Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (12 page)
Xiangzi’s right elbow hurt so badly he couldn’t sleep. So he added up the pros and cons of what Gao Ma said and concluded that she was right. Only money is to be trusted. He’d keep saving up to buy his rickshaw, and threatening to quit was no way to fill his belly. That comforting thought brought him a bit of peaceful sleep.
M
r. Cao had the rickshaw repaired and deducted nothing from Xiangzi’s wages. Mrs. Cao gave him two Thrice Yellow Precious Wax cure-alls, but he did not take them. No more talk about quitting. The incident caused Xiangzi much embarrassment over the next few days, but in the end Gao Ma’s advice won out. Several more days passed and things returned to normal; gradually he forgot the accident and experienced a rebirth of hope. When he was alone in his room, his eyes sparkled as he calculated ways to save up to buy his rickshaw, muttering as he did so, as if bothered by anxieties. His calculations were rough, but he kept at it—six sixes are thirty-six—with figures that did not square with what he already had, but just saying the numbers boosted his confidence, as if he were really keeping an account.
He admired Gao Ma, who was wiser and more competent than most men. She was a straight-talker, and he was reluctant to pass the time of day with her. But if they met in the yard or one of the doorways, he eagerly listened to what she had to say, for that would give him something to think about for the rest of the day. He invariably pleased her with his silly grin as a sign of admiration. Even if she was busy with something, she’d stop and speak to him.
But where money was concerned, he dared not follow her advice. It wasn’t that her ideas were wrong; they were just too risky. He liked listening to her, since that calmed him, and there was much he could learn from her. But he stuck to his old ways with money—he would not easily let go of it.
Gao Ma did have a way with money. Since becoming a widow, she’d lent out whatever was left over at the end of the month to fellow servants, local policemen, and peddlers, one or two yuan at a time, at thirty percent or higher interest. These people were often so desperate for as little as one yuan that their eyes would glaze over and they’d pay as much as one hundred percent interest to get their hands on it. It was the only way they’d ever see a bit of extra money, and they would take it, even knowing it could easily bleed them dry. It offered them some breathing room for today, and let tomorrow take care of itself. That was the best that life could offer such people. When her husband was alive, Gao Ma knew what the toxic side of money was like. He’d come to her, roaring drunk, and demand some from her; if she didn’t have it to give, he’d cause a drunken scene in front of the house, forcing her to borrow the money, whatever the rate of interest. She took this experience to heart, lending out money not as a form of retaliation but as something perfectly reasonable, even timely and charitable. Some people need money; others willingly lend it to them. Like Zhou Yu pretending to hit Huang Gai—one ungrudgingly gives; the other cheerfully takes.
Since she had no qualms about what she was doing, she needed to ensure that she wasn’t throwing her money away. That required a keen eye, finesse, prudence, and a ruthless hand, all perfectly aboveboard. She was as conscientious as a bank manager, since extreme care was essential. The amount could be great, it could be small, but the doctrine did not vary, because they lived in a capitalist society. It was like pouring money into a big sieve with tiny holes: as the money sifts down, little by little, less gets through. At the same time, the doctrine also sifts down through the sieve, but there is always as much at the top as there is at the bottom, because a doctrine, unlike money, is nonphysical and shapeless; it can slip through no matter how small the holes. Everyone said that Gao Ma was a tough customer, a trait she readily acknowledged. Her toughness was tempered by the hardships she’d suffered in life. She ground her teeth at the thought of past miseries, when she’d had to endure mistreatment from her heartless, unreasonable husband. She could be friendly, but she could also be callous, knowing that it was the only way to survive in this world.
With the best of intentions, Gao Ma urged Xiangzi to start lending money, even offering to help him if he was willing.
“I tell you, Xiangzi, if you keep your money in your pocket, one yuan will always be one yuan. But if you lend some of it out, it will grow. Of course, you have to go into it with your eyes open. You’ve got to know who you’re dealing with and never lend money to someone who might cheat you. If a policeman refuses to pay interest or holds back the principle, go see his superior. One word from you and he loses his job. Find out when he gets paid and show up that day to demand your money. It would be a wonder if he still didn’t pay. You can apply this principle to all potential customers. You need to know their background, so you won’t have to beg to get your money back. Listen to me and you can’t go wrong, I guarantee it!”
