Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (35 page)
And here it was! The trams had barely left the depot when the paperboys were shouting the news: “Read all about it, Ruan Ming to be executed! Read all about it, Ruan Ming to be paraded at nine o’clock!” One coin after another fell into the little grubby hands. News of Ruan Ming filled newspapers on the trams, in the shops, and in the hands of pedestrians: Ruan Ming’s photo, Ruan Ming’s background, fonts large and small, pictures and captions, page after page of Ruan Ming. Ruan Ming was on the trams, in pedestrians’ eyes, on the people’s lips, as if no one but he existed anywhere in the old city. Ruan Ming would be paraded today and then shot. Worthwhile news, an ideal news item. Pretty soon not only would people be talking about Ruan Ming, they’d be able to see him. Women dressed in a hurry and old folks went out early on shaky legs to avoid being left behind. Even schoolchildren dreamed of skipping half a day’s classes to broaden their knowledge of the world. By half past eight the streets were filled with people—excited, expectant, jostling, noisy, waiting impatiently to witness this living news item. Rickshaw men forgot to look for fares, shops were in turmoil, street vendors lost interest in hawking their wares, as everyone waited in tense anticipation for the prison truck and Ruan Ming. History is replete with the likes of the rebel leaders Huang Chao and Zhang Xianzhong and the bloodthirsty Taipings, who not only slaughtered victims but also took pleasure in seeing people slaughtered. A firing squad seemed too commonplace, nowhere near as much fun to watch as the death of a thousand cuts, beheadings, or skinning or burying alive; the mere sound of these punishments produced the same shuddering enjoyment as eating ice cream. But this time, before they shot him they were going to parade him through the streets; whoever thought that up was to be congratulated, since this was a rare opportunity to feast their eyes on a half-dead, trussed-up man in the back of a truck. That was the next best thing to being the executioner himself. Such people are not burdened by a sense of right and wrong, an understanding of good and evil, or a grasp of what is true and what is false; they cling desperately to their Confucian ethics so they will be thought of as civilized. And yet they enjoy nothing more than watching one of their own being sliced to ribbons, gaining the same cruel enjoyment as a child does killing a puppy. Given the power, they would happily decimate a city, creating mountains of breasts and bound feet severed from women. There can be no greater pleasure. But that power is denied them, and the next best thing is to watch the slaughter of pigs, sheep, and people to satisfy their craving. If even this is beyond their reach, at least they can vent their fury by subjecting their children to threats of a thousand cuts.
In the east, a red sun rose high in the cloudless blue sky as light breezes rustled the leaves of roadside willows. People filled a large patch of shade on the east side of the street, shoulder to shoulder—young and old, male and female, the ugly and the handsome, the fat and the skinny, some dressed with a modern flair, others in traditional mandarin jackets, but all chatting and smiling with keen anticipation and casting frequent glances to the north and south. If one person turned to look, everyone followed, hearts racing. Slowly the crowd edged forward until they formed a lopsided human wall, heads bobbing. A throng of police emerged to maintain order; they held people back, they shouted, and here and there they grabbed one of the grimy children and slapped him around, to the boisterous delight of the people. The waiting crowd endured legs aching from standing so long, unwilling to leave for home, and the latecomers pressing forward, which led to heated confrontations, not with fists or feet but with angry curses, as neighbors egged them on. Fidgeting children were rewarded with resounding slaps; pickpockets had a field day, eliciting loud curses from their victims. Clamor, shouting, and arguments failed to thin out the crowd; the more people who came, the more tenaciously everyone dug in, clear evidence that no one was leaving until they’d seen the half-dead prisoner.
Suddenly, the people fell silent, as a unit of armed police was spotted a ways off. “Here they come!” someone shouted, sparking a renewed outburst of noise. The mass of humanity inched forward, as if a switch had been thrown. Here he comes! They’re here! Eyes lit up, tongues wagged, and a loud din arose from within the sweaty, smelly crowd of civilized inhabitants who hungered to witness the killing.
