by Su Tong
Carrying my water-filled tin cans, I wondered if the river was echoing me. The river was so wide and so deep, how could it write me off with the single word kongpi? I didn’t believe that was the voice of the river. I wanted to hear something else. So I divided the cans into three groups of five and attached them to both sides of the boat. They filled up with overflowing water, murmuring sounds that reached me in the cabin. I ran to the port side and listened. Come down, they were saying, come down. That was new, but what did it mean? Who was to come down? Was I supposed to somehow climb into the cans? I didn’t believe that was what the river was saying, so I ran to the starboard side, where the five cans had all come together and were saying, in a low but stern voice, Come down, come down.
Come down. Come down.
This time I believed what I was hearing, maybe because the voice was so dignified, so stern. Come down, come down. After that, it was the sound of the river I trusted most.
In my father’s eyes, I was now an adult, and he disapproved of this sort of childish behaviour. I hid all my cans, but he found them and threw them angrily into the river. ‘How old are you, Dongliang? I joined the revolution at the age of sixteen. But you? You play with tin cans! Sailing on the river is a lonely life, so spend your time studying. And if that doesn’t appeal to you, do some work. When there’s nothing else to do, you can swab the deck.’
Once, when I was swabbing the deck up front I saw Huixian and Yingtao playing with a skipping rope on Six-Fingers Wang’s boat. Six-Fingers’s daughter was counting spiritedly, acting as a referee. Suddenly Yingtao shouted, ‘Not fair! How come everybody’s siding with her? Anyone could see I did a hundred, but you only said ninety-five, and she only did ninety-five but you gave her a hundred.’ Wang’s daughter went up to humour her, but it did no good. Yingtao stormed off in anger. I’d stopped working and was waiting for Huixian to come to our boat. It always happened like that – she and Yingtao would have an argument, which would end in her running over to number seven.
That didn’t mean she paid any attention to me once she got there. With the skipping rope over her shoulder, she walked towards the cabin as if she owned the boat, her eyes on the sofa. To her chagrin, this time my father was sitting in it. She stuck out her tongue to show her disappointment, then turned and came back down the other side of the boat.
Maybe she’d heard too many grown-up discussions about us, but the moment she opened her mouth, out came the crucial question: ‘Is yours a martyr’s family or isn’t it?’
‘Who’ve you been talking to?’ I said. ‘Do you even know what a martyr is? We can’t be martyrs because we’re all still alive.’
‘I haven’t been talking to anybody. I’ve got ears, and I know how to listen,’ she said proudly. She pointed to our cabin. ‘Deng – Deng Xiangxiang, that’s her picture. Is she a martyr?’
‘Her name’s Deng Shaoxiang, not Deng Xiangxiang. She’s a martyr, I’m not.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘She’s your grandma, isn’t she? So if she’s a martyr, then so are you. It’s a great honour.’
‘I’m a martyr’s descendant, not a martyr. My grandma is the honourable one, not me.’
She blinked, still not clear on the distinction between a martyr and a martyr’s family. Instead of trying to pretend she understood, she took the skipping rope off her shoulder, shook it at me and said, ‘Cleaning the deck is boring. Let’s see who’s better at skipping.’
‘Not me.’
‘See, now you look unhappy.’ She studied my face. ‘Do I make you angry?’
‘No. I may be angry, but not because of you.’
Abandoning the idea of getting me to skip, her eyes lit up as she blurted out, ‘Has your mama sent you any gifts lately?’
I said, ‘No. Who wants her gifts anyway?’
She looked disappointed. ‘She’ll send you gifts because she’s your mother and she cares about you. Animal crackers are my favourites,’ she said. ‘Giraffes taste great. So do elephants.’
I knew how much she liked to eat, so I said, ‘If she sends things to eat, you can have them.’
She blushed and twisted the skipping rope in her hands. ‘That’s not what I meant. She’s your mama, not mine. If you want, you can give me half.’
Any talk of mamas was a taboo that everyone adhered to. I didn’t want to talk about my mother, and definitely wasn’t about to mention hers, so I decided to tell her my river secret. ‘You’ve been with us a long time. Have you ever heard the river speak?’
She snickered. ‘Liar. The river doesn’t have a mouth. How can it speak?’