Xiangzi’s expression amply demonstrated his admiration for Gao Ma without having to say a word. But when he was alone, mulling over what she’d said, his money still felt safer in his own hands. She was right, this was not a way to make more money, but it guaranteed that he wouldn’t lose what he had. He took out the money he’d put aside over the past two or three months—all silver dollars—and gingerly turned them over in his hand, one at a time, careful not to make any noise. They were so shiny, so solid, so captivating, he knew he could not bring himself to let them out of his sight, except to buy a rickshaw. To each his own, he was thinking. Gao Ma’s ways were not for him.
He’d once worked for a family named Fang, all of whom, even the servants, had opened post office savings accounts. Mrs. Fang had urged Xiangzi to do the same. “You can open an account with only one yuan, so why not give it a try? You know the saying—‘Plan for a rainy day instead of hoping the sun will shine.’ Now’s the time, when you’re young and strong, to put some money aside. Not all the 365 days in a year are going to be sunny and bright. Opening an account is easy, reliable, and it pays interest. Besides, you can draw your money out if the need arises. What more could you ask? Go on, get an application, and I’ll help you fill it out. It’s for your own good.”
Xiangzi knew she meant well, and he was well aware that the cook, Wang Six, and the wet nurse, Qin Ma, both had savings accounts; he was tempted to try it for himself. But one day the eldest daughter of the Fang family sent him to the post office to deposit ten yuan. He studied the account book, with its writing and red seals. That’s it, that’s all there is? Hardly more than a stack of toilet paper! When he handed over the money, the clerk wrote something in the account book and added a red seal. Handing over shiny silver dollars and getting nothing in return but some scrawls in a book had to be a swindle, and Xiangzi was not about to fall for it. He suspected that the Fangs might have some sort of financial arrangement with the post office, which had established moneymaking enterprises all over town, including establishments like the Ruifuxiang Company and Hongji, which is why she was so eager to get him to open an account. But even if that were not the case, his money was better off—far better off—in his hands than in an account book. Money there was just some scribbled words!
Where banks were concerned, Xiangzi knew only that they would have been ideal spots to pick up fares, if the police didn’t stop rickshaws from waiting there. What went on inside was a mystery. He was sure of one thing—there was a lot of money there—but he could never figure out why so many people came by to fuss with it. None of this, however, was any of his business, so he put it out of his mind. Many, many things happened in the city that he did not understand, and when he listened in on conversations in teahouses, he was more confused than ever, with one person saying one thing, another saying something else, and none of it making any sense. The best way to keep his head clear was to stop listening and stop thinking about what he heard. Obviously, a bank would be a good place to rob, but he was in no mood to become an outlaw, so keeping hold of his own money was the way to go; let others worry about themselves.
Knowing that he had his heart set on buying a rickshaw, Gao Ma came to him with a suggestion.
“Xiangzi, I know you’re against lending money because you’re in a hurry to buy a rickshaw, and there’s nothing wrong with that. If I were a man who pulled a rickshaw, I’d want to own my own. I’d sing while I worked and not have to rely on anyone else. I wouldn’t trade that to be a county magistrate. Pulling a rickshaw is hard work, but if I were a man and I had the strength, I’d do that before I’d take a job as a policeman. They stand out on the street the year-round for a couple of yuan a month, with no chance for any extra income and no freedom. They get fired if they decide to grow a mustache. It’s not an appealing job. Now, where was I? Oh, right, if you’re in a hurry to buy a rickshaw, I’ve got an idea. Organize a lending club with ten to twenty people, who each put in two yuan a month. You’re the first to use the money. That’s forty yuan to add to what you’ve already got, and you’ll be able to buy your rickshaw in no time. Problem solved. Once you have your rickshaw, you form a banking co-op. You won’t need to pay interest and it’s a respectable thing to do. A new path opens up. If you decide to organize it, I’ll be the first to join the club. I mean it. What do you say?”
Xiangzi’s heart was racing. If he really could come up with thirty or forty yuan and add it to the thirty that Fourth Master Liu was holding, plus what he’d earned recently, wouldn’t he have a total of eighty? That wouldn’t be enough to buy a brand-new vehicle, though he could surely afford one that was nearly new. Not only that, but this was the time to get his money back instead of letting Fourth Master Liu hold on to it. A nearly new vehicle was good enough for the time being; when he’d earned enough out on the street, he’d trade it for a new one.
