The Boat to Redemption (31 page)

‘You’ve never offended me,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking that you know everything about someone except what’s
in his heart. On the surface you look all right, so how could you have such a filthy mind?’

I just stared at her, stunned by her comment. ‘What do you mean, a filthy mind?’

She brushed some dust off her sleeve and said, ‘I don’t have an appetite for such things. Why do I need to tell you what you’ve
done?’ Seeing the blank look on my face, she sneered, ‘Don’t act
dumb with me. Do I have to remind you what you did to Little Tiemei in the barbershop?’

Now I understood. A frightful rumour about me had already begun to spread, thanks to Wang Xiaogai – the guilty one taking
a bite out of the victim. I stood there in front of the oil-pumping station in a daze, so angry my limbs felt cold. Li Juhua’s
words buzzed in my ears. ‘Go ahead, be as decadent as you want, it’s none of my business. You and I have nothing in common,
and I don’t care if you wind up in prison.’

I had no desire to engage Li Juhua in a debate about the false accusation. Instead, I headed angrily to the security-group
office to settle scores with Xiaogai. But when I got there, I could see through the window that he was out; Baldy Chen and
Scabby Five were in the cluttered office playing a game of chess, head to head and cursing up a storm. A blackboard on the
wall above them read: ‘Current security situation report.’ My name appeared below the heading: ‘Ku Dongliang of the Sunnyside
Fleet took liberties with a woman at the People’s Barbershop.’ The sight of those scrawled words nearly blew the top off my
head. Ignoring the door, I pushed open the window and all but jumped through it. ‘Erase that!’ I shouted. ‘Erase my name!’

Jerking their heads up, they both screamed. Wasting no time, Scabby Five picked his truncheon up off the table and dashed
over to me. ‘Well, Kongpi, we don’t have the time to take care of you, so you are on your own!’

I flung my quilt stuffing at Wulaizi, but he ducked, and Baldy Chen rushed up. He was holding a rifle with a glinting bayonet
fixed to the barrel. Blinking ferociously, he charged at me. I jumped down off the window ledge and ran all the way to the
cotton warehouse, where I stopped and looked back to see Baldy Chen and Scabby Five in the doorway, yelling something I couldn’t
hear. Maybe they had decided not to chase me so they could continue with their game of chess. After a quick survey of
my surroundings, I picked up an enamel tea cup left on a stool by the gate watchman and took a drink, then wiped my face with
a tattered towel. Since I couldn’t hang around here, I decided to go to the chess pavilion.

The area around the pavilion was like a black-market communication hub, where oil truckers pulled off the highway to unload
and rest and pick up hitchhikers, taking them as far as Horsebridge or Wufu for fifty or sixty cents. It was an open secret.

I went up to the pavilion, my first visit in years, and was shocked by what I saw. The hexagonal structure now had only three
sides, the swallow-tail eaves were gone, and striped plastic sheeting was wrapped around the six stone pillars, their tips
peeking through the top to remind passers-by that this had once been Milltown’s grandest spot. This was possibly the most
significant event on the banks of the river, and I knew nothing about it. Who was responsible? It had to be Zhao Chuntang.
But why? My attention shifted from the pavilion to a slovenly worker crouching on the ground drinking tea and eating a steamed
bun; a sledgehammer lay at his feet. I ran over to confront him.

‘Who authorized you to tear down the pavilion? Was it Zhao Chuntang?’ In between bites, he said, ‘It’s not my call, and not
Zhao Chuntang’s. The order came from above.’

‘Why would anyone want to tear it down?’ I asked.

‘This is valuable property,’ he said, and I hear they’re going to build a car park. There are so many vehicles in Milltown
these days – oil trucks, agricultural transports, even military vehicles – so parking is at a premium.’

‘What’s more important,’ I demanded, ‘a car park or a memorial to a revolutionary martyr?’ It was a delicate question, but
I was asking the wrong person. So I softened my tone and asked, ‘What about the memorial stone? Where did they tell you to
move it to?’

‘It’s only a stone marker,’ he said, ‘and a tomb with some personal effects. Easy to move. I’m told it’s going to the revolutionary
museum in Phoenix.’

My distress mystified the worker. He looked me over carefully, taking in my bag, my clothes and my leather shoes, but he couldn’t
figure out who I might be. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

I nearly blurted out, ‘I’m the martyr Deng Shaoxiang’s grandson!’ But I bit my tongue. The river flows east for thirty years,
then west for thirty more. Now I couldn’t say whose grandson I was. With a sigh I said, ‘I’m nobody, nobody at all. Just a
rank-and-file citizen. I was curious, that’s all.’

