by Bi Feiyu
Wang Daifu said, ‘From massaging your feet.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Do you know how many feet I need to massage to get that much money?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Fifteen yuan a pair, or seven-fifty per foot.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘For twenty-five thousand, I have to massage three thousand three hundred and thirty-three feet.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘I’m not giving you the money.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘But the debt must be paid.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘So I’m giving you my blood.’
The blood had now reached the tops of his feet. It didn’t seem bold enough, too tame. He wanted to hear it roar. He sliced his chest a second time. Much better, it really started to gush. It sounded great and must have looked great too.
Wang Daifu said, ‘This is all I have.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘You can have it all.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘No need to be embarrassed. Take it.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Take as much as you can.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘There’s also my life.’
He laid the blade against his neck. Wang Daifu said, ‘Is this enough?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Answer me. Is this enough?’
The blood gathering on the living room floor was turning into a scary sight. The pleasant voice could not make its pleasant sound. The knife remained in Wang’s hand, the eyes on the knife’s tip open wide. The pleasant voice reached out and grabbed his wrist. Wang Daifu said, ‘Don’t touch me! Is this enough?’
The pleasant voice said, ‘It is.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Enough?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘It’s enough – is that right?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Are we all square?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘You can go now.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘Please leave.’
Laying the knife in his palm, Wang offered it to the pleasant voice. ‘If that bastard goes to your place again, cut him up with this knife, in as many pieces as you like.’
The room was quiet, now that the pleasant voice had left without a response. Wang could tell they’d left together, all three of them, with six feet, not a chaotic sound, but somewhat ragged. He listened to the sound of six feet growing fainter, still noisy but clearly on their way out; he put down the knife and turned around.
The room was submerged in total silence, quiet as the stench of blood. Wang suddenly realised that his parents were home and knew they must be looking at him. He looked at his parents, first his father and then his mother; they stared at each other for about twenty seconds, before Wang sensed something rolling out of his eyes. Tears. His parents had seen everything, they had to have seen everything.
How could that have happened? How? Wang Daifu had originally planned to pay off his brother’s debt, but he hadn’t – a momentary change of heart. What had he done? Was it Wang Daifu who had made such a ridiculous move? How could he have done it? How was he any different from a common scoundrel? He wasn’t. Shameful. On this day he became a typical ruffian, the dregs of society. He was soiled, no longer a man of dignity. His tongue had finally uttered ‘blind’ talk.
He was not like that, not at all. Since childhood, he had been a good kid and a good student, the teachers told him so. He had never been close to his parents, who had had little influence on him as he was growing up. The teachers at the school for the blind were the ones who had truly made a difference in his life. But there’s a problem with that statement. Wang Daifu knew, and only he knew, that the people who had had the greatest impact on his life were, in fact, his parents, not his teachers. What he meant by parents was not father and mother; the parents he meant were abstractions, something for which he was eternally apologetic. Any time he did something wrong, a tiny mistake or a small error, the teachers would say to him, ‘How can you face your parents?’ He couldn’t. His parents were always beside him, right there on the crown of his head.
But that was not enough. As an adult, he was a fanatic about the notion of dignity; deep down, he insisted that he be a man with dignity. He had to be a man of dignity to be worthy of his parents’ nurturing and to be able to face them.
But what had he done today? Because of money he had made a scene, and uttered ‘blind talk’ in front of his parents; he had shredded his dignity. He had lost every ounce of self-respect in front of his parents.
‘Pa, Ma.’ He lowered his head and said with heart-rending self-reproach, ‘I’m sorry I’ve let you down.’
His mother was still in shock, but she was happy. Her face was awash in hot tears of elation. She grabbed his hand and said, ‘If your brother had half what you have he’d be fine.’
‘Ma, I’ve let you down.’
She could not figure out why he was saying that. But his father picked up on what he had said. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘it’s I who have let you down. I should never have let your mother give birth to that bastard.’
