Su Tong - The Boat to Redemption

I had no time to ponder why this night, which had started out with such bitterness, had ended so sweetly, why luck had been with me in the end, for I now had a problem. How was I going to move such a heavy object on to the boat? Our gangplank wasn’t up to the task, and I couldn’t borrow anyone else’s. Now what? Could I make a ladder out of bamboo? As I anxiously considered tactics for moving heavy objects, I shouted out happily, a note of triumph in my voice, ‘Dad, I’m back! I’m home! Come and see what I’ve brought you!’

MY GREATEST regret during the eleven years I spent on the river was tying my father up. I still recall that night. ‘Easy,’ he said as I worked to loosen the ropes. A rare expression of fatherly concern emanated from his weary, bloodshot eyes. He’d forgiven me. I led him to the gangplank to show him the memorial stone I’d left on the riverbank. Holding on to my clothes, he followed me on shaky legs, like an obedient son. Fear, I knew, was one of the reasons, but the sight of Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial lit up his soul, as if the light of a nameless deity shone down on it. All his misgivings and fear fell away. ‘Good,’ he said with a smile. ‘Wonderful. You’ve brought your grandmother home.’

To get the stone up on to the barge, I’d need to use one of the cranes, and this was the perfect time, since there was no one around. I climbed into the cab of one of them by removing a window, and though I had no experience of operating the machine, the instrument panel seemed almost magically familiar that night, and everything went without a hitch. The crane picked up the stone and, after one uncontrolled and somewhat dangerous swing, lowered it on to the bow, where Father helped me bring it down. ‘Careful now, be careful.’ The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to the stone.

I’d brought a heavy gift home to Father and he accepted it happily.

Father wanted the stone up next to the sofa in the cabin, facing aft. But the door was too narrow, which disappointed him, though we gave it our all, with me pushing and him giving directions. So, with the stone halfway in and halfway out of the cabin, he sat next to it, stroking it lovingly. ‘You’ll just have to stay here,’ he said, ‘which is actually better, since the cabin is stuffy. The air out here is better, and so is the scenery. This way you can enjoy the sights of the river, Mama.’

By then it was very late. The freshly washed moon shone down on the Golden Sparrow River. I lit all four of our lanterns and hung them strategically to shine their warm light on Father and his martyr’s stone. After gazing at the inscription for a long while, he said he wanted to see the relief image on the back. So I mustered up the strength to turn it around for him. ‘Gone!’ he shouted in alarm. ‘I’m gone!’

That gave me such a fright I didn’t know what to do. Again he said, ‘I’m gone, I’m gone!’ His hand rested forlornly on the carved basket, shaking uncontrollably. As soon as I went over to look I knew what had happened: the infant’s head was missing from the top of the basket.

‘How can it be empty? My little head, where did it go?’

‘Dad, you must be seeing things. How could something carved in stone be missing?’ Flustered, I grabbed one of the lanterns to get a better look, and what I saw flabbergasted me. The basket carved in the stone showed up clearly in the light, but the head of the infant that had once been there was now gone.

‘They’ve wiped me out,’ Father said. ‘My birthmark’s gone, and now so is my head.’

Even when I examined the carving closely, I saw no signs that it had been altered, nothing that would lead me to believe that human hands had done this. But when I traced the area with my finger I felt a slight outcropping above the basket where the head had once been. The spot was cold to the touch. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘touch it here. You can feel the little round head with your finger.’

He’d already turned away in despair to gaze at the river. So I took his hand and traced his finger over the raised carving. ‘You can feel it,’ I repeated. ‘It’s still there.’

He closed his eyes and let me move his finger around; after a moment, he covered the spot with his hand and gently rubbed the barely distinct little head. ‘Is that all that’s left? Is it really my head? I don’t think so,’ he mumbled as a shadowy fear came over his face. ‘It’s not me. I’m no longer there. I only left the shore eleven years ago, and not even calligraphy in ink should fade away in that short a time. That little head in the basket, how did it just disappear?’

His hand slid weakly down the memorial stone and rested on his knee, still shaking. A damp pale light seemed etched on that hand. He shut his eyes; he’d grown tired, and I thought he should rest. ‘Dad,’ I said as I tried to get him to stand, ‘we can’t see it in the dark. We’ll try again tomorrow in the daylight. It’s late. You need your sleep.’ But he lay his head against the stone and left it there. ‘Don’t do that, Dad,’ I said as I tried to pull him back. ‘It’s too cold, you’ll come down with something.’

When he looked up at me I saw tears criss-crossing his face. ‘I heard it,’ he said. ‘I heard your grandmother’s voice. I no longer blame Zhao Chuntang. Your grandmother doesn’t like me, I heard her. Eleven years trying to reform myself, all wasted. I’ve failed to earn your grandmother’s forgiveness. She doesn’t want me.’

I wrapped my arms around his emaciated form; it was like a decaying tree trunk that had stubbornly warded off the elements for eleven years, only to topple during a storm. I desperately wanted to comfort him, but tears were filling my eyes and I was so choked up I couldn’t say anything. And when I read the words ‘Martyred Deng Shaoxiang Lives Forever in Our Hearts’ I was suddenly fearful. I’d worked so hard to bring the memorial stone aboard our boat, but had it brought Father happiness or a crushing defeat?

Pale morning light was beginning to show through the darkness at the far end of the Golden Sparrow River. As I glanced at sleepy Milltown I ran to the bow, knowing that dawn would bring people to the piers and that the memorial stone would no longer belong to Father and me. My first thought was to go aft, weigh anchor at once and take the stone away from Milltown. My strength returned as I worked on getting under way, all was normal. But when I ran back up to the bow to take in the hawsers tying us to the pier, my hands became weak and I had trouble keeping my eyes open. The lack of sleep had suddenly caught up to me. I lay down on the deck and fell asleep.

Father came up and shook me. ‘We can’t run away,’ he said. ‘There’s no place for us, even if we run to the ends of the earth.’

I got up and, in a daze, went back to the hawsers. ‘We’ll go out on the river, that’s where we belong.’

‘The river isn’t ours,’ he said. ‘Even this boat isn’t ours. We’re not going anywhere, we’re staying here. Go and get some sleep, Dongliang. I’ll keep watch over the memorial.’

I knew there was no sense in arguing with him, and I was in no condition to fight the weariness that had come over me. Father nudged me into the cabin. Eleven years it had taken for me to finally luxuriate in the loving care of my father. He made up the cot and covered me with an old blanket, leaving a small corner open for me, and I vaguely sensed that this was what it would feel like to be wrapped in his arms, arms that had been closed to me for so long. At first the blanket felt strangely prickly, but that gave way to warmth, as if I was in the embrace of Father’s affection. I wanted him to get some sleep as well, but I was too tired to resist; I fell asleep almost immediately.