Rickshaw Boy: A Novel

by She Lao

  Winter gave way to spring, and nature’s gift of sunlight clothed the people. Xiangzi rolled up his padded clothes and sold them so he could treat himself to some decent food and drink. What good were winter clothes, since he had no plans to see another winter? He’d enjoy himself today, for tomorrow he’d be dead. To hell with winter! If he was unlucky enough to still be around when winter returned, he’d deal with that then. In the past, his thoughts had covered the range of his life to that point; now he was concerned only with the present. Experience had taught him that tomorrow was but an extension of today, a continuation of the current wrongs and abuses. Selling his padded clothes boosted his spirits. What was wrong with having spending money, and what was gained by saving for the next winter, with winds that choked the life out of you?

  His thoughts gradually turned to selling more than his padded clothes. Anything he didn’t need at the moment he sold, happily seeing his possessions turn into cash, which he then spent. That insured that his money would not fall into other people’s hands. He’d buy those things again if the need arose, unless he didn’t have the money; in that case, he’d simply do without. He could also save time and money by not washing his face or brushing his teeth. Who was he trying to look presentable for, anyway? Wearing tattered clothes didn’t matter as long as he could satisfy his hunger with buns stuffed with braised pork. With some solid food in him, even if he died he wouldn’t end up like a starving rat.

  Xiangzi, the once-presentable Xiangzi, had fallen as low as he could go; he was now just another skinny, dirty rickshaw man. He stopped bathing and washed neither his face nor his clothes. He often went a month or more without shaving his head, and he no longer cared if the rickshaw he pulled was new or old, only that the rent was cheap. When he had a fare, he might stop midway and pass him off to another puller if there was benefit to be gained; if the passenger objected, Xiangzi would fix him with an angry glare and follow that up with his fists if necessary. Spending a couple of days locked up didn’t bother him in the least. If it was just him with a fare, he went slow, not wanting to waste even a drop of his sweat. But when it was a group run, if he felt like it, he’d run as fast as he could just to leave the others behind. At such times he delighted in a bit of mischief, like cutting in front of other rickshaws or turning sharp corners to make the runners behind him swerve or stumble, or to catch the ones ahead off guard. He had once thought that pulling a rickshaw was in fact transporting a human being, and that he could accidentally kill that person if he wasn’t careful. Now he flirted with danger whenever he could, since it made no difference to him if he killed someone. After all, everyone has to die sometime.

  He reverted to his tight-lipped ways, never speaking unless he absolutely had to. He ate, he drank, and he made mischief. Speech is how human beings exchange ideas and express feelings. But he had no ideas to exchange and no hope to give voice to, so what good was speech? All day long his mouth remained tightly shut, except when he negotiated a fare. It seemed to be put there only to eat, drink tea, and smoke. Even drunk, he had nothing to say; he would merely seek out a remote spot to weep alone. Just about every time he got drunk, he went to the place in the woods where Fuzi had hanged herself to cry. From there he’d go to the White Manor to spend the night. He’d wake up sober, broke, and, once again, diseased. No regrets. If he regretted anything, it was always trying to better himself and insisting on being cautious, honest, and sincere. His regrets all belonged to the past; there was nothing to regret in the life he led now.

  Anytime he could gain some small advantage he did so: he smoked other men’s cigarettes, passed off counterfeit coins for purchases, gobbled up extra pieces of salted greens when he bought a bowl of fermented bean curd, and charged passengers more for using less energy, all of which pleased him enormously. His gain was someone else’s loss, and that was how it should be, a form of revenge. Slowly but surely, he took this philosophy to greater extremes: he borrowed money with no intention of paying it back and was ready with a shameless excuse if pressed for the money. At first, his friends lent him what he asked for, having no reason to doubt him and knowing that he’d always been respectable and trustworthy. He exploited the remnants of this character trait to borrow from everyone he could think of; it was like finding money on the street, and he spent it immediately. When someone came to get their money back, he struck a pathetic pose and begged for more time, and if that didn’t work, he went out and borrowed twenty cents to pay back the fifteen he owed, and drank up the rest. After a while, his sources dried up, so he turned to deception to get what he needed. He visited the home of everyone he’d ever worked for and made up a sad story; master or servants, it made no difference. If they wouldn’t give him money, he asked for some old clothes, then immediately converted them into cash, which he smoked or drank up. He lowered his head and thought hard, trying to come up with a better way than pulling a rickshaw to lay his hands on more money. Less effort and more money, that was the way to go. He even went to see Gao Ma at the Cao home and waited across the street until she came out to do the shopping. He spotted her and rushed up with a warm greeting.

