The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  Rickshaw (excerpts)

  [In the first three chapters of the novel, Hsiang Tzu, a rickshaw puller in Peking, saved up enough money to buy a rickshaw and became his own man. But he was soon kidnapped by the army and lost his rickshaw. He managed to get away and stole three camels, which he sold for thirty-five dollars; hence his nickname “Camel Hsiang Tzu.” With the money in his pocket, he now made it back to Peking hoping to restart his rickshaw career.]

  Chapter Four

  Hsiang Tzu lay for three days in a small inn in Hai Tien, his body shaking with chills and fever. He was delirious at times and had great purple blisters on his gums. Water was all he wanted, not food. Three days of fasting brought his temperature down and left his body flaccid as soft taffy. It was probably during these three days that, either by talking in his sleep or babbling deliriously, he let others find out about the camels. He was Camel Hsiang Tzu even before he recovered.

  He had been simply Hsiang Tzu, as if he had no family name, ever since he came to the city. Now that Camel was put before Hsiang Tzu, no one would care what his family name was. Having or not having a family name didn’t bother him, but to have sold three animals for only thirty-five dollars and then been stuck with a nickname to boot was nothing to brag about.

  He decided to take a look around once he struggled to his feet, but he never expected his legs to be so weak. He collapsed feebly onto the ground when he got to the front door of the inn. He sat there, dizzily, for a long time, his forehead covered with cold sweat. He put up with it and then opened his eyes. His stomach rumbled; he felt a little hungry. He stood up very slowly and went over to a wonton peddler. Then, with a bowl of wonton soup, he sat down on the ground again. He took a mouthful and felt nauseated, but held the soup in his mouth awhile and forced it down. He didn’t want any more. After a short wait it finally went straight down to his belly and he belched loudly twice. He knew he still had life in him.

  He looked himself over after getting a little food in his stomach. He had lost a lot of weight and his ragged trousers couldn’t have been dirtier. He was too tired to move but he had to get himself cleaned up immediately; he refused to enter the city looking like a wreck. Only he’d have to spend money to make himself clean and neat. It would take money to get his head shaved and buy a change of clothes and shoes and socks. He ought not to disturb the thirty-five dollars he had in hand. But after all, even if he didn’t, wasn’t it still a long way from enough to buy a rickshaw? He took pity on himself.

  Although it wasn’t so long ago that he had been captured by the soldiers, it was all like a nightmare when he thought about it now. This nightmare had aged him considerably; it was as if he’d taken on many years in a single breath. When he looked at his big hands and feet it was obvious they were his, but they looked like they might have been picked up any old place. He didn’t dare think of all the hardship and danger he’d just gone through, but it was still there even though he didn’t think about it. It was like knowing the sky is overcast during a succession of dark days, even though you do not go out to look at it. He knew his body was especially precious; he should not make himself suffer. He stood up, aware that he was still very weak, intending to go get properly dressed without another minute’s delay—as if all he needed was to get his head shaved and his clothes changed to be strong again instantly.

  It took a total of two dollars and twenty cents to get properly turned out. A jacket and trousers of fine-looking unbleached rough cloth cost one dollar, black cloth shoes were eighty cents, cotton socks were fifteen cents, and a straw hat cost twenty-five cents. He gave the tattered things he took off to a ragpicker in exchange for the usual two boxes of matches.

  He headed down the highway with his two boxes of matches, his goal the Hsi Chih Gate. He had not gone very far before he felt unsteady and exhausted. But he gritted his teeth; he could not ride in a rickshaw. No matter how he looked at it he could not take a rickshaw. Couldn’t any peasant make the trip? And besides, he was a rickshaw puller! What a joke to let his energy be drained by such a piddling sickness. He absolutely would not give in to weakness. Why, even if he had an accident and couldn’t crawl, then he’d roll and roll all the way to the city. If he did not reach the city today it was all up with him; his body was the only thing he had confidence in, never mind being sick!

