Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (29 page)
At midnight, Huniu delivered a dead infant and then stopped breathing.
X
iangzi sold his rickshaw.
Money trickled through his fingers like water. The deceased had to be taken out and buried, and even the death certificate cost money.
As he numbly watched people scurry about, Xiangzi was good only for handing out money. His eyes were frighteningly red, with yellow mucus collecting at the corners. He heard nothing as he mechanically submitted to the demands of the milling crowd, not knowing what he was doing.
Only as he followed Huniu’s coffin out of the city did his mind clear a bit, though he remained unable to gather his thoughts. Xiangzi and Fuzi’s two young brothers were the only mourners, each with a handful of spirit money to appease demons blocking the way on the road to the grave.
Numbly he looked on as the pallbearers placed the coffin in the ground. He did not cry, for a fire blazing in his chest had dried all his tears, making crying impossible and irrelevant; as he stood there staring into space, he could not have said what they were doing. Finally, when the head bearer came up to announce that they had finished, the thought entered his head to go home.
Fuzi had the rooms ready for his return. He threw himself down on the bed, too tired to move. His eyes were too dry to close, so he looked around the room, then quickly averted his eyes, not knowing what to do with himself. He went out, bought a pack of Yellow Lion cigarettes, and sat on the edge of the bed and lit one. It brought him no pleasure. As he watched blue smoke rise from the tip of the cigarette, the tears finally came. He was weeping not only for Huniu but for all that had happened. This is what years of diligence and hard work in the city had brought him! Just this, just this! He wept silently. A rickshaw, a rickshaw had been his rice bowl. He’d bought one and lost it. He’d bought another and sold it. Time and again he’d reached up only to be thrown back, as by a ghostly apparition that forever eluded his grasp. He’d suffered so many hardships and wrongs, and yet had come up empty. Nothing, he had nothing, had lost even his wife. Huniu had been a shrew, but without her, how could he have a home and family? Everything in the room was hers, but now she was lying in a grave outside the city wall. As his bitterness swelled, blazing anger again dried his tears. He smoked his cigarette with fury; the more the act gnawed at him, the more furiously he smoked, until it burned all the way down. Then he held his head in his hands and, the acrid taste burning his mouth and his soul, he felt like screaming until he could spit out the blood in his heart.
At some point, Fuzi had walked into the outer room and was standing by the chopping board, watching him warily.
When he looked up, he saw her, which brought more tears. He was so miserable he’d have wept at the sight of a dog, at any living object to which he could pour out his grievances. He’d have liked a bit of sympathy. But there was too much to say, more than his mouth could handle.
“Brother Xiangzi!” She stepped toward him. “I’ve tidied the place up.”
He nodded without thanking her—conventional manners in the midst of sorrow are empty gestures.
“What do you plan to do?”
“Huh?” At first he didn’t comprehend what she said, but when the words registered, he shook his head. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
She stepped closer and blushed, showing her front teeth, but said nothing. Modesty had been a victim of the life she led, but as a decent young woman at heart, she knew what to do when confronted by something so important. “I was thinking…” That was all she managed to get out, though there was so much more she wanted to say. Again she blushed, and the words vanished beyond recovery.
People seldom tell each other the truth, but a woman’s blush says more than words. Even Xiangzi knew what she meant. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known; her beauty reached into her bones. Had her body been covered with rotting sores, to him she’d still have been irresistible. Pretty, young, and diligent. If Xiangzi wanted to remarry, she’d be an ideal wife. But it was too soon to be thinking of that, too soon to be thinking of anything. Yet she was obviously willing and had been forced by her drastic situation to raise the issue. How could he refuse? She was a good person and had been so helpful; he could only nod, yearning to take her in his arms and cry on her shoulder to wash away his troubles, then start life anew with her. He saw in her all the comforts a man could and should receive. Though he was someone not given to speaking, the mere sight of her made him want to say everything that was in his heart. Nothing he might say to her would be a waste of breath. He could ask for no better reply than a nod or a smile, and he would feel that he had a home.
At that moment, Fuzi’s second brother ran in. “Sister,” he shouted. “Father’s here!”
With a frown, she went over and opened the door. Er Qiangzi had walked into the yard.
