by Da Chen
“Take a bunch, Da.”
I looked at him and shook my head.
“Friends share everything.” He stared at me, testing.
“They sure do.” I grabbed a few, thinking of my own friends awaiting me at Yi’s. One of I-Fei’s followers jumped in and grabbed one from the pack. He slapped the guy’s wrist and kicked him again. “Get lost, you beggar,” he shouted.
Slowly I pulled out an unopened pack of Flying Horse from my inside pocket and said, “Allow me to return the favor, my friend. If you want friendship, smoke one of mine.”
I-Fei’s face broke into a smile and he slapped my shoulder. He pulled one from my pack and lit it with a red lighter, after first lighting mine.
He became my best friend in class. His pomposity came from his family’s background. His father was the mayor of Han Jian, the second largest town in Putien. His mother was the president of the women’s federation at a government dried goods manufacturing factory. Both were seasoned Communist cadres. His parents had become too caught up with their lives and had deposited him at his aunt’s, thus making him a big fish in a small pond. He lived on a fabulous monthly stipend and rode a brand-new bicycle to school once in a while, just to show it off to the girls. The teachers tolerated him because his mother controlled the supply of sugar and cooking oil in the county. She was all sugar and oil. Poorly paid, some teachers often could be seen begging I-Fei for oil and sugar coupons, which would allow them to buy those rare commodities that were unobtainable on their pathetic rations.
On his first day at Yellow Stone High School, the principal was seen lighting a cigarette for I-Fei in his office, welcoming the VIP student on board. It still remained his favorite joke about the school. According to him, all the other teachers should be manicuring his—I-Fei’s—nails.
He searched out interesting fellows in school and made alliances with them. Even the cool guys in senior high greeted him like an old pal. He dragged me around wherever he went and introduced me as his buddy. We were the same height and build; soon we were wearing the same hairstyle. I even asked Mom for socks to wear, a giant step for someone who had only operated in bare feet before.
Mom kept saying I should be a straight A student and try to impress the teachers, but high school was one big mess. I had visited our English teacher once after class to discuss how to make up the lost lessons. He was about sixty-five and a heavy smoker. I told him I was interested in the subject. He took out an ugly, burned pipe, stuffed it with a pinch of tobacco, and lit it. Puff, puff. The tobacco sizzled. He suddenly started a coughing spasm. Choking, his face turned red and his chest whistled like leaky bellows. I thought he was going to drop to the floor, but he held on to the desk.
“What’s your name?” He had a raspy voice. His eyes stared at me like dead oysters.
“Chen Da,” I said. “Should I call the school nurse for you?”
He shook his head. Puff, puff. “Chronic. This is no good.” He looked at the pipe.
You bet it’s no good. It’ll kill you, maybe it already has, I thought. I became aware of the pack of Flying Horse I carried in my back pocket. Got to quit.
“What class are you in?”
“The fourth, first grade.” He had seen me three times.
“You want to make up the lessons?”
“Yes, please.”
“I have a sick wife. Sicker than I am.”
Can’t be lung problems, I thought.
“Lung cancer.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“There’s more.” Puff, puff. I could hear the bitter smoke infiltrating his lungs with bubbling pus. Not a pretty sound, all that wheezing.
“My son is in jail.” His oyster eyes fixed on mine. “Stealing.”
“Sorry.”
“And my daughter.”
I had had enough. I would have left, had it not been for those oyster eyes begging for an audience.
“She’s still in elementary school.”
“That sounds good.”
His oyster eyes widened. “She’s sixteen.”
I was out of there in a second. The teacher needed more help than I did.
IN PHYSICS CLASS, I-Fei casually walked out, had a smoke, and came back. The teacher stared at him, but said nothing.
“They allow you to do that here?” I asked him after school.
“They can’t stop you. You could tell them science corrupts you and makes you bourgeois and they can’t say anything. If they do, they better be careful what they say.”
“You mean the students could control the teachers?”
“I guess you could say so. The other day my friends in senior high booted the teacher out of his classroom. In the end, the teacher had to apologize to the students.”
No wonder the teachers hadn’t been showing any interest in my problems.
By midterm, I was on the school Ping-Pong team and also in the school band. Three days a week I practiced Ping-Pong after school, and the rest of the week, I played the flute and stumbled along on my violin, preparing for the rehearsal of a grand, seven-act play.
Schoolmates were amazed by my violin. They called it “the shoulder thing.” There were always eager faces pasted at the windowpanes of the rehearsal hall. Now they had one more thing to look at besides the alluring faces of the school’s stars.
Soon I was a recognizable face in a school of two thousand students. I-Fei referred to me as “that violin fellow” to all his friends. But one day he mentioned that we weren’t spending time together anymore and life had gotten pretty boring for him.
“Why don’t you try out as an actor? You’re a good-looking guy,” I said to I-Fei.
“I can’t act. It’s embarrassing.”
“I have another idea,” I said. “I was going through the school storage room and I noticed that there’s a good button accordion lying around collecting dust. Maybe you could learn how to push a few of those buttons, and then you’d be in. They’d love to have more western instruments in the band. How do you think I got in?”
