Rickshaw Boy: A Novel

by She Lao

  Xiangzi knew she meant well, and he was well aware that the cook, Wang Six, and the wet nurse, Qin Ma, both had savings accounts; he was tempted to try it for himself. But one day the eldest daughter of the Fang family sent him to the post office to deposit ten yuan. He studied the account book, with its writing and red seals. That’s it, that’s all there is? Hardly more than a stack of toilet paper! When he handed over the money, the clerk wrote something in the account book and added a red seal. Handing over shiny silver dollars and getting nothing in return but some scrawls in a book had to be a swindle, and Xiangzi was not about to fall for it. He suspected that the Fangs might have some sort of financial arrangement with the post office, which had established moneymaking enterprises all over town, including establishments like the Ruifuxiang Company and Hongji, which is why she was so eager to get him to open an account. But even if that were not the case, his money was better off—far better off—in his hands than in an account book. Money there was just some scribbled words!

  Where banks were concerned, Xiangzi knew only that they would have been ideal spots to pick up fares, if the police didn’t stop rickshaws from waiting there. What went on inside was a mystery. He was sure of one thing—there was a lot of money there—but he could never figure out why so many people came by to fuss with it. None of this, however, was any of his business, so he put it out of his mind. Many, many things happened in the city that he did not understand, and when he listened in on conversations in teahouses, he was more confused than ever, with one person saying one thing, another saying something else, and none of it making any sense. The best way to keep his head clear was to stop listening and stop thinking about what he heard. Obviously, a bank would be a good place to rob, but he was in no mood to become an outlaw, so keeping hold of his own money was the way to go; let others worry about themselves.

  Knowing that he had his heart set on buying a rickshaw, Gao Ma came to him with a suggestion.

  “Xiangzi, I know you’re against lending money because you’re in a hurry to buy a rickshaw, and there’s nothing wrong with that. If I were a man who pulled a rickshaw, I’d want to own my own. I’d sing while I worked and not have to rely on anyone else. I wouldn’t trade that to be a county magistrate. Pulling a rickshaw is hard work, but if I were a man and I had the strength, I’d do that before I’d take a job as a policeman. They stand out on the street the year-round for a couple of yuan a month, with no chance for any extra income and no freedom. They get fired if they decide to grow a mustache. It’s not an appealing job. Now, where was I? Oh, right, if you’re in a hurry to buy a rickshaw, I’ve got an idea. Organize a lending club with ten to twenty people, who each put in two yuan a month. You’re the first to use the money. That’s forty yuan to add to what you’ve already got, and you’ll be able to buy your rickshaw in no time. Problem solved. Once you have your rickshaw, you form a banking co-op. You won’t need to pay interest and it’s a respectable thing to do. A new path opens up. If you decide to organize it, I’ll be the first to join the club. I mean it. What do you say?”

  Xiangzi’s heart was racing. If he really could come up with thirty or forty yuan and add it to the thirty that Fourth Master Liu was holding, plus what he’d earned recently, wouldn’t he have a total of eighty? That wouldn’t be enough to buy a brand-new vehicle, though he could surely afford one that was nearly new. Not only that, but this was the time to get his money back instead of letting Fourth Master Liu hold on to it. A nearly new vehicle was good enough for the time being; when he’d earned enough out on the street, he’d trade it for a new one.

  The next question was where to find twenty people. Even if he managed, they’d probably join just to save face. When he needed money, he’d form a club, but what would he do if someone invited him to join their club? With poverty all around, these clubs came and went before you knew it. No man worth his salt goes begging for help. No, he’d buy a rickshaw when he’d earned enough and not before.

  When Gao Ma saw that her advice had fallen on deaf ears, she felt like trying to get him moving with a bit of sarcasm. But he was too honest to deserve that. “You know what you want,” she said. “The only way to drive a pig up and down an alley is straight ahead. So have it your way.”

  Without a word in reply, Xiangzi waited till she had left before nodding to himself, as if to acknowledge that his was the proper way to go about it. He was pleased with himself.

