China's Son (8 page)

“What is this?” Teacher Lan waved the pack in front of the whole class. “I helped you come back to school and make all that progress and now you want to throw away
everything you have achieved. You are very stupid. You do not realize how people around here think of you. Some of them still want to throw you out of school. You just gave them good reason, and to tell you the truth, I am beginning to see their point.

“Those hoodlums will drag you down to the bottom again, even lower. Do you realize that? To the bottom.” He threw the cigarettes on the floor, spat on them, and stomped them with his feet until they were totally crushed.

I had never seen the mellow, awkward Mr. Lan so forceful or so angry before, and I was shocked. He knew everything about my friends and me. I felt torn with pain at having our wonderful friendship trashed in front of my classmates and enemies. My head was becoming numb and my temples throbbed, but this time, instead of the old fear, I felt anger, anger at my enemies, who still picked on me at every opportunity, whose mission in life seemed to be my complete destruction.

They were ignorant of the beautiful, honest friendship those “hoodlums” offered me and would never be able to fathom the depth of our devotion to each other. Nor could Teacher Lan. He did not know how terrible school had been for me for so many years. I wanted to yell back at him and make him understand, but he had gone back to his podium, opened his book. Class had begun.

As my fury receded into a trickle of dull pain, I tried to digest what Teacher Lan had tried to tell me. There were people out there who were still trying to get me. Why didn't they leave me alone and let me just be like the rest of the kids? Who were they?

In the middle of the semester, a young teacher named Sing organized the yearly elementary school Ping-Pong match for the purpose of qualifying for the commune and eventually the county championship event. He was a decent guy with a head of salt-and-pepper hair.

I had always admired him for his many talents—calligraphy, basketball, writing, and he could play all kinds of musical instruments.

Each time he passed me, he greeted me readily. In fact, he was the only teacher who joked with me. One afternoon he came to my class and sat next to me with his arm over my shoulder. “How would you like to participate in the school championship match? I know you're pretty good.”

“I'm not sure my political background would allow me to do so,” I said uncertainly.

“I'll take care of it. You just make sure to be there for the game.”

“Okay.” My heart leapt with joy.

As far as Ping-Pong was concerned, there was only one other boy who played as well as I. If I wasn't there to challenge him, he would take the title, hands down.

That evening, I borrowed my brother's paddle and played three games in the match at the school cafeteria, a temporary game room. I spun and struck. Within two hours, I had defeated all the other players. The next night, with Sen, Siang, Mo Gong, and Yi watching from the windows, I beat my enemy, Han, and another opponent to become the champion for our commune. When the results were announced the next day at the morning exercise break, the whole school turned and looked at me. After so many years, I felt once again as though I belonged there. Proudly I waved my hands and bowed my head to their cheers.

The gratitude I felt for Teacher Sing was beyond words.

“We'd like to hold a swearing-in ceremony among us five at Mo Gong's tomorrow,” Sen said one day. “What do you think?”

“You mean sort of like in ancient times, when the outlaws cut their fingers and let the blood drip into their wine and drank it together to become sworn brothers?” I asked excitedly.

“That's it,” Sen said.

“And say something like, ‘can't be born on the same day, but would like to die at the same moment.' ” Mo Gong quoted a phrase from a well-known classic about a bunch of outlaws hiding deep in the mountains, who became sworn brothers and fought the establishment.

“I'm in,” I said. “What do we need to do?”

“Prepare a banquet with some hard liquor.”

The next day I went to Mo Gong's house, a two-story place that was totally empty since his parents had taken off again to sell shoes in another county. Siang had bought two lively young ducks from the market with my five yuan, and brought three pounds of pork from home. Yi came up with some vegetables and the noodles, and Sen ventured back home and had us sit under his kitchen window while he passed out some much-needed lard. We all pitched in to buy the liquor and cigarettes.

During his apprenticeship days, Yi had learned to cook. He was the only one who knew anything about it. I had resumed my usual job of washing the vegetables, picking over scallions and cutting them to match the specifications of the chef. Mo Gong chased the ducks in the backyard, causing the dirt and dust to fly, and Siang sharpened a knife, ready to behead them.

“Da, I want you to write some rules for us to go by,” Sen said, squatting next to me.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

When the food was finally brought to the table, along with chopsticks, spoons, and plates, we couldn't help shaking our heads in surprise. The two ducks, well simmered with garlic, ginger, wine, and Yi's secret soy sauce recipe, lay on a large plate with their skinny heads on one side. Next to them sat a deep pot with steaming pork shoulders, succulent and juicy. A king's feast was about to begin, and our stomachs growled in anticipation.

It seemed more like a normal, happy family meal than a swearing-in ceremony for a bunch of self-proclaimed outlaws. What civilization had done to us since the time of the
kings and dynasties! We sat in order of seniority—Sen, Mo Gong, Yi, Siang, and me—clockwise around a circular wooden table. Sen opened the first bottle of liquor, a locally brewed rice wine that gave out a pungent fragrance of grain, and poured us each a tall glassful.

Wearing a serious look in those famous cold eyes, Sen declaimed, “Fate has brought us together. From now on we are brothers, not by blood, but by spirit.”

“What happened to our swearing and all?” Mo Gong asked.

“That was the ancient thing. There's no need for slitting open our fingers,” Sen said. “But I asked Da to write out a few rules that we all should live by faithfully.”

“What happens if one of us doesn't follow the rules?”

“Here.” Sen pounded his big fist on the table. “I'll take care of it.”

“What if it's you?”

“The second-in-command would take over and have me punished the same way. Okay, what's the rules, Da?” Sen asked.

I took out a piece of paper and read solemnly: “ ‘No betrayal. No better friends outside than us. We suffer together, enjoy together. No jealousy. And we are all equal.' ”

“Does everyone agree?” Sen glanced at each of us intently.

