Explore Chapter 8 of 'Camel Xiangzi' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
He was not clever enough to devise a piecemeal solution, nor had he the courage for a complete and radical settlement. So he remained trapped, nursing his grievances day in and day out. Like any living creature that has suffered injury, his only recourse was a helpless, solitary effort to salvage the wreckage. A cricket that has lost a leg will still try to crawl with those that remain. Xiangzi had no definite plan. His only thought was to drift slowly onward, day by day, dealing with each trouble as it arose, crawling wherever fate might take him, with no thought of ever leaping free again.
There were still more than ten days until the twenty-seventh, but his mind was fixed entirely upon that date. What he thought, what he muttered, what he dreamed of, was all the twenty-seventh. It was as if, once past that day, he would have a solution for everything, though he knew in his heart this was self-deception. Sometimes his thoughts ranged farther afield. He could take the few dozen dollars he had and go to Tianjin. Once there, he might even change trades and stop pulling a rickshaw altogether. Could Tigress pursue him all the way to Tianjin? In his mind, any place reached by train was impossibly far; she could never follow him there. It was a fine idea, but his conscience told him it was a last resort. If there was any way to stay in Beiping, he would stay in Beiping! So his thoughts circled back to the twenty-seventh. That seemed the simpler, easier path. If he could just muddle past this one hurdle, perhaps the whole affair would blow over without further upheaval. Even if he couldn’t shake it off entirely, at least he would have cleared one barrier.
But how to muddle past it? He had two ideas. One was to ignore the whole business and simply not go to offer birthday felicitations. The other was to do exactly as she had instructed. These two courses, though different, would lead to the same result. If he didn’t go, she would certainly not let the matter rest. If he did go, she would show him no mercy either. He remembered when he had first started pulling a rickshaw, how he would imitate the others and duck into any small alley to take a shortcut, only to find himself in a blind lane that circled right back to the street he had left. Now he felt he had entered just such an alley. Whichever way he turned, the outcome was the same.
In his desperation, he tried to look on the bright side. Why not just marry her? What was so wrong with that? Yet from every angle, the thought choked him. He could only shake his head at the thought of her face. Forget her face-consider her behavior! Hah! For a man as proud and upright as himself to marry such a tainted woman-he would never be able to face anyone again, not even his own parents after death! And who could say the child in her belly was really his? True, she might bring a few rickshaws with her. But could he be sure? Fourth Master Liu was no pushover! Even if everything went smoothly, he couldn’t endure it. Could he ever get the better of Tigress? She had only to lift her little finger to make him dizzy, to turn him around till he lost all sense of direction. He knew her ruthlessness! If he wanted to start a proper family, he simply could not take her. There was nothing more to be said! To take her would be to lose himself utterly, and he was not a man who held himself in low esteem. It was hopeless!
Unable to resolve matters with her, he turned his hatred inward, feeling a fierce urge to slap his own face hard. But in truth, he had done nothing wrong. Everything had been arranged by her, the trap laid waiting for him to step in. The fault seemed to lie in his own honesty. Honesty was a sure path to suffering, a realm where reason didn’t apply!
What made it even harder was having no one to confide in. He had no parents, no brothers, no friends. Ordinarily, he had felt himself a true man of mettle, standing firm between heaven and earth, unfettered and free. Only now did he realize, with bitter regret, that a man cannot live alone. His fellow pullers, especially, now seemed almost endearing. If only he had made a few friends in the past-he thought-big, solid fellows like himself, then even with another Tigress to contend with, he wouldn’t be afraid. They would advise him, they would stand up and fight for him. But he had always been alone. It was not easy to find friends in a moment of crisis! He felt a kind of fear he had never known before. If things went on like this, anyone could bully him. A man alone cannot hold up the sky!
