Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (8 page)

“Come on, Xiangzi, tell us how you got rich!” It was a refrain he heard every day. He remained tight-lipped. If they pressed him, the scar on his face turned red and he said, “Rich? Then where the hell is my rickshaw!”

And that was the truth. Where was his rickshaw? That got them thinking. But commiserating with people is never as easy as congratulating them. And so they forgot all about Xiangzi’s rickshaw, focusing instead on his good fortune. For a few days, that is, until they saw him pulling a rickshaw again instead of taking up a new trade or buying a house or some land, and their attitude cooled off. Now, when someone mentioned Camel Xiangzi, no one bothered to ask why he was called camel, of all animals. They just accepted it.

Xiangzi, on the other hand, could not forget what had happened to him. He was burning to buy a new rickshaw, but the greater his impatience, the more he thought about his first rickshaw. He pushed himself, working hard with no complaint, but not even that erased the memory of what had happened, thoughts that nearly suffocated him. He couldn’t help wondering what good it did to try so hard. The world didn’t treat you any fairer just because you tried hard. Not a world in which his rickshaw had been taken from him! Even if he managed to get another one right away, who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen again? It was a nightmare that destroyed his faith in the future. He often watched enviously as the other men drank and smoked and visited whorehouses. If trying hard was a waste of time, why not enjoy life for a change? They had it right. Though he wasn’t quite ready to go to a whorehouse, he could at least have a drink or two and relax. Alcohol and tobacco suddenly held a strong attraction; neither cost much, and both brought a bit of comfort, an incentive to struggle on and help a man forget past suffering.

And yet he could not bring himself to try either one. Every cent he saved brought him that much closer to his goal of buying a new rickshaw. Not buying one was unthinkable, even if it was taken from him the day after he got it. It was his ideal, his aspiration, almost his religion. He had no reason to live if he could not pull his own rickshaw. He did not aspire to become an official, or get rich, or start up a business. His talent was in pulling a rickshaw, and his unwavering hope was to buy one of his own; not to do so would have been a disgrace. Day and night, this was the thought that occupied him and the reason he counted his money so carefully. The day he forgot this would be the day he forgot himself, and he’d then be little more than a beast that knew how to pull a rickshaw, lacking all traces of humanity. Even the finest rickshaw, if it was a rental, he pulled half-heartedly, as unnaturally as if he were carrying a rock on his back. He didn’t slack off just because it was a rental; he always cleaned it up after bringing it in for the day, and took pains to keep from damaging it. But he did this to be prudent, not because he enjoyed it. Yes, taking care of his own rickshaw brought the same satisfaction as counting his own money. He still neither smoked nor drank, and would not even treat himself to a cup of good tea. In teahouses, reputable rickshaw men like him, after burning up the streets awhile, would spend ten cents for a bag of tea and two lumps of sugar to revitalize themselves and cool off. When Xiangzi ran until sweat dripped from his ears and his chest felt the strain, that’s what he’d have liked to do, not out of habit or to put on airs but because it was what he needed. Yet after a moment’s thought, he’d settle for a one-cent bag of tea dross. There were times when he felt like cursing for being so hard on himself, but what was a rickshaw man set on putting a bit of money aside each month to do? No, he’d endure whatever it took to buy a rickshaw. After that, who could say? Owning a rickshaw made everything worthwhile.

