City Gate, Open Up

by Bei Dao

  Moving to Three Never Old Hutong No. 1 actually made me feel light and carefree. To me, a change of address meant a change to a new life.

  Of all the children at Three Never Old, Zhenkai (a “rousing spirit” indeed) is making his name as the most mischievous. The elderly grandmother in the courtyard often raps on our door, producing the child with red iodine spread over all his wounds for me to see, reproaching me with questions of why I haven’t bothered to teach my own son better. I know automatically that Zhenkai has been the cause of trouble again, and like always I can only apologize and apologize once more. Kicking a ball, or throwing a brick, through someone’s window, glass smashed to bits — more of the same, ordinary occurrences. (From my father’s notebook)

  In 1958, the large courtyard of our building bustled with excitement, an unceasing stream of novel tasks unfolded before us, each day like the celebration of a festival. First, the residents set up a canteen in the courtyard; Qian Ayi went to work there and me and my brother and sister joined to help. A small blast furnace was built in the vacant area in front of building No. 8 — Father, along with several uncles, worked busily from morning to night, surrounded by smoke and flames, until at last the smelting produced a heap of slag mixed with lumps of iron, whereupon drums and gongs resounded, filling us with envy and admiration; compared to us, the grown-ups really knew how to have fun.

  Playing sparrows (mahjong) had reached a peak that year, the whole city caught up in the madness: Boisterous fanfare and cries shook the skies, raucous cacophony went on for three days and three nights straight. I stood on the balcony and drummed an empty cracker container with all my might, arms aching, voice hoarse; I hardly slept — even if I wanted to sleep I couldn’t fall asleep it was so noisy. According to the statistics, in the Beijing area alone more than forty thousand sparrow tiles were eventually confiscated and destroyed.

  What broke our communal heart was the razing of the rock garden. One piece of Taihu stone after another hoisted up onto a truck and, with a puff of smoke, the garden disappeared. Our favorite place to play hide-and-seek vanished with it. I later heard those chunks of Taihu stone were relocated to the Military Museum, one of the Ten Great Buildings constructed in Beijing in 1959 to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the People’s Republic. A bulldozer busied itself for several days in the former rock garden, leveling the ground, then row upon row of Lombardy “leap-into-the-sky” poplars were planted, the trees growing at a rapid rate, leaping up three to four stories high in just a few years.

  Yifan and I would often set out on long hikes, using our own two feet to measure Beijing, not a single coin in our pockets but filled with boundless imagination. He spoke highly of Around the World in Eighty Days, and we were convinced that we’d circle the globe together one day. And sure, we’d need to bring a few assistants, preferably female, from our building, too, to help us wash clothes and cook meals.

  We walked out the Gate of Virtuous Triumph onto Qijiahuozi Road, spied around to make sure the coast was clear, and dove headlong into the vegetable fields. Just as we picked a few green chili peppers, some village kids discovered us; rocks and clods of dirt rained down in torrents; we shielded our heads, scurrying away like rats.

  3

  The turning point came when the white yams on the balcony started to rot. The smell of rotting yams transformed into one word: dropsy.

  I remember a three-year period of hardship, when there wasn’t much food to eat; the children cried out from hunger and I told them not to run around outside and play but to lie down in bed and rest more. My second child, Zhenkai, looked at me and said, “Mama, eating just two meals a day, we’re still hungry when we lie down to rest....” I thought to myself that Ji Nian and the children shouldn’t go without proper nourishment, so I bought two chickens with the hopes of raising them for the whole family to eventually feast on. I asked Zhenkai to go downstairs to let the chickens out for a bit, never expecting that someone would steal them. Ji Nian got so angry, and even beat his own son. Once, I felt so hungry my hands trembled and my body broke out in a cold sweat; it was truly agonizing, and so I stopped by a Sichuan restaurant on my way home and ordered a bowl of soup. Back at the apartment, I saw how the rest of my family was starving, too — my heart sank with anguish; Ji Nian tried to console me, saying I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. He said that even in our suffering we should try to enjoy ourselves. And so the following Sunday we went to Purple Bamboo Park together for an outing. I remember Ji Nian and I seeing the malnourished condition of our children that day; we gritted our teeth, and at a fresh-fish house in Purple Bamboo Park, spent twenty-six kuai on a meal of fish. . . . (From my mother’s interview)

