Colors of the Mountain

  “A grown-up’s name? Why?” I asked my cousin.

  “None of the local children has a real name until they get to marriageable age, about fifteen. Then they are given one. Before that, they were named after animals or objects. For example, she is Piggy, he is Little Eel, the boy carrying your hat is Oyster Shell, and the pretty one with long hair is called Clear Moon.” Each blushed as his or her name was called.

  “How do they get names like that?” I wondered.

  “The father picks the name of the first thing he sees after the baby is born.”

  I shook my head and thought of Old Mountain. The poor dad must have seen his wife’s tummy right after Old Mountain was born.

  “Let’s go,” Yan said.

  Laughing, they lugged and dragged our bags as we started to climb the steep steps made from uneven slabs of stone, some of which still had oyster shells stuck to them. There must have been a hundred steps ahead of us.

  “The school is right there.” Yan pointed to a small building perched high up the hill. I felt a bit dizzy as I craned my neck to look.

  The sun had dropped behind the sea by the time we finally climbed to the little school that was built on rocks. It had stone walls with a gray, clay-slabbed roof. While the surrounding sea was dark and forbidding, the whole island was dotted with lights that shone from the houses. One by one the schoolchildren bid us good-bye and ran off to their homes. We were both exhausted and retired early.

  That night, I lay in a strange bed and thought about all the exciting things I would do the next day. Staring at the stars through a wide skylight, I heard the lulling sound of the ocean. The rhythm of its waters sounded like an old man telling an ancient legend as the waves lazily washed against the shore. I listened to the tale until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The morning sun exploded in my eyes. I got up and ventured into the next room, surprised to see a large crowd of girls surrounding my cousin, who sat on a tall chair. She was handing out colorful combs, plastic butterfly hairpins, and little ribbons that she had bought at Yellow Stone. She read from her roll-call book, making sure she gave the right gift to each girl. There was a smile of authority and contentment on her face. On this island of forty households, Teacher Chow, as she was respectfully addressed by the locals, was a woman of knowledge, wisdom, style, and wealth. She was probably the first person they had met who had been to the Paris of Asia, the great city of Shanghai, not once or twice, but every year, to visit her parents.

  The women of the island sought out her ideas about everything—from their clothes and marriages to food and child rearing. Her students would not nod their approvals if Teacher Chow didn’t seem to like their choices. Unhappy wives often came to her with domestic complaints: like a civil judge, Teacher Chow would go to their husbands and straighten them out.

  Yan had a strong personality and handled the role well, but there was a downside. Family planning was being implemented in China. Her only colleague, a forty-five-year-old man, became quite jealous of her popularity and spread the word to government officials on the mainland that she was responsible for several marriages between fifteen-year-old youngsters. The truth was that it was the custom on the island to wed at such a tender age. Fifteen was ripe, while eighteen was rotten, as the saying there went.

  During her five-year tenure, there was one especially unpleasant experience. A young son of the island’s party secretary of the commune had proposed to her through a matchmaker. He was three years younger and a head shorter. Though the man’s family occupied the fanciest building on the island, a ten-room house made from stone slabs, and the suitor was a skilled mason, Yan wasn’t interested and politely turned the proposal down.

  The rejection angered the party secretary, who came to the school himself. He slammed his fist on Yan’s desk and delivered some thinly veiled threats about her future. She cried day and night, alone, unable to come up with a solution. Finally, she visited my dad, who offered her a risky strategy.

  The next day, she went straight to the party secretary. “I was raised by my uncle, who happens to be a very poor and greedy old man,” she said. “He considers me his own daughter and treats me as such. He said that he would not mind marrying me off to your good son, if you will pay this sum.” Yan showed the eager man a slip of paper in Dad’s writing. He read it with disbelief, left, and never came back again to bother Yan.