Wang Daifu sucked in his belly and threw out his chest. He was still bleeding; there were bloody bubbles on his chest. ‘I’m not like that, Pa. Ask anyone, I’m not like that.’
His parents exchanged a look, puzzled by what their son was saying. The only possible explanation was that he was out of his head with pain.
‘Your son has let you down.’ Wang Daifu was unrelenting.
‘It’s your father who has let you down.’
Wang’s hands were groping at something, but his father didn’t know what it was. He reached out; Wang Daifu grabbed the hand and would not let go. It was a strange feeling that went right to his heart, and he had trouble adjusting to that. Twenty-nine years. In twenty-nine years this was the first time his skin had come into contact with his father. In his memory, his parents’ skin was a blank. Wang gripped the hand, feeling its fingers and its skin; tears gushed from his eyes without warning, like spurting blood. He was shaking uncontrollably. His face awash in tears, he managed a soft plea, ‘Pa, I want you to slap your son!’
‘Pa,’ he raised his voice and said hoarsely, nearly sobbing, ‘Pa, give your son a hard slap.’
Wang’s parents, already in a state of shock, were dumbstruck by the request. What were they to do? What could they say? What was going on with their son? Wang’s father was weeping; he turned to look at his wife through his tears and saw her standing there slack-jawed. Then, without a thought for the blood, he pulled his son into an embrace.
‘Later. Let’s talk about that later, after we go to the hospital. Son, we have to go to the hospital.’
The wounds were shallow, but the slits long, requiring a hundred and sixteen stitches, making his chest look like a pile of rags after the semi-circular needle had dug in at one end and come out the other. Wang Daifu ached even after he’d had a shot for the pain. He was holding on to his father with his left hand, his mother with his right. But it was his heart that ached. He ached for his parents, who were burdened with two useless sons, one the dregs of society, the other a no-account bastard. What else did life hold for them? Nothing. A life of total blindness.
When the stitching was done, he was detained in the emergency room by the police. The doctor had called the police for him. Those were obvious knife wounds, and if it had been anyone else, they would probably not have bothered. But Wang was disabled, and they had to intervene when someone viciously abused a disabled person.
‘Who did this to you?’ the policeman asked.
Wang Daifu said, ‘I did it myself.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘I’m telling the truth.’
‘You are obligated to tell us exactly what happened.’
Wang Daifu said, ‘I am telling you exactly what happened.’
‘Let me repeat myself. Even though you’re disabled, you are obligated all the same to tell us exactly what happened.’
Wang pursed his lips twice and raised his brows. ‘And you are obligated to believe someone who is disabled, even if you are not.’
‘Then tell me, why did y
ou do it?’
Wang Daifu said, ‘My blood wanted to cry.’
The policeman was tongue-tied. He didn’t know what to do with this unreasonable disabled man. ‘I’m asking for the last time. What happened? Telling me the truth is for your own good.’
‘I did it myself,’ Wang insisted. ‘How’s this for a harsh vow? If I’m lying, the minute I walk out this door, I will have perfect vision.’
Instead of returning to the tuina centre right away, he had to go home to get the twenty-five thousand in the freezer, not to mention change out of his clothes. When he walked in, he was surprised to note that his brother was back. He was lying on the sofa, eating an apple, a good one, crisp and juicy enough for Wang to hear. Wang’s heart skipped a beat. His brother hadn’t opened the freezer, had he? He went straight to the kitchen, where he fearfully opened the freezer door; whew, the money was still there, just where he’d left it. Taking out the bundle, he stuffed it back inside his waistband. It felt heart-stopping cold against his belly. It pricked his skin. Money is so cold.
Without a word, he left the apartment and walked down the stairs, very slowly, because of the money and also because of the pain from the cuts. An argument erupted inside the apartment. He could not tell what exactly his parents were saying, but he heard his younger brother’s voice, so loud he could hear it two stories above him. He was shouting about how unfairly life had treated him.
‘Why couldn’t you have made me blind? If I couldn’t see, I’d be able to support myself.’
