Explore Chapter 7 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.
"I left home young and return old, my local accent unchanged, but my hair at the temples grown thin. Children see me but do not know me, smiling they ask the guest from whence he comes."
"Going south and coming north, rest when you can, white duckweed blown to nothing on the autumn Chu River. I am no sorrowful guest of autumn, yet I too face the evening wind with sadness."
"A sudden thought returns to the cavity of my heart, still my thin bones lean against the bed frame..."
His socks were worn through. His hair grew long. His clothes were filthy. What he needed to buy, he could not. What he needed to wash, he could not. If he washed them, he would have nothing to wear, for he had brought only one shirt from home. Thus, Ma Bole took on the appearance of a homeless wanderer, like an unemployed man or someone just recovering from a grave illness.
His face was sallow. His hair had grown long. His suit trousers were stained with oil spots from frying eggs and rice. His shirt worn without a tie, the sleeves rolled up high, revealing his thin, bony arms that had never known strength. The shirt had not been washed for a long time, and sweat had soaked into it, creating cloud-like patterns on the back. After Ma Bole's shirt was damp with sweat, he would take it off and hang it on the bed to dry for a while. Before it was fully dry, when he had to go out, he would put it on again, still clammy. Ma Bole's shoes too bore cloud-like stains. Since coming to Shanghai, he had never once polished them. Ma Bole looked utterly wretched, like a drowned rat.
Ma Bole finally felt a surge of joy one day. His melancholy mood vanished completely. That was when he saw the endless stream of moving carts on North Sichuan Road.
North Sichuan Road was utterly desolate. North of the big bridge over Suzhou Creek, people grew scarce. Past the General Post Office, further north, the trams were empty. Many Japanese police stood on the streets. Most shops were closed, with scraps of paper flying about in the wind. Moving carts streamed toward Suzhou Creek. Trucks, handcarts, rickshaws... loaded with pots and pans, cats, dogs... Each cart was piled high, overflowing to a peak. None headed north. All flowed southward.
A few knew a bit, but most did not. Ma Bole eagerly recounted what he had seen, secretly adding a little extra. He deliberately made it sound worse than it was. He rattled on, "North Sichuan Road is all closed up, boards over the doors. North Sichuan Road is emptied out. Japanese police swing their bayonets at people... Those fleeing in wartime flight run wildly like a panicked herd, carts loaded with bed planks, pots and pans, men, women, old, young. The flight is tragic, truly tragic..."
At the end, he feigned infinite compassion, stealing glances to see if the listener fully believed him. If not entirely convinced, he was ready to repeat it. If they believed, he would stand up and leave immediately, rushing to another friend's place.
When he returned to his lodgings, he was exhausted and hungry. All his strength was spent. His legs ached and felt weak. His head buzzed like train wheels clattering within. He only unbuttoned his shirt, not even bothering to take it off, and slept through the night fully clothed, shoes and socks still on.
He slept deeply and peacefully that night. It was as if he had not just slept, but had left this troubled world for a whole night. He felt nothing, remembered nothing. He did not dream, did not think of the future, did not recall the past. Flies crawled over his face, but he did not know. Enormous cockroaches, peculiar to Shanghai, scampered across his chest where his shirt had split open, but he did not feel it. He was too fatigued to have any awareness. He did not turn over or move all night, lying exactly as he had fallen, as if merely resting briefly, legs stretched straight. He did not seem asleep but ready to get up and hit the street at any moment.
Especially for Ma Bole, with his tendency to think far ahead and probe life to its depths, he would often lie awake at night pondering his future. Though not a chronic insomniac, he seldom slept well. This kind of sleep was only the second time in his memory.
The first time was the night he successfully courted Mrs. Ma and held their engagement ceremony. He slept just as peacefully then, partly from drinking too much, partly as a sign of his initial victory in life.
At eight in the morning, with the sun already high, Ma Bole still slept. Children in the lane scraped sticks and wood chips against the wall outside his room, making loud noises. Ma Bole did not hear these small sounds. Other noises simply could not penetrate Ma Bole's room at all. His room was like a small stone cave, cut off from the outside. No matter how high the sun rose, not a single ray could enter Ma Bole's room. It had no window, not even a crack.
