Mountain Girl River Girl (11 page)

Chapter
Fourteen

On their way to report to work after breakfast, Pan-pan told Shui-lian about her encounter with Sister Wang. Shui-lian listened and nodded a couple of times. But to Pan-pan’s great disappointment and surprise, her friend responded lightheartedly, “I don’t mind being locked up. It’s better this way.” Pointing to the rows of buildings on the other side of a litter-strewn trench, she then added, “You know who sleeps there, don’t you? No-good-goddamn men. As far as I am concerned, no padlock is large enough to keep us safe from them.”

At the entrance to the Sewing Department, where all eight new recruits were assigned, Shui-lian stood still, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her. Dust hung in humid air ripe with the sweat and strong body odours left behind by the departed night-shift workers. Until then, she had never set foot inside a factory. Nor had she been in such a large building. It reminded her of the huge cargo ships that lined Chongqing harbour. The pale morning light poured into the vast room through a row of high windows, illuminating lines of fluorescent tubes that dangled, buzzing and flaring, above row after row of strange-looking machines. Shui-lian couldn’t help wondering if the department stores across China had ever run out of sewing machines.

According to Elder Sister Meng, sewing was the biggest department in the factory—larger than Cutting, Insole Making, or General Assembly. It employed over four hundred workers. Most were from the countryside, and all were female, some as young as fifteen and none older than thirty, except the director. Production continued around the clock. The workers were divided into two twelve-hour shifts—days, beginning at 7
A.M.
, and nights at 7
P.M.
Every two weeks they got Sunday off, then they changed shifts. The owner’s edict,
ren-ting-ji-bu-ting—
people stop, but not the machines—written in black ink brushed on red cloth and coloured paper, cried out from the walls of the compound, the canteens, and even the toilet rooms. Shui-lian would soon learn that in reality the machines would quit from time to time when they broke down, but the affected workers moved to other machines and kept going with no break.

The strange sights and noise started to unnerve Shui-lian. She turned to look for Pan-pan and the other new workers, only to find that all of them had been led away deeper into the shop by their trainers. A surge of panic struck Shui-lian. She decided to wait outside the door for her trainer, as Elder Sister Meng had instructed the night before. But her retreat was blocked by the stream of incoming workers. Angry shouts rose about her and irritable hands pushed her out of their way, until she was shoved to a corner with her back pressed against the cool concrete wall, watching throngs of young women frantically clocking in for the day shift.

Minutes later, Fang-yuan appeared silently in front of Shui-lian, a meaningful grin on her face. She pointed with her chin to the shop where the workers were dispersing furiously to their workstations, like water flowing downstream. Shui-lian shut her eyes and moaned. Over two hundred people in the workshop and she had to fall into the hands of this woman, who, in less than twelve hours since they met, already harboured a grudge against her. What luck on her first day in the factory! It was her mother who used to say that foes often met on a narrower path.

“Are you coming with me or not?” said Fang-yuan. “I won’t bite you. But don’t expect me to be nice to you. Remember, it was you who told me I’m unable to crack a smile.”

Shui-lian opened her mouth; words lingered on her lips, but at the last minute she decided to hold them back.

Fang-yuan took the lead, stopping in front of a sewing machine in the far right-hand corner of the room. Once again she used her chin to do the talking, indicating the stool. Then she walked away. Shui-lian remained standing, taking in the features of the machine mounted on a wide plank before her: the countless knobs and dials, hooks, wires, the wheels and belt. The long, sharp needle reflected in the sunlight that streamed in through the window, aloof and threatening, posing a silent challenge. She looked around and saw that the black bins placed on each side of the machine were nearly full. The one on the left was filled with stacks of white fabric pieces shaped like flattened fish. They must be the lining of the shoe uppers, Shui-lian reminded herself, recalling the brief lesson given by Elder Sister Meng the night before. But the contents of the bin on the right were puzzling. The bin was divided into small compartments, each packed with leather meticulously cut into squares, triangles, rhomboids, large and small disks, and long and short strips. Their shapes resembled the popular tangram game of her childhood, which she had loved to play by herself. But unlike the tangram, with its seven differently coloured pieces, here all the cuts were white. Shui-lian reached down and picked up a long narrow segment. It had a gentle inward curve like a crescent moon and felt soft between her fingertips. She held it up to her nose, delighted by its faint scent of oil and sweetness.