  The fresh-fish house stood just inside the east gate of Purple Bamboo Park, an aquarium in front of it where they kept their catch, ready to net ready to cook. So-called hongshao yu, or red-braised fish, is really just fish simmered in soy sauce, plus a dab of oil that blooms onto the surface. Compared to the wages at the time, the cost of the one dish was shockingly expensive. Finally, only bones remained on the plate, the three of us siblings still licking our lips, eyes widening, blinking, staring at one another in blank silence.

  Chao bing, doughy noodle strips fried with cabbage and garlic, proved to be a much better deal than red-braised fish. Every Sunday our family frequented a small restaurant on Xi’anmen Street to eat chao bing. This establishment used more generous amounts of oil than other places.

  From 1960 to 1961 I worked at the Socialist institute. . . . Those were really difficult times, the three siblings coming to the institute to eat the better meals there. We looked at our children and felt wretched; sometimes we’d buy them some fancy candy, which they devoured with glee, comforting us a little. (From my father’s notebook)

  As the eldest son, I felt obligated to help my parents maintain the ecological balance of our family, looking after my little sister and brother, making sure they received at least the minimum intake of calories. My brother and I ate lunch in one of the communal canteens that had been popping up everywhere, our stomachs still constantly rumbling with hunger; our little sister went to the July First Kindergarten, where the food wasn’t so bad and on occasion she could even bring home half a steamed bun. The tricky meal was dinner, which demanded meticulous planning and calculation, each person allocated no more than two taels (less than half a cup) of rice. Though Qian Ayi possessed divine skills, she couldn’t conjure up any miracles either. She went through a spell of making vegetable steamed buns day after day, outer bun a thin skin with lots of filling within. I tried to set an example, facing my little siblings and preaching the benefits of eating one less steamed bun, but I couldn’t fool them.

  My uncle Da Gufu got his doctorate in Germany; after liberation in 1949 he became one of the esteemed “first-class” engineers in the country and enjoyed special perks from the state. It was during this time of the Great Famine that he regifted his Chunghwa and Peony cigarettes to my father. My pangs of hunger intertwined with the clouds of smoke pouring out from my father’s mouth, as if a fantastic hallucination swirled around me.

  It was also a time when people rarely invited guests over; during New Year’s or other festivals, if a relative happened to drop by, the grown-ups would inevitably circle around the table after the meal and wave their fingers, arguing over each ration coupon they fished out of their pockets. On the good-natured faces of Chinese citizens, this was clearly an extremely awkward situation.

  Toward the end of the month one evening, my father gave me a one mao coin plus a couple of almost-expired ration coupons to treat myself to a bowl of wonton soup. There was an outdoor wonton shop on Dingzi Street in the Xinjiekou district. As I waited to be seated, it already neared eleven o’clock, leaving only an hour before the coupons turned into worthless scraps. I handed over the coin plus the crumpled pieces of paper to the shop assistant who verified the coupons, then smoothly pinched some tiny dried shrimp, scattered them
into a bowl, rinsed five or six wontons in a bamboo strainer, and ladled out the pork-bone broth from a huge pot, the generous steam rushing past my face. My stomach rumbled with hunger, and yet I didn’t immediately pick up my chopsticks; this being my first time dining out alone, I wanted to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible. The cauldron boiled as the shop assistant drummed its rim with a iron ladle; the suspended lightbulb glowed a faint yellow as a few moths fluttered to and fro.

  4

  Like the faithful attending church, our family frequented the Huguo Temple Theater every Sunday to watch a movie, in this way passing our days of hardship and want, as if it could compensate for our hunger.

  Leaving Three Never Old Hutong Alley No. 1, turn left onto Mianhua (“Cotton”) Hutong Alley, then head west on Huguo Temple Lane East, the trip roughly fifteen minutes by foot. The theater’s façade looked inconspicuous. Air-regulator vents popped out from the roof, making the building look at first glance like an old factory fallen into disrepair over the years, flaking paint exposing the mortar in the brick walls. Only the glass doors, the movie posters, and the little ticket window disclosed its true identity.

