Mountain Girl River Girl (12 page)

She couldn’t understand how Shui-lian had found her out, for she had been so careful to maintain her nightly ritual. Occasionally she’d skip a day here and there, but she struggled to carry on despite her growing doubt about the powder’s effectiveness in such extreme heat. Once the hot weather arrived, everyone in the dorm wore as little clothing as possible to keep cool. Pan-pan was the only one who wore a long-sleeved blouse. “The scholar,” her dorm mates called her, taking it as a sign of formality. Obviously, Shui-lian thought differently.

I’m trapped, Pan-pan thought, before finally drifting off to sleep.

Chapter
Sixteen

The physical fatigue caused by heat, lack of sleep, and long hours of intense labour was offset by good news one night when the exhausted workers were about to go to bed. Everyone was to have a day off on May 1, to commemorate International Labour Day. When the news came, cheers and laughter filled the tiny room. Shui-lian and others slapped their hands on the wooden boards in rhythm, while a couple of the women began to dance, stamping their bare feet on the dirt floor, twitching and twirling in their panties and tank tops.

But on the night of April 30, as Pan-pan and Shui-lian sat with the others in the sweltering dorm chatting about their plans for the next day, Elder Sister Meng pushed open the door. She stood there for a moment before speaking.

“I have news,” she announced, raising her reedy voice above the clattering and laughing women. “Bad news.”

Silence fell as all eyes turned her way.

“Mr. Tom and Mr. Tony are leaving Niavia,” Elder Sister Meng said. “The new general manager is named Mr. Wu. He has called a meeting for tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Your May Day holiday is cancelled.” And before Shui-lian could utter the curse that had formed on her lips, Elder Sister Meng disappeared out the door.

In the canteen the next day, the new general manager informed the assembly that he didn’t want to be called Mister. “Ah-Wu” was what he preferred, he said in a thick accent. And he was a Taiwan Chinese, not a mainlander, like those in his audience.

“What is he talking about?” someone whispered behind Shui-lian. “Isn’t Taiwan a part of China?”

Ah-Wu stood still on a temporary platform, waiting for the hum to die down, his tiny black eyes squinting at the roomful of workers sitting cross-legged on the cement floor. He then held up his right hand for silence as he smacked his lips, producing an awful, wet sound.

“I heard what you’re saying. It’s true that you and I share the same ancestor, the Yellow Emperor, but our similarity ends right there because we’ve been travelling on different paths for over half a century. Mine in Taiwan turned out to be a sunlit multilane freeway, and yours …” He let his voice trail, and a sly grin appeared on his flat face. “Anyway, the result is that I am standing here as your boss, and you are my labourers.”

Ah-Wu paused, enjoying the stillness, before resuming his lecture. “In some countries and cultures, revealing one’s wealth is regarded as showy, even arrogant. That’s not what I believe. On the contrary, I call that attitude false humility.” He let out a wicked laugh, which to Shui-lian sounded like an owl’s cries. “I for one don’t intend to hide from you or anyone how much money I make as your general manager because as far as I’m concerned it represents my value. The truth is, what I earn in one month here is fifty percent of what all of you make, in total, in the same amount of time. Not to mention that my pay is in real money, U.S. dollars. Now,” he paused again, his eyes sweeping across the audience, “let’s have a bit of fun, shall we? I’m going to ask you to take a simple test, to see if any of you are up to it. You all know how much you make each month—five hundred yuan, give or take. There are eight hundred workers here, again give or take. Now, who can tell me how much money I make in a month? Whoever comes closest will be given one American dollar as a reward.” He crossed his arms on his narrow chest and waited.

There had been meetings before, held by Mr. Tom and Mr. Tony with their interpreters, passing down the rules and regulations, and once or twice, announcing new orders and decrees from Elder Miss Gong, but nothing like this. Beside Pan-pan, Shui-lian stared unseeingly at the back of the person sitting in front of her. The workers tried to work out the answer to Ah-Wu’s question. Some frowned intensely; a couple calculated on their open palms by using their fingertips as pens, multiplying and dividing.

Pan-pan, who was quick with numbers—something Ah-Po had always claimed with pride—had her answer ready. “About twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars a month,” she said in a shaky voice.

Hundreds of eyes turned in Pan-pan’s direction. “Are you sure? How did you do that so fast?” Shui-lian whispered.

