The Boat to Redemption (35 page)

The young woman suddenly appeared by the side of the road, and since the young official’s mind was still on her, after disclosing
his news, he took off after her. Then it dawned on me that he was a college student newly assigned to the General Affairs
Building, specializing in revolutionary history. His astonishing news dumbfounded both Bianjin and me, but I quickly gathered
my senses and shouted at his back, ‘Bullshit!’

Bianjin, who was also watching him, gnashed his teeth and shouted, ‘You’re spreading false rumours!’

Rare though it was for Bianjin and me to see eye to eye, it wasn’t enough to turn a pair of enemies into friends. We both
held our ground, one crouching, the other kneeling, eyeing one another suspiciously, and we were soon at it again, fighting
over the memorial stone and the rope. ‘Stop trying to take this away from me, idiot. Didn’t you hear what he said? Deng Shaoxiang
didn’t have a son, which means my dad has no claim, and neither do you. It’s time to stop daydreaming. You’ve got no right
to block my way, and if you keep it up, I’m going to get rough with you.’

‘I don’t care about that other stuff, but I’ve vowed to protect the memorial stone with my life, and that’s what I’ll do,
even if I lose my head in the process. You want to get rough with me,
well let’s see what you’re made of. Kill me, and you can take the stone, how’s that? But if you can’t do it, then turn yourself
in at the police station.’

‘Don’t push me, idiot,’ I said. ‘I could do that if I wanted, but there’s no glory in killing an idiot.’

He responded by kicking me and running off. Glaring defiantly, he yelled, ‘Come on, hit me! Think I care? Beat me, beat me
to death. I don’t care if I lose my head. They’ll shoot you, and the glory will be mine. I’ll be a martyr.’

I turned to look at the embankment, where the water shimmered in the darkness. But I couldn’t see our barge, and I was reminded
that I’d left Father tied up on my cot, waiting wide-eyed for my return. But instead of returning with what I’d promised,
I was hung up with an idiot on the shore, which enraged me. Raising my fist in the air, the wind brushed against it like kindling
lighting a burning torch.
Beat him, beat him to death, he’s an idiot
,
hit him all you want, stop wasting your time
. The mysterious and sinister sound came on the wind, and made me lose my senses. I knew it was wrong to hit someone in the
face, that when other people fought, they always punched in places that were hard to see. But I made up my mind to hit him
in the face. I grabbed his collar and jerked his head back. He had a flat face with a protruding nose, and that’s where I
aimed. He turned his face, I jerked my hand back, took aim and swung. His nose seemed to explode, sending snot and blood flying.
I turned my head, afraid to look. ‘Idiot,’ I said in spite of myself, ‘your nose is bleeding. Now are you going to get out
of my way or not?’

He had such a solemn look I doubt he even felt the pain. With a look of stern righteousness, he said, ‘No. A bloody nose doesn’t
bother me. I’m not afraid to lose my head over this. Go ahead, hit me again, beat me into martyrdom. Then they’ll shoot you,
a life for a life, and I’m the winner.’

The sight of Bianjin standing there with blood flowing from
his nose nearly had me in tears. The wind returned to my fist, and I heard the sinister voice again.
Hit him, go ahead
.
He’s an orphan, after all, no parents and no friends, kill him and no one will care
. It was a strange, evil voice, forcing me on, making me feel like crying. My fist danced around Bianjin’s face, which was
like a child’s face – dirty, gaunt and innocent. He wore the bleak but inexplicably pure expression common to orphans. My
fist stopped before it smashed into his cheekbone. ‘Oh, to hell with it!’ I said. ‘You’re a pitiful creature, and I can’t
keep hitting you. If I killed you, no one would even claim your body.’

‘You’re done, but I’m not,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘We’ll settle up later. This debt will be paid.’

His threat rekindled the flames and stoked a nameless fire that had smouldered in my heart for eleven years. Hatred and loathing,
old and new, came together in fists that were infused with the power of savage vengeance. ‘We’ll settle up later. This debt
will be paid!’ I roared as my fists rained down on his face. ‘This debt will be paid! You people on the shore owe a debt to
my father and to me. Yes, it will be paid – paid by you. That’s how it will be paid!’

