by Da Chen
With incense clutched in her hands, Mom knelt and said the prayers. I waited on the side and kowtowed as many as fifty to a hundred times before each god, doing extras for my sisters and brother. I couldn’t remember how I had gotten into the business of kowtowing for my siblings. All I knew was that I was a little more religious than they were. I had always been afraid of ghosts, and believed in the power of good gods. I prayed like a monk and didn’t mind bending down on my skinny knees to kowtow for as often as Mom thought appropriate, usually imagining a hundred to be her lucky number.
By the end of the ceremonies, though my back and knees ached, I was quietly content with the prospect of having bought my insurance with gods at all levels for the new year to come. I told my sisters and brother that I had also done favors before the gods in their stead and had them pay me back in monetary terms. They believed enough to pay me five fens each.
For breakfast on New Year’s Day, long, thin, handmade noodles were prepared, served in elegant little bowls and decorated on top with slices of fried egg, marinated meat, fried peanuts, oysters, crispy seaweed, and lightly sautéed crunchy snow peas. Long noodles promised longevity. Oysters, in my local dialect, meant “alive.” Eggs were round and perfect. Peanuts indicated countless offspring, and if you twisted the pronunciation of seaweed a little, it sounded a lot like the word that meant fortune.
I fought down the long noodles, donned a new jacket that Mom had tailored herself, and ran off to offer New Year’s greetings to our neighbors. I clasped my hands, bowed my head, and wished wealth to the garlic-nosed Liang Qu, an old man with seven sons, who made a living selling cigarettes to children behind closed doors at a huge markup. He wiped his big, dripping nose and threw me a cigarette with dark tobacco in it. “Thanks and happy New Year, young fella. Have a smoke,” he said.
“It’s not one of those moldy ones, is it?” I teased as I pocketed it. He was known to pass the kids rotten products. Since the children were smoking secretly, they never complained. Only on New Year’s Day could I get away with a joke like that.
I crossed the bridge to greet the white-haired country doctor, who peered at me through his thick glasses, trying to figure out who I was. “I’m the younger son of the Chens,” I said.
He nodded, pointed with his cane at the seat next to him, and offered some tea. I politely told him I had just had breakfast. He asked how my grandpa was. “He’s gone,” I said. I couldn’t believe how forgetful the doctor was. Only half a year ago, he had been telling us that Grandpa didn’t have long to live.
“Oh, I’m sorry. But the living has to go on, ain’t that right?”
“Right, doctor. Happy New Year.”
He nodded in silence and watched me run off down the dirt road.
It was a tradition that for good luck you should greet as many as you could on New Year’s Day. To me, it was the easiest way to score brownie points with people, for they were in the best of spirits then and you could get a lot of goodwill for nothing.
By noon, I had greeted no less than fifty people. There was the brigade leader, the neighborly teacher, Mr. Lan, the kind tailor who sometimes let Mom use his sewing machine, the blacksmith who made good farming tools for us, and the locksmith who stuttered when he became excited. His son had gone to Chinghua University in Beijing, the equivalent of MIT. He had the hardest time saying the name, and always ended up stuttering “Chin…Chin…Chin…Chinghua University.” By the time he did the third hap, hap, hap of his unfinished “happy New Year” greeting, I was long gone.
When I got home for lunch, our living room was already filled with well-wishers. Dad was holding court, busily pouring hot tea and lighting the water pipe for his visitors.
I often thought that if Dad hadn’t been the unfortunate son of a landlord, he probably would have ended up being one of the Communist leaders. He was a big man, who commanded attention the moment he entered a room. Dad loved laughing, and could charm your boots off, but when he was angry, his temper thundered and his tongue lashed out mercilessly. He was a natural, a dramatic leader in a sleepy, little town like Yellow Stone.
The commune leaders put him down like trash; bad neighbors and ignorant militiamen spat in his direction when they passed him in the street. But villagers from the surrounding towns and remote farms still came to him for all sorts of advice. They came in groups of five and ten and treated Dad as if he were still the son of an old family that had once headed the local gentility.