‘It doesn’t speak because you haven’t given it a mouth. Give it one and you’ll hear it speak.’
She gave me a blank stare. ‘You’re lying again. The river’s water. Give it a mouth and it still can’t speak.’
I probed the surface of the river to find its mouth, spotting a wooden spindle floating downstream that was coming slowly towards our boat. It was barrel-shaped, with hollow ends, and seemed to be the perfect shape for a mouth. ‘See that? It could be the water’s mouth,’ I announced earnestly as I scooped it out of the water with a net pole. ‘Now watch while I get the river to speak.’
After drying off the spindle, I carried it to the starboard side, where I lay on the deck. Huixian followed me. ‘How come you brought it to this side? Doesn’t the river speak on the other side?’
I told her that sunlight affected how the river spoke. ‘The sun has lit up the other side of the boat, and the river will only speak over here. It’s too bright and too noisy over there. And even if it did speak, it would be lies.’
Only half believing me, Huixian put the spindle up to her ear and lay down on the deck to listen to the sound of the water. ‘Liar,’ she said. ‘The water’s flowing along, not speaking.’ She tried to get up, but I pushed her back down.
‘You’ve got to get rid of all thoughts of animal crackers and focus on the river. Hold your breath and be patient. Give it time and you’ll hear it.’
So she quietened down and listened. ‘I heard it!’ she cried. ‘I did!’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now tell me what you heard.’
She looked up, with hesitation and a bit of embarrassment in her eyes. ‘It said different things. At first it said, Eat, eat. Then it said, Don’t eat, don’t eat.’
Eat? Don’t eat? That’s what she heard? How disappointing. ‘That’s all you know – eat, eat!’ I snatched the spindle out of her hand, gave her back her skipping rope and said, ‘Go and skip. That and eating are just about all you know how to do.’
With a pout and an angry look, she said, ‘Then what did you hear? Why won’t you tell me that?’
‘Why should I? You wouldn’t understand.’
That upset her. She hit me with her skipping rope and took off running. ‘You’re a liar,’ she said. ‘My new mother told me to stay away from your stinking boat, so I’m not coming over any more.’
River Day
THE GOLDEN Sparrow River was calm and tranquil the following autumn. The riverbed shrank and the banks receded, revealing patches of swamp land overgrown with reeds and water grasses. An occasional egret landed, but only briefly, as wild dogs prowled around and barked enthusiastically at passing ships. There was a sometimes bleak quality to the prosperous scenes on the densely populated shore, with villages big and small dotting the area. I knew all their names, but after the floods had passed, the one called Huage had disappeared; the eight dye mills had moved away, and I no longer saw Huage’s blue and white fabric billowing in the wind from the boats. The Fairy Maiden Bridge had sunk into the river, like an old man beaten down by time who could no longer raise his head, while by gazing into the distance at the steel tower and traces of high-voltage wires not far from Li Village, I could see a new marketplace that had exploded into existence on the marshy bank, large clusters of simple structures that had seemingly risen up overnight, with red brick walls and white asbestos tiles. From afar, it looked like a mush
room farm. ‘They call that East Wind Villa,’ someone told me. ‘It’s where the East Wind No. 8 construction workers who chose not to return to their homes live.’
As autumn arrived, a rash developed in my groin. It itched like crazy, and I couldn’t stop scratching, an inelegant practice my father couldn’t help noticing. He told me to drop my pants, which exposed my rash, as well as my genitals, for him to see. I’ll never forget the look of shock in his eyes, not from seeing the rash – he asked me what I expected, since I hated taking baths and paid no attention to my personal hygiene – but from the physical changes; maturation had occurred unnoticed. The damned ‘helmet’, with all its rosy freshness, gave off a cursed, wicked glint; bad for others and bad for me. The sight put a worried scowl on Father’s face, and I was so embarrassed I wanted to crawl into a hole. The look of fear in his eyes was unmistakable, for this involved desire and tumult, danger and sin. The devil was on its way, the very devil he had extirpated from his own body had now shown up on mine. Any comparison between us was cruel, and the results were hard to utter. Father took out a bottle of gentian violet. His mood resembled the purple liquid in the bottle – irritable and gloomy – while his gaze remained fixed on my crotch, cold and hostile, mixed with profound misery. His eyes were like a pair of scissors, terrifyingly open. I trembled; my rash mutated into a barely perceptible pain that covered my crotch. I knew that Father hated my ‘helmet’, and it disgusted me too. But what was I to do? Once a male dons the ‘helmet’, it’s impossible to take it off.