The next thing I heard were Bianjin’s shrieks, ‘My eyes! You hit me in the eyes!’ He was in such a state he’d begun to stammer
slightly. ‘Don’t … don’t hit me in the eyes, don’t do that. Hit me anywhere but my eyes. Kill me, but not my eyes. I can’t
tend my geese if I’m blind. What’ll happen to my geese and my ducks?’

He was covering his eyes with his hands, and I saw trickles of blood seep through his fingers, which snapped me back to my
senses. I unclenched my fists and looked closely at Bianjin, whose aching head hung low. Now, finally, he jumped down off
the stone and, still covering his eyes, began to cry.

In the dim light of the streetlamps I saw someone running towards us with a club. ‘Who’s fighting out there? Fighting around
the piers is not allowed.’ It was the security guard, late as always.
The light glinted off his head; it could only be Baldy Chen, who was a stickler for enforcing the law. Without a word, he
put his truncheon to use, hitting me on the shoulder and Bianjin on the arm. Bianjin dropped his hands and grabbed his own
arm with one of them. He wailed like an abused child. ‘You hit me! Why did you hit me? You’re in charge of security. Can’t
you tell friend from foe?’

Baldy gasped when he saw Bianjin’s bloody face. ‘Did you do this to him, Ku Dongliang? You’re too damned wild for your own
good. Other people bully you, so you bully the idiot, is that it?’ He crouched down to look at Bianjin’s injuries. ‘Look what
you’ve done to his nose,’ he said. ‘This spells big trouble for you, Kongpi. What if it’s broken?’

‘He had it coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll make amends if it’s broken.’

Then Bianjin showed Baldy Chen his eyes. ‘I can’t see,’ he sobbed. ‘He blinded me.’

Baldy lifted the man’s chin with his truncheon to get a closer look at his eyes. Again he gasped. ‘Kongpi, you’ve really done
it this time. You’re worse than the Fascists. How could you do that? What if he really is blind?’

‘He had it coming,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll make amends if he’s blind.’

‘Make amends, make amends! Talk’s cheap. How the hell many eyes do you have to make amends for?’ Baldy took out a filthy handkerchief
to wrap around the idiot’s eyes. ‘What the hell’s got into you, Kongpi?’ he said as he poked me with his truncheon. ‘This
time you’ve gone too far. What are you standing around for, when you should be rushing him to the hospital? If he dies, you’re
done for!’

‘I’m not going to take him. He’s the one who insisted on a life for a life. Besides, neither of our lives is worth a damned
thing. If he dies, I’ll make amends with mine.’

I could no longer hold back my tears. Nor could my body stand the stress. Slowly I fell to my knees in front of the stone,
my face
pressed against its cold surface, which sharply chilled my cheek as if cold water had been poured over it. Whose tears were
they, mine or Deng Shaoxiang’s? The martyr’s spirit was judging me, making its presence known. Overcome with profound regret
for what I’d done to Bianjin, I punished myself for my unconscionable behaviour by slapping myself across the face, which
was hardly sufficient to absolve myself. Self-pity and grief, the likes of which I’d never experienced, filled my heart. I
slapped myself again even harder, as punishment for feeling sorry for myself. Then, like Bianjin, I buried my face in my hands
and wept.

As I wept before the memorial stone, Baldy Chen kept poking me with his truncheon. ‘You’ve got a nerve, crying like that,’
he said. ‘You reduced him to this condition, so you have to take him to hospital, and I mean now. What good does crying do?
You don’t expect me to take him, do you?’

Speaking almost incoherently between sobs, I said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘Are you out of your mind? Look at his injuries. His eyes might not make it till tomorrow.’

He could prod or tug me as much as he liked, but I was staying on my knees. I wasn’t getting up, and through the mist of my
tears I watched Baldy leave with Bianjin for the hospital, followed by a cluster of ducks. The two geese, on the other hand,
stuck around to avenge their guardian. They attacked, one of them going after one of my feet.

