The Dragon's Village: An Autobiographical Novel of Revolutionary China (30 page)

“Pian-er gruel with green onions.”

“Pian-er gruel?” I could hardly believe my ears.

Xiu-ying nestled her face to mine as though she had some secret to break to me. “Tomorrow we will have onions in the pian-er gruel. Mother exchanged an egg for them. And the pian-er will be made of flour, only flour. Now you can start reading.”

I read to her so solicitously that it must have sunk deep into her consciousness, so deep that it left no trace.

It was already late, but Xiu-ying's mother was still puttering around preparing the election feast. Her father sat dozing, rhythmically heaving deep grunts.

“Why will we eat chicken this New Year's Day?” Xiu-ying's brother asked him.

“What New Year's Day? The New Year Festival was over a long time ago,” he roared.

“Who will eat the chicken then?”

The answer was a resounding slap. Then silence.

In the middle of the night, Xiu-ying shook me and asked, “Is it day yet?”

“No.” I pointed my flashlight at my watch. “It's still a few hours away. Try and get some sleep.”

“Do you think I'll get elected?” Her bright eyes shone through the darkness and were fixed intently on my face.

“I do.”

“Do you think my acceptance speech will be a success?”

“I do.”

“I'm not sure. So many eyes will be staring at me. My heart will beat so hard.” She raised up her smiling face as she imagined the scene. She looked younger, childlike, in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. She saw herself on the platform, speaking like a cadre. The people were listening attentively.

“If you don't get enough sleep, you will be too tired to do a good job,” I admonished her.

“I'll be scared to death even before I open my mouth,” she wailed.

“Right now, we must go to sleep.” My words fell on deaf ears.

She pushed her pillow aside, then cried in dismay, “I can't find my speech.” She snatched up her jacket lying folded on the edge of the kang. She turned every pocket inside out.

“Here it is under my pillow,” I said in a deliberately unhurried manner.

“You hid it! You're so wicked. This is how I'll handle you!” And she tickled my ribs. We scuffled and rolled over, giggling. Her father gave a warning cough, dry and hoarse. I pressed my lips with my finger, shaking my head at her. She nodded in agreement. We lay down. She put her hands under her head as a pillow.

She was quiet for a while. I hoped she had dozed off, but she soon continued thinking aloud.

“You know, sometimes I wish I could be elected, but sometimes I don't want to be. Even now, though I'm only an activist, the other women want me to do what they themselves would like to do if only they dared. When I become a cadre they will ask even more of me! Can I live up to their expectations?”

She paused again. I was drifting off to sleep. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “Can I?”

“Let's discuss that tomorrow,” I murmured drowsily.

“Tomorrow—tomorrow, can I speak as well as you cadres
do?” She covered her face with her hands, looking timidly through her fingers at me.

“Xiu-ying, I'm not any different or more intelligent than you; I've just had a bit more experience.” The irony of my words escaped her. “Actually soon you'll be speaking just like the rest of us. But not unless you go to sleep now!” And with that, no more was said.

In the morning, Xiu-ying was the first to get up; she looked as if she'd gotten no sleep at all. She didn't even mention her speech, but she silently helped her mother do the housework. Sometimes she stopped in the middle of a movement, blankly staring forward.

“Silly girl, why are you in a daze?” As if her mother didn't know the cause!

Xiu-ying looked to the left and right.

“What are you looking for?” inquired her mother, puzzled.

With her head inclined to her shoulder, frowning as if lost in thought, Xiu-ying said, “The sun is high now.” Then she turned away abruptly and went into her room.

I found her there a few minutes later sprawled on her stomach on the kang, her cheeks supported by her hands, her speech propped up in front of her eyes.

At mealtime, Xiu-ying's mother told her, “Go sit with your father!”

Instead Xiu-ying edged towards the kang but didn't get onto it. She stood there fidgeting, avoiding her father's eye. In a well-ordered home only men could sit at table to be waited upon.

