Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (9 page)
Xiangzi had grown up in a northern village and could not tolerate cursing in public. But, believing that no decent man raises a hand against a woman, he dared not strike Nanny Zhang, nor was he about to argue with her. He was reduced to glowering, and that silenced Nanny Zhang, who had likely spotted danger in his look. The silence was broken by the wife, who ordered Xiangzi to pick up the children from school. He thrust the grubby child into the hands of the concubine, who took it as an insult and gave him hell. The wife hadn’t liked the idea of Xiangzi’s holding the concubine’s baby in the first place, and when she heard Xiangzi being bombarded by curses, she joined the fray in her oily voice. Attacking whom? Xiangzi, of course. Everyone’s target of choice. Quickly picking up the shafts of his rickshaw, he made his escape, even his anger apparently forgotten. He had never before witnessed anything like this, and it made his head swim.
One after the other, he brought the children back to a compound that was noisier than a marketplace, with three women cursing and a bunch of kids bawling. It was as bad as the unruly scene outside a Dashala cinema when the show let out. Fortunately for Xiangzi, he still had to pick up Mr. Yang at the office, so off he went. The clamor of the street was easier to take than the pandemonium back at the house.
Xiangzi’s chance for a breather did not come until midnight. He was worn out. Everyone in the family was in bed, but his ears rang with the sounds of bickering, as if three separate gramophones were playing in his head at the same time, keeping him on edge. He forced himself to think about nothing but sleep. But the minute he entered his room, his heart sank and all thoughts of sleep vanished. It was a tiny gatehouse room with doors on two sides, divided down the center by a wooden barrier; one side of the room was Nanny Zhang’s, the other his. There was no lamp, but a small two-foot window on the roadside wall under a street lamp provided a bit of light. The room, dank and musty, had a thick layer of dust on the floor and was furnished on his side with a cot against the wall and nothing more. Feeling the wooden slats with his hand, he knew that with his head at one end, his feet would be pressed up against the wall, but if he stretched out his legs, he would be in a half-seated position. He could not sleep curled up, so after looking at the situation from all angles, he moved the bed out at a slant, which would let him get through the night lying flat, with his feet hanging over the edge.
After retrieving his bedding from the doorway, he spread it out on the cot and lay down. But how was he supposed to sleep with his legs dangling in midair? He closed his eyes anyway and said to himself,
Get some sleep. You have to be up early in the morning. After all you’ve put up with, you can’t let this stop you. The food is terrible and the work exhausting, but maybe they have mahjong parties or invite guests for dinner or go out at night. What are you here for, anyway, Xiangzi? For the wages. Do whatever it takes to put aside the money you need.
Comforted by that thought, he breathed in the air of the room and found it didn’t smell as bad as he’d thought. As he was nodding off, he was dimly aware that bedbugs were biting him, but he was too sleepy to worry about that.
Two days into the new job Xiangzi was totally disheartened. Then, on the fourth day, some women showed up, and Nanny Zhang set up the mahjong table. Xiangzi’s heart felt like a frozen lake over which a spring breeze blew. When the ladies of the house played mahjong, they turned their children over to the servants, and since Nanny Zhang was kept busy supplying the women with cigarettes and tea and hot towels, the little monkeys were Xiangzi’s responsibility. He hated the little brats, but when he stole inside, he saw that Mrs. Yang was the banker and that she seemed to take the duty seriously. Maybe, he thought, even though she’s a shrew, she might understand that this is a chance to give the servants a little extra. He showed unusual patience with the children, expecting a tip when the game was over. Treating them like little lords and ladies was the way to go.
When the game was over, Mrs. Yang told Xiangzi to take her guests home, and since two of them were in a hurry to leave, she had him call for a second rickshaw. When it arrived, she made a big show of looking for money to pay her guest’s fare. The woman politely declined, drawing a disapproving shout from Mrs. Yang:
“You can’t be serious, my dear! I won’t let you come to my place without at least paying your way home. Come, my dear, up you go!” Finally, she managed to come up with ten cents.
Xiangzi saw that her hand shook as she handed over the paltry sum.
When he returned from taking the guest home, Xiangzi helped Nanny Zhang tidy up after the game. Then he glanced at Mrs. Yang, who told Nanny Zhang to get her a glass of water. As soon as Nanny Zhang was out of the room, she took out a ten-cent bill. “Take this and stop looking at me like that!”
