City Gate, Open Up

by Bei Dao

  Da Jiu lived on Tianjin Road in a small building with a guard at the front gate. The sitting room was spacious and bright. I feared being sucked into their enormous sofa and sat stiffly on a corner of it, in a rabbit-on-alert position. Doors opened and closed as my two older cousins, male and female, kept coming in and out, as if waiting for a most honorable visitor — the Breaking Storm. The normally cheerful and chatty Da Jiu seemed distracted, his spirit not guarding his dwelling, his mind wandering, his laughter empty, floating up to the ceiling with the smoke. Only my aunt Da Jiu-Ma asked me how I was doing, and made me a big bowl of hot soup noodles. Though I may have been young, I understood enough, and after quickly finishing my noodles, I said my good-byes.

  On the leg from Wuhan to Zhuzhou, the passenger cars were full so we had to ride in a freight car. The car rocked constantly back and forth, on and on, halting for a moment then starting again, the landscape outside glimpsed through a crack in the door. The bathroom situation proved to be the most annoying inconvenience; whenever the train stopped, no one dared to go far from the car, and so boys and girls divided left and right to settle their business nearby. If the train was moving, the boys who couldn’t hold it any longer turned around to pee and the girls helped each other by holding up a blanket as a screen. The acrid smell assailed us until we could barely gasp for another breath.

  At Zhushou, we transferred to a truck heading for Shaoshan. All along the road red flags were raised by processions of people journeying from great distances, some having walked for more than a month already, their hair matted, faces filthy, clothes ragged — once they caught sight of our spirited presence, they sang quotations back to us.

  Our pilgrimage destination consisted of nothing more than a number of hollow, totally emptied brick-and-tile houses surrounded by semi-barren hillsides. This was the place where the red sun rose. I took out the four Mao volumes from my wooden case, and standing before his former residence with my comrades, we swore an oath, raising our right arms high: To carry the revolution to the end.

  3

  As the train journeyed farther south, the air temperature abruptly shot up and the parching heat became difficult to bear; one by one, everyone removed their outer clothing, until the boys went skins versus the girls’ tight undershirts.

  Arriving in Guangzhou in the middle of the night, palm trees gently swayed here and there, their huge fanlike leaves swept along the moist wind. We were divided up at the South China Agricultural University. All of us boys charged into the water taps with only our underpants on and rinsed off with uninhibited delight.

  Aunt Da Yi (my mother’s eldest sister) lived in Guangzhou — she and my uncle both worked as high-school teachers. They had suffered a lot, but their plight wasn’t as bad as many of those who lived in the interior. Because of its unique geographic location, Guangzhou’s degree of openness far surpassed that of the inland regions. We visited Chrysanthemum Hill, Yuexiu (“Luxuriant Blooms”) Park, Baiyun (“White Clouds”) Mountain, and the Canton Fair — for us, the Great Linkup really did bring about an understated change: In the name of the revolution, take a tour of the world.

  Old Pia carried around a Kiev 135mm camera, and captured some unforgettable moments. I still have in my possession a few group shots of us. The frame cuts out each external scene, removing the wild clamor and turning an electrifying world into a fuzzy image. Our expressions, too, were stiff; our eyes were glazed, like the gaze of the terra-cotta warriors; it looks as if we awaited some secret sound to rouse us awake.

  Guangzhou seemed like a totally different world to us. The tropical air emanated exoticism, adding to the feeling of being in a foreign country — plus, we couldn’t understand the language. Trying to find a bathroom and unable to make sense of any replies, we had an epiphany and wrote our question down with a successful result. And the girls on the street with their ultra-sultry airs, sporting their blue coats and dark green military uniforms as well as a glimpse here and there of a lotus-red or apricot-yellow undergarment peaking out.