“What are you doing in Xiangzi’s rooms?” He stumbled toward her with a wicked glare. “You can’t sell yourself enough as it is. What’s the idea of giving it away to Xiangzi, you cheap slut!”
Hearing his name, Xiangzi came outside and stood beside Fuzi.
“You there, Xiangzi.” Er Qiangzi tried to throw out his chest but was too unsteady to even stand straight. “Are you a man, or aren’t you? Take advantage of some people if you want, but who do you think you are to try that on her?”
Xiangzi had no desire to fight with a drunk, but a bellyful of anger forced his hand. He stepped up. Four bloodshot eyes met and seemed to emit sparks. Xiangzi grabbed Er Qiangzi by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground like a rag doll, and flung him across the yard.
A guilty conscience, aided by alcohol, sparked an attempt at rage. But Er Qiangzi was not as drunk as he pretended, and being sprawled on the ground sobered him up completely. Though he’d have liked to fight back, he knew he was no match for Xiangzi. Yet quietly leaving the scene was not an option, so he sat there, not yet ready to stand up but knowing he’d have to sooner or later. His mind a tangle of thoughts, he had to say something. “What business is it of yours what I say to my children? Hit me? You’ll fucking pay for this!”
Saying nothing in reply, Xiangzi waited for the man to get up and fight.
Fuzi stood there in tears, helpless. Reasoning with her father would be a waste of time, but she didn’t want to see him beaten, either. Managing to dig up some small change from her pockets, she handed it to her brother, who was normally fearful of getting too close to his father. But seeing him knocked to the ground gave him a dose of courage. “Here, take this and get out of here!”
Er Qiangzi squinted as he took the money and grumbled, standing on shaky legs, “I’ll let you bastards off this time, but get me mad enough and I’ll cut your damned hearts out.” When he reached the street, he turned and shouted, “We’re not finished, Xiangzi. We’ll settle this one day!”
Once he’d gone, Xiangzi and Fuzi walked back inside. “There’s nothing I can do,” she said under her breath, summing up her distress and incorporating her boundless hopes in Xiangzi: if he’d have her, she could leave that life behind.
This episode opened Xiangzi’s eyes to some dark shadows in Fuzi. He still loved her, but supporting her brothers and her drunken father was beyond his means. He still had trouble believing that Huniu’s death had freed him, for she’d had her strong points, most prominently her willingness to help him financially. However certain he might be that Fuzi would not sponge off him, it was just as true that no one in her family could contribute any income. Love or no love, for a poor man, money talks. Lasting love can sprout and grow only in the homes of the rich.
He began packing his things. “Are you moving out?” Fuzi asked, her lips turning white. “Yes.”
He hardened his heart. In this unfair world, a poor man retains what little personal freedom he is entitled to only by being hard-hearted.
With a quick glance at him, Fuzi lowered her head and walked out. She felt neither hatred nor resentment, only despair.
Huniu’s jewelry and finest clothing had been buried with her, leaving only some well-worn clothes, a few pieces of furniture, and the pots, pans, and dishes behind. After putting aside the generally presentable clothing, Xiangzi sold everything else to a scrap dealer for something over ten yuan. In a hurry to get rid of all that stuff, he’d accepted the man’s first offer without holding out for a better deal. After the man took everything away, what remained in the room were Xiangzi’s bedding and the few items he’d held back, all lying on the bare brick bed. He felt better seeing the room empty, as if freed of his bonds; now he could get as far away from there as he wanted. But then he recalled those sold-off objects. The table that had sat by the wall was gone, but little square marks left in the dust by its legs remained, reminders not only of things but also of a person, now vanished like a dream. Good or bad, without those things and that person, his heart had no resting place. He sat on the edge of the bed and took out his pack of Yellow Lions.
A crumpled bank note came out with the cigarettes. Absent-mindedly, he removed all the money from his pockets. Over the past few days, he hadn’t gotten around to figuring out how much he had. There was a little bit of everything, from foreign money to ten-cent bills, one-cent bills, and small coins. It was a large pile that added up to less than twenty yuan. Together with the ten yuan he’d gotten from the scrap dealer, he had a total of slightly over thirty. His entire worth: thirty yuan plus a little.
