One Man Page 23

  Amen. You were born with sin and unqualified to be a judge, but, cynically and for your own self-protection, you infiltrated the rebel ranks. At this very time, you are even more certain of this. It is also to find a refuge that, on the pretext of investigating Party cadres, you get a wad of letters of introduction stamped with official seals, draw a sum of money for expenses, and go off wandering everywhere. There's no harm in getting to learn a bit about this inexplicable world and seeing if there's anywhere to escape this catastrophic revolution.

  On the southern bank of the Yellow River, in the city of Ji'nan, he found a small workshop on an ancient street. The person he was investigating had been released from a prison farm. The middle-aged woman supervisor wearing sleeve protectors was pasting up paper boxes. She replied, "The person's been gone a long time."

  "Is he dead?" he said.

  "If he's gone, of course he's dead."

  "How did he die?"

  "Go and ask his family!"

  "Is his family still here? Who are they?"

  "Who, in fact, are you investigating?" the woman asked back.

  He couldn't say to some woman worker in a workshop that opened onto the street that the dead person and the cadre under investigation had been classmates at university and had joined the student movement of the underground Party organization, and afterward they had been in a Nationalist prison together. Also, there was no point in wearing himself out trying to explain all this cast-iron revolutionary logic. But he did have to get hold of a document saying that the person was dead, so that he could claim his travel expenses.

  "Would you be able to put your seal on it?" he asked.

  "Put my seal on what?"

  "A testimony that the person's dead."

  "You'll have to go to the public security supply office. We don't issue death certificates."

  "All right. Which way do I have to go to get to the Yellow River?" he asked, imitating the woman's Shandong accent.

  "What Yellow River?" the woman asked.

  "Our China has only one Yellow River. Isn't your Ji'nan city on the bank of the Yellow River?"

  "What are you talking about! What's to see there? I've never been there."

  The woman went back to pasting her paper boxes and ignored him.

  There was a saying that a person should not give up before reaching the Yellow River, and he suddenly thought of going to see it. The Yellow River had been eulogized from ancient times, and he had passed over it many times, but always in a train, and its greatness could not be seen as it flashed by through the metal framework of the bridge. A passer-by on the street told him that the Yellow River was a long way off, he would have to take a bus to Luokouzhen, then walk up the high embankment. It was only from the top of the embankment that the river could be seen.

  When he climbed to the top of the high embankment of bare loess, there was no sign of anything green. On the other shore was a dusty flood area without any villages and not a single shrub. A rolling sludge lay below the fractures and slopes formed by silting at different water levels. The riverbed was high above the town. Was this fast-flowing, brown, muddy river the Yellow River that had been praised in songs over the ages? Did the ancient civilization of China originate here?

  Below the horizon, as far as the eye could see, was the muddy river speckled with dazzling sunlight. But for the black shadow of a boat floating in the distance under the sun, there was absolutely no sign of life. Had the people who had sung its praises ever actually come to the Yellow River? Or had they simply made it all up?

  That distant shadow against the sky, the sailing boat with a wooden mast, swayed as it neared. The gray-white sail had big patches, and a man, stripped to the waist, was holding the rudder. A woman in a gray jacket was also on the deck, throwing something overboard. The rocks in the cabin, which filled half of the boat, were probably used for mending breaks in the embankment during seasonal flooding.

  He went down to the shore. It gradually became slushy mud, so he took off his shoes and socks and held them as he walked barefoot in the slippery quagmire. He bent down and scooped a handful of mud that dried in the sun into the shape of a shell. A revolutionary poet once sang: "I drink the water of the Yellow River." But this muddy soup was not for humans, and even fish and shrimp would find it hard to survive in it. It would seem that dire poverty and disaster can be eulogized. This great muddy river, which was virtually dead, shocked him and filled him with desolation. Some years later, an important member of the Party Center said he wanted to erect a great statue to honor the spirit of the nation in the upper reaches of the Yellow River, and probably it has already been erected.

  The train south made an unscheduled stop during the night at a small station on the northern bank of the Yangtze River, and people were shut in the unbearably hot and stuffy carriages. The ceiling fans were whirring, but the rank odor of sweat made it even harder to breathe. Several hours passed like this. The explanation over the broadcast system was that there was armed fighting at a station up ahead. The tracks were piled with rocks, and they didn't know when the train would be able to go through. It was only after passengers surrounded the train guard to protest that the doors were opened and everyone got out. He went to a pond by a paddy field, washed himself, then lay on the embankment to look at the stars in the sky. The sound of angry voices died down, and, as the croaking of frogs filled the air, he began to doze off. He thought back to when he was a child and lay on a bamboo bed in the courtyard to stay cool, and had also looked at the sky like this. But those childhood memories were more remote than the bright morning star in the sky.

