Boy in the Twilight (16 page)

Shi Zhikang swiftly pushed his way to the front and spread his arms a little, pressing backward as the bus approached, pushing the people behind him back onto the sidewalk. As the front door of the bus slipped past, he monitored the bus’s speed and calculated that he should be perfectly in line for the middle door. But what happened was that the bus came to an abrupt stop, leaving him a yard or two away from his target door. He’d lost his position in the front row, and now he found himself on the outer edge of the crowd.

When the door opened, only three people got off. Shi Zhikang took a couple of steps into the crowd and thrust his arms into a tiny gap left by the people in front. As he pushed his way forward, he made good use of the upper-body strength acquired in his long years as a fitter. He steadily widened the gap, then squeezed into the space created, and began to work on opening a gap farther ahead.

Shi Zhikang plowed his way through the line and launched himself into the space by the door, exploiting the impetus of the people pressing from behind. Just as he planted one foot on the step of the bus, someone grabbed the collar of his overcoat and dragged him backward. He landed heavily on the ground and his head hit a leg. The leg retaliated with a kick, and he looked up to find a young woman glaring at him.

By the time Shi Zhikang was back on his feet, the doors had closed and the bus was beginning to move off. A woman’s handbag was trapped in the door, leaving a corner of the bag and part of the strap sticking outside, so that it swayed
back and forth with the motion of the bus. He turned around, determined to find out who had pulled him back. Two youths about the same age as his son were watching him with a cold glint in their eyes. He looked at them and at others who had failed to squeeze onto the bus. Some returned his gaze, some did not. He was tempted to let off a swearword or two, but thought better of it.

Later, two buses arrived at the same time, and Shi Zhikang boarded the second. Today he did not get off at the stop closest to his home, but two stops earlier, where a man with a flatbed cart sold bean curd that tasted better than what you could buy in the shops. Shi Zhikang’s wife, who worked in a textile mill, had asked him to pick up a couple of pounds on his way home from work, because today was Saturday and their son, a junior in college, was coming home for the weekend.

After buying the bean curd, Shi Zhikang did not try to catch another bus and simply walked the rest of the way home. It was almost seven o’clock, but there was no sign of his wife. This upset him. His wife should have got off work at four thirty, and she did not have such a long commute. Normally his wife would have dinner practically ready by this time, but today he had to set to on an empty stomach, washing vegetables and slicing meat.

His wife, Li Xiulan, came in the door with a bag of fish. “Have you washed your hands?” was the first thing she said.

Shi Zhikang was not in a good mood, so he answered curtly. “Can’t you see my hands are wet?”

“Did you use soap?” she asked. “There’s flu going around, and pneumonia too. You need to wash your hands with soap as soon as you get home.”

Shi Zhikang snorted dismissively. “Then shouldn’t you come home sooner?”

Li Xiulan dumped the two fish in the sink. She told Shi Zhikang they cost her only three yuan. “They were the last two. He wanted five yuan, but I wouldn’t go higher than three.”

“Does it take so long to buy a couple of dead fish?”

“They haven’t been dead long.” She showed him the gills: “See, the cheeks are still red.”

“It’s you I’m talking about.” He raised his voice as he pointed at his watch. “It’s after seven already!”

Her tone also went up a register. “So what? What’s the big deal about me coming home late? Every day you get back later than I do—do I complain?”

“Do I finish work before you do? Is my factory closer to home than yours?”

“I fell down,” said Li Xiulan.

She flung the fish back in the sink and stamped into the living room. “I fell off the bus,” she said, “and it was ages before I could stand up again. I had to sit there on the side of the road for thirty or forty minutes. I practically froze to death.”

Shi Zhikang set down the cleaver he’d been using to slice the meat and walked over to her: “You fell? So did I—someone tugged my collar.”

He didn’t finish the story, for now she had rolled up her trouser leg and he could see there was a bruise as big as an egg on her knee. He bent down to touch it. “How did it happen?”

“When I was getting off the bus, there were too many people behind me. They pushed so hard I lost my balance.”

