Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (20 page)
Huniu led Xiangzi outside.
The anger percolating in the other men now found an outlet. They turned and glared at Xiangzi’s back. Over the past couple of days, they had concluded that he’d become the Liu family’s running dog, always obsequious to father and daughter, working without complaint and bearing all sorts of grievances, just to be their serving boy. Xiangzi blithely continued helping out as a way to lessen his own frustrations. He had nothing to say to the other men at night, but that was not new. Unaware of how he was suffering deep down, they assumed he was Fourth Master Liu’s puppet and would have nothing to do with him. What really bothered them was the way Huniu fawned all over him, and the fact that while they were kept out of the birthday tent, Xiangzi was guaranteed all he wanted to eat. They were all rickshaw men, so why the class distinction? See? Miss Liu is taking Xiangzi outside. They followed him with their eyes, legs itching to move. Finally, somewhat awkwardly, they walked out the door, where they saw Miss Liu and Xiangzi having a conversation under one of the kerosene lamps. They nodded knowingly.
T
he Liu birthday celebration was a roaring success, and Fourth Master was beside himself with joy over all the people who had come to kowtow and wish him a long life. He was particularly pleased that so many old friends had come to congratulate him. Their attendance convinced him not only that the celebration was a success but that he had “made it.” These old friends were shabbily dressed, while he was wearing a new fur-lined robe and short jacket. In professional terms, some of them had once been better off than he, but now, after twenty or thirty years, their fortunes were dwindling, and some were even having trouble making ends meet. He looked them over, then turned his gaze to the birthday tent, the longevity altar, scrolls depicting the battle at Changban Slope, the three great bowls of the feast, and the screens, and could not suppress the feeling that he was head and shoulders above any of them. Yes, he had made it. Even where gambling was concerned, he had prepared tables for mahjong, much more refined than common betting games.
That said, in the midst of the raucous celebration, a sense that not all was as it should be gnawed at him. Having gotten used to living alone, he’d assumed that his guests would be confined to shopkeepers and managers, plus some bachelor friends from the old days. He had not expected so many women to show up. Sure, Huniu was seeing to their needs, but he experienced deep feelings of loneliness. He had a daughter but no wife, and Huniu looked more like a man than a woman. If she’d been a man, by now she’d have been married with children, and even as an aging widower, he would not have felt so alone. Yes, he had everything he wanted, everything but a son, and as he got older, his hopes for ever having one lessened. The birthday celebration ought to have been filled with joy, but he was nearly in tears. No matter how much he’d accomplished, with no one to carry on the business, it was all for nothing.
For the first half of the day he was in high spirits, grandly accepting the birthday wishes of his guests, like the warrior who had wrested the grand vessel from the legendary great turtle. But his mood turned sour by that afternoon, as the sight of children hand in hand with women who had come as guests filled him with envy, jealousy even; he would not have felt comfortable getting close to the children. Naturally, he needed to keep a lid on his temper in front of his guests, for as a prominent member of society, he must not disgrace himself; he began to wish that the day, and his unhappiness, would end quickly.
And that was not the only upsetting feature of the afternoon: that morning, while the rickshaw men were enjoying their meal, Xiangzi had nearly been in a fight.
The meal was served to the reluctant rickshaw men at eight o’clock. Though they had been forgiven their rental fee the day before, none had come to the table that morning empty-handed, whether it was ten cents or forty, all destined to fill the celebrant’s pockets. On any other day, they were workingmen, while Fourth Master Liu was the shopkeeper; but today they considered themselves to be guests who deserved to be treated better. Worse yet, after they’d eaten, they were to leave the premises and not take their rickshaws out the whole day. At the busy year’s end, no less!
Xiangzi knew he would not be vacating the premises with the others, but he chose to eat with them anyway, both to get an early start on the work ahead and to show a bit of solidarity. But he had no sooner sat down than they took their resentment of Fourth Master out on him. “Say,” one of them said, “you’re an honored guest, what are you doing eating with us?” Xiangzi responded with a foolish grin, missing what was hidden behind the words. Several days of not speaking with anyone had dulled his mind a bit.
