Rickshaw Boy: A Novel (16 page)

The streets were coming alive, with peddlers of sweets made of sticky millet to honor the Kitchen God everywhere and shouts of “Malt taffy, get your malt taffy!” filling the air. Xiangzi had always looked forward to New Year’s, but he could not get into the holiday spirit now. The greater the confusion on the street, the tenser he grew, as the fateful twenty-seventh loomed. There were dark circles under his eyes; even the scar on his cheek darkened. He had to be especially careful pulling his rickshaw on slick, crowded streets, but he lacked the energy to deal with that and his problems at the same time. When he concentrated on one, he forgot the other, which inevitably startled him. His body itched like a child’s with prickly heat.

East winds swept black clouds into the area on the afternoon honoring the Kitchen God. The temperature climbed. As the lamp-lighting hour approached, the winds turned gentle and snowflakes began to fall, sparsely at first, but enough to worry the peddlers of year-end sweets, who quickly dusted them with white powder, since the combination of warm air and snowflakes made their wares stick together. The snowflakes turned into ice pellets that fell with a soft rustle and turned the ground white. After seven o’clock, shopkeepers and families at home began honoring the Kitchen God; fine snowflakes merged with the glow of incense and bursts of firecrackers, lending the festivities a somber atmosphere. People out on the streets were on edge as they headed home, on foot or in rickshaws, to perform the rites, but went cautiously, as the ground was treacherously slick. Peddlers, anxious to sell all their sweets, called out frantically, hardly pausing for breath.

As Xiangzi was taking Mr. Cao home from West City at around nine o’clock, they passed through the festivities at the Xidan Memorial Arch and turned east onto Chang’an Street, where the crowds began to thin out. The smooth asphalt roadway was covered by a thin layer of snow that dazzled in the reflected light of street lamps. The headlights of an occasional automobile lit up a long stretch of the road, turning snowflakes caught in the lights into what looked like flecks of gold. As they neared the New China Gate area, a thin layer of snow on the wide roadway gave the welcoming impression that the world had opened up, invested with an air of solemnity. The Chang’an Arch, the New China Gate, and the red walls of Nanhai—the Southern Sea—all wore white crowns, contrasting starkly with their vermillion columns and red walls. In the surrounding stillness they displayed the courtliness of the ancient capital. At that moment, in that place, Beiping seemed to be a city inhabited not by people but by palatial halls and temples and a few old pines whose branches silently received the falling snowflakes. Xiangzi had no time to take in the scenery, and when he saw the snow-covered road ahead, he thought only of getting home as fast as possible. In his mind’s eye, he visualized the gate at home at the end of the straight, white, silent road, but he could not run as fast as he wanted, for the snow, while thin, formed a layer on the soles of his shoes. He kept stomping his feet, but a new layer quickly formed. The ice crystals were small but heavy, and they partially blinded him, forcing him to go slow. The cold air kept the snowflakes that landed on him from melting, and before long a layer of ice had formed on his shoulders, annoying him only in the sense that he felt uncomfortably wet. Though there were few shops in the area, firecrackers kept exploding in the distance, and every once in a while a double-pop rocket or a Five-Devils Starburst lit up the night sky. After the sparks died out, the night seemed darker than ever and unsettling. Anxious to get home, Xiangzi heard the firecrackers and saw the sparks in the night sky, but he had to keep his pace frustratingly slow.

What really irritated him was the bicycle that had been following them all the way from West City. When he reached West Chang’an, where the street was quieter, he could hear the tires crunching snow behind him, soft but audible. Like all rickshaw men, Xiangzi hated bicycles. Automobiles were horrible things, yet their engines were so loud you had plenty of time to get out of the way. But bicycles wobbled dizzyingly in and out of traffic. And woe be it to the rickshaw man who collided with one, because it was invariably his fault, at least in the view of the police, who found rickshaw men easier to bully than cyclists. Several times Xiangzi felt like surprising the cyclist by stopping abruptly and sending the little wretch flying. But that would have been a mistake. Rickshaw men had to put up with all sorts of humiliations. Each time he stopped to loosen the ice on his soles, he had to shout, “Stopping!” When they reached Nanhai Gate, the street widened, but the cyclist stuck to him, so angering Xiangzi that he pulled over to brush the snow off his shoulders and then stood there until the bicycle glided past. The rider even looked back at him. Xiangzi took his own sweet time starting out again, giving the cyclist time to get far ahead. “Damn you!” he cursed.