After laying it out on the bare bed, he stared at it, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. The room was empty except for Xiangzi and that pile of crumpled, filthy money. The meaning of it all escaped him.
With a sigh, he scooped up the bills and coins, and then picked up his bedding and the clothes he’d put aside to go looking for Fuzi.
“These are for you. I’ll leave my bedding to look for work at the rickshaw sheds. I’ll be back to get it.” This he said in one breath, afraid to look her in the eye.
Her only response was a muffled assent.
Xiangzi found work and returned for his bedding. Fuzi’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. Not knowing what else to say, he forced himself to utter, “Wait, wait till I’m back on my feet. I’ll be back. I will be back!”
She nodded but said nothing.
After taking a day off to rest, Xiangzi was back pulling a rickshaw, but not with the fire of earlier days. He didn’t loaf on the job; he just took each day as it came. After a month of getting by, his mood had lightened. His face had filled out somewhat but wasn’t as ruddy as it had been; it had a sallow cast that gave him a look somewhere between robust and frail. His eyes were bright but absent any expression, as if filled with lighted energy but seeing nothing. His spirit was like a tree after a storm, standing quietly and timidly in the sun. Taciturn to begin with, now he was all but mute. Tender green leaves filled the branches of willows in the warm air. Sometimes he pulled his rickshaw out into the sun and, head down, muttered to himself, lips barely moving. At other times he lay on his back and slept under the sun. He didn’t speak unless he had to.
By then he’d picked up the smoking habit. Anytime he was alone on his rickshaw, he’d reach under the footrest, take out a cigarette and light it, then enjoy a leisurely smoke, eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the tip of his cigarette. Then he would nod, as if he’d had some sort of epiphany.
He still ran faster than most rickshaw men but not like before. He was careful when he took corners or negotiated a slope, up or down. More careful than he needed to be. When challenged to a race, no matter how intensely he was provoked, he kept his head down and his mouth shut as he ran on at a steady pace. It was as if he’d figured out what this business of pulling a rickshaw was all about and had abandoned any thoughts of gaining glory or praise from it.
But back at the rickshaw shed he actually made some friends. Not that he gave up his disinclination to talk, but even a silent wild goose keeps to the flock. His loneliness would have crushed him without a circle of friends. Whenever he took out a pack of cigarettes, he first passed them around. And if one of his new friends was embarrassed to take the last cigarette in the pack, he’d simply say, “There are more where they came from!” No longer did he shy away from watching the other men gamble, and some of the time he joined in, not caring whether he won or lost; he just wanted to show that he was one of them and acknowledge that after days of pulling a rickshaw, there was nothing wrong with a little amusement. When they drank, he drank—not much—and he sometimes went out and bought the liquor and snacks to go with it. Things he’d looked down on in the past now seemed perfectly reasonable. The course he’d chosen had not worked out, forcing him to admit that the others had been right all along. In the past, he’d ignored his social obligations whenever someone had a funeral or a wedding; now he’d kick in forty cents or whatever his share of a joint gift might be. And that wasn’t the end of it: he made a point of participating in the wake or offering his congratulations, for he had come to realize that these gestures were an essential component of human relations, not a waste of money. The wails and joyful outbursts were genuine, not an act.
But he would not touch those thirty-odd yuan, which he clumsily sewed into a piece of white cloth and kept next to his skin at all times. He did not want to spend it, even though he was no longer saving up to buy a rickshaw. He kept it with him, just in case, knowing that the next calamity could be right around the corner, and that he had to be prepared for the possibility of an illness or some other sudden catastrophe. He was not made of steel—he knew that now.
Shortly before the beginning of fall he landed another monthly hire. His duties at this new manor were lighter than those he’d worked at in the past; he would not have taken the job otherwise, having learned the virtue of discernment. He’d take on a monthly hire only if it suited him. If not, he’d continue picking up stray fares. He no longer felt a fire in his belly to work at one of the manors. Finally realizing the importance of good health, he understood that a rickshaw man could drive himself mercilessly—as he had once done—and kill himself in the process, all for nothing. Experience teaches a man how to cut corners in life, because you only live once.