This fear began to make him doubt himself. In winter, whenever his employer had a dinner engagement or went to the theater, he would routinely tuck the water tube of the calcium carbide lamp inside his jacket, for left on the rickshaw it would freeze. Just after working up a sweat, pressing that little cylinder of ice against his chest would make him shiver violently. It took an indeterminable amount of time for the tube to get even slightly warm. Yet ordinarily, he had never seen anything unreasonable in this. Sometimes, tucking it away, he had even felt a sense of superiority-those who pulled broken-down rickshaws couldn’t afford a calcium carbide lamp at all. Now he seemed to see the truth: for the pittance he earned each month, he had to endure every hardship, forbidden even to let a little water tube freeze, compelled to cradle it against his breast. His own chest, for all its breadth, seemed of less account than that little tube. Once, he had believed pulling a rickshaw was the most ideal occupation, the means by which he could build a family and a future. Now he shook his head in secret. No wonder Tigress bullied him. He was of less account than that little water tube!
On the third day after Tigress had sought him out, Mr. Cao went with some friends to see the evening movie. Xiangzi waited in a small teahouse, the little tube like a block of ice against his chest. The cold was extreme. The doors and windows of the teahouse were shut tight, and the air was thick with coal gas, the smell of sweat, and the acrid smoke of cheap cigarettes. Despite this, a layer of frost crystals coated the windows. Nearly all the men drinking tea were monthly-hire rickshaw pullers. Some leaned their heads against the wall, stealing a nap in the warmth, eyes closed. Some held bowls of plain liquor, offering it round before taking slow sips, smacking their lips after each mouthful and emitting loud, cold belches. Some clutched rolled-up pancakes, biting off half in one go, their necks bulging and flushing red. Some sat with grim faces, complaining to all and sundry about how they hadn’t stopped since daybreak, their bodies soaked with sweat then dried, dried then soaked, who knew how many times over! The rest were mostly chatting idly among themselves, but at these words they all fell silent for a moment. Then, like a flock of startled birds, each remembered the grievances of his day and longed to share them. Even the man eating the pancake cleared enough space in his mouth to work his tongue, speaking between swallows, the veins on his forehead standing out. "You think us monthly-hire pullers have it easy?! I’ve been at it since damn-hic!-two o’clock without a bite or a drop! Just from Qianmen to Pingzemen-hic!-I’ve made three round trips for him! In this damn cold, a man's arse freezes and cracks, does nothing but fart!" He looked around at the others, nodded, and took another bite of his pancake.
This turned the talk back to the weather, and from that center, each man poured out his hardships. Xiangzi did not utter a word the whole time, but he listened intently to what they said. Their words differed in tone, in inflection, in the particulars, but all were curses and expressions of discontent. These words, meeting the grievances in his own heart, were like raindrops falling on parched earth-they were all absorbed. He could not, nor did he know how, to tell his own story coherently to the others. He could only absorb some of life’s bitterness from their talk. Everyone was suffering; he was no exception. Knowing himself, he also wanted to sympathize with them all. When they spoke of sorrow, he frowned. When they spoke of something laughable, he curled his lip. In this way, he felt he was one with them, all comrades in misery. Though he remained silent, it hardly mattered. Before, he had thought they were just loudmouths, and that their constant complaining was why they’d never get rich. Today, for the first time, it seemed he realized they weren’t just complaining, but speaking for him, voicing the hardships he and every rickshaw man endured.
Just as the conversation was at its liveliest, the door suddenly opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Almost everyone glared angrily toward the entrance, to see who could be so inconsiderate as to let the heat out. The more anxious they were, the slower the person outside seemed, as if to aggravate them on purpose. The teahouse attendant called out, half-impatient, half-joking, "Hurry up, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let all the warm air escape!"
Before he had finished speaking, the man outside entered. He too was a rickshaw puller. He looked to be over fifty, wearing a padded jacket that was neither short enough nor long enough, bulging like a beggar’s sack, with wisps of cotton showing at the lapel and elbows. His face looked as if it hadn’t been washed for days, the color of his skin obscured, only his two ears frozen a brilliant red, like ripe fruit about to drop. Pallid hair stuck out in disarray from under a tattered cap; on his eyebrows and short beard hung beads of ice. He felt his way to a bench, sat down, and with an effort managed to say, "A pot of tea."