Since the men dared not flare up at Fourth Master, their only recourse was to eat as much of his food as possible. There would be no second helpings, but the birthday liquor flowed freely and would serve to quell their discontent. Some drank in silence and some played drinking games; at least the old man couldn’t stop them from doing that. Not wanting to set himself apart, Xiangzi drank two cups of the hard liquor. Meanwhile, as bloodshot eyes appeared on the other men’s faces, their tongues loosened. “Xiangzi,” one of them said, “Camel, this is a sweet job you’ve got. Food and drink for a whole day just for taking care of the old man and his daughter. You won’t be taking a rickshaw out after this—you can be someone’s personal attendant.” He knew there was more to this comment but wasn’t sure what that was. On his first day back at Harmony Shed, he’d told himself to play down his virile approach to the job and leave everything to fate. Let them say what they liked, he’d let it pass. “Our Xiangzi is taking a different path from us. We’re outside sweating for a living, but he’s got an inside job.” That got a laugh out of them, and Xiangzi was sure they were baiting him. But after all he’d suffered, he could easily take a few snide comments. He held his tongue. A man at the next table saw a chance to join in on the fun. “Xiangzi,” he said, “one of these days you’ll be the boss. I hope you won’t forget your pals.” Still no reaction. “Say something, Camel!” a man at his table said.
Xiangzi blushed. “How could I ever be a boss?” he said softly. “Of course you can. Before you know it, cymbals will clash and drums will be thumped!”
Xiangzi was confused. He did not know what they meant by clashing cymbals and thumping drums, but instinct told him it referred to his relationship with Huniu. An embarrassed redness in the face became the white of indignation, as all the grievances he’d suffered raced through his mind and choked his heart. He could no longer quietly stand by, as he’d done for days; he was like water about to burst through a breach in a dam. One of the other men pointed at him and said, “Xiangzi, I tell you, you’re like the mute who knows how much he’s eaten but won’t say. Aren’t you, Xiangzi? Come on, tell us.”
Xiangzi jumped to his feet, his face deathly pale, and said, “Step outside and say that. I dare you!”
That stopped them cold. They’d been nipping at him, trying to provoke him, but no one wanted a fight.
The silence was a forest where birds go still when they spy a hawk. As he stood there, taller than the others, Xiangzi sensed his isolation, but now that his anger was up, he believed he could handle them all at the same time, if necessary. “Any takers?” he challenged.
“Come on, Xiangzi,” they said as one, backing down. “We were just having some fun.”
“Sit down, Xiangzi,” said Fourth Master, who happened upon the scene. “As for the rest of you, stop picking on him just because he’s a hard worker. Don’t get me mad or I’ll kick the bunch of you out. Now eat up!”
Xiangzi left the table as the other men picked up their bowls and warily eyed Fourth Master. Munching sounds quickly filled the air; the danger had passed for the birds, whose songs rose again.
Xiangzi crouched down by the gate waiting for someone to come out. If he heard one more snide remark, he would let his fists respond.
He had lost everything, so what the hell!
But the men avoided him as they came out in twos and threes. No fight had materialized, but Xiangzi had vented some of his anger. On second thought, however, he knew that his actions had offended them. Lacking close friends in whom he might confide under normal circumstances, what was he doing making even more enemies? Regret set in as the meal he’d just eaten lay uncomfortably sideways in his stomach. He stood up. To hell with them, he thought. Men who get into fights almost daily and are always one step away from starvation enjoy life, so what is so great about proper behavior anyway? He was beginning to chart a new course for himself, one in direct opposition to that of the old Xiangzi. From now on, he’d start making friends, taking advantage of people whenever he could, drink tea other people paid for, smoke their cigarettes, borrow money with no intention of paying it back, stop making way for cars, piss wherever he wanted, wrangle with the police and not worry if he had to spend a couple of nights in jail. No question about it, that kind of rickshaw man enjoyed life more than he did. All right: since being conscientious, respectable, and ambitious was a waste of time, living like a no-account rascal was not a bad option. Not bad? Hell, it was damn near heroic. Fearing neither heaven nor earth, he’d no longer bow down or suffer in silence. He owed that to himself. Goodness turns a man bad.
