The Boat to Redemption

by Su Tong

  I could not free my father from that pillar of shame, and this brought him his greatest torment and me my greatest heartache.

  Separation

  AFTER THE incident with the investigative team, Father remained ashore for three months, the first two in the attic of the Spring Breeze Inn, where he was kept in isolation while being checked out. A metal door with three locks separated the attic from the rest of the hotel; the keys were kept by three members of the team, two men and a woman who occupied rooms on the second floor. An endless stream of problems arose for my father, beginning with his education and as much of his work history as could be verified. He gave them the names of two schoolmates who could testify on his behalf, a man and a woman. No one knew the whereabouts of the man, while the woman had suffered a nervous breakdown. As for testimonials from the White Fox Logging Camp, where he’d worked for many years, the two individuals whose names he provided had died in a forest fire. And the person who had vouched for his acceptance into the Party was particularly suspect. A man of considerable renown, his reputation was badly tainted. Known as the most notorious rightist in the provincial capital, he had been sent to a labour-reform farm, where he was generally recalcitrant until the day he mysteriously disappeared.

  Even Father was surprised to learn how dubious his own personal history was. ‘Who are you?’ the investigative team asked repeatedly. ‘Just who are you anyway?’

  Eventually, they managed to wear him down. ‘Is there some sort of mental illness that can cause a person to remember everything wrong?’ he asked earnestly.

  They rejected the implication. ‘Don’t try to turn this into a health issue,’ they said. ‘No neurologist can solve your problems. Seeing one would be a waste of time. You need to do some serious soul-searching.’

  No therapy for him. So the soul-searching began, and over time he began to see the error of his ways. It wasn’t his memory that had let him down, it was his fate. A dark path lay in front of him, one with no visible end, and he could no longer validate himself.

  As rumours flew around Milltown about how my father had created a false identity to fool the Party, the wall outside our house began to fill up with angry graffiti: ‘LIAR … ENEMY AGENT … SCAB … BUFFOON.’ Someone even labelled him a secret agent for Chiang Kai-shek and the US imperialists. Mother, who seemed to be on the brink of a nervous breakdown, went to the General Affairs Building to speak with Party leaders. That had the desired effect, for they assured her that she would not be implicated, that even though she and Father shared a bed, they could take divergent political stances. So she was still on safe ground when she returned home. With uncertainty she made the necessary arrangements for my life, while deep down, she was planning her own future. I had a premonition about what her future entailed. I could not be sure if I was included in that future, but I knew that Father was not.

  Without telling Mother, I went to see him, but was stopped by the metal door. I knocked, attracting the attention of one of the team members, a middle-aged man in a blue tunic who escorted me out of the hotel. ‘Is that what you call solitary confinement?’ he screamed at a hotel employee. ‘Do you people still not understand what this is all about? Unauthorized people are not allowed in here, period!’

  ‘But it’s Ku Wenxuan’s son,’ the employee said. ‘He’s just a boy.’

  The official scrutinized my face. ‘A boy, you say? He’s got the start of a beard already. He’s unauthorized and is not allowed in!’

  During the two months Father spent in the hotel attic, people reported that he began to behave bizarrely. He stubbornly dropped his trousers once a day, regardless of time or occasion, to let the team examine the fish-shaped birthmark on his backside. For humanitarian reasons, they decided to end the solitary confinement early and notified us to come and get him.

  So Mother and I waited in the third-floor hallway for the green metal door to swing open. When it did, Father emerged, bent at the waist, carrying a bag in one hand and a chess set in the other. Deprived of sunlight for so long, his face was wan and slightly puffy. At first glance, he seemed relatively healthy, but on closer examination, it was obvious that he bore the look of fatigue. He cast Mother a fervent glance, but when she turned away, fear replaced the fervour in his eyes as his timid gaze fell on me. That gave me goose bumps – he was so humble, so helpless. It was as if I were the father and he the son. Having committed serious errors, he was now trying to ingratiate himself, begging for my forgiveness.