This teahouse had always been a haunt for monthly-hire pullers. An old puller like him would never have come here ordinarily.
The tea had not yet arrived. The old puller’s head began to sink slowly, lower and lower, until his whole body slid to the floor.
"Don’t move!" The teahouse proprietor, a man of experience, stopped them. He went over alone, loosened the old man’s collar, helped him up where he lay, propped a chair behind his back, and held him by the shoulders. "Sugar water, quick!" Having said this, he listened near the old man’s neck and muttered to himself, "It’s not phlegm."
No one moved, yet no one sat down again either. They all stood there in the smoke-filled room, blinking, gazing toward the door. It was as if they all thought, with one unspoken accord, "There lies our example! When our hair turns ashen, any one of us may take such a fall and die!"
Having slowly finished the drink, he looked at them all again. "Ah, I’ve put you all to trouble!" he said, his tone gentle and kind, utterly unlike words from that bristly mouth. Having spoken, he tried once more to stand. Three or four men hurried forward to help him up. A hint of a smile appeared on his face, and he said mildly, "It’s all right, it’s all right, no harm done! I was just cold and hungry, had a dizzy spell! It’s nothing!" Though his face was caked with grime, that faint smile gave everyone a glimpse of a kindly, clean-shaven face.
Everyone seemed genuinely moved. The middle-aged man who had been holding the bowl of liquor had finished it off; his eyes were bloodshot and now held a trace of tears. "Here, two ounces more!" By the time the liquor arrived, the old puller was sitting in a chair against the wall. The middle-aged man was slightly tipsy, but he placed the drink properly before the old man. "My treat, please drink! I’m past forty myself, to tell the truth. Pulling a monthly hire is just making do, a year-to-year affair, as your legs know! In another two or three years, I’ll be just like you! You must be pushing sixty?"
"Still young, fifty-five!" The old puller took a sip of liquor. "The weather’s cold, can’t get a fare. As for me, ah, my stomach’s empty. What few coppers I get, I spend on drink, just to warm up a bit! Coming here, I really couldn’t hold on any longer, wanted to get a bit of warmth. The room’s too hot, and I’ve had nothing to eat. Must have fainted. It’s nothing, nothing! Thank you all, brothers, for your trouble!"
At that moment, the old man’s hair, grey as dry grass, the mud on his face, his hands black as charcoal, that tattered cap and worn-out padded jacket-all seemed to emit a kind of pure light, like the idols in a dilapidated temple, broken yet still possessing dignity. Everyone looked at him, as if afraid he might leave. Xiangzi had not spoken a word; he stood transfixed. Hearing the old puller say his stomach was empty, he suddenly dashed out, then flew back in, holding ten mutton-stuffed buns on a cabbage leaf. He went straight up and presented them to the old man, saying simply, "Eat!" Then he returned to his seat, lowered his head, and sat as if utterly exhausted.
"I’ll go, you sit!" said the middle-aged puller. "The rickshaw won’t get lost here. Don’t worry, there’s a police box right across the way." He opened the door a crack. "Little Horse! Little Horse! Your grandpa’s calling you! Bring the rickshaw over here!"
The old man passed his hand over the buns several times but did not pick one up. As soon as Little Horse came in, he took one and said, "Little Horse, my good boy, here you are!"
Little Horse was about twelve or thirteen, his face quite thin though his body was bundled up thickly. His nose was frozen red, two lines of mucus hanging from it, and he wore a pair of tattered ear-muffs. Standing beside the old man, he took a bun with his right hand and automatically picked up another with his left, taking a bite from each.
"Ah, slowly now!" The old man placed one hand on his grandson’s head, picked up a bun with the other, and slowly brought it to his mouth. "Grandpa will have two, that’s enough. The rest are for you! After we finish, we’ll put the rickshaw away and go home, no more pulling today. If it’s not so cold tomorrow, we’ll start out early. Isn’t that right, Little Horse?"
