“That will be great,” I said, turning to my brother. “I have all the books.”
“I'm not really sure about college; I've been away from books for too long.” Jin sounded pessimistic. He had always been my opposite in many ways. He was calm and wise, never one to take center stage. When it came to a major decision, we always had to push and shove him a little. I hoped for victory, while he worried about failure.
“You can do it,” Dad told Jin. “You were the math wizard of your class in junior high. You will devote your time to learning the other subjects over the next seven months. Don't worry, son, I feel lucky this year.
“Son, this is the chance of a lifetime,” he went on, turning to me. “I thought you guys would never have the opportunity to dream about college. Now Mao has gone west and you're given a chance to try. The Chen men have never been known for lack of talent, only for lack of opportunity.”
He turned again to my brother, lit another cigarette for him, and said, “Jin, you have the advantage of being more mature. Da, you have the energy. Work together like brothers should, make up for the disadvantages, and both of you will win this time. All you need to do is work hard. Jin, if you as a teenager could farm like an adult to support this family, then there is no college, I mean no college under the sun, that should be too hard for you to get into. We are behind you all the way. And you, Da, have no reason to even consider anything other than your first choice of college. Beijing. Shanghai. Anywhere your heart belongs.
“Young men, you don't know how lucky you are. Look at your sisters. They weren't even allowed to finish elementary school.” Dad ended his speech, his eyes fiery. The conversation had turned from father-son chitchat into an admiral's final order. The enemy is at the front door. Now go get them, sons.
Jin quietly put out his cigarette and said to me, “Tomorrow, wake me when you get up. Let me get a feel of what's going on; then we'll sit down and talk. Make me work hard if you see me slack off, little brother. We'll work together.”
“Sure thing.”
Dad filled our cups again and symbolically drank his in one gulp. He had said enough. Now it was up to us.
“Bottoms up.” I toasted my brother and rose to leave. When I pushed the door open, Mom was right behind it and had probably been listening to the whole conversation.
I climbed the stairs to my room and sat down at my desk, which was covered with piles of books. The sense of a sacred mission swept through my heart. Just before this pep talk, college had been a young man's romantic ideal. Now it was a reality full of emotions. If I failed, I failed the whole family all the way back to our earliest ancestor, whose tombstone had long ago become sand. If I succeeded, the family's ship would sail again. It was about pride, humiliation, revenge, dignity, and vindication of the family name.
I compiled two lists. One was a checklist of everything my brother needed to do to catch up with me. The other was my own list of dos and don'ts, a sort of New Year's resolution. On it were no movies, no plays, no sports, no more time off until after the Big One. Tonight would be my last night out with my friends.
A popular local melody was being badly distorted by a whistler just below my window. The nightingale was Siang, the designated messenger from the gang.
I closed my book, went to the kitchen, and picked up the food basket Mom had prepared for my friends. When I had asked her for the food, I had promised her that it was my last night out with them, that from now on, I would shut my door and bury my head in my books.
“What a terrible whistler,” Mom said. “Why don't they come in?”
“Because they're afraid of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you're a good person,” I replied.
“How strange.”
“Well, my friends aren't afraid of bad people, they deal with them all day long and beat them up all the time. But when they meet a good person like you, they don't know what to do. They turn shy and stay in the dark.” Mom shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron.
When I pushed the door open at Yi's, no one jumped out to throw me to the floor or pinch my neck. It was quiet. Four heads, a cloud of smoke rising above them, slumped between legs.
“Hey, brothers, the food is here. Why is everyone so quiet?”
“We lost half our money,” Sen said in a low voice. His eyebrows were locked together, a hairy mess.
“How?” My heart dropped. Five hundred yuan gone like the wind. “That's impossible. You guys are the quickest hands north of the equator and east of the Western world.” I shook Mo Gong's fuzzy head. His neck was boneless, like a rubber pipe. The picture of prosperity only hours ago, he was now a deflated balloon.
“We were doing fine at the beginning, wiping out people like a typhoon. I mean big hands. Then someone sneaked from the fields and reported us to the commune. They sent in a battalion and cleaned our pockets. Good thing we made for the sugarcane—that's why we're not sitting stinking in the commune jail.”
“But the police got our names,” Siang said. “It's only a matter of hours before they come and knock at our door.”
“What? Who reported it?” I asked.
“Some guy from another village. We'll take care of him sooner or later.”
“So let's eat first and then run,” I said.
“I don't think we have time to eat. But we need some money; we're broke,” Sen said.
“What about the other half of the money?” I asked.
“In the field. We buried it. We'll get it later. Now ain't a good time,” Sen replied.
“Here.” I dug into my pocket and took out about ten yuan. “Not much, but take this for now.”
“That's a lotta money,” Yi said.
“Don't worry. I have no place to spend it,” I said, pushing the money into Sen's hands. He took it slowly.
“Thanks, Da, you're a real pal. We'll borrow it,” he said, his head low.
“It's nothing, and it's not enough for you guys. Hey, if you wait, I could go home and get some more.” I was thinking of borrowing from my brother.
“No, no, we're leaving now,” Sen said.