  Wobbly and shaky, he lengthened his stride, but gold stars appeared before his eyes not far from Hai Tien. He leaned against a willow tree and pulled himself together. The turning earth and reeling sky made him dizzy for a while, but still he refused to sit down. The whirling earth and sky eventually slowed down and his heart seemed to come rolling back to its place again from somewhere far away. He wiped the sweat off his head and set out once more. He’d had his head shaved and gotten his clothes changed. Surely, he reasoned, this was enough to compensate for his weakness. Well, then, his legs had better do their duty and walk! He got almost to the northwest gate in one stretch.

  When he saw the bustle of people and horses, heard the ear-piercing racket, smelled the dry stink of the road, and trod on the powdery, churned-up gray dirt, Hsiang Tzu wanted to kiss it, kiss that gray stinking dirt, adorable dirt, dirt that grew silver dollars! He had no father or mother, brother or sister, and no relatives. The only friend he had was this ancient city. This city gave him everything. Even starving here was better than starving in the country. There were things to look at, sounds to listen to, color and voices everywhere. All you needed was to be willing to sell your strength. There was so much money here it couldn’t be counted. There were ten thousand kinds of grand things here that would never be eaten up or worn out. Here, if you begged for food, you could even get things like meat and vegetable soup. All they had in the village was cornmeal cakes. When he reached the west side of the Kao Liang Bridge he sat down next to the canal and dropped quite a few hot tears!

  The sun was setting; the old willow branches bending above the canal had tiny glints of gold on their tips. There wasn’t much water in the canal but there was a lot of trailing waterweed like an oily belt, narrow, long, and deep green, which gave off a slight rank smell of damp. The wheat on the north bank had already spit out its shoots. They were stunted and dry, with a layer of dust on their leaves. The pads of the water lilies along the southern embankment of the canal floated limply on the surface. Little bubbles were released around them at intervals. People were coming and going on the east side of the bridge. They all looked hurried in the light of the setting sun, as if they felt a kind of uneasiness as evening approached. It was all very enjoyable and precious to Hsiang Tzu. Only a little canal like this one could be considered a canal. These trees, the wheat, the water lily pads, the bridge, were the only real trees, wheat, water lilies, and bridge, because they were all part of Peking.

  He was in no hurry sitting there. Everything he saw was familiar and dear. If he were to die while sitting there, he’d be content. He rested for some time and then crossed the bridge and bought a bowl of bean curd from a street vendor. Warmed by the scalding hot snow-white bean curd, the vinegar, soy sauce, chili pepper oil, and scallion tips gave off an absolutely wonderful smell that made Hsiang Tzu want to hold his breath. His hands couldn’t stop trembling while he held the bowl and gazed at the dark green scallion tips. He took a mouthful. The bean curd opened a path in his body. He added two more spoonfuls of chili pepper oil. When he’d finished, sweat soaked his waistband. With his eyes half shut he held out the bowl. “Give me another bowlful!”

  He felt like a man again when he stood up. The sun had sunk to its lowest point in the west. The evening clouds reflected in the canal made the water slightly red. His elation made him want to shout. He forgot all about being sick, forgot everything, as he rubbed the slick scar on his face, rubbed the coins in his pocket, and looked at the sunlight on the watchtower. Then, as if he had a conviction to act upon, he went determinedly into the city.

  The gateway tunnel was jammed with every kind of cart and all sorts of people. Everyone wanted
to get through it quickly but no one dared hurry. The cracking of whips, shouts, curses, honking of horns, ringing of bells, and laughter were blended into a continuous roaring by the megaphonelike tunnel, making a “weng weng.” Hsiang Tzu’s big feet cut forward and jumped backward while his hands fended off people to left and right. He pushed his way into the city like a great skinny fish which follows the waves and jumps for joy. He caught sight of Hsin Street; it was so broad and straight it made his eyes sparkle when they saw it just as brightly as the sunlight reflected off the roofs above him. He nodded his head.

  His bedroll was still at the Jen Ho Rickshaw Agency; naturally he intended to hurry there. Although he did not always rent one of their rickshaws, he stayed at this agency because he had no home of his own. Liu, the owner, was a man who would soon be sixty-nine. He was old but not dignified. In his younger days he had served as a guard in the Imperial Treasury, operated a gambling house, trafficked in women, and practiced loan sharking. Liu had all the qualifications and abilities needed to carry on these enterprises: audacity, tact, skill, social contacts, reputation, and so forth. During the last days of the Qing Dynasty he had fought in mob wars, abducted women of good family, and “knelt on iron chains.” Kneeling before the magistrate on iron chains, Liu never wrinkled his brow, never confessed, never once said, “Spare my life.” The magistrate admired his unflinching fortitude under torture. This is called making a name for yourself.