  My parents subscribed to the Beijing Evening News, a four-page newspaper with the movie listings printed in a column between pages two and three. Father, a movie addict, also subscribed to a few cinephile magazines; he usually chose the films we watched, his favorite ones being foreign films, which I often found totally baffling, and yet I, too, quickly caught the exoticism bug. All the early films from the Soviet Republic were dubbed by the Changchun Film Studio into thick Manchurian accents, which I initially mistook for Russian.

  I silently reveled in the momentary darkness before a movie began, expectations and mental associations rising from within; the gap when a reel cut off while still running I appreciated even more, the screen a blank space, circles and scratches at the head and tail of the reel scrolling by, the sudden quiet, when one could hear the spinning machinery rewinding, mingling on occasion with crickets chirping qu qu qu.

  After the movie ended, as I followed the audience members slowly out of the theater, a feeling of despair always washed over me — unable to charge on with the hero, unable to walk beyond the horizon, no choice but to return to the boredom of reality. Mother’s head swirled with heavy fogs; while walking home, Father would clarify the story’s principle threads, as well as the connections between characters.

  Movie ratings didn’t exist in those days. Once, while watching a film from Argentina with my whole family, a scene unfolded that I will never forget for the rest of my life. In a bar, an evil tyrant strips off the clothes, piece by piece, of a gorgeous female dancer — her blouse, ample skirt, bra, garters, underwear, all thrown into the air to her utter humiliation. My heart skipped and my flesh tingled; I was filled with both longing and terror to see her naked body. Then, at the climactic moment, the hero steps bravely forward and fights the evil tyrant, while also managing to throw the skirt back to the dancer so she can cover herself. The camera exposed nothing, I couldn’t catch a glimpse of anything, and yet, for many nights afterward, I slept in fits and starts.

  I started to go to the movies alone, especially on the first day of exams as it was the best way for me to relax. I’d usually watch a double feature, immerse myself completely in another world, forgetting everything about any exam. Strangely, I’d still do well; watching movies before battle turned out to be more effective than polishing a gun.

  One day when there was no school, Father took my little brother to the Huguo Temple Theater. As the audience dispersed after the film, crowds thronging along the aisles, Father’s glasses dropped to the ground and the lenses shattered. He was extremely nearsighted and couldn’t walk a step farther, so my brother had to run home to retrieve another pair of glasses. This incident amused me immensely (though I stifled my laughter); I could see my almighty father so clearly before me, standing outside the theater entrance, alone in the cold wind, looking blankly about with a helpless expression in his eyes.

  5

  Three Never Old Hutong No. 1 consisted of two multibuilding complexes; a gate between them served as the main entrance where a reception hut blocked the way, evoking an atmosphere of fleeting indolence. Arrogant Idler Wu guarded the main gate and also controlled the telephone, notifying residents of any calls. When the telephone rang, he’d put his rice bowl down, step into the middle of the street, and yell into his megaphone: “443, phone call — !”

  No. 443 was our apartment, in building four right next to the main gate, four units on each of its four floors; most of the residents of the building worked for the CAPD. I’ll start with the neighbors to the left and right of us.

  In 441, Uncle Zheng Fanglong, a bachelor, roomed with the widow Aunt Tian. After being labeled a “rightist,” Uncle Zheng married and moved to building seven. Aunt Tian, always cheerless and blue, had a son in college who loved to sing; we secretly called him Skylark — that “hundred spirits” bird of folk mythology that exists as the soul of one returned from the dead. Every day he went up and down the building’s corridors trilling his songs to the skies, the stairwell’s acoustics perfect for the timbre of his soprano voice.