Night’s darkness was deepening and the air brought a strange smell to me. Not a fishy odour, nor rotting grass, and definitely
not the smell of chemical fertilizer from Maple Village. Whatever it was, it caught my attention. I stopped crying and sniffed
the air to see where it was coming from. Then I discovered a pool of congealed blood the size of a mulberry leaf between the
fingers of my right hand. And there was blood on my sleeve, a stain the size of a willow leaf. The knees of my trousers were
also stained.
Bianjin’s blood was all over me; no wonder the smell was so strong. I remembered when my father had bled all over the cabin
of our barge, several years before; Bianjin’s blood had a much stronger smell than Father’s. Worrying that the stone might
be spattered with the idiot’s blood, I stood up. I was right. A pool of still-wet blood where his head had rested gave off
a reddish glow. I picked up a sheet of newspaper and, after scrubbing the stone three times, wiped it clean.

Now that they were gone and I had stopped crying, I regained my composure and looked down at the memorial stone lying on the
ground in the moonlight. I wasn’t about to abandon it, but would it abandon me? I got up, grabbed hold of the rope and pulled;
there was a moment of resistance before it started moving again, and it seemed to me as if it had raised its head and had
its sights trained on barge number seven. Then it began to slide along the ground. It was a miracle, a true miracle. Deep
down, I believed that the stone had eyes that I could not see and an unfathomably compassionate heart. I wasn’t stealing it,
I was taking it where it wanted to go; it was determined to meet my father. That had to be a miracle.

I took a look around; the piers were encased in silence. It was like a dream. The searchlight in front of the oil-pumping
station lit up a corner of the embankment wall, allowing me a view of our barge nestled quietly up against the bank. The bank
and the river, the barge and my father were all neatly and quietly immersed in a happy dream. Mustering all my strength, I
dragged the stone towards the river, listening to it slide across the ground: move, keep moving. When I reached our boat,
I looked behind me and saw the piers in their pristine brightness, uncommonly quiet, illuminated in turn by the moonlight
and the searchlight. They had let me pass; the moon was not after me, nor were the searchlight or any people. The stray cat
was there, all alone, slinking back and forth and watching me with its shining eyes.

I had no time to ponder why this night, which had started out with such bitterness, had ended so sweetly, why luck had been
with me in the end, for I now had a problem. How was I going to move such a heavy object on to the boat? Our gangplank wasn’t
up to the task, and I couldn’t borrow anyone else’s. Now what? Could I make a ladder out of bamboo? As I anxiously considered
tactics for moving heavy objects, I shouted out happily, a note of triumph in my voice, ‘Dad, I’m back! I’m home! Come and
see what I’ve brought you!’

M
Y GREATEST
regret during the eleven years I spent on the river was tying my father up. I still recall that night. ‘Easy,’ he said as
I worked to loosen the ropes. A rare expression of fatherly concern emanated from his weary, bloodshot eyes. He’d forgiven
me. I led him to the gangplank to show him the memorial stone I’d left on the riverbank. Holding on to my clothes, he followed
me on shaky legs, like an obedient son. Fear, I knew, was one of the reasons, but the sight of Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial lit
up his soul, as if the light of a nameless deity shone down on it. All his misgivings and fear fell away. ‘Good,’ he said
with a smile. ‘Wonderful. You’ve brought your grandmother home.’

To get the stone up on to the barge, I’d need to use one of the cranes, and this was the perfect time, since there was no
one around. I climbed into the cab of one of them by removing a window, and though I had no experience of operating the machine,
the instrument panel seemed almost magically familiar that night, and everything went without a hitch. The crane picked up
the stone and, after one uncontrolled and somewhat dangerous swing, lowered it on to the bow, where Father helped me bring
it down. ‘Careful now, be careful.’ The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me
or to the stone.

I’d brought a heavy gift home to Father and he accepted it happily.