‘After raising such a stink, now you tell me.’ The worker breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Why’d you get so angry with me? We’re
both rank-and-file citizens, so you shouldn’t be asking me questions like that. Go and ask one of the big shots.’

He was right, this was a matter for the big shots. That excluded me, and I had no reason to make trouble for an ordinary worker.
I walked back to the pavilion and pulled back part of the plastic to look inside. The smell of alcohol hit me in the face.
The man wasn’t alone. Two other workers were asleep on the floor. The remains of a meal lay on an old newspaper, and a pair
of geese were picking their way through the lunch boxes and drink bottles. Then I caught sight of a man watching the geese
– it was the idiot Bianjin, sitting in a corner, holding a baby goose in his arms as he gnawed on a pig’s foot.

The sight of Bianjin called to mind his backside, and that reminded me of my father’s backside, with its fish-shaped birthmark.
He had to contend for his birthright with an idiot, a bizarre struggle that had gone on for years and that could only be classified
as humiliation. I had no interest in being around Bianjin. My fear of being subjected to comparative scrutiny was like a conditioned
reflex. There were plenty of muddle-headed
people on the shore and on the barges who would be thrilled at the prospect of discussing our relative appearance and bloodlines
if they saw me together with Bianjin. Who were the real descendants of Deng Shaoxiang – Ku Wenxuan and his son, or the idiot
Bianjin? Most of the boat people leaned towards us, while people on the shore tended to favour the underdog by insisting that
the idiot’s birthmark more closely resembled a fish. And there were even people who passionately argued that they’d prefer
an idiot to be the martyr’s descendant than the degenerate Ku Wenxuan, who would smear the legacy of Deng Shaoxiang.

I stood outside the pavilion observing Bianjin, while several townspeople watched me from a nearby tea stall. The sight of
me and the idiot in the same place had them virtually jumping for joy. ‘Look!’ they said. ‘There’s the idiot, and there’s
Ku Dongliang!’ They were all talking at once, the topic of discussion, believe it or not, my backside. Some of them were unable
to contain their desire to have a peek; their eyes were nearly burning a hole in the seat of my pants. Baldy Chen’s cousin,
Four-Eyes Chen, who wore glasses, appeared to be cultured and educated, but he came up, grabbed my arm and made a presumptuous
request: ‘Ku Dongliang, your father never comes down off his barge, so his backside is off limits. Why don’t you show what
you’re made of by dropping your pants and letting us compare your birthmark with the idiot’s? That way the masses can fairly
judge whether you are Deng Shaoxiang’s grandson.’

Four-Eyes was courting disaster. He was no match for me in an argument or in a fight, but I had no desire to get tangled up
with this bunch. ‘Get the hell out of here, Four-Eyes, and send your wife over. I’ll give her a look, front and back. She
can tell you what she sees.’ My parting shot. A foreboding chill swirling in the early-evening air above Milltown gave me
the feeling that this was not the place for me. I had to leave, and leave fast.

A number of oil transports were parked by the side of the road, one of which had just started up. The driver, assuming I was
looking for a ride, waved at me from the cab. ‘Where you headed? Hurry up, jump in.’ I ran over and jumped on to the running
board. ‘I’m going to Xingfu,’ the driver said. ‘I can drop you off on the way if that’s where you’re headed. It’ll cost you
fifty cents.’

I didn’t know exactly where Xingfu was, whether it was a rural village or a market town. But so what! Xingfu – Happiness –
a nice name. ‘Xingfu it is. Let’s go.’

The driver opened the passenger door and stretched out his hand. ‘Fifty cents, up front.’

I was digging in my pocket for the money when a strange voice whistled past my ear. There was a commotion at the intersection,
with several people calling my name. ‘Stay there, Ku Dongliang! Don’t leave, don’t go anywhere!’ Some kids who’d come running
over from the Sunnyside Fleet were calling my name, and they surrounded me like a swarm of hornets. One of them wrapped his
arms around my legs, another grabbed my bag. Xiaofu stamped his foot and yelled at me, ‘Ku Dongliang, while you’ve been having
a carefree time out here, your dad swallowed some pesticide. They’ve taken him to hospital.’