Ruan Ming, a squat man, was sitting in the truck, hands tied behind him, looking like a sick monkey. His head was bowed. A two-foot-long white placard giving his name and crime stuck up behind him. Shouts from the assembled mass came in waves as they curled their lips and voiced their disappointment: That’s him, that little monkey? That’s what we came to see? Head down, white-faced, and not a sound! Time to taunt: “Come on, folks, cheer him on!” Shouts of “Bravo!” erupted up and down the lines, the same cries with which they applauded their favorite actress on the opera stage but now scornful, malevolent, and disagreeable. That elicited no response from Ruan Ming, who did not look up. Never expecting such a weak-kneed prisoner, some in the crowd were so annoyed they elbowed their way up to the side of the road and spat at him. And still he neither moved nor made a sound. The onlookers were starting to lose interest but not enough to leave. What if all of a sudden he shouted, “I’ll come back in twenty years, better than before!” Or what if he asked for a couple of pots of liquor and some meat to go with it? No one budged. Let’s see what he’s going to do! So after the truck passed, they fell in behind it. He’s not doing anything now, but who knows, when he reaches the memorial arch he might take a deep breath and sing some lines from
Silang Visits His Mother
. Follow him! Some would go all the way to Tianqiao. He hadn’t done anything admirable or satisfying, but at least the people could see him take a bullet, and that alone would make the trip worthwhile.
During all this excitement, Xiangzi walked slowly, head down, hugged the wall at Desheng Gate; when he reached Jishui Shoal, he stopped and looked around. Seeing that he was alone, he tiptoed slowly up to the water’s edge, where he found an old tree and leaned up against it. He sat down once he was sure there was no one else around. But each time the reeds rustled or a bird cried out he jumped to his feet, sweating nervously; he’d look and listen for a moment before slowly sitting back down. This happened several times before he got used to seeing the reeds move and hearing the birds twitter. Vowing not to jump up again, he sat there and stared blankly at a ditch beside the lake, where tiny fish swam, their eyes like pearls, schooling and swimming away, this way and that, some bumping into the tender reeds and others sending bubbles to the surface. Tadpoles that had grown legs stretched out in the water at the ditch’s edge, their little black heads bobbing, when suddenly they and the small fish were swept along by a rush of water and swam with the current, tails wriggling. Another school took their place, struggling against the current to stay put. A crab scurried past as the water calmed and the fish came together to nibble at green leaves or water grasses. Slightly larger fish hid at the bottom, rising until their backs broke the surface but quickly returning to safety, leaving little ripples on the surface. A kingfisher skimmed above the water, sending all the fish, big and small, diving for cover beneath the duckweed. Xiangzi’s gaze was fixed on all this activity, but he saw nothing. He picked up a stone and tossed it into the water, raising a series of ripples and parting clumps of duckweed. The movement startled him, and he jumped to his feet.
After sitting back down, he reached a big black hand into his waistband to feel around. He nodded, waited awhile, and then took out a stack of bills, which he counted before carefully putting them back.
All Xiangzi had on his mind was the money—how to spend it, how to keep it a secret from others, and how to enjoy it in safety. He was no longer his own man; he now belonged to money and could only do its bidding.
The source of that money dictated how it would be used. He could not spend it openly. It and the man in whose hands it rested must be kept in the shadows. While other people were out on the street watching Ruan Ming, Xiangzi was lying low in this secluded spot beneath the city wall hoping to find an even quieter and darker place. No longer could he show his face in town, now that he had sold out Ruan Ming. Even resting up against the city wall, with no one else around as he stared at the gently flowing water, he dared not raise his head, so as to keep from seeing the ghostly apparition that he feared was following him. While Ruan Ming might be lying in a pool of his own blood at Tianqiao, to Xiangzi, he was not dead but lived in the stack of bills tucked into his waistband. He felt no remorse, just fear, afraid of a ghost that followed him everywhere with no reprieve.
After becoming an official, Ruan Ming had begun to enjoy the very things he had once fought against. Money leads people into society’s evil domains; they cast off their noble ideals and travel willingly to the depths of hell. He began wearing fancy Western suits, visiting prostitutes, gambling, and taking up the use of opium. When his conscience caught up with him, he laid the blame for what he had become on the evil nature of society. While admitting that his behavior had been wrong, he was powerless to resist society’s seductive pull. And so he continued, until his money ran out, and he was reminded of the radical thoughts he had entertained as a student. But rather than translate these thoughts into action, this time he was more interested in translating them into money, much the same as trying to translate his friendship with his teacher into a passing grade without working for it. Moral integrity has no place in the philosophy of a lazy man; sooner or later anything that can be converted to cash will be sold. Ruan Ming took what was offered; someone eager to promote revolution cannot be choosy in finding fighters for the cause and must hope that those who come forward are like-minded. But people who take what is offered are expected to produce results, regardless of how they do it, and reports must be submitted. Ruan Ming had to produce something to show for the payment he accepted, so he involved himself in organizing rickshaw pullers.
