Frog (27 page)

Chen Bi’s life had been one of incomparable sorrow. It seemed to me that by coming to the Don Quixote café to play the part of a famous dead man or a bizarre fictional character, his situation was much the same as that of the dwarf doorman at Beijing’s Paradise Dancehall or the giant doorman at Guangzhou’s Water Curtain Cave Bathhouse. They all sold whatever their body had to offer. The dwarf sold his pygmy stature, the giant sold his jumbo height; Chen Bi sold his nose. They were all in the same tragic circumstance.

Sensei, I recognised Chen Bi right off that night, though I hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty years. I’d have recognised him if it had been a hundred years and in a foreign country. Naturally, I think, when we recognised him, he also recognised us. You don’t need eyes to pick out a childhood friend; you can manage that with your ears – a sigh or a sneeze will do it.

Should I go up and say hello? Invite him to join us for dinner? Little Lion and I couldn’t make up our minds. And I could tell from his look of indifference and the way he was staring at the buck’s head on the wall, not even glancing out of the corner of his eye, that he couldn’t decide if he should come over to our table. The memory of him coming to our house that year on the night we sent off the Kitchen God – Chen Er with him, wanting to take back Chen Mei – floated into my mind. A large man back then, he was wearing a stiff pigskin jacket. He’d threatened to toss our garlic press into the pot on the stove. He was breathing heavily and seemed ready to explode from frustration, like a raging bear. That was the last time we’d seen one another till this day. I’m sure we weren’t alone in thinking about the past, that he was too. Truth be told, we never hated him; in fact, he had our deepest sympathies over his misfortunes. The main reason we did not go up and say hello to him was we couldn’t decide how. Why? Because we were making it, as the locals said, and he wasn’t. How does someone who’s making it deal with a friend who isn’t? We simply didn’t know.

Sensei, I’m a smoker. It’s a bad habit that encounters strict constraints in Europe, North America, even there in Japan, and makes us feel vulgar and ill bred. But not here, not yet. I took out a cigarette and lit it with a match. I love that brief burst of sulphur smell when striking a wooden match. Sensei, I was smoking Golden Pavilions then, a very expensive local brand. Two hundred yuan a pack, I’m told, which is ten yuan a smoke, while a jin of wheat sells for eighty fen. In other words, you’d have to sell twelve and a half jin of wheat to buy a single Golden Pavilion cigarette. Twelve and a half jin of wheat produce fifteen jin of baked bread, enough to meet a person’s needs for ten days or more. But a single cigarette’s life lasts no more than a few puffs. The resplendent cigarette packet reminded me of the Ginkakuji in your esteemed city of Kyoto, and I had to wonder if the Golden Pavilion had in fact been the model for the packet design. I knew how much my father detested the idea that I smoked this brand, but he limited his comment to: It’s degenerate! I nervously tried to explain: I didn’t buy these, they were a gift. His chilly response? That makes it obscene! I regretted telling him how much they cost, but that just shows how shallow and vain I was. How was I any different from the nouveau riche who parade their purchases of brand name products and crow about their new, young wives? But I couldn’t throw away such expensive cigarettes over a single critical comment by my father. If I did, wouldn’t that be even more degenerate? Golden Pavilions are enhanced with a special fragrance that produces intoxicating smoke. I could see that Chen Bi was getting fidgety. After sneezing loudly, over and over, he let his moody gaze move slowly from the stag’s head – hesitantly, timidly, and tremulously at first, then eagerly, greedily, even a little menacingly – to us.

The man stood up at last, Sensei, and hobbled our way, dragging his sword as if it were a crutch. The light inside the café was muted, but bright enough to see his face. The complex expression created by the totality of his features and facial muscles is hard to describe. I couldn’t be sure if he was looking at me or at the smoke coming from my mouth. I stood up so quickly the legs of my chair scraped the floor noisily. Little Lion stood up.

He stood in front of us. I stuck out my hand and pretended to be surprised to see him. He accepted neither my greeting nor my extended hand, keeping a respectable distance as he bowed deeply, then rested both hands on the handle of the rusty sword and said: Honourable Lady, Honourable Sir, I, the Spanish Don Quixote, knight of La Mancha, extend my deepest respect and humbly offer my unswerving desire to serve you.

Quit fooling around, Chen Bi, I said. Who are you pretending to be? I’m Wan Zu and this is Little Lion.