He wrote persuasive letters for those whose relatives resided in rich places like Singapore, Hong Kong, and Malaysia, helping them to squeeze money from their rich relatives. Defenseless widows sought his aid in drawing up complaints about neighbors who had encroached on their properties and families who had abandoned them. They paid Dad with money or a sack of rice or yams. But a lot of advice was offered free, with a smile.
Gradually, Dad’s reputation spread, with villagers dropping by daily when they were in town to shop. They came here for a cup of hot tea, a puff on the water pipe, or just to rest their feet. If Dad wasn’t away at a reform camp, by eleven every morning the living room was always full of all sorts of personalities. Dad felt comfortable in the role and presided over the affairs of others like an unpaid civil servant. The only rule was that there was to be no spitting on the clean floor that Mom scrubbed daily.
On this special day, all the friendly, familiar faces were crowded into our sun-drenched living room. In the corner was the mason. His son was a miner in the high mountains of Fujian; the illiterate mason depended on my father to write monthly letters to him. Next to him was Stone Knife, so named because of his shrewdness. He was one of those villagers who never went to school but who seemed to know everything. Dad was his idol. Stone Knife could play many traditional Chinese musical instruments and write prose, compose music, and direct plays like Dad, but he depended heavily on my father to get him his gigs.
Then there was the sugarcane man, who was literally the king of sugarcane. Each morning in the early hours he presided over the sugarcane market and set the local daily price for fresh sugarcane. At the end of each day, he always dropped off the leftovers and grabbed a cup of tea with us before heading for his village. And there was the widow from a village ten miles away. She had brought her second son to wish Dad a happy New Year. He was visiting his mother from his navy base in another province. The young man beamed with pride and handed out cigarettes with filters, a rare commodity he had bought at the navy post. The crowd bubbled with excitement as they lit their good cigarettes.
The young navy man gave me one also, which I sniffed with satisfaction and slipped into my coat pocket when Dad wasn’t looking. I sat there, as I had for many years, listening to Dad’s friends doing their New Year’s version of a daily chat for a little bit.
But on New Year’s Day, I felt a need for something more festive and entertaining, only there wasn’t much I could do. I could just see my enemies, Han, Quei, and Wang, chomping cigarettes and lurking among the crowds, plotting their revenge against me. And I couldn’t fight today, it would be bad luck.
Mom, wearing her new apron, called me back to the kitchen. I slipped out of the living room and had a large bowl of rice with some delicious meat and fish. I had never seen our kitchen so full of good food, but I knew it wouldn’t be there for long. The thought made me go for a second bowl of rice and two more chunks of Mom’s famous well-roasted pork knuckles.
After lunch, when my brother Jin was out playing poker and my sisters had long since gone out giggling with their friends, doing whatever girls did, I told Mom I was heading out to a basketball game at school.
“I didn’t hear about a game there,” Mom said.
“Yeah, well it should be starting soon,” I lied, and streaked out the door. I walked cautiously along the small path meandering among the wheat and sugarcane fields, staying away from the crowded streets that were now filled to the brim with villagers who had flocked to town for the New Year. It was an event locally known as Yu Ch
un, or “Spring Outing.” They came in groups of boys and girls, nicely dressed in new and colorful outfits. They sang, laughed, flirted, and ogled each other. The spring, now ripening with flowers and blossoms, seemed to stir a nameless angst among the youngsters and to give an added luster to the world. I envied the simplicity of their lives. Why was mine so damned complicated?
Soon I was alone, looking for a shortcut to the secret gambling pits somewhere among the tall sugarcane fields. Children my age whispered about them and raved over the heroism of some of the big-time winners whenever news mysteriously found its way out of the pit. But none dared venture near the place. A few really bad older boys from our neighborhood were said to make their homes there during the whole New Year’s holiday.
If I couldn’t have fun in normal places, then I was determined to find something else to do, either watching the game or even running errands for those bad boys. I had only brought half a yuan with me, that way if they wanted me in the game, I wouldn’t have too much to lose. I was mentally prepared for any roughing up that might occur.
