China's Son (18 page)

“First thing to push for is membership in the Young Communist League. I checked your record and it's pathetic. You weren't even a Little Red Guard in elementary school.” Not the memory of my miserable elementary school again.

“Someone wronged you badly.” He narrowed his eyes and looked out the window.

You bet it was wrong. It was criminal. I was the only one in the whole school who wasn't a Little Red Guard because I was from a Black family and was personally on the suspect list as a counterrevolutionary. I still had nightmares about it.

“It's time someone stood up for you. I'll get you the membership before you graduate. It'll enhance your chance
of admission into a top-notch college like the one I went to. You don't want to be second-guessed on such a minor point, do you?”

“No, sir, and thank you, sir.”

“No problem. I had the same conversation with Cing, another talented potential. You two are my only hopes for the year. I'll personally involve myself with your growth. Together we'll give it our best try.” It brought to mind the pep talks from my Ping-Pong coach. The pep talks meant nothing, but they made you feel real good. A sort of national anthem in words.

Within days, a small red poster was pasted on the school wall. It attracted almost no attention. It stated that I was belatedly being given the glorious title of Little Red Guard and had been admitted into the Young Communist League. For a brief moment, I felt like the Peking Man, tickled by the emptiness of such a title. Communism had become a commodity with a price tag, its value plummeting a notch each time it was sold at a garage sale. Soon the membership would become a tradable commodity, one you could pick up for a penny with a cold drink thrown in.

I went to Mr. Ka's office to thank him. He slapped my shoulder and grabbed me with his strong hands.

“Congratulations, young comrade. You are the future of Communism.” He spoiled the serious words by winking at me.

Professor Wei did the soprano thing when I told her the results. Her hands cupped beneath her chin and her silver head tilted to one side, she shook her head, speechless. She was in heaven. Her happiness for me was genuine. God bless her.

The school authorities regrouped the entire graduating
class, which amounted to just over five hundred students. They were now formed into six science and two liberal arts classes. S-One, which was what Science One was commonly called, consisted of the best science students and was where the Head and other snobs were. The school placed the best of its faculty in that class. The rest of the science classes were left to rot. Students held strikes against the school and threw rocks at S-One, and some snobs were even beaten for showing off their exclusivity. But the separation stayed.

L-One, or Liberal Arts One, also got the best Yellow Stone High had, which included the venerable Peking Man and an assortment of liberal arts buffs. It wasn't much, but it was all they had. Apple-headed Cing took the back seat on the right; I took the one on the left. Poor Dia was regrouped into L-Two, where he claimed to sleep through most of the mornings without being disturbed by the teachers. They didn't care. Students smoked in class and propped their feet on the desks. Teachers found warm, sunny spots and read novels.

Cousin Tan returned home for a visit. His hair was longer and he was wearing good shoes that would have been shiny if he'd bothered to polish them. His sunken cheeks had filled out, and he sported a few ballpoint pens lined up evenly in his jacket pocket. He crossed his legs, tapping his right foot languidly, his speech coming easily, filled with college jargon. He was on his spring break, with not a burden in the world. He sat in our living room, surrounded by my whole family.

“It's all good meat they serve there at AU.” That stood for Amoy University.

“Even for breakfast?” I asked.

He nodded. “Pickled meat.” What a luxury. I had never heard of such a thing, but I believed him.

My mouth watered and I had to swallow a few times at the delicious thought of meat steaming on a plate. My lofty goal of going to college vanished, and my desires became very basic. My whole body yearned for meat. Simmered, roasted, sautéed, boiled, fried, smoked, or pickled. What difference did it make? The bloody flesh tasted good whatever you did to it.

“We spent a whole long month on MT,” he said casually. The whole family shrugged. MT? What was that? Meat Truck? “Military Training, that is, for all AU students,” Cousin Tan explained. “Look at my hands.” He stretched out his hands for us to see.

“They're all callused now. See how hard the rifles have made them.”
It wasn't AU or MT that made his hands rough,
I thought.
It was FW, Farm Work.

“I heard you are preparing for an English major,” he said, fingering a callus on his right hand.

“Yeah, what do you think?” Mom had urged me to seek his advice; now I was all ears.

“How should I say it?” He recrossed his legs and leaned back. “I've met some English majors at AU. They were all rich kids from the large city of Fuzhou and, of course, Amoy. You know, the kind that wear expensive clothes and watches, ride fancy bikes, and have lots of spending money. They're artistic and romantic.” His eyes narrowed as if he were staring at a mirage, close but untouchable. “There was one pretty, slender girl, jeans and all, who was so talented she could speak English more fluently than some of the teachers there. She was from HK, you know.” Hong Kong. “I wouldn't try for English. You have all the disadvantages. Those guys all have big, foreign tape recorders complete with American language tapes. Have you seen a recorder before?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.” I still didn't believe it was humanly possible to preserve the sound of a human voice once it had spoken. It was like trying to gather water once it had spilled.

“Those guys have beautiful, perfect accents. It's talent. You have to be artistic and musical. I don't think anyone at YSH [Yellow Stone High] could teach you that. And even if they could, we would be stuck, given our thick lips and slow tongues. If I were you, I would consider something else, maybe agricultural management.”

I saw my dad lose interest in talking to this new city man. He rolled a thick one and offered it to my cousin. I knew Dad was being funny. He should know that they wouldn't do thick ones on the AU campus.

Cousin Tan refused it, pulled out a Wing cigarette, and offered one to Dad and my brother.

“What is it?” Dad asked.

“Oh, it's the most popular brand on campus. Even the chairman of my department at AU smokes these.”