Honourable Sir, Respected Lady, for a loyal knight, no enterprise is more sacred than preserving peace and upholding justice, sword in hand.

Okay, pal, knock off the play-acting.

The world is a stage, one on which the same drama is played out every day. Sir, madam, if you could see fit to reward me with a cigarette, I will demonstrate my duelling skills.

I hastily handed him a cigarette and helpfully lit it for him. He took a deep drag, turning the end a bright red. He squinted and his face grew pinched, but then slowly smoothed out as smoke streamed from his wide nostrils. Seeing how relaxed and contented a cigarette made him both shocked and moved me. Though I’d been smoking for years, I wasn’t a heavy smoker, which was why I could not relate to the effect of that cigarette on him. He took another drag, burning up most of the remaining tobacco. Those pricey cigarettes had an exceptionally long filter, which left little room for tobacco, a ploy to appease the wealthy users who were afraid of dying from smoking but found it impossibly hard to quit. Three puffs burned the cigarette down to the filter. I handed him the whole pack. He timorously looked to the right and left before snatching it out of my hand and stuffing it up his sleeve. His promise to demonstrate his duelling skills forgotten, he limped to the door as fast as he could manage, dragging his sword and one leg behind him, but before he got there, he reached into the willow basket and snatched up a baguette.

Don Quixote! You’ve panhandled another customer! the fat fake Sancho Panza shouted while he brought us two mugs of foamy dark ale. We looked out the window at the poor man dragging his rusty sword behind him, his gimpy leg leaving a long, flickering shadow, as he crossed the square and disappeared in the darkness. The apparently robust dog followed closely behind him. A pathetic-looking man with a dog that seemed to strut.

Damn him, the fake Sancho Panza said for our benefit, not quite apologetically and sort of showy. He’s always embarrassing us by doing things behind our back, he said, and I want to apologise on behalf of my boss, sir, and you, madam. But I imagine you can’t be overly upset about a knight cadging a few cigarettes or some small coins.

What do you . . . what kind of talk is that? I didn’t like the way the fat man talked. Why talk like you’re acting in a movie or stage play? You people hired him, didn’t you?

I’ll tell you the truth, sir, the waiter said. When we opened, the boss took pity on him and had him dress up like that so he and I could stand in the doorway to greet the customers. But he had too many failings. He was addicted to alcohol and tobacco, and when he needed a fix, he was incapable of doing anything else. Then there’s that loathsome dog that never leaves his side. And sanitation means nothing to him. I take two showers a day, and while I might not be a feast for the eyes, my body odour can make people happy and relaxed. That is the standard an elite waiter should maintain. But the only time that guy got a wash was in a rainstorm. Customers turned up their noses when they smelled him. And there’s more: he ignored the boss’s orders to stop panhandling customers. I’d have canned a no-account bum like him, but my soft-hearted boss has given him chance after chance. He’s incapable of changing, like a dog that eats shit. The boss gave him some money, hoping he’d stay away, but he was back as soon as it was gone. I’d have called the cops on him by now, but the boss is too kind to do that, so he gets away with things that hurt business. He lowered his voice. I later learned that he and the boss were in school together, but even a classmate shouldn’t have to put up with that. Eventually, someone complained about Don Quixote’s terrible body odour and the mangy dog’s fleas. So the boss hired somebody to take him to a public bath and make sure he and his dog got a thorough cleaning. That became a policy: he was forced to take a bath once a month. Was he grateful? No, he cursed up a storm in the water. Li Shou, you son of a bitch, he’d shout, you’ve ruined this knight’s reputation!

Sensei, after that night’s dinner, Little Lion and I walked along the riverbank to our new house, feeling gloomy. It had been an emotional encounter with Chen Bi. The past was full of sad memories. Vast changes had taken place over the decades; things we’d never dared dream of had come to pass, and those we’d treated with inordinate seriousness had become laughable. We hadn’t had a real conversation, but he and I were probably thinking the same thing.

Sensei, the next time I ran into him was in the district hospital. We’d gone there with Li Shou and Wang Gan. Chen had been hit by a police car, whose driver said witnesses would swear he was driving normally when Chen Bi ran out into the street – he was suicidal – followed by his dog. Chen was thrown into some roadside shrubs, his dog was run over. Chen had compound fractures of both legs and injuries to his arm and hip, none of them life-threatening. The dog, which had died for its master, was splattered all over the pavement.