Father wanted the stone up next to the sofa in the cabin, facing aft. But the door was too narrow, which disappointed him,
though we gave it our all, with me pushing and him giving directions. So, with the stone halfway in and halfway out of the
cabin, he sat next to it, stroking it lovingly. ‘You’ll just have to stay here,’ he said, ‘which is actually better, since
the cabin is stuffy. The air out here is better, and so is the scenery. This way you can enjoy the sights of the river, Mama.’

By then it was very late. The freshly washed moon shone down on the Golden Sparrow River. I lit all four of our lanterns and
hung them strategically to shine their warm light on Father and his martyr’s stone. After gazing at the inscription for a
long while, he said he wanted to see the relief image on the back. So I mustered up the strength to turn it around for him.
‘Gone!’ he shouted in alarm. ‘I’m gone!’

That gave me such a fright I didn’t know what to do. Again he said, ‘I’m gone, I’m gone!’ His hand rested forlornly on the
carved basket, shaking uncontrollably. As soon as I went over to look I knew what had happened: the infant’s head was missing
from the top of the basket.

‘How can it be empty? My little head, where did it go?’

‘Dad, you must be seeing things. How could something carved in stone be missing?’ Flustered, I grabbed one of the lanterns
to get a better look, and what I saw flabbergasted me. The basket carved in the stone showed up clearly in the light, but
the head of the infant that had once been there was now gone.

‘They’ve wiped me out,’ Father said. ‘My birthmark’s gone, and now so is my head.’

Even when I examined the carving closely, I saw no signs that it had been altered, nothing that would lead me to believe that
human hands had done this. But when I traced the area with my
finger I felt a slight outcropping above the basket where the head had once been. The spot was cold to the touch. ‘Dad,’ I
said, ‘touch it here. You can feel the little round head with your finger.’

He’d already turned away in despair to gaze at the river. So I took his hand and traced his finger over the raised carving.
‘You can feel it,’ I repeated. ‘It’s still there.’

He closed his eyes and let me move his finger around; after a moment, he covered the spot with his hand and gently rubbed
the barely distinct little head. ‘Is that all that’s left? Is it really my head? I don’t think so,’ he mumbled as a shadowy
fear came over his face. ‘It’s not me. I’m no longer there. I only left the shore eleven years ago, and not even calligraphy
in ink should fade away in that short a time. That little head in the basket, how did it just disappear?’

His hand slid weakly down the memorial stone and rested on his knee, still shaking. A damp pale light seemed etched on that
hand. He shut his eyes; he’d grown tired, and I thought he should rest. ‘Dad,’ I said as I tried to get him to stand, ‘we
can’t see it in the dark. We’ll try again tomorrow in the daylight. It’s late. You need your sleep.’ But he lay his head against
the stone and left it there. ‘Don’t do that, Dad,’ I said as I tried to pull him back. ‘It’s too cold, you’ll come down with
something.’

When he looked up at me I saw tears criss-crossing his face. ‘I heard it,’ he said. ‘I heard your grandmother’s voice. I no
longer blame Zhao Chuntang. Your grandmother doesn’t like me, I heard her. Eleven years trying to reform myself, all wasted.
I’ve failed to earn your grandmother’s forgiveness. She doesn’t want me.’

I wrapped my arms around his emaciated form; it was like a decaying tree trunk that had stubbornly warded off the elements
for eleven years, only to topple during a storm. I desperately wanted to comfort him, but tears were filling my eyes and I
was so choked up I couldn’t say anything. And when I read the words ‘Martyred Deng Shaoxiang Lives Forever in Our Hearts’
I was
suddenly fearful. I’d worked so hard to bring the memorial stone aboard our boat, but had it brought Father happiness or a
crushing defeat?

Pale morning light was beginning to show through the darkness at the far end of the Golden Sparrow River. As I glanced at
sleepy Milltown I ran to the bow, knowing that dawn would bring people to the piers and that the memorial stone would no longer
belong to Father and me. My first thought was to go aft, weigh anchor at once and take the stone away from Milltown. My strength
returned as I worked on getting under way, all was normal. But when I ran back up to the bow to take in the hawsers tying
us to the pier, my hands became weak and I had trouble keeping my eyes open. The lack of sleep had suddenly caught up to me.
I lay down on the deck and fell asleep.