The next question was where to find twenty people. Even if he managed, they’d probably join just to save face. When he needed money, he’d form a club, but what would he do if someone invited him to join their club? With poverty all around, these clubs came and went before you knew it. No man worth his salt goes begging for help. No, he’d buy a rickshaw when he’d earned enough and not before.
When Gao Ma saw that her advice had fallen on deaf ears, she felt like trying to get him moving with a bit of sarcasm. But he was too honest to deserve that. “You know what you want,” she said. “The only way to drive a pig up and down an alley is straight ahead. So have it your way.”
Without a word in reply, Xiangzi waited till she had left before nodding to himself, as if to acknowledge that his was the proper way to go about it. He was pleased with himself.
Early winter had arrived. At night in the alleys, shouts of honey-roasted chestnuts and salted peanuts were joined by cries of “Chamber pots, oh!” The peddler also carried on his pole earthenware gourd banks. Xiangzi bought a large one. Since he was the first customer of the day, the man did not have change, but then Xiangzi spotted a delightful little chamber pot, bright green with a pursed spout. “Never mind the change, I’ll take this, too.”
After putting away his gourd bank, Xiangzi took the chamber pot inside. “Still up, young master? Here, I’ve brought you something to play with.”
Everyone was watching Little Wen—the Caos’ young son—being bathed, and when they saw the gift, they couldn’t help but laugh. Mr. and Mrs. Cao didn’t say a word, feeling that while it might not have been the most appropriate gift, it was the thought that counted. They smiled to show their appreciation. Naturally, Gao Ma had to have her say:
“Look at that! I mean, really! A grown man like you, Xiangzi—is that the best you can do? That’s disgusting!”
But Little Wen, thrilled with his new toy, scooped some bath water into the chamber pot. “This teapot has a big mouth!” he exclaimed.
That produced even greater laughter. Xiangzi straightened his clothes—satisfied with how this had turned out, he didn’t know what else to do—and walked out of the room a happy young man. All those happy faces had been turned his way, a first for him, as if he’d become important in their eyes. With a smile, he took out his silver dollars and dropped them into his new gourd bank, one at a time. Nothing beats this, he was thinking. When I’ve got enough in there, I’ll smash it against the wall—
pow
—and there’ll be more silver dollars than pieces of broken pottery.
Xiangzi made up his mind to go it alone. Fourth Master Liu was trustworthy, although they had their awkward moments. There was no risk that Xiangzi would lose the money, but he still had his concerns. Money is like a ring, always better when it’s on your own finger. Reaching this decision was an enormous relief. He felt as if he’d tightened his belt around his waist and thrown out his chest so he could stand straighter and stiff.
The days were getting colder, but Xiangzi did not notice, for his resolve pointed to a bright future. He was unaffected by the cold. Ice began to appear on the roads, and the dirt paths froze up. The ground was dry and hard; a yellow cast settled over the arid black soil. Ruts in the road made by passing carts in the morning were crusted with frost, and gusts of wind cut the haze to reveal a high, very blue, and refreshing sky. Xiangzi liked going out early in the morning, to feel the cool wind rush up his sleeves and make him shudder pleasurably, like bathing in icy water. Sometimes a strong headwind made it hard to breathe, but he lowered his head, clenched his teeth, and forged ahead, like a fish swimming upstream. Strong winds stiffened his resistance, as if he were locked in a fight to the death. When a blast of wind took his breath away, he’d shut his mouth for a long moment and then belch, like swimming underwater and then shooting to the surface. One belch, and he was off again, charging ahead; nothing, no force on earth, could stop this giant of a man. Every muscle in his body was taut—he was like an insect besieged by an army of ants, squirming and battling for its life. He was covered with sweat. When he laid down the shafts, he straightened up, exhaled grandly, and wiped the dust from the corners of his mouth, feeling invincible; staring at the sandy wind whistling past, he’d nod. The wind bent roadside trees, shredded canvas shop signs, ripped handbills from the walls, and blotted out the sun; it sang, it roared, it howled, it resounded, and then it abruptly straightened out and stormed ahead like a terrifying specter, rending heaven and earth. Then, without warning, it turned tumultuous, churning in all directions, like an evil spirit running amok. All at once it gusted from side to side, sweeping up everything in its path: tearing branches from trees, lifting tiles from roofs, and severing electric wires. All the while, Xiangzi, who had just emerged unscathed from the wind, stood there watching. Final victory was his! When the wind was at his back, he needed only to grasp the shafts firmly and let the wind turn the wheels like a dear friend.
