Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (4 page)

Now, how to celebrate this double birthday? He had an idea: his first ride had to be a well-dressed man, not a woman. Ideally, he’d take him to Front Gate or, second best, Dongan Market. There he’d treat himself to a meal at the best stall around, including some quick-fried lamb in pocket bread. After he’d eaten, he’d look around for a good fare or two, but if nothing suited his fancy, he’d knock off for the day—his birthday!

Life improved for Xiangzi now that he had his own rickshaw, whether it was a steady job or individual fares, since he no longer had to worry about the rental fee. Every cent he took in was his. At peace with himself, he was friendly with his passengers, and that meant even more business. After six months of pulling his own rickshaw, his wish list grew. At this rate, in two years—no more—he’d be able to buy a second rickshaw, then a third…he could open his own rickshaw shed!

But wishes seldom come true, and Xiangzi’s were no exception.

CHAPTER TWO

X
iangzi’s happiness buoyed him; with a new rickshaw, he ran faster than ever. He took great pains to be careful—it was, after all, his own rickshaw—but each time he stole a look at it he felt he’d dishonor it by not running hard.

Since coming to the city, he had grown more than an inch, and instinct told him that he would keep growing. As his physique hardened, his skin seemed to fit him better, and a few scraggly hairs appeared on his upper lip. And yet he wanted to be taller still. Whenever he had to duck to walk through a door or gate, his heart swelled with pride, though he never said so. He was, he felt, an adult who was still a bit of a child, and how fascinating that was.

A big man pulling a handsome rickshaw, his very own, with flexible shafts that made the bar come alive in his hands. The carriage glistened, the mat was white and clean, and the horn made a crisp, loud sound. Why
wouldn’t
he want to run fast? That was how he honored himself and his rickshaw. It had nothing to do with vanity; it was a sense of duty. Not running fast, not flying down the street, kept him from giving free rein to his strength and showing off the rickshaw’s grace. It was a wonderful rickshaw that within six months seemed to develop a consciousness and emotions of its own. When he twisted his body or stepped down hard or straightened his back, it responded immediately, giving him the help he needed. There was no misunderstanding, no awkwardness between them. When they were on a level stretch of deserted road, he could take the bar in one hand, and the tires would chase him along, making a sound like whistling wind and pushing him to a fast, steady pace. When he reached a destination, he’d wring puddles of sweat out of his shirt and pants, as if they had just been taken out of a laundry basin. Exhausted? Sure. But happy and proud. It was the sort of exhaustion you get from riding a galloping horse.

There is a difference between boldness and recklessness, and Xiangzi was never reckless; he ran with confidence. Not running fast would be unfair to his passengers. But going so fast that he damaged his rickshaw would be unfair to himself. The rickshaw was the center of his life, and he knew how to take care of it. Combining caution with daring enhanced his confidence, convincing him that he and his rickshaw were made of hard stuff indeed.

As a result, not only did he run fearlessly, but he also gave no thought to the hours he kept. To him, making a living by pulling a rickshaw was proof of moral integrity, and there was no one to stop him when he felt like taking his rickshaw out. He paid little attention to rumors floating around town: soldiers have appeared at Xiyuan; more fighting at Changxindian; forced conscription outside Xizhi Gate; the closing of the city gate at Qihua. He took note of none of it. Naturally, shops along the streets were boarded up, and armed police and security forces flooded the streets; but he stayed clear of such places, taking his rickshaw out of service, like everyone else. While he refused to believe the rumors, caution was his watchword, especially since the rickshaw was his. But he was, after all, a country boy who, unlike the city folk, did not hear the wind and mistake it for rain. Besides, he had faith in his body, and even if the rumors proved to be true, he would know how to stay out of harm’s way. He was not someone to be pushed around—not a strapping, broad-shouldered young man like him.

War and rumors arrived like clockwork every year during planting season. Wheat tassels and bayonets were symbols of hope and of despair for northerners. Xiangzi’s rickshaw was six months old when farmers began hoping for spring rains to nourish their crops. The rain did not always come when they wanted it, but war arrived whether they wanted it or not. Rumors, real events. Xiangzi seemed to forget that he had once been a peasant himself. How badly war destroyed farmland was not his problem, and he had no time to worry if the rains came or not. Only his rickshaw mattered. It was the source of everything he ate; it was a fertile field that dutifully followed him everywhere, a living piece of land, a precious possession. Then the price of grain rose, owing to a shortage of rain and a surplus of war. That was something Xiangzi did know. But like the city folk, he could only complain, not do anything about it. The cost of grain has gone up? So be it. After all, no one knows how to make it go back down. That attitude had him focused solely on himself; all thoughts of calamity migrated to the back of his head.