Just then their son arrived home, dressed in a red down jacket. Seeing his mother had suffered a fall, he bent down
like his father had done. “Did you trip?” he asked with concern. Then he took off his jacket. “You should be taking a calcium supplement,” he went on. “It’s not only babies who need calcium, older people need it too. Every day your bones lose calcium, and that makes you prone to injury … If I got pushed off a bus, there’s no way I would end up with such a large bruise.”

Their son turned on the television and plumped himself down on the sofa. He put on the earphones of his Walkman and began to listen to some music.

“Are you watching TV?” Shi Zhikang asked. “Or listening to the radio?”

His son looked at him, but almost immediately turned away again, not having understood the question. “Have you washed your hands?” his mother asked.

He swiveled his head and removed an earphone from one of his ears. “What did you say?”

“Go and wash your hands,” Li Xiulan said. “There’s flu going around now and it’s easy to pick up germs on the bus. Go wash your hands, and be sure to use soap.”

“I don’t need to wash my hands.” Their son replaced the earphone. “I took a cab.”

SHI ZHIKANG COULDN
’
T GET TO SLEEP
that night. For five months now, his wife had been bringing home only a little over a hundred yuan. He was in a better position—four hundred yuan—but still their combined monthly income was less than six hundred. The cost of rice had now risen to one yuan thirty a pound, and pork was twelve yuan a pound—even chili peppers were three yuan a pound. They still gave
their son three hundred yuan a month for living expenses all the same, leaving a bit over two hundred for themselves. But this hadn’t stopped their son from taking a taxi when he came home on Saturday.

Li Xiulan had not fallen asleep either. She noticed her husband was tossing and turning. “You can’t sleep?”

“No.”

She turned to face him. “How much do you think our son paid to come home in a taxi?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never taken a taxi.” He paused. “I guess it would have cost at least thirty yuan.”

“Thirty yuan?” she moaned.

“We sweated blood for this money,” he sighed.

They said nothing more. Before long he fell asleep, and soon she was asleep too.

The next morning, their son again put on his earphones and watched TV as he listened to music. Shi Zhikang and Li Xiulan decided to have a good talk with him, so she sat down by his side, while her husband brought a chair over and sat in front of them. “Your mother and I would like to have a chat with you,” Shi Zhikang said.

“What about?” Because of the earphones, their son spoke loudly.

“Family matters.”

“Go on.” He was practically shouting.

Shi Zhikang leaned over and removed his right earphone. “These past few months, we’ve had a few problems. We didn’t want to tell you, for fear of distracting you from your studies …”

“What’s happened?” Their son removed the other earphone.

“Nothing much,” Shi Zhikang said. “Beginning this month, there’ll be no more night shift in our factory, and of the three hundred in the workforce, half will be laid off. As far as I’m concerned, it’s no big deal—I have skills, the factory still needs me … It’s more what’s happening with your mom. Currently she is just bringing home a bit over one hundred yuan a month. She’s due to retire in four years, and if she was to take early retirement, she could get three hundred yuan a month, and that would carry on for three years …”

“You get paid more if you take early retirement?”

They nodded. “In that case, why don’t you retire?” their son asked.

“Your mother and I are thinking that too,” Shi Zhikang said.

“Yeah, retire.” Saying this, their son prepared to put his earphones back on. Shi Zhikang threw his wife a glance. “Son,” she said, “our family finances aren’t what they used to be, and in the future they may be in even poorer shape …”

Their son already had one earphone in place. “What was that?” he asked.

“Your mom was saying that the family finances aren’t what they used to be,” Shi Zhikang said.

“Never mind about that.” Their son waved his hand. “State finances aren’t what they used to be either.”

His parents exchanged glances. “Tell me this,” said Shi Zhikang. “Why did you come home in a taxi yesterday?”

Their son looked at them, perplexed. “Why didn’t you take a bus?” Shi Zhikang persisted.

“The bus is too crowded.”

“Too crowded?”

Shi Zhikang pointed at Li Xiulan. “Your mom and I cram
ourselves onto buses every day of the week. How can a young guy like you be afraid of crowded buses?”