When he woke, he would not know what world this was. His mind was emptied out by sleep. His legs were numb. He opened his eyes and did not understand where he was. He stared for a long time, seeing only the dim electric light surrounding him. He closed his eyes, seeming to strain to comprehend something, but his brain would not obey. He still could not understand. After muddling through like this for a good while, he finally stood up. He looked for his leather shoes and saw they were still on his feet. Only then did he realize he had fallen asleep without undressing the night before.
So he hastily washed his face with yesterday morning's water, without brushing his teeth, and ran to the lane entrance to observe. Sure enough, wartime flight was confirmed. He lived in the French Concession, around Fulili Road. It was terrible. Even this quiet area was flooded with refugees from the flight.
Ma Bole saw the chaotic scene of people carrying beds and chamber pots, exactly as he had predicted. He whistled cheerfully and strode back to his room triumphantly. As usual, upon entering he knocked over several bottles and jars.
In his joy, he ate five servings of egg fried rice. Normally he used one egg, but today he used five. He said, "Damn it, eat up. If I don't eat, it's a waste. The Japanese will... will be attacking soon."
After five servings, he still did not feel full, remembering he had not eaten dinner before falling asleep.
On the street, he walked briskly despite his thin frame, taking large strides. Head held high, he whistled occasionally. Confident and proud, he observed the refugees from North Sichuan Road with a connoisseur's eye.
By evening, the French Concession grew even busier. Refugees from Nanshi passed through Lafayette Road, Saposai Road... carrying their belongings. Oil shops, salt shops, rice shops-there was not one that was not crammed with people. Everyone scrambled to buy rice.
Ma Bole roamed the streets all day, returning only as dusk fell. Entering the lane, the first thing he saw was a foreigner buying a large basket of daily goods (butter, bread, and such). This convinced him further that the Japanese would surely open fire. Not only would the Japanese fight, but he heard China's military was also determined to fight. Rumors ran rampant that China was prepared this time. The 88th Division had rushed overnight to gather near Hongkou. If the Japanese Marines attacked, the Chinese army would not yield an inch this time. If Japan struck, China would certainly fight back, would certainly resist. They said fighting would break out in a day or two.
Ma Bole's earlier sorrow vanished. Now he was busy. Besides inspecting the streets and informing friends, he prepared his own supplies. After securing soy sauce, vinegar, rice, and salt, he also bought eggs. Ma Bole was tall, so when buying rice, even though he arrived late, he got served first. As he squeezed through to take the rice bag, he heard every curse the women flung at him. But he ignored them, pushing and shoving his way past them, and muscled his way to the very front. He thought, "What times are these? I can't worry about you being women or not!"
He carried the rice bag back to his place alone. As if chased by flood or beast from behind, he disregarded everything, unafraid of ridicule. He had bought three pecks of rice, probably enough for a month or two.
After leaving the rice in his room, he went out again, heading toward a bakery. This time, he was not as quick as with the rice. He stood behind a crowd, wanting to push forward a few steps, but saw it was impossible because most buyers were foreigners. Foreigners were the most troublesome; they insisted on doing everything by the rules, with absolutely no room for chaos.
At the second shop, it too was full of people. Ma Bole stood there squeezing for a while but again saw little hope. He thought, if he waited in line, who knew when his turn would come. The best method was simply to push from the back to the front. But most bread buyers were foreigners, and foreigners would not permit such cutting. So he ran to a third bakery.
This bakery was called "Revival," opened by a man from Shandong. The shop was small, able to accommodate only three or five customers at once. The moment Ma Bole opened the door, he heard the shopkeeper speaking in the Huang County dialect of Shandong. Ma Bole was not from Huang County but from Qingdao, yet he immediately affected the Huang County accent. The owner, hearing him, took him for a fellow townsman and, following his pointing, handed him a large round loaf.
He was glad his tongue was very agile, managing to imitate the Huang County speech quite convincingly-a skill not easily acquired. Holding the four or five-pound loaf, his heart was filled with joy, so much so that he forgot to ask the owner for paper to wrap it. He walked down the street hugging the naked bread. If not for Shanghai being in turmoil, in normal times, people on the street would surely have thought Ma Bole's bread was stolen or picked up from somewhere.
Ma Bole finished buying bread as dusk fell. This was the second day since the move from North Sichuan Road began.
Though Ma Bole ate four or five servings of egg fried rice for dinner again, his heart felt somewhat empty once more. He thought, "Wartime flight may have begun, but this is only Shanghai. Why hasn't Qingdao started fleeing yet?"