When all the dishes were on the table, she joined us but ate mechanically whatever her mother put into her bowl. She drank the pian-er gruel without noticing what it was. Only when she saw the chicken thigh, supposedly the best part of the bird, placed before her did she start in surprise.

“I want a thigh,” her small brother cried, stretching out his hand. He had always shared the chicken thighs with his father. They, the men, were the only ones in the family so privileged.

His mother pinched his ear. He squealed.

“Take this one,” the old man interceded, passing the chicken leg in his bowl to his son.

“Father, take this,” Xiu-ying said, proffering the leg from her bowl with her chopsticks.

“Do you think your father will snatch food from out of your mouth?” the old man asked in a gruff voice.

We all watched Xiu-ying as she ate the precious chicken leg. She swallowed it without tasting it. But no matter, it would work its magic anyway.

Just as we were about to leave, she sat down flushed as though she were going to faint.

“You go ahead,” she told her parents and brother.

I sat beside her and took her hands in mine.

“Have they gone far enough?” she asked.

“Yes, they are well down the road.”

We walked down the village road, hand in hand. Her hand felt damp in mine. I could feel the turmoil in her heart.

The election was to be held in the large walled courtyard where, from time immemorial, theatrical performances had been given in the open air. By common consent and convenience this had become the center of the new political life of the village. Apart from the open fields, it was the only place in which all the people could gather together. It was already crowded when we arrived. People sat on stools or benches they had brought with them or cross-legged on the ground. A few hunkered down in circles, chatting. Some stood with their backs leaning against the wall. Men smoked their pipes, argued about the candidates, or talked farming. Women gossiped, sewed, stitched cloth soles, plaited cushions of straw, and kept the children in order. Now and then someone burst out laughing, shouted to a neighbor at the top of his voice, or a child screamed and hollered. As the crowd grew so did the hubbub. The villagers took this as a gala occasion and behaved as unconstrainedly as they would have done at a performance of an opera.

From time to time we glanced at the stage to see if there were any sign of the proceedings starting. The platform was covered by a pavilion roof with up-curving eaves supported on two columns and the back wall; today it was gay with red bunting, branches of evergreen, and fresh slogans. Down each column, whitewashed characters on red cotton spelled out “Down with feudalism!” and “Long live the land reform!” The banner over the top of the stage read “Long live the People's Government!” In the middle, at the back of the stage, hung a large picture of Mao Ze-dong. Fifteen stools were placed along the front of the stage. Behind them were fifteen large eating bowls on a trestle table.

Nothing ever started on time in Longxiang. Only the landlords had clocks; only the cadres had watches. Everyone else told the time by the sun or the stars. As time went by, children got tired of sitting still and began to play hide-and-seek, running through the crowd. Some fought. Their mothers dragged them away by the ears. Attracted by the brightly colored paper, children set to tearing off the yard-long slogans which we had spent days composing and writing and pasting on the walls. This was too much for me and I too began to shout and run after them, adding to the ever-growing noise and confusion.

When they caught sight of Xiu-ying standing in a corner near the stage, several young women shot her curious glances and whispered their comments. Xiu-ying pretended not to notice.

“Here comes the bride,” a band of children cried, pointing at Xiu-ying's red head scarf, clapping their hands and stamping their feet with mischievous joy. The smallest toddlers shrilly took up the cry, not knowing what it meant but thoroughly enjoying the racket. Xiu-ying blushed and made a start to run away. I grabbed her arm and led her to another part of the compound. But the little rascals nudged each other and followed us. They stood right under Xiu-ying's nose, making faces and stretching their arms and legs sideways and backwards like little clowns. Xiu-ying's brother, a brash seven-year-old, took it
upon himself to drive them away. He stood beside his sister, puffed up with pride, his eyes glaring and roving around belligerently to catch would-be troublemakers.

I had done my part by leading in the only woman candidate. Malvolio Cheng had to lead in the men candidates who had gathered at the township office, but they were late. The sun mounted high in the sky and began to dip. It was well past midday. A few women grew impatient, rose to their feet, and dusted off their trousers.