Father came up and shook me. ‘We can’t run away,’ he said. ‘There’s no place for us, even if we run to the ends of the earth.’

I got up and, in a daze, went back to the hawsers. ‘We’ll go out on the river, that’s where we belong.’

‘The river isn’t ours,’ he said. ‘Even this boat isn’t ours. We’re not going anywhere, we’re staying here. Go and get some
sleep, Dongliang. I’ll keep watch over the memorial.’

I knew there was no sense in arguing with him, and I was in no condition to fight the weariness that had come over me. Father
nudged me into the cabin. Eleven years it had taken for me to finally luxuriate in the loving care of my father. He made up
the cot and covered me with an old blanket, leaving a small corner open for me, and I vaguely sensed that this was what it
would feel like to be wrapped in his arms, arms that had been closed to me for so long. At first the blanket felt strangely
prickly, but that gave way to warmth, as if I was in the embrace of Father’s affection. I wanted him to get some sleep as
well, but I was too tired to resist; I fell asleep almost immediately.

As dawn was breaking I was in the middle of a dream about
the river and our boat. I could hear the churning of the water off the fantail, creating transparent bubbles. Our anchor was
banging against the hull – once, twice, three times – and in the wake caused by our passage, an old-fashioned woman appeared,
translucent pearls of water dripping from her hair, which was cut short; drops of water shimmered on her face, and the same
secret message emerged from her reddened lips:
Come down, come down, come down now
. The fact that I was dreaming did nothing to lessen the reverence I felt towards her. I held my breath so I could hear her
clearly:
Come down, come down, come down now
. The martyr was holding on to the swaying anchor, which caused the barge to roll from side to side.
Come down, come down, come down now
. She was so close I could see moss growing on the backs of her hands. I stared in awe at her face and at her hair as it swished
back and forth above her ears. Watery pearls fell into the river and revealed the anxious face of a mother.
Come down
, she said,
come down. You can both be saved
.

That startled me awake. The cabin was suffused with soft blue early-morning light. Day was breaking. I got up and went to
the door to look outside. Father was still keeping watch over the memorial stone. Two of the lanterns hanging from the canopy
had gone out. As I went on deck I was hit by the potent fishy smell of Father’s body. His head was resting against the stone,
a homemade plywood chessboard on his knees. A few of the chess men remained on the board; the rest were scattered on the deck
around him.

Father was half asleep, his forehead furrowed with shadows whose origins were a mystery. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, ‘can you hear
that strange sound coming from the river?’

I didn’t dare tell him about my dream. ‘Your hearing isn’t as good as it once was, Dad,’ I said. ‘That’s the anchor hitting
the hull.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘not the anchor. Actually, it’s not really so strange. The river is saying,
Come down, come down
.’

I lifted him to his feet to force him to go inside, but he pushed me away. ‘There’s no time to sleep, they’ll be here soon.’
He pointed to the shore, where people were beginning to stir. An odd smile floated on to his face. ‘The sun’s out, and they’ll
be here soon. The battle over the memorial stone is about to start.’

I was puzzled by his casual tone and his smile, and wondered if he had passed a sleepless night reminiscing or planning for
what was to come. Daylight filled the sky, and the piers were waking up. The PA system crackled to life, blaring a choral
work that extolled the virtues of the labouring masses. ‘We workers have power as we work, day and night.’ From the mountain
of coal to the oil-pumping station, machinery that had slept through the night awakened, motors roaring. Cranes in the dock
area creaked and moaned as their arms limbered up, skip cars emptied their loads of bags of cement, which thudded on to the
open ground, sending sand up into the air, only to settle to the ground like falling rain. Chunks of coal complained shrilly,
like the shrieks of women, as they landed, while boulders roared like rocky avalanches. I saw a strange tubular oil tower,
formed, thanks to the morning light, into what appeared to be a blue metal stage. Birds circled it. Why, I didn’t know, but
flocks of sparrows had flown over Maple Village, on the far side of the river, and brazenly gathered on top of the tent, where
they filled the air with a chorus of mysterious, shrill cries, competing with the PA system.