  As it happened, Liu came out into the new republic when he got out of jail. Liu could see that the police were becoming more and more powerful and the role of local bravo had already become a thing of the past. Even if those great old heroes Li K’uei and Wu Sung had still been alive, they wouldn’t have been able to carry on either.

  Liu opened a rickshaw agency. He had started out as a local bravo, or neighborhood bully, so he knew how to treat poor people: when to squeeze them and when to let up a little. He excelled in his genius for fast footwork. None of the rickshaw pullers dared try to outsmart him. One stare or guffaw from Liu would leave them completely stymied, as if they had one foot in heaven and one foot in hell. All they could do was let him persecute them.

  Liu now had over sixty rickshaws. He did not rent out worn ­rickshaws—the very worst of his was almost new. He charged a somewhat higher rental fee but allowed two more rent-free days during the three yearly festivals than the other rickshaw agencies did. The Jen Ho Agency also had sleeping rooms, so unmarried men who pulled its rickshaws could stay there free, but they had to pay promptly for using the rickshaws. Anyone who couldn’t pay up and tried to beg off would be thrown out the door like a broken teapot and have his bedroll confiscated. But if any of them had a serious problem or was ill, all he had to do was tell Liu about it. Liu would not sit idly by. He’d even go through fire and flood to help. This is called making a name for yourself.

  Liu had the physiognomy of a tiger. He was nearly seventy but his back was still straight and he could still walk ten or twenty li. He had big round eyes, a big nose, a square chin, and a pair of tigerish canine teeth. His open mouth looked just like a tiger’s. He was almost as tall as Hsiang Tzu. His head was shaved so it glistened and he had not grown a beard. He claimed to be a tiger, but alas he had no son, only a thirty-seven-or-so-year-old tiger daughter. Anyone who knew about old Liu also knew about Hu Niu, Tiger Girl. She, too, had grown up with the head and brains of a tiger and so she frightened men off. She was skillful at helping her father manage the business but no one dared ask for her as his wife. She was the same as a man in everything; she had a man’s bluntness when swearing at someone and even added a few embellishments all her own. Under the rule of the Lius, the Jen Ho Agency was like a length of steel tubing: nothing out of place. This agency had a great deal of prestige and influence in the world of rickshaws. The methods of the Lius were often on the lips of rickshaw owners and pullers, the way scholars quote from the Confucian classics.

  Until he bought his own rickshaw, Hsiang Tzu had pulled one of theirs. He had deposited his profits with Liu at interest, and when he finally had saved enough, he withdrew it all and bought his rickshaw. “Mister Liu,” he’d said, “look at my new rickshaw!” He had taken his new rickshaw back to the Jen Ho Agency.

  The old man had looked at it and nodded. “Not bad!”

  “I’ll still have to stay here. But whenever I work for a family, I’ll go live there,” added Hsiang Tzu rather proudly.

  “Very well.” Liu had nodded again.

  And so, when Hsiang Tzu had a private job, he lived there. He lived at the agency when he was out of a private job and had to work the streets.

  In the opinion of the other rickshaw men, it was unheard-of to have someone who no longer pulled a Jen Ho rickshaw go on living there. They wondered about it. The most far-fetched guess was that Hsiang Tzu was related to old Liu. Many others said old Liu probably had a high opinion of Hsiang Tzu and planned to fix Hu Niu up with a husband who would live there. Speculations like these were colored by a little envy, but perhaps things really would turn out like that. The Jen Ho Agency would certainly be left to Hsiang Tzu when old Liu died, that was what mattered. All they did was make foolish guesses about the situation. Naturally none of them dared be so rude as to say anything to Hsiang Tzu himself.