Fortunately, they were eventful days. Father got busy as the twenty-seventh of September, the anniversary of Deng Shaoxiang’s martyrdom, neared, and so did I. In order to prepare River Day candles and paper flowers, he sent me into town to buy coloured paper and a jug of rice wine. The wine served two functions: I was to spray half of it on the martyr’s memorial and bring the rest back to the boat for him. He never touched alcohol, except on the twenty-seventh of September, when he drank to the spirit of Deng Shaoxiang.
I went first to the stationery shop to buy coloured paper. As she was taking a stack of paper down off the shelf, the shop assistant blurted out, ‘You’re not from the school, are you? And you’re not from the General Affairs Building, so what do you need coloured paper for?’
‘Coloured paper isn’t rationed,’ I said. ‘What do you care where I’m from? I’m buying, and you have to sell it to me.’
She gave me a suspicious look. ‘Do I have to sell it to you if you’re buying it to write counter-revolutionary slogans? Don’t roll your eyes at me. I know who you are. You’re Ku Wenxian’s son, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So what? Can’t Ku Wenxian’s son buy coloured paper?’
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and snorted. ‘Your father owes us money. Back when he was one of the town’s big shots, he took lots of our paper – plain white paper, writing paper, coloured paper, even some fine paper for calligraphy. But we never saw any money.’
‘That’s your problem,’ I said. ‘You could have made him pay for those things.’
‘You’re quite the talker,’ she said. ‘He was a local tyrant who told us to charge it to the General Affairs account. Who’d dare to refuse? Then there’s your mother, Qiao Limin. She wasn’t in the habit of paying for her purchases either: books, fountain pens, pencils, pencil cases, notebooks. All for official business, she said, so charge it. Oh, we did that all right. It would have been fine, except that Ku Wenxuan fell from power and Zhao Chuntang refused to honour the bill. We’re the losers. Our books and inventory never match.’
Telling me about my parents’ past deeds embarrassed me and made me angry. ‘That’s none of my business,’ I said, rapping my knuckles on the counter. ‘I don’t want to talk about what they did. I’m here to buy coloured paper. If you won’t sell it to me, I’ll just take it.’
‘Fat chance,’ she replied. ‘The son inherits the father’s debts. And what makes you think that you, who owes us money, can act like a little tyrant? Nobody’s afraid of you any more. Why should we be? You can buy your paper somewhere else.’ When she saw me move closer to the display case, she slammed the door shut. Then she gave me a shrill warning: ‘I doubt you’d dare to rob us, but if you did, the police station is right down the street, and they’d come running if they heard me scream.’
The assistant and I were confronting one another across the glass-topped counter when a three-wheeled vehicle loaded with cardboard boxes pulled up in front of the shop. The driver entered carrying a large box and set it down. It was the shopkeeper, Old Yin, a round-faced man with big ears. He’d save the day, since in the past he’d been a frequent guest in our home. Back then he used to rub my head whenever he dropped by. He didn’t do that this time, but he hadn’t forgotten who I was. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, ‘why the scowl? You’re not shopping for a knife to kill someone, are you?’
‘That’s exactly what he wants,’ the assistant said, ‘all because I told him to go home and remind his father that he owes us money. What I got was that look in return. With such a long face, someone who didn’t know better might think we owed him money.’
Old Yin was a man who enjoyed digging up local anecdotes and was thoroughly versed in Milltown’s revolutionary history. When he learned that I’d come to buy coloured paper he glanced up at the wall calendar. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow’s Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial day.’ With that, he agreed to sell me paper, and even separated it by colour to let me choose the ones I wanted.
‘I don’t know how to choose,’ I said. ‘You do it for me.’
So he bent over and began selecting the right colours. ‘Your father has a good heart,’ he muttered. ‘Even after what happened to him, he makes a point of observing September the twenty-seventh. But what I don’t understand is, since he refuses to come ashore these days, how will he memorialize the martyr?’
‘Water’s as good as land,’ I said. ‘He’ll just face Phoenix and toss paper flowers into the river.’