  They told me later that the slip contained a long list of expensive items and conditions. A payment of twenty thousand yuan was demanded up front. Dad had actually calculated all the money he had invested in Yan and detailed his expected return income from her for the rest of her life. Dad called the strategy “evil curing evil.”

  ONE MORNING, A muscular man showed up at the entrance of the school, smiled warmly, and took me out to his fishing boat down at the dock. The man, Ar Piao, was in his early forties and was the father of the school’s class president. As we walked down the steep steps in silence, it seemed that even though he wanted to show me the island, he couldn’t articulate very well. When he had something to say, his face went beet red. But the more silent he was, the more questions I asked him, for his tanned, leathery skin told me he had a vast knowledge of the sea. There was a story, a good story, somewhere inside him. He answered in single syllables, with a nod, smile, or shake of the head. It seemed that the sea had made him think more and talk less.

  The ocean was calm and blue and the sun gentle. The subtropical winter melted away on mornings like this. His boat was new, with tall sails and fishing nets hanging all over it. His son, whom he had named Monkey, waved to me with a broad smile and helped me onto the deck. Ar Piao said the boat was equipped with a motor, and he could sail against the wind if he had to. Soon we left the busy dock, and skipped on the water with a breeze behind us as we set out for a fishing expedition off another tiny island. I leaned against the side of the boat, watching the waves part in our wake.

  Monkey was twelve and was already quite muscular. He had the friendly look of a simple young man—much like his dad—but his eyes danced with excitement and curiosity as he gave me the once-over. I could see he wanted to chat but wasn’t sure his quiet dad would approve of his forwardness. He kept glancing at me.

  “Hey, you got a pretty good boat here,” I said to him, stroking the mast with my hand.

  “You like it?” he asked, contracting the word “you” into the syllable “ya.” Monkey and his father were simple people. Eloquence and correct pronunciation were of small importance. Monkey smiled, revealing two missing teeth. “I’ll show you the skeletons on the island later on.”

  “No skeletons this time,” his dad said.

  “What skeletons?” The subject definitely interested me.

  “Some people slept on the little island,” Monkey said.

  “And they died there?” I guessed.

  He shook his head, stealing another look at his dad, who was handling the sails. “Don’t use that word on the deck, but you’re right.”

  “Maybe we can see them next time. Just fishing is enough, thanks.” I liked him already.

  “What does your city look like? A lot of tall buildings?” he asked.

  “I didn’t come from a big city. Just a larger town than yours, that’s all.”

  “Any movies there?”

  “Yeah, theaters, too.”

  “I love movies, but we only see them once a year.” He looked quietly off into the distance.

  “Been to the mainland before?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “But someday I’d like to go live on the mainland like a city man.”

  “What do you want to be?”

  He thought for a moment. “I’d like to build things.”

  “You should come and visit me then,” I said. He laughed. He was a brave dreamer and I admired his frankness. This little island was too small for him.

  Half an hour later, we arrived at a deserted island overgrown with lush vegetation. There was no sign of any human habitation.
The boat slowed down.

  Ar Piao’s large hands coiled the fishing net into one big rope. Throwing it out into the clear water, he anchored the boat, fished out a pipe, and started smoking.

  “What are we catching today?” I asked.

  “Mackerel,” Ar Piao said, puffing out a thick ring of smoke.

  “Great, I love them.”

  He nodded, looking at the net.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” he said without moving his gaze.

  “Maybe you hate them,” I replied.

  “Why?” A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

  “I know a butcher who never eats the meat he chops.”

  With his pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, he chuckled. “You’re a smart kid, like they said.”

  “Smart?”

  He nodded. “I want my son to grow up like you, to be a great student and maybe have a future so he could leave this little island and find a decent job. My life is over. All my hope rests with my sons now.”

  I was surprised he could say so much at one time. Here on the sea, he was at ease. “This is a good life here,” I said sincerely.

  “From where you sit, perhaps. The boy only knows the boat and the sea, nothing else.” He looked at Monkey thoughtfully, who smiled back at us shyly. “I want him to know more than that. He should know science, art, and maybe business.”