Dad shook his head violently from side to side, like a Yellow Stone farmer. “Not my type. It's too light, it'll make me sneeze.” He broke the cigarette in half and dropped it on the floor. “Why don't you stay for lunch?” Dad's way of saying good-bye. Mom frowned warningly at him.

“No, no. I have to go to Putien to see some AU classmates, you know.” Sure, we knew. Socializing. It was a part of high society. We had no meat for lunch, in any case. We watched him comb his longish hair with his hands and walk with a straight back down the narrow street of Yellow Stone, greeting people with a wave of his hand like a victorious Napoleon.

I retreated to my room after he had left, taking two hours
to rebuild the spirit he had so gently and carelessly dashed. But no matter how tacky he had become, I still liked it better than seeing him locked up in his attic. He had the freedom to vent his airs now. That was what it was all about. I renewed my determination, wanting to be in his shoes, if not necessarily like him.

“Do you still want to pursue the English major?” Dad asked me later.

“Yes, even more so.”

“Why?”

“Because I think they've got a bunch of losers and playboys at AU. I'm not afraid of city folks. They're wimpy, I'm tough. They already have everything without college. I don't. I'll work my butt off and beat every one of those pompous spoiled brats. Don't you think I can do it?”

Dad smiled and nodded confidently. He blew a perfect smoke ring.

I caught it with my index finger, cutting it in half.

Firecrackers filled Yellow Stone's narrow street with thick smoke. It was Chinese New Year again. Farming was halted and half the town was into serious gambling. The well-off smoked their Flying Horses and bet with cash; the stingy made do with grains or animals as bets; and the desperate smoked their thick handmade rolls and even put their wives on the betting table.

A villager fifteen miles west of Yellow Stone was heard to have lost his wife twelve times at one sitting. When she got word, she drove him out of their house and had the commune arrest him, disclaiming her association with such a shameless loser.

When I'd eaten the noodles that were traditionally served as the first meal of the year, and after spending the kowtow money on five packs of Flying Horse at Liang's black market, I headed for Yi's old workshop.

The gang was already there. They roughed up my hair and
pinched my ears and nose, paying me back for all the times I had been too busy for them. I loved these guys. They were always the same: gruff, sincere, and caring in their own very charming way. When they felt jealous or neglected, they shouted at me and slapped my head; then their irritation was over. Like the Dong Jing, full to its brim with pure rainwater, their hearts were generous with love.

“Hey, you look pale and weak. What's the matter with you, college man?” Mo Gong made the welcome speech for the gang. Sen, Yi, and Siang searched my coat pockets, split up the cigarettes, and laughingly enjoyed their first good smoke of the year.

“I brought these for you guys because I wanted to apologize for all the neglect.”

“Shut up and have one yourself.” Sen threw me a pack of Wing cigarettes with filters. I lit one. It felt good to be back.

Sen patted my shoulder and sat next to me on Yi's old work stool. “Brother, you missed out on a helluva lot of fun when you were hittin' those books.”

“What the hell have you guys been doing?” I asked.

“Take a look.” Mo Gong threw a thick heap of money on the bench and nodded. It was supposed to mean something to me. I had never seen that much money before. The butcher next door carried a wad to the commune bank at the end of every day, but this neatly stacked pile was twice as thick.

“Where did you get it? Did you steal it?” I couldn't believe my eyes.

The four gave me another roughing up and pinched my ears and nose again. I struggled free before any more damage could be done. They all smiled the same Buddha smile, silent and mysterious.

“We went to Yi's city for ten days and won it,” Sen said.

“How?” I asked.

“Well, we set up two gambling tables in a rented hut near Yi's factory. Half of Yi's colleagues came, just for the entertainment. Those rich city folks! We robbed them raw and stole them blind. Yi played stranger, and we three ran the two tables. Before word got out, we moved, and here we are. Nine hundred and thirty yuan!” Sen exclaimed.

“The money is yours, too. You're still our brother. We'll use it as seed money to gamble some more, and soon we'll all be rich and maybe buy ourselves some wives,” Mo Gong said, lights dancing in his eyes. At the end of the sentence, he winked. Money first, then a wife. It was Mo Gong being totally honest about his worldly outlook.

I felt touched by their inclusion of me. The brother thing still caused a tightening in my gut. We were bound by our sworn allegiance, but when money came into it, things changed somehow. I felt uncomfortable. We were meant to stick together in friendship and love, not for money. No one had inserted any clause about money. Ours was a spiritual alliance, not a financial one.

Something about them had changed. These guys were no longer kids. They had all begun to wear rough beards. Their voices were deeper and huskier. They were grown-ups with grown-up desires and ideas. They had seen the city and gambled there with the big guys.

Now there was this pot of money. Who knew what was next? Maybe the cops were after them.

“Are you sure this money is clean?” I asked, stern-faced.

“Smug little rascal.” Mo Gong grabbed my neck and planted a wet kiss on my forehead. “Don't worry about a thing. Money is always clean.” He picked up the stack and
planted a kiss on that, too. “We're rich. Let's hit the fields. The losers are waiting for us to wipe them out.”

“This time we're the big guys,” Sen said. “Only big hands are welcome from now on. The penny business is over. Da, you come with us, even if it's just for a day or two; then you can go back to your studies.”

“You have to come. Just spend some time with us, okay?” Siang said.

“And we've got some love stories for you to hear.” The temptation was high. It was New Year's Day. No one could say anything about my taking a day off from my studies. I deserved it. Four pairs of eyes were watching me, waiting for me.

I bit my lips. “I really need to study every night to make it to college, I swear. I'd love to come with you and wipe them out, or even just be with you guys and boast, but I really can't go.” It was the pact I had made with my family and Buddha. I had better stick to it.