by She Lao
Unfortunately, the woman and his modest savings preyed on his mind. His heart was like a green leaf entwined in silk threads by a caterpillar preparing its cocoon. He was so caught up in these thoughts that he often gave wrong answers to people, including Mr. Cao, to his chagrin. The Cao family went to bed early, leaving Xiangzi with time on his hands after nine o’clock, time he spent in his room or outside mulling over his problems. He even considered getting married in order to dash Huniu’s hopes. But how could he raise a family on what a rickshaw man earned? He knew how tough life was for rickshaw men who lived in crowded tenement compounds and whose wives had to take in mending while their children scrounged for lumps of coal and were forced to eat watermelon rinds they found on garbage heaps in the summer and charity gruel in the winter. That was not for Xiangzi. Besides, if he took a wife, he could say good-bye to the meager savings Fourth Master Liu was holding for him. Huniu would never let him off that easily. No, he couldn’t give up the money, not after risking his life for it.
He had bought his rickshaw the previous autumn, and now, a little more than a year later, he had nothing but a measly thirty-odd yuan that he could not get his hands on, plus a complicated entanglement. Depressing thoughts.
The weather began to cool off ten days or so after the Mid-Autumn Festival, and he would soon need warmer clothes. That meant money, of course. Since he could not spend and save at the same time, how could he ever hope to own another rickshaw?
One night, when taking Mr. Cao back from East City later than usual, Xiangzi took pains to stay on the street fronting Tiananmen Square. Wide and flat, the street was nearly deserted; accompanied by a slight breeze and soft lamplight, he ran with strength and ease, clearing his mind of the dejection he’d suffered for days. The sound of his footfalls and the shafts of the rickshaw helped him forget all his problems. He opened his shirt to let the breeze cool his chest. That was so invigorating he felt that he could just keep running, as far and as fast as his legs would take him, and die with no regrets. He was nearly flying down the street, overtaking one rickshaw after another. As he passed Tiananmen, his feet were like springs; they barely touched the ground before springing back up again. Behind him, the wheels were turning so fast they seemed to lift off the ground, the spokes a blur. Man and vehicle were swept along by strong gusts of wind. Fanned by the cool air, Mr. Cao dozed off; otherwise, he would have told Xiangzi to slow down. But Xiangzi was sure that a good sweat would help him sleep soundly that night, undisturbed by his thoughts.
They were approaching Beichang Street. The north side lay in the shadows of acacia trees by the red walls. Xiangzi was about to slow down when he stumbled on something. The wheels of his rickshaw hit the bump as he flew headlong to the ground, snapping one of the shafts in the process. “What the…” Mr. Cao was thrown from the rickshaw before he could finish. Without a word, Xiangzi scrambled to his feet. Nimbly sitting up where he fell, this time Mr. Cao got the words out: “What happened?”
A pile of paving stones had been unloaded in the middle of the street without a red warning light.
“Are you hurt?” Xiangzi asked.
“No. I can walk home,” Mr. Cao said, having regained his composure. “Bring the rickshaw along.” He groped among the stones to see if he’d dropped anything.
Xiangzi felt the broken shaft. “It’s not a bad break,” he said. “Please, get back on. I can still pull you.” He dragged the rickshaw away from the paving stones. “Please, sir, get back on.”
Though he’d rather not have, the pleading tone in Xiangzi’s voice convinced Mr. Cao that it was the right thing to do.
When they reached the street lamp at the Beichang Street intersection, Mr. Cao saw that his right hand was bleeding. “Xiangzi, stop!”
Xiangzi turned to look. His face was bloody.
Mr. Cao was nearly speechless. “Hurry, hurry and…” Xiangzi didn’t know what to make of that, except to start running again. Which he did, not stopping till they were back home.
The first thing Xiangzi saw after bringing the rickshaw to a stop was Mr. Cao’s injured hand. He ran into the yard to tell the mistress.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mr. Cao said, as he followed him into the yard. “See to yourself first.”