  “Hey, you scared me! I didn’t know who you were at first, Xiangzi! What happened to you?” Her eyes were as wide as if she’d seen a wild animal.

  “Don’t ask.” Xiangzi hung his head.

  “I thought you had it all worked out with the master. Why did you leave and not come back? I asked Old Cheng if he’d seen you, but he said no. Where have you been? The master and mistress have been worried about you.”

  “I was sick, nearly died. Would you ask the master to help me out for now? I’ll come back when I’m better.”

  Xiangzi delivered his simple yet moving prepared speech.

  “The master isn’t home. Why don’t you come in and talk to the mistress?”

  “No, not the way I look. You tell her for me.”

  Gao Ma returned with two yuan. “This is from the mistress. She told you to use it to buy some medicine.”

  “I will. Thank her for me.” He was already planning where he’d spend it when he took it from her. As soon as Gao Ma’s back was turned, he was off to Tianqiao, where he spent an enjoyable day.

  Once he’d made the rounds of all his former employers, he went back for a second round, but the results this time were disappointing. Obviously, this was not going to be a long-term solution, so he had to come up with another way to make money that was easier than pulling a rickshaw. In days past, pulling a rickshaw had been the only trade he could count on; now, there was nothing he hated more. For obvious reasons, he couldn’t just walk away, but as long as he could eat three meals a day, he didn’t touch a rickshaw. He’d grown lazy, but his ears were sharper than ever, and he never missed an opportunity to show up where there was money to be made: joining a citizens’ parade or a protest rally, anything at all, as long as he was paid. Thirty cents, even twenty, for marching around all day holding a banner was still better than pulling a rickshaw. The earnings were meager, but little effort was involved. Holding a small flag, he kept his head down and silently followed the crowd, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a half smile on his face. When everyone else shouted a slogan, he opened his mouth wide, but no sound emerged; he wanted to save his voice. He refused to put himself out for anything; he’d done that before and look what it got him. If there was any sign of danger during one of the loud demonstrations, he was the first to bolt, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He could take his own life if he felt like it, but he wasn’t about to sacrifice it for anyone else. Someone who strives only for himself knows how to destroy himself—the two extremes of individualism.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Another season for pilgrims to burn incense at mountain temples arrived, bringing with it the blistering heat of summer.

  Peddlers of paper fans suddenly appeared out of nowhere, drawing the curious with strings of clanging bells tied to boxes slung over their shoulders. Vendors hugging the roadsides hawked piles of
green apricots, eye-catching red cherries, rose-petal dates attended by swarms of honey bees; glass noodles in large porcelain bowls gave off a milky glare, while sellers of puddings and bean-starch noodles displayed their wares neatly on carrying poles, offering a range of condiments. People had changed into light, garish clothes, creating a colorful tableau on the streets, as if rainbows had fallen to earth. Street cleaners were hard at work sprinkling the streets and roads with water, but they were frustrated by dust that continued to fill the air to the displeasure of everyone. And yet willow branches and swallows that swayed and darted amid the fine dust somehow instilled in the populace a sense of freshness and rebirth. They yawned lazily, exhausted yet happy in the perplexing weather.