  Early winter had arrived. At night in the alleys, shouts of honey-roasted chestnuts and salted peanuts were joined by cries of “Chamber pots, oh!” The peddler also carried on his pole earthenware gourd banks. Xiangzi bought a large one. Since he was the first customer of the day, the man did not have change, but then Xiangzi spotted a delightful little chamber pot, bright green with a pursed spout. “Never mind the change, I’ll take this, too.”

  After putting away his gourd bank, Xiangzi took the chamber pot inside. “Still up, young master? Here, I’ve brought you something to play with.”

  Everyone was watching Little Wen—the Caos’ young son—being bathed, and when they saw the gift, they couldn’t help but laugh. Mr. and Mrs. Cao didn’t say a word, feeling that while it might not have been the most appropriate gift, it was the thought that counted. They smiled to show their appreciation. Naturally, Gao Ma had to have her say:

  “Look at that! I mean, really! A grown man like you, Xiangzi—is that the best you can do? That’s disgusting!”

  But Little Wen, thrilled with his new toy, scooped some bath water into the chamber pot. “This teapot has a big mouth!” he exclaimed.

  That produced even greater laughter. Xiangzi straightened his clothes—satisfied with how this had turned out, he didn’t know what else to do—and walked out of the room a happy young man. All those happy faces had been turned his way, a first for him, as if he’d become important in their eyes. With a smile, he took out his silver dollars and dropped them into his new gourd bank, one at a time. Nothing beats this, he was thinking. When I’ve got enough in there, I’ll smash it against the wall—pow—and there’ll be more silver dollars than pieces of broken pottery.

  Xiangzi made up his mind to go it alone. Fourth Master Liu was trustworthy, although they had their awkward moments. There was no risk that Xiangzi would lose the money, but he still had his concerns. Money is like a ring, always better when it’s on your own finger. Reaching this decision was an enormous relief. He felt as if he’d tightened his belt around his waist and thrown out his chest so he could stand straighter and stiff.

  The days were getting colder, but Xiangzi did not notice, for his resolve pointed to a bright future. He was unaffected by the cold. Ice began to appear on the roads, and the dirt paths froze up. The ground was dry and hard; a yellow cast settled over the arid black soil. Ruts in the road made by passing carts in the morning were crusted with frost, and gusts of wind cut the haze to reveal a high, very blue, and refreshing sky. Xiangzi liked going out early in the morning, to feel the cool wind rush up his sleeves and make him shudder pleasurably, like bathing in icy water. Sometimes a strong headwind made it hard to breathe, but he lowered his head, clenched his teeth, and forged ahead, like a fish swimming upstream. Strong winds stiffened his resistance, as if he were locked in a fight to the death. When a blast of wind took his breath away, he’d shut his mouth for a long moment and then belch, like swimming underwater and then shooting to the surface. One belch, and he was off again, charging ahead; nothing, no force on earth, could stop this giant of a man. Every muscle in his body was taut—he was like an insect besieged by an army of ants, squirming and battling for its life. He was covered with sweat. When he laid down the shafts, he straightened up, exhaled grandly, and wiped the dust from the corners of his mouth, feeling invincible; staring at the sandy wind whistling past, he’d nod. The wind bent roadside trees, shredded canvas shop signs, ripped handbills from the walls, and blotted out the sun; it sang, it roared, it howled, it resounded, and then it abruptly straightened out and stormed ahead like
a terrifying specter, rending heaven and earth. Then, without warning, it turned tumultuous, churning in all directions, like an evil spirit running amok. All at once it gusted from side to side, sweeping up everything in its path: tearing branches from trees, lifting tiles from roofs, and severing electric wires. All the while, Xiangzi, who had just emerged unscathed from the wind, stood there watching. Final victory was his! When the wind was at his back, he needed only to grasp the shafts firmly and let the wind turn the wheels like a dear friend.