“Do you have to?” All four heads nodded in unison.
“Listen, if we go now, we'll be in Putien in a few hours. We'll stay at Yi's and make another living there. If we don't, it'll be jail time.”
“Eat the food up, please, or you'll be hungry.” I opened the basket.
The smells of fried fish, roasted pork, noodles, and New Year's rice cakes permeated the room and opened their eyes.
“Here, use your hands. Eat.” Four pairs of hands fought for the juiciest pieces. Soon Mo Gong was licking the bottom of the meat plate and Siang was burping. Sen wiped his greasy hands on his hair, a habit he had since he was young, and Yi picked his teeth. A perfect last supper.
The four of them touched me with their greasy hands before leaving. Sen whispered to me, “Work hard, college man. Make us proud.” I carried the empty basket home, feeling like a fugitive myself. My friends had vanished into the darkness. All I could hear was the clanking of the old bike.
TWENTY-ONE
The first day back from the New Year's break, Dia sported a brand-new army green Mao jacket. One of the pockets was already missing a button. He stood outside our door and looked as dopey as a bridegroom.
“Hey, happy New Year, and how in the world did you make the girl marry you?” I faked a frown and crossed my arms across my chest.
Dia rubbed his reddened face. “This thing?” His hands smoothed the wrinkles on his jacket. “Mom made it for my elder brother and the stupid guy washed it in boiling water. It shrank two sizes. Now I gotta wear it. I took the button off to look more casual.”
We chose the narrow path between two green wheat fields, still wet from the melting frost. The morning sun gleamed through the fog. The trees, road, and endless fields looked like an Impressionist painting, fuzzy.
“I feel ashamed walking beside you, you know,” Dia suddenly said.
“Why?”
“I heard that you locked yourself up in your room and banged your head against the wall studying, and that you didn't even take New Year's Day off. You didn't, did you, you son-of-a-gun?”
“That was pure rumor. I had a great time this holiday.”
“Not true. I have my source.”
“I wouldn't rely on it entirely,” I teased him.
“Wait.” Dia ran in front of me. “I heard something you might wanna hear.”
“What?”
“About your friends.”
“What about them?”
“You haven't heard anything?”
“No, I haven't heard from them since they skipped town on New Year's.”
“Don't pull my leg.” Dia stopped me in the middle of the narrow road. His small eyes radiated sincerity.
“I swear to Buddha,” I said. “Tell me what you heard.”
“Okay, here's a clue. Money.”
“Money? What money are you talking about?” My heart sank. Even Dia knew about their fortune.
“You sure you don't know anything about this? Okay, the rumor out there had it that Siang stole about a thousand yuan from the commune's shoe factory his father runs. That's why he's been hiding out with his friends.” The news hit me like a fist. Siang, a thief ? On the run? I recalled the glee on my friends' faces on New Year's Day. They had been so full of joy.
That one thousand yuan had to have been money they'd won honestly.
Siang wouldn't steal. My sworn friends wouldn't lie to me about where they had gotten the fortune. It hadn't been in their eyes. There had been no fear. It was money that had come from bravery and their ability to take a calculated risk at the gambling table.
“You don't believe me, do you?” Dia asked.
“No, I don't. They told me a different story.”
“What? They told you about the money?”
I realized my slip of the tongue. “Forget it, Dia. We didn't have this conversation, okay?”
“Hey, slow down. I'm your best friend. Trust me. The commune is investigating the whole thing now and they can't prove whether Siang really has the money that he was accused of stealing.”
Holy shit, I could have given the truth away. I was glad I was only talking to Dia, someone in whom I could confide my darkest secrets. “What else did you hear?”
“That he stole the money to gamble, but there's another rumor that the shoe factory's one thousand yuan might have been stolen by its bookkeeper or someone from the inside. Someone knew that Siang was in possession of a fortune and framed him. He was easy pickings. You know he hangs around the shoe factory and is good friends with the treasurer.”
My heart sank lower. There was a scheme out there to frame and ruin Siang and his friends, and possibly me. “Did you hear anything about me being involved in any way?”
“No, everyone knows you're a born-again good guy who was recently honored with the Young Communist League title in school. You've been making quite a name as being a top contender for college.”
“How does your small village know so much about the things happening here?”
“My neighbor, the baldy. Remember, I told you about him. He's the head of the commune's militia command. He was drunk last night, boasting to my dad. I got the whole scoop. He's heading the investigation.”
“What's he doing now?”
“Nothing concerning you,” he told me. “Relax.” I had never felt so relieved. I prayed a quiet thank-you to Buddha that I hadn't followed them to the fields to gamble on New Year's Day. I could easily have been implicated. Buddha had been watching over me.
A dark shadow clouded my mood. My friends were in trouble. I should do something about it, but I didn't have a clue what. I truly believed that they had gone to Putien and cleaned Yi's colleagues out. They were self-made rich men, unjustly put on a short list of suspects. It would have been easy. They were social outcasts. Someone had probably known about their money, swiped the cash from the shoe factory, and laid the crime on them, just in time to get away clean. The whole town would believe it was Siang, of course. It was the holidays, gambling time, and he just happened to be back in town on the day the crime occurred. He probably went to see his dad at work and someone saw him and heard about the money they had won in Putien. Bingo. What better motive, what better timing!