“My hen will soon lay her egg. If I don't put it away in time, it'll be stolen either by the rats or the kids,” someone proclaimed. “I'd better go home.”

“I should go home too,” said another. “The wall of our courtyard collapsed more than a year ago. There's a gap there big enough for a cart to drive through. Every day that lousy son of mine promises to repair it, but he still hasn't started on it. When it comes to helping other people, he always has time. When I ask him to do something for me, he's always too busy to do it. I must see to it that that goat next door doesn't get into our yard.” A middle-aged woman rose to her feet and began to walk away.

“The sun is so bright,” said another woman, shielding her eyes with her hand as she looked up pointedly at the sky. “I have to take a look at those turnip tops drying on the roof. I'm making pickles, dried turnip top pickles. If they get too dry, they'll be leathery. My kids eat them like locusts. Poor kids. I hope one day I'll have enough money so I don't have to sell the turnips and can keep them for my children.”

Some really did have work to attend to, but we knew others just had no intention of voting; they came to the election just to show their good will. Voting meant choosing, taking sides, something they had no wish to do. Xiu-ying as a candidate could do nothing about this, but I and other girl activists busied ourselves trying to persuade the waverers to stay.

“The election will soon begin. Nobody move!” Tu had scrambled onto the stage and was now shouting like a bandit at a holdup. However, most turned a deaf ear both
to him and to us. They walked their own way leisurely towards the gate. The more people noticed their departure, they thought, the better.

Fortunately the fourteen men candidates, including Shen, now arrived in a crowd. Shepherded by Cheng, they took their seats on the stage, facing the voters. Some looked self-conscious; some assumed an unconvincing air of nonchalance. I led Xiu-ying to the central stool. Sitting there with her flushed cheeks and her red head scarf she certainly caught one's eye.

A leading district cadre took the stage. He had a small, round face, and looked more like a child wearing false whiskers than an overworked adult who had not shaved for days. He was known as a good conversationalist and could talk with a city man or a farmer. With his aplomb and happy nature he had no difficulty making instant friends. He had become a popular character in the hamlets of the district, which was why our work team had asked him to help us at the election.

“Comrades!” He coughed in order to clear his throat and attract attention. Then he repeated with more solemnity, “Comrades!”

“Who is Comrades?” An old woman, perplexed and a little deaf, spoke loudly and querulously.

“You are,” the old man beside her answered knowingly.

“My name is not Comrades,” said she.

“We are all comrades now.”

This needed thinking over. The old woman lapsed into befuddled silence.

“… Here sit fifteen candidates for our People's Council. We all know them.” The district cadre named them, pointing each one out in turn. “We will elect seven of them to represent us. They must do a good job for us. At this time, when we are carrying out the land reform, this is a very special and important occasion. The future is in your hands now. Walk up here on the stage behind the candidates. You will be given seven beans. Put your beans in the bowls of the candidates you wish to elect. Every bean counts as one vote.”

There was a surge to the steps up to the platform.

“How come I have only seven beans?” said a woman who was breast-feeding her baby. She turned to the child tagging along at her side. “Did you eat some? Open your mouth. Let me see.”

“They gave me only seven beans.” The woman next in line wet her thumb and forefinger with her tongue and rubbed together the ends of a broken cotton thread. She joined it and went on sewing the sole of a cloth slipper. “But there are fifteen bowls. What shall I do?”

“You need to choose only seven of them.”

“Good Heavens! What will the eight of them say just because I prefer the other seven? Oh, no!”

“But the candidates can't see what we're doing. They don't have eyes in the back of their heads.”

“But they have eyes in the queue.”

As this thought was expressed several lovers of peace slipped away. How many times had the activists explained these points about voting? But despite all our efforts, many of the peasants simply refused to understand.

“This is our first election,” the young district cadre exhorted them. “Cast your votes carefully. Today no landlords dare order us around any more. We make decisions of our own free will.”