He looked at his feet and kicked the dirt. “I don’t know anything about music.” An embarrassing confession.
“We’ll get someone to teach you. I bet by the time rehearsal is over you’ll be able to play along in the background.”
He was excited. “But who is going to teach me?”
“I have an idea.”
I convinced Mr. Ma, the art teacher in charge of the school production, and fetched the dusty accordion for I-Fei that afternoon. I-Fei spent the whole evening polishing it until it shone like a sword.
The following day, he rode his bike with the accordion strapped onto the backseat, impatiently circling the school, waiting for me to be finished with rehearsal. As soon as I was done, we headed for Heng Tang, riding double.
Soong was happy to see us. His mom was away again.
“Another crash course,” he said. “I do happen to know a thing or two about the instrument, but not as well as I know the violin though.”
He showed I-Fei the basics. Soon I-Fei was cranking awkwardly along the loose buttons.
On our way home after the first lesson, I-Fei acted like a gambler who had just won big. “I really like Teacher Soong.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“I’m going to learn real fast like him. There must be something I can do to pay him back.”
“Find him a wife?”
“Just oil or sugar. I am sure he could use them as well.” Both were precious.
“Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll see.”
Two weeks later, I-Fei joined the band. He sat behind me in the twenty-piece group, unsure of the keys or the scores, but smart enough to start playing late and end early, never getting caught hitting the wrong buttons. From a distance, his gestures looked fluent and up to speed. Near him, all I could hear was a puffing sound from a leaky box, not unlike the lungs of the English teacher. Each day before the rehearsal session, I taught him the
scores of the day. He would hum them over and over again, beating them to death. It was as if he had found his calling.
I was proud of him and very happy to have him around. He felt good being included in the in crowd.
“Did you hear that?” I-Fei asked me angrily one day as we walked into the rehearsal room.
“What?” I asked.
“There was a guy out there, bad-mouthing you, calling you a landlord’s son, and this and that.” I-Fei’s face was burning.
“Who was it?”
“A skinny little rat from group one called Han or something. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?” He put his hands on his waist.
“Listen, he was my old enemy from elementary school.”
“And you let him run through you like that?”
“I’ll take care of him later.”
“Not later.” He stared at me. “Now.”
“I don’t want to make a scene here.”
“I’ll make a scene. Let’s go.”
“Not now. You don’t understand.”
“I do understand. They used to pick on you, but not in here.”
He marched me out of the room and we went toward a small crowd.
“You stay cool, okay,” I-Fei said in a hushed voice, “and do as I say.”
“What are you going to do?” The fear of getting kicked out of school washed over me again.
He didn’t answer. I saw him walk straight to Han, who stopped laughing and turned to face I-Fei.
“You’ve been cursing me behind my back, you son of a whore,” I-Fei shouted, spitting at Han and waving his fists.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” Han said. “I was talking about him.” He pointed at me.
“That’s not true, I heard you do it.” He moved in closer; his eyes were popping. He started to push Han. Han pushed back.
“Come on, Da,” I-Fei yelled. “Now the rat confessed he has been cursing both of us. How dare you!”
My blood rushed to my head. The old pain began to come back. I was shaking and trembling.
“Come on, Da!”
Suddenly I turned fearless and hit Han right in the temple with my fist. Han stumbled back a few steps. I-Fei ducked down and swung his right foot against Han’s unsteady legs. Han fell onto the dirt ground. A cheer went up among the crowd.
My legs flew and I started kicking him in his chest and groin. He screamed. I-Fei pinned his head down. Then I jumped on him and hit him till I was in tears and my arms were exhausted. We let go of him. Han crawled to his feet like a dog hit by a truck and limped away, mud, sweat, and tears covering his face.
“Why are you crying?” I-Fei asked, puzzled.
“Happy.” I wiped my face. “Thanks.”
“He would never dare look you in the face from now on.”
That evening, Mr. Ma took us into his office and severely criticized us. I said it was my fault, I-Fei said it was his. Mr. Ma said if it were not for the upcoming dress rehearsal of the revolutionary drama, we would all be fired from the production. We tried to suppress our laughter as we left the office.
Our show was ready by the New Year. For that period, we had already gotten fifteen bookings, mainly from the small villages under the Yellow Stone commune. Our play was about how a female high school student, at first a bookworm, was helped by the Red Guards to join the revolutionary camp. She became a Red Guard and denounced her past affiliation with a counterrevolutionary, who was trying to corrupt her young mind with intellectual studies. The total cast was about fifty people, including teachers. It was not much of a play, but to a village where there might be a movie once a year, any form of entertainment was reason to celebrate, especially when it coincided with the New Year.
A few days before the New Year, we were invited to perform in the village of Ding Zhuang, where my distant cousin Wen Qui lived, and where I had hidden myself earlier. Now it was time for a happy reunion.
In the morning, the village sent tractors to pick us up. We sang all the way there, crowded into the back. When we arrived, small children chased us with interest. “The music men are here!” they shouted.