  “But he knows a lot more things than we do, just different things,” I said out of respect for his son, “and he has a dream.”

  “That he does. I just wish he had a better place to grow in, that’s all.” He gazed at his son, and smoked quietly.

  “Dad, it’s time.”

  Ar Piao shot out of his seat, knocked the unburned tobacco out of the pipe, and started cranking in the net. The net dipped deep in the middle, heavy with mackerel jumping at the bottom. It was a thrilling sight. Ar Piao and Monkey dumped the catch into a tank on board and cast the net again. There must have been more than fifty pounds of fish. Ar Piao let me help scoop up the jumping fish from the dripping net, but he wouldn’t let me cast the net. He said I would follow the net down into the sea if I wasn’t skillful enough.

  At noon, he docked his boat at the tiny island. We started to cook lunch on deck.

  “Want some fish?” Ar Piao asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Go get some.”

  I bent over the tank and grabbed three. They were fighting to get away. “Should we dress them first?”

  “We don’t use knives on the boat.” He took the fish and dipped them in a bucket of fresh water, then threw them, live, into a pot of boiling water and quickly covered it with a heavy lid. His hands secured the lid for a few seconds before he said, “Now they are quiet.”

  “You mean boiled dead.” Another slip of the tongue.

  “We don’t use that word here on the boat.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Here, son.” He gestured to Monkey, who came and sat closer to him. “Take a good look at this guy. I want you to learn from him and score full marks in school, then you won’t have to fish for the rest of your life. Do you hear me?” He lovingly pinched his son’s ear and grabbed him into his arms. Monkey giggled happily.

  I was a little embarrassed by the praise. Inside my heart, I would have traded anything just to have a friendly environment like this, not the daily battle I faced back home. But all my enemies in school—Han, Quei, Wang, the principal, and La Shan—seemed so remote and irrelevant here. I could have lived on the island forever, just breathing the sea air.

  “Hey, it’s done,” Ar Piao declared. He handed me a pair of chopsticks and said, “Chi ba.” Dig in.

  When he opened the lid, the tantalizing aroma of cooked fish and ginger rushed out. The three mackerel looked succulent and tender. My stomach rumbled. “How do you eat it?”

  “You city folk care about manners and all that stuff. We don’t burden ourselves with any of that here in the middle of the ocean.” He picked up a fish with chopsticks and used his left hand to grab the head. Then, with the chopsticks wrapped tightly around each side of the neck, he slowly brought the wooden sticks down the length of the fish. Neatly filleted, the meat fell obediently down onto his plate. The head and spine were tossed into the sea. He grabbed a few chunks with his chopsticks, dipped them in soy sauce, and ate heartily. I followed suit. The fish was heavenly with the taste of the sea; the tender white meat melted in my mouth. When I was done, I licked my fingers like Ar Piao and Monkey. Even though I was stuffed, I could have had more, they were so good.

  The next several days I spent playing with Monkey and his friends. They knew a game called Pirates, where, barefoot, they chased and threw one another on the beach sand. We told tales of our different towns. Some of the children even made necklaces out of big, colorful shells to give me as gifts. When it was finally time for me to leave, I said a sad good-bye to Monkey, his friends, and to the island. I wished I could have brought them home with me and let them be my friends forever.

  “YOU’VE BEEN HIDING, haven’t you?” said my enemy, Han, as he paced in front of our house with an angry face while I sat on the front porch. I had just returned from the island that morning.

  “It’s none of your business,” I answered angrily. I stood up and grabbed my chair. “Get off our property!” I was wistfully thinking about Monkey and his friends and Han was like a buzzing fly spoiling my meal. I wielded my chair threateningly.

  “Stop it!” Mom ran out to my side. “What is going on here?”

  “That son of a whore is bothering me.” I pointed at Han, who was flanked by his cronies, Quei and Wang. They had taken a step back at the sight of the chair.