When city folk do not know how to deal with something, they create rumors—sometimes they are total fabrications and sometimes they are based on a kernel of truth—as a means of showing that they are neither stupid nor feckless. They are like fish that rise lazily to the surface to release useless bubbles just to please themselves. Of all the rumors, those concerning war are the most interesting. All the others start and end as rumor, on the order of ghost stories in which all the talk in the world can never make a ghost appear. But where war is concerned, since accurate news is unavailable, rumors are prophetic, like setting up a pole to see its shadow. In the case of minor details, rumors fall wide of the mark; but with war, eighty or ninety percent of the rumors are based on fact. “There’s going to be fighting!” That cry invariably comes true. Who is fighting whom, and how, depends on who you are talking to. Xiangzi was not unaware of that, but common laborers—which include rickshaw men—while not looking forward to wartime, do not necessarily suffer because of it. When war breaks out, the first to panic are the rich, who think only of fleeing at the first sign of trouble; wealth is their ticket out of town. Obviously, with feet weighted down by riches, they cannot just pick up and leave on their own, so they must hire a phalanx of people to get them on the road: people to carry their luggage and vehicles to transport families—male and female, young and old. At such times, men who sell their muscle find that their arms and legs are suddenly worth a great deal.

“Front Gate, East Train Station!”

“Where?”

“East—Train—Station.”

“Oh, give me one yuan forty and we’ll call it even! No haggling, war is raging everywhere!”

That was how things stood when Xiangzi took his rickshaw out of the city. Rumors had flown for at least ten days, and the price of everything rose; yet the fighting was far away from Beiping. He went out each day as usual, not taking time off despite the rumors. One day, after hauling a passenger to West City, he noticed something unusual. He made a few turns around the area but saw no one at the western intersection of Huguo Monastery Road and New Street hailing rickshaws to familiar destinations:

“Xiyuan?”

“Tsinghua University?”

He heard that no vehicles dared leave the city, for they were being seized outside at Xizhi Gate—wagons, large and small, donkey carts, and rickshaws, no exceptions. Deciding to stop for a cup of tea, he headed south to take a break. The rickshaw stand was unusually quiet, a sign that danger lurked. Xiangzi was no coward, but neither was he one to walk blindly into harm’s way. As he pondered the situation, a pair of rickshaws pulled up. The passengers appeared to be students. One of the rickshaw pullers shouted, “Anyone for Tsinghua University? Tsinghua!”

None of the men at the rickshaw stand replied. Some smirked; others sat on their rickshaws smoking pipes without looking up.

“Are you all mutes?” the man shouted. “Tsinghua!”

“Give me two yuan and I’ll go!” replied a short youngster with a shaved head, half in jest.

“Come on over. Who else?” Both rickshaws pulled up and stopped.

The young fellow froze, not knowing what to do now, since no one else made a move. Xiangzi did not have to be told that going outside the city gate was risky, but two yuan to Tsinghua University—a trip that usually cost no more than twenty or thirty cents—why wasn’t anyone interested? Like the others, he did not want to go, but the shaved-head youngster appeared to be willing. As long as he wasn’t the only one, why not do it?

“You there, big guy, what do you say?”

“Big guy.” Xiangzi had to laugh. It was, he knew, a compliment, and he took it to heart. The least he could do was help out the shaved-head young man, who had plenty of spunk for someone so short, not to mention the two yuan he’d be earning; that was not something he saw every day. Dangerous? What were the odds? Besides, over the past couple of days he’d heard that the Temple of Heaven was a massing spot for soldiers, but he’d been there and had seen neither hide nor hair of a soldier. With these thoughts running through his mind, he pulled his rickshaw up.

When the group reached Xizhi Gate, there were few people around, which Xiangzi took as a bad sign. His young companion did not like what he saw, either.

“Let’s keep an eye peeled, pal,” he said with a little laugh. “It might be trouble, it might not be. But we’ve come this far.” Xiangzi had a premonition that something bad was about to happen, but after all these years on the street, his word meant something. He could not start acting like an old woman now.

After passing through the gate, they did not see another vehicle anywhere, and Xiangzi lowered his head to keep from looking around. His heart felt like it was bumping up against his ribs. Once they were on Gaoliang Bridge, he sneaked a look. Not a soldier anywhere, and that made him feel a little better. Two yuan, after all, was two yuan, not a sum for the faint of heart. Though he was not given to idle chatter, it was so deathly still he felt a need to say something to his companion. “Let’s take a dirt path. This road…”

“Just what I was thinking,” the youngster said. “We might have a chance if we stay off the road.”