  I no more knew how to forgive than how to punish him. So I followed him down the stairs, watching as he stepped cautiously, still bent at the waist, like a doddering old man. After living in the attic, with its low ceiling, for two months, he’d become used to standing in a semi-crouch. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you’re out of the attic now. Why are you still bent over like that?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I am out of the attic. Am I bent over?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘like a shrimp.’

  Suddenly aware of his posture, there, on the third-floor stairs of the Spring Breeze Hotel, he raised his head anxiously and jerked his body straight, which induced a painful scream. He dropped the bag as if his body had snapped in two. Then he dropped the chess set and braced himself with his hand on the small of his back. His face was a study in suffering. ‘That really hurt!’ he said as he stared fearfully at Mother.

  Mother bent down to pick up the bag, as if she hadn’t heard his scream. ‘What’s in here?’ she asked. ‘What’s that jingling sound? Why not throw it away? Why take it home?’

  I went to give him a hand. He looked at Mother, expecting her to help as well. But she stayed put, bag in hand, and looked away without moving a muscle. So Father composed himself and pushed me away. ‘Pick up those chess pieces,’ he said. As I did, I watched him bend, little by little, and start downstairs. ‘It’s all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll walk like this. It doesn’t hurt as much.’

  The investigation was brought to an end, at least for the time being. The team had got half of what they were after. My father refused to admit that he’d created a false identity or that he’d misled the Party, and insisted he was the son of the martyr Deng Shaoxiang. But they’d had more success in another area than they’d expected. After only a few sessions, during which he’d put up strong resistance and argued in his own defence, Father eventually confessed that there were problems with his lifestyle, either because he was being too honest or because he was trying to evade a more serious issue.

  There were problems with his lifestyle.

  And those problems, I heard, were serious.

  Lifestyle

  PROBLEMS WITH lifestyle meant sex, everyone knew that. Women were always involved when a man was accused of having lifestyle problems. This was serious, and the more women were involved, the more serious the problem. I was fifteen at the time, still some way from sexual maturity, but I knew that my father – a man, after all – had sex outside of marriage. I didn’t know how many women he’d slept with, and had to wonder what was so great about sleeping with lots of women. Since it wasn’t something I could talk about, I pondered it silently, stopping only when I got an erection. That was something my mother would not tolerate, calling it a shameful sign of degradation. One morning she awoke me by slapping me with a plastic sandal. Glaring at the little tent I’d made in my underwear, she drove me out of bed with more slaps. ‘I’ll teach you not to learn such things from him! It’s shameful! Degrading!’

  My mother made a clean break with my father, but stopped short of going her separate way. I later learned that this was not an act of mercy, but a way to settle scores. She did not intend to come to his rescue. In her eyes, he was little more than a pile of dog shit, and in no need of being rescued. What she wanted was enough time to do something. What, exactly? Punish him. Unwilling to give up the advantage she held, she wanted to make him suffer. At first she concentrated on his mental state, and the unexpected occurred when Father’s spirit, like his bent back, was irrep
arably broken. When there was nothing more she could do to his spirit, all that was left was whatever punishment she could inflict on his body.

  Early the next morning, Father pushed Mother’s bicycle outside. ‘Be careful out there,’ he said, ‘and take it slowly.’

  ‘It’s none of your business how fast or slow I ride,’ she said, ‘and keep your filthy hands off my bike. Maybe a tractor will come along and put me out of my misery.’

  Wisely, Father stepped back, but then said, ‘Read the news slowly during the broadcast and don’t make any mistakes. With everyone pushing against the wall, it’s ready to topple. You don’t want to give people any excuse to capitalize on a mistake.’

  Mother just sneered. ‘At a time like this, how can you pretend to be so caring? With all these daggers in my back, what makes you think they’ll let me anywhere near a microphone? Know what I do at the studio? I clip stories from the papers for Zhang Xiaohong.’ The mere mention of how she had to serve a co-worker incensed Mother, and she was on the verge of hysteria. Finally, she pointed to the ground. ‘Ku Wenxuan, even death would be too good for you! Get down on your knees, you owe me that!’