Xiangzi went purple in the face. He straightened up, as if he wanted to touch the ceiling with his head, took the bill, and flung it in her fat face.
“Give me my four days’ wages!”
“How dare you!” she said. The look in his face stopped her from saying more. She handed him his four days’ wages. Xiangzi picked up his bedding and stormed out the gate, followed by a barrage of curses from the yard.
A
n early autumn night, with breezes rustling leaves that cast their shadows on the ground by the light of stars. Xiangzi looked up at the Milky Way and sighed. Under such a bracing sky, he should not feel as if he were suffocating. He had too broad a chest for that; he did nonetheless. He felt like sitting down and crying his heart out. A man with his physique, his ability to endure so much, and his determination should not be treated like a pig or a dog and ought to be able to hold down a job. For this, he did not blame the Yang family alone. A vague sense of despair was taking hold, a feeling that he would never amount to much. His steps slowed as he walked along, bedding under his arm, as if he were no longer the Xiangzi who could easily run a mile or more without stopping.
The nearly deserted main street and bright street lamps made him feel even worse. Where should he go now? Where? Harmony Shed, of course. But that saddened him. People in business or those who sell their labor aren’t as concerned about having no customers as they are about losing the ones they have, as when someone walks into a restaurant or barbershop, takes one look, and walks back out. Xiangzi knew that finding and losing jobs happened all the time—you’re not wanted here, so you go some place where you are. But he had meekly done what was asked of him, at a considerable loss of face, in pursuit of his goal to buy a rickshaw, and as a result had worked a total of three and a half days, no different from those men who willfully went from job to job. That’s what really bothered him. He wasn’t sure he had the heart to return to Harmony Shed, where they were sure to laugh at him: “Well, would you look at this! Camel Xiangzi packs it in after only three and a half days!”
But if not Harmony Shed, where? Not wanting to worry about that, he headed for Xi’an Gate. The Harmony Shed façade was made up of three shop fronts. The middle one, the accounting office, was off-limits to the rickshaw men except for settling accounts or conducting business. They were forbidden from using it to enter the yard because the eastern and western rooms were the bedrooms of the owner and his daughter. The rickshaw entrance, next to the western room, was a double gate painted green, over which a bright, uncovered electric light hung from a thick wire, illuminating a metal plaque beneath it with the words “Harmony Shed” in gold script. This was the gate the pullers used, with or without their rickshaws. The green gate and gold lettering shone in the bright glare of the electric light, with handsome rickshaws going in and out, some black, others yellow, all highly polished and outfitted with clean white cushions that gave the men a sense of personal pride, a feeling that they were the aristocrats of their profession. Once inside, you entered a large courtyard with an ancient acacia tree in the center. The rickshaws were kept in buildings to the east and west that opened to the courtyard. A building south of the courtyard and several small rooms behind a tiny courtyard were the men’s sleeping quarters.
It must have been after eleven when Xiangzi spotted the light above the door at Harmony Shed. The accounting office and eastern room were dark, but a light shone in the western room, which meant that Huniu was still up. He planned to sneak in quietly so she wouldn’t see him. He did not want her to be the first to witness his defeat, since she held him in such high regard. But he’d barely pulled his rickshaw up under her window when she walked out through the rickshaw entrance.
“Oh, Xiangzi, what—” She stopped when she saw the dejected look on his face and the bedding in the rickshaw.
It was what he had dreaded; as humiliation filled his heart, he stood there like a fool, speechless, as he gazed stupidly at Huniu. There was something different about her that night. Whether it was the effects of the light or because she’d powdered her face, her skin was paler than usual, largely masking the ferocious expression she normally wore. Her lips were painted, lending her a seductive appearance. Xiangzi did not know what to make of this bewildering change. He’d never actually thought of her as a woman, and the sight of her reddened lips embarrassed him. She was wearing a light green satin jacket over a pair of wide unlined black crepe trousers. The overhead light lent her green jacket a soft and slightly doleful luster, and since it was a bit too short, it revealed a strip of her white waistband, highlighting the quiet elegance of the green. A light breeze rustled her wide black trousers slightly, almost as if sinister essences were trying to escape the bright light and become one with the dark night. Xiangzi lowered his head, not daring to keep staring, though the image of a glimmering green jacket stayed with him. As far as he knew, Huniu never dressed like that. The family was rich enough for her to dress in silks and satins, but daily contact with coarse rickshaw men dictated that she wear ordinary cotton clothing, with an occasional but muted touch of color. Xiangzi was seeing something new and exciting, yet familiar, and that mystified him.
