The Bridegroom (20 page)

“Excuse me,” Manyou cried and arrived with a bowl of warm water. He put it on the counter and said to the man, “I’m going give your fly a hot bath, to see if it’s from our place.” He picked up the insect with a pair of chopsticks and dropped it into the bowl. We were all puzzled.

A few seconds later, Manyou announced, “This fly is not from Cowboy Chicken because, see, there isn’t any oil on the water. You all know we only sell fried chicken.”

Some spectators booed the man, but he wouldn’t give way. He fished out the fly with his hand and wrapped it up, saying, “I’m going take you to court no matter what. If you don’t offer a settlement, there’ll be no end of this.”

With a false smile Jinglin said to him, “Uncle, we’re one family and shouldn’t be so mean to each other. Let’s find a quiet place to talk this out, all right? We can’t negotiate in front of such a crowd.”

The man looked puzzled, flapping his round eyes. Jinglin hooked his heavy arm around the man’s neck while his eyes signaled at me. Reluctantly the crook moved away with him.

I followed them out the front door. It was slightly chilly outside, and the street was noisy with bicycle bells, vendors’ cries, and automobile horns. A few neon lights flickered in the north. After about fifty paces, we turned in to a small alley and then stopped. Jinglin smiled again, revealing his rotten teeth, and he took out a small pocketknife and a ten-yuan note. He opened the knife and said to the man, “I can pay you the damages now. You have a choice between these two.”

“Don’t make fun of me! I asked for ten thousand yuan.”

“Then I’ll let you taste this knife.”

The man wasn’t frightened by the two-inch blade. He grinned and asked, “Brothers, why help the foreign devils?”

“Because Cowboy Chicken is our company, and our livelihood depends on it,” I answered.

Jinglin said to him, “You’re the scum of the Chinese! Come on, choose one.”

The man didn’t lift his hand. Jinglin said again, “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t stab you with such a small thing, eh? Tell you what—I know your grandson who goes to the Second Elementary School, and I can catch him and cut off his little pecker with this knife. Then your family line will be gone. I mean it. Now, pick one.”

The crook was flabbergasted, looking at me and then at Jinglin, whose fat face became as hard as though made of copper sheet. With a trembling hand he took the money and mumbled, “Foreign dogs.” He turned and hurried away. In no time he disappeared in a swarm of pedestrians.

We both laughed and walked back to the restaurant. Across the street, three disheveled Russian beggars were playing the violin and the bandora. Unlike most Chinese beggars, who would cry woefully and accost people, those foreign musicians were reserved, with just a porkpie hat on the ground to collect money, as though they didn’t care whether you gave or not.

We didn’t tell our boss what we had done; we just said the man was satisfied with a ten-yuan note and wouldn’t come again. Susanna and her students applauded when they heard the news. Peter reimbursed Jinglin the money on the spot. Still, Mr. Shapiro looked suspicious and was afraid the man would return.

“He won’t trouble us anymore,” Peter said, smiling.

“Why are you so sure?” asked our boss.

“I have this.” With two fingers Peter pulled the crook’s receipt out of his breast pocket.

We all laughed. Actually, even with the receipt in hand, that old bastard wouldn’t have dared come again. He wasn’t afraid of Jinglin exactly but feared his four brothers, who were all stevedores on the riverbank, good at fighting and never hesitant to use a club or a dagger or a crowbar. That was why Jinglin, unlike the rest of us, could get rid of him without fear of retaliation.

Later we revealed to Peter what we had done in the alley. He smiled and promised he would not breathe a word to Mr. Shapiro.

As our business became stable, Peter grew into a local power of sorts. For months he had been building a house in the countryside. We wondered why he wanted his home to be four miles away from town. It would be costly to ride a motorcycle back and forth every day. One Sunday morning, Baisha, Feilan, Manyou, Jinglin, and I set out to see Peter’s new home. We pedaled abreast on the wide embankment along the Songhua River, humming movie songs and cracking jokes. Birds were crying furiously in the willow copses below the embankment, while on a distant jetty a team of men sang a work song as they unloaded timber from a barge. Their voices were faltering but explosive. It hadn’t rained for weeks, so the river was rather narrow, displaying a broad whitish beach. A few boys fishing there lay on their backs; around them stood some short bamboo poles planted deep into the sand. When a fish bit, a brass bell on one of the poles would jingle. On the other shore, toward the horizon, four or five windmills were turning, full like sails; above them the gray clouds floated lazily by, like a school of turtles.

