Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (11 page)

In Xiangzi’s eyes, Fourth Master Liu was like Tyrant Huang of the Yellow Turbans, in that he placed great importance on his image, despite his tyrannical ways, and played by the rules; for that reason he could not be considered all bad. Only two great historical figures existed for Xiangzi—Tyrant Huang and the Sage Confucius. All he knew about the Sage was that he had mastered many books and was a man of reason. Xiangzi had worked for both civilian and military employers; none of the military employers had been the equal of Fourth Master Liu, while among the civilian employers, which included university lecturers and officials with good jobs in the official yamen, all well-educated individuals, none was a man of reason. And for those who came close, their wives and daughters made life difficult for him. Only Mr. Cao was well read and reasonable, while his wife won Xiangzi over by her proper behavior. So Mr. Cao had to be a sage, and whenever Xiangzi tried to imagine what the great man had been like, Mr. Cao was the model, whether Confucius liked it or not.

Truth be told, Mr. Cao was not particularly wise, just a man of modest abilities who did a bit of teaching and engaged in other work of that nature. He called himself a socialist, as well as an aesthete, having been influenced by the socialist William Morris. While he had no profound views on politics or art, he had the ability to put his modest beliefs into practice in the trivial aspects of daily life. Seeming to realize that he lacked the talent to shake up the world, he contented himself with organizing his work and family around his ideals. While this did society no good to speak of, at least his deeds matched his words, which kept him from becoming a hypocrite. As a result, he paid close attention to small matters, as if to say that so long as his little family was happy and well run, society could do as it pleased. Sometimes this brought him shame, at other times gratification, for it seemed clear to him that his family was an oasis in a desert, one whose significance was to supply food and water to those who wandered in, and nothing more.

Xiangzi had stumbled into this tiny oasis after days of wandering in the desert, which he saw as nothing short of a miracle. He had never met anyone quite like Mr. Cao before and, for that reason, viewed him as a true sage. Maybe he was being naïve, or maybe there were simply too few such people in society. With Mr. Cao sitting in his rickshaw, dressed with understated elegance and full of life, Xiangzi took great joy in his work, proud of how he looked and how he ran, as if he were the only person in the world worthy of serving Mr. Cao. Their home, where everything was always neat and peaceful, filled him with a sense of well-being. Back in his village, he often saw old men sitting outdoors on a winter day or beneath an autumn moon, quietly smoking their bamboo pipes, and though he was too young to imitate them, he took pleasure in trying to figure out what made the activity so special. Now, though he lived in the city, Mr. Cao’s quiet lifestyle reminded him of life in the village and made him feel like smoking a pipe to experience that something special.

Unfortunately, the woman and his modest savings preyed on his mind. His heart was like a green leaf entwined in silk threads by a caterpillar preparing its cocoon. He was so caught up in these thoughts that he often gave wrong answers to people, including Mr. Cao, to his chagrin. The Cao family went to bed early, leaving Xiangzi with time on his hands after nine o’clock, time he spent in his room or outside mulling over his problems. He even considered getting married in order to dash Huniu’s hopes. But how could he raise a family on what a rickshaw man earned? He knew how tough life was for rickshaw men who lived in crowded tenement compounds and whose wives had to take in mending while their children scrounged for lumps of coal and were forced to eat watermelon rinds they found on garbage heaps in the summer and charity gruel in the winter. That was not for Xiangzi. Besides, if he took a wife, he could say good-bye to the meager savings Fourth Master Liu was holding for him. Huniu would never let him off that easily. No, he couldn’t give up the money, not after risking his life for it.

He had bought his rickshaw the previous autumn, and now, a little more than a year later, he had nothing but a measly thirty-odd yuan that he could not get his hands on, plus a complicated entanglement. Depressing thoughts.

The weather began to cool off ten days or so after the Mid-Autumn Festival, and he would soon need warmer clothes. That meant money, of course. Since he could not spend and save at the same time, how could he ever hope to own another rickshaw?

One night, when taking Mr. Cao back from East City later than usual, Xiangzi took pains to stay on the street fronting Tiananmen Square. Wide and flat, the street was nearly deserted; accompanied by a slight breeze and soft lamplight, he ran with strength and ease, clearing his mind of the dejection he’d suffered for days. The sound of his footfalls and the shafts of the rickshaw helped him forget all his problems. He opened his shirt to let the breeze cool his chest. That was so invigorating he felt that he could just keep running, as far and as fast as his legs would take him, and die with no regrets. He was nearly flying down the street, overtaking one rickshaw after another. As he passed Tiananmen, his feet were like springs; they barely touched the ground before springing back up again. Behind him, the wheels were turning so fast they seemed to lift off the ground, the spokes a blur. Man and vehicle were swept along by strong gusts of wind. Fanned by the cool air, Mr. Cao dozed off; otherwise, he would have told Xiangzi to slow down. But Xiangzi was sure that a good sweat would help him sleep soundly that night, undisturbed by his thoughts.