The band’s job when we got to each destination was to hang all the curtains, layers of them, and set up all the props. Ding Zhuang had an outdoor dirt platform facing a large square. A few bamboo poles were erected at the four corners. I-Fei and I climbed up the poles and tied the curtains to them while others carried the heavy props to the back of the stage and passed the curtains to us. Teachers shouted at us as we rocked on the tip of the poles for fun. Then we helped the electricians set up the spotlights.
Out in the dirt yard, villagers had long since claimed their spots with their own chairs, camping out since the day before. These kids hadn’t had such fun for a long time. At the village headquarters, where all of us would be staying for the night, a large kitchen was preparing a banquet for us.
“Three big fat pigs and lots of other food,” the chief of the village said proudly. “You will have plenty to eat.” He passed out cigarettes on a tray to everyone, including the students. Mr. Ma stared at us like a disapproving parent and snatched them all back.
That afternoon, I visited my cousin Wen Qui, bringing along my violin.
“Welcome, welcome. I didn’t expect to see you.” Wen looked a few years older, and now had an unruly mustache. “All I knew was that you were in high school.” He was beaming with joy. His wife patted my shoulders lovingly.
“I am in high school and I’m playing the violin now.”
“Just like your dad. That’s very good. Here, play something for us.”
I played a simple melody and they listened quietly.
“I can see you are surviving well, on the school propaganda team and all. It makes me think of the old days, when you were hiding here,” my cousin said sentimentally.
His wife’s eyes were misty, but she smiled and held my hands in hers.
“How is school?”
“Well, no one is serious about school nowadays. That’s why I’m doing this.” I plucked a few notes and put the violin away.
“But it’s difficult to make a living doing that, unless you’re very talented.”
I was quiet.
“It’s fun, singing and dancing and lots of good food—and probably lots of smoking. I’ve done all that before.” Wen Qui looked at his wife, who smiled back. “But you should try to study as much as possible in school.”
“What’s the use?”
“What’s the use? Knowledge. Nobody can take that away from you. Times will change, then you’ll be sorry,” he said.
I stayed quiet. I came here expecting to talk about my exciting winter schedule with my favorite couple, discussing my music and friends. He had just dumped a bucket of cold water on my head.
“He mentions this because we care for you.” His wife added gently. “You’re a really smart kid. Don’t waste your talent.”
“It’s wonderful to have a hobby, but go back and study hard. You will thank me when you grow up.”
In the audience that evening, I didn’t see Wen or his wife. Like he said, he had done it all and seen it all in his youth. I believed him, and I loved them both.
That night after the banquet, I-Fei and I took a walk along a dark dirt road.
“What are you going to do when you grow up?” I asked.
“Not sure yet,” I-Fei said. “I could work for my mom and be an oil and sugar man. But Dad wants me to be a driver.”
“Why?”
“You make the most money, only second to being a butcher.” Under-the-table money.
“How about going to college?”
“I don’t want to be a stinking intellectual. I’m from a revolutionary family. What do you want to be?”
“A violin soloist, performing before thousands of fans in a great concert hall. I want to travel by plane, wear good suits and ties, and have female fans fainting at my feet.”
I-Fei couldn’t stop laughing. I hit his back with my fist and he
stopped. But I agreed with him, it was a ridiculous dream.
“That I couldn’t help you with,” he said earnestly. “If you want to be a teacher or something, my dad might be able to help get you a job.”
“I don’t need your help. I’ll study hard and make it on my own.”
“Study? Are you crazy?”
I nodded.
He offered me a cigarette. For the first time, I refused.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Just don’t feel like one.”
He lit one for himself. I took it out of his mouth and threw it away. He tried to hit me but I was already a few steps beyond him. We ran back to the headquarters. All the way, I felt the eyes of Wen and his wife staring at me, smiling and hoping.
ON THE NINTH day of the ninth month in 1976, Chairman Mao died like an ordinary man. Superstitious farmers said nine was the number of an emperor, and heaven had intended that he die like an emperor. It could have been a coincidence, but the sun, covered by clouds, didn’t shine over Yellow Stone for ten days following his death. Rumor had it that it was mourning the loss of a great leader, but Dad thought the sky was upset because Mao hadn’t died earlier. But a leader, no matter how rotten, was almost a supernatural figure. Confucianism had taught people to be obedient to the emperor unconditionally. Mao’s rule had reinforced such a tradition. For days after his death, people gathered in knots, in the fields, under the trees, whispering quietly and mysteriously as though a disaster were about to befall the whole nation.
Mom and Dad told me to be especially careful about what I said. We, the enemy of Mao, should not appear to be gleeful about the news. The leaders of the commune would thrash every one of us before the system could change. We could be easy targets for their wrath in mourning. There might be martial law, even civil war, Dad cautioned.
Leaders and cadres of Yellow Stone commune held long meetings, during which some were said to have cried until they collapsed. There was a sense that they had lived their golden days and that what might be ahead was totally unknown.
Everyone in the street wore a black band on his right arm. Day and night, the gloomy and weeping sounds of Mao’s funeral music haunted every dusty corner of Yellow Stone, transmitted through temporary loudspeakers. It never stopped.