The Boat to Redemption (34 page)

About halfway through her rant, she noticed the pained grimace on my face, and a note of fear crept into her voice. ‘Why are
you looking at me like that?’ she demanded. ‘You look as if you’d eat me alive if you could. Well, I’m not the one who determined
that you’re not the descendants of the martyr. I heard that from Aunty Wang at the inn, who heard it from some comrades in
the investigative team.’

Just then Pock-faced Li walked outside in his apron, looking angry, and without so much as a glance at me railed at his wife,
‘You blabbermouth, what are you doing out here – selling bean curd or selling information? And if you’re a spy selling information,
you’re
supposed to ask how much they’re paying and who you’re selling it to. A dog’s got a better memory than you. Have you forgotten
how his dad once sent people over to chop off our capitalist’s tail, how they confiscated three bags of beans and our millstone?
I guess you don’t remember how you screamed and wailed. But now the scar is healed and the pain’s a distant memory, is that
it? Don’t you dare answer his questions till they give us back our three bags of beans!’

Pock-faced Li’s hatred of my father took me by surprise, since I had no idea that Father and this couple had a past grievance.
But then I was reminded of Li Yuhe’s song in the opera
Red Lantern
: ‘Plant a peach tree and you get peaches, sow rose seeds and roses bloom.’ That, in a word, summed up the failure of my father’s
political career. I gritted my teeth and walked over to People’s Avenue under the withering stares of Li and his wife. Once
I was out of view I breathed a sigh of relief. Night had fallen and the streetlamps were lit, leaving one side of Milltown’s
streets in darkness. The town’s main street looked cleaner than ever, in contrast to the lanes, which appeared even dirtier
than before. Oily smoke from kitchens filled the air with the tempting smells of pork and spicy greens. My stomach began to
grumble as I wondered where to go now. Li’s wife hadn’t produced any evidence to back up what she’d told me, but the news
that a new descendant of Deng Shaoxiang had been chosen must have already been making the rounds in town. Father’s long wait
was about to end in a crushing defeat. He wouldn’t believe it, of course, but that no longer mattered.

As I passed the darkened culture hall I noticed shadowy objects on the remains of the open-air stage. Someone had tossed a
broken chair on to the stage, and in my mind’s eye I saw a pair of shamed figures being pushed up on to the stage: my father
and me. I was standing, hands tied behind my back; Father, naked, was sitting in the tilting chair, head bowed as he revealed
his disfigured penis
to the crowd below. ‘I’m not guilty of anything,’ he said, his grey head bowed. Wind passing my ears carried the people’s
angry shouts. ‘Yes, you are, you’re guilty!’ Then a barrage of arrows flew at him from all directions, and I saw my dying
father, his body impaled by arrows, terror filling his eyes, turn to me and say, ‘Tell them, son, tell them whose son I am.
Tell them I’m Deng Shaoxiang’s son!’

I couldn’t look at that stage or the chair any longer, so I turned and trotted over to the chess pavilion. I didn’t have anything
particular in mind, but that was a place where people gathered and rumours spread, and I decided to find out from someone
where Zhao Chuntang’s new home was. I was intent on rescuing Father. When I reached the pavilion, I was surprised to find
the place deserted. Widow Fang had left with her stall and so had the people who had once gathered around it. I saw several
oil transporters and cargo trucks in the car park, and some of the drivers playing poker on a tarpaulin they’d spread out
on the ground. A man with a full beard waved to me from the cab of his truck. ‘Want a ride? Come on up, I’m getting ready
to shove off. I’ll take you to Xingfu for fifty cents.’

Fifty cents to Xingfu. Xingfu again. Too bad I couldn’t go this time.

I paced the area around the pavilion, watching my shadow shrink and lengthen under a streetlamp. I was wavering. Suddenly
I doubted the wisdom of coming ashore in the first place.
Kongpi
, that’s what my vow to Father was,
kongpi
! I couldn’t find Zhao Chuntang, but even if I could, what could I say to get him to go aboard our barge and apologize to
Father? Nothing, unless I had a gun or happened to be his superior. I had nothing. I
was
nothing. Nothing but a
kongpi
.

I stared blankly at the partially demolished pavilion; it was hardly more than rubble. A gust of wind blew open a corner of
the plastic wrapping, releasing a weird triangle of dim light that
nonetheless hurt my eyes. The light unexpectedly drew me to it; I crept inside.

Workers’ tools were strewn all over the floor – hammers, pickaxes and some small jacks – but their owners were not there;
nor was the idiot Bianjin. I did, however, see a pair of his geese, one of which was perched cockily on one of the hammers;
the other one unforgivably stood atop the martyr’s memorial stone and was soiling it with its excrement.

