Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (15 page)

The man’s last comment turned the topic to the weather and gave everyone a chance to talk about how they suffered from the cold. Xiangzi listened intently to what they were saying, without adding to the conversation. Despite differences in tone, accent, and specifics, they cursed their lot and complained of the unfairness of life. The voiced complaints fell upon stored-up grievances in his heart, like raindrops soaked up by dry, thirsty ground. He wouldn’t have given a clear account of his troubles to these men even if he’d known how, and so could only absorb some of the bitterness of life from what they were saying. These were lives filled with misery, and his was no exception. Self-knowledge made him want to sympathize with them. When they spoke of their sorrows, he knitted his brows, and when they spoke of lighter matters, he grinned. Now he felt like one of them; they were brothers in suffering, and that did not change just because he kept silent. He had once thought that it was these men’s constant jabbering that kept them from making a decent living. Today, for the first time, he felt that this was not idle chatter but that they were speaking for him, voicing the bitterness common to all rickshaw men.

The talk was getting especially heated when the door flew open, filling the room with a blast of cold air. All eyes turned angrily to see who the inconsiderate wretch was, and their impatience slowed the newcomer down, as if he were dawdling intentionally. “Hurry it up, my dear uncle,” the waiter called out. “Don’t let all the warm air out!”

The newcomer—another rickshaw man, probably in his fifties—was in the door before the waiter’s plea was finished. He had on a flared padded jacket that was neither short nor long and had holes in the front and in the elbows, where cotton wad-ding poked through. His face, which looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days, had lost its color; his ears, turned bright red by the bitter cold, looked like ripe fruit about to fall from the tree. Tufts of dull white hair stuck out messily from a tattered little cap, frost hung from his eyebrows and short beard. He groped his way to a bench and sat down. “A pot of tea,” he said weakly.

This particular teahouse was a gathering place for rickshaw men with monthly hires, and someone like this old man would normally never set foot inside.

The sight of this newcomer added a layer of meaning to what the men had been talking about before his arrival, and none of them felt like saying anything more. Most of the time, the younger, more thoughtless pullers would make fun of a customer like this, but not today.

The old man’s tea was still steeping when his head began to droop, lower and lower, until he slipped off the bench and onto the floor.

They all jumped to their feet. “What’s wrong?” they shouted. “Don’t move!” the proprietor, who had experience in such things, called out to stop the men from going up to the old fellow, then took charge by loosening his collar and propping him up against a chair by his shoulders. “Some sugar water, and hurry!” Then he put his ear to the man’s neck and muttered, “It’s not blocked by phlegm.”

No one moved, but no one sat down, either. They stood there blinking in the smoke-filled room, eyes fixed on the door, all seemingly thinking the same thought: “This is what it’s going to be for me. One day, after my hair has turned white, I’ll collapse and breathe my last on the street.”

When the first drops of sugar water touched the old man’s lips, he groaned a couple of times and, with his eyes still shut, raised his right hand—which was so dirty it shone as if lacquered—and wiped his mouth with the back of it.

“Drink some of this,” the proprietor whispered in his ear.

“Huh?” The old man opened his eyes and, when he saw he was sitting on the floor, drew up his legs in an attempt to stand.

“Take it easy. Drink this first,” the proprietor said, taking his hands away from the man’s shoulders.

The other men rushed up. “Ai, ai!” The old fellow looked around and then began slowly drinking from the cup, holding it in both hands.

After finishing what was in the cup, he looked around again. “I’ve put you all to a great deal of trouble,” he said. The words were spoken so gently and kindly it was hard to believe they came from the mouth hidden in that scruffy beard. Again he tried to stand, and this time three or four of the men helped him to his feet. The trace of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “It’s all right,” he said in the same gentle tone, “Don’t trouble yourselves. I can manage. I guess I fainted from being so cold and hungry. I’ll be fine now.” A smile that even all that grime could not blot out had them believing they were looking into the face of a warm, good-hearted man.