They came, just as he’d said.

Four men were the first to arrive: Wang Xiaogai, Scabby Five and Baldy Chen of the security group appeared on the embankment,
along with the head of the Milltown police department, all of them looking very businesslike. I saw that Baldy was holding
his rifle, a glinting bayonet in place. Without a second thought, I ran over and pulled up the gangplank. Scabby Five saw
what I was doing and dashed up, but found nothing but empty air. ‘Kongpi,’ he growled, ‘where did you get the guts to
steal Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial stone? Why the fuck don’t you go to Tiananmen Square and steal the Monument to the People’s
Heroes?’

No time to reply. I picked up our axe and attacked the mooring hawser. Running away is always the best strategy; we had to
get the boat away from the pier. ‘Dad,’ I shouted towards the canopy, ‘we have to get out on the river!’ Then I grabbed our
punting pole, which we hadn’t used in years – with no tugboat, that was our only means of getting going. We moved four or
five metres away from the pier under the helpless stares of the four men, who began arguing about how to get on our boat.
Scabby Five, first again, took off his shoes and rolled up his trouser legs, planning to wade over to us. ‘Damn, this water’s
cold!’ he groused. ‘And where did those little whirlpools come from?’

‘Don’t talk like an idiot,’ Wang Xiaogai said. ‘How can there be whirlpools so close to shore? You ought to be brave enough
to walk in water that shallow.’

But Scabby Five was having none of it. ‘It’s cold and it’s deep,’ he said, ‘and the air pump is sucking my legs down. You’re
the leader of this group, the one who’s supposed to be so brave, why don’t you come down here?’

Xiaogai, not about to take the bait and having no luck with Scabby Five, turned his attention to Baldy Chen. ‘That’s a rifle
you’ve got, not a fishing pole, so shoot.’

If I hadn’t been afraid before, I was now. I crouched down and waited. Nothing happened. Then I heard Baldy say, ‘Shoot what?
You need bullets for that, and they wouldn’t give me any.’

‘Kongpi! What a stupid arsehole! Go on, try to run away,’ Xiaogai shouted to me. ‘The river won’t help you. The Golden Sparrow
doesn’t belong to you, and how far do you think you’ll get with a punting pole? You could punt all day and still be in Milltown’s
waters. Even punting for a whole month and getting off the Golden Sparrow won’t do you any good. One phone call to
alert the emergency defence forces, and you’ll fall into our hands. But go ahead, try, maybe you’ll make it to the Pacific
Ocean! But not to the Atlantic. Or maybe you’ll reach the shores of the American imperialists. Well, so what? We’ll fire a
missile and wipe you off the face of the earth!’

Police Chief Xiao remained calm the whole time. He knew what to do. Rolling up a magazine to serve as a makeshift megaphone,
he stood on the riverbank and shouted, ‘Barge number seven, Father and Son Ku, be warned. Seizing a revolutionary historical
relic is a crime. If you don’t want to be guilty of a crime, come back to shore. Turn back and the shore is at hand.’

We weren’t about to turn back, because the shore was theirs, not ours. The battle for the memorial had begun. I felt a great
sense of urgency. For all my eleven years on the water we’d plied the river behind a tug boat, and punting was something I’d
never done. But I tried my best, pushing with all my might until I was bent over the fantail, and then walking towards the
prow. That’s how other people did it. But the barge refused to cooperate. When I walked, it stayed stubbornly where it was,
lying perpendicular to the shore and trying my patience. ‘Go over to the starboard side!’ Father yelled. ‘Get over there!’
I dragged the pole over to the starboard side, but unfortunately that didn’t work either. Father, who didn’t know a thing
about punting, was giving me useless commands. Then the boat began to move – floating back towards the shore! ‘Now go back
to the port side!’ he shouted. So there I was, running helter-skelter from port to starboard, to the uproarious delight of
the men on shore.