It was that stone that had sent the dim light my way, presenting me with the greatest inspiration I’d ever had. It was lying
on its side, secured by thick ropes, which could only mean that they would be moving it within the next few days, and when
it left it would take the martyr’s spirit with it. Would they go to Phoenix in the upper reaches, or to Wufu, some forty li
up the road? At that moment, a light went on in my head and I felt my blood begin to churn as a splendid, almost manic idea
was born. I wanted that memorial stone. I’d make it mine by moving it to our barge. I was going to return Deng Shaoxiang’s
martyr spirit to my father!

There was no time like the present. I knew I’d do it. First I kicked off the goose and wiped away some of the excrement. Then,
before I started, I didn’t forget to bow respectfully. Moving something that heavy was child’s play to a boat person. Calmly
and in complete control, I grasped the rope with both hands and pulled with all my might. The stone obediently righted itself
and stood at the right angle for me to lift it with my arms and hip. Slowly it began to move, and it seemed to me to weigh
at least two hundred
jin
. Experience told me that it was too heavy for one man to move, but it gave me a tremendous surprise: it was helping me along,
dispensing good will and a warm feeling. The heavy stone slid easily along the cement floor, never wavering, with no doubt
or hesitation, and by pulling hard, it didn’t take me long to drag it free of the pavilion. Bianjin’s geese reacted with panicky
honks, which attracted the attention of the truck drivers in the
car park. Thinking I was a thief, one of them stood up and, with a grin, shouted to me, ‘I knew you were a three-handed sort,
the way you slinked around there. But a memorial stone? What are you going to do with that? Take it home and build a house
to win a bride?’

It was a lucky break. Those truckers were all outsiders, and Milltown meant nothing to them. But their laughter brought me
out in a cold sweat. This was Milltown, where everyone was on the lookout for something, and my risky adventure could be over
before it really began. I had to move fast. Move fast! Fast! I kept telling myself. Fast! Move fast! I urged the stone, but,
seemingly offended, it chose this moment to make a display of its dignity and flaunt its weight. Now pulling it behind me
was like dragging a mountain along, and by the time I reached the path by the cotton warehouse, my arms felt as if they were
about to fall off and I was gasping for breath. I had to stop. When I turned to look behind me, the first group of followers
was catching up. A pair of white geese and three ducks were waddling my way, raising the alarm with their honks and quacks.
Then the second wave came into view: the geese’s master, idiot Bianjin. He was brandishing a duck whistle. ‘Stop right there,
Ku Dongliang!’ he shouted. ‘Kongpi, I said stop!’ His enraged shouts ripped through the night. ‘You’ve got guts, Kongpi. What
are you dragging there? I told you to stop! Where do you think you’re going?’

He blew his duck whistle, which drew more geese and ducks from around the piers, and before I knew it I was surrounded by
them. Everyone – man and fowl – was talking at once. The ducks’ and geese’s incomprehensible complaints fell on deaf ears,
but not the idiot’s angry shouts. ‘How dare you, Ku Dongliang! I thought somebody was stealing a hammer or a jack, but no,
you’re stealing the memorial stone! I never thought you’d have the guts to actually steal the martyr Deng Shaoxiang’s spirit!’

‘Stop the crazy talk, idiot. I’m not stealing her spirit, I’m taking
the stone to show my father. He’s in terrible health, but this’ll cure him.’

‘You’re the idiot! That stone isn’t some magic elixir, how can it cure your dad?’ With one hand on his hip and the other pointing
to his own nose, he said, ‘You’ve certainly got guts. Do you know what you’ve done? You’re an active counter-revolutionary.
You can be shot for that.’

‘What do you know about active counter-revolutionaries?’ I asked. ‘Or historical ones, for that matter? With my own eyes I
saw one of your geese shit on the martyr’s memorial. Come and look for yourself. If that’s not goose shit, what is it? What
kind of counter-revolutionary is that goose of yours, huh? Should they take it out and shoot it?’

One look at the mess on the memorial stone and his nerves began to betray him. He looked at his flock. ‘Which one was it?
Tell me. He won’t get away with it.’

‘All your geese look alike. How am I supposed to know which one it was? But if one of them shit on the memorial stone, I’m
sure the others did too. They’re all counter-revolutionaries, and they’ll have to be taken out and shot.’

‘Stop trying to scare me.’ After glowering at me, he turned back to his flock and thought for a minute. Then he came up with
a smart comment. ‘The goose shouldn’t have shit on it, but it’s an animal and it doesn’t know any better. Are you an animal
too? Don’t you know any better?’

