第二章 (Chapter 2)

Ma Bole's entire being was alert and nimble, and he seemed cheerful. Yet, his eyes often flickered with sorrow.

His eyes were dark and often shone with a distrustful light. When speaking face-to-face with others, his eyes would invariably fix on them, scrutinizing from head to toe and back again. Then they would settle steadily on their faces, gazing for a minute or two.

This way of looking seemed to carry a deep sorrow, radiating much pity from his eyes.

It was as if he and the person he spoke with were conspirators or comrades, linked by shared fortune and misfortune. There was an intimacy, yet it remained unexpressed.

Ma Bole was sorrowful. He dabbled in literature, often reading novels and sighing as he read.

"How well written! Damn these China people!"

He mostly read translated novels. He also read China novels, but he often felt they lacked vigor.

For instance, when reading prison memoirs, he found them too loose and not tense at all. They were hesitant and vague. If he were to write such a story, he would expose the darkness of prison life without reserve, leaving nothing unsaid or uncondemned. Only then could one be called a true writer.

Especially in China, writers at this stage should actively promote anti-Japanese resistance. Thus, he often sighed:

"If I were a writer, I would surely lead the anti-Japanese movement. China will never rise again unless it resists Japan."

Later, he began buying reams of manuscript paper from the street. He resolved to start writing.

While reading Gorky's "My Childhood," many parts resonated with him. He had similar life experiences, some even richer than Gorky's. Did Gorky ever enter a coal pit? Ma Bole had. his father ran a small coal mine, and he often went in with the workers for fun.

He was determined to write. For five or six days, he sat quietly at his desk, adopting a pensive pose.

By the seventh day, he had not written a single word. In anger, he tore up many sheets of manuscript paper.

But he still intended to write, and he kept buying manuscript paper for home. At first, he bought gold-edged paper, then ordinary paper, and finally, he brought back some newsprint. He said:

"If you want to be a writer, you use manuscript paper every day. How can you always use the good kind? That's too wasteful." When talking with friends, the conversation turned to the anti-Japanese issue, making him even more eager to write.

"If I write about anti-Japanese resistance, isn't this the perfect time? Isn't this taking up a leadership role? What a grand endeavor! This is truly pushing the wheel of history forward."

The more he thought about it, the grander it seemed, as if he had already become a general.

So he applied himself with great solemnity.

He bought many new books, filling not only the study but also Mrs. Ma's bedroom with bookshelves. While Mrs. Ma was frying fish in the kitchen, the child opened the glass bookcase and scattered his books all over the floor. Some pages were torn and trampled underfoot.

"These books are borrowed! You've torn them up. What will we do then?"

Ma Bole was truly furious that day. He never hit the child, nor dared to. If he did, Mrs. Ma would hit him from behind. But this day, his eyes red with rage, he pinned the child to the bed and beat him until he wailed.

At first, the child thought it was just play, as usual. So, when pinned down, he giggled and kicked his little legs. Ma Bole said:

"You little rascal, just you wait!"

After beating the child, he locked the glass bookcase. Day after day, he continued bringing books home from the public library. He knew the librarian, so he could freely take any book without registration or formalities.

Ma Bole knew that the books from the public library were not worth reading. But since he had prepared bookshelves at home, more books always looked impressive.

From then on, he even started wearing glasses, almost like a real scholar.

He scarcely ever entered Mrs. Ma's room. Mrs. Ma said he had grown much thinner and wanted to buy him a bottle of cod liver oil from the street.

Soon, Ma Bole fell slightly ill. As everyone knew, when he was sick, he ate little. A few extra cigarettes usually sufficed for recovery.

But during his illness, to his own surprise, he managed to write some articles.

He bought several world literary classics. Some he had read, others he hadn't had time for. But he chose one book that he clung to day and night, especially when writing. He would write a bit, then glance at the book.

The book was a foreign novel with no mention of China. But he thought it didn't matter much. Foreign names like Petrov he changed to Li or Wang in his story. In short, after turning all foreigners into China people, he added his central theme: "Fight Japan." In these times, if you didn't write about "fighting Japan," would it sell? Moreover, if you wanted to be a writer, wouldn't you need to lead from the front to gain recognition?

Ma Bole had no profession and was idle all year round, ever since graduating from high school. That year, he went to Shanghai hoping to study at a university, but he failed the entrance exam and only audited classes. his father thus stopped funding him. Although he forged some documents and used university envelopes for letters, asking his father to reply to the university, it was all in vain.

So he returned home to live as a young master. Most young masters spent money freely and happily. But not him. his father had said:

"Until I breathe my last, don't even think about it. Every penny must remain in my hands."

He also often said:

"If any of you despise your old, decrepit father, just take your wife and children and set up your own household."

Living at home, Ma Bole often heard these unpleasant, meaningless words. Although the beds were soft and the meals timely, he felt daily mistreated, like one of the household servants. He would slink away as soon as his father's expression turned sour.

