Explore Chapter 8 of "马伯乐" with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
He had written to Mrs. Ma several days prior. While he suspected the letter hadn’t yet arrived, for Ma Bole, it already felt utterly hopeless.
Since he knew she could not come, why had he written at all? In truth, whether Mrs. Ma would come or not was something Ma Bole could not be sure of. Had he ever truly believed, in his heart, that it was impossible? No, it was all because the matter concerned him too deeply. The more a thing concerned him alone, the more easily he slipped into a pessimistic line of thinking. For he loved himself above all others.
His Little Yage-he was quite fond of her. But should extreme danger arise-life-threatening peril-he would be powerless; he would simply flee and save himself. He believed such things were beyond his capability, and thus he bore no guilt.
If Ma Bole scraped a patch of skin on his hand, he would dab on some mercurochrome and wrap it in cloth, and then, for a long, long while afterwards, he would frown and lament this poor, wounded, innocent hand of his.
Tending to an injury with a dab of mercurochrome could hardly be called a vice. But when his healthy foot came down squarely on someone else’s ailing, bandaged foot, he wouldn’t even bother with an apology. Nor did he consider that a vice. (Foreigners were the sole exception-bump into one, and he’d hastily say ‘Sorry.’ Not out of fear, mind you, but because they were simply too formidable.)
In short, the more something concerned Ma Bole himself, the more readily his thoughts veered toward the pessimistic, whether there was genuine cause for optimism or only a sliver-it didn’t matter. Even if a fishbone lodged in his throat, that bone was surely larger than one in another’s throat, for he felt it physically, undeniably, right there in his own. Not a shred of doubt-absolutely, positively true-with every breath it pricked and stabbed.
The landlord’s rent hike cast Ma Bole’s world into instant darkness. Everything was finished. Life held not a shred of meaning. To live in vain, eat in vain, drink in vain, sleep in vain all day long-utterly pointless. To drag on like this, day after day-when would it ever come to an end?
Once the landlady, Mrs. Ma, went upstairs, Ma Bole closed the door and hurriedly threw himself onto the bed. His eyes fixed on the electric light, staring until spots danced before them. He thought: "The electric light is more yellow than the sun, but the electric light is not the sun!" "A cannon, after all, is a cannon-it’s different." "In times of national calamity, life is meant to be meaningless." "When a man is in sorrow, he must sorrow."
Ma Bole, following his habitual track, thought of many things, and he pressed on: "Flip the switch, the room lights up." "The nation goes to war, the people must take flight." "With money, flight is comfortable." "If the Japanese don’t take Qingdao, Mrs. Ma will not come." "If Mrs. Ma doesn’t come, flight will be sheer misery." "No money, nothing can be discussed." "No money, then it’s the end." "No money, and a world away though right beside you." "No money, not a single step can be taken." "No money, and it’s back home again."
Having passed through this crest of sorrow, his inner turmoil seemed to ease somewhat. He got up from the bed, washed his face with cold water, and decided to go out for a walk.
The matter of having no money, which he had just managed to forget, now returned to him. "No money, then it’s the end." "A man without money is no man at all."
Furious, Ma Bole slammed his fist on the table. Immediately, a host of rice grains leapt into the air. Since he never wiped the table, among them were grains from yesterday, from the day before, and perhaps some that had landed there days ago. Many had been hiding in the table’s cracks; shaken by his blow, they all jumped out as if alive, scurrying like tiny insects.
Ma Bole swiftly swept them onto the floor with his palm. He swept with frantic speed, as if afraid the grains would flee given a moment’s delay. Then he clapped his hands together, cleaning his palms. He thought: "What the hell kind of world is this! Shackles everywhere, not a free soul among us. This is the end, and now another layer of shackles from the Japanese on top. A world of blood, a world of beasts, where might is right and justice is dead! What’s needed now is for volcanoes to erupt, for heaven and earth to split asunder! Let the end of the world come, damn it, and be quick about it! If we’re finished, let’s all be finished together. Make it quick. No more fucking around, not a moment’s fucking delay! What’s the point of living like this, neither dead nor alive, just pure, living torment."