Inside the school, the Head walked by us with his nose up in the air. He sported a new jacket, as well as a new hat for his formidable pate. He hurried by, sneering and ignoring us as if we were a couple of stinking bugs he wouldn't mind stepping on and grinding to death.
“That guy annoys the heck out of me,” I said to Dia.
“My feeling exactly. Watch this.” Dia cleared his throat and shouted, “Hey, Head, there's bird droppings on your new hat.” The Head stopped without turning around. He knew where the voice came from. He thought for a second, then took off his new wool hat and checked the top quickly.
“Oops, I lied.” Dia laughed.
“You little rat.” The Head was angry. He rolled up his sleeves and walked up to Dia, who stood his ground.
I inserted myself between them and said, “There's no reason to get angry here. Dia just wanted to see your head, that's all. It's a joke. Can't you take a joke, big boy?”
“I can take a joke, but not from you two losers.” The Head gritted his teeth.
“Hey, watch your mouth.” I felt like shaking the guy. From the corner of my eye I saw Dia reaching into his bag, ready to do some serious damage to the self-proclaimed top intellectual of Yellow Stone High. I quickly put my hand on his arm.
“Why are you wasting your time in school?” the Head said. “You guys belong in the fields. There's no future for you two in school.”
“Says who? You?” I stepped closer.
“Says everyone. Haven't you heard? Liberal arts is just a dumping ground for waste like you guys. Don't think a few good scores will get you into college. No way.”
My anger was reaching its peak. You could insult my looks, my character, and my honor, but no one was allowed to tear apart my dream. I pulled back my right arm, ready to shove my fist down his throat. This time Dia dragged me back.
“Hey, Head, let me tell you something. This man”—Dia pointed at me—“is gonna be an English major at a top college in Beijing, while you, the engineering major, will end up in a corner of this freezing country, spending your miserable life sawing lumber in the snow. And you're gonna get so lonely, you're gonna start thinking about a sheep while this man will be the translator for the Minister of Foreign Affairs, touring the beautiful Western world. Wake up, Head, and think.”
My anger subsided at Dia's rousing speech.
“In your dreams.” The Head put back his hat and walked off proudly.
Dia and I looked at each other and laughed. There was a reason why we liked each other. We worked well together, unrehearsed.
“How do you come up with stuff like that?” I asked Dia.
“Well, that's what I think is gonna happen to you, man. Don't disappoint me. Work your bony butt off if you have to and do honor to our friendship. I have high hopes for you and low expectations for that creep. I don't get it. How can such a big head be so stupid? I think the best thing for him to do would be to hand over his head to some scientist, who can study it and find out what's wrong with it. That would be his biggest contribution to science.” We had another good laugh.
The classroom was half full when I came in. There had been some changes. The broken windows were fixed and the wall was repainted with rough white paint. There was a large slogan about studying hard, a quote from the dead Chairman Mao. Students buried their heads in their books. Some stuck their heads out of the window and puffed their tobacco rolls. There was a sense of seriousness that hadn't been there before. A fellow was actually reading an English lesson out loud.
Only a year ago, his teeth would have been knocked out for doing that.
I sat in my old seat, in the corner of the last row
. The corner was no longer for the convenience of jumping out the window whenever I felt like it. It was an island. I felt safe here; I could survey everything and everyone, yet no one could see me.
It was ironic to bring Mao into this drive for intellectual excellence. If Mao had known what his Little Red Guards were doing, he would have howled like a lonely wolf in his icy coffin and cried his smoke-ridden lungs out. Mao, the dictator, had been the friend of the devils. He had wanted China in perpetual turmoil so that he could rule forever. He'd had a simple philosophy: peace and leisure bred unrest and resentment against leaders, while a sense of crisis strengthened his own leadership.
That was why, ever since the Communists took over in 1949, Mao hadn't stopped making fake smoke over fake fires. One political movement had followed another. And strewn down his long path lay the bones of millions of angry ghosts. He hadn't cared about the young generation, whom he had ordered to walk out of school and into the countryside to get reeducated by the poor farmers in their muddy fields. He had simply wanted them to be ignorant so that they wouldn't be aware of what a fiend he really was.
Young people loved it. Since the big guy didn't want them in school, they packed up and moved to the countryside by the millions, singing the Red Guard songs and waving their Little Red Books. But soon they found that all they could learn from farmers was backbreaking labor and antiquated farming techniques dating back thousands of years. So they started insulting the farmers and stealing their daughters and stopped going to work. All day long the youngsters smoked, drank, gambled, and fell in love. There was nothing else out there to do.
The lonely countryside became their trap. They roamed around the hills, but it was too late to move back to the cities they had come from, because of China's population control system. A city person could easily give up his registration to move downward into the country, but not vice versa. They cried, and some committed suicide. Now they understood what their leader, Mao, had meant by finding your roots in the countryside. He had meant it literally. Go marry someone there, breed a litter of ignorant farmers, and never come back to the city to bother me again.