Old Yin raised his head and gave me a dubious look. ‘Phoenix, you say? You don’t know? You really don’t know?’
I gaped at him, having no idea what he was talking about. ‘Know what?’
He glanced at me, cleared his throat and spoke in an authoritative, almost callous tone. ‘There’s new information your father couldn’t know about, since he’s out of the picture. Go home and tell him not to rely on the almanac. They’ve discovered that Deng Shaoxiang wasn’t from Phoenix after all. That coffin shop was moved to Phoenix from Running Ox Village. You understand what I’m saying? Deng Shaoxiang was born not in Phoenix but in Running Ox Village. Ever hear of it?’
I stood transfixed in front of the counter. I neither shook my head nor nodded. I glared at Old Yin. I’d never heard of Running Ox Village, and people were going to think this was a joke. My father insisted that he was Martyr Deng’s son, and that I was her grandson. But neither of us had ever heard of Running Ox Village!
My face reddened with embarrassment. I scooped up the paper and ran out of the shop, followed by the loud voice of the shop assistant. ‘Who do you think you are?’ she shouted. ‘A pretender! Stop being stupid. Father and son – one’s a cheat, the other a little hooligan. If Deng Shaoxiang had descendants like you, any commemoration would be a waste of time.’
I walked down the streets of Milltown with the coloured paper under my arm, anger boiling up inside me, not just because of the shop assistant, but also because of the murky nature of Martyr Deng’s life. Deng Shaoxiang, your glorious deeds are worthy of song and tears, but why did you lead such a complicated life with so many twists and turns? You are the most famous of martyrs, your name remains with us even after your death. You were not a cloud, so why did you drift from place to place, here one minute, there the next? Where did you actually come from? And who is your real son? When will all the doubts be dispelled? Martyr Deng Shaoxiang, I beg you, won’t you show yourself to tell us the truth?
I looked into t
he sky above the chess pavilion. The people who saw me gave me curious stares. Those who didn’t know me asked, ‘What’s up with him?’ Those who knew me said, ‘Don’t mind him, he’s Ku Dongliang. He often walks with his head up, but sometimes he keeps it down. Whatever makes him happy.’
I was walking with my head up because I wasn’t happy. But the noise from a crowd of people around the general store calmed me down. I lowered my head, and there on the steps of the store stood a throng of women and children, baskets in hand, lined up to buy sugar. An announcement had been pasted up on the door:
A SUPPLY OF SUGAR IN COMMEMORATION OF NATIONAL DAY HAS ARRIVED. THREE OUNCES OF SUGAR WILL BE SOLD FOR EACH SUGAR COUPON.
Remembering that I was supposed to buy a jug of strong rice wine, I elbowed my way up to the steps, only to be pushed back. ‘I don’t want any sugar,’ I said. ‘I need to buy rice wine.’
I was wasting my breath. ‘We don’t care what you want or need,’ someone said. ‘Line up.’ Then a woman elbowed me out of line and, in a voice dripping with contempt, said, ‘You boat people have no manners. Getting you to stand in line is like threatening your existence. What harm can it do to queue up for a change? Are you afraid you’ll lose weight, or money? Am I right or aren’t I?’ Other people in the queue nodded in agreement, looking disgustedly at me. I could have pleaded my case, but it would have been a waste of time. They were there for sugar, I was there for rice wine – two different things. But to them it was all the same. I didn’t want to go to the end of the line, but no one was willing to let me go in front of them, so all I could do was step away, fuming at them.
Feeling restless, I stood to one side to watch the queue when I recalled that one of Huixian’s handbills about her mother had been pasted up on the wall across the way. I walked over to see if it was still there. Either sanitation workers had torn down most of what remained or the elements had worn it away; except for a tiny fragment, it was obliterated under a fresh coat of whitewash. The stubborn defiance of that fragment evoked in me a sense of mourning. With National Day, the first of October, approaching, the walls of the streets and small lanes had been whitewashed to welcome the holiday. The handbill had died a natural death. I saw no trace of Father’s calligraphy, nor of Huixian’s name. Not content to leave it at that, I patiently scraped the whitewash off the remaining scrap of paper, and there beneath my fingernail, the sunflower I’d drawn the year before came to life before my eyes, slowly blossoming as I scraped and scraped.
