Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (18 page)

Then came the exam, at which Mr. Cao gave Ruan Ming a failing grade. But even if he’d passed him, Ruan Ming’s overall grades were not good enough for him to continue. And yet he reserved most of his loathing for Mr. Cao, who he thought had disregarded the concept of “face,” which in China is no less important than revolution itself. Ruan Ming had disparaged knowledge in his haste to accomplish other things, and over time this had become so ingrained in his behavior that, like lazy people everywhere, he felt he had to expend little effort in order to be admired and valued, especially since he considered himself to be a progressive. By giving him a failing grade, Mr. Cao was obviously not empathetic toward a young man with lofty ideals, so there was no longer any need to continue the friendship. By pretending to be on good terms with him most of the time, only to embarrass him in the exam, Mr. Cao had shown a sinister side. It was too late for Ruan Ming to improve his grades or to resist expulsion, so he decided to focus his wrath on Mr. Cao. Having failed at getting an education, he would take his teacher down with him. That would not only give him a chance to stir things up a bit, to flex his muscles, but also would let others know that Ruan Ming was not someone you wanted as an enemy. And if he could parlay this effort into membership in one of the new groups that had sprouted up, that would be better than passing the days with nothing to do.

Ruan Ming compiled a list of comments on politics and society from Mr. Cao’s lectures and private conversations, and then reported to the Nationalist Party headquarters that Mr. Cao was espousing a radical ideology to all the young minds around him.

Mr. Cao had gotten wind of this but considered it laughable. He knew that his socialist tendencies lacked substance and that his fondness for traditional Chinese painting prevented him from taking forceful actions. How hilarious to be branded as a revolutionary leader! He saw no need to pay attention to such a ludicrous thought, though his students and colleagues warned him to be careful. A calm demeanor is no guarantee of personal safety.

The winter break provided an opportunity to weed out suspect individuals at the university; detectives busied themselves with investigations and arrests. When Mr. Cao sensed that he was being followed, his mood turned from jovial to solemn. He had to think. This would have been an ideal moment to make a name for himself; spending a few days in lockup was simpler and safer than setting off a bomb, and one counted for as much as the other. Time behind bars is capital for important people, but not for Mr. Cao. He refused to try to beat someone at his own game just to build what was at bottom a false reputation. In examining his own scruples, he hated himself for not having what it took to be a fighter, but those same scruples made it impossible to assume the role of a fighter in name only. So he went to see Mr. Zuo.

“If necessary,” Mr. Zuo proposed, “you can move in here. They’re not about to search my place.” He had connections, which always counted for more than the law. “Move in and lie low for a few days to let them think we’re afraid of them. We might have to grease a few palms to appease them, but once they’ve gotten enough face and their pockets are fatter, you can move back home.”

Detective Sun knew that Mr. Cao was a frequent guest at the Zuos’, which was where he’d go if he sensed he was in danger of being arrested. But Sun’s people dared not provoke Mr. Zuo and were only out to frighten Mr. Cao. If they managed to chase him to Mr. Zuo’s house, they could put the squeeze on him and gain considerable face in the process. Fleecing Xiangzi had not figured in their plans, but since he’d fallen into their hands so easily, that little bit of money was there for the taking.

Yes, Xiangzi had again been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tough luck! Everyone could manage, everyone had a crack to slip through, everyone but Xiangzi. He was a rickshaw man, and for him there was no escape. A rickshaw man swallows coarse grains and sweats blood; he depletes his strength for next to nothing; and he stands on the lowest rung of the social ladder, open to assaults by all people, all laws, and all privations.

Xiangzi finished his cigarette but still did not know what to do. He was like a chicken in the hands of a chef, grateful for each new breath, and nothing more. He’d have been happy to talk with Old Cheng if only he’d had something to say, but there were no words to describe his feelings. He’d tasted all the bitterness life had to offer, and yet, like a mute, could say nothing. He’d bought a rickshaw and then lost it; he’d saved up some money and lost that. All his efforts had brought him nothing but torment and humiliation. He dared not provoke anyone, not even a mangy wild dog, and in the end he was so tormented, so humiliated, he could hardly breathe.