Xiangzi had become an old hand at waving flags and shouting slogans by then, and that is how he met Ruan Ming.
Ruan Ming sold ideas for money; Xiangzi accepted them for the same reason. Ruan Ming knew that if the need arose he could sacrifice Xiangzi. Xiangzi, on the other hand, never entertained such a thought, and yet that is precisely what he did—he betrayed Ruan Ming. People who do things for money fear being confronted with more of it. Loyalty cannot be built on money. Ruan Ming believed in his radical ideas and used them to excuse all his evil actions. Xiangzi listened to everything Ruan Ming proclaimed and found it reasonable, yet he envied the man’s extravagant lifestyle: “If I had the money, I’d enjoy life, for a few days at least, like that Ruan fellow!” Money diminished Ruan Ming’s character; it enticed Xiangzi. He sold the man out for sixty yuan. Ruan Ming sought the strength of the masses. Xiangzi set his sights higher: he wanted more enjoyment out of life, just like Ruan Ming. Ruan Ming spilled his blood for payments received; Xiangzi stuffed the money he received into his waistband.
He sat there until the sun sank in the west, dressing the duckweed and willows in red and gold light. On his feet again, he headed west, hugging the city wall. Accustomed to cheating for money, this was the first time he’d sold a man’s life. To top it off, he had found Ruan Ming’s exhortations perfectly reasonable. The vast expanse at the base of the wall and its towering height instilled dread in him as he walked. He even gave crows scavenging piles of garbage a wide berth for fear of startling them into inauspicious caws. He sped up when he reached the western wall and slipped out through Xizhi Gate like a dog that has stolen food. He craved a place where he could be with someone who would help dull his emotions and deaden his fears; the White Manor beckoned.
By the early days of autumn Xiangzi’s sickness had ended his days as a rickshaw man, but even if that had not been the case, he had lost the trust of anyone who might rent him a rickshaw. He found work as a night watchman for a little shop, earning two coppers a night and a place to sleep. His daytime jobs provided him with a daily bowl of thin porridge. Begging on the street was out of the question, for no one would take pity on a big fellow like him. And he had never learned how to scar himself up enough to tug at the heartstrings of pilgrims at the city’s temples. He didn’t have what it takes to be a thief, and besides, thieves banded together in gangs with tight connections. He had no one to rely on but himself if he was to eat. He would work for himself until the day that work killed him. He was waiting for that last breath, for he was already one of the walking dead, with individualism as his soul. That soul would one day accompany his body into the ground.
Ever since the city of Beiping was chosen as the nation’s capital, its pomp and ceremony, its handicrafts, its cuisine, its language, and its police structure had slowly spread in all directions, searching out and fostering people who aspired to achieve the dignity and resources of the Emperor. Beiping’s mutton hot put was now served in the Westernized city of Qingdao; doleful cries of “Hard dough—pastries!” were heard late at night in the bustling city of Tianjin; in Shanghai, and Hankou, and Nanjing, the police and yamen runners spoke the Beiping dialect and ate flatbreads stuffed with sesame paste. Scented teas originating in the south came north to Beiping, where they were smoked twice and returned to the south. Even pallbearers sometimes rode the train to Tianjin or Nanjing to help carry the coffins of the rich and powerful.
But Beiping was beginning to give up its pomp and ceremony: glutinous cakes were now available in shops after the Double Ninth Festival, on the ninth day of the ninth month; peddlers of sweet dumplings once sold only on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month began showing up at markets in the fall; shops that had been around for hundreds of years celebrated anniversaries by passing out handbills announcing grand sales. Economic pressures forced pomp and ceremony to look elsewhere, since decency and honor could not fill anyone’s belly.