He stumped me. Not having anything to say, I gave him a shove. ‘You really are an idiot. I can’t argue with an idiot. If they
shoot me, they shoot me, and it’s none of your business. Get out of my sight.’ I kicked a goose and two ducks out of my way
and continued dragging the stone towards the embankment.

Bianjin grabbed a handful of my clothes. ‘Where do you think you’re going? I’m in charge of the pavilion. I can’t let you
take anything out of it.’

I’d underestimated his intelligence and his physical skills. With a shout he jumped on to the stone, and the added weight
nearly broke my arms. I immediately let go of the rope. Seeing that I’d given up, his next move was to take control of the
rope. We went for it at the same time, four hands grasping at the same spot. We bumped heads, hard, and I saw stars. That
enraged me, so I grabbed hold of his tattered shirt and pushed him to the side of the road. ‘Good dogs stay out of the way,
idiot, so be a good dog and get out of my way. If you don’t, I’ll twist that dog’s head of yours off.’

But I had underestimated Bianjin’s courage. He surprised me by sticking his head right up to my chest. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘Twist it off. If you don’t, then you’re the dog.’

Bianjin and I grappled atop the memorial. He was no pushover, and as the struggle raged, I fought to stay on top. But that
proved to be an unwise tactic: if I couldn’t control Bianjin, I wouldn’t be able to move the stone. In the end, I abandoned
it, ran around and jumped on to Bianjin’s back, pinning his arms to his sides and holding on tight. He was not a young man,
after all, and couldn’t get out of my bear hug, though he stamped around as best he could and screamed in distress, ‘Help!
Someone come and catch Ku Dongliang! Catch a counter-revolutionary!’

The screams brought Old Qin, night watchman at the cotton warehouse, running, lunch box in hand. But when he saw who it was,
he lost interest and continued shovelling food into his mouth. ‘So it’s you two,’ he said finally. ‘What’s all this about
a counter-revolutionary? It’s just an idiot and a
kongpi
. Counter-revolutionary? That’s above both of your ranks. Don’t waste my time.’

‘He’s stealing the martyr’s memorial stone,’ Bianjin cried out desperately. ‘He’s a counter-revolutionary, an active counter-revolutionary.
Get the police!’

Old Qin ignored Bianjin’s pleas. Instead, he walked up to the
stone, still holding his lunch box, and gave me a quizzical look. ‘Come to think of it, this is strange. What do you want
this for? A souvenir for your dad or something? But it’s only a memorial. Why bother to drag it around like that? As far as
I’m concerned, your dad’s head is filled with mush. What difference does it make if he’s descended from a martyr or not? What
matters is getting by the best you can in good health.’

Old Qin’s admonition fell on deaf ears – mine and Bianjin’s. Bianjin looked up and vented his anger and frustration on Old
Qin. ‘Why don’t you get the police instead of standing around talking like a fool? You’re abetting a criminal, and that’s
a crime punishable by three years in prison!’

Old Qin lost his temper and kicked Bianjin in the rear. ‘You stinking idiot!’ he cursed. ‘I tried to teach you how to do arithmetic,
but you were too dumb to learn. The only way you could count six geese is by using your fingers, so what’s all that talk about
three years in prison? Lucky for me you’re an idiot, or you’d sentence me to three hundred years! If you weren’t an idiot,
you’d have lined everyone up along the Golden Sparrow River and shot them!’ His anger growing, he kicked Bianjin a second
time.

Bianjin screeched. ‘Where is everybody? Is everybody dead? Where are the revolutionary masses?’ By then he was nearly crying,
so I grabbed him by the collar, and he went limp. I thought he’d given up, and was about to let him go, when two people emerged
from behind the warehouse. Seeing that his rescue was at hand, he shouted, ‘Grab the counter-revolutionary! You’ll be rewarded
for your efforts.’

It was a young couple who’d been up to something behind the warehouse. He heeded the call, she vanished. In his twenties,
he had bushy eyebrows and large eyes, neatly combed hair, and was wearing a tunic with three pens in his breast pocket. He
looked familiar, but I couldn’t recall his name. But he obviously knew
who we were. He looked down at the memorial stone, then up at the two of us and smiled. With an enigmatic expression, he said,
‘So, it’s you two. What are you doing, fighting over this stone? One’s fighting over Deng Shaoxiang’s son, the other over
her grandson. Well, you can stop fighting, since you’re both out of the running. The latest news is that a school headteacher
in Wufu is her son, but that’s not true either. You’re all fakes! I’ll tell you what my research has turned up, but it can’t
be made public. Here’s what happened. Deng Shaoxiang was married, but didn’t get along with her husband and had no children.
The boy in that basket wasn’t her child. She’d borrowed a baby as a cover for her mission.’