  4

  At our final stop, Shanghai, we stayed at the State Cotton Factory No. 11. I was eight when I last visited the city, accompanying my mother to see Waigong. Being back with my comrades, I found it difficult to pierce through the aloofness of its floating world. I brought the group to Waitan to see the huge ships on the Huangpu River and the bustling ten-li foreign settlement zone, which felt closest to being back home. In contrast with the glittery night-scape, the daily lives of the common people shone forth — the open skies above the lanes bloomed with colorful clothes, as if flying ten thousand flags; a bus turned a corner, pulled up to its stop, the ticket seller poked his head out the window, sang out his hawking cry, and banged his plank of wood against the bus’s side, echoes rippling out to the hills; everywhere, old people raised little flags, less for safety reasons than to prove they were still alive; then, one day rising early to wait in line for train tickets, we saw from household to household in the faint dawn light, a figure outside each front gate, pouring out the chamber pot with the solemnity of a morning prayer ceremony.

  I went to the Shanghai Hôpital Sainte-Marie on Ruijin Road to visit Second Aunt Eryi. Big-character posters had been pasted up everywhere, but the hospital continued its normal operations. I found Eryi at the nurses’ station. As the chief nursing officer, she was busy designating various assignments and tasks. Things finally settled down around noon, so she took me to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

  There was hardly another soul in the restaurant. Eryi ordered some fish and meat dishes especially for me — a boost of nourishment. We sat across from each other, sunlight slanting across our table. I told her everything I had seen and heard on my journey; Eryi occasionally interrupted to ask a question, her eyes blank, and offered a few bureaucratic words of encouragement. That was the last time we saw each other before her persecution and death two years later.

  A quiet afternoon, the clock on the wall ticked on di da di da di da. My neck started to itch; I rubbed my hand to scratch it and unexpectedly picked off a louse. During the Great Linkup, everyone called the louse the “revolutionary bug,” their collective life force extremely tenacious — poison spray, burning flames, boiling water, freezing cold all useless — they persevered on their human prey to the far corners of the sea and sky.

  Pinching the louse between my fingers, I placed it onto the table, then squeezed it to death with my fingernail. Eryi didn’t notice, or at least didn’t complain; she only insisted on dragging me back to the hospital to be thoroughly disinfected. That squeezing sound, so infinitesimal yet sharp and clear, if amplified through a loudspeaker would certainly reverberate like a thunderclap.

  5

  On November 10, 1966, thousands of members of the recently established Shanghai Workers Revolutionary Rebel General Headquarters (or, “Workers General”) decided to make their way to Beijing to present their grievances in person. Activists lay across the railroad tracks some thirty kilometers from the northwest outskirts of Shanghai at the Anting Station in Jiading County, intercepting a Beijing-bound express train, and then holding up the Beijing–Shanghai rail line for more than twenty hours as the authorities refused to allow the train to run with the activists on board. And so unfolded the momentous Anting Incident.

  As luck would have it, on the second day of the incident, we went to the Shanghai Railway Station with our return tickets to Beijing in hand and a spectacular scene awaited us: the waiting rooms and platforms jam-packed with people, not a trickle could pass, crowds even sitting on the tracks themselves, the riotous and chaotic atmosphere like a thick fog enveloping the earth.

  From morning to afternoon we scrambled around at a loss, finally accepting the fact that no train would be entering or leaving the station. With Old Pia as our leader, we decided to take immediate action — the Shanghai Special Patrol Team met its historic destiny. First, Old Pia stepped forth to consult with other students from Beijing, and
the Patrol Team swiftly expanded into the dozens; then we began to initiate talks with the rebel faction of the Shanghai Railway Administration.

  Old Pia deployed me on a mission, namely to establish contact with officials at the East China Bureau and the Shanghai Municipal Committee, the leaders of which we long ago discovered from big-character posters, so-and-so Chen Pixian and Cao Diqiu. As a member of the Patrol Team, I took over a phone in the dispatch office, first obtaining the number for the Shanghai Municipal Committee through the switchboard directory, then dialing Cao Diqiu’s office, but no one picked up. I tried Chen Pixian’s office at the East China Bureau, finally reaching someone who claimed to be a clerk; I made a show of force by insisting on speaking to Chen Pixian himself. The voice claimed ignorance of any Shanghai Special Patrol Team, and added that they were simply overwhelmed with requests. I flew into a thunderous rage, telling him to tell Chen Pixian that as the first secretary of the East China Bureau he must take charge of the unprecedented fracas at the Shanghai Station. The clerk mumbled yes, yes, of course, and he promised to pass on the message.