The news of Chen Bi’s accident came from Li Shou. The policeman was cleared of blame, but Li went to see someone in power and managed to get Chen a settlement from the station of ten thousand yuan. For injuries as serious as his, that was a pittance. I knew that Li’s motive in having us classmates visit Chen in the hospital was to get help in paying Chen’s hospital bills.

He was in Bed 9, next to the window of a twelve-bed ward. Lily magnolias blooming outside the window on that early May day sent a rich perfume into the ward. Even with the crowding, the ward was clean and neat; despite conditions that paled alongside Beijing and Shanghai hospitals, the improvements over the twenty years since the commune period had been substantial. Sensei, I had spent a week with my mother in the commune hospital, where the beds were home to hosts of fleas, the walls were blood-specked, and the air swarmed with flies. The thought alone makes me shudder. Both of Chen’s legs were wrapped in plaster casts, as was his right arm. He lay in bed able to move only his left arm.

He turned his face to the wall when he saw us walk in.

Wang Gan relieved the awkwardness with his brand of comic chiding: How did this happen, eminent knight? Tilting at windmills again? Or duelling with a romantic rival?

You should have told me you were tired of living, Li Shou said. You didn’t have to go looking for a police car.

He’s faking it, Little Lion said, that’s why he’s not talking to us. It’s all your fault, Li Shou, for turning him into a deranged individual.

He’s not deranged, Li defended himself. He’s a master at pretending.

Suddenly Chen burst into tears and lowered his head as far as it would go. His shoulders heaved; he scraped the wall with his good hand.

A nurse rushed into the room and gave us an icy stare. Stop that, Number 9, she demanded as she smacked the steel headboard.

He abruptly stopped crying and turned his head so we could see his face. He looked at us with a murky gaze.

The nurse pointed to a bouquet of flowers we’d laid on the nightstand and made a face as she sniffed the air. No flowers in the wards, she said sternly. Hospital policy.

Policy? Little Lion said. Not even Beijing hospitals have such a policy.

The nurse showed no interest in debating the issue. She turned to Chen Bi. Get your family over here to settle up, she said. Today’s your last day.

What kind of attitude is that? I asked unhappily.

With pinched lips, she said, A workday attitude.

Is a humanistic spirit alien to you people? Wang Gan said.

I only work here. If you people are flush with humanistic spirit, then pay his medical bills. I think our director would reward each of you with a plaque that says: Model Humanist.

There was more Wang Gan wanted to say, but Li Shou stopped him.

The nurse stormed out of the ward.

We exchanged glances, wondering what we should do. The treatment costs for injuries as serious as Chen Bi’s were sure to be astronomical.

Why did you have them bring me here? Chen Bi asked accusingly. What the hell business is it of yours if I want to die? I’d have done so if you hadn’t interfered, and I wouldn’t be lying here suffering.

It wasn’t us, Wang Gan said. The cop who hit you called for an ambulance.

If it wasn’t you, he said with a total lack of warmth, then what are you doing here? Come to pity me? Give me sympathy? I don’t need it. You can all leave, and take those toxic flowers with you – they give me a headache. Were you thinking of paying my hospital expenses? I don’t need that either. I’m a formidable knight. The King is my good friend, so is the Queen. The paltry expenses for this hospital stay will come out of the national treasury. But even if the royal couple prefers not to settle up, I don’t need your charity. Both my daughters are more beautiful than goddesses, their good fortune as vast as the Eastern Sea. If they do not sit on the Queen’s throne, they will serve as the King’s consort. They could buy this hospital with money that falls through their fingers.

Sensei, of course we understood what this crazy talk from Chen Bi was all about. He definitely was faking. In his mind he was clear as the surface of a mirror. Faking things can become a habit, and if you do it long enough, you can start sliding over the edge. We were on tenterhooks when we came to the hospital with Li Shou. We had no problem with taking along some flowers, some encouraging words, and a few hundred yuan, but to be responsible for a huge hospital bill, that would be . . . after all, we weren’t blood relatives, and the way he was . . . now if he’d been a normal person . . . In the end, Sensei, though we were all principled, sympathetic individuals, we were just ordinary men, and nowhere near noble enough to bail a misfit out of a jam. So Chen Bi’s crazy talk was intended to give us a face-saving way out. We all looked at Li Shou. He scratched his head and said, You just worry about getting better, Don. Since you were hit by a police car, they should be responsible for your hospital bill. If not, we’ll think of something.