They all seemed moved. The middle-aged man who had been drinking liquor had finished what was in his bowl; his bloodshot eyes were getting moist. “Bring me two more ounces,” he said, and when it arrived, even though he was by then noticeably drunk, he went up to the old man, who was now sitting in a chair by the wall, and respectfully held the bowl out to him. “Here, this is on me. I’m already over forty, and I’m not lying when I say that I’m barely making do with this monthly hire. My legs tell me when another year has passed, and in two or three more I’ll be like you. You must be about sixty!”

“Not yet,” the old fellow said after taking a drink. “Fifty-five. There aren’t any fares in this cold weather, and I, I tell you, my belly’s empty. But when I get a few coins together, I buy something hard to drink. It warms me up a bit. I was ready to collapse by the time I got here, so I decided to come in and warm up. But it’s so hot in here, and me with no food in my belly, that’s why I fainted. But I’m fine now, no need to worry. I’m just sorry I put you all to so much trouble.”

By now, his dry, brittle hair, grimy face, filthy hands, tattered cap, and lined jacket all seemed to radiate an aura of purity, like a statue of the Buddha in a run-down temple, which retains its dignity even as it crumbles. The men kept their eyes on him, wishing him to stay. All this time, Xiangzi stood stiffly to the side, not saying a word. But when he heard the old fellow say that his belly was empty, he ran outside and returned almost immediately with ten mutton-filled buns wrapped in a cabbage leaf. He held them out to the old man. “Eat these.” Then he went back and sat down, head lowered, as if the effort had worn him out.

“Ai!” The old man looked happy but on the verge of tears. He nodded at the men around him.

“We really are brothers, aren’t we! We can pull a fare till we’re ready to drop, and we still won’t stand a chance of an extra coin in our pocket.” He stood up and headed for the door.

“Eat those first!” the men called out as one.

“I have to go get Xiao Ma first. My grandson. He’s outside watching the rickshaw.”

“You stay there,” the middle-aged man said, “I’ll get him. Don’t worry, you won’t lose your rickshaw around here. The police precinct is right across the street.” He opened the door a crack.

“Xiao Ma, your grandpa wants you to park the rickshaw over here and come inside.”

The old man touched the buns over and over but did not pick any of them up until his grandson walked in the door. “Xiao Ma, my boy, these are for you.”

Xiao Ma, a boy of thirteen or fourteen, had a gaunt face and was bundled up against the cold. Two lines of snot ran from his nose, red from the freezing air, down to his upper lip; his ears were covered by tattered earmuffs. Standing next to his grandfather, he held in his right hand one of the stuffed buns, which he’d already begun eating, and reached out with his left for another, and took a bite.

“Slow down,” the old man said as he rested a hand on his grandson’s head and, with the other, picked up a bun and raised it slowly to his mouth. “Grandpa only needs two of these. The rest are for you. When you’re finished, we’ll go home. No more work today. If it warms up a little tomorrow, we’ll go out early, won’t we, boy?”

Xiao Ma nodded in the direction of the buns and sniffled. “Eat three of these, Grandpa, and I’ll eat the rest. Then you can ride home.”

“No,” the old man said, smiling proudly at the men in the room. “We’ll both walk. It’s too cold sitting up there.”

After finishing off his stuffed buns, the old man drank what was left of the liquor while waiting for his grandson to finish the food. Then he took a rag out of his pocket and wiped his mouth. He nodded to the other men again. “His father went off to fight and never came back. His wife…”

“Don’t talk about that!” Xiao Ma stopped his grandfather, his cheeks bulging from the buns.

“It doesn’t matter—we’re among friends.” Then he lowered his voice. “He’s a serious boy who’s determined to make good in life. His mother left us, and now it’s just us two and a rickshaw. It’s in bad shape, but it’s ours, so we don’t have to fret over daily rental charges. We earn what we can and struggle to get by. What else can we do?”

“Grandpa.” Having finished nearly all the stuffed buns, the boy tugged at his grandfather’s sleeve. “We need one more fare today,” he said. “We don’t have money for a briquette tomorrow morning. It’s your fault. We could have made twenty cents by taking that customer to Rear Gate. I wanted to, but you said no. How will we get by tomorrow with no coal briquettes?”

“Leave it to me. I’ll get some on credit.”

“What about kindling?”