Mr. Cao’s humanitarian nature kept him from putting up the padded curtain that served as a windbreaker, and even the canvas hood went up only during heavy rainstorms, all to make it easier on the man in front. Mr. Cao saw no reason to put either one up in such a mild snowfall and far preferred the opportunity to enjoy the sight of the falling snow. He’d spotted the bicycle as well, and after Xiangzi got the curse out of his system, he said softly, “If he hangs around, don’t stop at our gate but continue on to Mr. Zuo’s house by Huanghua Gate. And don’t panic.”

Xiangzi started to panic. He was always ready to curse someone on a bicycle, but he’d never considered the possibility that a cyclist was to be feared. If Mr. Cao was unwilling to go straight home, that fellow must have presented a threat. Xiangzi hadn’t run more than a couple of dozen steps before catching up with the cyclist, who was obviously hanging back waiting for them. He let the rickshaw go on ahead. Xiangzi took a quick look at him on his way past, and that was all it took: a member of the secret police. He often ran into them in teahouses, and although he’d never spoken to one, he knew them by their clothes and how they carried themselves. Just like this guy. A black overcoat and a felt hat with the brim pulled way down low.

When they reached the intersection of Nanchang Road, Xiangzi sneaked a look behind him as he turned the corner. The man was still there. Suddenly forgetting about the snow on the street, he picked up his pace. Ahead was a long, straight, silvery-white road illuminated by the cold glare of street lamps; behind, a detective on a bicycle. This was a new experience for Xiangzi, and he broke out in a sweat. He turned to look again at the rear entrance to the park. Still there! When they finally reached the gate at home, Xiangzi did not dare stop, yet hated the idea of going on. Mr. Cao said nothing, so he kept running, heading north, and soon arrived at Beikou. The bicycle stayed with them the whole time. Xiangzi turned down a narrow lane. Still behind him! He emerged from the lane. Still there! This, Xiangzi realized, was not the way to Huanghua Gate. He’d taken the wrong lane but wasn’t aware of it until he was at the far end. Getting lost like that bothered him.

When they reached the rear of Jingshan Park, the cyclist turned north and headed toward Rear Gate. Xiangzi mopped his sweaty face. The snowfall had lightened considerably and was now a mixture of flakes and ice crystals. He loved the way snowflakes danced so naturally in the air, unlike the ice crystals, which were cold and disagreeable. “Where to, sir?” he turned to ask.

“Mr. Zuo’s house. If anybody asks, tell them you don’t know me.”

“Yes, sir.” Xiangzi’s heart was pounding, but it was not his place to ask why.

When they arrived at the Zuo home, Mr. Cao told him to pull the rickshaw inside and close the gate behind them. He was as calm as ever, but there was something unsettling about the look on his face as he left Xiangzi with his instructions and went into the house. By the time Xiangzi had parked the rickshaw beside the gate, Mr. Cao had reemerged, along with Mr. Zuo, whom Xiangzi knew. He was one of his employer’s friends.

“Xiangzi,” Mr. Cao said, speaking hurriedly, “You’re to take a taxi home and tell the mistress I’m here. Have her come here, by taxi, but not the one you rode in. Understand? Good. Tell her to bring the things she’ll need and those scrolls in my study. Got that? I’m going to phone her, but I’m telling you because she might be flustered and not do as I say. It’s up to you to see that she does.”

“Why don’t I go with him?” Mr. Zuo said.

“No need for that. That fellow might not have been a detective after all, but I have to be careful because of that other business. Would you mind calling for a taxi?”

Mr. Zuo went inside to phone for a taxi, while Mr. Cao gave Xiangzi more instructions: “I’ll pay the taxi when it gets here. Tell the mistress to pack up the children’s things and the paintings in the study—just those few scrolls—as quickly as possible. The rest doesn’t matter. When she’s done that, have Gao Ma phone for a taxi and come here. Have you got all that? After they’ve left, lock the gate and move into the study, where there’s a telephone. Do you know how to use one?”

“I know how to take calls but not dial them.” Xiangzi did not like taking calls, either, but saying so would only add to Mr. Cao’s concerns.