They were approaching Beichang Street. The north side lay in the shadows of acacia trees by the red walls. Xiangzi was about to slow down when he stumbled on something. The wheels of his rickshaw hit the bump as he flew headlong to the ground, snapping one of the shafts in the process. “What the…” Mr. Cao was thrown from the rickshaw before he could finish. Without a word, Xiangzi scrambled to his feet. Nimbly sitting up where he fell, this time Mr. Cao got the words out: “What happened?”

A pile of paving stones had been unloaded in the middle of the street without a red warning light.

“Are you hurt?” Xiangzi asked.

“No. I can walk home,” Mr. Cao said, having regained his composure. “Bring the rickshaw along.” He groped among the stones to see if he’d dropped anything.

Xiangzi felt the broken shaft. “It’s not a bad break,” he said. “Please, get back on. I can still pull you.” He dragged the rickshaw away from the paving stones. “Please, sir, get back on.”

Though he’d rather not have, the pleading tone in Xiangzi’s voice convinced Mr. Cao that it was the right thing to do.

When they reached the street lamp at the Beichang Street intersection, Mr. Cao saw that his right hand was bleeding. “Xiangzi, stop!”

Xiangzi turned to look. His face was bloody.

Mr. Cao was nearly speechless. “Hurry, hurry and…” Xiangzi didn’t know what to make of that, except to start running again. Which he did, not stopping till they were back home.

The first thing Xiangzi saw after bringing the rickshaw to a stop was Mr. Cao’s injured hand. He ran into the yard to tell the mistress.

“Don’t worry about me,” Mr. Cao said, as he followed him into the yard. “See to yourself first.”

As Xiangzi looked himself over, the aches and pains surfaced. Both knees and his right elbow were badly skinned. What he thought was sweat on his face turned out to be blood. Unable to act, or even think, he sat down on the stone steps and gazed blankly at the black-lacquered rickshaw with its broken shaft. Two white splintered pieces of wood spoiled its look, like a paper figurine with stalks of millet where the legs are supposed to be. He gaped at the white ends.

“Xiangzi!” Gao Ma, the Caos’ maidservant, called out.

“Where are you?”

He sat without moving, his eyes glued to the splintered ends, as if they had pierced his heart.

“What are you up to, hiding from me like that? You’ve given me a real scare. The master wants you.” Gao Ma was in the habit of interjecting her feelings into whatever she was talking about, which led to confusion yet was quite touching. A widow in her early thirties, she was neat and clean, direct and honest, hardworking and conscientious. Previous households had found her boastful, opinionated, often sneaky, and a bit mysterious. But the Caos liked their servants to be clean, straight-talking people, and were not bothered by minor eccentricities, which is why she’d been with them for two or three years; where they went, she went. “The master wants you,” she repeated. But when Xiangzi stood up, she saw his bloody face. “Oh, my, you’ll be the death of me! What happened to you? Get that taken care of right away, before you get a case of lockjaw! Get a move on! The master has medicine that’ll take care of it!”

Xiangzi walked into the study, Gao Ma behind him, grumbling the whole way. Mrs. Cao was wrapping her husband’s hand when she saw Xiangzi. She uttered a cry of alarm.

“He’s taken a nasty fall, mistress,” Gao Ma said, as if Mrs. Cao could not see for herself. After busying herself filling a basin with cool water, she chattered on: “I knew something like this would happen sooner or later, the way he runs, like a man with a death wish. And I was right. What are you waiting for? Wash that face so we can put some medicine on it. I’m telling you!”

Xiangzi stood motionless, gripping his right elbow. With blood all over his face, he felt out of place in such a clean, refined study. And he wasn’t alone; the others, even Gao Ma, uncharacteristically silent, could sense that something was not right.

“Sir.” Xiangzi broke the silence, head bowed, his voice barely audible but surprisingly strong.

“You’d better find someone else. You can hold back this month’s wages to fix the broken shaft and the cracked lantern on the left side. Nothing else was broken.”

“We’ll talk about that after you wash up and put on some medicine,” Mr. Cao said as he watched his wife wrap his injured hand.