We knew Peter had a few American dollars in the bank, but we were unsure how rich he really was. His house, though unfinished, staggered us. It was a three-story building with a garage in its back; it sat in the middle of two acres of sloping land, facing a gentle bend in the river and commanding a panorama that included two islands and the vast landscape on the other shore.

Peter wasn’t around. Six or seven workers were busy, rhythmically hammering something inside the house. We asked an older man, who looked like a supervisor, how much the house would cost.

“At least a quarter of a million yuan,” he said.

“So expensive?” Manyou gasped, his large lashless eyes blazing.

“You know what? It could be even more than that. We’ve never seen a home like this before.”

“What kind of house is this?” asked Feilan.

“It’s called Victorian. Mr. and Mrs. Jiao designed it themselves. It has two marble fireplaces, both imported from Hong Kong.”

“Damn! Where did he get so much money?” Baisha said and kicked a beer bottle with her white leather sandal.

We were all pondering the same question, and it weighed down our hearts like a millstone. But we didn’t stay long, fearing Peter might turn up. On the way back we spoke little to one another, unable to take our minds off Peter’s house. Obviously he made much more than we did, or he wouldn’t have had the money for such a mansion, which was larger even than the mayor’s. Before setting out, we had planned to have brunch together at a beer house, but now none of us had an appetite anymore. We parted company the moment we turned away from the quay.

After that trip, I noticed that my fellow workers often looked suspiciously at Peter, as though he were a hybrid creature. Their eyes showed envy and anger. They began learning English more diligently. Manyou attended the night college, working with a textbook called
English for Today,
while Baisha and Feilan got up early in the morning to listen to the study program on the radio and memorize English words and expressions. Jinglin wanted to learn genuine American English, which he said was more natural, so he was studying
English 900.
I was also learning English, but I was older than the others and didn’t have a strong memory, so I made little progress.

At work, they appeared friendlier to Mr. Shapiro and often poured coffee for him. Once Baisha even let him try some scallion pancake from her own lunch.

One morning, when we were not busy, I overheard Baisha talking with Mr. Shapiro in English. “Have you a house in U.S.A.?” she asked.

“Yes, I have a brick ranch, not very big.” He had a cold, his voice was nasal and thick.

“How many childs in house?”

“You mean children?”

“Yes.”

“I have two, and my wife has three.”

“Ah, you have five jildren?”

“You can say that.”

Mr. Shapiro turned away to fill out a form with a ballpoint pen, while Baisha’s narrow eyes squinted at his heavy cheek and then at the black hair on his wrist. She was such a flirt, but I was impressed. She was brave enough to converse with our boss in English!—whereas I could never open my mouth in front of him.

Because we had seen Peter’s mansion, our eyes were all focused on him. We were eager to find fault with him and ready to start a quarrel. But he was a careful man, knowing how to cope with us and how to maintain our boss’s trust. He avoided arguing with us. If we didn’t listen to him, he’d go into Mr. Shapiro’s office and stay in there for a good while. That unnerved us, because we couldn’t tell if he was reporting us to the boss. So we dared not be too disobedient. Every night Peter was the last to leave. He’d close the shutters, lock the cash register, wrap up the unsold chicken, tie the package to the back of his Honda motorcycle, and ride away.

Ever since the beginning, the daily leftovers had been a bone of contention between Mr. Shapiro and us. We had asked him many times to let us have the unsold chicken at the end of the day, but he refused, saying the company’s policy forbade its employees to have leftovers. We even offered to buy them at half price, but he still wouldn’t let us. He assigned Peter alone to take care of the leftovers.

