by Da Chen
Dad said that a generous patient would pay me for the sweaty ride, but at the least, I would earn some free food. And so every week I would pedal, breathless under the scorching sun, along the narrow road to the village of Heng Tang, which lay hidden among persimmon trees about eight miles from Yellow Stone. Dad would sit in the backseat telling me what pressure points he would use for the next treatment. When the road became too hilly, Dad would jump down and push the bike with me. The patient’s family usually treated me like my dad’s driver. They graciously sat me in their living room and gave me a bowl of noodles or rice with meat piled on top. Sometimes, they would give me cigarettes and pour tea for me while I waited.
The patients’ families welcomed Dad as though he were a savior sent to them by the grace of Buddha. But his presence was always a double-edged sword to the patients themselves. They wanted to get better, but dreaded the prick of the needles. Sometimes Dad would ask me to observe a patient’s reaction closely. He would insert needles and spin them to stimulate the dead nerves. At first, there would be nothing. The family watching would sigh and worry that the legs or the arms would never be active again. Then suddenly one day, the patient would scream, feeling the pain, and everyone would smile with relief.
Dad lived for moments like that. He would laugh and talk all the way home as I pedaled along the narrow road.
Under Dad’s care, a few patients regained their basic ability to go to the bathroom and eat on their own. As his renown spread, a truck often drove him to treat patients in remote towns. Dad was shy about charging a fee, which would have made him an illegal practitioner. But people brought grain, rice, bananas, fish, shrimp, and all manner of food to repay him for his services. One of the patients even secured a temporary job at the county’s canned food factory for one of my sisters.
Dad was a happier person. Even though he still had to work at a few more labor camps, he was treated differently. At one camp near the Ching Mountain, Mon Hai, a burly man with an unsightly birthmark over his right eye, was the supervising cadre. One evening he sent for Dad to be brought to his cabin. Much to my father’s surprise the cadre offered him a cigarette. Dad bowed humbly. Normally, the campers summoned to Mon Hai’s cabin were there to be lectured or humiliated until midnight.
“I need a favor from you,” Mon Hai said in an unusually low voice, after first closing his door and window.
“Anything, sir, I am here to be reformed.”
“No, no, no, please sit down. I wanted you here for a different matter—shall I say, a private matter.” The Communist smiled, revealing his gold-capped front teeth. “My dad fell last night and had a stroke. He is still in a coma and the doctor says he is paralyzed.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“You know what the doctor also said?” Mon Hai lit a cigarette for my father.
“What did he say?”
“That you are the only one in this area who could cure him.”
“No, no, I’m an amateur. It is purely a hobby, that’s all. I did try treatments on my own now-dead father, but I would not call myself a doctor or anything like that. You should really seek other help,” he mumbled nervously.
“Are you saying no to me?”
“I’m not, cadre. You don’t understand,” Dad said.
“Then what is it?” Mon Hai asked. “Money? That’s no problem. My brother is the head of a fertilizer factory and he has loads of money.”
“No, it is not money.” Dad shook his head.
“I know what it is. You are afraid.”
Dad remained silent.
“It’s totally understandable. I would be also if I were you, but please don’t be. Just try to treat me as if I’m one of your regular patients.”
Yeah, right. Dad could still feel the pain inflicted on his back where Mon Hai had kicked him for slowing down at another campsite. Mon Hai’s father sounded as if he was in critical condition, and if anything happened to him, Dad would be blamed.
“I really wouldn’t feel comfortable, cadre.”
“Look at me, doctor, I also have a heart.” He pulled open his shirt for emphasis. “I apologize for what I have done to you.”
“No, no. There is no need for that.”
“I shouldn’t have kicked you.” His eyes turned misty. “I’m sorry. I will make it up to you.”