  30

  Bags of cement had been stacked waist-high across the road, with gaps left to poke rifles through. In front of the barricade was a mass of road construction equipment: roadblocks, cement mixers, and bitumen boilers. Concrete blocks strung with barbed wire had been put up to make a passage on the road just wide enough for a person to get through. Traffic had been cut, and a line of seven or eight empty electric trolleybuses with their cable rods removed stood on one side of the intersection. The footpaths, however, were crowded with pedestrians and nearby residents: young adolescents squeezing in and out, women with babies, and old men in singlets and slippers waving rattan fans. They were all standing against the iron railing of the footpath waiting to watch something happen. Were they waiting for an armed battle? There was much talk in the crowd, some were talking about the Red Command and others about the Revolutionary Command. Anyway, the two factions had mobilized their forces and there was going to be a fight. He couldn't work out which faction was in control of the road to the railway station, but, making his way through the crowd, he crossed the intersection and started walking toward the roadblock.

  Blocking the exit, at the end of the passageway of concrete blocks strung with barbed wire, were workers wearing red armbands and woven-willow safety helmets: they were armed with sharpened steel drills. He took out his work permit. The guard opened it, took one look, and waved him through. He was not from the area and had nothing to do with the dispute between the two rival factions. There were no vehicles on the road, and it was lonely and deserted, so he walked in the middle of the road where the bitumen radiated the heat of the glaring sun. People tend not to go crazy in broad daylight, he thought.

  Bang! A loud noise cut the hot drowsy loneliness. At first, he didn't know that it was a rifle shot, and he looked around at the two sides of the street. The wall of a big factory had a slogan written on it in characters the size of a person's head: fight with your life

  TO DEFEND CHAIRMAN MAO'S PROLETARIAN REVOLUTIONARY

  line! At this, he realized that the sound he had heard was a rifle shot. He started running, but immediately stopped. He mustn't show that he was panicking, because it would make the sniper even more suspicious of him. However, he immediately got onto the footpath and walked at a brisk pace.

  It was impossible to say where the shot had come from. Was it warning off pedestrians? Or was it aimed at
him? They wouldn't indiscriminately kill someone, would they? He was passing through, and had nothing to do with their dispute. But supposing someone shot and killed him, who would come forward as a witness? He suddenly realized that he could have been killed by the sniper, that his life was in danger, and he immediately turned down the very first lane. The lane, too, was lonely and deserted, and it seemed as if all the residents had evacuated the area. Terror sprang up in his heart. Only then did he believe that the whole city could easily turn into a battlefield, that people could suddenly become enemies because of an invisible line, and that both sides could go into bloody battle because of it.

  As expected, the square in front of the railway station was crowded with people, and there was a line of travelers snaking from the tightly closed ticket window. He asked someone in front what time they would start selling tickets, but the person didn't know and simply shrugged. He got into the line, and, before long, people from out of nowhere had lined up behind him. None of the people in the line had big pieces of luggage, and there were no old people or children. They were all strong young men, apart from a young woman with two short plaits, farther ahead in the line. From time to time, she looked around, but as soon as she made eye contact with someone, she averted her eyes. She seemed to be on edge, probably afraid of being recognized. It was his guess that many of the people in the ticket line were on the run, but the large numbers gathered in the square put his mind at ease, so he sat on the ground and lit a cigarette.

  There was a stir, and the line instantly broke up. Something had happened. He stopped someone to ask, and was told that the river had been sealed off. He asked what that meant. There would be no ferries and trains operating! There was also talk that there would be a bloodbath. Whose blood and who was it going to wash? He couldn't get an answer. The people in the square had suddenly dispersed, and the ten or so, who, like him, had nowhere to go, gradually came together and formed a new line at the tightly shut ticket window. It was as if they had to do this to get the support of the others. By this time, the sun was setting, the clock at the station was pointing at five o'clock, and no one else was turning up.

  The ten or so people left had been cut off from any source of information. Sensibly, they no longer stupidly lined up in the sun but found some shade to chat or smoke. Now and then, people made comments: the two factions were making their final decision, the military would soon intervene, boat and rail transport services couldn't be stopped for long and, at the latest, would be running again the next day. It was all positive thinking. He no longer asked questions. The young woman was still there but kept some distance from everyone. She stayed in a corner with her head down and her arms hugging her knees.

  He was hungry and thought of buying something to eat so that he would be able to last until morning. Sleeping with his backpack as a pillow on concrete meant nothing more than looking at the stars all night, and somehow he would be able to get through this summer night. He left the ticket window and went around to the nearby shops, but they were all closed and shuttered for the night. There were no eating places open, and the streets and lanes on either side were empty and deserted. No vehicles had passed by for several hours. At this point, he sensed the air becoming thick, and he became tense, and, not daring to venture farther, he turned back. The shadow of the clock tower had already extended to the center of the square, and there were fewer people in front of the ticket window. The young woman was still huddled in the same spot and the talkative person was no longer talking.

  The shadow of the clock tower now stretched over most of the square, and the outline of the dark shadow became more distinct with the sun directly behind. All strangers to one another, they were at a station, waiting for a train, but they didn't know when it would arrive. What if the tracks had been cut? Were they really waiting for a civil war?