We nodded.

“You all meant it, didn't you?” Sen shouted like an older brother.

We nodded again.

“This is serious. Anyone who can't live up to these rules, leave this place now,” he shouted. “I don't want traitors in here.”

The drama seemed to work. Everyone was quiet and thoughtful. For the first time, we all realized that it wasn't just food, drinks, smoking, and having fun together. It was more than that now. We were bound by rules. The moment filled me with strength, courage, and emotion. I felt I had grown a few inches.

“Now, bottoms up,” Sen said, casting a long look at me in particular. “Da, you gotta do it.”

“But I've never had anything this strong before,” I protested. “Can I just have a few sips first?”

“This isn't strong—see?” Sen poured the whole thing down his throat. His face suddenly twisted into a fierce grimace. Then he turned red down to his neck. He opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could and waggled his tongue, fanning his mouth, wildly gasping for air.

After a long pause, when the liquor apparently had settled, Sen said, “See, I did it.” His voice was raspy like sandpaper. We covered our mouths, trying not to laugh.

Then everyone did the same thing, clockwise.

When my turn came, I pinched my nose, closed my eyes, and downed the contents of the tall glass. As I had expected, it burned all the way to wherever it went inside my body. I could picture the flow of liquor, a stream of hot liquid steel, burning every inch of me. The miracle of pure alcohol. I instantly felt dizzy.

“How does it feel? Here, have some soup,” Sen said, holding the spoon to my mouth. Yi and Mo Gong supported me, and Siang stuck a piece of duck inside my mouth to dispel the bad taste.

“Like fire.” I coughed a few times, swallowed the soup, and chewed on the duck. My head was throbbing, and
things began dancing around me. The whole house seemed to be moving in circles.

“Now, brothers,” Sen said, “it's time to eat.”

They dug into the duck. I went for a cigarette.

“Don't smoke now, it'll be like oil on fire, on top of liquor,” I heard the wise voice of Yi say. But I lit one nonetheless. It felt heavenly.

For the rest of the banquet, I sat there dazed, watching the others laugh, chat, joke, drink, and smoke. They saved some food for me before we all went to sleep for the rest of the day.

When I awoke in darkness, my head ached as if a brick had hit it, throbbing with waves of pain each time I turned it. I struck a match and lit a candle and saw my newly sworn brothers snoring like a litter of puppies, huddled in one another's warmth. Sen was drooling on Yi's face and Siang was holding an empty bottle, his legs over Mo Gong's shoulder. I felt hungry and bet my friends would feel the same way. So I warmed up each dish and cleaned up the place, while putting on a kettle of fresh green tea to brew. Then I woke them up; they blinked like it was murder to be woken at this hour.

“Let's eat. Aren't you hungry?” They nodded, scratching their heads and yawning.

“First, hot tea to wake you all up, brothers!” I smiled as I served the steaming tea.

“Ah! I feel a heck of a lot better now with the tea, Da,” Sen said. “Thanks. I'm sorry the liquor knocked you out like that. I didn't know it was strong enough to catch fire off the match. We all got knocked out.”

“It was so strong my mouth still feels like rubber, and the food tastes like an old rag,” Siang said.

We couldn't help laughing at ourselves. But laughter
wasn't the best thing at this moment. Each movement multiplied the pain attacking our heads and necks.

“I think they put fire powder in the liquor. It was a fake, Sen.” More laughter. More pain.

By this time my dad had become quite an acupuncturist. Before Grandpa died, he had had a minor stroke, and Dad, unable to afford an acupuncturist for him, would study books on the ancient art, staying up late every night, sometimes even taking the old classics on Chinese herbal medicine to bed with him. After Grandpa died, Dad began offering free services to close friends and neighbors. Soon his reputation spread. He began to see patients in our home and sometimes even made house calls.

Under Dad's care, a few patients who had been paralyzed regained their ability to go to the bathroom and eat on their own. As his renown spread, a truck often drove him to treat patients in remote towns. Dad was shy about charging a fee, which would have made him an illegal practitioner. But people brought grain, rice, bananas, fish, shrimp, and all manner of food to repay him for his services. One of the patients even secured a temporary job at the county's canned food factory for one of my sisters.

Dad was a happier person. Even though he still had to work at a few more labor camps, he was treated differently. At one camp near the Ching Mountain, Mon Hai, a burly man with an unsightly birthmark over his right eye, was the supervising cadre. One evening he sent for Dad to be brought to his cabin. Much to my father's surprise, the cadre offered him a cigarette. Dad bowed humbly. Normally,
the campers summoned to Mon Hai's cabin were there to be lectured or humiliated until midnight.

“I need a favor from you,” Mon Hai said in an unusually low voice, after first closing his door and window.

“Anything, sir, I am here to be reformed.”

“No, no, no, please sit down. I wanted you here for a different matter—shall I say, a private matter.” The Communist smiled, revealing his gold-capped front teeth. “My dad fell last night and had a stroke. He is still in a coma and the doctor says he is paralyzed.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“You know what the doctor also said?” Mon Hai lit a cigarette for my father.

“What did he say?”

“That you are the only one in this area who could cure him.”

“No, no, I'm an amateur. It is purely a hobby, that's all. I did try treatments on my own now-dead father, but I would not call myself a doctor or anything like that. You should really seek other help,” my father mumbled nervously.

“Are you saying no to me?”

“I'm not, cadre. You don't understand,” Dad said.

“Then what is it?” Mon Hai asked. “Money? That's no problem. My brother is the head of a fertilizer factory and he has loads of money.”

“No, it is not money.” Dad shook his head.

“I know what it is. You are afraid.”