It occurred to us that Peter must have been taking the leftovers home for the construction workers. He had to feed them well, or else they might jerry-build his mansion. Damn him, he not only earned more but also got all the perks. The more we thought about this, the more resentful we became. So one night, after he closed up the place and rode away, we came out of the nearby alley and pedaled behind him. Manyou was at the night college, and Jinglin had to look after his younger brother in the hospital who had just been operated on for a hernia, so they couldn’t join us. Only Feilan, Baisha, and I followed Peter. He was going much faster than we were, but we knew where he was headed, so we bicycled without hurry, chatting and laughing now and then.

In the distance Peter’s motorcycle was flitting along the embankment like a will-o’-the-wisp. The night was cool, and a few men were chanting folk songs from their boat anchored in the river. We were eager to prove Peter had shipped the leftovers home, so that we could report him to Mr. Shapiro the next morning.

For a long while the light of Peter’s motorcycle disappeared. We stopped, at a loss. Apparently he had turned off the embankment, but where had he gone? Should we continue to ride toward his home, or should we mark time?

As we were discussing what to do, a burst of flames emerged in the north, about two hundred yards away, at the waterside. We went down the embankment, locked our bicycles in a willow copse, and walked stealthily toward the fire.

When we approached it, we saw Peter stirring something in the fire with a trimmed branch. It was a pile of chicken, about twenty pieces. The air smelled of gasoline and burned meat. Beyond him, the waves were lapping the sand softly. The water was sprinkled with stars, rippling with the fishy breeze. On the other shore everything was buried in darkness except for three or four clusters of lights, almost indistinguishable from the stars in the cloudless sky. Speechlessly we watched. If there had been another man with us, we might have sprung out and beaten Peter up. But I was no fighter, so we couldn’t do anything, merely crouch in the tall grass and curse him under our breath.

“If only we had a gun!” Baisha whispered through her teeth.

Peter was in a happy mood. With a ruddy face he began singing a song, which must have been made up by some overseas Chinese:

I’m not so carefree as you think,

My feelings never unclear.

If you can’t see through me,

That’s because again you waste

Your love on a worthless man.

Oh my heart won’t wander alone.

Let me take you along.

Together we’ll reach a quiet place

Where you can realize

Your sweetest dream. . . .

For some reason I was touched by the song. Never had I known he had such a gorgeous baritone voice, which seemed to come a long way from the other shore. A flock of ducks quacked in the darkness, their wings splashing the water lustily. A loon let out a cry like a wild laugh. Then all the waterfowl turned quiet, and Peter’s voice alone was vibrating the tangy air chilled by the night.

Feilan whispered, “What a good time he’s having here, that asshole.”

“He must miss his American sweetheart,” Baisha said.

Feilan shook her chin. “Makes no sense. He’s not the romantic type.”

“Doesn’t he often say American girls are better than Chinese girls?”

“Shh—” I stopped them.

When the fire almost went out, Peter unzipped his fly, pulled out his dick, and peed on the embers, which hissed and sent up a puff of steam. The arc of his urine gleamed for a few seconds, then disappeared. He yawned, and with his feet pushed some sand over the ashes.

“Gross!” said Feilan.

Peter leaped on his motorcycle and dashed away, the exhaust pipe hiccuping explosively. I realized he didn’t mind riding four miles to work because he could use some of the gasoline provided by our boss for burning the leftovers with.

“If only I could scratch and bite that bastard!” Feilan said breathlessly.

“Depends on what part of him,” I said.

Baisha laughed. Feilan scowled at me, saying, “You have a dirty mind.”

The next day we told all the other workers about our discovery. Everyone was infuriated, and even the two part-timers couldn’t stop cursing capitalism. There were children begging on the streets, there were homeless people at the train station and the ferry house, there were hungry cats and dogs everywhere, why did Mr. Shapiro want Peter to burn good meat like garbage? Manyou said he had read in a restricted journal several years ago that some American capitalists would dump milk into a river instead of giving it to the poor. But that was in the U.S.; here in China, this kind of wasteful practice had to be condemned. I told my fellow workers that I was going to write an article to expose Ken Shapiro and Peter Jiao.

In the afternoon we confronted Peter. “Why do you burn the leftovers every night?” Manyou asked, looking him right in the eye.

Peter was taken aback, then replied, “It’s my job.”