  Xiangzi was not heedless of the wretched condition of the old, frail rickshaw men whose clothes were so tattered a light wind blew through them and a strong one tore them to shreds. Their feet were wrapped in rags. They waited, shivering in the cold, at rickshaw stands, wanting to be first to shout “Rickshaw!” when a prospective fare approached. Running warmed them up and soaked their tattered clothes in sweat, which froze as soon as they stopped. Strong winds nearly stopped them in their tracks. When the wind came from above, they ducked their heads down into their chests; wind gusting up from below nearly knocked them off their feet. They dared not raise their hands in a headwind, to keep from turning into kites, and when the wind was at their backs, they lost control of both their rickshaws and themselves. They tried every trick they knew, used every ounce of energy they possessed, to pull their rickshaws to their destination, nearly killing themselves for a few coins. After each trip, their faces were coated with dust mixed with sweat, through which poked three frozen red circles—two eyes and a mouth. Few people were out on the streets during the short, cold days of winter, and a day of running might not bring in enough for one good meal. And yet the older men had wives and children at home, while the younger ones had parents and siblings. For these men, winters were sheer torture, and they were no more than a breath away from becoming ghosts, without the leisure and comfort that spirits enjoyed. No ghost ever had to work so hard for so little. Dying on the street like a dog was their greatest hope for peace and comfort. Those who froze to death, it was said, died with smiles on their faces!

  How could Xiangzi not see this? But he had no time to worry about them. Their transgressions were the same as his, but since he was still young and strong, he could endure the hardships, unfazed by the wind and the cold. He had a clean room to go home to at night and a proper set of clothes for daytime, which was why he did not see them as peers. He suffered, as did they, but to radically different degrees. For now, he suffered less than they, and he could leave this life behind him in later years, confident that in his old age he would not be reduced to pulling a decrepit rickshaw in constant fear of starving or freezing to death. His present advantages guaranteed his future victory. Chauffeurs who waited in their cars in front of restaurants or private residences would not be caught dead chatting with rickshaw men, for that would be beneath their dignity. That attitude differed little from Xiangzi’s attitude toward the old, the sick, and the crippled pullers. While they all existed in hell, they were on different levels. The importance of standing together never occurred to them, as each went his own way, blinded by his hopes and struggles. They all believed that they could single-handedly be set for life with a family and a job, and so they groped their way through the darkness. Xiangzi, who had no thoughts and no time for anyone else, was preoccupied with his own money and his success.

  Signs of the approaching New Year’s holiday gradually appeared on the streets; on sunny, windless days, even though the air was bracing and cold, the colors were impossible to miss: there were New Year’s posters, paper lanterns, red and white candles, silk flowers for the hair, and a variety of sweets, all pleasing to the eye, though somewhat unsettling. Everyone looked forward to a few happy days over the holiday, but they had their concerns as well, some big, some small. Xiangzi’s eyes brightened when he saw the roadside displays, with the expectation that the Caos would be sending gifts to friends and family, and each trip would end with twenty or thirty cents for him, to supplement the year-end bonus of two yuan. Even if the tips were small, as long as they trickled in, they added up to a sizable amount. His gourd bank would not let him down! At night, when he had nothing to do, he stared at the new friend that knew how to swallow money but not give it up. “Eat more,” he urged it quietly, “eat as much as you can, old friend. When you’ve eaten your fill, I’ll be satisfied!”

  The end of the year neared, and before he knew it, it was the eighth day of the twelfth month. Happiness and worries forced people to plan and make arrangements. There were still twenty-four hours in a day, but there was a difference, in that the days permitted no slacking off, for there was always something to do in preparation for the celebration. It was as if time had developed a consciousness and emotions, forcing people to think and to busy themselves at its pace. Xiangzi was one of the happy ones. The flurry of activity, the shouts of vendors, the anticipation of year-end tips and pocket change, the time off, and dreams of good food had him as giddy and hopeful as a little boy. He decided to spend eighty or ninety cents on a gift for Fourth Master Liu. It would have to be small, but the sentiment is what counted. It would serve as an apology for staying away for so long, owing to his busy schedule at the residence; it would also give him an excuse to ask for the thirty yuan the old man was holding for him. Retrieving what was his was worth the expenditure of something less than one yuan. Having made up his mind, he shook his gourd bank and tried to imagine what it would sound like after he added another thirty yuan. With that back in his hands, his worries would be over.