As Xiangzi looked himself over, the aches and pains surfaced. Both knees and his right elbow were badly skinned. What he thought was sweat on his face turned out to be blood. Unable to act, or even think, he sat down on the stone steps and gazed blankly at the black-lacquered rickshaw with its broken shaft. Two white splintered pieces of wood spoiled its look, like a paper figurine with stalks of millet where the legs are supposed to be. He gaped at the white ends.
“Xiangzi!” Gao Ma, the Caos’ maidservant, called out.
“Where are you?”
He sat without moving, his eyes glued to the splintered ends, as if they had pierced his heart.
“What are you up to, hiding from me like that? You’ve given me a real scare. The master wants you.” Gao Ma was in the habit of interjecting her feelings into whatever she was talking about, which led to confusion yet was quite touching. A widow in her early thirties, she was neat and clean, direct and honest, hardworking and conscientious. Previous households had found her boastful, opinionated, often sneaky, and a bit mysterious. But the Caos liked their servants to be clean, straight-talking people, and were not bothered by minor eccentricities, which is why she’d been with them for two or three years; where they went, she went. “The master wants you,” she repeated. But when Xiangzi stood up, she saw his bloody face. “Oh, my, you’ll be the death of me! What happened to you? Get that taken care of right away, before you get a case of lockjaw! Get a move on! The master has medicine that’ll take care of it!”
Xiangzi walked into the study, Gao Ma behind him, grumbling the whole way. Mrs. Cao was wrapping her husband’s hand when she saw Xiangzi. She uttered a cry of alarm.
“He’s taken a nasty fall, mistress,” Gao Ma said, as if Mrs. Cao could not see for herself. After busying herself filling a basin with cool water, she chattered on: “I knew something like this would happen sooner or later, the way he runs, like a man with a death wish. And I was right. What are you waiting for? Wash that face so we can put some medicine on it. I’m telling you!”
Xiangzi stood motionless, gripping his right elbow. With blood all over his face, he felt out of place in such a clean, refined study. And he wasn’t alone; the others, even Gao Ma, uncharacteristically silent, could sense that something was not right.
“Sir.” Xiangzi broke the silence, head bowed, his voice barely audible but surprisingly strong.
“You’d better find someone else. You can hold back this month’s wages to fix the broken shaft and the cracked lantern on the left side. Nothing else was broken.”
“We’ll talk about that after you wash up and put on some medicine,” Mr. Cao said as he watched his wife wrap his injured hand.
“Now wash up!” Gao Ma said, having regained her voice.
“The master has said nothing, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He still didn’t move. “I don’t need to wash up. I’ll be fine in a minute. A monthly hire who injures his employer and damages his rickshaw no longer has the face to…” Words failed him, but he was obviously on the verge of tears. Giving up his job and forfeiting his wages nearly amounted to suicide in Xiangzi’s eyes. But at a time like this, duty and face were more important than life, because the person he’d injured was Mr. Cao, not just anybody. If he’d thrown Mrs. Yang, for instance, so what! It would have served her right. He could have dealt with her like a street fighter; since she had never treated him like a man, there was no need to be considerate. Money was everything; face meant nothing, let alone rules of behavior. But Mr. Cao was not like that, and Xiangzi needed to sacrifice money to preserve his self-respect. If there was anyone or anything to hate, it was his fate, and he had just about decided that after leaving the Cao home he’d give up life as a rickshaw man. Since his li
fe was worth practically nothing, he could throw it away if he wanted. But he couldn’t be so cavalier when it came to other people. What if he actually killed someone? That thought had never occurred to him in the past, but the accident with Mr. Cao changed that. All right, then, he’d forget the money and take up a new line of work, one that didn’t put other people at risk. And yet, since pulling a rickshaw had always been his ideal trade, giving it up meant abandoning hope. He would just muddle his way through life from now on and forget his dream of being a model rickshaw man. But what a waste of such a carefully developed physique! Back when he was picking up passengers on the street, he was sometimes cursed for stealing fares from other men, a shameless act he justified by his desire to better himself and buy his own rickshaw; he had no trouble absolving himself. But now he had a monthly hire and what happened? He had an accident. If word got around that Xiangzi had bungled a monthly hire by throwing his employer and banging up his rickshaw, he’d be laughed out of the ranks. He had no choice. He must quit before Mr. Cao fired him.