  Rice-sprout dancers, lion dancers, and other performers at the various fairs headed up the mountain, heralding their passage with the clanging of cymbals and the pounding of drums, troupe after troupe carrying baskets on shoulder poles and hoisting apricot-yellow banners into the air. An air of strange agitation filled the city, instilling in the people vague feelings of intimacy amid the lingering sounds and dust. Those who took part in the fairs or just went to watch experienced the same enthusiasm, piety, and excitement. During troubled times, superstition spawns bustling activity, and the ignorant find consolation only in self-deception. The array of colors and sounds, the pristine clouds, and the dusty streets imbued the populace with energy and drive. Some climbed the mountain, some visited temples, and others took in flower shows…those too poor to do any of that could still stand by the road and watch the excitement or recite a Buddhist chant or two.

  The arrival of summer awoke the ancient city from its dreamy spring lethargy. Amusements were everywhere as people looked for things to do. The heat accelerated the blooming of flowers and the growth of grasses and trees along with the enjoyment of the people. Green willows and new reeds at Nanhai and Beihai Lakes drew youths to their shores to play their mouth organs; boys and girls rowed boats into the shade of overhanging willows or in among tender lotus leaves, where they sang love songs and kissed with their eyes. Gorgeous peonies and camellias brought forth self-styled poets and scholars to stroll unhurriedly in the parks and cool themselves with expensive paper fans. When they tired, they sat at the feet of red walls or beneath pine trees to drink cups of green tea and dream their melancholy dreams, taking time out to steal glances at the daughters of rich families and courtesans from north and south who passed by. The cool breezes and warm sun at those once-remote spots attracted visitors like butterflies. People with parasols came to view the peonies at Chongxiao Buddhist Temple, the reeds at Taoran Pavilion, and the mulberry woods and rice paddies at the Museum of Natural History. Even the solemnity at the Temple of Heaven, the Confucian Temple, and the Yonghe Lamasery was interrupted by a bit of bustling activity. Hikers and students made treks to the Western Hills or hot springs, even to the Summer Palace to stroll the grounds, gather up things they found, or write their names on rocks. Even the destitute had places to go: Huguo Temple, Longfu Temple, White Pagoda Temple, the Temple of the Earth God, and the flower market all came to life around this time. The streets were lined with captivating plants and flowers, and for only a few cents you could take a bit of beauty home with you.

  At stands where fermented bean curd was sold, salted vegetables as fresh and enticing as large flowers were sprinkled with red chili peppers. Eggs were cheap, and when they were fried nice and brown, they made your mouth water. There was a flurry of activity at Tianqiao, where tea sheds were erected with new mats, one after the other. White tablecloths and sing-song girls in colorful dress faced the distant ancient pines above the walls of the Temple of Heaven. Drums thudded and cymbals clanged until seven or eight o’clock at night, the disturbing sound crisp and clear in the heated night air. Prostitutes had no trouble advertising their wares—a simple flowered dress of imported cotton that showed off their curves did the trick. Those who preferred quieter surroundings had places to go as well. There was Jishui Shoal, outside the Temple of Long Life, the kilns in the eastern suburbs, and White Bridge in the western suburbs, all ideal fishing spots where tiny fish set the reeds swaying gently when they bumped into them. When the fishing was done, a meal of pig’s head, stewed bean curd, clear liquor, and salted beans at a rustic teahouse was an intoxicating end to a day. Then it was time to gather up the fishing poles and the day’s catch, walk along the willow-lined shore in the setting sun, and stroll home through the gates of the ancient city wall.

  Good times, bustling activity, and color and sound were everywhere. The abrupt early summer heat was like a magical charm that bewitched the old city. Disregarding death, disaster, and hardships, it would flex its muscles, when the time was right, and mesmerize the vast populace, who would, dreamlike, sing its praises. Filthy, beautiful, decrepit, lively, chaotic, peaceful, and charming, that was the magnificent early summer city of Beiping.

  This was the time when residents looked for something news-worthy to relieve their boredom, something they could read two or three times with relish, and exciting enough to want to see whatever it was for themselves, a pleasant diversion during the long, refreshingly sunny days.