Chapter Seventeen
Sha Fuming and Zhang Zongqi
UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Sha Fuming and Zhang Zongqi should have already found the time to sit down and discuss how best to deal with Jin da-jie. But Sha didn’t raise the issue, so Zhang decided to keep quiet, initiating a cold war between them.
The tuina centre had not had a meeting for quite some time, which did not bode well. It was clear that Sha planned to fire Jin da-jie, while Zhang wanted to let Gao Wei go. The delay in calling a meeting could mean only one thing, that neither boss was ready or was sure of the outcome, creating a stalemate. But no meeting could also signal that privately neither boss was willing to concede.
Sha Fuming was determined to let Jin da-jie go, but he knew that the only way to get rid of her was through an equal-opportunity firing, letting Gao Wei go at the same time. But Gao Wei mustn’t leave. She was Du Hong’s eyes, and even her legs. What would happen to Du Hong if Gao left? How would he face her? So that was their dilemma – neither was able to play the cards in his hand. It was a contest of patience.
Time passed as the contest dragged on. Seen on the surface, the delay was fair to both sides, but in fact that was not the case. The matter had to be settled. Sha thought about it long and hard before coming up with a new idea – a split.
After prolonged and careful planning, he asked Zhang out for a talk one night at around one o’clock. They went to the Sifang Tea House, where Sha ordered black tea and Zhang green. Sha came straight to the point with a clear-cut, sound proposal. He would give Zhang one hundred thousand yuan, take down the Sha Zongqi tuina centre sign and put up a new one for the Sha Fuming tuina centre. He had his reason for offering Zhang a hundred thousand: when they’d started out, they’d each put in eighty thousand to pay for the licence, rent, interior alterations and furnishing, and required equipment. They split profits at the end of each quarter, which was why Sha believed it was acceptable for him to offer a hundred thousand now.
Zhang did not hem and haw either, giving Sha a straightforward answer that he agreed to the split. But he had a minor amendment; his price was one hundred and twenty thousand. Direct and frank, he said he would leave as soon as he received the money, an answer Sha had anticipated, all but the amount. Instead of telling Zhang he thought the price was a bit high, Sha changed tactics.
‘A hundred and twenty thousand is fine. Why don’t we do it this way? You give me that amount and I’ll leave.’
If the negotiation had ended there, Sha would consider himself the winner. With a hundred and twenty thousand yuan, plus what he’d saved up, he’d be able to open a new centre. Given the time needed to find a new site, apply for a licence and remodel the place, he’d be a boss again in two or three months. Sha figured he’d planned everything just right: their former friendship dictated that he open his new centre as far away as possible, at least five kilometres, and he’d bring over Gao Wei and Du Hong. Wang Daifu and Xiao Kong could come along if they wanted. In no more than two years, his business would prosper, and when that happened, it was anyone’s guess whether Zhang would survive the competition. After all, Sha Fuming had been handling daily management of the Sha Zongqi tuina centre.
Sha Fuming was in a hurry to split up the business, and the dispute between him and Zhang Zongqi was one reason. The critical factor, however, was his relationship with Du Hong. Opening a new business was important, but so was a personal life. Sha was not a young man, and he had to get busy settling down. Du Hong, in her own words, was still young. So he’d set up a new business and wait patiently for and with her. Time only runs one way – it cannot go backwards. When the new centre opened, he’d buy a piano for her; if she didn’t object, she could play the piano daily and draw a salary. That would have a two-pronged advantage. With ear-pleasing music in the air every day, the new centre would be different from others, and that would advertise the unique services he offered. Moreover, he’d be able to keep her around, which was the whole point of a new centre. Wherever Du Hong was, there was hope and happiness for him. He could not let himself keep having that dream; he had to stop dreaming about a pair of hands and stop dreaming about two cubes of ice. The ice was too cold, the hands were too hard.