“Now wash up!” Gao Ma said, having regained her voice.

“The master has said nothing, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He still didn’t move. “I don’t need to wash up. I’ll be fine in a minute. A monthly hire who injures his employer and damages his rickshaw no longer has the face to…” Words failed him, but he was obviously on the verge of tears. Giving up his job and forfeiting his wages nearly amounted to suicide in Xiangzi’s eyes. But at a time like this, duty and face were more important than life, because the person he’d injured was Mr. Cao, not just anybody. If he’d thrown Mrs. Yang, for instance, so what! It would have served her right. He could have dealt with her like a street fighter; since she had never treated him like a man, there was no need to be considerate. Money was everything; face meant nothing, let alone rules of behavior. But Mr. Cao was not like that, and Xiangzi needed to sacrifice money to preserve his self-respect. If there was anyone or anything to hate, it was his fate, and he had just about decided that after leaving the Cao home he’d give up life as a rickshaw man. Since his life was worth practically nothing, he could throw it away if he wanted. But he couldn’t be so cavalier when it came to other people. What if he actually killed someone? That thought had never occurred to him in the past, but the accident with Mr. Cao changed that. All right, then, he’d forget the money and take up a new line of work, one that didn’t put other people at risk. And yet, since pulling a rickshaw had always been his ideal trade, giving it up meant abandoning hope. He would just muddle his way through life from now on and forget his dream of being a model rickshaw man. But what a waste of such a carefully developed physique! Back when he was picking up passengers on the street, he was sometimes cursed for stealing fares from other men, a shameless act he justified by his desire to better himself and buy his own rickshaw; he had no trouble absolving himself. But now he had a monthly hire and what happened? He had an accident. If word got around that Xiangzi had bungled a monthly hire by throwing his employer and banging up his rickshaw, he’d be laughed out of the ranks. He had no choice. He must quit before Mr. Cao fired him.

“Xiangzi,” said Mr. Cao, whose hand was neatly bandaged.

“Go wash up. I don’t want to hear any more talk about quitting. It wasn’t your fault. They should have put a red lantern by the rock pile. Don’t give it another thought. Go wash up and get some medicine on that.”

“That’s right, sir,” Gao Ma injected her opinion. “Xiangzi’s just upset. Sure, you threw your employer, and he hurt his hand, but Mr. Cao says it wasn’t your fault, so enough of that talk. Just look at you, a big, strapping young man who’s all worked up, like a child. You tell him, madam, to stop worrying.” Gao Ma sounded like a phonograph record, going round and round and bringing everyone into it, with no beginning and no end.

“Go wash up,” Mrs. Cao said. “I hate the sight of blood.” Xiangzi stood there not knowing what to do until he heard Mrs. Cao complaining, and he immediately knew what he had to do to put her mind at ease. He picked up the basin, carried it over to the doorway, and cleaned the blood from his face. Gao Ma walked up with a bottle of medicine.

“Don’t forget your elbow and knees,” she said as she daubed medicine on his injured face.

“Never mind those.” Xiangzi shook his head.

After Mr. and Mrs. Cao went to bed, Gao Ma followed Xiangzi to his room, where she stood in the doorway and laid down the medicine bottle. “Put some of this on. Don’t let what happened out there upset you. Back when my husband was alive, I was always quitting jobs. The way he refused to better himself while I was slaving away infuriated me. I was young and headstrong then, and ready to quit if I heard a cross word. I was hired help, not a slave. ‘You may be filthy rich,’ I’d say, ‘but even a clay figurine is made from earth. Nobody can wait on you, old lady!’ But I’m better now. My husband’s death solved a lot of my problems, and my temper softened. I’ve been here almost three years, I think—yes, I started on the ninth day of the ninth month. They don’t give many tips, but they treat us like human beings. We earn our living by the sweat of our brow, and nice words can only go so far. But taking the long view makes sense. If you leave one job every two or three days, you’re out of work half the year, and that’s no good. You’re better off sticking with a good-natured employer, and even if there aren’t many tips, you can usually put something aside over the long haul. The master didn’t say anything about what happened today, so why beat yourself up? Forget it. I’m not saying I’m old and wise, but you’re a young hothead, and you can’t fill your belly with a quick temper. For a decent, hardworking youngster like you, settling down here is a lot better than flying from place to place. It’s not them I’m thinking about, it’s you, especially since you and I get along so well.” She paused to catch her breath. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Now forget this stubborn nonsense. I say what I mean and I mean what I say.”