Dad was quiet, watching this bear of a man tearing his guts out. “Even if I agree to take a look, I wouldn’t be able to do so. We are not allowed to leave the campsite.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
Dad was told to stay in his cabin the next morning while the rest of the campers rolled out of their beds and headed for the chilly mountain to dig some more hills and fill some more valleys. At nine o’clock, a biker came by and picked Dad up, carrying him to Mon Hai’s house a few miles away.
It turned out to be a light stroke. Mon Hai’s old man was only sixty-five and in good health. It took Dad about two months to bring him back to where he could walk with only a slight limp.
At the reform camp, Dad hardly had to touch his farming tools. He had been ordered to stay behind and write confessions, but in fact all he did was read his medical books and be taken to see the patient every day. He was allowed to come home for dinner after dark three times a week. The rest of the time he spent at the cadre’s cabin, where Mon Hai would do his drinking and pour out his admiration for Dad. It was there that Dad learned that the good food, liquor, and cigarettes that Mon Hai shared with him all came from the campers, who bribed Mon Hai for lighter work and a guarantee that they would avoid punishment. In one of his drunken states, Mon Hai even revealed that he had occasionally slept with the young wife of a newly branded counterrevolutionary, a camper under his supervision. He further admitted that he slept with the wife at her request because she wanted to ensure that the poor young man would live to see his infant son.
Dad itched to inflict some pain on that son of a whore, and offered Mon Hai the use of his needles to cure his drinking addiction, but he refused.
One day Mon Hai was suddenly rushed back from the worksite where he spent an hour a week on inspection. Two strong, young men took turns carrying him on their backs.
“Chen, come here,” they said to my father. “Mon Hai was hurt.” A rock had rolled down the side of the hill and landed on his waist, bruising him badly before bouncing off into a ditch.
“Doctor, I think I could use some of those needles you got there,” Mon said, looking up in pain from his bed.
“I think so, too,” Dad replied.
During the following weeks, Dad gave Mon Hai double the number of treatments necessary. He chose longer, thicker needles, and spun them harder, telling Mon that he would improve faster that way. Mon Hai would shake with fear as he watched Dad slowly prepare the needles, wiping them on an alcohol pad. He would squirm in anticipation of the pain until the needles were actually inserted under the skin, then his hysterical and terrifying screams could be heard for miles around.
Before each session Mon Hai begged for more, and during every session he cursed and rolled in agony. After each of my father’s visits, he would shed tears of gratitude. His pain soon disappeared, and Gang Chen openly became known as “the Doc” around camp.
Dad was discharged from labor camp early that year, and received a glorious report on how his anti-Communist way of thinking had improved. The report was signed in big letters by the now-healthy Mon Hai, who ironically was selected by the people of Yellow Stone as an outstanding member of the Communist party. His picture appeared on a wall outside the commune headquarters, only to be washed off a week later by a cold winter rain.
ZHANG TIE SHAN, an army recruit from north China, wrote on his college exam paper a big zero, accompanied by the following words: “To make revolution, one need not answer above questions.”
Instantly, he became a hero throughout China, epitomizing the true spirit of the Cultural Revolution. School was chaos. Everyone ran around mindlessly, doing nothing. Ev
eryone wore red armbands bearing the words “Little Guard.” Teachers could do almost nothing to remedy the situation for fear of being branded a stinking intellectual or a counterrevolutionary.
Our fifth grade classes were made up of three categories: labor, politics, and self-study. We dug up the playground and turned it into vegetable plots so that young kids could labor under the scorching sun and have empty but healthy minds. We had to bring all the necessary tools to water, weed, and harvest the vegetables, then sell them back to the teachers at a discount, using the money to buy more seeds and plant more vegetables.
In the political science classes, teachers read the newspaper to the students. When we were left to study on our own, the chairs became hurdles. We jumped them and counted the minutes until it was time to go home.