  And here it was! The trams had barely left the depot when the paperboys were shouting the news: “Read all about it, Ruan Ming to be executed! Read all about it, Ruan Ming to be paraded at nine o’clock!” One coin after another fell into the little grubby hands. News of Ruan Ming filled newspapers on the trams, in the shops, and in the hands of pedestrians: Ruan Ming’s photo, Ruan Ming’s background, fonts large and small, pictures and captions, page after page of Ruan Ming. Ruan Ming was on the trams, in pedestrians’ eyes, on the people’s lips, as if no one but he existed anywhere in the old city. Ruan Ming would be paraded today and then shot. Worthwhile news, an ideal news item. Pretty soon not only would people be talking about Ruan Ming, they’d be able to see him. Women dressed in a hurry and old folks went out early on shaky legs to avoid being left behind. Even schoolchildren dreamed of skipping half a day’s classes to broaden their knowledge of the world. By half past eight the streets were filled with people—excited, expectant, jostling, noisy, waiting impatiently to witness this living news item. Rickshaw men forgot to look for fares, shops were in turmoil, street vendors lost interest in hawking their wares, as everyone waited in tense anticipation for the prison truck and Ruan Ming. History is replete with the likes of the rebel leaders Huang Chao and Zhang Xianzhong and the bloodthirsty Taipings, who not only slaughtered victims but also took pleasure in seeing people slaughtered. A firing squad seemed too commonplace, nowhere near as much fun to watch as the death of a thousand cuts, beheadings, or skinning or burying alive; the mere sound of these punishments produced the same shuddering enjoyment as eating ice cream. But this time, before they shot him they were going to parade him through the streets; whoever thought that up was to be congratulated, since this was a rare opportunity to feast their eyes on a half-dead, trussed-up man in the back of a truck. That was the next best thing to being the executioner himself. Such people are not burdened by a sense of right and wrong, an understanding of good and evil, or a grasp of what is true and what is false; they cling desperately to their Confucian ethics so they will be thought of as civilized. And yet they enjoy nothing more than watching one of their own being sliced to ribbons, gaining the same cruel enjoyment as a child does killing a puppy. Given the power, they would happily decimate a city, creating mountains of breasts and bound feet severed from women. There can be no greater pleasure. But that power is denied them, and the next best thing is to watch the slaughter of pigs, sheep, and people to satisfy their craving. If even this is beyond their reach, at least they can vent their fury by subjecting their children to threats of a thousand cuts.

  In the east, a red sun rose high in the cloudless blue sky as light breezes rustled the leaves of roadside willows. People filled a large patch of shade on the east side of the street, shoulder to shoulder—young and old, male and female, the ugly and the handsome, t
he fat and the skinny, some dressed with a modern flair, others in traditional mandarin jackets, but all chatting and smiling with keen anticipation and casting frequent glances to the north and south. If one person turned to look, everyone followed, hearts racing. Slowly the crowd edged forward until they formed a lopsided human wall, heads bobbing. A throng of police emerged to maintain order; they held people back, they shouted, and here and there they grabbed one of the grimy children and slapped him around, to the boisterous delight of the people. The waiting crowd endured legs aching from standing so long, unwilling to leave for home, and the latecomers pressing forward, which led to heated confrontations, not with fists or feet but with angry curses, as neighbors egged them on. Fidgeting children were rewarded with resounding slaps; pickpockets had a field day, eliciting loud curses from their victims. Clamor, shouting, and arguments failed to thin out the crowd; the more people who came, the more tenaciously everyone dug in, clear evidence that no one was leaving until they’d seen the half-dead prisoner.

  Suddenly, the people fell silent, as a unit of armed police was spotted a ways off. “Here they come!” someone shouted, sparking a renewed outburst of noise. The mass of humanity inched forward, as if a switch had been thrown. Here he comes! They’re here! Eyes lit up, tongues wagged, and a loud din arose from within the sweaty, smelly crowd of civilized inhabitants who hungered to witness the killing.