“Xiangzi,” said Mr. Cao, whose hand was neatly bandaged.
“Go wash up. I don’t want to hear any more talk about quitting. It wasn’t your fault. They should have put a red lantern by the rock pile. Don’t give it another thought. Go wash up and get some medicine on that.”
“That’s right, sir,” Gao Ma injected her opinion. “Xiangzi’s just upset. Sure, you threw your employer, and he hurt his hand, but Mr. Cao says it wasn’t your fault, so enough of that talk. Just look at you, a big, strapping young man who’s all worked up, like a child. You tell him, madam, to stop worrying.” Gao Ma sounded like a phonograph record, going round and round and bringing everyone into it, with no beginning and no end.
“Go wash up,” Mrs. Cao said. “I hate the sight of blood.” Xiangzi stood there not knowing what to do until he heard Mrs. Cao complaining, and he immediately knew what he had to do to put her mind at ease. He picked up the basin, carried it over to the doorway, and cleaned the blood from his face. Gao Ma walked up with a bottle of medicine.
“Don’t forget your elbow and knees,” she said as she daubed medicine on his injured face.
“Never mind those.” Xiangzi shook his head.
After Mr. and Mrs. Cao went to bed, Gao Ma followed Xiangzi to his room, where she stood in the doorway and laid down the medicine bottle. “Put some of this on. Don’t let what happened out there upset you. Back when my husband was alive, I was always quitting jobs. The way he refused to better himself while I was slaving away infuriated me. I was young and headstrong then, and ready to quit if I heard a cross word. I was hired help, not a slave. ‘You may be filthy rich,’ I’d say, ‘but even a clay figurine is made from earth. Nobody can wait on you, old lady!’ But I’m better now. My husband’s death solved a lot of my problems, and my temper softened. I’ve been here almost three years, I think—yes, I started on the ninth day of the ninth month. They don’t give many tips, but they treat us like human beings. We earn our living by the sweat of our brow, and nice words can only go so far. But taking the long view makes sense. If you leave one job every two or three days, you’re out of work half the year, and that’s no good. You’re better off sticking with a good-natured employer, and even if there aren’t many tips, you can usually put something aside over the long haul. The master didn’t say anything about what happened today, so why beat yourself up? Forget it. I’m not saying I’m old and wise, but you’re a young hothead, and you can’t fill your belly with a quick temper. For a decent, hardworking youngster like you, settling down here is a lot better than flying from place to place. It’s not them I’m thinking about, it’s you, especially since you and I get along so well.” She paused to catch her breath. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Now forget this stubborn nonsense. I say what I mean and I mean what I say.”
Xiangzi’s right elbow hurt so badly he couldn’t sleep. So he added up the pros and cons of what Gao Ma said and concluded that she was right. Only money is to be trusted. He’d keep saving up to buy his rickshaw, and threatening to quit was no way to fill his belly. That comforting thought brought him a bit of peaceful sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Cao had the rickshaw repaired and deducted nothing from Xiangzi’s wages. Mrs. Cao gave him two Thrice Yellow Precious Wax cure-alls, but he did not take them. No more talk about quitting. The incident caused Xiangzi much embarrassment over the next few days, but in the end Gao Ma’s advice won out. Several more days passed and things returned to normal; gradually he forgot the accident and experienced a rebirth of hope. When he was alone in his room, his eyes sparkled as he calculated ways to save up to buy his rickshaw, muttering as he did so, as if bothered by anxieties. His calculations were rough, but he kept at it—six sixes are thirty-six—with figures that did not square with what he already had, but just saying the numbers boosted his confidence, as if he were really keeping an account.
He admired Gao Ma, who was wiser and more competent than most men. She was a straight-talker, and he was reluctant to pass the time of day with her. But if they met in the yard or one of the doorways, he eagerly listened to what she had to say, for that would give him something to think about for the rest of the day. He invariably pleased her with his silly grin as a sign of admiration. Even if she was busy with something, she’d stop and speak to him.