  In fact, old Liu’s good treatment of Hsiang Tzu was on quite another account. Hsiang Tzu was the sort of man who held fast to his old habits in a new environment. Suppose he joined the army; he certainly would not start right in pretending to be ignorant of what he was doing and cheat and swindle people the way most soldiers did as soon as he had put on his uniform. At the agency he started looking for something to do as soon as he came back each day and had wiped the sweat off his brow. He was never idle. He dusted off rickshaws, pumped up tires, spread the rain covers out to dry in the sun, and greased wheels. No one had to tell him to do these things; he did them voluntarily. Working made him very happy, as if it were the best of all amusements.

  Ordinarily, there were about twenty men living at the agency. They either sat around talking or were dead asleep after putting away their rickshaws. Only Hsiang Tzu’s hands were never idle. When he first came there everyone thought he was putting on a show for old Liu, trying to get himself in good like a stray dog. After a while they realized he was not putting up a false front in any way. He really was that forthright and natural, so there was simply nothing more to be said. Old Liu never praised him, never gave a sign he had noticed Hsiang Tzu; he simply made a mental note. He knew Hsiang Tzu was a good worker, so he was glad to have him around even if he wasn’t pulling a Liu rickshaw. The courtyard and doorway, not to mention anything else, were always kept clean when Hsiang Tzu was there.

  Hu Niu liked the big oaf even more. Hsiang Tzu always listened attentively when she spoke and never argued with her. The other rickshaw pullers were contrary because of all their miseries. She wasn’t afraid of them in the least but preferred not to have much to do with them, so she saved all her comments for Hsiang Tzu. It was as if the Lius had lost a friend when Hsiang Tzu had a private job and was living out. And when he was there, even the old man’s swearing seemed more to the point and a little kinder.

  Hsiang Tzu entered the Jen Ho Agency carrying his two boxes of matches. It wasn’t dark yet and the Lius were still eating dinner. Hu Niu put down her chopsticks when she saw him come in.

  “Hsiang Tzu! Did you let a wolf catch you or did you go to Africa to dig in the gold mines?”

  Hsiang Tzu said nothing; he grunted.

  Liu’s big round eyes gave Hsiang Tzu the once-over. He didn’t say anything either.

  Hsiang Tzu sat down facing them, his new straw hat still on his head.

  “In case you haven’t eaten, here’s some.” Hu Niu behaved as if she were taking care of a good friend.

  Hsiang Tzu didn’t move. His heart was suddenly full of a feeling of warm friendship he couldn’t put into words. He had always regarded the Jen Ho Agency as his home. For private jobs his masters ch
anged frequently, and when working the streets his passengers changed with every trip. This was the only place he was allowed to stay and there was always someone to chat with. He had just escaped with his life and come back to his friends and here they were, inviting him to have something to eat. While he wondered if they could be mocking him, he almost wept too.

  “Just had two bowls of bean curd.” He showed a little courtesy.

  “What did you go away for? Where’s your rickshaw?” Old Liu’s eyes were still fastened on him.

  “Rickshaw?” Hsiang Tzu spat.

  “Come have a bowl of rice first. It won’t kill you. What are two bowls of bean curd?” Hu Niu pulled at his sleeve like a wife fussing over a younger brother-in-law.

  Hsiang Tzu did not take the rice bowl. He took out his money instead. “Sir, keep this for me. It’s thirty dollars.” He put the change back in his pocket.

  Liu inquired with his eyebrows. Where did it come from?

  Hsiang Tzu ate and told how he had been captured by the soldiers.

  “Humph! You idiot!” Liu shook his head. “If you’d brought them to the city and sold them for the soup pot, they’d have been worth more than ten dollars a head. If it had been winter and they’d had their heavy coats, three head would have brought sixty dollars!”

  Hsiang Tzu already regretted it; hearing this made him feel even worse. But, he went on to think, it was hardly virtuous to let three living animals have their throats cut for the soup pot. They had all escaped together so they should all live. That was all there was to say about it and he felt at peace in his mind.

  Hu Niu cleared the table. Liu looked up as though he’d thought of something. Suddenly a laugh showed two teeth that looked more and more like tiger teeth the older he got. “Dolt! Did you say you were sick at Hai Tien? Why didn’t you come straight back on the Huang Ts’un Road?”