I had a dim image of Baldy Chen and his rifle, a delayed bullet emerging from the barrel and hitting me in the chest, the
bad news arriving mercilessly. I shuddered, jumped down off the running board and ran as fast as I could towards the hospital,
arms flailing. I thought I was flying down the road, but then my hip started aching, my legs felt rubbery and I started gasping
for breath. I slowed down in spite of myself.

Xiaofu, who was off to my left, yelled, ‘Come on, run! Your dad’s in hospital fighting for his life, and you’re moving like
a fat old pig.’

Chungeng, to my right, joined in. ‘It’s all your fault. A real man
has the guts to take the heat for what he’s done. What kind of man are you? Are you scared now? You drove your own dad to
suicide, but you’re like a turtle that pulls in its head. A turtle runs faster than you!’

Six-Fingers Wang’s youngest daughter, Little Four, was urging me on from behind by smacking my rear end with a switch, as
if she was whipping a horse. ‘Get moving!’ she said. ‘You have to do something to atone for your crimes.’ She was panting
and cursing at the same time. ‘Ku Dongliang, no matter what you think of him, he’s still your dad. People only have one father
and one mother, and when they’re gone, they’re gone. But you abandoned your dad and ran off! If my mother hadn’t swallowed
pesticide once and my father didn’t have such a good nose, your dad would have died in his cabin without anybody knowing anything
about it.’

Her words hit me hard. I was crying like a baby as I ran. Those kids had never seen me cry, and it stopped them in their tracks.
I covered my face with my hands so they wouldn’t see my tears. They thought it was their scolding and pressure that had brought
on the tears, so they stopped. ‘Don’t cry,’ Little Four said, ‘we won’t say any more. So you were wrong this time. Next time
you’ll do better.’

With a frown, Chungeng said, ‘What good does it do to cry? The harder you cry, the slower you run.’

People out on the street gaped curiously at this contingent on the run. ‘Hey!’ they said. ‘What’s the hurry? Has someone in
the fleet died?’

‘People are dying in town all the time,’ Little Four shrieked, ‘but not in the fleet.’

Xiaofu shoved the busybodies out of the way as he pushed me along. ‘What business is it of yours if we run? Go ahead, get
an eyeful, we’re training for a long-distance race. Haven’t you ever seen one of those?’

Desheng and Sun Ximing’s wives were waiting for me at the hospital entrance. They exchanged relieved looks. ‘Dongliang, you
didn’t leave after all, that’s good,’ one of them said.

‘My Xiaofu knows how to get things done,’ said the other. ‘He managed to bring Dongliang here.’

I was on the verge of collapse. ‘My dad, is he OK?’ I managed to shout before falling at their feet. I couldn’t stand up;
I felt the women try to pull me to my feet by my arms. I didn’t resist, but my body and my soul lay fearfully on the ground,
refusing to get up. I was shaking uncontrollably.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Desheng’s wife said. ‘Your dad’s going to be OK. He’s got us to take care of him. Now stand
up, come on, stand up.’

But Sun Ximing’s wife kept pointing to my head and giving me a good scolding. ‘Now you know what it means to be afraid. Why
didn’t you listen to us earlier? It’s OK not to trust the people on the shore, but have you stopped trusting us too? You call
yourself a rebel. Well, you nearly rebelled your father to death!’

They walked me into the hospital’s intensive-care unit. I have no recollection of the hospital’s layout or facilities, but
I’ll never forget the smell of the room he was in. It stank of dirty feet and blood, along with the acrid smell of iodine
and the aroma of food. Father had forced me into a relationship with that place: the first time as a result of his severed
penis, and this time in an effort to save his life. I couldn’t escape a measure of responsibility for either. Standing in
the doorway, I suddenly felt as if my stomach was about to betray me. Afraid that I was going to throw up, I crouched down
in front of a spittoon.

‘What’s wrong with you, Dongliang?’ Sun’s wife said. ‘Your father’s lying there in the corner, what are you doing down there?’

I rubbed my belly. ‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘wait a minute.’

When she saw my ashen face, Desheng’s wife said, ‘Yes, let’s
wait a minute. He looks as if he’s going to throw up, probably from hunger, or fright.’

I strained to raise my head from the spittoon to search for Father. Most of the beds in Intensive Care were occupied. He was
lying on a bench in the corner, surrounded by oxygen tanks, IV racks and lots of people. It was obvious that his condition
was critical from the way two nurses were bouncing around beside him and the doctor was pumping his stomach. It looked like
a slaughterhouse or meat-processing plant. Father was a feeble but stubborn old ox that refused to be led to the slaughter,
and was upsetting the nurses.