Su Tong - The Boat to Redemption

Why wouldn’t I? She should have been curious, should have wondered what that was all about, but she wasn’t curious about an eccentric like me, and not interested in asking. I actually felt OK about that, since I didn’t have to make up a story. But disappointment took over as I tried to imagine what place, if any, I held in her heart. Maybe to her I was a kongpi , and the thoughts of a kongpi are kongpi , as are the eccentricities of a kongpi , so there was no need to give me another thought.

At the People’s Barbershop I was able to probe the rumours I’d heard about Huixian. Given the infrequency of my trips ashore, the accuracy of my research was about one in ten thousand. There were times when I wished I were one of those swivelling chairs, so I could be with Huixian morning, noon and night. Or I wished I were her scissors, always in the vicinity of people’s heads, wondering who they were and if they’d really come for a haircut, or were just pretending. Why did some people keep dawdling until they could get her to cut their hair? They talked about anything and everything, and they could well have been flirting. I needed to keep a close eye on them. My eyes were a camera focused only on Huixian. My ears were a phonograph, with the same intent. Too bad my time ashore was so limited, and my camera and phonograph had such restricted functions. When I was there, Huixian was so close, but still I was unable to glean any secrets of her heart.

The women who came to the barbershop talked mostly of romance and marriage. I found their wagging tongues valuable, but they could never stay on one topic long enough. They were eager to pry into her private life. Did she have a mate picked out, they wondered aloud. Is the boy you’ve chosen really in Beijing? That’d get my antennae twitching. But when they saw she wasn’t interested in talking to them, they’d switch to the weather, or ask about the latest hair-styles. What would look best for my face, Huixian? I had to bite my tongue to keep from reminding them that no hair-style could improve their looks. Ask more questions, go on, ask her who the boy is. They couldn’t hear me, of course, and they only wanted to talk about hair-styles. The camera in my eyes was secretly aimed at Huixian, the phonograph in my ears went on strike, and I angrily shut it down.

I once ran into Zhao Chunmei at the barbershop. She was wearing white high-heels and holding a white handbag as she sat in one of the barber’s chairs, waiting for Old Cui to do her hair. She’d aged a bit, but had lost neither her charm nor her spite and resentment. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she knew who I was right away. ‘What’s he doing here?’ she demanded.

Before Old Cui could reply, Huixian laughed. ‘What’s he doing here? Good question. This is the People’s Barbershop. He counts as “people”, and he’s here to have his hair cut.’

Zhao Chunmei snorted. ‘The people — him? If he is, then there are no class enemies. Do you know that he writes counter-revolutionary slogans? Mostly targeting my brother!’

Enemies are bound to meet on narrow roads. It was an awkward encounter. Coming face to face with women who’d had relationships with my father not only made me blush, but threw my heart into turmoil. I still recalled their names, those few people who had been instrumental in my sexual initiation. Now those ageing faces, thickening waists and limbs, and cellulite-laden buttocks brought shame on those wonderful, moving, desirable, tantalizing names. I was ashamed to let my mind dwell on thoughts of their sexual encounters with Father, but then his reminder was confirmed: my crotch underwent an unexpected occurrence, as my wayward organ broke loose from my underwear and subtle changes appeared in the creases of my trousers. All of a sudden, I had trouble breathing. I thought I could see my father’s bizarre penis; after surgery, it had sort of regained its original appearance, but it was still ugly, comical even. Why had this mark of shame been transplanted on to my body? Crushed by unimaginable terror, I held tightly to the smock and could not hold up my head. I heard Huixian’s voice — she was defending me. ‘Don’t get involved in class struggle and political issues,’ she was saying. ‘Opposing Chairman Mao or the Communist Party, now that’s counter-revolutionary. He was opposing Secretary Zhao, an ordinary section chief, so nothing written about him can be considered counter-revolutionary.’

With a click of her tongue, Zhao Chunmei turned and attacked Huixian. ‘What are you to him?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you to defend him? An official? What sort of political stance do you call that? Writing about my brother isn’t counter-revolutionary, is that what you’re saying? Are you trying to stir up the masses in opposition to leaders of the Party?’

‘Don’t try to stick that label on to me! Your brother is not the Party, and opposing him is not opposing the Party.’ There was anger in Huixian’s voice as she picked up a brush and began tapping it against the back of her chair. ‘Why take your anger out on me? Who am I to him? Who is he to me? I’ve got no mother and no father, so who is anybody to me? Nobody! But you can’t stop me from saying what’s fair. Chairman Mao has said the masses have the right to state their opinions, so who is Secretary Zhao to keep the masses from voicing theirs?’

‘That’s not opinion, that’s rumour!’ Knowing she was not going to win an argument with Huixian, Zhao Chunmei turned back to me. ‘No, it wasn’t a rumour,’ she shouted, ‘it was a venomous attack. All the time, that’s what he did, write lies all over the place, like: “Zhao Chuntang is an alien class element”, which had a widespread pernicious effect. Even grammar-school children were asking, “What’s an alien class element?”’

The shop went quiet, as people pondered the meaning of alien class element.

I saw that slogan everywhere too, but still didn’t know what it meant. Little Chen was the first to voice his confusion. ‘What does alien mean?’ he asked me. ‘How about explaining it to us.’

I refused his request. ‘Who am I to explain anything? Besides, I didn’t write it, so why should I be the one to explain?’

‘If you didn’t write it, who did?’ Zhao Chunmei bellowed. ‘You haven’t got the guts to own up to your own deeds! You’re like your father, hiding in dark corners to spread rumours, sling mud and act like a hooligan.’

I sat there affecting the ‘a real man doesn’t fight with a woman’ pose. Old Cui considered alien class elements on a par with morally bankrupt elements, while Teacher Qian from the Milltown high school announced authoritatively that alien class elements were the same as degenerates. You could have heard a pin drop. But Little Chen wasn’t quite finished. ‘What do you say, Kongpi? Does it mean the same as degenerate?’

‘Sort of,’ I replied ambiguously, ‘but not quite. Alien class element is a more serious label, I think.’

Before I could elaborate on my vague comment, Zhao Chunmei jumped out of her chair and rushed over, blind with anger. ‘What do you mean, morally bankrupt and degenerate? My brother is a good and decent man and an upright official. Your father is the morally bankrupt and degenerate one. Go back and tell him that cutting off half his dick means nothing, and even if he’d cut it all off and turned himself into a eunuch, that wouldn’t mean anything either. He’s a sex fiend, a liar, a bastard, and a criminal who will never hold his head up in society again! Listen, everyone, here’s the latest news. Ku Wenxuan palmed himself off as the descendant of a martyr for decades, but now we know that he is not Deng Shaoxiang’s son, he’s the son of the river pirate Old Qiu. The woman they call Rotten Rapeseed was his mother, not Deng Shaoxiang. Before Liberation she was a riverboat prostitute.’