“Put that down.” Fang-yuan’s voice came from behind her back. Shui-lian dropped the piece onto the pile and stood with her hands at her sides. “Don’t touch anything unless I say so,” Fang-yuan continued harshly. “In case no one has told you, each piece, no matter how small, is real leather, and worth what you or I make in a day. That is, when you’re able to sew twenty-two of them in half an hour.”

“You mean in a day, don’t you?” said Shui-lian.

“Wrong. I mean half an hour. Twenty-two pieces make up just one shoe, and you and everyone else in the shop are expected to finish at least twenty shoes in each shift. Is that clear?”

Not waiting for a reply, Fang-yuan walked back to her machine and returned with a finished shoe upper, which she handed to Shui-lian. Shui-lian turned it round and round, her mouth open as she examined and counted. Looking closer, she spotted the light drawings on the surface of the lining. Ten pairs! she thought. No wonder everyone was in such a hurry. But how on earth could she do this, even if she had multiple arms, like a mythical goddess?

“Come on. Get over here. Standing there like a tree stump won’t get you paid,” Fang-yuan shouted over the racket. “Sit down and turn on the machine. Quick, you’re wasting my time. I have my own quota to fill.”

“I don’t know how to operate a machine,” Shui-lian said bluntly, hiding her uneasiness. “Please, teach me.”

“All right, I will. But sit down first,” Fang-yuan said again. “Now, turn on the switch, then put one foot on that pedal there. Press slowly but evenly. Remember, the harder you push, the faster the machine goes. It controls the speed of the needle.”

Shui-lian followed Fang-yuan’s directions, watching the shining needle dip and rise spasmodically. The machine seemed to have a mind of its own, she noted with alarm.

Fang-yuan continued. “While you’re sewing, always keep your fingers away from the presser foot and the needle. Always keep in mind that the needle is made of steel, meant to pierce two or even more layers of leather.”

Shui-lian’s eyes locked on the presser foot. Beneath it, half a dozen sets of sharp teeth, pointing upward, moved back and forth hungrily as soon as she placed her foot on the pedal. She could see that the teeth were there to grab and pull the material under the presser foot while the needle plunged through it.

Fang-yuan took a piece of fabric out of her pocket and placed it on the surface of the machine in front of Shui-lian. “Use this for practice, to sew straight and curved lines. Pay attention; you won’t be paid a penny until you can sew properly, so don’t sit like a Buddha statue in a shrine. Start right now! You want to be a worker, don’t you? So act like one.” Before she turned to leave, she added, “If you need me, I’m over there, three machines down on your left.”

Shui-lian remained seated, still and stiff. Her feet felt like they were made of stone or, worse, bolted to the ground. Her eyes glazed over, failing to focus on the marked lines on the fabric; her heart pounded along with the thunder created by the more than two hundred machines, angrily drumming louder and louder. All around her, their heads bent over, backs hunched, and fingers flying, the workers looked as if they too were machines. The jabbing needles, the spinning thread spools, and winding belts—all appeared aggressive and ruthless.

Shui-lian watched from her seat, seized with panic and frustration, while at the same time overwhelmed by a flood of shame and helplessness. All these women were braver and more capable than she. When she finally raised her hands to the machine, her fingers were as rigid as wooden chopsticks. She let out a slow sigh, wondering how come Jin-lin, her knowledgeable friend, had never mentioned one word about how difficult it was to be a factory worker: the intensity and racket, the lack of proper training and teaching.

Shui-lian placed her foot on the pedal and slowly pushed it down. The machine clattered. The needle rose and fell and rose again. Tentatively, she nudged the fabric under the presser foot, felt the teeth touching her fingertips before the needle punched through it as easy as a river snake swallows a rat. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all, she thought, curbing her fears.

But her relief was short-lived. The machine seemed to have a mind of its own, and she spent the rest of her shift muttering and cursing as she battled her mechanical foe.

