her son and grandson can stay with her. Spring winds, on the other hand, like all spring winds, blow lightly, carefully across the water’s surface, laden with the smell of new grass, awakening the name of the martyr Deng Shaoxiang, and I invariably sense the presence of an unfamiliar ghost as it nimbly climbs aboard from the stern and, dripping with water, sits on our barge to gaze tenderly at Father.
I was perplexed. In the autumn I believed what others were saying – that my father was not Deng Shaoxiang’s son. But when spring rolled around, I believed him when he insisted he was.
Whatever the truth, Father’s one-time glory had vanished like smoke in the wind, and all he’d been left with was a sofa he’d once kept in his office. Now he sat on that sofa, a memento of the power he’d once wielded, and slowly grew accustomed to life on the water, treating the barge as if it were the shore and its cabin as his office. The second half of his life was like a rubbish heap, with no place to hide beyond the river and the barge. In his later years, he and the shore parted company, and on those rare occasions when we approached Milltown, he’d stick his head out to take a peek at the shore, but then I’d walk over and close the porthole. Other people could appreciate the sights of Milltown all they wanted, but not him. He’d get vertiginous and complain about his eyesight, saying that the land was moving, like flowing water. I knew all about his fears. The shore wasn’t moving; what moved were his shameful memories. After so many years had passed, his frail, ageing body had split into two halves, one having grudgingly fled to the water, the other remaining for ever on the riverbank, where people no longer punished him yet had forgotten to forgive him; they had tied him to a pillar of shame.