Asking his father for pocket money was harder than digging for gold. Once he got the money, he had to say:

"Thank the Lord, thank the Father in heaven."

Every time he asked his father for money, he returned flushed and heated. He would throw the money on his desk and exclaim:

"Damn these China people!"

Then he would curse his father as a miser, a money-hoarding beast, a safe, a stone cabinet, and so on.

But within days, the money was gone, even though he spent frugally. He needed a new set of pajamas, as the old ones were worn out, having been mended by Mrs. Ma many times.

They cost eight dollars. Eight dollars wasn't expensive, but he only had ten. After spending eight, he'd have nothing left for other expenses.

Sometimes he went to the movies with friends. If they treated him, he had to treat them back!

When he was completely broke, he would borrow from Mrs. Ma. Mrs. Ma would throw her own savings at him, wearing an unpleasant expression:

"A real man! Can't earn money outside, so he takes from a woman."

Once, when Ma Bole asked his father for money and was refused, he ran to Mrs. Ma and said:

"That old man, the older he gets, the more muddled he becomes. Damn these China people!"

Mrs. Ma said:

"Can't blame his father. What kind of son are you, already in your twenties or thirties? All you do is ask his father for money. If his father weren't tight-fisted, someone like you would end up selling your wife and children. Every day, your hands are only for taking money or eating. Do you have any other skills? I think his father is still kind. If you had a poor father, you'd be begging on the streets!"

Ma Bole's face turned deathly pale:

"If I beg, so be it. You can just find some rich, powerful man and go with him..."

Ma Bole wanted to say more.

But Mrs. Ma threw herself on the bed and wailed:

"You heartless man! Isn't this all because of you? My gold rings are gone, one by one. That year, what madness possessed you to go to Shanghai? Where are my gold bracelets? Give them back! In Shanghai, who were those girlfriends you had? Whose money did you squander? I haven't even asked you for it yet, and you dare curse me. Other families, sisters, they all go out adorned with gold. We may not have as much, but we should have something. I married you, Ma Bole, and never tasted the sweet or spicy life. At the slightest provocation, you run off-to Beijing, to Shanghai... Wherever you go, all you do is ask for money. When you need money, ordinary mail isn't fast enough, so you send telegrams. When you don't need me, you give me grief. You're not even successful yet, and you already scorn me. If you ever make it, you'd abandon me miles away..."

Ma Bole had already fled, knowing things were bad. If his father heard Mrs. Ma's ranting, "what would we do then?"

He went downstairs and stood by the screen wall at the second gate.

Behind the screen wall stood two large round glass fish tanks. When he tapped the rim, the fish inside darted about faster.

He watched, finding it quite amusing.

"How nice it would be to turn into a goldfish! Goldfish only drink water, don't eat, and don't spend money!"

As he pondered, the faint sounds of crying and arguing from upstairs still reached him. He wanted to plug his ears. It was terrifying. If his father heard, "what would we do then?"

He thought of escaping to the street, where such cries would be inaudible.

Just as he turned, he heard shouting from upstairs:

"Give me back my gold bracelets! Give me back my gold bracelets!"

The voice was particularly loud, as if Mrs. Ma had come out into the corridor. It was very clear.

But he didn't dare look toward the corridor. He ran out into the street.

Upstairs, Mrs. Ma continued crying. She soaked a small blue-and-white handkerchief she had made herself. Her hair was tousled, covering her face. The bed sheet was damp with tears.

Her boundless sorrow was like water poured from a cup, impossible to contain.

"You, Ma Bole, are so heartless. Look, do I have a single gold star left on my hands? Look, come and see..."

Mrs. Ma stood up and saw that Ma Bole was long gone from the room.

She threw herself on the bed and cried even more sorrowfully, but after a few sobs, she rose again.

With firm resolve, she stopped her tears. She soaked a towel in the basin and wiped her face. Her face was burning hot, and the cold water felt refreshing. Only her head was dizzy, and her eyes were red. She couldn't go out; people would see her embarrassment.

She had to sit on the sofa and picked up the day's newspaper, finding it utterly boring.

When she saw an advertisement from a store about new fashions just arrived from Shanghai, urging ladies to visit early, and a photo of a small knitted shirt in the paper. The shirt was sheer and pretty, a new style she had never seen. She thought it would be lovely to buy one for seaside strolls. Under lamplight, the sheer fabric would look even better.

She looked up and saw in the dressing mirror the woman with red eyes was herself. She remembered:

"Buy this, buy that-as if having money isn't enough for him to dig and swindle... Ah..."

She sighed and forced herself to read the newspaper. She was very impatient.

"Such a worthless man. Toiling for him all my life is in vain."

Mrs. Ma was a woman of strong will.

"What's the use of being strong-willed alone? I am, but he isn't..."

She thought and thought, feeling that life held little meaning. Looking in the mirror, she saw she had aged much, her complexion paler.