That day, Ma Bole walked no less than the day before, and his fatigue was no less either, but he did not sleep as well as the previous night. He was almost insomniac, scarcely sleeping at all through the night. All night he planned, schemed about his own personal future. He thought, "Wartime flight may have begun, but where should I flee to eventually? Forget eventually, just the first step. Where is the safest place to flee to first? And once in that new place, will I know anyone? Can I find some kind of job? If not, and if my family doesn't send money, what then? If Mrs. Ma comes, we can flee together in the future. Mrs. Ma has a portion of money of her own. And even if Mrs. Ma's money runs out, it won't matter, as long as Mrs. Ma and Little Yage are with me; his father cannot refuse to give me money. Even if he won't give it to me, he will necessarily give it to his grandchildren. The only problem now is this: how to get Mrs. Ma out immediately, to come to Shanghai at once."
Although Ma Bole had long predicted this cannon fire, had spent much effort spreading the word to make people believe this day would surely come sooner or later, and though others might think Ma Bole would be delighted to hear it, now that he seemed to hear it, he did not feel joy. Instead, he felt a little afraid. He lifted his ear from the pillow, waiting for that sound to come a second time. After waiting a while, no second sound came. Only then did Ma Bole resume thinking his own thoughts: "What method can I use to get Mrs. Ma to come out early? I'll say I'm going to enlist, to go fight Japan. Mrs. Ma has always known I have a strong sense of patriotism. Since my student days, there hasn't been a single student protest I wasn't part of. Mrs. Ma knows this, and she was very afraid, seeing how brave I was, standing at the very front during clashes with the police. Back then, Mrs. Ma was just a girl, she in a girls' school, I in a boys' school. She witnessed this behavior of mine. Since she knows my sense of patriotism is so deep, if I now say I'm enlisting to save the country, she will surely panic, and his father hearing it would be equally alarmed. Then she will certainly rush to Shanghai immediately. That's what I'll do. Send a telegram. Sending a telegram will make it seem even more real. She'll come at once."
Ma Bole turned over. He pondered carefully for a while, feeling it wouldn't work, it wasn't very sound. It would be seen through at a glance, seen as my fabrication. Shanghai hasn't even opened fire yet, so how could I go enlist? Enlist where? Enlist with whom? It's simply ridiculous. Even a child wouldn't believe it, let alone Mrs. Ma, who has been fooled by me so often she's afraid of it. One look and she'd know it was just another of my tricks to get money from her. He thought of a second method: "This time, I'll say I'm going to join the communists. His father fears that most of all. Mrs. Ma is also terribly afraid. They both believe communists specialize in going home to divide up their parents' and wives' property. Hearing this, even if Mrs. Ma might not come, she will certainly send me money. She will definitely send me money, for boat fare to hurry home."
Although Ma Bole had devised another scheme, it still wasn't ideal. Mrs. Ma not coming was ultimately not a perfect plan. The little money his father might give would be spent in a flash, and once gone, there'd still be no solution. Having Mrs. Ma by his side was still the best, the most reliable, the surest thing.
"Then I won't use the above two plans. I'll use a third. The third is: Mrs. Ma suspects me... If I say I have a girlfriend in Shanghai, see if she gets anxious. She'll surely be so angry she can't sleep all night, buying a boat ticket the very next day to come. I mustn't be too blunt. Being too blunt, she might get angry from shame and really not come. I'll say it haltingly, as if it might or might not be true, making it so she cannot truly believe it without seeing the person, yet cannot truly disbelieve it either without seeing for herself. Only this way will she come quickly. Besides, that year I really did have a girlfriend in Shanghai, didn't I?"
From that night onward, Ma Bole grew gloomy again, finding everything meaningless, feeling empty. Even when Hongkou opened with cannon fire, he did not get excited again.
On the third day since the move from North Sichuan Road began, the rumor that "fighting will definitely start tonight" was believed by everyone in Shanghai.
That night, the last moving cart from North Sichuan Road was escorted out by British police. That large truck looked most mournful in the darkness. There were no other vehicles, only this one truck puttering down a long, hollow, empty street. It was an international wartime flight vehicle, carrying White Russians, British, Jews, and also two Japanese people. Originally, it was a special vehicle sent by the British police station to evacuate their nationals; other nationals had managed to board it as a result of their pleas.
