Explore Chapter 6 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.
Ma Bole had spotted this shortcoming the moment he came to see the place, and it was precisely because of this flaw that he had rented it. He knew that a lack of light would ruin one's eyes, and that sealing the door would cut off all air-how could a person endure that? But it was exactly this major defect that made the rent cheap.
The electric lamp had to be kept on day and night, rendering the room truly sunless. Day and night, it remained in utter darkness; one could not tell if it was windy or rainy outside. Even if thunder struck, Ma Bole, sitting inside his room, would feel no tremor. The noise of cars and all the clamor of the street were inaudible here, as if the world had fallen silent, as if the world had gone mute. Sometimes, mischievous children in the alley would throw a ball against the wall. At such times, Ma Bole heard the faint pattering from within his room, as if it came from hundreds of miles away, like the profound, distant echo heard in childhood after tossing a stone down a well and pressing an ear to its mouth. Sometimes, the children would drag a stick along Ma Bole's wall, and then he heard not a pattering but a swishing, a scratching... Where did this sound come from? What sound was it? Ma Bole strained to discern it, sensing only that it originated from an infinite distance. In short, Ma Bole's room was so quiet it seemed the whole world had gone mute, or as if he lived in an abyss-dark and silent, with the electric lamp burning all day. Even at night when he slept, Ma Bole kept the lamp on. First, since electricity cost nothing extra, he figured leaving it on was fine. Second, turning it off felt somewhat unsettling; the darkness was a little frightening.
One night, during a bout of insomnia, Ma Bole saw a tiny glowing speck on the wall. It not only glowed but drifted and floated, as if stirred by a breeze. He quickly turned on the lamp to look, but with the light on, there was nothing. He turned it off and tried to sleep again, and the glowing speck reappeared, drifting just as before. He turned the lamp on and searched the wall for a long time, finding nothing. Later, it occurred to him: it must have been a firefly, nothing to worry about. But from that moment on, he always slept with the lamp on. It wasn't that he couldn't sleep with it off, but he felt somewhat hollow, somewhat lost in a vast emptiness. Besides, the landlord didn't charge extra for keeping the lamp on at night, so he slept with it on.
He bought a charcoal stove, a small iron pot, a spatula, and the like, and set up his kitchen. At first he cooked in the shared kitchen, but after a few days he discovered that oil was being pilfered; soy sauce left half-full one day would be down to a quarter the next; the charcoal, too, seemed to disappear faster than it should. Since kitchens in Shanghai were communal, shared by many households, they were naturally unreliable. Once he actually caught the landlord's maid using his oil to fry eggs.
So he moved the stove into his own room, setting up his cooking station right by the head of his bed. Bottles and jars of oil, salt, vinegar, soy sauce... crammed the space under the table and under the bed. Some chili paste he had fried four or five days earlier had been forgotten in a teacup. Ma Bole picked it up and saw it had grown a green, furry mold. He sniffed it and detected a strange odor. What a waste, he thought-inedible yet thrown away. After staring at it regretfully for a while, he used chopsticks to scoop it out, scooping it onto a scrap of newspaper before discarding it. The cup from which the paste had been scooped went unwashed; he simply filled it with chili oil. Under the lamplight, the cup did not look particularly dirty, as it had been wiped with a cloth. Wiped, and that was that. When the time came to flee, things would be worse than this!
Thus, Ma Bole's little white cooking pot was never washed. After lunch, he would put the lid on. When it was time to cook in the evening, he would take the pot, scrape it fiercely with the spatula-clatter, clatter-then pour in new rice and start cooking again. At noon the next day, he would scrape it the same way. As for the outside of the pot, he spared himself the trouble, never scraping it at all, leaving it to its own devices. So the white froth from each cooking accumulated, layer upon layer, gradually causing the pot to grow larger.
Ma Bole's chopsticks grew thinner with use. The cutting board he used for vegetables grew thinner too, for he never washed them, only scraped them clean. The little iron pot also grew thinner from scraping, though it was thinner inside and thicker outside, so it wasn't noticeable. The only thing that truly neither gained nor lost was his rice bowl. Though scraped daily as well, it showed no sign of becoming larger or smaller, remaining exactly as it was when bought, preserving its original form.