But where money was concerned, he dared not follow her advice. It wasn’t that her ideas were wrong; they were just too risky. He liked listening to her, since that calmed him, and there was much he could learn from her. But he stuck to his old ways with money—he would not easily let go of it.
Gao Ma did have a way with money. Since becoming a widow, she’d lent out whatever was left over at the end of the month to fellow servants, local policemen, and peddlers, one or two yuan at a time, at thirty percent or higher interest. These people were often so desperate for as little as one yuan that their eyes would glaze over and they’d pay as much as one hundred percent interest to get their hands on it. It was the only way they’d ever see a bit of extra money, and they would take it, even knowing it could easily bleed them dry. It offered them some breathing room for today, and let tomorrow take care of itself. That was the best that life could offer such people. When her husband was alive, Gao Ma knew what the toxic side of money was like. He’d come to her, roaring drunk, and demand some from her; if she didn’t have it to give, he’d cause a drunken scene in front of the house, forcing her to borrow the money, whatever the rate of interest. She took this experience to heart, lending out money not as a form of retaliation but as something perfectly reasonable, even timely and charitable. Some people need money; others willingly lend it to them. Like Zhou Yu pretending to hit Huang Gai—one ungrudgingly gives; the other cheerfully takes.
Since she had no qualms about what she was doing, she needed to ensure that she wasn’t throwing her money away. That required a keen eye, finesse, prudence, and a ruthless hand, all perfectly aboveboard. She was as conscientious as a bank manager, since extreme care was essential. The amount could be great, it could be small, but the doctrine did not vary, because they lived in a capitalist society. It was like pouring money into a big sieve with tiny holes: as the money sifts down, little by little, less gets through. At the same time, the doctrine also sifts down through the sieve, but there is always as much at the top as there is at the bottom, because a doctrine, unlike money, is nonphysical and shapeless; it can slip through no matter how small the holes. Everyone said that Gao Ma was a tough customer, a trait she readily acknowledged. Her toughness was tempered by the hardships she’d suffered in life. She ground her teeth at the thought of past miseries, when she’d had to endure mistreatment from her heartless, unreasonable husband. She could be friendly, but she could also be callous, knowing that it was the only way to survive in this world.
With the best of intentions, Gao Ma urged Xiangzi to start lending money, even offering to help him if he was willing.
“I tell you, Xiangzi, i
f you keep your money in your pocket, one yuan will always be one yuan. But if you lend some of it out, it will grow. Of course, you have to go into it with your eyes open. You’ve got to know who you’re dealing with and never lend money to someone who might cheat you. If a policeman refuses to pay interest or holds back the principle, go see his superior. One word from you and he loses his job. Find out when he gets paid and show up that day to demand your money. It would be a wonder if he still didn’t pay. You can apply this principle to all potential customers. You need to know their background, so you won’t have to beg to get your money back. Listen to me and you can’t go wrong, I guarantee it!”
Xiangzi’s expression amply demonstrated his admiration for Gao Ma without having to say a word. But when he was alone, mulling over what she’d said, his money still felt safer in his own hands. She was right, this was not a way to make more money, but it guaranteed that he wouldn’t lose what he had. He took out the money he’d put aside over the past two or three months—all silver dollars—and gingerly turned them over in his hand, one at a time, careful not to make any noise. They were so shiny, so solid, so captivating, he knew he could not bring himself to let them out of his sight, except to buy a rickshaw. To each his own, he was thinking. Gao Ma’s ways were not for him.
He’d once worked for a family named Fang, all of whom, even the servants, had opened post office savings accounts. Mrs. Fang had urged Xiangzi to do the same. “You can open an account with only one yuan, so why not give it a try? You know the saying—‘Plan for a rainy day instead of hoping the sun will shine.’ Now’s the time, when you’re young and strong, to put some money aside. Not all the 365 days in a year are going to be sunny and bright. Opening an account is easy, reliable, and it pays interest. Besides, you can draw your money out if the need arises. What more could you ask? Go on, get an application, and I’ll help you fill it out. It’s for your own good.”