The cannons were about to sound. North Sichuan Road was silent as the grave, not a sound. All the houses were empty, not a single person visible on the street. The usual full traffic of the street was gone. Everything waited for war. Everything had waited a long time. Because of the move, scraps of paper flew all over the street. If a city street is emptied out, it becomes far more desolate than wilderness. Wilderness is boundless, open, with no obstacles whatsoever; whereas city streets are pitch-dark, sneaky, the houses like some kind of monsters, the emptiness more terrifying than the wilderness.
All the Japanese people living on North Sichuan Road fled to the nearby Japanese elementary schools that night. One could say all the Japanese people living in Shanghai were concentrated in the Japanese elementary schools. On one hand, they feared their nationals might be harmed in clashes with China; on the other, they feared some of their wholehearted nationals might oppose this war and perhaps defect to the Chinese side. So they were brought under control in advance. Regardless of who, as long as they were Japanese people, they all had to obey orders and gather together, so that when fighting started, they could all be escorted under guard by soldiers and shipped back to Japan by warship.
North Sichuan Road was fully prepared, fully waiting for war. The British Concession and French Concession, however, were extremely lively. Every household was piled with trunks and bundles; street gossip was everywhere. The newly moved-in refugee tenants could not adapt to this new environment right away, so they were noisy and quarrelsome, disturbing everyone's peace. Moreover, the night was hot and rumors were plentiful, so the commotion lasted until dawn.
So they ate, washed clothes, bought rice and firewood as usual. Although people all wore the hue of unknown panic, in Ma Bole's eyes, it was utterly mundane, as if nothing at all had happened, as if people were still living their lives as before.
The Japanese attacking China felt like something from years ago. Chinese people in wartime flight also felt stale, like something from years ago. Although in his mind the Japanese cannons he had anticipated day after day had still not sounded by today, in his emotions it felt as old as if the fighting had already started several days or even several months ago.
So whenever Ma Bole heard another rumor that the Japanese would definitely open fire tonight or such, he would seem about to fall asleep upon hearing it. He expressed an attitude of utter indifference. His brows were furrowed; his two eyes, already sorrowful by nature, appeared even more sorrowful now.
He felt the period for preparation had already passed. Action should be taken immediately. Otherwise, what then? What when everyone starts fleeing? Carriages and boats will all become insufficient. Once war starts, transportation will be insufficient, busy moving troops and transporting grain; will there be any time left to transport refugees? In wartime flight, if you don't flee early, is fleeing late still viable?
Ma Bole was only planning the second step of his escape (the first step being his flight from Qingdao to Shanghai), so he felt no interest whatsoever in the actual matter of the Japanese truly attacking.
When the cannons sounded in Shanghai, Ma Bole found it utterly mundane. As if he had heard it before, not for the first time. All of Shanghai buzzed with noisy excitement; only Ma Bole alone was quiet, silent. He smoked a cigarette, lay on his bed, his two feet propped up on the bed frame, his eyes half-closed as he gazed at the dim electric light. The cannons had started long ago, from dusk.
The day after the "August 13th Incident," Japanese and Chinese planes engaged in a great aerial battle over the Huangpu River. Half the sky suddenly became like a patch of cloud, smeared gray by the smoke and dust of aircraft and gunpowder. It was as if the world had discovered a strange, monstrous, unstoppable whirlwind, rolling in with sound, roaring and rattling heedlessly. Because the planes were firing machine guns in the sky, stray bullets from time to time hit the concessions. The planes flew closer and closer, as if they were going to fight right over the heads of all Shanghai. At this, there was not a single person in all Shanghai who was not shocked.
The third day after the "August 13th Incident," it rained in Shanghai, and a strong wind blew, so leaves covered the streets. The hospitals in the French Concession were all filled with wounded soldiers. These injured warriors were carried in large trucks, the trucks covered with branches-one look told they came from the battlefield. Female ambulance workers wore red crosses on their arms; the soldiers' bodies were stained with red blood. Why did the soldiers bleed? To resist the imperialist slaughter. When the trucks of wounded soldiers arrived, people near and far stood watching with solemn, respectful eyes.