  One evening, as he was about to shake his treasure container, he heard Gao Ma call out, “Xiangzi, there’s a woman at the door asking for you. I ran into her on my way home, and she asked about you.” When Xiangzi came out of his room, she added in a whisper, “She looks like a big black pagoda! Real scary!”

  Xiangzi’s face turned red as a blazing fire. He knew this meant trouble.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Xiangzi was barely able to step across the threshold. In a daze, he stood just inside the doorway, where he caught a glimpse of Miss Liu, framed in the light of a street lamp. Apparently, she had just powdered her face, which had a gray-green cast, like a black dew-covered leaf. He had to turn his eyes away.

  Huniu wore a puzzling expression. Her eyes revealed a bit of longing for him, but her mouth was twisted into a smirk and the wrinkles on her nose hinted at contempt and anxiety. Her arched brows and outlandishly powdered face gave her a seductive yet domineering appearance. Her lips twitched when she saw Xiangzi come out, and her face betrayed a range of emotions, none seeming to fit her mood. With a gulp, she managed to get her confused feelings and emotions under control. Taking up the social mannerisms she’d learned from her father, a mixture of displeasure and mirth, she displayed her insouciance at seeing Xiangzi with a lighthearted tease:

  “Well, aren’t you something! Throwing a meaty bun at a dog ensures it’ll never return.” There was a shrill quality to her voice, much the same tone she used when bickering with one of the rickshaw men. All traces of levity disappeared from her face with this comment, replaced by a sheepish, sordid look. She bit her lip.

  “Don’t shout!” Xiangzi was able to blurt this out only by concentrating his strength in his lips. Not loud, but forceful.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” Huniu hissed with a contemptuous grin, though she did lower her voice a little. “No wonder you’ve been avoiding me, now that you’ve got a little bitch of your own! I’ve always known you were no good. You act like a big, dumb oaf, like a Tartar sucking on a pipe. But you’re smarter than you look.” The volume had increased again.

  “I said don’t shout!” Xiangzi was afraid that Gao Ma might be listening on the other side of the door. “Stop shouting, and come with me!” He walked out to the street.

  “I’ll go anywhere, I’m not afraid, and I’ll shout if I want!” Despite her protests, she followed him.

  They crossed the street and walked to a path on the eastern side of the park, stopping at the red wall, where X
iangzi—always the country boy—crouched down. “What do you want from me?”

  “Me? Hah, I’ll tell you what.” She stood with her left hand on her hip, her belly protruding slightly. She looked down at him and thought for a moment, as if she wanted to show him some kindness, a bit of pity. “Xiangzi, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  Much of his anger dissolved at the gentle sound of his name. He looked up at her. There was still nothing endearing about her appearance, but that “Xiangzi” echoed through his heart, tender and intimate, as if he’d heard it before somewhere, recalling ties of affection that could neither be denied nor severed. He kept his voice low and a bit gentler than a moment before. “What is it?”

  “Xiangzi,” she said as she bent closer. “It’s happened.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “This.” She pointed to her belly. “So what do we do?”

  With a stunned gasp, Xiangzi grasped what she was saying, and thousands of thoughts that had never before occurred to him flooded his head, so many, so urgent, so chaotic that his mind went blank, like movie film that snaps in two. The street was quiet, the moon hidden behind patchy gray clouds, as mild gusts of wind rustled dead branches and dry leaves on the ground; off in the distance a cat screeched. As his mind went from confused to empty, Xiangzi did not hear the sound; head in hands, he stared down at the ground until it seemed to move. No thoughts came to mind, nor did he hope for any; he felt himself shrinking, just not enough to disappear. His entire being, it seemed, was tied up with this painful development. For him, there was nothing else. Now he felt the cold, and his lips quivered.