“It’s not the pushing that’s the problem, it’s the smell.” Their son frowned. “I really hate smelling other people’s body odor. In buses, everybody’s jostling you, forcing you to smell their stink. It’s so packed and stuffy, even perfume smells bad. Plus, there are people letting off farts as well …

“I feel like throwing up every time I get on a bus,” he concluded.

“Throwing up?” Li Xiulan was shocked. “Son, are you ill?”

“No, of course not.”

She looked at Shi Zhikang. “Could it be stomach trouble?”

Her husband nodded. “Have you got a bellyache?” he asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Their son was getting impatient.

“What’s your appetite like these days?” Li Xiulan asked.

“I don’t have any stomach trouble!” their son yelled.

“Are you sleeping all right?” Shi Zhikang asked. He turned to Li Xiulan: “If you don’t get enough sleep, it’ll make you feel nauseous.”

Their son stretched out all ten fingers: “I sleep ten hours a day.”

Li Xiulan was still anxious. “Son, you’d better go to the hospital for a checkup.”

“I told you, there’s nothing wrong with me.” Their son jumped to his feet. “This is all about me having taken a taxi for once, isn’t it?” he cried. “Well, I won’t be taking any more taxis …”

“Son, we’re not bothered about the taxi fare,” said Shi Zhikang. “We’re thinking of you. You’ll be starting a job
soon, and when you rely on your own salary you’ll understand that money doesn’t come easily and you have to budget accordingly …”

“That’s right.” Li Xiulan went on. “We never said you couldn’t take a taxi.”

“In the future there’s no way I’ll be taking taxis.” Their son sat back down on the sofa. “In the future I will drive my own car,” he explained. He put the earphones over his ears. “My classmates take taxis all the time.”

“His classmates take taxis all the time,” Li Xiulan repeated, looking at her husband. Seeing him nod, she went on. “If other people’s sons can take taxis, why shouldn’t ours?”

“I never said he couldn’t,” said Shi Zhikang.

Their son was maybe now listening to one of his favorite songs, for he was rocking his head back and forth and mouthing some lyrics. They looked at each other and smiled as they studied his contented air. Maybe the future would bring more and more difficulties, but this did not distress them unduly, for they could see their son was now his own man.

In a street-corner vending kiosk that sells groceries and fruit, a tired and sagging face spends year after year in the company of cookies, instant noodles, candies, tobacco, and cans of soda, like an old calendar stuck on the wall. A body and limbs are attached to this face, along with the name Lin Deshun.

Lin Deshun sat in a wheelchair, looking through the tiny window in front of him at the street outside. A young couple was standing on the sidewalk opposite, with a little boy between them who looked to be about six or seven. The boy was wearing a thick down jacket and a red hat, and a scarf just as red was tied around his neck. Although it was now the season of spring balm and flower blossoms, the boy was dressed for winter’s cold.

They were outside a hospital, and stood together quietly amid the commotion of people going in and out. The father, hands in his pockets, gazed intently toward the entrance, and his wife, her right hand holding the boy’s left hand, watched with equal concentration. It was only the boy whose eyes were turned in the direction of the street. With his mother clasping his hand, he had to twist himself around to look, but his eyes dwelled avidly on the scene before him. His head was continually on the move and often he would raise his free hand to point something out to them. It was clear there was no end of things he wanted to tell his parents, but they just stood there like statues.

After a little while, the parents led the boy a few steps closer to the entrance and Lin Deshun saw that a rather plump nurse was approaching them. They came to a stop and began to talk, but the boy maintained his sideways stance, his eyes glued to the street.

The nurse finished speaking and went back into the hospital. The boy’s parents turned around and, taking the boy by the hand, cautiously crossed the street and arrived outside Lin Deshun’s kiosk. The father released his grip on his son’s hand, walked up to the window, and took a look inside. Lin Deshun saw a face covered with stubble, a pair of eyes swollen from lack of sleep, and the grubby collar of a white shirt. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The man looked at the tangerines on display right in front of him. “Give me a tangerine,” he said.

“One tangerine?” Lin Deshun thought he had misheard.

The father reached out a hand and took a tangerine. “How much?”