He had friends in both Nanjing and Suzhou. Though long out of touch, if he fled there in wartime flight, they would likely not refuse to host him. Even if Nanjing and Suzhou were both impossible, Hankou should certainly be possible. His father had friends there; nothing could go wrong there. But Qingdao still hadn't come under fire-this was a big problem. Without Mrs. Ma coming, everything would be out of the question. "Poor at home, rich on the road"-this old Chinese saying was absolutely correct. "Coachmen, boatmen, innkeepers, porters, yamen runners-even if innocent, deserve death." These fellows were indeed very bad. But from now on, wouldn't every day be on the road?
He saw a crowd standing at an intersection ahead. The crowd surrounded a large truck, seeming to unload something from it. Ma Bole saw the red cross sign at the intersection and realized it was a hospital, temporarily taking in wounded soldiers.
After walking only a few steps, there was another truck of wounded soldiers. So very many wounded! He found it strange. He turned around to walk back, but it was too late, he couldn't avoid it in time. In the end, the wounded soldiers' truck overtook him, and passed right by his side, so that truckload of glorious Chinese soldiers, stained with blood, received an inadvertent, deep glare from Ma Bole.
He felt the street was terrifying, desolate, and with the overcast sky and drizzling rain, it truly had a sinister feel. The street sweepers seemed not to have swept the streets these past two days; leaves had accumulated on the sidewalks too. And there were refugees, in strings, holding children, carrying bits and pieces, walking in the rain, disheveled and barefoot. Even large gateways were crammed with refugees, rainwater flowing through them, people lying and sitting in the wet.
Upon entering, he kicked over several bottles and jars as usual. After picking them up, he lay down on the bed, weary, bored, everything meaningless. Have a cigarette. After finishing one, have another. When one is depressed, it is like being ill; especially for Ma Bole. When discouragement struck, he turned as soft as a puddle of mud, worse than being ill. When ill, a few more cigarettes would do; but when bored, cigarettes were useless. For he always believed illness was not such a serious matter; the most serious thing was when sorrow invaded the human body-then there was simply no way to resist, it was despair.
Ma Bole was from Qingdao and loved green onions, garlic, and the like. He always complained that Shanghai's scallions were too small. Since Shanghai had only small scallions, he would cut especially many when chopping them. This abundance of scallions in the oil released an incomparably fragrant aroma.
Egg fried rice was truly delicious. Not only was it wonderfully fragrant to eat, even the smell alone was worth it. So Ma Bole never tired of eating egg fried rice; he could eat it endlessly, and the more he ate, the more he could eat. Were it not wartime flight, he thought he should eat five servings of egg fried rice per meal. But now he could not do that. Now, saving money came first.
Whenever he ate with increasing relish and was most reluctant to put down his bowl, he remembered the sentence above. Thinking indeed that it was wartime flight, even if not quite full, he would let it be. Besides, when fleeing in the future, he might very well go hungry.
"Haven't you seen the refugees at the lane entrance? Do they eat egg fried rice? They have nothing to eat at all!"
He thought, could he be certain he would not go hungry in the future? So eating a little less was nothing. And he should also practice going hungry ahead of time. Otherwise, what then! With no experience of hunger then, how could he possibly endure it? He should try going hungry a bit in advance; then perhaps he wouldn't fear it when the time came.
Don't beggars often go unfed? Why can they endure while others cannot? Because they are accustomed to hunger. A child unfed will cry. An adult unfed will think of a way to supplement, to buy biscuits at Guanshengyuan, to have some snack or such. Only a beggar, unfed, neither cries nor tries to find more to eat. Has anyone ever seen a beggar go to Guanshengyuan to buy pastries? Evidently, trained hunger and untrained hunger are different.
Today's egg fried rice was also fried to be exceptionally fragrant. The whole room was filled with the smell of fried scallions. Lured by this aroma, Ma Bole felt as if the entire world was fragrant, as if everything was edible, everything delicious. The moment he lifted his bowl, he felt he was very fortunate.
Ma Bole felt rather startled. His habits differed from ordinary people. Normally, upon hearing someone knock, one would immediately go and open the door to see who it was. But he was different, because he was very clever, very alert. Generally, he could guess what was about to happen before it did. Even if he guessed wrong, he very much enjoyed guessing. For example, if someone bought something new, he liked to estimate a price, saying the thing was bought for three yuan, or for five yuan. If both were wrong, he would put on a very surprised expression and say, "How strange, inexplicable, this thing really... is truly very odd..."
