Colors of the Mountain (3 page)

I went home with a lump in my throat. I knew the routine well. I would go to Mom and tell her about the tuition. She would tell me how much money she had left for the whole family, a few yuan at most. She would say to go ask for an extension or a waiver of tuition. Then I would have to go meet my new teacher, begging on my knees. Even if an extension were granted, the teacher would mention the tuition
fees every day in class until everyone would know how poor I was. He might even keep me after school, lecturing. It had happened to my siblings, and all the while they would be going to school without textbooks. Kind students would let them copy from their books. Now it was happening to me.

I went home, feeling defeated, poor, and pathetic. Mom knew why. She wiped her wet hands on her apron and gave me fifty fens and told me it was a stretch for the family already. I didn’t need to be told. A poor child knew what it meant to be poor. We didn’t ask for much, and sometimes we didn’t even ask.

She said that I should beg for an extension. I asked her just how long would the delay be. She said until the piglets were grown and sold to the buyer from the south. That was something to hope for, but the mother pig was still pregnant. I took the money with a heavy heart. It was a pound of flesh off the family fortune, but only a small piece of the tuition.

I pinned the fifty fens to the inside of my pocket lest I lose them, and ran back to school. I parked myself below the window again and had a good look at the teacher. He was a thin man with short, curly hair like feathers. He seemed your regular, boring, stiff-necked young educator who had read some books. He was shaking hands with the parents of my classmates, smiling and smoking.

I slumped against the wall, feeling depressed. The world was unfair. Everyone in my class seemed to have young parents with money. They chatted, laughed, and socialized with the new teacher. Their manners were smooth, their clothes were nice. It was a very special occasion for them, and a milestone for the kids. Some of the parents were so influential in the little, deprived town of Yellow Stone that being the teacher for those kids could mean a lot of back-door favors.

Take that fat butcher from the commune with his fat boy, who now sat with the teacher. He was so rich that he took out a thick wad of large bills and casually pulled out two large notes. The teacher had to clean out the drawer for change. I could imagine what they were saying.

Cute kid.

Thanks, but he’s naughty.

Can’t be that bad.

Needs a good teacher like you to discipline him.

No problem, pal, I’ll take care of it. What line of business are you in, by the way?

Oh, I sell meat. Come by anytime. I’ll give you some real lean meat through the back door.

Deal.

The butcher put out his greasy hand and the teacher took it. No doubt the fat boy would be well taken care of in class. He would act like a spoiled brat with the teacher’s blessing. He was the one with the meat daddy, so he would win each time. And good meat would be forthcoming on holidays, the New Year, and special occasions. The teacher would be sorry when the fat boy finally graduated. That was how it went.

And what did I have to offer? Nothing. Grandpa was dying, sick in bed. The doctor said he might live a few months with the proper medication. Tough luck. Medicine was expensive. No money, no life. Dad was digging in the mountains somewhere, camped in an old, windy temple. And I had only fifty fens in small coins. My personal appearance was shocking—a pumpkin head and a ten-year-old patched shirt. And I personally hadn’t eaten any meat since New Year’s Day.

The thoughts tortured me and I squirmed in shame and humiliation, but I had to face reality. The teacher could throw me out with a sneer on his face. That was fine, I had thick skin. A poor child couldn’t afford to have thin skin. Only rich boys and well-to-do girls with cute little butterflies in their hair could afford to have thin skin.

I adjusted my belt, made sure my pee hole wasn’t open, and gingerly stepped into the teacher’s office. I would go there and beg the hell out of him, though I was prepared for the worst. The window looked reasonably large and there was a patch of soft grass for landing.

“So you are Chen Da,” he said, to my surprise.

“Yes, sir. I have a problem.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Excuse me?”

“I meant, we all have problems.” He was smiling.

“Yes, well, you see, I only have fifty fens for the tuition…”

“And you want to register?”

“If I could.”

“What’s your story?”

“We’re waiting for the piglets to grow.”

“How big are the pigs?”

“Young.”

“How young?”

“Not born yet.” I waited for him to grab my neck and toss me out.

“Okay, write a note down here about the pigs and I will register you.”

