Su Tong - The Boat to Redemption

‘Nothing.’

Father angrily smoothed down the front of his trousers. ‘Then what are you thinking?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Liar. I know there are bad thoughts racing through your mind. You can fool other people, but not me.’

‘I’m not thinking anything,’ I said, ‘so stop trying to get into my head. My head’s a kongpi , nothing but a kongpi .’

‘ Kongpi ? What’s that?’ He gave me a dubious look. ‘ Kong is “empty”, I got that. And pi is “ass”. But what do they mean together?’

‘Go and ask somebody else. I don’t know. That’s what they call me now. I used to belong to the Ku family, but now my surname is Empty. And I’m not Dongliang, I’m Ass.’

‘Who gave you that terrible nickname? And why?’

‘What good would it do to tell you?’ I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘It’s your fault!’ I complained. ‘It’s all because of you! And stop calling me Dongliang. From now on you can call me Kongpi!’

Father stopped and thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I know. When the city gate burns, the fish in the moat die. I dragged you into this.’ Still bent at the waist, he began to pace around the tree, casting an occasional look my way, but quickly shying away from the loathing in my eyes. Finally he walked over to a clothes line in the yard, on which hung some of Mother’s fancy costumes from her youth. She’d held on to them all, preventing them from getting mouldy by airing them each autumn. The sight of them hanging there was like watching birds singing in the spring: a Uighur cap, a black vest with threads of gold, a long emerald-green skirt, a Tibetan blouse with half sleeves, a pair of felt boots, a colourful apron, a traditional Korean robe, white with a red belt, and two pairs of ballet slippers, all hanging from the clothes line with a show of bluster.

Father looked up, and I noticed that he was blinking. Inspired by the costumes, he was recalling the time when Mother had been a beautiful stage performer. He set the ballet slippers in motion, then took down the Uighur cap and brushed the dust off it. He sighed. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, wanting to make me feel better, ‘having a nickname is nothing to worry about. Your mother is the one I’ve hurt the most. She’ll never be allowed back into the drama troupe, and now even broadcasting is closed to her. If she can’t be a broadcaster or an actress, her talents will go to waste.’

It was obvious that in his eyes my anguish counted for little next to Mother’s, and I felt like saying, ‘Well, let me call you Kongpi, and see how you like it.’ But I thought better of it. What he said made sense. What does a nickname mean, anyway? What does it prove? The family was breaking up, and I knew I could not cast my lot with him. That left only Mother. If she had a future, so did I. If she was neglected, I would be too. And if she wound up as a nobody, then I’d be a real kongpi , and not just in name.

Let me tell you about my mother, Qiao Limin, and her artistic talents.

In her youth she was Milltown’s most ravishing beauty, the star of mass literary and arts activities, and known popularly as Milltown’s Wang Danfeng. If she hadn’t been a bit long in the body, with short legs, she’d have been more beautiful and more exceptional than the famous 1940s movie star. She had upturned, slanted eyes and a straight nose with a slightly bulbous tip, an oval face, and a voice equally comfortable with sweet lyrics and loud, sonorous arias. But singing and dancing aside, her real talent lay in the realm of broadcasting. For Milltown residents, the perfect enunciation and intonation of broadcaster Qiao Limin’s voice was like a musical weathervane. Her mid-range notes told them that everything was fine, in China and in the world; her lower register told them that news of battleground victories by workers and peasants was pouring in; her alto tones told them that people’s lives were like sesame stalks, whose blossoms grow higher and higher. But the loudest cheers were reserved for her soprano notes, for in them were hidden rare metals with natural powers of penetration and shock. The slogans thundering from her during one open trial actually caused the historical counter-revolutionary Yu Wensun to lose control of his bladder up on the platform. On another occasion, before she’d finished her slogan, a corrupt bookkeeper at the purchasing station by the name of Yao fainted dead away. If you’d been there to hear my mother broadcasting you’d know I’m not exaggerating. Her whole existence was tied up in sloganeering, and her shouts were full of noble aspirations and daring; they pierced the heavens and crackled like magnificent yet graceful thunderclaps in the sky above Milltown, sending chickens flying and ducks leaping, and striking cats and dogs dumb. Below the platform, people’s ears rang, and those few individuals with sensitive eardrums were forced to stuff their ears with cotton to withstand the tonal assault.

Father once said that Mother exuded revolutionary romanticism that had a distinct charm. Revolution and romanticism were for her a single-minded pursuit. She’d spent her youth in Horsebridge, where her beauty and artistic flair were first spotted, though the place was too small for her talents to be fully realized. Either out of envy or prejudice, the locals had not held her in high regard, referring to her behind her back as a butcher-shop Wang Danfeng, a nickname that drew attention to her origins and bloodline. My maternal grandfather lived in Horsebridge, but I’d never met him. Why? He was a butcher by trade, a man whose profession called upon him to slaughter pigs. Neither a member of the bourgeoisie nor a landlord or rich peasant, he still could not lay claim to the status of proletarian. Being born into a questionable family was a hindrance to Mother’s chances of making a good match. Rumours went round that during the famine Grandfather had sold buns stuffed with human flesh, a scandalous story that was widely publicized when each new campaign was launched, causing Mother unbearable humiliation. And so, over the years, she nurtured a plan to escape from her family, which she carried out soon after her eighteenth birthday. She came home one day, broke open her cherished savings jar and, while she was counting the money, announced gravely that she was making a break with her family.

‘And how will you accomplish that?’ they asked.

‘I’ll no longer let you feed or clothe me,’ she said. ‘I’m going to strike out on my own.’

‘How do you, a mere girl, expect to do that, especially on that little bit of money? Have you got a mate in mind? Who is it?’

Angered that her family had underestimated her future prospects, she said, ‘Who is my mate? You wouldn’t understand even if I told you. My mate is the performing stage! You may think I’m callous, but if I don’t make a break with you, you will control my future, and while you may not care about the future, I do!’

After leaving the Horsebridge butcher’s shop, Mother’s travels took her to many places. She applied for membership of the Beijing Opera Troupe, the Armoured Corps Cultural Troupe, a Shaoxing Opera Troupe, as well as district Beijing Opera troupes. She even applied for an acrobatic troupe. But her hopes were dashed each time — in like a tiger’s head, out like a snake’s tail, as the saying goes — either because they thought her legs were stumpy or that her family background presented problems. After being refused entry into the traditional cultural troupes, she’d used up all her travel money and had become discouraged. So she lowered her expectations, setting her sights instead on the popular stage, to perform for the masses. By taking a step back, she opened up new vistas and quickly found work at the Harvest Nitrate Fertilizer Factory, which was home to the celebrated Golden Sparrow River Region Cultural Propaganda Troupe. And there she received the recognition she deserved; at last her beauty had caught someone’s attention. During the day, workers at the factory packaged fertilizer, but after hours they rehearsed for cultural performances. My mother was either the lead singer or lead dancer in the amateur troupe. When she walked out of the factory door at the end of her shift, her blue uniform reeked of ammonia, but the captivating world of the stage lived beneath her collar.