  Hesitant for a moment, Father might have been reflecting on all the terrible things he’d done, and wondering if death would truly be too good for him. He glanced up at the window to my room before he fell to his knees in the gateway and looked up at Mother with a tight smile. ‘If death is too good for me, then kneeling is what I deserve.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Then tell me, why do you have to do that here? You want our neighbours to see, is that it? They open their doors, and there you are, on your knees. Maybe you don’t care about losing face, but I do.’

  Father stood up and muttered, ‘Worried about what people might think, that’s good. Where would you like me to kneel?’ He glanced around, looking for a good spot, and settled on a stone barbell lying under the date tree. He shuffled over and eased himself down on the stone, gazing helplessly at Mother and hoping for her approval.

  She merely snorted and pushed her bike through the gate, crestfallen over the docility of her husband. But then she turned and pointed at him. ‘You’re kneeling there only because I told you to,’ she said contemptuously. ‘I tell you, Ku Wenxuan, a man should not kneel too easily; there might be gold under his knees. Know what I mean? We’ll see if anyone anywhere will look up to you from now on.’

  As he knelt there I spied on him and detected a slight movement. One of his knees rose from the stone, the other one stayed put. He waited for Mother to leave before getting slowly to his feet, and when he spotted me, an embarrassed look flashed briefly on to his face as he brushed the dirt from his knees. ‘Just this once,’ he said as casually as possible. ‘It won’t happen again. All in fun. But tell me, Dongliang, why haven’t you been lifting the barbell lately?’

  ‘Because it’s a waste of time, it doesn’t do any good. Lifting things doesn’t do any good.’

  ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t do any good? It makes you stronger.’ He scowled before standing up beneath the date tree, bent at the waist, deep in thought. After a moment he laughed a brief bitter laugh and said, ‘Truth is, it won’t make any difference. This family is doomed to split up. Sooner or later your mother will leave us.’

  I didn’t say anything. What could I say? Immaturity and confusion had me swaying from one parent to the other. There were moments when my sympathies lay with my mother, but most of the time I felt sorry for my father. I stared at the smudges on his knees and then let my gaze drift cautiously upward, until I noticed a bulge in the front of his trousers that was sliding disconsolately downward, like a broken farm tool hanging uselessly from a scrawny tree. I didn’t know what Father looked like with an erection, nor did I know how many women he’d slept with, or the times, the places, the details, and the sorts of women they were. Deep and complex emotions rose irrepressibly inside me, and the look on my face surprised him. He gazed down at his crotch. ‘What are you looking at?’ he barked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Father angrily smoothed down the front of his trousers. ‘Then what are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Liar. I know there are bad thoughts racing through your mind. You can fool other people, but not me.’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything,’ I said, ‘so stop trying to get into my head. My head’s a kongpi, nothing but a kongpi.’

  ‘Kongpi? What’s that?’ He gave me a dubious look. ‘Kong is “empty”, I got that. And pi is “ass”. But what do they mean together?’

  ‘Go and ask somebody else. I don’t know. That’s what they call me now. I used to belong to the Ku family, but now my surname is Empty. And I’m not Dongliang, I’m Ass.’

  ‘Who gave you that terrible nickname? And why?’

  ‘What good would it do to tell you?’ I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘It’s your fault!’ I complained. ‘It’s all because of you! And stop calling me Dongliang. From now on you can call me Kongpi!’

  Father stopped and thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I know. When the city gate burns, the fish in the moat die. I dragged you into this.’ Still bent at the waist, he began to pace around the tree, casting an occasional look my way, but quickly shying away from the loathing in my eyes. Finally he walked over to a clothes line in the yard, on which hung some of Mother’s fancy costumes from her youth. She’d held on to them all, preventing them from getting mouldy by airing them each autumn. The sight of them hanging there was like watching birds singing in the spring: a Uighur cap, a black vest with threads of gold, a long emerald-green skirt, a Tibetan blouse with half sleeves, a pair of felt boots, a colourful apron, a traditional Korean robe, white with a red belt, and two pairs of ballet slippers, all hanging from the clothes line with a show of bluster.