Hence, the split was inevitable; the sticking point was how. Sha Fuming could have started out by asking for a hundred and twenty thousand, but he could not bring himself to do that, and Zhang would have had the right to refuse. Zhang making the demand simplified matters. Sha would even settle for a hundred thousand if that was all Zhang was willing to offer. Put simply, Sha’s only concern had been the possibility that Zhang would not agree to the split. He would come out ahead on the deal as long as Zhang made an offer, be it a hundred thousand or a hundred and twenty thousand.
Taking a sip of tea, Sha sensed that the negotiations were nearing the end. He was amazed at how smoothly the issue was being solved; they would split without a row. What better outcome could he have expected? No, nothing else. His happiness reminded him of the early days of Sha Zongqi tuina centre. Business had been slow, but they never disagreed and always opened their hearts to one another. They would have crowded onto the same bed if they could. Those were wonderful days. A honeymoon for friends. A honeymoon for men. Who could have anticipated all the problems in the ensuing years? Luckily the split would go well and they’d continue as good friends in the future.
But Sha Fuming was wrong; he had miscalculated. Zhang Zongqi’s experience had manifested itself just as Sha was indulging in feelings of exhilaration.
‘Sure I can give a hundred and twenty thousand yuan,’ Zhang said. ‘We’re old friends, so I must be frank with you. I don’t have the cash right now, so you’ll have to wait a few years, if you’re willing. I’ll never short-change you. You can trust me. Whenever you want to go, just tell me, and we can sign an agreement.’
Sha could not have anticipated that move in a million years; he was speechless. At that moment, he recalled how embarrassed he’d been when making the plan, unsure of how to broach the subject with Zhang. When he finally mustered the courage to speak up, he realised that Zhang had not been idle. In fact, Zhang had been making his preparations, and he’d thought things out more carefully and planned more strategically. Zhang had formed a superior design. Sha could kick himself for being so rash; he should not have shown his hand first. Now see what happened? No longer having the edge, he didn’t know what to say in response to Zhang’s offer. What could he say? Lifting the corners of his mouth int
o a smile, he pressed the talking clock clipped to his belt. It was getting late. No time like the present to leave. He took out his wallet to pay. Zhang followed suit and said, ‘Split down the middle?’
‘What are you doing?’ Sha blurted out. ‘It’s only a cup of tea.’
‘It’s better to split down the middle,’ Zhang said.
Sha nodded and relented, but felt a surge of sadness, bitterness even. This was not the same split down the middle as when they started out. It marked the end of their friendship.
It was Sha who’d come up with the idea of splitting down the middle when they first talked about opening the Sha Zongqi tuina centre. Back then they’d been working on the Bund in Shanghai, and the split meant a great deal to Sha; it was not just an investment tactic, promising equal profits for equal capital, but an unspoken agreement that they would both be a boss and neither would be the boss of the other. Truth be told, that went against Sha’s wishes, for he valued the status of a boss too much to share that with someone else. It may appear odd that blind individuals who work for a living and support themselves are more ambitious than the sighted when it comes to being the boss, but virtually all of them are interested in that special status. When Sha was chatting with his co-workers, a basic truth was revealed. Nearly every one of them shared a thought, or an aspiration; that is, one day, when they had enough money, they’d go back home to open their own business. That may have sounded entrepreneurial, but was in fact motivated by the wish to be a boss.
His friendship with Zhang was the reason why Sha was willing to split down the middle, for they had been very close back in Shanghai. And there was a story behind it.
Like all tuina therapists, Sha and Zhang lived in Shanghai as migrant workers, which meant being cut off from the dazzling city, with all its splendour. To them, Shanghai was nothing but two beds; one was in a massage room, their livelihood, and the other in a dormitory, their daily life. The massage bed was easy to deal with, even if it wore them out. What Sha truly dreaded was the one in the dormitory, where his bed was placed in a thirteen-square-metre room, along with seven others. Eight beds meant eight grown men, who, when they were all in there, strangely did not emit a purely male smell, not even a human odour. Instead, it was a motley smell of low-quality liquor, cigarettes, toothpaste and soap, and high-quality foot and underarm sweat and waste. The mixture was dizzying, a unique smell, the smell of migrant workers.