I looked at him in disbelief. A wave of gratitude swept through my heart. I wanted to kneel down and kiss his toes. There
was
a Buddha somewhere up there in the fuzzy sky. I took his pen and wrote the promise on a piece of paper.

“But I cannot give you the textbooks now. It’s a school rule.”

“That’s fine. I can copy them from others.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I was thinking maybe you could use my last year’s copy, but it’s messy, it has my handwriting all over the pages.”

If I didn’t mind? Who was this guy? A saint from Buddha’s heaven?

I was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to say. I kept looking at my feet. I had rehearsed being thrown out the window, being slighted or laughed at, but kindness?…I wasn’t prepared for kindness. I nodded quickly, and ran off after saying a very heartfelt thank-you and bowing so deep that I almost rubbed my nose on my knees.

Mr. Sun, the new teacher, came from a village at the foot of the Ching Mountain. He had a sunny personality and was an outdoors kind of a guy. In the morning, he and his wife watered the vegetables, then he walked to school. I soon began to tag along behind him like his shadow every morning. He told me many stories during those walks.

He elected me to be the monitor of the class, a bold political decision on his part, and had me lead the revolutionary songs at the beginning of every lesson. I was that 1-percent exception in our harsh reality. I was never supposed to be a leader among other students. I was born with a political defect that no one could fix. But once in a while they threw a bone out to us, a bone that we chased around with enthusiasm. I was grateful for this bone. I played with it, poked it with my snout, and cherished every moment of being tempted before I sank my teeth into the juiciest part.

I’d arrive early with the teacher and hit the books. In my spare time,
I helped the slower students catch up. I was the captain of our basketball team and a formidable singer in school-wide competitions. Once I sang so loud that I was hoarse for the next three days. I read classical stories to the whole room, while my teacher sat in the back and graded the homework, stopping occasionally to nod with approval.

Late in the afternoons, my new friends—Jie, Ciang, and a few others—would urge me to tell them some more stories. We would climb over the short wall in the back of our school and throw ourselves into an ancient orchard. It was a little paradise.

Our spot was a huge lychee tree with low-hanging boughs. Each of us had a favorite sitting spot. Mine had a back support and a small branch to rest my feet on. The comfort helped the flow of the story. Sometimes Jie would rub the soles of my feet, which was good for another twenty minutes. And each time I threatened to end the story they would beg for more and more, and I would have to stretch my imagination and make a short story longer and a long story go on forever.

My popularity went unchallenged till one day a big-eyed boy showed up at our door for late registration. I hated to admit it, but he was good-looking. He was there for five minutes and the girls were already giggling at his sweet smile and nasty winking. During break, I sat in my seat, heaving with anger and contempt for this sudden intruder. I contemplated the proper step to take. I thought of going to him and introducing myself as the leader of the class. It was, after all, my territory, and I deserved a certain courtesy and respect from him. You can’t just walk in and ruin everything. If he was a decent man (my keen observation of him during the last hour made me feel this was unlikely) then I would give my blessing, offer my protection, and help him settle in on our turf. I was, after all, a nice guy with a big heart. I welcomed any bright man as my friend, but no way was I going to walk up to him and shake hands. He was surrounded by a fan club, admirers who were fawning over something he was wearing. The girls lingered and giggled. The place was out of control.

As I burned with jealousy, a negative feeling that as a leader I tried hard to suppress, the hotshot kid broke through the crowd and walked over. He looked straight at me with those attractive, intelligent eyes of
his. At that moment, my heart softened. No wonder the girls had lost their minds. I couldn’t help being impressed by the clarity and sense of purpose in his eyes, that straight nose, so sculptural and defined, and that square, chiseled jaw. Had he been a general, I would have followed him into battle and fought until the end.

I stood up with what little dignity I had left and extended my hand to meet his. We shook hands. That was when I saw the buckle. He had this shining buckle the size of a large fist that he wore around his waist. There were five stars carved on it. It shone in the morning sun, obviously the result of a lot of polishing by a proud hand.

“I heard you’re the
Tau-Ke.
” The top man. His diction was imaginative.

“Hardly, hardly.” High praise called for a humble response, but I was flattered nonetheless.