T
HAT NIGHT
Shui-lian dreamt that she was at home on the Jialing River, sitting in the stern as the boat drifted from port to port under a vast blue sky, mountains on either side. A bamboo raft floated by on the jade-green water. Everywhere she turned to look, she was greeted with silence: the waves that hit the side of the boat, the pullers striving up high on the banks. Even the normally rackety seagulls were shushed, soundlessly flapping their wings and circling above the water. The serenity began to frighten her as she remembered that since coming onboard she hadn’t seen her mother and sister, nor her brother and his new bride. “Mama, where are you?” she called out frantically, struggling to her feet. But a silent wave rolled over the stern, snatched her up, and threw her into the river. She repeatedly called her mother as she was dragged deep down into the water. Her shouts turned to bubbles before her eyes as she kicked her feet. She awoke to her own screams.

Chapter
Fifteen

Summer rushed in and descended on the plain earlier than usual. The unseasonably high temperatures turned the crammed dorm into a furnace and the occupants into powder kegs. Fights erupted over the slightest annoyance and turf wars broke out daily over control of the taps and space in the washing station, for the washing period had been reduced to fifteen minutes daily because of a water shortage. The dry winter followed by a rainless spring had put a strain on the three wells that supplied fresh water for the eight hundred or so workers. People had been complaining for weeks about discovering red thread-thin worms twitching and wriggling at the bottom of their washbasins.

Mr. Tom and Mr. Tony, who lived in villas on the outskirts of Bozhou, carried their water bottles everywhere they went in the factory. Fearful of an outbreak of dysentery, they ordered the canteen staff to provide the workshops with boiled water; meanwhile, if any worker was caught drinking directly from the tap, he or she would be fined half a day’s pay. But their concern lasted only until they returned to their villas each evening. Thirsty and exhausted, the nightshift workers fought over every drop of drinking water because the canteen closed after serving the midnight meal and the supply of boiled water was cut off.

Pan-pan leaned against her rolled-up quilt that was wedged against the metal frame of her bunk. Across from her, Shui-lian had dozed off despite the heat and chit-chat humming up and down the aisle. Pan-pan let her mind wander for a change. It had been more than four weeks since she and Shui-lian arrived at the factory and became sewing machine operators. She was thankful for her good fortune that, when she was little, her mother had taught her how to use a sewing machine. She thought about Ah-Po, hoping she remembered to take her blood pressure pills without Pan-pan there to remind her. She smiled when little Gui-yang came to mind. He would be two years old in one month. No doubt Xin-Ma would continue to spoon-feed him for fear that her precious little boy wouldn’t eat enough if he was left to eat by himself.

She wondered if Lao Ma and Lao Zhang were still talking about her given her unannounced departure. They’d be disappointed for sure, or even angry—particularly Lao Zhang, who had tried the hardest to get her to change her plans. From the moment Pan-pan stepped into her house, Lao Zhang had decided to make Pan-pan’s welfare her personal responsibility, embarking on a mission to send Pan-pan back to Guizhou and her family. Yet under her very nose, the girl who was only a few years older than her sons had vanished in the same manner as she had barged into their lives.

Thinking about her village and her family, Pan-pan was once again gripped with heart-rending homesickness, the same kind of sadness that had overwhelmed her when her mother died. Turning toward the wall, she wiped away her tears with the corner of the bedsheet and reached under the pillow for the envelope that contained her half-written letter home. She must finish it soon and send it. It had been over a month since she had said goodbye to Ah-Po and Xin-Ma. They must be worried sick by now.

Pan-pan had begun the letter on the night after her first day of work. As soon as supper was over and she was back in the dorm, she sat down on a large empty electric cable spool that had been tucked under the bunk bed, before smoothing out a piece of filmy paper on top of her bed.

“I wish I could write as well as you,” Shui-lian had commented, stretching out on her bunk across the aisle, watching Pan-pan. “If I’d known that learning to write would be useful someday, I’d have paid more attention to the teachers at the floating school, instead of blathering to Jin-lin.”