I checked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was following me, then slipped into the sugarcane field. The leaves were thick and sharp. I ducked beneath them and walked with bent knees toward the heart of the field.
After ten minutes, I heard vague, hushed voices. Then I suddenly saw lights and a clearing ahead of me. Twenty yards of sugarcane had been felled and trampled down, and there were at least two dozen young people sitting at tables, squatting, and standing in clusters around the cleared area.
I jumped out quickly and they all froze. Their angry faces stared at me as if I had already overstayed my welcome. The only thing moving was the cigarette smoke spiraling over their heads. It was a perfect group picture of the local criminal elite in full swing.
“What the fuck are you doing here, you little punk? I thought you were a good mama’s boy. This is no place for you,” Mo Gong, the local shoemaker’s son, barked at me. His diction was crude, his tone menacing. His nostrils flared as he threw his cigarette butt against me. “Get outta here.”
In the hierarchy of the local criminal elite, he easily took the top spot. He once cut his enemy’s shoulder open with a sharp knife meant for trimming rubber-soled shoes.
“Yeah, get the fuck outta here or we’ll kick your ass and make you eat shit before you go,” another elite roared.
I covered my head with my arms like a surrendered war criminal, and moved slowly around the edge.
Mo Gong took a few steps and threw me to the springy ground of crushed sugarcane. He sat on me, twisted my arms behind my back, and demanded, “Who sent you here?”
“Nobody, I just wanted to see what’s going on.” My nose ground against his muddy leather boots.
“Who told you where we were?”
“I found my way here.”
“Liar!” He forced my head harder against the ground. It smelled like the pig manure used as fertilizer.
“Wait, Mo Gong, let go of him,” I heard a calm voice say from above me. It sounded like Sen, the son of the local banker, the brains behind all the scandals in the recent history of Yellow Stone. Mo Gong did as he was told, but not before kicking me once more on the behind.
I got up and dusted the dirt off my new coat. Sen grabbed Mo Gong and pulled him aside.
“Don’t hurt him too much or he’ll tell the commune leader and we’ll be in trouble,” I heard Sen whisper. Then he turned around and grabbed my shoulder.
“I’ll let you stay but don’t come back tomorrow and don’t tell anyone about this place. If you do, I’ll have Mo Gong make you a useless cripple,” he warned, his eyes unmoving.
“I just want to watch, that’s all.”
“Quiet! And I want your mouth shut while you watch, hear me?”
I remained gratefully quiet as I stood far behind the circle. Sen took his place at the head of one of the tables. It was a simple poker game played by four, two against two. The starting bet was half a yuan, which would only give me one shot if I were to jump in.
Two minutes into the game, Sen and his partner, Mo Gong, started making faces, blowing their noses, and cracking their knuckles. They were playing against a couple of out-of-town village boys who didn’t know their sign language. Soon the villagers were losing fast, and they wanted out.
“Can’t do that in this town.” Mo Gong put his dirty palm on their money.
“Says who?” The villagers were a bit taller than they were. “You guys don’t play fair. We’re leaving,” one of the villagers said as he pushed Mo Gong’s hand away and grabbed the money.
“We said at the beginning that the game is finished only when you’re empty. I don’t think you’re empty,” Sen said coolly. “Sit down.”
“What’s this? Are you guys trying to make us stay?” The villagers stepped together, back to back.
Sen and Mo Gong were also on their feet now. I saw Sen make another one of his faces, then he and Mo Gong were on top of them. Fights must have been common in this place because the people at other tables didn’t even turn around. “Quiet, you guys. Keep it down,” they shouted.
The four wrestled on the ground, seemingly inseparable. They went on wrestling like that for five minutes until the pile of money was scattered all over the place. Whenever Sen rolled over to face me, he winked at me, gestured toward the money, and went on fighting.
Finally, I got his message. I looked around and kicked the wads of money between the cracks of trampled sugarcane, where they were hidden among the dense leaves. When the villagers kicked off their shoes, I picked them up and threw them into the fields when they weren’t looking.