“My, oh my, this is something,” Ah-Wu crowed, rubbing his palms together, his roving eyes stopping on Pan-pan. “I wonder if today’s your lucky day or you just made a lucky guess. Very close indeed. Now for your reward.” He smirked, took a wad of money out of his pocket, peeled one note off, and handed it to a worker in the front row, who turned and passed it back to Pan-pan. “Your lucky day,” Ah-Wu repeated.

Red-faced, feeling uneasy about the attention, Pan-pan wished she had the nerve to stand up and tell Ah-Wu that it had nothing to do with luck or guesswork. Keep your money, just give me due credit! she wanted to shout.

At the end of that meeting, Ah-Wu declared that no one would have a day off until the factory fulfilled its quota of one hundred thousand pairs of shoes each month, the target set by Elder Miss Gong months ago but never achieved when Mr. Tom and Mr. Tony were in charge. Up until then, the workers had gotten a free Sunday every two weeks.

“He’s trying to squeeze fat from bones,” Pan-pan whispered. “Even harnessed donkeys have breaks.”

Everyone knew that production had been rising steadily in the past twelve months. The output had tripled to ninety thousand pairs of shoes per month, while the number of workers had merely doubled. Yet the owner wasn’t satisfied.

That night, on their way to the shop to start the evening shift, Pan-pan explained to Shui-lian that it was the mention of American money that had made Ah-Wu’s so-called challenge as easy as eating a bowl of rice.

“I just happened to remember from a conversation that what we’re making each day is equivalent to two U.S. dollars,
give or take,”
Pan-pan began, mimicking Ah-Wu’s accent. “From there, it was easy. It wasn’t a test at all but his way of putting us down, of saying that he’s smarter than all of us, and worthier. I’d love to see if he’s able to do what we do each day—sew ten pairs of shoe uppers in each shift. That’s four hundred and forty pieces,” Pan-pan grumbled.

Yawning and stretching in an effort to chase away their fatigue from the lack of rest and sleep, the women entered the sewing shop. Their plastic slippers dragged and clicked on the concrete floor despite the constant warnings of Elder Sister Meng that they were breaking the safety rules by wearing them. Before he left, Mr. Tom had imposed a five-yuan fine on anyone who wore slippers to work. Still, no one paid attention to this rule, particularly during the evening shift, when darkness reigned. Proper shoes cost too much, not to mention that they grew hot and uncomfortable over the long hours of sitting in one position inside the stifling workshop.

“Does anyone know how much a pair of Niavia shoes we make here cost in America?” someone asked.

“How much?”

“Too much.”

“Come on, tell us if you know. Otherwise just shut up and give us a few minutes of quiet,” said another.

“More than one hundred U.S. dollars, which means that what we earn in one month can buy only one shoe.”

“Tell me you just made that up,” Pan-pan cut in.

“I wish I had,” the woman replied and walked on, leaving Pan-pan standing in the middle of an aisle.

Throughout the shift, while Pan-pan hunched over the machine amid the racket and dust, heat and sour air, her thoughts were in turmoil. The brief conversation about the price of the shoes she was making kept repeating inside her head as she stitched leather pieces onto the lining, one after another, with no end. She tried again to picture the kind of woman or man who could afford to put these white-as-chalk, soft-as-clouds shoes on their feet, then walk through mud or run through ditches. But she failed. On the other hand, knowing that no worker in the factory would ever be able to buy a single pair, even though thousands were made by their hands each day and night, was a bitter mockery. Her head began to spin as she calculated the profit Elder Miss Gong had been making since the factory opened.

A
H-WU MIGHT HAVE MORE MONEY
than Shui-lian could ever comprehend, but on her first payday she felt rich, gazing at two one-hundred-yuan notes and some change after the deduction for her share of room, electricity, and water. Now I can buy my own bedding, she thought. She had never had so much money, not to mention in hundred-yuan notes. Each time she thought of Pan-pan’s one U.S. dollar, she couldn’t stop imagining what a thick pile of American money should have done for Ah-Wu. Yet he didn’t look happy or satisfied; on the contrary, most of the time he appeared to be miserable. Shui-lian was convinced that, except for his occasional short outbursts of laughter, which sounded more sad than merry, it would take a chisel to crack a smile on Ah-Wu’s mournful face. The corners of his tiny eyes remained curved downward, as did his lips, even when he was shouting at people. And he was all skin and bones, with a flat behind and protruding joints, like a walking skeleton. Surely Ah-Wu was able to eat meat every day and any other kind of food money could buy, Shui-lian thought, yet he looked like he was starving.