Every day after class, Dad read me classics that we had buried under the pigsty, and I learned to play the bamboo flute in the morning. Dad said a real scholar should know poetry, chess, calligraphy, and music. The flute was the cheapest thing to study. Dad bought me one from the local market. At sunrise every morning, I got up, pulled the skinny bamboo flute from under my pillow, and tiptoed to the backyard and down the steps that led to the Dong Jing River. I’d wash my face with the refreshing water and hold in my shit because it gave me more power as I blew the flute. Each day, I broke the silence of the morning in Yellow Stone, standing by the river and playing innocent folk melodies. The sound bounced off the water, crossed the vast green fields, and ended in a lingering echo as it reached the mountains on the horizon. The occasional mooing from the buffalo told me that at least someone was listening.
One day, Dad came back from a month’s stay at a labor camp and rushed to the backyard where I was practicing.
“Son, you play beautifully now,” he said, surprised. He gathered me into his arms and roughed me up excitedly. “I hardly believed my ears as I walked along the fields. I could hear you a mile away from here.”
“Dad, do you really like it?” I asked.
“Like it? I love it. I think with a little tuning here and there, you’re ready to perform in an amateur troupe somewhere and eventually graduate to a professional one.”
“Do you want me to be a professional?”
“Well, school is doing nothing now, not with that Zhang-something guy in fashion. It’s wonderful that you have a skill. You have an edge over others.”
From then on I practiced even harder—much to the annoyance of my family—and I began to hang around the rehearsal hall of our commune’s performing group. In the evenings, I would invite my friends to come with me to the rehearsals at the commune. They went and clung to the windows for a glimpse of the young and pretty actresses and laughed their heads off when those pretty things teased each other and giggled in singsong voices. Yi always sat at the foot of the wall and smoked in silence.
There was an outstanding, arrogant flutist in the troupe from Putien City, who was paid to be the music director of the orchestra. He was a woodwind expert, and could even play the French horn. Every morning he demanded at least five precious eggs. For lunch, a half a chicken. And for dinner, lots of pork and another five eggs. He said playing the French horn and the flute used up all his energy, and he needed the nutrients. Hungry kids actually trooped by to sniff his French horn, which smelled like eggs.
I copied his techniques and replayed the music by ear. At Yi’s, my friends would listen to my flute and smoke in silence. Do that one or this one again, they would say as they tried to hum along inexpertly. Yi loved a particular piece sung by a very attractive actress in the commune troupe, a young woman who had been selected from a faraway village. He requested it again and again until he could hum the tune when he was alone.
“You really like the actress, don’t you, Yi?” Sen asked him one day when Yi was in the midst of his melody.
“Don’t be silly,” Yi said, embarrassed. He kept his eyes on a doorframe he was planing.
“Something’s going on here,” Sen whispered to me, but he let the subject drop.
One Sunday afternoon when we were smoking and drinking tea at Yi’s, we heard a knock on the door. No one knocked on the door. Either you came in or you didn’t.
Yi opened it.
At the doorway stood the actress with a red scarf around her neck and mouth, protecting her from the cold. We were rendered mute at the sight of this goddess. She looked more alluring up close. Her breasts were full and firm, her eyes big and full of life.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me to come in?” she asked.
Yi stood aside, bowed humbly, and with a red face answered, “Please, come in.”
“Hello, I’ve seen your friends before. Nice to meet you.” She was tall, curvy, poised, and filled with confidence. She smiled and her two sweet dimples deepened.
Who was she? Our hearts pounded: we were dying to know.
“Guys, let me introduce you to this lady,” said Yi, recovering a little from his redness. “Fei is my master carpenter’s daughter.”
The master’s daughter! No wonder our poor little Yi couldn’t stop talking about her. We had thought she was a thin, flat little country girl who smiled with yellow teeth. We had to pinch ourselves to make sure we weren’t dreaming.
“I think we’re going now,” Siang said, poking Mo Gong to move.
“Hey, you don’t have to go on my account. I’m just visiting Yi. In fact, I’d like to invite you all to one of our shows when we’re ready.” She radiated life and energy. Our hearts ached.