  “Look who is here,” Han said in a mocking tone, referring to my mom.

  “It’s Mommy.” Wang’s ugly, fat face twisted jeeringly. The three of them laughed.

  “Get out of here!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My heart raced and I felt myself losing control.

  “Stop it!” Mom said again, pulling the tail of my coat.

  They bullied me cockily, not expecting any retaliation. I had never fought back in the past. But school was over and these bad boys still wouldn’t leave me alone, even at home. What was I going to do? I wanted to smash their three, hideous faces into pieces. Ignoring Mom, I picked up the chair and threw it with all my might. It startled them and they turned to run, but the chair caught Han’s right foot. He screamed like a bitten dog running for cover as he limped away behind his friends. The chair was broken into pieces.

  To my surprise, Mom wasn’t angry with me, nor did she talk about it later. We picked up the bits of chair and closed our front door. Years later, Mom told me it was at that moment that they realized I was a strong boy who could stand on his own feet.

  Later in the evening, Han’s parents came to our house and loudly accused me of hurting their son and almost breaking his ankle.

  “He started the whole thing!” I cried bitterly. “Your son has made my life miserable in school. He hit me, cursed me, and set all his friends against me, but I had to help him with his homework. Go ask him how many times he made me let him copy my homework.” His parents were shocked at the outburst. I sobbed heavily.

  “But you shouldn’t have hit him with the chair,” Han’s father scolded. “I’m a carpenter and I know how heavy a chair is.”

  “Then you better ask your hooligan son not to beat me up anymore,” I said, doing most of the talking as my family looked on.

  “Don’t say that,” Mom jumped in.

  “He is a hooligan!” I shouted. “You don’t know the bad things he does. He even uses money to buy things to bribe his friends against me.”

  “Money? What money?” his dad asked.

  I gauged the man’s surprise. “He has a lot of money. He buys cigarettes and smokes with his friends.”

  “A lot of money and smoking?” his dad said, taken aback.

  “Where does he get the money???
? his mom asked. “Do you know?”

  “From home, I heard,” I replied, still crying.

  “That rat!” His parents abruptly left.

  I knew I was the winner of this match. It would do Han good to get a beating at home and taste the flavor of being ratted on.

  Normally, my righteous family would have scolded me, telling me how wrong I was to fight, making me sit in the corner. But that night they didn’t. At dinner, with the door closed, everyone laughed and chatted. There was tacit forgiveness, even a sense of victory in the air. They listened to my fishing stories and my version of life on the island. I demonstrated “the right way” to eat the mackerel, and they laughed and relished the seafood I had brought home.

  But in bed that night, I knew what lay before me during this New Year’s holiday. The threesome wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t hang out in the regular places where the children normally played. Nor could I skip town again. I just had to make do and fight as I went along. I tucked myself in, thought about the island and the kids a little more, then fell asleep with a smile on my face.

  On New Year’s Eve, money was traditionally handed out to children in small red envelopes called “hon baos,” which meant red bags. The good kids spent money on toys, candies, movies, and plays. The bad ones hit the gambling pits, where they cheated, hustled, and hoped to win enough money to lead a good life of bad habits. Smoking, drinking, and women were never far from their minds. I collected five yuan and thought about what weapons to buy to protect myself.

  Early in the morning on New Year’s Day, I helped Mom prepare all kinds of sacrifices before our makeshift shrine of numerous gods. There was Buddha, his Kitchen God, the Earth God, Rice God, Water God, and all our dead ancestors. It was pretty much like the administration of a government, Mom explained. There were local gods, provincial gods, and the big Buddha on top. She had designated a spot for each, with different displays of food as sacrifices. There was chicken, fish, shrimp, clams, crabs, whole piglets painted in red, greasy ducks, colored eggs, wine, peaches, pears, bananas, rice, and a lot of incense and paper money to burn.