Ma Bole’s thoughts swirled, eventually circling back to himself: "These are truly calamitous times, when parents, wives, and children become strangers-oddly enough, become irrelevant. They’re not even as good as beasts. When a sparrow’s fledgling falls from the eaves and is surrounded by cats and dogs, the parent sparrow desperately tries to protect its young, chirping defiantly as if to take on the dogs. How could a mere sparrow dare challenge a dog? Only because it sees its fledgling in distress! A cat is the same, a dog is the same. If a mother cat or dog sees its kitten or pup surrounded by other beasts, even by a great tiger, the parent will rush forward to fight. Why? Because it sees its own offspring in distress. But man is not even as good as cats and dogs. He sees his own son in distress, yet the father shows not a shred of sympathy. Why does he not love his son? For money! If the son has money, the father is reduced to the son’s level-then it will not be the son fearing the father, but the father fearing the son. Why should the father fear the son? Fear of the money! If the son becomes a bank president and the father a bank attendant, then when they meet, the father will offer tea. Why would he pour it? Because the son is the president! Conversely, if the father is a millionaire, when the son sees the father, he must act like a prime minister before an emperor, obedient in every way. Show the slightest disobedience, and he won’t give you the money. As the saying goes, when the father-in-law has money, the mother-in-law lives in the big house; when the son has money, she waits on her daughter-in-law. Money! Money! How utterly true it is! What kind of world is this, where without money, a father is no father, a son no son, a wife no wife, a husband no husband. Man is crueler than any beast! To see his own son in distress and not lift a hand to save him…"
It was Zhang Big-Ears, also a fellow auditor from Ma Bole’s university days, who had also ‘served’ in Ma Bole’s bookstore. This service held no official title; he had simply lived and eaten for free for a stretch, was on familiar terms with Ma Bole, and counted as one of Ma Bole’s poor friends.
He spoke in a loud voice, his body swaying, his voice tremulous with a distinct cadence, as if someone had fitted springs inside his bones. When he walked, he teetered on the balls of his feet. Lighting a cigarette, he’d take the matchbox in hand, give it a shake, and the match would strike with practiced regularity. The rhythm of all his movements seemed coordinated with some internal mechanism. One met him and felt the man was full of springs.
Zhang Big-Ears spoke again: "Old Ma, how have you become so despondent lately? Don’t you care about this magnificent era? This most glorious page at the dawn of our Chinese nation’s history-don’t you feel it?"
Zhang Big-Ears was a rather brash fellow. Without ceremony, he launched into an irritable critique. "I say, Old Ma, what’s come over you? The other day when I met you on the street, you weren’t like this. You were furious then, walking with a nationalistic fervor, all indignation. Back then, others couldn’t see it, couldn’t really sense it. One might say they didn’t sense at all that Shanghai was destined to become what it is today. And sure enough, in less than a month, Shanghai has become exactly what you predicted."
Zhang Big-Ears said, "I truly cannot understand. If all of China’s youth were like you, it would be a disaster. One day, a blazing basin of red-hot coals; the next day, coals fading to gray-red; the third day, nothing but dead ashes."
Zhang Big-Ears was neither a man of profound understanding nor a theorist. There was a time when he drifted through film circles for a spell. He was no director, no actor, drew no salary, but he was friends with everyone there. They’d smoke cigarettes together, stroll the boulevards, play cards, and debate which actress had the prettiest eyes, what some woman’s husband did for a living and whether he had money, which actress was courting which actor. Nor could one say Zhang Big-Ears made no progress during his film-world days. He acquired an indelible theatrical bearing. That peculiar tremor in his step-the quiver on the balls of his feet with each stride-was learned back then. He also amassed a trove of esoteric knowledge from screen and stage, learning the names of instruments like the ‘guitar’ and the ‘balalaika.’ But it’s not that he read no books during that period; he did, though mostly film-related publications-‘Film Pictorial’ or ‘Hollywood’ magazine. The actresses pored over those pictorials, studying what clothes Hollywood starlets wore, what the latest Hollywood swimsuit styles were, and just how much more modern they were than Shanghai’s fashions. The makeup section was paramount: what color to rim the eyes, which shade of nail polish to use-deep pink or light pink? The foundation applied before powdering was crucial; poor-quality foundation would coarsen the skin, and coarse skin made one look older. Even one’s voice, laughter, and expression were studied from those magazines. The male actors read similar fare.
Thus, Zhang Big-Ears could not be considered a learned man. But regarding the resistance against Japan, he was as fervent as any ordinary citizen, for opposing Japan was a demand shared by everyone in China.
This time Ma Bole spoke, utterly incensed. "Am I fucking blind? Can I not see? Am I fucking deaf? Can I not hear? You think just because you’re Zhang Big-Ears, with your big ears, that you’re the only one who can hear? I heard it earlier than you. Before you caught wind of it, I had already heard. One could say I heard it before Japan’s cannons even roared. You’ve got some nerve, kid, coming here to bluff me. Three days apart, and you fancy yourself a hero! As if this business of fighting Japan is being led by you."
As Ma Bole ranted, Zhang Big-Ears stood by, chuckling. Ma Bole pressed on: "Do you know or not that Old Ma here is utterly penniless? Still going on about the great air battle over the Huangpu River! A great air battle can’t fill your belly. Old Ma is about to join the refugees. Old Ma is finished!"