“Here, I got these for you, brother Yi.” She opened a bag of broad, yellow tobacco leaves. “I figured you could use them.”
“Those are the ones from the master’s garden!” Yi’s eyes lit up as he pulled a chair over for her. “Since when did you become an actress?”
“I always liked to act, sing, and dance, but Dad would never allow it when he was alive. The whole feudalism thing. Now, I can do it.”
“I’m happy for you. I’m sorry I left you people and came back after master passed on suddenly,” Yi said.
“No, I’m sorry you had to leave.” Fei was blushing now, but she smiled to cover it. She looked at Yi with a touch of sisterly love.
Both became silent for a moment.
“Could you stay for dinner with Grandpa?” Yi asked. “He’d love to see you when he’s back.”
“No, I have to run. Everything at the commune is scheduled. We live by the clock. Tonight is the dress rehearsal and I can’t be late, but I’ll visit you again, brother.” She smiled at us warmly and took off the way she had come, the red scarf around her neck flying in the wind. Yi’s eyes followed her until she disappeared at the end of the narrow street. For the first time, the little hut felt empty.
“I think we’re talking at least engagement, Yi.” Sen broke the silence. “Cigarettes?” He threw each of us a Flying Horse.
“Don’t be silly,” Yi said, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” Mo Gong said. “I’d marry the girl tomorrow. She’s the most”—he searched for words—“delicious girl I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s not the same girl anymore,” Yi replied coolly.
“What do you mean?” Sen asked.
“She has a bright future as an actress. Maybe soon she’ll be a professional in our county’s performing troupe. The sons of party leaders will be flocking around her. I’m only a no-good carpenter.” He stretched his hands out and laughed. “Feel them. She’d run away at my touch. In fact, I’d run away at my own touch, my hands are so fucking rough.”
“But she was promised to you by your dead master, her very own father,” I said.
“That was then, and now is now.” Yi was talking like an old man again. “I respected her father, so I’ll never embarrass her. It’s sad enough that her dad passed away. I should help her, not trouble her.”
Two weeks later, Fei came again and dropped off five tickets to the theater near the commune. Yi, dressed up nicely in a new coat, asked us not to joke too much
when we saw her. We sat through the show like five sullen adults and talked in an awkward, serious manner about the performance. Fei was a heart-stealer. She would soon be a big star. We could tell from the audience’s reaction.
After the show, we waited outside as Yi went to say good night to Fei. They took a long time.
When we got home, Yi brought out two bottles of liquor and said, “I feel like drinking.” It wasn’t a noisy celebration. We drank quietly, savoring the burning sensation and dull throbbing at the temples. Everyone felt good, but we refused to admit out loud that our hearts had been touched by an angel. Silently, we wished her success.
AS MY INTEREST in music grew, I became fascinated with the violin. The first time I heard one, I was picking grains of rice from the muddy rice fields under a summer sun. The commune had set up a crackling loudspeaker at the edge of the fields and played a simple violin solo through it. The music was supposed to cheer the farmers, and I fell head over heels in love with it. It was sensuous and tender, and caressed my soul in a way that no instrument had done before. I stood there holding the dripping rice, lost in the beauty of the music.
“Go to work,” a farmer’s voice behind me urged. She was the opposite of what a violin was. I bent down again and went on working, the melody resonating deep in my soul.
I wanted to learn that instrument, but how? For the next few days, I locked myself in my room and daydreamed. I thought of writing to a national newspaper, asking for a donation for a poor boy who didn’t even know what a violin looked like. Maybe my letter would be published and someone would send me a violin.
“How’s it going with the letter, dreamer?” Sen asked, seeing me with my head in my hands.
“Not good,” I said.
“Why don’t you ask Yi to make one for you? Just go find a maple tree. I’ll help file and chip it,” Sen said earnestly.
“Sen, that’s a joke. I can’t make an instrument. I make doors and chairs and tables. It’s a western instrument. Americans play it,” Yi said.