  Once the Central Cultural Revolution Group intervened, the Anting Incident crisis dwindled. The Patrol Team cleaned up the station the same night, clearing off the crowds from the tracks, as well as those holed up in the cars, and checked each person’s ticket. Our voices grew hoarse from yelling as we battled the multitudes, subduing certain troublesome elements. The following morning, at long last, the first train to Beijing ever-so-slowly rumbled to life. Fleet-footed, we boarded immediately, shutting the doors and windows of our car, the Shanghai Special Patrol Team concluding its almost two-day historic mission.

  The train, however, far exceeded its normal capacity, each car’s safety limit of 108 passengers had roughly tripled. People lay on the luggage racks and sat on the back of seats, squatted on the floor and packed into the bathrooms, which of course couldn’t be used anymore. The train trundled along, stopping occasionally for a few hours, whereupon everyone would take turns to get off to eat and drink and relieve themselves. Often, without any warning whistle, the train would suddenly start, and the people below would make a mad dash to overtake the slowly moving cars, crawling in through the windows, while those moving too slow would be left behind forever.

  My “seat” was perched atop the back of a real seat, and as I couldn’t help myself any longer, I wedged my head between two clothes hangers and fell asleep, keeping my balance like this through my dreams. I dreamed about returning home and about running away from home.

  Three days three nights. The train pulled into Beijing.

  Father

  You summoned me to become a son

  I followed you by becoming a father

  — “For Father”

  1

  Among Father’s earliest memories arises an old photograph: With the Temple of Heaven’s Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest in the background, Father smiles jubilantly, one arm overlaps the other in front of him as he leans forward on a white marble balustrade. He asked the photo studio that developed the picture to trim part of the white balustrade at the bottom as it wasn’t light-sensitive, and so at first glance, there’s the illusion of the sleeve of his coat slipping out beyond the photo’s frame. This portrait had been taken before I was born. The reason why I’m so fond of it is because I never saw my father smile like this, brimming with the self-confidence of spring youth. I like to believe this could be the starting point of my memories of him.

  October 1949, we chose a pet name for our son: Qing Qing (“double celebration”). Having our first child now, the two of us are very busy. Mei Li made some little clothes for him, and bathes him often; as she hasn’t been producing enough breast milk, she gives him some nai gao, rice-flour mush, each day. I frequently walk around the room with him in my arms, patting him asleep, and take photos of him in all sorts of positions, from different angles. Our little family now has this little treasure, everything has come alive. (From my father’s notebook)

  Not long after my birth, we moved from Duofu Alley to Fuqian Street, very close to Tiananmen Gate Tower. National Day. Father carries me as he crowds around the courtyard gate with the neighbors, everyone watching the military parade march by in formation. The fireworks are even more marvelous to behold. The next morning in the courtyard, one can pick up all the unburned seeds of the fire-blooms and string them together into a fuse that, once ignited, releases a rainbow of sparks, and with a fleeting spin, a flash, a wink, disappears.

  Chang’an Avenue’s wide thoroughfare slants across to Zhongshan Park. My father used to take me there for some sun and air. Ding ding dong dong the streetcar trundled along the avenue, making a stop right in front of Fuqian Street. Father liked to ride it with me to the end of the line at Xidan, then ride it straight back again. During off-peak times it was often empty, the hand rings shaking in the open air. The sheer delight I felt standing behind the driver, watching him maneuver the nickel-plated lever. My father and I called it the “ding dong car.”