“It was my mom who kept pushing me to learn, to practise, and to go to school every day,” Pan-pan had replied. “But I still don’t know all the words I need. I guess I’ll have to use
pin-yin
to fill in the blanks.” Holding the pen her mother had used when she was alive, Pan-pan looked over her shoulder at her friend. “If you want, I can write a letter for you after I finish mine.” Right away Pan-pan wished she hadn’t made the offer. Shui-lian had told her that her family boat had to travel from one river to another, looking for work. Even if Shui-lian could write the letter herself, she wouldn’t know where to post it to. Pan-pan slowly put down her pen and carefully folded the paper. She should wait until things settled down a bit, or finish her letter when Shui-lian wasn’t around.

Things could only get better from now on, she assured herself. I’m a worker now, and so is Shui-lian. When our three-month probation is over, we’ll get a raise to five hundred yuan a month, more money than I would ever make if I stayed in the village, tilling earth and growing crops. In no time I’ll be able to replace the money the thief snatched from my hands.

Pan-pan smiled inwardly as she once again pictured a prosperous future ahead of her, the life of the first factory worker in her family. And maybe, she thought, unconsciously squeezing her arms to her sides, I can do something about my condition, put an end to the fear and nervousness I feel each time someone around me twitches her nose. To cope with the rising temperature and lack of water and privacy, she had tried to keep awake at night until everyone was asleep. She would then reach for the tin of powder, which was tucked deep into the corner of her bed, sprinkle some onto her open palm, and apply it to her armpits, hoping that her diligence as well as the white contents would keep her safe from being exposed and ridiculed.

A
CROSS THE AISLE,
Shui-lian lay in bed, searching for a comfortable position. Darkness had brought little relief from the sweltering heat. On the contrary, the temperature rose inside the dorm after the door was shut and locked, leaving the sleepers to simmer in sweat, breathing stale air ripened with the funk of spoiled food, hastily washed bodies, and piles of dirty clothes under each bunk. She was exhausted beyond words, yet the aching in her neck and back from hunching over the sewing machine for twelve hours running kept sleep away. The burning in her eyes had been getting worse every day, even when they were closed. The strain of endless staring at the needle and the precision of the stitching required such a high degree of concentration that she wondered, as she had many times before, if her eyes would eventually give up blinking. The throbbing in her fingertip, wrapped in a bandage, reminded her of another miserable failure to meet her daily quota. This time the needle had punched right through the first finger of her left hand, chipping off a corner of the nail. Shui-lian had never seen so much blood in her life, hers or anyone else’s. Within seconds it had soaked the white leather strips she was sewing and oozed through the lining and onto the machine top. The sight frightened her so much she didn’t even feel the pain until later.

On the way to the factory clinic, Elder Sister Meng had told Shui-lian that she was lucky. The needle had punctured only the tip of her finger, not her hand, as had happened to others. One young woman from Yunnan Province, Elder Sister Meng recalled, had somehow managed to stitch her hand and the shoe upper she was working on together. “After that terrible incident, she couldn’t stop shaking whenever she sat down at her machine. Yet she refused to quit,” the director said, shaking her head.

“What happened to her then?”

“She was reassigned to the assembly workshop. But she wasn’t there long before they let her go. This time, I heard, something went wrong in her head. It’s not that she went crazy or anything. She started complaining about headaches. Then one day she fell off her stool and rolled over on the ground, wrapping her arms around her head and screaming. The doctor said her headache was caused by toxic fumes from the chemicals used for making shoes. You know what, Shui-lian?” Elder Sister Meng halted briefly. “Let’s face it. Not everyone is meant to work in factories. Some people are better to stay where they are and live the way they’re used to.

“Try harder, Shui-lian,” Elder Sister Meng then urged her in her singsong voice. “Don’t just move your fingers, make them fly. Remember, you’re dealing with machines now, not dirt and seeds and night soil anymore.”

“I will, Elder Sister Meng,” Shui-lian promised.

S
URROUNDED BY THE SNORES
and breathing of her dorm mates, Shui-lian knew that no failure weighed heavier than the disappointment she felt in herself. Since she was old enough to think independently, besides her dreams of escaping a life on the water, Shui-lian had always wanted to be a worker, though she was fully aware that there would be greater chance of being eaten alive by a river carp. Even without Jin-lin’s constant chatter that workers enjoyed a privileged life of ease, security, and wealth, Shui-lian desired an existence that would not expose her to the rain and wind, nor the risk of falling into the river and disappearing. The craving had been so strong and desperate it had led her to be swindled and ruined by thugs like Da-Ge. The same longing had pushed her through the gates of the Niavia Shoe Company. Now Elder Sister Meng’s comments swept what fragments remained of her dreams from her head once and for all. How come Jin-lin had never mentioned that a worker’s life could be so hectic and ruthless and full of danger?

