第五章 (Chapter Five)

Autumn leaves had drifted and settled, littering the courtyard and veranda. When the wind rose at night, it sent them pitter-pattering against the windowpanes. At such moments, Ma Bole tossed and turned in bed, lost in thought. As the ancients aptly said, life is more bitter than sweet. With money, you have a wife, children, a father, brothers. Without it, you're worse off than a stray dog. That's all life is-what justice or truth is there in it? It's all lies.

Ma Bole's thoughts ran in circles until his head throbbed. Getting up to drink a cup of tea brought some relief. Peering out the window at the pitch-black night, he muttered, "No moon. The night is black."

He heard the leaves pelt the window and said, "It's autumn. Leaves are meant to fall."

Following this line of thought, he went on thinking.

The wealthy look down on the poor.

Officials look down on the common folk.

Mrs. Ma must look down on me.

When the wind stops, the leaves stop falling.

If I had money, Mrs. Ma would look up to me.

If I had money, my father would be a father again, and my children would be children again.

That's how life is.

To live is to live.

Once dead, you can't live again.

To kill yourself is to die for sure.

If you want to flee, you must flee.

The moment Ma Bole thought of the word "flee," he resolved not to flee this time.

Thus, Ma Bole stayed at home for a long time, about seven or eight months. He did not flee.

As soon as the Lugou Bridge Incident occurred, Ma Bole boarded a large ocean liner from his home in Qingdao and fled to Shanghai.

The entire ship showed no signs of wartime flight. Arriving in Shanghai, the city itself showed none either. No one had fled to Shanghai from elsewhere, and no one had fled from Shanghai to other places. Everything was calm and serene. The French Concession, the British Concession, the Bund wharf-all as usual, not a hint of chaos. The Bund's tall, imposing buildings stood firm and majestic as ever. Trams and motorcars crisscrossed in their usual, unhurried flow. Tram bells dinged softly. On the sidewalks, women strolled leisurely, some holding parasols, others carrying shiny leather purses. They all wore fine clothes and pretty shoes, mostly perforated, and since they disliked stockings, each looked refreshingly cool. Especially those ladies in the motorcars, dressed in sheer fabrics-pale yellow, light blue, beige-so thin and airy, they seemed breezy enough to catch a chill even in July. Shop windows along the street were extravagantly decorated. Small shops had gramophones playing at their entrances. And the shops selling aviation lottery tickets were packed with people, also blaring gramophones that played raucous, jarring tunes, neither lament nor laughter. People lingered before these shops, wanting to buy a ticket but afraid of wasting a dollar without winning a prize. Yet not buying felt like missing out on the top prize, second prize, third prize… not to mention the many minor prizes. Even matching the last two numbers could yield thirty or fifty, three or two dollars. The minimum was one dollar, and the chance for that was highest. So why not buy? Even without the top prize, getting a dollar back covered the cost. What if you won second or third prize? That would be incredible-instant wealth. Buy a car, hire seven or eight servants, get a gramophone, a radio… The top prize might be elusive, but it was bound to come out in each draw. Who would it land on? Who had predetermined it? No one. Anyone who bought a ticket had a chance. Just consider the dollar lost and buy with resolve. So maids, rickshaw pullers, small merchants, idlers, wanderers-all stood before the lottery shops, regardless of class. They calculated in their hearts, gazing at the rows of pink tickets, trying to discern which might win the top prize. As if they could tell which ticket was lucky. Once they spotted one, they’d say, "I want this," pointing at the rows. They’d reach out, and the seller would fetch a strip-ten or twenty tickets, or three or two connected, like stamps at the post office, in rows and large sheets. But no one at the post office picks and chooses stamps. Hand over five cents, get a five-cent stamp; hand over one cent, get a one-cent stamp. If you tried to choose, the clerk would scold you. But buying lottery tickets was different. You could pick and choose, and the seller didn’t mind. A buyer might stare at a large sheet for ages and find nothing satisfactory. "Not this row, that row," they’d say. The seller would bring another row, almost identical. The buyer’s eyes would glaze over, looking this way and that, unable to decide. At that critical moment, a final decision was necessary. So they’d make one, arbitrarily pointing at a ticket from the dazzling array. Others might think they had insight, but in truth, they didn’t know if it was good or bad, what joy or sorrow it might bring. Their eyes were dazzled, their minds muddled, so they just tore off a ticket at random. Some, after tearing it off, changed their minds. They thought another ticket looked better, more likely to win the top prize, while theirs might only get a third prize. Feeling this, they’d quickly exchange it. The seller didn’t mind, giving them a new one. Others exchanged several times, and the seller accommodated them all. Some jostled and studied, holding the ticket close, touching it for a long time. After examining it, they still didn’t buy. They stepped aside to watch others. Sometimes it was strange: one person bravely stepped up and bought a ticket, then others followed, each buying one. Those watching from the side also came to buy. As if people bought tickets following the trend. Probably they saw the first buyer, decisive, looking like someone destined for wealth. Following behind, they might get rich too. But such decisive buyers were rare. Most needed to study. Some, after studying, didn’t buy or watch; they went home to think it over and come back tomorrow. Buying a lottery ticket was like spending money on a small donkey or horse: you had to check if it was thin or fat, how old its teeth were, calculate how many foals it might bear. Or like a man choosing a fiancée, or a woman choosing a husband. Yet choosing a husband wasn’t as hard as this-scrutinizing left and right, unable to tell good from bad. Which of this heap of tickets was the top prize? The more you looked, the less clear it became. No hint at all. They were all the same, each sheet and row identical, pale red, printed with identical words. A thousand, ten thousand, even a hundred thousand tickets-all alike. If only a few were slightly darker or lighter, giving people a target. Regardless of winning later, at least the choice would be easier. But the printing house probably didn’t consider this difficulty. They made the colors identical, as if not man-made but naturally so. This was how ordinary or poor people bought lottery tickets. The wealthy bought them too, but mostly without much selection or regard. They bought in tens, twenties, or even eighty or a hundred dollars at a time, as if buying cigarettes or daily necessities. Whether they tossed the tickets aside at home, recorded the numbers in a diary, or noted them elsewhere, waiting day and night for the draw, didn’t matter. At least when buying, they were straightforward. The streets were lively not only with lottery shops but all shops bustling. Yet despite the liveliness, there was no chaos or rush. Everything was calm, steady, with absolutely no appearance of wartime flight.