  Bang-bang-bang! A burst of muffled gunfire reverberated in everyone's hearts, and they all got to their feet. Following this was a continuous volley of gunfire, also muffled, but this time it was machine-gun fire, and it was somewhere not far away. Everyone scattered like animals, and he, too, ran for his life. This was war, he thought.

  It was a blind alley, a narrow corridor with a wall on the one side and hemp bags stacked higher than a person on the other. He had escaped into a warehouse. When he stopped to catch his breath, he heard a noise, and, turning around, he saw the young woman slumped against a pile of hemp bags, also trying to catch her breath.

  "What happened to the others?" he asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Where are you going?"

  The woman did not answer.

  "I'm going to Beijing."

  "I… am too," the woman said after a pause.

  "You're not a local, are you?" he asked, but the woman didn't answer.

  "University student?" he asked, but again she didn't answer.

  It gradually grew dark, and a cool breeze started blowing. He felt his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back.

  "We'll have to find a place to spend the night, it's not safe here," he said, walking out of the warehouse. He looked back and saw the woman quietly following but keeping a few paces away. He asked, "Know of anywhere to stay?"

  "Near the station, but it's too dangerous to go back. There are places along the river, close to the wharf, but it's a very long walk," the woman said quietly. She was clearly a local, so he insisted that she lead the way.

  Sure enough, below the big embankment, along the river, in a little street of old houses, youths were standing outside or sitting in doorways, chatting with one another across the road and asking about the battle. Until the bullets hit them in the head, they couldn't help being curious, even excited, by it all. The shops and little eating places were all closed, but two places with lights on the doors were old-style inns, where traveling traders and craftsmen used to stay. One of them was full, but the other one had a small room with a single bed.

  "Do you want it or not?" asked the fat woman behind the counter, waving a fan.

  He immediately said yes and took out his identity card. The woman took it and made an entry in the register.

  "What's your relationship?" the woman asked as she wrote out the entry.

  "Husband and wife." He winked at the woman beside him.

  "Surname and name?"

  "Xu-Ying," she answered after a pause.

  "Work unit?"

  "She hasn't got work yet, we're going back to Beijing," he answered for her.

  "There's a five-yuan deposit. It's one yuan per day, and the account is settled when you vacate the room."

  He paid the money. The woman kept his identity card and came out from behind the counter with a bunch of keys. She opened a small door by the stairs and pulled the light cord inside. A light bulb hung from the sloping ceiling. Having squeezed into this little nook, a storage space under the stairs that had been converted into a small room with a single bed, they couldn't straighten up. At the other end of the room was a washbasin stand and nothing else, not even a chair. The fat woman shuffled off in her slippers, waving her bunch of keys.

  He shut the door. He and this woman, Xu Ying, looked at one another.

  "I'll go out soon," he said.

  "There's no need," the woman said, sitting down on the bed. "It's all right."

  It was only then that he took a good look at the woman. She was very pale, so he asked, "Are you very tired? You can lie down and rest."

  The woman remained seated and didn't move. Footsteps clattered overhead. Someone came down the stairs, then, outside, there was the sound of splashing water, most likely the person was having a wash in the courtyard. The little room had no window for ventilation, and it was unbearably hot and stuffy.

  "Would you like the door open?" he asked.

  "No," the woman said.

  "Would you like me to get you a basin of water? I'll wash outside," he said.

  The woman nodded.

  When he came back later on, the woman had washed and combed
her hair. She had changed into a round-neck sleeveless top with little yellow flowers, and, shoes off, was sitting on the bed. She had replaited her hair tightly, and the color had returned to her face; she had a girlish look. She bent her knees to leave half the bed clear, and said, "Sit down, there's room here!"

  For the first time, the woman smiled. He also smiled, relaxed, and said, "I had to say that." He was, of course, referring to when they registered and he had put them down as husband and wife.

  "I understood, of course." The woman's lips scrunched up into a smile.

  He then bolted the door, took off his shoes, sat cross-legged at the other end of the bed, and said, "I can't believe it!"

  "What?" the woman asked, tilting her head to one side.

  "Do you need to ask?"

  This woman called Xu Ying again scrunched up her lips into a smile.

  Afterward, many years later, when he thought back to that night, there was also flirting, seduction, lust, passion, and love. It was not just a night of terror.

  "Was that really your name?" he asked.

  "I can't tell you right now."

  "Then when will you?"

  "You'll know when the time comes. Wait and see."

  "See what?"

  "Isn't it clear to you yet?"

  He stopped talking and felt cozy and comfortable. The footsteps on the stairs had stopped, and there was no more splashing out in the courtyard. A sort of tension began to coalesce, and it was as if something was about to happen. It was only some years later, when he thought back to that time, that he again experienced such a feeling.

  "Is it all right to put out the light?" he asked.

  "It is a bit too bright," she said.