“I think this would look really good on you.” He took his belt and buckle off and handed them over to me, just like that.

“No, no. You wear it.”

“I’ve been wearing it since my dad came back from the Vietnam War.” He had the casual art of name-dropping down pat.

“Your dad was in the war with the Americans?”

“Sure, he has lots of medals and was at Ho Chi Minh City. White Americans. Okay, okay, okay.” He even spoke English.

He studied the buckle carefully. A wall of classmates had gathered behind me, watching the exchange.

“That belt has a little history to it,” he continued.

“What history?”

“My dad wore it in the war. It’s been hit a few times but it’s so strong and tough you can’t even see a dent. I’m talking the super-bullets from the American weapons.”

I was sold on the spot. He became my best friend and we named him “Mr. Buckle.” He took the nickname in stride.

I showed him around the seedy part of town, the bushy burial grounds where the ghosts roamed, named all the dogs he should watch out for, and warned him about the dangerous spots to avoid. I pointed out fruit trees that were safe to steal from and helped him with his homework as part of my duty as the class monitor. He, in turn, let me
use his buckle. Then he took to wearing his dad’s army uniform to our house in the morning, and we would exchange our clothes. I wore his green jacket with the neat cartridge pockets, his dad’s oversized boots, and a marvelous army hat. I tromped around the school like an idiot, feeling great. I imitated the nasal accent of a general and talked with my head high and hands resting on my belt. The afternoon stories in the orchard soon all had something to do with the Vietnam War. It was much easier to create a story wearing the right costume. I told the stories, spoke the lines, and acted at the same time. My friends, including Mr. Buckle, laughed, cried, and cheered until they peed their pants.

But I still felt small twinges of jealousy. He was the only boy who dared cross that invisible line, and spoke openly to girls in class. They squirmed in his presence. They loved to be with him, but were shy, a sign of captivation. But as our friendship deepened, my admiration for him grew. I watched his moves closely. He looked moody in class, and had this way of focusing on your eyes when he talked to you. He walked tall, staring straight ahead. Confidence emanated from him. When he smiled, he didn’t open his mouth from ear to ear like an idiot, but tantalized you with a glimpse of white teeth. When you asked him a question, he knotted his brow into an intelligent frown. The guy wrote the book on proper body language.

One day Mr. Buckle formally invited me to visit his home. I tagged along and found myself standing before the threshold of a grand town house near the hospital. His dad was a retired hero from the war and was now the party secretary of the hospital, enjoying a hero’s retirement at an early age. The door of the house opened suddenly, and there stood Mr. Buckle, senior. Tall and handsome, a man’s man. He had a big smile, large eyes, and thick eyebrows, a picture-perfect hero. It was obvious where the son had gotten his good looks.

“Come on in, Da.” The father even knew my name.

“Thank you.” I extended my right hand but he didn’t take it. Instead, he smiled and said, “Sorry, I got no hands left to shake yours. Hey, why don’t you shake my shoulder.” He leaned over, letting his two empty sleeves dangle, and waited for me to shake his broad shoulder.

I was so shocked at his armlessness that I stood there unmoving.

“That’s okay, Dad. I don’t think they practice shoulder-shaking in Yellow Stone.”

“All right, then. Let’s cut the ceremony and have some cookies and candy.”

“Dad, we’re not babies anymore. Let me show the guy around, okay? I think he has seen enough of you.”

Father and son bantered back and forth like a couple of drinking buddies, while I stood by in deep shock. For Buddha’s sake, the perfect hero had no arms. My heart was saddened. Like a lost soul, I followed Buckle around the house and the hospital. He took me on a tour, but my mind was still on those arms. I had no appetite when I went home. My jealousy was gone. From then on, I quietly watched out for Buckle.

Before long, Mr. Sun was bidding us a sad good-bye. He was heading for a reeducation camp for teachers. I gave him a small notebook as a gift. The school would be taught by the militiamen and women from the commune. There was a directive from the central government that from now on all schools would be governed by poor farmers; all teachers—a class made up of dangerous and stinking intellectuals—would be reformed and instilled with revolutionary thoughts before they could return to teach China’s younger generation.