Colors of the Mountain (16 page)

IN THE MIDDLE
of the semester, a young teacher named Sing organized the yearly elementary school Ping-Pong match for the purpose of qualifying for the commune and eventually the county championship event. He was a decent guy with a head of salt-and-pepper hair. I had always admired him for his many talents—calligraphy, basketball, writing, and he could play all kinds of musical instruments.

Each time he passed me, he always greeted me readily. In fact, he was the only teacher who joked with me. One afternoon he came to my class and sat next to me with his arm over my shoulder. “How would you like to participate in the school championship match? I know you’re pretty good.”

“I’m not sure my political background would allow me to do so,” I said uncertainly.

“I’ll take care of it. You just make sure to be there for the game.”

“Okay.” My heart leapt with joy.

As far as Ping-Pong was concerned, there was only one other boy who played as well as I. If I wasn’t there to challenge him, he would take the title, hands down.

That evening, I borrowed my brother’s racket and played three games in the match at the school cafeteria, a temporary game room. I spun and struck. Within two hours, I had defeated all the other players. The next night, with Sen, Siang, Mo Gong, and Yi watching from the windows, I beat my enemy, Han, and another opponent to became the
champion for our commune. When the results were announced the next day at the morning exercise break, the whole school turned and looked at me. After so many years, I felt once again as though I belonged there. Proudly, I waved my hands and bowed my head to their cheers.

The gratitude I felt for Teacher Sing was beyond words.

Representing our elementary school as the champion in Yellow Stone commune placed me as first seed to attend the county event. To me the county game was my Olympics. I felt proud and humbled at the same time.

Teacher Sing personally wrote a petition for me to take off one month from school for training at the high school, together with other players on our team. Everyone watched with envy as, accompanied by my four friends, I carried my luggage and registered at the desk in front of the Yellow Stone High School.

Mo Gong took my luggage to my assigned bunk bed. Sen said that they would come to visit me every day and see me during my training breaks.

Mom wasn’t too happy about it because of the absence from school, but I promised her that I would make up for that when I came back. She knew it was good for me to be representing our commune. It was an honor not many children of my background could enjoy.

The commune sent a chef to the high school kitchen just to cook for the two dozen young athletes. He was a beefy guy with a bright smile. He prepared three good meals a day and a snack at night if we had an evening session. There was always meat, fish, and all kinds of bread. Fresh fruit was available by the bucketful, and fruit drinks flowed freely. It was food heaven. At home, we always had dried yams every day and rarely had meat, so I ate as much as I could without appearing too greedy. It was like New Year’s every day. I wished this training thing would go on forever.

Occasionally, a representative from the commune would swing by and watch us train. They gave us political lectures on the importance of the games. Had those meetings been held after lunch, we all would have fallen asleep.

Sen and Mo Gong visited often, and I always gave them fruit to eat
or to take home to Yi and Siang. They kept telling the other onlookers that I was their best friend. Once they got into a skirmish because a boy outside the window was bad-mouthing me and calling me a landlord’s son. Mo Gong hit him on the nose, making it bleed profusely.

The head coach announced a two-day break before we got together again for final training and our trip to Putien. To my pals’ delight, I packed up my things and headed home. I gave them some bread and boiled eggs from training camp, which they finished in five seconds.

“Before you go to the competition, we’d like to hold a swearing ceremony among us five at Mo Gong’s tomorrow,” Sen said. “What do you think?”

“You mean sort of like in ancient times, when the outlaws cut their fingers and let the blood drip into their wine and drank it together to become sworn brothers?” I asked excitedly.

“That’s it,” Sen said. “We’ve been talking about it since you left. Da, you like the idea of having us sworn like brothers?”

“And say something like, ‘can’t be born on the same day, but would like to die at the same moment.’” Mo Gong quoted a phrase from a well-known classic about a bunch of outlaws hiding deep in the mountains, who became sworn brothers and fought the establishment.

“I’m in,” I said. “What do we need to do?”

“Prepare a banquet with some hard liquor.”

“Here, I got five yuan from the training allowance.”

“That’s great.”

The next day I went to Mo Gong’s house, a two-story place that was totally empty since his parents had taken off again to sell shoes in another county. Siang had bought two lively young ducks from the market with my five yuan and three pounds of pork from home. Yi came up with some vegetables and Sen ventured back home and had us sit under his kitchen window while he passed out some much-needed lard. Yi got the noodles and we all pitched in to buy the liquor and cigarettes.

During his apprenticeship days, Yi had learned to cook. He was the only one who knew anything about it. I had resumed my usual job of washing the vegetables, picking over scallions, and cutting them to
match the specification of the chef. Mo Gong chased the ducks in the backyard, causing the dirt and dust to fly, and Siang sharpened a knife, ready to behead them.

“Da, I want you to write some rules for us to go by,” Sen said, squatting next to me.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

When the food was finally brought to the table, along with chopsticks, spoons, and plates, we couldn’t help shaking our heads in surprise. The two ducks, well simmered with garlic, ginger, wine, and Yi’s secret soy sauce recipe, lay lamely on a large plate with their skinny heads on one side. Next to them sat a deep pot with steaming pork shoulders, succulent and juicy. A king’s feast was about to begin, and our stomachs growled in anticipation.

It seemed more like a normal, happy family meal than a swearing-in ceremony for a bunch of self-proclaimed outlaws. What civilization had done to us since the time of the kings and dynasties!

We sat in order of seniority—Sen, Mo Gong, Yi, Siang, and me—clockwise around a round wooden table. Sen opened the first bottle of liquor, a locally brewed rice wine that gave out a pungent fragrance of grain, and poured us each a tall glassful. Wearing a serious look in those famous cold eyes, Sen declaimed, “Fate has brought us together. From now on we are brothers, not by blood, but by spirit.”