As for everything else-not just eating utensils, but also pillows, quilts, shoes, and socks-they all changed appearance. For he washed nothing, employing the scraping method for all. In time, everything grew dirty, and when dirty, he would scrape it. Pots, bowls, and chopsticks were scraped with a knife. Clothes and hats were scraped with his fingernails. Socks too were scraped with his nails. Shoes were scraped with a wooden chip. When it rained, upon entering, he would take a small wooden chip and scrape the mud from the edges of his shoes. When the sky cleared and his shoes did not look perfectly clean, he would scrape them again with the chip. Naturally, never polished, only scraped, the black leather shoes developed a frost-like, patchy cloudiness. Ma Bole paid this no mind, thought nothing of it. He walked the streets with head held high, perfectly at ease, feeling not the slightest shame. Instead, he often looked at those with gleaming shoes and oil-glossed hair with a spontaneous sense of contempt. Often he thought to himself:
"Where are you living now? I haven't had the chance to visit you. What have you been doing this past year? Your stomach trouble still hasn't improved?"
All the way home, he pondered how the hole had appeared in his hat, to no avail. It was only upon returning home that he understood. When he lit the stove to cook, fanning the flames, sparks flew in all directions. One landed on his hand, burning a small black spot. Since his hand was alive, it stung sharply. He immediately brushed the spark off, so it did not burn a large area, only a grain-sized spot. Ma Bole understood at once: the hole in the hat was caused by fire. He hurried to check if the pillow or quilt had been burned. Under the electric light, though bright enough, he could not see perfectly clearly. It seemed nothing had caught fire, but he remained suspicious. He thought it might have happened, so he turned the stove opening in another direction. Still fanning, he made the sparks strike the wall and bounce back to land elsewhere. This way, Ma Bole could not see them, and he fanned vigorously with relief. Sparks bouncing off the wall might even land on his hair or face, but that did not matter-they were indirect, not direct hits.
Ma Bole was idle all day long, except during meals, when he was busiest. He would almost strip naked, working strenuously, sweating from head to toe. He wore only shorts and a vest, with wooden clogs on his feet.
In his leisure, he would repair his socks, shoes, or suit. When sock soles hardened, he would scrape them with his fingernails, kneading them with his hands until they softened. If rice grains stuck to his suit trousers, he would scrape them off with his fingernails too. Only shoes escaped his nails; they were scraped with a wooden chip. For most other things, he used his nails. When eating, if something lodged between his teeth, he had to scrape it out with a fingernail. If an eyelash got in his eye, he had to scrape it out with a fingernail. If his nose was stuffy, a good scraping inside with a nail cleared it. When his scalp itched, Ma Bole would dig all ten fingernails into his roots and scratch and scrape wildly. If his ears itched, there was probably no solution-nails could not reach inside, and scraping outside was useless. In his frustration, he would still scrape the outside of his ears for a while.
Ma Bole had not bathed in a long time. Going to a public bathhouse was not very hygienic. Bathing at home was impossible, as the room lacked the facilities. Anyway, thrift came first. Wiping himself down with a towel would suffice. Besides, Ma Bole sweated easily. Cooking twice a day meant breaking into a heavy sweat twice. Wasn't sweat just water? Wiping off sweat with a towel was equivalent to bathing.
Even when lying idle in bed, he did not tidy the room. Garlic skins littered the floor. Upon opening the door, the smell of garlic rushed at him. He loved eating scallions or garlic raw, and after eating, he did not air out the room. He would close the door and go out. The stagnant, murky odor, locked in the room, accompanied him day and night.
Every time he returned from the street, his first step into the room would inevitably kick over an oil bottle or a salt jar. Because his bottles, jars, pots, and bowls were scattered all over the floor, and upon entering the murky room from outside, his eyes could see nothing clearly. But Ma Bole was not annoyed by kicking over bottles. It happened not just once but almost regularly. When he knocked one over, he would bend down and pick it up. After picking it up, he did not put it in order but left it scattered. The next day, he would kick it over again and pick it up again.
Every morning, he carried a basket like a woman to the small vegetable market to buy groceries, haggling over prices. After buying three coppers' worth of bean sprouts, he would grab an extra handful from the seller's basket. This grab did not yield much, just a dozen or so sprouts. He thought one more was better than one less.
When buying fish, after weighing and agreeing on a price, he insisted on exchanging it for a larger one. Actually, it was not much bigger. For this nearly identical fish, he argued officiously for a long time. Buying spinach or scallions, he would reach out and grab a few extra stalks. Only when buying tofu could he neither grab more nor ask for a larger piece, for tofu pieces were uniformly sized, almost like stamps, rows upon rows all the same. Ma Bole stood there calmly, accepting whichever piece the tofu seller gave him.