  Father looked up, and I noticed that he was blinking. Inspired by the costumes, he was recalling the time when Mother had been a beautiful stage performer. He set the ballet slippers in motion, then took down the Uighur cap and brushed the dust off it. He sighed. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, wanting to make me feel better, ‘having a nickname is nothing to worry about. Your mother is the one I’ve hurt the most. She’ll never be allowed back into the drama troupe, and now even broadcasting is closed to her. If she can’t be a broadcaster or an actress, her talents will go to waste.’

  It was obvious that in his eyes my anguish counted for little next to Mother’s, and I felt like saying, ‘Well, let me call you Kongpi, and see how you like it.’ But I thought better of it. What he said made sense. What does a nickname mean, anyway? What does it prove? The family was breaking up, and I knew I could not cast my lot with him. That left only Mother. If she had a future, so did I. If she was neglected, I would be too. And if she wound up as a nobody, then I’d be a real kongpi, and not just in name.

  Let me tell you about my mother, Qiao Limin, and her artistic talents.

  In her youth she was Milltown’s most ravishing beauty, the star of mass literary and arts activities, and known popularly as Milltown’s Wang Danfeng. If she hadn’t been a bit long in the body, with short legs, she’d have been more beautiful and more exceptional than the famous 1940s movie star. She had upturned, slanted eyes and a straight nose with a slightly bulbous tip, an oval face, and a voice equally comfortable with sweet lyrics and loud, sonorous arias. But singing and dancing aside, her real talent lay in the realm of broadcasting. For Milltown residents, the perfect enunciation and intonation of broadcaster Qiao Limin’s voice was like a musical weathervane. Her mid-range notes told them that everything was fine, in China and in the world; her lower register told them that news of battleground victories by workers and peasants was pouring in; her alto tones told them that people’s lives were like sesame stalks, whose blossoms grow higher and higher. But the loudest cheers were reserved for her soprano notes, for in them were hidden rare metals with natural powers of penetration and shock. The slogans thundering from her during one open trial actually caused the historical counter-revol
utionary Yu Wensun to lose control of his bladder up on the platform. On another occasion, before she’d finished her slogan, a corrupt bookkeeper at the purchasing station by the name of Yao fainted dead away. If you’d been there to hear my mother broadcasting you’d know I’m not exaggerating. Her whole existence was tied up in sloganeering, and her shouts were full of noble aspirations and daring; they pierced the heavens and crackled like magnificent yet graceful thunderclaps in the sky above Milltown, sending chickens flying and ducks leaping, and striking cats and dogs dumb. Below the platform, people’s ears rang, and those few individuals with sensitive eardrums were forced to stuff their ears with cotton to withstand the tonal assault.

  Father once said that Mother exuded revolutionary romanticism that had a distinct charm. Revolution and romanticism were for her a single-minded pursuit. She’d spent her youth in Horsebridge, where her beauty and artistic flair were first spotted, though the place was too small for her talents to be fully realized. Either out of envy or prejudice, the locals had not held her in high regard, referring to her behind her back as a butcher-shop Wang Danfeng, a nickname that drew attention to her origins and bloodline. My maternal grandfather lived in Horsebridge, but I’d never met him. Why? He was a butcher by trade, a man whose profession called upon him to slaughter pigs. Neither a member of the bourgeoisie nor a landlord or rich peasant, he still could not lay claim to the status of proletarian. Being born into a questionable family was a hindrance to Mother’s chances of making a good match. Rumours went round that during the famine Grandfather had sold buns stuffed with human flesh, a scandalous story that was widely publicized when each new campaign was launched, causing Mother unbearable humiliation. And so, over the years, she nurtured a plan to escape from her family, which she carried out soon after her eighteenth birthday. She came home one day, broke open her cherished savings jar and, while she was counting the money, announced gravely that she was making a break with her family.