Since dwelling on the past would get him nowhere, he needed to think about tomorrow. He could not return to the Cao residence, so where could he go? “I’ll spend the night here, how’s that?” he said, sounding like a homeless dog that has found temporary shelter from the elements. But even with something so minor, he had to make sure he wasn’t being a burden on anyone.

“Sure, stay here. Where else would you go on a snowy night like this? You can have the floor or you can squeeze in here with me, your choice.”

The floor was fine with Xiangzi; he did not want to crowd his friend.

Old Cheng easily fell asleep but not Xiangzi, who tossed and turned, his thin mattress feeling like a block of ice, thanks to the cold air coming up off the floor; he pounded his calves to keep them from cramping. Icy wind that blew in through cracks in the door struck his head like needles. Even forcing his eyes shut and covering his head did not work. On top of that, Old Cheng’s snores irritated him so much he felt like going over and punching him in the face. And it kept getting colder, until his throat began to itch. Now he was afraid he’d wake up Old Cheng if he coughed.

Unable to sleep, he was tempted to return to the Cao residence and have a look around. He no longer had a job and the place was empty, so why not go back and take a few things? They’d robbed him of the little money he’d worked so hard to save up, all because he was helping Mr. Cao, so why couldn’t he steal something for himself as a sort of reimbursement? His eyes brightened at these thoughts, and the cold no longer bothered him.
Go on!
It was an easy way to get back his hard-earned money.
Go on!

By then he was sitting up, but he quickly lay back down. His heart was racing, almost as if Old Cheng were watching him.
No, I can’t become a thief, I can’t! It was bad enough disregarding Mr. Cao’s instructions and walking away. How could I even think of stealing from him? I won’t do it—I’ll starve to death before I become a thief!

But what was to keep other people from stealing? If that fellow Sun went over and took what he wanted, who would know? He sat up again. A dog was barking in the distance. He lay back down, still unable to bring himself to go. If someone else broke in and stole something, that wouldn’t be his fault—his conscience was clear, and he refused to sully his reputation no matter how poor he was.

Besides, Gao Ma knew he’d come to the Wang residence, so if something were stolen, he’d be blamed whether he was the culprit or not. Now, having decided not to steal, he was burdened by worries that someone else would break in. If something went missing during the night, he could not wash away the suspicion even if he jumped into the Yellow River. No longer did he feel cold; his palms were actually sweating. What now? Go back and have a look? He didn’t have the nerve. He’d bought back his life once already and could not bear the thought of falling into another trap. So he’d stay where he was. But what if something were stolen?

Agonizing over what to do, he sat up again and brought his legs up until his chin was nearly touching his knees. His head drooped and his eyelids felt heavy; but he mustn’t fall asleep, no matter how long the night ahead.

One idea after another came and went as he sat for the longest time, until his brain lit up. He reached out and nudged his friend. “Wake up, Old Cheng, wake up!”

“What is it?” Old Cheng could hardly open his eyes. “If you have to go, there’s a bedpan under the bed.”

“Wake up, I said, and light the lamp.”

“Is it a thief?” Old Cheng sat up, still half asleep.

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a good look. This is my bedroll, these are my clothes, and this is the five yuan Mr. Cao gave me. That’s all, isn’t it?”

“That’s all, so what?” Old Cheng yawned.

“Are you awake or aren’t you? This is all I have. I haven’t taken a single item from the Cao residence, have I?”

“No. People like us, who get room and board, can’t have sticky fingers. If we can handle the job, we do it, and if not, we quit. But we don’t take any of our employers’ things. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“You got it!”

Old Cheng smiled. “There’s no mistake. But aren’t you cold?”

“I’m all right.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he sky seemed to lighten a bit earlier, thanks to the gleaming snow. The old year was coming to an end, and many families had begun raising chickens, whose crows and cackles were more numerous than before. The roosters’ early morning crowing lent an aura of snowy abundance to the scene. But Xiangzi could not sleep. Sometime before daybreak he dozed off a time or two, in an uneasy daze, as if floating atop rolling waves. The night kept getting colder, until, finally, when the roosters crowed, he stopped trying to sleep. Not wanting to wake Old Cheng, he curled his legs and covered his mouth with the quilt to muffle his coughs, but he was unwilling to get up. He waited impatiently, sticking it out as best he could. Finally, dawn arrived, and the sounds of wagon wheels and drivers’ shouts out on the streets broke the silence. He sat up. Cold as ever, he stood up, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door a crack to peek outside. The snow wasn’t as thick as he’d imagined, which likely meant that no more had fallen during the night. A gray sky blurred everything in sight; there were even gray patches on the snowy ground. He saw indentations from the night before, dusted by new snow but clearly his footprints.