  Summertime in Zhongshan Park — almost every weekend an outdoor movie would be screened there. Nearby residents arrived early to reserve their seat with a stool, while others sat scattered around the grass or stone steps, waiting for the day to darken. Whenever a reel needed to be switched or if the filmstrip snapped, a square of light filled the blank screen while the machinery whirred on monotonously.

  The Soviet animated film The Scarlet Flower made the deepest impression on me — details of the plot I’ve forgotten, but I remember the young daughter as the lead, longing for that most beautiful little scarlet flower, meeting the mythical beast by chance (who was really the incarnation of a prince). Toward the end of the film, her calling out on the journey with such forlorn melancholy “Brother Kai” seeped deep into my dreams.

  The most wondrous thing I observed occurred as the movie started, the moment behind the screen when the green titles above the palace walls of the Forbidden City faded away. I asked my father about this phenomenon but didn’t get a satisfactory answer; actually, he just ignored me. Eventually, the two worlds became wholly distinct, the world on the screen temporarily blocking out the real world.

  One Sunday, I heard that The Scarlet Flower would be screened again at Zhongshan Park. Too jubilant with excitement, I couldn’t settle down for my afternoon nap, so Father lost it and threw me out, locking the door behind him. My feet were bare; I cried and wailed, pounding on the door, the ice-cold steps intensifying my indignation. I don’t know how but I fell asleep. I woke up to a circle of shadowed light on the ceiling, socks on my feet bringing a feeling of tranquillity. Mother’s face neared mine with a look of concern. I asked her about The Scarlet Flower; she replied that it was nighttime already, we had missed the movie.

  2

  Qing Qing really doesn’t want to go to the nursery; each Saturday when we pick him up he’s always so happy, and then the problem of sending him back repeats all over again Monday morning. On one of these Monday mornings, nothing we said could persuade him, his reply only one sentence: “I won’t go to the nursery.” We needed to get to work, and with no other option, we tricked him, saying that instead we were going to the zoo; he believed us. On the way, his expression grew anxious, then realizing we were going to the nursery, he broke into a fit of screaming and crying. I held him tightly, afraid he’d leap out of the trolleybus. At last we reached the gate of the nursery; he collapsed to the ground and rolled around. I could only hold him stiffly and carry him inside. Upon seeing the kind Ayi there, he calmed down a little, and with tears in his eyes, blurted out, “Good-bye Baba!” (From my father’s notebook)

  I had a fairly weak immune system as a child and I didn’t escape a single contagious bug in the nursery. The hundred-day cough, or whooping cough, proved particularly troublesome — I hacked up a storm deep into the sleepless night; my parents took turns holding me. A doctor said only chloramphenicol would be effective. This imported medicine’
s cost was exorbitant, but bit by bit Father saved and bought a bunch of pills for a tael of gold. Following the doctor’s prescription, the outer capsule of each pill was discarded and the powder inside divided in half, one dose taken in the morning and one in the evening. The harsh, acrid taste made me spit it out the first time. My father looked at me hard and told me how much the medicine cost, that if I spit it out they wouldn’t have enough money to buy more so I must swallow it, no matter what. I nodded my head, clenched my teeth, and with tears flowing down, swallowed the dose.

  Later on, as I grew older, my parents often liked to tell this story, as if I had performed a heroic feat. But really, lore of this sort makes up a part of every family tradition, and discloses formidable psychological implications, backed, moreover, by the will of the ancestors — succeed at any cost, failure is not an option.

  Qing Qing got the measles and they had to put him in an isolated room at the nursery. We could only see him through the glass partition, but he still looked very happy, using hand gestures to converse with us. The next time we came, Ayi told us that after we had left the other day, he stood on his bed all night and wouldn’t sleep. When she asked him why he wouldn’t sleep, he said he needed to wait up for Baba and Mama. (From my father’s notebook)

  My little brother differed from me by a hundred and eighty degrees — he loved the nursery with matchless ardor. When Father came to pick him up each Saturday, he’d turn his head with disdain and say, “I’m not going to your house.”