He had arrived feeling terrible, only to encounter this strange apparition under a bright light, and he did not know what to do. Aware that it was not his place to move, he was hoping that she would either turn and go back inside or tell him what to do. The tension was more than he could take, like nothing he’d ever known. It was unbearable.
“Hey!” She moved closer. “Don’t just stand there,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Put your rickshaw away and come right back. I want to talk to you about something. I’ll be inside.”
Accustomed to helping out with things when she asked him to, this time he detected a difference and he needed time to think. But standing there thinking made him look as though he was frozen to the spot; not knowing what else to do, he took his rickshaw inside. The southern rooms were dark, so the men were either in bed or hadn’t quit for the day. After parking his rickshaw, he headed back to her door, where suddenly his heart began to race.
“Come in,” she said, sticking her head out the door, looking somewhere between lighthearted and impatient. “I want to talk to you about something.”
He walked in slowly.
A pair of not quite ripe white pears lay on a table. Next to them were a decanter of liquor and three white porcelain cups. Finally, there was a large platter with half a stewed chicken, pieces of smoked liver, and some tripe.
“See what we have.” She pointed to a chair and waited for him to sit down before continuing:
“I’m treating myself tonight for all my hard work, and you can join me.” She poured him a cup from the decanter. The peppery smell of the liquor mixed with that of smoked and stewed meats produced a pungent, heavy aroma. “Drink up,” she said, “and try some of this chicken. I’ve already started, so you needn’t wait. I tossed some divination tallies a while ago, and they said you’d be back. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t drink,” Xiangzi said, as he gazed spellbound at the cup of liquor.
“Then get the hell out of here! Don’t you know when someone’s being nice to you, you dumb camel? It won’t kill you! Even I can drink four ounces of the stuff! You don’t believe me? Watch.” She picked up a cup and nearly emptied it. Closing her eyes, she breathed heavily and held the cup out to Xiangzi. “Finish it. If you don’t, I’ll grab you by the ear and pour it down your throat.”
Xiangzi was incapable of expressing the resentment he felt. He wanted to react to the humiliation by glaring at her but had to admit that she had always treated him well and dealt openly with him. He did not want to offend her. Now was probably the time to tell her what he’d been through. Never garrulous, on this day a torrent of words was bursting to get out. He thought that Huniu might actually be showing tenderness, not mocking him, so he took the cup from her and drained it. A stinging sensation slid slowly, precisely, and potently down his throat. He stretched out his neck, threw out his chest, and belched twice, uncomfortably.
Huniu laughed. After he had forced down the liquor, the sound of that laugh made him turn to look at the eastern room.
“He’s not there.” She stopped laughing, though a smile remained. “The old man is off celebrating my aunt’s birthday and won’t be back for three or four days. She lives in Nanyuan.” She refilled Xiangzi’s cup.
There was something funny about all this, but he didn’t feel like leaving, not with her face right there in front of him. Her clothes were so clean and silky and her lips so red that he felt stimulated in a way that was new to him. She was still ugly but seemed more full of life than usual, as if she’d become a different person; or maybe it was still her but with something added. He didn’t have the nerve to try to figure out just what this new something was and, at least for the moment, was unwilling to accept it; on the other hand, he was not prepared to reject it, either. His face reddened. He took another drink, as if to boost his courage, and forgot all about telling her his troubles. Red in the face, he could not turn away, but the longer he looked, the greater his sense of turmoil, as that bewildering something about her was becoming more apparent, and a heated force emanating from her gradually turned her into an abstraction. Be careful, he warned himself, but he was beginning to feel emboldened. He drained three more cups and abandoned his normal caution. Gazing at her through a bit of a fog, for some reason he felt incredibly happy—and daring. He was on the verge of grabbing hold of a brand-new experience and happiness. Most of the time she frightened him, but now there didn’t seem to be anything daunting about her. He, on the other hand, was the imposing one, the stronger of the two. He felt as if he could pick her up like a kitten.