Both to keep busy and to erase all traces of his arrival, he found a short broom and, without a sound, stepped outside to cover his tracks. The wet snow made for heavy going—he had to bend over and press down hard as he swept. He cleared away the top layer, but damp snow clung to the ground like a layer of skin. He wound up sweeping the whole yard, straightening up to stretch twice, and piling the snow under a pair of young willow trees. The effort had him sweating and considerably warmed him, which made him feel better. He stomped his feet and released a long, steamy breath.

After walking back inside, Xiangzi put the broom away and decided to roll up his bedding. Old Cheng, who had just awakened, yawned grandly. Before even shutting his mouth, he said, “It must be getting late.” The simple statement seemed to have hidden meanings. After rubbing his sleepy eyes, he took out a cigarette from the pocket of his coat and was wide awake after two deep puffs. “Don’t go anywhere, Xiangzi. I’ll get some water so we can make tea. I’m betting you had a bad night.”

“I’ll get it,” Xiangzi offered. But the words were scarcely out of his mouth when the terror of the night before returned in a flash. His heart skipped a beat.

“No, I’ll go. You’re my guest.” Old Cheng quickly dressed and, without buttoning up, threw his jacket over his shoulders and ran out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “What? You’ve already swept the yard? You’re really something! Now you have to stay for tea.”

Xiangzi began to relax a bit.

Old Cheng returned with two bowls of sweet porridge and an armful of little buns shaped like horses’ hooves and oily crisps. “I didn’t make tea,” he said. “We’ll have this porridge instead. Go ahead, eat up. If there isn’t enough, we’ll buy some more, and if we don’t have the money, we’ll put it on credit. People who work hard for a living need good food. Eat up.”

The sun was out and their room, while still cold, had brightened up as the two men dug in, not talking as they happily slurped their porridge and finished off all the buns and crisps.

“Well?” Old Cheng said as he loosened a sesame seed from his teeth with a toothpick.

“I should be going.” Xiangzi looked down at his bedroll.

“You know, I’m still not clear about what happened,” Old Cheng said as he handed Xiangzi a cigarette. “Want to tell me?”

Xiangzi shook his head. But figuring he owed Old Cheng an explanation, he stammered a version of the night’s events; it wasn’t easy, but he managed somehow to get it all in.

With a look of near disbelief but keen interest, Old Cheng listened in silence. “As I see it,” he said, “you have to go see Mr. Cao. You can’t leave things as they are, and you can’t give up the money. Didn’t you say he told you not to stick around if things turned bad? Well, the detective nabbed you as soon as you stepped out of the cab, and whose fault is that? You weren’t disloyal, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you had to save your own skin. If you ask me, you did nothing wrong. Go tell him exactly what happened. I’ll bet he’ll not only say it wasn’t your fault, but, if you’re lucky, he’ll make up what you lost. Go on. Leave your bedroll here. The sooner you talk to him, the better. The days are short as it is. It’s eight o’clock by the time the sun’s up. So get going!”

Thoughts swirled in Xiangzi’s head, but he still felt he’d somehow let Mr. Cao down. What Old Cheng said, however, made sense. How was he supposed to worry about the Cao family with a detective threatening him with a gun?

“Go on,” Old Cheng urged. “I could tell you were confused last night, but who wouldn’t be, after what happened to you? Do as I say and you’ll be fine. I’m older than you, and I’ve seen and done more. Now, go on. See there, the sun’s up.”

Early morning sunlight reflected off the snow to light up the city. A blue sky over a ground covered in white, each bright in its own way, separated by a layer of gold that dazzled the eye. Xiangzi was about to leave when someone knocked at the door. Old Cheng went to see who it was. “Xiangzi,” he shouted. “Someone’s here to see you.”