Too bad he hadn’t gotten into a fight after all. But there was plenty of time for that.
By putting together all he’d seen and heard, Fourth Master knew pretty much what was going on. No one could throw sand in his eyes. Huniu had played the dutiful daughter the past few days. Why? Because Xiangzi was back! Always following him around with her eyes, a sight that made Fourth Master more miserable than ever. Without a son of his own, he was left with no chance of forging a family, and if she ran off with a man, his life’s work would be wasted. There was nothing wrong with Xiangzi as a man, but he fell short of what a son or a son-in-law ought to be—a stinking rickshaw man! After struggling all his life, fighting when he had to, and enduring torture, he’d be damned if he was going to let a country yokel get away with his daughter and everything he owned as he neared the end of his life. It might happen but not because of him, someone who, even as a boy, could blow a hole in the ground just by farting.
More people came to offer their congratulations at three or four in the afternoon, but by then he had lost his taste for such niceties. The more they complimented him on his health and good fortune, the less it meant to him.
Most of the guests had left for home by the time the lamps were lit, leaving only a dozen or so close friends who lived nearby. A mahjong table was set up. The old fellow gazed out at the empty tent, painted a soft green by the carbide lamps, and at the tables, now missing their tablecloths, and felt utterly desolate, imagining that this is what his funeral would be like: the tent would become a place of mourning, but there would be no dutiful sons or grandsons in mourning attire kneeling before his coffin, nothing but a few casual acquaintances playing mahjong through the night. He felt like sending the few stragglers on their way as a display of his authority while there was still breath in his body. But he didn’t have the heart to take his unhappiness out on friends. So he decided to vent his anger on his daughter, since she was beginning to annoy him. Xiangzi, who was sitting in the tent, struck him as repugnant, his scar looking like a chunk of jade in the lamplight. What a disagreeable couple they made!
On this day, Huniu, who had always been coarse and bad-mannered, savored the role of hostess, in her fine clothes, which earned her the approval of their guests and impressed Xiangzi. She had enjoyed herself all morning, but as the afternoon wore on, exhaustion put her in a foul mood. By that evening, her patience depleted, she could only scowl.
Soon after seven o’clock, Fourth Master could barely keep his eyes open, but he refused to give in to age and go to bed. When his guests invited him to join them in a game of mahjong, he declined, though, insisting that a lack of stamina had nothing to do with it. No, he said, dice games and pai gow were more to his liking, and since his friends did not want to switch, he sat to the side and watched, treating himself to a few more cups of liquor to keep from falling asleep. Over and over he complained that he hadn’t gotten enough to eat and that the cook had been over-paid, considering the poor quality of the food. From there he went on to fault everything that had pleased him that morning: the tent, the furnishings, the cook, none of it worth what it had cost him. He had been taken advantage of, cheated from start to finish.
By then, Mr. Feng the accountant had tallied up the gifts: twenty-five birthday scrolls, three offerings of longevity peaches and noodles, a crock of longevity wine, two pairs of longevity candles, and roughly twenty yuan in gift money. Many had contributed, but most for no more than forty cents or ten silver pennies.
The news made Fourth Master’s blood boil. If he’d known this beforehand, he’d have settled for some fried noodles with greens. The guests had made a fool of him by coughing up ten cents for a meal with three huge bowlfuls of food. He’d never do this again, no more outrageous outlays! Naturally, they’d brought their friends and relatives along for a free meal. A bunch of baboons and bastards had made a fool of a sixty-nine-year-old man who should have known better. Seething in a slow boil, he could kick himself for the very things that had pleased him that morning, and he expressed his feelings with a string of outmoded street epithets.
Since not everyone had left, Huniu decided to restrain her father to spare the stragglers’ feelings. But they were too caught up in their game of mahjong to note the old man’s ranting, so she kept quiet. Let him rant. It’ll soon pass, since they’re ignoring him.
She had not expected him to turn on her. Now, that was going too far! If this was the thanks she got for running around getting things ready for his celebration, she wouldn’t stand for it. He had no right to be unreasonable, whether he was sixty-nine or seventy-nine…or eighty-nine or ninety-nine…