“Good.” Mr. Cao continued, speaking rapidly: “Don’t open the door for anyone, no matter what. With us gone, you’ll be alone, and they’ll nab you for sure. If things look bad, douse the lights and go to the Wangs’ out back. You know them, don’t you? Right. Hide there until this blows over. Don’t worry about my things, or yours, for that matter. Just jump over the wall to keep from falling into their hands. If you lose anything, I’ll make it up to you. For now, take these five yuan. All right, then, I’ll phone the mistress now, but be sure to repeat what I said when you get home. Just leave out the bit about nabbing people. He might not have been a detective, so don’t panic.”

Xiangzi’s head was spinning. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he had to concentrate on what Mr. Cao was telling him to do.

The taxi arrived and Xiangzi climbed in awkwardly. Snow still fell, neither more nor less heavily but enough to blur the scene outside the window. He sat up so stiff and straight his head nearly touched the top. He wanted to think things through but could not take his eyes off the arrow on the hood ornament, bright red and quite lovely. He was fascinated, too, by the windshield wipers that swept from side to side, clearing the glass of moisture. They pulled up to the gate just as he was losing interest in all this, and he stepped reluctantly out of the taxi.

Before he could ring the bell at the gate, a man who seemed to come out of the wall grabbed Xiangzi’s wrist. His first impulse was to wrench his arm free, but he stopped when he saw who it was: it was the detective they’d seen on the bicycle.

“Don’t you recognize me, Xiangzi?” the man said with a smile as he let go of Xiangzi’s arm.

Xiangzi gulped, not knowing what to say. “Have you forgotten how we took you to the Western Hills? I’m Platoon Leader Sun. Now do you remember?”

“Oh, Platoon Leader Sun!” Xiangzi had no idea who he was. When the soldiers dragged him up into the mountains, he hadn’t paid the slightest attention to who was a platoon leader and who was a company commander.

“You might not know me, but I know you. That scar on your cheek is a dead giveaway. A while ago, while I was tailing you, I kept looking but couldn’t be sure. But there’s no mistaking that scar.”

“What do you want?” Xiangzi tried again to ring the bell.

“I’ll tell you what I want, and it’s important. Let’s go inside and talk about it.” Platoon Leader Sun—now a detective—reached out and rang the bell.

“I’m busy,” Xiangzi said as he broke out into a sweat.
I can’t get away from this guy
, he said to himself angrily,
and now he wants me to invite him in.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” the detective said with a crafty grin. “This is all for your own good.” When Gao Ma opened the gate, the man slipped inside. “Excuse me,” he said. Before either Xiangzi or Gao Ma had a chance to react, he pulled Xiangzi in with him. “Is this where you live?” he asked as he pointed to the gatehouse. He stepped inside and looked around. “Not bad, nice and neat,” he said. “You’ve got a good deal here.”

“What do you want? I’m busy.” Xiangzi had heard enough meaningless talk from the man.

“Didn’t I say I’ve got important business?” Another smile, but the stern tone was unmistakable. “I’ll give it to you straight. Your Mr. Cao is a member of an outlawed political party, and when they catch him, they’ll shoot him. He won’t get away! You and I have had dealings before. You did my bidding at the camp, and besides, we’re street people, so I’m here to give you a warning. If you don’t get away while you can, you’ll be caught in the net with all the others. You and I sell our muscle to make a living, and this case involves others, not us. Isn’t that right?”

“I wouldn’t be able to face them.” Xiangzi was thinking about Mr. Cao’s instructions.

“Face who?” Detective Sun was still smiling, but his eyes narrowed. “They’re the ones who caused all this, so why worry about them? We shouldn’t suffer over what they do. Think for a minute. You’ve lived like a wild bird all your life; do you think you could stand being locked up in a cage for three months? Not only that—money will take the sting out of prison for them, but you, my young friend, with nothing to offer, might wind up tied to the toilet. But that’s just the beginning. They can pull strings and get off with a few years behind bars and make you the scapegoat. We don’t look for trouble and we don’t cause it, so how fair would it be to wind up with black dates in our chest at the Tianqiao execution ground? You’re smart enough not to fight against impossible odds. Face them? Hah! I tell you, my young friend, no one in this world gives a damn about hard-luck guys like us.”

Xiangzi was frightened. He could imagine what prison would be like as he thought about how he’d suffered when the soldiers took him. “So I should take off and not worry about them?”

“You can worry about them, but who’ll worry about you?” Xiangzi had no answer for that. He stood there stiffly until he felt his conscience was clear. “All right, I’ll take off.”