“Yes, of course. Now be a good boy and eat up. We have to be on our way.” The old man stood up and walked from man to man, saying, “I’ve put you to a great deal of trouble, my friend!” Then he took Xiao Ma by the hand, just as the boy stuffed the last of the buns into his mouth.

Some of the customers sat still, while others saw the old man and his grandson to the door. Xiangzi was the first one outside. He wanted to get a look at the rickshaw.

It truly was in sad shape. The paint on the shafts was peeling, and the connecting bar was nearly worn through. The beat-up lamp rattled, ropes tied down the supports for the rain hood. Xiao Ma retrieved a match from inside one of his earmuffs, struck it on the sole of his shoe, and cupping it in both hands, lit the lamp. The old man spat in his hands and, with a sigh, picked up the shafts. “See you later, brothers!”

Xiangzi stood stiffly to one side watching the two of them—one old, one young—and their decrepit rickshaw. The old man muttered as he walked, his voice rising and falling under the flickering street lamp; they moved from light into shadows, and as he watched and listened, Xiangzi was struck by a sadness he hadn’t felt before. He saw his own past in the figure of Xiao Ma and his future in the old man. Never before had he so casually let go of money, even a single coin, and yet he was incredibly happy to have bought the stuffed buns for the old man and his grandson. He didn’t go back inside the teahouse until they were out of sight. Raucous talk and laughter had already recommenced, perplexing him so much that he paid for his tea and walked out, taking his rickshaw over to a spot outside the cinema to wait for Mr. Cao.

It was intensely cold, with sand swirling in the air. The wind seemed to be racing past overhead, blurring the outlines of stars in the sky, except for a few of the largest ones, which shimmered slightly. There was no wind near the ground, but the freezing cold air was everywhere, opening long cracks in the wheel ruts; the pale earth was as cold and hard as ice. The cold was getting to Xiangzi as he stood in front of the cinema, but he had no desire to return to the teahouse. He needed quiet time to think. The old man and his grandson, it seemed, had dashed his hopes—the old man had said the rickshaw was his. From the first day he’d gone out to pick up fares, Xiangzi was determined to have his own rickshaw; he was still slaving away in pursuit of that goal. Having his own rickshaw, he’d felt, was the answer to all his problems. Hah! Just look at that old man.

Hadn’t buying a rickshaw been the reason he did not want Huniu? First buy it, he’d thought, then start saving money until he could, in good conscience, take a wife. Hah! Just look at Xiao Ma. If Xiangzi had a son one day, things would surely turn out exactly the same.

That being the case, why keep resisting Huniu’s threats? Since he couldn’t break out of the trap, what difference did it make what kind of woman he married? Besides, she might bring a few rickshaws into the bargain, so why not enjoy a bit of luxury for a change? Having seen through himself, he had no right to look down on others. Huniu was just Huniu, and that was that.

The movie let out, so Xiangzi hurried to hang the water bottle on the lamp and light the wick. Then he took off his lined jacket. Clad only in a thin shirt, he was ready to run like the wind. That would drive away all his thoughts, and if he wound up killing himself in the process, so be it!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
fter the encounter with the old man and his grandson, Xiangzi put his hopes aside and decided to enjoy life as long as he could. What good had it done to grit his teeth and make things so hard on himself? The life of a poor man, he now understood, was like the pit of a date, pointed on both ends and round in the middle. You’re lucky to get through childhood without dying of hunger, and can hardly avoid starving to death when you’re old. Only during your middle years, when you’re strong and unafraid of either hunger or hard work, can you live like a human being. Only a fool will pass up the chance to enjoy a bit of life, since, as the saying goes, there are no more inns after this village. Seen this way, even the situation with Huniu was nothing to fret over.

But that resolve lasted only until the next time he looked at his gourd bank. No, he couldn’t give in that easily. He was so close to having enough to buy his own rickshaw, this was no time to call it quits. He’d worked too hard to save up what he had. He had to keep at it, he just had to! But what about Huniu? She was still a problem, and then there was that abominable twenty-seventh to worry about.

Frustrated by his worries, he held the bank to his chest and muttered, “No matter what, this is mine, and no one is going to take it away from me!” The money was Xiangzi’s safeguard against fear.
Cause me too much anxiety, and that’s the last you’ll see of me. Money’s the fuel that keeps my legs moving.