Ma Bole stood on deck beneath the mast. The shore was crowded with people meeting the ship. He knew perfectly well no one was there for him, as he hadn't telegraphed any friends in Shanghai before departure. Yet he thought, "What if someone is?" So his eyes kept searching the shore, lingering until every last passenger had disembarked and every greeter had departed. Only then did he return to the third-class cabin, pick up the sole blanket he had brought, and make his way ashore.

Walking the streets, he felt something amiss. Everything was as usual, and it seemed no one knew he had fled from Qingdao. He passed the Bund and Nanjing Road. He wore thick clothing, his shirt was soiled, his shoes unpolished, and his beard unshaven for days, so his face was dark and sallow.

"What? Do they still not know?" he thought. "The fighting's started at Lugou Bridge! What is wrong with these people? Don't they realize Qingdao will be in danger soon too?"

He rode the tram past the fronts of the Sincere Company, Guanshengyuan, and the Sun Company. Both inside and outside, it was bustling and lively, with no sign of wartime flight or panic. Mrs. Ma was calm, and people were steady and composed.

When Ma Bole saw the shop selling aviation lottery tickets, decorated inside and out with red paper and red signs that read, "Last draw's top prize was sold from this shop! Come quick if you want to get rich!" he took one look and cursed, "Goddamn these Chinese!"

"The enemy is almost upon us, and you're not making preparations. Instead, you're here obsessed with getting rich."

"What will you do then?"

By "then," he meant a time of great pessimism, and he thought with deep pity, "It's not that you people lack wits, it's not that you don't want a good life, a stable life. Seeing you gathered here, so earnestly buying aviation lottery tickets, shows how keen you are to get rich. But the Japanese are almost upon us. When they come, you will flee in blind, stampeding panic. Then you'll wail and cry, losing wives and scattering children. Then the sky will darken, and you'll be all thumbs and feet. If you don't hurry and prepare, what will you do then!"

With such feelings, Ma Bole arrived in Shanghai. Soon after, he rented a house and settled there.

This time, the house he rented was far inferior to the one he had rented when opening a bookstore. There was no comparison. Upon opening the door, the whole room reeked of garlic. "This is wartime flight," Ma Bole said. "This isn't living, nor is it business." Yet the oil crocks, salt jars, soy sauce and vinegar bottles scattered about didn't bother him in the least. On the contrary, it all felt fitting, precisely as it ought to be.