The itch and irritation caused by heat rash, which had suddenly burst out one day and quickly spread over her body, were also driving her mad. Like most workers, she had a large patch of red, bumpy spots on her neck, from which white pus seeped. Earlier that night, as Pan-pan was making up her bed, her talcum powder tin had fallen to the floor, bringing a loud cheer of delight and relief in the dorm and a flash of panic to Pan-pan’s face.

“Heat rash powder!” one woman exclaimed as she rushed to pick it up and read the label aloud. “Pan-pan, you’re a life saver!”

Without asking permission, she unscrewed the lid, shook out a palmful of powder and dusted her neck, upper chest, and armpits before handing it to another outstretched hand. Shui-lian sat, leaning against the wall in shadow, watching the tin pass like a trophy from one person to another.

As the white powder rose into the air, her sense of resentment toward Pan-pan swelled. Here we go again, she grumbled to herself, fixing a stare of annoyance on her friend. Am I the only one who has a nose in this place, smelling her strong body odours?

The soft-spoken and good-natured Pan-pan had been popular from the beginning in comparison to Shui-lian. “They’re as opposite as day and night,” Shui-lian had heard one woman remark one night when she thought Shui-lian was asleep, just weeks after she and Pan-pan started working at Niavia.

“One is a hothead and quick-tempered, like a firecracker ready to explode at any time,” a different voice cut in. “But she has a slow pair of hands, almost dim-witted when contrasted with her younger cousin.”

“And an accident magnet,” added a third. “She won’t last long if she doesn’t improve soon. But Pan-pan has a future here for sure.”

Lying there, it was all Shui-lian could manage not to jump out of bed and light into those who dared to trash her behind her back. Pan-pan had warned her more than once that if she ever picked a fight with the dorm mates without good reason, she would be totally on her own.

But the powder’s soothing effect was short-lived. In less than half an hour, the women started to complain that the heat had turned the powder into paste, clogging their pores and causing more irritation.

Serves you all right, Shui-lian said to herself, pretending to be asleep. And you too, Pan-pan. Now that the powder is gone, you have nothing left to hide your secret.

I
N THE DARKNESS,
Pan-pan turned and tossed. Around her, the dorm choir, as she called it, was tuning up. Although Pan-pan was accustomed to Ah-Po’s snores and was familiar with the evening noises of the country, she had no idea that being awake in a roomful of sleepers could be so unsettling and, at times, frightening. Night after night, as soon as the lights were out, it seemed, the strange sound moved in, taking over and filling the corners of the tiny dorm: soft mumbles, rhythmical nose whistles, shouts, and screams. The young woman on the top bunk above her was talking rapidly to herself in her sleep. Someone else was weeping in her dreams. Yet nothing was worse than the sound of teeth grinding, so unbearable that Pan-pan often had to cover her ears, at the same time unconsciously licking her own teeth.

Across from her, Shui-lian called out in her distinctive accent. Even in her dreams, her high-pitched voice was demanding. But it was Shui-lian’s cool look during the powder episode that kept playing in Pan-pan’s mind. She tried to figure out Shui-lian’s uncharacteristic silence and calm. Shui-lian hadn’t seemed surprised when the powder tin fell onto the ground, as if she’d known Pan-pan had it all along. Yet Shui-lian had never mentioned one word to her. Most worrisome was that Shui-lian was the only one who didn’t ask for the powder—everyone else, it appeared, couldn’t get enough of it. The answer was as clear as it was obvious. Shui-lian knew Pan-pan’s condition, and by refusing the powder, she showed her fear that the fox smell would be passed on to her. Does that mean she would refuse to be my friend as well, like the girls in the village? Pan-pan moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Now with no more talcum powder left, her secret was going to be exposed for sure, and abandonment and taunt would be the result.