“What’s he doing with his money?” she asked Pan-pan one day. “Paving roads all over Taiwan?”

The workers soon discovered Ah-Wu’s other obsession, besides putting down everyone in the factory, including his drones: his love of liquor—not beer or the cheap wine the male workers treated themselves to once in a while inside their dorms. Ah-Wu was after the real, hard stuff. It was said his favourite was the famous
Mao-tai,
a strong spirit made from rice and water from a special spring in Guizhou. Each bottle cost more than a worker’s monthly wage. Like a wild cat that sleeps by day and hunts by night, Ah-Wu spent his days in his stylish villa and came to the factory just before dark, where he drank by himself in his office until the break of dawn.

Within a week after Ah-Wu took the position, he began a thorough housecleaning, laying off half the administrators and office clerks, including Mr. Yao and his deputies, and replacing them with a group of eight men he had brought with him. All eight came from Fujian, a southern province of China, from the village where Ah-Wu’s father had lived until he left for Taiwan as a young soldier in the Nationalist Army on the eve of the Communist takeover. During the day, while Ah-Wu was nursing his intoxicated body in his villa, his Demons, as they were called behind their backs, terrorized the factory.

The Demons and their boss were as different as day and night. While Ah-Wu favoured oversized shirts with loud, busy prints and skinny-legged
niu-zai-ku—
cowboy pants—the Demons dressed in black
gong-fu–
style jackets with mandarin collars and baggy pants. Even their hair styles contrasted with Ah-Wu’s. The Demons had long, greasy hair, parted in the middle and hanging down to their shoulders. Ah-Wu kept his short, and puffy on the top. Whereas he was clean shaven, his henchmen sported stubble that reminded Pan-pan of rice stalks cut by inexperienced hands.

The Demons called one another
xiong-di—
brother—and their rank was set by Ah-Wu in accordance with their degree of blood relation to his family. Demon Number One, a stringy man with a long, sad face, was Ah-Wu’s first cousin on his father’s side, while Demon Two was a relative from his mother’s. And Demon Eight, a short, solid man who was also the youngest of the bunch, was the only son of a brother of Ah-Wu’s second cousin’s husband. For Pan-pan, it brought to mind a verse she learned to recite as a child: When someone in the family rose to the position of a mandarin in the imperial court, even the household’s dogs and chickens were distinguished.

To Pan-pan, even without their ferocious looks, the Demons resembled the statues of villains that stood outside the newly restored temple on the mountaintops near her village. Pan-pan wondered if Ah-Wu had held an “ugliest man” pageant in his father’s village and retained the top eight finalists.

The Demons swaggered around the compound, bullying and harassing the workers at will, in particular the women. It didn’t take them long to learn that it was the Demons’ hands that were the greatest threat. When the Demons were not idle or standing with their arms folded across their chests, they wandered up and down between the rows of machines, scrutinizing the sewing women, poised to slap the back of their heads or the sides of their faces on the slightest pretext. The only thing missing from the picture was long whips, Pan-pan thought bitterly, recalling an old poster Ah-Po had hung on the wall of their bedroom for many years until time and dust devoured it. It depicted a fierce-looking man, supposedly a pre-liberation landlord, holding a whip over a kneeling peasant. Ah-Po had insisted the discoloured picture was there to remind her, and Pan-pan, of the suffering of the poor farmers before the Communist Party liberated China. What would Ah-Po say now if she were here? A Demon looming behind me, ready to strike.

The Demons’ tyranny and constant presence hit Shui-lian particularly hard. Their aggression and brutality brought back memories she was trying to forget, and gave her new nightmares. Although she had never seen the faces of her attackers on that horrible night months ago, any whiff of the Demons’ smell—a noxious brew of sweat, cigarettes, and liquor—was enough to terrify her, causing her to flinch at the sewing machine and miss or skip stitches. More than once she froze and forgot to move her foot off the pedal and her fingers away from the presser foot, watching helplessly as the running needle wrecked the leather piece and hurt her hands. She paid a fine for the damage and was given a severe warning.