“What happened to our swearing and all?” Mo Gong asked.

“That was the ancient thing. There’s no need for slitting open our fingers,” Sen said. “But I asked Da to write out a few rules that we all should live by faithfully.”

“What happens if one of us doesn’t follow the rules?”

“Here.” Sen pounded his big fist on the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What if it’s you?”

“The second in command would take over and have me punished the same way. Okay, what’s the rules, Da?” Sen asked.

I took out a piece of paper and read solemnly: “No betrayal. No better friends outside than us. We suffer together, enjoy together. No jealousy. And we are all equal.”

“Does everyone agree?” Sen glanced at each of us intently.

We nodded.

“You all meant it, didn’t you?” Sen shouted like an older brother.

We nodded again.

“This is serious. Anyone who can’t live up to these rules, leave this place now,” he shouted. “I don’t want traitors in here.”

The drama seemed to work. Everyone was quiet and thoughtful. For the first time, we all realized that it wasn’t just food, drinks, smoking, and having fun together. It was more than that now. We were bound by rules. The moment filled me with strength, courage, and emotion. I felt I had grown a few inches.

“Now, bottoms up,” Sen said, casting a long look at me in particular. “Da, you gotta do it.”

“But I’ve never had anything this strong before,” I protested. “Can I just have a few sips first?”

“This isn’t strong, see.” Sen poured the whole thing down his throat. His face suddenly twisted into a fierce grimace. Then he turned red down to his neck. He opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could, waggled his tongue, fanning his mouth, wildly gasping for air. After a long pause, when the liquor apparently had settled, Sen said, “See, I did it.” His voice was raspy like sandpaper. We covered our mouths, trying not to laugh.

Then everyone did the same thing, clockwise.

When my turn came, I pinched my nose, closed my eyes, and downed the contents of the tall glass. Like I predicted, it burned all the way to wherever it went inside my body. I could picture the flow of liquor, a stream of hot liquid steel, burning every inch of me. The miracle of pure alcohol. I instantly felt dizzy.

“How does it feel? Here, have some soup,” Sen said, holding the spoon to my mouth. Yi and Mo Gong supported me, and Siang stuck a piece of duck inside my mouth to dispel the bad taste.

“Like fire.” I coughed a few times, swallowed the soup, and chewed on the duck. My head was throbbing, and things began dancing around me. The whole house seemed to be moving in circles.

“Now, brothers,” Sen said, “it’s time to eat.”

They dug into the duck. I went for a cigarette.

“Don’t smoke now, it’ll be like oil on fire, on top of liquor,” I heard the wise voice of Yi say. But I lit one nonetheless. It felt heavenly.

For the rest of the banquet, I sat there dazed, watching the others laugh, chat, joke, drink, and smoke. They saved some food for me before we all went to sleep for the rest of the day.

When I awoke in darkness, my head ached as if a brick had hit it, throbbing with waves of pain each time I turned it. I struck a match and lit a candle and saw my newly sworn brothers snoring like a litter of puppies, huddled in one another’s warmth. Sen was drooling on Yi’s face and Siang was holding an empty bottle, his legs over Mo Gong’s shoulder. The food was almost untouched. I figured they hadn’t lasted much longer than I had. I felt hungry and bet my friends would feel the same way. So I warmed up each dish and cleaned up the place, while putting on a kettle of fresh green tea to brew. Then I woke them up; they blinked like it was murder to be woken at this hour.

“Let’s eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

They nodded, scratching their heads and yawning.

“First, hot tea to wake you all up, brothers!” I smiled as I served the steaming tea.

“Ah! I feel a heck of a lot better now with the tea, Da,” Sen said.

“Thanks. I’m sorry the liquor knocked you out like that. I didn’t know it was strong enough to catch fire off the match. We all got knocked out.”

“It was so strong my mouth still feels like rubber, and the food tastes like an old rag,” Siang said.

We couldn’t help laughing at ourselves. But laughter wasn’t the best thing at this moment. Each movement multiplied the pain attacking our heads and necks.

“I think they put fire powder in the liquor. It was a fake, Sen.” More laughter. More pain.

Two days later, I rode along with the rest of the Ping-Pong team in the back of the commune’s tractor, as it drove through the narrow street of Yellow Stone with a red flag flying on top. Children ran after us and the whole street stopped to watch. I waved only twice, once when the tractor passed our house and I saw my parents were watching, and a second time to my brothers, who were sitting smoking high on a hill at the southern tip of town. Then the tractor picked up speed on the dirt road and we headed off to Putien.

I turned out to be a failure at the match. After beating four greenhorns in two grueling days, I lost to a boy two years younger than I in a semifinal. He wasn’t a much better player, but his dad and three coaches plus a team of twittering girlfriends were there with water, juice, and hot towels. His uniform was well made, and a bright color, fitting like a professional’s, while mine was an ill-fitting faded pullover that smelled like old sweat even when I wasn’t sweating.

They actually laughed when I hit the ball the first time, thinking that my stance was a little provincial, but I gave my partner one heck of a ride. They cheered when he scored. Soon I was losing concentration. I wished that my fast-talking coach was at least there to cheer me on against those fair-skinned city people, but he was busy coaching a more important game, the semifinal for our high school team. I lost in the fifth game, though it was a near thing. My coach later said he should have been with me, the other player had lost by a large margin. What he said made me feel somewhat better, but I wasn’t really champion material. The champion title eventually went to a boy who had recently dropped out of a provincial team, a mighty force whom I watched with great admiration. His speed, style, and everything about him convinced me that I should pack my belongings, head back to that outlandish seaside farming town of ours, and never return.