Ma Bole's eyes were sharp. He saw that demanding more oil was impossible, so he carried the bottle back. Furious, his eyes turned dark, his shoulders hunched forward, his back bent. Unlocking the door, he stumbled in and knocked over several bottles.
When angry, his temper was fierce. In certain situations, he would even sacrifice his life. As a child, when fighting, because he wore a watch on his left hand and feared breaking it, he fought only with his right hand, holding his left hand high. As a result, his nose bled from being hit. Even if struck in a more vital spot, he would not have cared.
"What time is this? It's wartime flight! During wartime flight, if you don't economize, what then? If you don't save, what will you do when the time comes!"
Ma Bole was always prepared to flee again, prepared in every way for another escape. For every thing and matter, he planned with "flight" in mind. Saving money came first, swift flight second. His mind was on constant alert, like firefighters who slept in their clothes, ready to jump on the fire engine and run at the sound of the alarm. Ma Bole could not achieve that level, but if an incident occurred, he could probably flee ahead of tens of thousands. Or perhaps he would flee before any incident happened. His move from Qingdao to Shanghai was just that-fleeing before anything happened.
Everywhere, Ma Bole encountered such responses. If he did not mention wartime flight, all was well. Once he brought it up, he faced opposition or, if not opposition, cold neglect. His statement that "wartime flight is imminent" was met with utter indifference, as if unheard. Even if heard, it was like any ordinary remark, like wind passing the ear, casually acknowledged and dismissed. Absolutely no one inquired where to flee or when the Japanese would attack. No one ever seriously asked Ma Bole how he knew the Japanese would surely attack Shanghai.
Ma Bole talked about fleeing daily, but he did not know where he would flee to. Where the Japanese would attack from or when, he was not entirely sure. But he felt it was imminent.
His home was in Qingdao. One summer, over eighty Japanese warships appeared off the coast of Qingdao. Ma Bole saw them and was terrified at the time. They lined up along the foreshore, over eighty warships in several rows. The whole of Qingdao buzzed with talk of this event. People knew those warships had not come to attack China, but for the Japanese navy to have fun or conduct exercises. Yet it startled all the Chinese, especially the uneducated who could not read or follow newspapers. Hearing rumors, they misread "exercises" as "practice."
Moreover, all of Qingdao changed with the arrival of many naval personnel. Prostitutes joyfully greeted the rather short sailors, beckoning them. Vietnamese prostitutes, French prostitutes, Korean... speaking various languages, wearing attire from different nations, they lingered by the seaside, their laughter making the sea foam. When the tide rose, the two-mile-long pier extending into the sea was washed by crashing waves, and the prostitutes laughed loudly. They found it all great fun. If the short sailors glanced at them or bumped into them, they laughed even more, strangely, as if the loudest laugh signified the greatest happiness. Only when some were taken away by sailors did they quiet down. But those led ashore by sailors continued laughing, filling the streets with their mirth.
Meanwhile, on the walls of some residences, signs or posters appeared, welcoming their imperial soldiers to visit their homes. Every Japanese household in Qingdao posted such notices, as if auctioning something off. This was truly the world's most grand, peculiar, and novel event.
Within days, every Japanese household hosted naval heroes with two black ribbons floating behind their caps. They came in threes and pairs, or four or five sailors together to one home. Strangely, though guests and hosts had never met before, they interacted harmoniously, like old friends reuniting. The hostess joined them in drinking. No matter how young, the hostess sat drinking with them. Actually, the younger the better, for sailors liked young women, much like those multilingual women by the sea. The younger, the livelier the banter. Sailors sat cross-legged at low Japanese-style tables, with the hostess kneeling beside them, reverently, as if attending elder relatives. The sailors, like guests, ate dishes, drank wine, perhaps exchanged small talk or inquired about each other's well-being.
"Damn these Chinese!" he had just cursed, then realized it was not the Chinese he was cursing. So he changed it to:
He ran to call Mrs. Ma, asking her to look. Indeed, Mrs. Ma was angry upon seeing it and immediately drew the curtains.
Ma Bole had read in the newspaper that Japan's hospitality toward their imperial soldiers was ordered by the state, not chosen by individual sailors. They were assigned from above. Hosts similarly had no freedom; until a minute before guests arrived, they did not know their names or appearances. Both guests and hosts were dispatched by the emperor.
The next day, Ma Bole watched from his window the Japanese household about five or six *zhang* away. Sure enough, sailors soon arrived. The Japanese Mrs. Ma wore clothes of a different color than the day before. Ordinarily, Ma Bole often glanced into that Japanese home. The male host, perhaps newly married, frolicked boisterously with Mrs. Ma. Ma Bole had often seen such scenes, and from a distance, they appeared blurry and朦胧, like watching a play from the back rows, where actors look small. Though Ma Bole liked watching, he did not want to see too clearly. Seeing too clearly often felt embarrassing, so five or six *zhang* was just right; farther, he could not see.
