by She Lao
He decided to give up peddling and go back to pulling a rickshaw. No sense throwing away what money he had left. So he went out and bought a rickshaw. Altogether unreasonable when drunk, when sober he was all about keeping up appearances, so he put on stylish airs. With a new rickshaw and natty clothes, he considered himself to be an elite rickshaw man, one who drank the best tea and pulled only high-class passengers. He would take a spot at one of the stands, showing off his new rickshaw and clean, white pants and jacket, and chat with the other men, seemingly too good to vie for fares. One minute he’d dust off his rickshaw with a new blue whisk, the next he’d stomp his white-soled shoes on the ground or stare at the tip of his nose and stand there with a smile, waiting for someone to come up and admire his rickshaw. An endless conversation would begin immediately. This could go on for days. When he did get a good fare, his legs were incapable of matching his rickshaw or attire. He could barely run, which upset him so much he’d start thinking about his daughter again and would have to drink to forget. And so it went, until all he had left was a rickshaw.
Around the time of the winter solstice he got drunk once again. The minute he walked in the door at home, his sons—one thirteen, the other eleven—ran off to hide from him, but not before he angrily gave them each a kick. When his wife complained, he kicked her in the belly. She fell to the floor and lay there without making a sound for a long moment, throwing their sons into a panic. One picked up a coal spade, the other a rolling pin, and they fought off their father. In the scuffle they stepped on their mother. Neighbors, hearing the commotion, rushed over and pinned Er Qiangzi to the brick bed, while the boys went crying to their mother. Er Qiangzi’s wife regained consciousness but was unable to walk again. Then, on the third day of the twelfth lunar month, she breathed her last, still wearing the blue dress bought from the sale of her daughter. Her distraught parents insisted on taking their son-in-law to court, relenting only after friends intervened and Er Qiangzi agreed to arrange a decent burial. After giving the family fifteen yuan, he pawned his rickshaw for sixty. New Year’s came and went, and Er Qiangzi had hopes of ridding himself of the rickshaw, though he was too strapped to redeem it. So he went out and got drunk and hatched a plan to sell one of his sons. There were no takers. Next, he went to see Fuzi’s husband, who refused to recognize this so-called father-in-law. And that put an end to his plans.
Knowing the rickshaw’s history, Xiangzi had no interest in buying it; there were plenty of rickshaws for sale, so why buy a jinxed rickshaw acquired through the sale of a daughter and sold because of a wife’s murder? Huniu saw it differently: she figured they could buy this nearly new rickshaw for a little more than eighty yuan, a bargain considering that it came from the renowned Decheng Factory and had only been in use for six months or so—its tires looked brand-new. Rickshaws that were only two-thirds new went for fifty or sixty! This was too good a bargain to pass up, especially since she knew that money was short after the New Year’s holiday, and he would not try to raise the price. He needed the money. So she went to look the rickshaw over and bargain with Er Qiangzi. The deal was struck while Xiangzi stayed home, and there was nothing he could say, since it wasn’t his money. He could only wait to take the rickshaw out on the street. When Huniu brought it back, he inspected it carefully. It was a good, strong rickshaw in fine shape. And yet, it made him uncomfortable. What disturbed him most were the colors—pitch-black, with nickel alloy fittings. Er Qiangzi had thought that the contrast—black and white—gave it a classy look. But it reminded Xiangzi of mourning garb in a funeral procession, and he would have preferred new fittings in bronze or soft yellow, to give it a livelier appearance. But he said nothing to Huniu, knowing the sort of reaction he’d get.
The rickshaw attracted a great deal of attention when Xiangzi took it out. He hated it when people called it “the little widow,” although he tried to put that out of his mind. But the rickshaw followed him around all day, keeping him on edge, as if at any moment something bad might happen. When thoughts of Er Qiangzi and his sad fate popped into Xiangzi’s mind, he felt as if he were pulling a coffin behind him, not a rickshaw, and he often saw ghostly shadows on the rickshaw, or so it seemed.
But nothing happened, despite his constant worries. As the weather warmed up, he changed his padded clothes for an unlined shirt and trousers; Beiping springs are notoriously short, and the days became irritatingly long and wearying. He would go out early in the morning, and by four or five o’clock in the afternoon he was finished for the day, though the sun was still high in the sky. He’d pulled enough fares, yet was not ready to go home, so he dithered, feeling unsettled, one long, lazy yawn after another.
However weary and bored Xiangzi was during those long days, it was worse for Huniu, who was maddeningly lonesome at home. She could warm herself by the stove in the winter and listen to the wind whistling outside, dejected to be sure but comforted by the thought that it was better than going outside. But now that the stove had been moved under the eaves, she had too much time on her hands. The filthy, treeless yard was submerged in a pall of rank odors, but if she went out for a stroll, she would not be able to keep an eye on her neighbors. Even shopping trips had to be kept as short as possible. She felt like a bee trapped in a sealed room, able to see sunlight through the window but unable to fly out. She had nothing in common with the women in the compound, who talked only of family affairs, while she was an unrefined woman who had no interest in such things. Their grumblings stemmed from the bitter lives they lived, and it took little to bring tears to their eyes. Her complaints, on the other hand, were a product of the dissatisfaction with what life had dealt her; she had no tears to shed, venting her frustration instead in cursing and quarreling. There was no basis of understanding between her and them, so best to mind her own business and not even talk to them.