  In 442, the Wu family. Uncle Wu Chan, my father’s elder brother, was from Haifeng County in Guangdong Province; he had lived for a while in Japan, then emigrated to Malaysia, later returning to the Mainland whereupon he joined the China Zhigongdang Party (CZGD) and was soon promoted to vice chairman. The CZGD, the youngest brother of the eight democratic parties, mostly consisted of residents who had returned home after living overseas. To me, Wu Chan personified that political party completely — smiling silently while sharing the motherland’s secrets of wealth and power. He had three taciturn daughters. Strangely enough, I never heard any loud voices on the other side of our shared wall. Only when I went to retrieve the utilities bill could I could spy into one corner of their lives, though upon looking and looking, discovered nothing.

  In 444, the Zhang family. Grandmother Zhang, kind and affable, always called me “young master” in Shanghainese. I’d tiptoe up the stairs to try to evade her address, but inevitably she’d softly turn the corner in the corridor and deeply bow with a “Young master has returned.” The Zhangs were as ordinary as their family name — Mrs. Zhang worked at the childcare center at a foreign consulate and had two children herself. I attended the same elementary school as her youngest daughter, who was a grade below me. In fourth grade, I developed a crush on her. One day, on the way to school, she turned around and waved at me. Happiness, like an electric current, surged out of the top of my head; I bravely forged my way to her only to realize that she was greeting a girl behind me. They were a well-off, harmonious family using courtesies to maintain their distance from strangers, and silence to resist the violent windstorm.

  In 431, the Chen family, a CZGD “alien household.” The brother and sister seemed the deepest of the bunch; the younger of the two, Chen Chunlei (“spring thunder”), attended Beijing Middle No. 13, performed exceptionally well, and ended up staying on to teach physics; he also played the mandolin. The older sister, Chen Chunlü (“spring green”), taught fandango and other Spanish steps at a dance school. She dressed fashionably in a chiffon blouse and a long pleated skirt, like a Gypsy woman. She eventually moved from Beijing to Guangdong, and reportedly was sent to a reeducation through labor camp for having intimate relations with a certain man.

  In 443, the Cao family. Yifan’s father, Cao Baozhang, had thick facial hair from ears to nose to brow. In the 1940s he served as a county magistrate and National Assembly delegate in Sichuan Province; naturally, after liberation, he didn’t smoke with the leaders anymore. Not only were Yifan and I the same age, my little sister Shan Shan and his, Yiping, were too. We children came and went between both families, opening front doors without a knock and moseying inside. Yifan had three older half sisters with the same mother but different father; one married a doctor who
worked at Jishuitan Hospital before moving to Hong Kong in the early 1970s.

  In 434, the Pang family. Pang Anmin, a former director at the Wuhan Bank of Communications, possessed the cool poise of one who has handled a lot of money. His wife worked as an accountant at the Yili Food Factory, tantamount to holding the keys to the Heavenly Halls (particularly during those hard times). Pang Bangben, the eldest brother, was a painter; his wife Sun Yufan lay sick in bed year round (more on her situation in the next section). The little sister of the family, Pang Bangxuan, high-minded and proud, was a star student at the Girls’ High School at Beijing Normal University. Pang Bangdian, the little brother, a mad genius, wrote novels before becoming a mathematician.

  In 421, the Ma family. Ma Decheng was the son of Ma Xiang, President Sun Yat-sen’s bodyguard. When the military governor Chen Jiongming revolted in 1922, attacking the presidential palace in Guangzhou, Ma Xiang risked his own life to carry Madame Sun to safety; she had a miscarriage and couldn’t bear children after that. It is said that at the end of his days, Sun Yat-sen implored Madame Sun: “Ma Xiang followed me for a lifetime, take care of his living expenses and make sure his children are properly raised and educated.” Ma Xiang visited the capital each year during those fateful days, going out for walks with a soldier’s spirit, looking healthy and spry, back upright. His two grandsons, First Fatty and Second Fatty, eventually chose their own paths, one becoming a professor and the other a famous doctor, neither discrediting the hopes of the Father of the Republic.

  In 423, the Liu family. Liu E-Ye was a simple and honest man who tried bitterly to avoid any sort of exercise; he balded early. Liu’s wife was a schoolteacher; they had two daughters. The close friendship between our families was bound by an unusual act of fate: For the birth of her second daughter, Mrs. Liu had to undergo an emergency delivery in her own home that my mother performed.