But before they made it to the dirt path, Xiangzi, his shaved-headed companion, and their passengers fell into the hands of a dozen soldiers.

Although it was the time of year to burn incense at the temple on Mount Miaofeng, a thin shirt was no protection against the cold. Xiangzi was wearing only a thin gray tunic and a pair of blue cotton army trousers, both reeking of sweat and little more than rags—they’d been like that before he put them on. All he could think of were the white jacket and indigo-dyed lined pants he was wearing when they took them off him—they were so clean and so smart. There were nicer clothes than that in the world, but he knew how hard it had been for someone like him to be dressed that way. The sweat-stink of what he was wearing now reminded him of all he’d struggled for and made what he had accomplished seem nobler. The more he thought about his past, the deeper his hatred for the soldiers. They had taken his clothes, his shoes, his rickshaw, even the sash he used as a belt, in return for bruises and welts all over his body and blisters on his feet. The clothes didn’t count for much, nor did his injuries, since they’d heal soon enough. But the rickshaw he’d bought with his blood and sweat, it was gone! The last he’d seen of it was when they took it to their barracks. In the past, he’d had no trouble putting his suffering and difficulties out of his mind, but not his rickshaw!

Xiangzi was not afraid of hard work or suffering, but he knew what it would take to get a second rickshaw—years. All he’d achieved had come to nothing. He’d have to start over again. The tears came. He didn’t just hate those soldiers—he hated the whole world. What right do they have to do this to me? “What right?” He was shouting.

But this shout—though it made him feel a little better—reminded him of the dangers he faced. Only one thing counted now: escape.

Where was he? He couldn’t be sure. He’d been on the march with the soldiers for days, the sweat running from his head down to the bottoms of his feet. Always on the move, carrying or pulling or pushing things for the soldiers. When they stopped, he had to fetch water, light fires, and feed the livestock. All day long his only thought was how to force the strength he’d need into his hands and feet; his mind was a blank. At night, the minute his head hit the ground, he slept like the dead, and never waking up again did not seem like such a bad thing after all.

At first, he vaguely recalled, the soldiers were in retreat toward Mount Miaofeng, but when they reached the back side of the mountains, he focused on climbing, knowing that one slip could send him into the stream below, where birds of prey would eventually pick his bones clean. He put all other thoughts out of his mind. They wove their way over and around mountains for days on end, until one day the footpaths virtually disappeared. With the sun at his back, Xiangzi saw a distant plain, and when the call went out for the porters to return for the evening meal, soldiers came back to camp with camels.

Camels! Xiangzi’s heart skipped a beat, and suddenly he could think again, like a lost man spotting a familiar sign; a plan formed in his head. Camels are no good in the mountains, so they’d obviously reached the plain. He knew that people raised camels in the western suburbs of the capital: places like Balizhuang, Huang Village, Northern Xin’an, Moshi Pass, Wulitun, and Sanjiadian. Was it possible that all that travel had brought them right back to Moshi Pass? He wondered what kind of strategy these soldiers—who were good for little more than marching and plundering—had. What he did know was, if they really were at Moshi Pass, they had given up on the mountains and were looking for an escape route. Moshi Pass was an ideal spot; heading northeast would take them to the Western Hills; heading south they’d reach Changxindian or Fengtai; heading west out of the pass was the best option. While plotting for the soldiers, he was actually figuring how he was going to escape; the time had arrived. If the soldiers turned back to the mountains, even if he managed to get away, he might starve. It was now or never. He was confident that if he ran, he could make it back to Haidian. It wouldn’t be easy—he’d have to pass through many towns and villages, but all places he’d been before. He shut his eyes and tried to picture the route: Moshi Pass is here—I hope to heaven I’m right! Head northeast, past Gold Peak Mountain and Prince Li’s Grave, to Badachu; turn east at Sipingtai to Xingzi Pass and Nanxinzhuang. He’d need to hug the foothills for cover as he headed north from Nanxinzhuang, through Wei Family Village and Nanhetan; keep heading north to Red Hill and Prince Jie’s Palace, all the way to Jingyi Gardens. From there he could find Haidian with his eyes closed. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Over the past several days, all his blood seemed to flow into his limbs; now, suddenly, it rushed back to his heart, which burned hot, while his arms and legs went cold. Feverish hope made him tremble from head to toe.