He talked for a long time without knowing what he was saying. He continued guessing. Sometimes, seeing him struggle to guess, others intended to tell him, but he would wave his hand, not letting them speak. He wanted, after all, to test his own cleverness. He was very keen to hone that genius of his.
After thinking all this, Ma Bole then slowly walked over, hiding his body behind the door panel as if expecting a violent intruder, prepared for a blow to the head. He opened the door only a tiny crack.
After some time, Xiao Chen told him much about the war situation, but Ma Bole didn't hear any of it. He instead said to Xiao Chen, "Guess how I knew it must be you and not Zhang Big-Ears? That fellow Zhang Big-Ears is different from you; he's extremely impatient. If it were him, he'd kick the door open and come in. But you are different. You are like a young maiden, gently, slowly... Isn't that so? Think about it yourself, am I right?"
Saying this, Ma Bole, quite pleased with himself, picked up his egg fried rice and began to eat. It was almost gone before he remembered to ask his guest, "Xiao Chen, have you eaten?"
Without waiting for Xiao Chen's answer, he went on, "But I don't have anything good here, just eat egg fried rice every day... Since the war started, do you know how much eggs cost? Yesterday seven cents, today I heard it's eight. Truly too expensive to afford. What I'm eating now was bought the day before the war, ten cents for three. But they're almost gone now. Once they're finished, I don't plan to buy more. Our stomachs are not so terribly noble that we must eat eggs. I say, Xiao Chen, haven't you seen? The streets are full of refugees. What do they eat? They likely have nothing to eat at all... After I finish these eggs, I absolutely won't buy any more. But Xiao Chen, have you really eaten or not? If not, help yourself. Chop some scallions, beat two eggs, and fry it up yourself! Egg fried rice is very fragrant. Have you really eaten? Why aren't you saying anything?"
Xiao Chen said he had eaten, there was no need, and asked Ma Bole, "Did you see the great air battle over the Huangpu River?"
Xiao Chen was Ma Bole's classmate from his university auditing days. He got along well with Ma, so they spoke quite frankly. He was one of Ma Bole's poor friends and had also once been the accountant in Ma Bole's bookstore. The day Ma Bole was walking on the street and his hat was knocked off, it was by him. He had big eyes, a sallow face from chronic stomach trouble. That this man suffered from malnutrition was an undeniable fact. His face was so yellow it seemed transparent; his ears, facing the sun, would become translucent, like specimens of fetuses in glass jars soaked in alcohol in a medical laboratory. Ma Bole could not say they were particularly close, but Xiao Chen was the one who eagerly wanted to be Ma Bole's friend. Ma Bole did not refuse him. After all, poor friends were easy to deal with; a few more or less didn't matter much. Ma Bole couldn't talk about anything profound with him either. There was no shared ideology, no common cause linking the two of them. It was merely that both qualified as city dwellers, plus both effectively had no money. Xiao Chen had no money. Ma Bole, though he had money, it was all with his father, inaccessible to him, so it was the same as having none.
But Xiao Chen had come today intending to borrow a few yuan from Ma Bole. He had hemmed and hawed without bringing it up. Seeing Ma Bole's living conditions, he was afraid he too had no money. But then again, he knew Ma Bole's temperament. Whether he had money or not was impossible to tell from his appearance. Without money, he would be dejected; with money, he would still be dejected, because he would think, "Once you have money, you spend it, and then it's gone, isn't it?"
Xiao Chen, having known him a long time, had made a thorough study of his psychology, and so asked directly, "Old Ma, got any money? I need two yuan."
Outwardly, Ma Bole appeared to scorn copper coins, to look down on them. That was his way of showing his origins were quite noble. Though poor now, it was merely a temporary poverty, not that his origins were poor.
Friends almost never came to Ma Bole's place. Today there were two visitors; he found it a bit strange.
The landlady wore shiny black silk trousers and jacket, dragging the oil-stained yet embroidered slippers commonly worn by Shanghai landladies. She chattered away in a torrent of Shanghai dialect.
The rent was up, food was all terribly expensive. That wasn't all; most frightening was that no one knew how the war would develop.
Cannons roared in a continuous string, like great boulders rolling on the ground, booming. Though Ma Bole's room was utterly soundproof, this cannon sound came from underground, all the way to beneath Ma Bole's bed.