He was miserly with his money and tenacious about making more of it. He took monthly hires when he could and spent all day picking up fares on the street the rest of the time, going out early and returning late, and only then if he’d earned his daily quota, regardless of the hour or the state of his legs. Some days he stayed out well into the night. Until then, he’d refused to steal other pullers’ fares, especially the old, the frail, and disabled veterans. Given his strength and superior rickshaw, they would not have stood a chance in a fight for business now. He was no longer so scrupulous. Money, every single coin, was all that mattered, not how much the effort cost him or who he had to fight for it. He was single-minded in reaching his goal, like a ravenous wild animal. As soon as someone was in the seat behind him, Xiangzi ran; he never felt better than when he was running, firm in his belief that stopping was an impediment to his goal of buying his own rickshaw. But his reputation suffered. On many occasions, when he stole a fare, a volley of curses would follow him. He never responded, merely lowered his head and ran as fast as he could. “If I didn’t need to buy a rickshaw,” he said to himself, “I’d never shame myself like that.” It was an unspoken apology. At rickshaw stands or in teahouses, when he noticed the disapproving glares, he wanted to explain himself. But since they all gave him the cold shoulder, compounded by the fact that he never drank or gambled or played chess or simply passed the time with them, he forced the words back down and kept them inside. Embarrassment gradually turned to resentment and suppressed rage. When they glared at him, he glared back. When he thought about how they had looked up to him after his escape from the mountains, their change in attitude rankled. Alone with his pot of tea in a teahouse or counting his earnings at a rickshaw stand, he swallowed his anger. Not one to look for a fight, he would not back down from one, either. That was also true for most of the other men, but they thought twice before mixing it up with Xiangzi, since they were no match for him, one-on-one, and ganging up would be a disgrace. Forcing himself to keep his anger in check—the only way he knew how to deal with the situation—he would endure it the best he could until he had his own rickshaw. Once he was free of the need to come up with a day’s rental, he could be generous and stop offending other pullers by stealing their fares. That was the way to look at it, he thought to himself as he eyed the other men, as if to say, “Wait and see.”

But back to Xiangzi. He ought not to have pushed himself so hard. He’d barely returned to the city when he began pulling a rickshaw again, before giving his body a chance to fully recover. Never one to bow down to adversity, he tired easily. Even then, he refused to rest, convinced that the way to overcome soreness and sluggishness was to run more and sweat more. Knowing the pitfalls of starving himself, he nonetheless refused to eat good, nutritious food. He could see he was thinner than before, but he was still bigger and taller than the other men and was reassured that his muscles were still hard. He believed he could put up with more hardships than they, and it never occurred to him that his size and the hard work he forced upon himself required more nourishment. Huniu often said to him, “If you keep this up, don’t blame others when you start spitting up blood!”

He knew she meant well, but because things were going badly and he was not taking care of his body, he was irritable. With a scowl, he grumbled, “If I don’t keep at it, when will I be able to buy my rickshaw?”

Anyone else who scowled at Huniu like that would never hear the end of it—but not Xiangzi, on whom she doted and whom she treated with unwavering courtesy. She merely curled her lip and said:

“Buying a rickshaw takes time, even for someone who thinks he’s made of steel. What you need is a good rest.” She saw he wasn’t listening. “All right,” she said, “do it your way, but don’t blame me if you drop dead along the way.”

Fourth Master Liu wasn’t pleased with Xiangzi, either; going out early and returning late after driving himself to the point of exhaustion was bad for the rickshaw. Rental agreements were good for the entire day, with no restrictions on when rickshaws were taken out or brought back in. But if every puller worked as hard as Xiangzi, the rickshaws would be worn out six months before their time. Even the sturdiest vehicle could not stand such punishing treatment. And that was not all the old man lost. Neglecting everything but hauling fares meant that Xiangzi had no time to clean rickshaws and help out with other chores. No wonder Liu was unhappy. But he kept it to himself, since all-day rentals were the rule in the trade, and doing odd jobs in the yard was an act of friendship, not an obligation. It would have been unseemly for a man of Liu’s reputation to complain to Xiangzi, so all he could do was cast disapproving looks out of the corner of his eye and keep his lips clamped shut. At times he felt like throwing Xiangzi out, but he didn’t dare, because of his daughter. While he did not see Xiangzi as a prospective son-in-law, he avoided anything that might upset Huniu, who seemed to have her eye on the impetuous young man. He had only one daughter, a woman with no marriage prospects, and chasing away her friend would have been unwise. There was no denying that she was a big help in the yard, and he selfishly was in no hurry for her to get married; maybe his guilty feelings made him a little afraid of her. All his life, he had feared neither heaven nor earth, only to arrive at old age afraid of his own daughter! He was able to rationalize the embarrassment by attributing his fear of her as proof that he was not totally heartless, and that on his deathbed he would not have to suffer retribution for his misdeeds. Acknowledging a fear of his daughter justified not driving Xiangzi away. That was not to say he would brook any nonsense from her in regard to marrying the man. Absolutely not. He could see that this had crossed her mind, but Xiangzi had so far not taken advantage of that to improve his situation.