It was over when they were too tired to fight anymore. The two villagers stumbled around dizzily, looking for their money and shoes, finding neither. Bitching and cursing, they walked out of the pit, never looking back.
As soon as the villagers were out of sight, Sen and Mo Gong burst into laughter. Their faces were covered with mud and bloody cuts; their clothes were torn. They squatted down, looking for the hidden bills. They collected over forty or fifty yuan in total.
“Here, take this.” Sen stuffed a bunch of small bills into my hands.
“I don’t want any.”
“Fine, then you don’t get any.”
“You guys are ruthless,” I said.
“Fuck your ancestors, you little shit,” Sen said jokingly with a smile, and pinched my ear. “Hey, you weren’t too bad yourself. I saw you kick the money and throw the shoes away.”
“I saw it too,” Mo Gong said. “Hey, Da, have a cigarette. It’s Da, right?” He searched his pocket and came up empty. “Got any, Sen?”
“Yeah, but they’re all smashed up.” Sen held up a flattened pack.
“Boy, do I feel like a smoke after all that fighting,” Mo Gong said.
“Me, too.” Sen struck a match for fun.
“I got one.” I took out the filtered cigarette from my coat pocket and showed it to them. A smile appeared on their filthy faces.
“Well, well, well. A filtered one.” Mo Gong grabbed it, slipped it into his mouth, and was about to light it.
“Wait, let’s split it.” Sen snatched the cigarette out of Mo Gong’s mouth and they started chasing each other in circles. Finally, Sen took off the filter and broke the cigarette into two stubs, which they smoked with a vengeance.
I bid them good-bye. Sen nodded, smiling wickedly at me.
With a smirk on his clownish face, Mo Gong said, “Remember, Da, more filtered ones next time.”
As I made my way home, I found myself smiling. Those guys were rough but likable. They were natural and up front, no hidden emotions. It would be great to learn to smoke, drink, and gamble, and be their friend. I could imagine my enemies’ faces. They’d look like spineless little rascals compared to these boys.
AFTER MY FIRST encounter with the gambling duo, Sen and Mo Gong, I had to control the urge to go back and see them the next day. If I ventured out again so soon, it would a
rouse suspicion in my family and then my adventure would end prematurely. I looked out from our second-floor window, trying to get a glimpse of the gambling pit, but all I could see was the cold wind making the sugarcane leaves dance like the ocean waves.
Mom and Dad wanted us to grow up to be perfect kids so that our ugly political birthmark would be obliterated. They hoped one day that all those leaders would wake up and say, “Hey, you guys are a bunch of wonderful kids. C’mon, let’s get you into schools and offer you jobs.” If we fought against her belief, Mom would cite the example of a girl from our neighboring town. Li Jun was also from a landlord’s family, but she had recently been selected by the commune to work in a food-canning factory, a plum and juicy job that any child of a good family would kill to get. She left town on the back of the commune’s tractor wearing a big paper flower on her flat chest as she rode down the street of Yellow Stone in all her glory. No one could forget the tears and smiles of joy on her pretty face. She was the one in a thousand that the Communist rulers used to illustrate their benevolent policy toward us. The message was that if you were obedient, a future might be handed down to you.
We all knew this was a lot of crap, and listened to it as though it were the western wind blowing in one ear and out the other. It made us want to puke. Children like us all over the commune were still getting beaten up and thrown out of school. Even those who had obtained good jobs and had been afforded a college education before the Cultural Revolution were sent back to the town of their birth to become reeducated. Sometimes they were even jailed if they rebelled against local ignorance. Zhu Eng, the son of a counterrevolutionary, was clubbed to death in the bushes by his college classmates at a Shanghai university. All his family received was a jar containing their son’s ashes and a police statement saying he had taken his own life and had wasted the government’s investment in him.
Mom still disciplined us strictly. Cynicism wasn’t allowed in our family. Her belief was that we should do more and get less. When people spit at you, look the other way. When they curse you, pretend to be deaf. If she found out about my visit to the gambling pit, I’d be grounded for at least three days.