Then, in the middle of the fourth month, she found a friend. Er Qiangzi’s daughter, Fuzi, came home. The man in her life was an army officer who set up a simple home wherever he was sent and spent a hundred or two to buy a large plank bed, a couple of chairs, and a young girl, all he needed to live enjoyably for a while. Then, when his unit was transferred, he picked up and moved on, leaving everything, the girl included, behind. Spending a hundred or two for the better part of the year was worth it, since hiring a domestic to wash and mend his clothes, cook his meals, and perform a myriad of little chores would easily cost ten yuan a month, food included. But marrying a girl brought him a servant and someone to share his bed, a girl guaranteed not to pass on a venereal disease. If she pleased him, he could buy her a nice dress at a cost of one yuan or less. If not, he’d leave her at home stark naked, and there was not a thing she could do about it. Then, when it was time to leave, he unemotionally abandoned the bed and chairs, leaving her to find a way to come up with the rent for the last two months, most likely more than she could get by selling the bed and chairs.
After disposing of the furniture and paying the outstanding rent, Fuzi returned home with nothing but a cotton dress and a pair of silver earrings.
As for her father, upon selling his rickshaw, Er Qiangzi paid off the pawnshop, with interest, and wound up with slightly more than twenty yuan. At times he bemoaned his fate of losing a wife at middle age, but gained no sympathy from anyone. That drove him to drink, and the more he drank, the greater his self-pity. He began to treat money with hostility, spending it with wild abandon. But there were other times when he told himself he ought to go back to pulling a rickshaw and bring his sons up properly, so they might have a future. With the two boys on his mind, he would rush out and madly buy all sorts of food for them, and then watch them wolf it down with tears in his eyes. “Poor motherless children,” he’d mutter, “ill-fated sons. Your father works like a slave for you. It means nothing to me if I go hungry, so long as you have food to eat. Eat up. And don’t forget your old papa when you grow up!” Slowly but surely, the twenty yuan ran out.
Broke again, drink was his only refuge, and that l
ed to fits of temper, times when he could go a day or two without a single thought for his sons. Left to their own devices, the boys had to find a way to earn enough to buy food. So they began running errands at weddings and funerals and digging in garbage carts for scrap iron and paper they could sell for a few flatbreads or some sweet potatoes, which they’d gobble down, skins, roots, and all. If all they managed to earn was a small coin, they’d spend it on peanuts or broad beans, not enough to stave off hunger but something to chew on at least.
When Fuzi returned, they wrapped their arms around her legs and wordlessly smiled up at her with tears in their eyes. With their mother gone, she would have to take her place.
Er Qiangzi showed no emotion over his daughter’s return; all she meant to him was another mouth to feed. But the happiness in his sons’ eyes made it clear how important it was to have a woman in the house—to cook and do the laundry. So he said nothing, content to let things take their course.
Fuzi was not bad-looking. She’d left home a small, thin girl but, after living with the army officer, had put on weight and grown taller. There was nothing special about her, but she was attractive, with a round face and long neat eyebrows, and was seemingly in robust good health. She had a short upper lip that rose up when she pouted or smiled to reveal a row of even white teeth. Those teeth had been the officer’s favorite feature. With a silly, slightly vacant look, her open mouth proclaimed her lovely innocence, and this expression endowed her with the look of a flower, so common in attractive girls born to poverty: once they have a bit of fragrance or color, they are taken to be sold at the market.
Huniu, who generally ignored her neighbors, found a friend in Fuzi. To begin with, she was a pretty girl in a flowery dress. Then, too, since she had been married to an army officer, she’d seen a bit of the world. That was enough for her. Women do not make friends easily, but when they choose to, it happens quickly. Huniu and Fuzi were fast friends within days. Any time Huniu, who was an inveterate snacker, had some melon seeds or the like, she would call Fuzi over to share them. And as they laughed and chatted, Fuzi would smile her foolish little smile and talk to Huniu of things the other woman had never heard before. Living with the officer had not been easy or pleasant, but when he was in a good mood, he’d taken her to a restaurant or to a show, which provided her with many tales that piqued Huniu’s interest and aroused her envy. There were things Fuzi would rather not have talked about, degrading things, but for Huniu they were a joy to hear. When she begged her to go on, Fuzi found it hard to refuse, no matter how embarrassed she might be. She’d seen pornographic pictures; Huniu hadn’t, and she begged her to talk about them over and over. Huniu did not just admire and envy Fuzi. She was jealous of her. After hearing such stories, she would think about herself—her appearance, her age, her husband—and feel that life had passed her by. Having already been denied her youth, she could entertain no hopes for the future. As for the present, she had only heartless Xiangzi, and the greater her disappointment in him, the keener her admiration for Fuzi. Admittedly, the girl was pitifully poor, but the joys of life had not completely escaped her in her estimable travels, and she could die on the spot with no regrets. In Huniu’s view, Fuzi represented the life women deserved to enjoy.