All Liu had to do was be watchful—no sense upsetting his daughter.

Xiangzi was oblivious to Fourth Master’s watchful eye, for he had no time to worry about such things. If he decided to leave Harmony Shed, it would not be personal; a monthly hire was the only thing that could lure him away. He’d grown tired of picking up passengers on the street, partly because the other men hated him for stealing their fares and partly because his income varied so widely from day to day—more today, less tomorrow—making it impossible to predict when he’d have enough to buy his rickshaw. For him, a steady income was the best, even if he could make a little more picking up stray fares. That way he’d know exactly how much he could put away each month, which brought hope and peace of mind. He was a man who liked things neat and tidy.

Xiangzi found his monthly hire, but it turned out no better than picking up stray fares. Mr. Yang was from Shanghai, his wife was from Tianjin, and his concubine was from Suzhou. One man, two wives, a brood of children, and a host of local dialects. Xiangzi’s head was spinning his first day on the job. The man’s wife called him out bright and early to go to market. After that, he had to deliver the young masters and mistresses to their respective schools: kindergarten, primary, and middle. Different schools, different ages, and different appearances, but each one as unpleasant as the next, especially when riding in the rickshaw; even the best-behaved among them seemed to have two hands more than a monkey. After depositing the children in their schools, Xiangzi had to take Mr. Yang to his government office, and then return home to pick up the concubine to take her to Dongan Market or to visit friends. After that, it was time to pick up the children and bring them home for lunch. Then back to school. That done, it was time for Xiangzi to eat, but the man’s wife called out in her Tianjin accent for him to fetch water. The family’s drinking water was delivered from outside; water for washing clothes was part of the rickshaw man’s duties. Though this chore was not spelled out in the contract, Xiangzi let it pass to stay on good terms with his employer. Without complaint, he filled up the water vat. That done, he picked up his rice bowl, only to be sent by the concubine to buy something. The two women did not get along, but where family business was concerned, they shared a philosophy: point one, servants must never stand around idle; point two, servants are to eat their meals out of sight. Not knowing this, Xiangzi thought only that his first day was an unusually busy one for the family, so he kept quiet. He even went out and bought some baked flatbread on his own. Despite his obsession with money, keeping the job was worth the outlay.

As soon as he returned from the shopping trip, the wife told him to sweep the compound. Mr. Yang, his wife, and his concubine always dressed nicely when they went out, but their house, inside and out, was like a garbage dump. Just looking at the ground outside nearly made Xiangzi sick to his stomach, so he threw himself into the task with such enthusiasm that he forgot that a rickshaw man ought not to be given such jobs. Once the compound was neat and clean, the concubine told him to sweep out their rooms while he was at it. Still no complaints from Xiangzi. What got to him, on the other hand, was how two women who took such care of their appearance could live in rooms too filthy to step foot in. But he went ahead and swept them clean, just in time to have a grubby little one-year-old thrust into his arms by the concubine. He was helpless. He was not one to mind the hard work, but this was the first child he’d ever held, and he clutched the young master with both hands. If he relaxed his hold, he might drop him, but if he held him too tight, he could crush him. He broke out in a cold sweat and was determined to hand the little treasure over to Nanny Zhang—a woman from northern Jiangsu with unbound feet. He found her, only to be greeted with a barrage of curses. Servants seldom stayed on in the Yang home more than four or five days. To Mr. Yang and his wives, they were little more than personal slaves, and if they hadn’t worked them half to death, they felt they hadn’t gotten enough value out of the pittance they paid. Nanny Zhang, on the other hand, had been with them five or six years; she owed her longevity to her abusive mouth. Whether it was the master or one of his wives, no annoyance went unnoted. No one had been able to withstand Mr. Yang’s withering Shanghai curses, his wife’s imperious Tianjin scolding, or his concubine’s Suzhou rebukes, until, that is, the arrival of Nanny Zhang, who quickly earned their grudging respect. Appreciating her worth, like a martial hero encountering a stalwart adversary, they kept her on as the family enforcer.