He meant when the sailor frolicked with the woman. After saying this, he stood there as if waiting for a play. He watched for a long time without seeing much-just serving dishes and wine, ordinary gestures. Finally, when things got interesting, Ma Bole saw the Mrs. Ma being pulled over by the sailor. He thought there was hope now, but the sailor stood up and drew the curtains.
But where and when they would attack, he did not know. In short, he was convinced the Japanese would attack China, because he had not only seen Japanese warships but also witnessed Japanese military-civilian cooperation. Japanese households hosting naval personnel-he called it military-civilian cooperation.
"Old Ma, you're too neurotic. Hurry and pack your bags to return to Qingdao. Look at you living in such a dark room-aren't you suffering needlessly? You say Qingdao is dangerous, but are the lives of all Qingdao residents worthless? Are you the only one afraid? Aren't others afraid? Just buy a boat ticket and go back!"
Ma Bole did not often visit friends. When he did, it angered him. Once, he encountered a friend's Mrs. Ma who had bought a furry monkey toy for her child from the street. He took it in hand and said:
Ma Bole felt lonely and monotonous. His room was dark, hot, and he could see and hear nothing. Walking on the street, the bustling, peaceful scene, with no preparation for the Japanese arrival, was intolerable. On the street, everything was prosperous and tranquil, as if nothing would ever happen. This infuriated Ma Bole.
"The Great World, Wing On Company, Sincere Company, Da Sun Company... at night, rainbow-colored lights reached halfway to the sky, brilliantly illuminating it. Nanjing Road, Edward VII Avenue, Fourth Road, Avenue Joffre... all lit up like daylight. Crowds jostled at cinema entrances. Cars, buses, trams, rickshaws, bicycles... sped along the street, horns and bells blaring, dizzying pedestrians. To cross the road, one had to dash like an arrow. Slowing even a bit risked being run over. Especially on Nanjing Road, people weaved through gaps between trams and cars, as if all Shanghai residents had trained in a circus, agile and frightening to watch. The traffic policeman at the intersection near Sincere Company had even built a platform in the middle of the road. The Indian policeman, dark and large, with a full beard, stood atop the platform directing traffic from on high. Countless vehicles and people obeyed his commands. The Indian policeman blew his whistle, switched red and green lights, waved his hands. When he allowed traffic from one direction, the green light came on. When he stopped others, the red light came on, and they had to stop. Thousands passed beneath his feet; the Indian stood as majestic as a general.
Now, what pained Ma Bole was that his ideas could not spread, that no one believed his doctrine. This was the greatest pain. When would human folly cease? Often, when Ma Bole propagandized about the Japanese's imminent attack and no one accepted it, he felt like a savior, spontaneously stirred by a compassionate, sorrowful sentiment. His compassion carried a furious rebuke:
"Damn these Chinese! You all live in peaceful comfort! When the Japanese attack, what will you do then? You'll be utterly helpless, you'll flee in chaotic panic like startled horses, you fools..."
Golden specks danced before Ma Bole's eyes, half from anger, half from the glare of electric lights. Just then, a water chestnut seller approached nearby, peeling them white and stringing them on bamboo sticks. Ma Bole felt his throat dry. Three coppers a string-he thought of buying one to eat as he walked. But he remembered he was in wartime flight. During wartime flight, thrift came first. So he did not buy. The water chestnut child lingered beside him. Ma Bole glared fiercely at him and said:
But turning, he saw it was a foreigner. Though his own shoe had been stepped on, not the other way around, because it was a foreigner, he quickly said:
The shop was brilliantly red, as if celebrating New Year. Red paper signs and red paper streamers hung everywhere. Ah, how lively!
"With no nation or ethnicity left, see how you'll get rich!" Ma Bole said nothing more and returned from Nanjing Road.
"If the Japanese... if they... just another twenty days without attacking Qingdao, it's over. Now I have ten dollars; by then, it'll be gone."
Originally, he had planned that within a week after the Lugou Bridge incident, the Japanese would attack Qingdao, and within three or four weeks, attack Shanghai. As mentioned earlier, Ma Bole could not know when or where the Japanese would attack China. Only after the Lugou Bridge incident did he gain a slight confidence, though not truly confident-he merely guessed secretly.