Huniu seemed not to notice Fuzi’s troubles. The girl had come home with nothing, yet she had to care for her two brothers—since her father had no interest in doing that himself—so where was she going to get the money to feed them?
It was left to Er Qiangzi to come up with an idea while he was drunk: there’s one way you can feed your brothers if you really care that much for them. Look at me, I work like a dog day in and day out, but I can only do that on a full stomach. If I don’t eat, I don’t work. You could laugh if I dropped dead out there, but what good would it do you? Instead of idling around, you’ve got something to sell, so what are you waiting for?
She looked at her drunken, irrational father, then at herself, and finally at her famished brothers. All she could do was cry. But her tears did not move her father and could not feed two boys who looked like starved rats. No, something more practical was required. In order to feed her brothers, she had to sell her own flesh. As she hugged the younger of the two, her tears fell on his hair. “I’m hungry, Sister,” he said. Sister! Sister was a piece of meat to feed her brothers.
Instead of commiserating with Fuzi, Huniu was willing to help by lending her money to make her presentable. She could pay it back out of her earnings. She was also happy to let the girl use one of her rooms, since her own place was so dirty. There was plenty of space in the two rooms, and they were in decent shape. Xiangzi was out during the day, and she was eager to help a friend. It would also give her a chance to see some things that were new to her, things she missed and could never do, even if she wanted to. Her only condition was that Fuzi give her twenty cents each time she used the room. Friends are friends, but business is business. She would have to keep the room neat and clean for Fuzi’s use, which would entail an expenditure of both effort and money. After all, brooms and dustpans aren’t free, are they? She was willing to charge so little only because Fuzi was a friend.
Fuzi’s teeth showed as she swallowed her tears.
The effect of this on Xiangzi, who was told nothing, was the loss of a lot of sleep, as Huniu attempted to recapture her youth on his body.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By June the compound was silent during the day. The children went out early with their splintered baskets to scavenge the area, returning with what they could find by nine o’clock, when the blistering sun had begun to crack the skin on their scrawny backs, and eat whatever their parents had for them. Then the older boys would buy—if they could scrape together even a bit of cash—or steal chunks of ice to resell. If no money was to be found, they’d go in groups down to the moat for a bath, stopping along the way to pilfer a few lumps of coal at the train station or catch dragonflies or cicadas to sell to the children of the rich. The younger children, who dared not wander far from home, would play with locust beetles near the compound gate or dig up larva. With the children and the men all away from the house, the women stayed indoors, naked to the waist, unwilling to go outside, not out of a sense of shame but because the sun-baked ground burned the soles of their feet.
The men and children trickled back shortly before sunset, when the walls cast their shadows and cool breezes rose up, while the stored-up heat turned the rooms into steamers. They sat outside waiting for the women to cook the evening meal. The yard would be as lively as a marketplace but with no wares to sell. A day’s heat and empty stomachs had pushed the men’s tempers to the boiling point. One careless word could easily lead to a beating—children or wives, it made little difference—or at the very least an angry outburst. This would last till dinner was over, when some of the children would fall asleep in the yard and others would run out to play in the street. When they had a meal under their belts, the men’s mood would improve enough for some of them to gather in threes and fours to complain about the day’s hardships. For those who had nothing to eat, it was too late to pawn or sell anything—if they had anything to pawn or sell in the first place—so they would throw themselves down on their beds, ignoring the heat, and lie there in morose silence or fill the air with their curses. Teary-eyed women would visit neighbors and, if they were lucky, return with crumpled twenty-cent notes. Clutching the treasured notes in their hands, they’d buy some cheap fixings for a pot of gruel to feed their families.
This was not the sort of life Huniu and Fuzi led. Huniu was pregnant—this time for real. Xiangzi went out early, leaving her to get out of bed by eight or nine o’clock, in accord with the mistaken belief that pregnant women should move around as little as possible. But that belief was only one reason for her indolence; pregnancy was also a status symbol. While the neighbor women had to be up working early, she could lie in bed doing nothing as long as she wanted. When night fell, she took a stool out onto the street to enjoy the evening breez
es and not go back inside until almost everyone else was asleep in bed. It was beneath her to engage any of them in conversation.
Fuzi also spent her mornings in bed, but for a different reason: she was afraid of the looks the men in the compound gave her, so she did not leave the house till they had all gone to work. Then she either visited Huniu or went out for a walk alone, since she was her own best advertisement. At night, in order to escape notice by her neighbors, she roamed the streets, not stealing back home until they were all in bed.