Little Horse nodded at the buns and sniffled. "Grandpa, have three. The rest will be mine. Later I’ll pull you home!"
"No need!" The old man smiled at the others, a touch of pride in his expression. "We’ll walk back later. It’s cold sitting on the rickshaw."
After finishing his share, the old man drained his cup and waited for Little Horse to finish the last bun. He pulled out a ragged piece of cloth, wiped his mouth, and nodded to them all again. "My son went off to be a soldier, never looked back. My daughter-in-law-"
"Don’t say that!" Little Horse’s cheeks were puffed out like two little peaches as he tried to stop his grandfather between mouthfuls.
"It’s all right to say it! We’re all friends here!" Then, lowering his voice to the others, he said, "The boy takes things hard, so terribly proud! My daughter-in-law left too. We grandfather and grandson live off this rickshaw. It’s old, but it’s our own. At least we don’t have to worry about the daily rental fee. However much we earn, we struggle along together. No way out! No way out!"
"Grandpa," said Little Horse, having nearly finished the buns, and tugging at the old man’s sleeve, "we still need to pull one more trip. Tomorrow morning we won’t have any money for coal! It’s all your fault. Just now, that fare to the back gate for twenty coppers-I said we should take it, but you wouldn’t go! See what we’ll do tomorrow with no coal!"
"That’s right! Good boy, eat up. After you’re done, we’d best be on our way!" With that, the old man stood up and, turning in a circle, said to them all, "Thank you, brothers, for your trouble!" He reached out to take Little Horse’s hand. Little Horse stuffed the last whole bun into his mouth.
Some of the men remained seated; others followed them out. Xiangzi was the first to follow. He wanted to see the rickshaw.
It was an extremely dilapidated vehicle. The paint on the footboard was cracked, the handles worn down to show the wood grain, a broken lamp rattled loosely, and the poles supporting the hood were tied with hemp cord. Little Horse found a match in his ear-muff, struck it on the sole of his shoe, cupped the flame in his two small, grubby hands, and lit the lamp. The old man spat into his palm, said "Heave-ho!" and took up the shafts. "See you tomorrow, brothers!"
Xiangzi stood transfixed outside the door, watching the old man, the boy, and the broken-down rickshaw. The old man kept talking as he walked, his voice now rising, now falling. The lamplight and shadows on the road shifted between brightness and gloom. Xiangzi listened and watched, feeling a pang of sorrow such as he had never known before. In Little Horse he seemed to see his own past; in the old man, he seemed to see his own future! He had never parted lightly with a single coin, yet now he felt a strange satisfaction at having bought ten buns for this pair. Only when they were out of sight did he go back inside. The men had started talking and laughing again. His thoughts in turmoil, he paid for his tea, went out again, and pulled his rickshaw over to the movie theater entrance to wait for Mr. Cao.
The weather was truly cold. A haze of grey dust hung in the air; the wind seemed to race high overhead. The stars were blurred, hardly discernible, only a few of the larger ones trembling faintly in the sky. There was no wind at ground level, yet a biting chill rose from all sides. Several long, frozen cracks had appeared in the ruts. The earth was ashen, as cold and hard as ice. Xiangzi stood outside the movie theater for a while and began to feel the cold, but he had no wish to return to the teahouse. He wanted to think things through quietly, alone. That old man and boy seemed to have shattered his greatest hope-the old man’s rickshaw was his own! Ever since his first day pulling a rickshaw, he had been determined to buy his own. He still struggled and sweated daily toward that goal. With his own rickshaw, he believed, he would have everything. Hah! Look at that old man!
Thinking this way, it seemed there was no need to resist Tigress’s threats. After all, he couldn’t escape the circle he was in. What did it matter, then, what kind of woman he took? Besides, she might bring a few rickshaws with her. Why not enjoy a few days of ready-made comfort? Having seen through himself, he need not look down on others. Tigress was just Tigress. Nothing more needed saying!
The movie ended. He hurriedly fitted the small water tube back in place and lit the lamp. He even took off his padded jacket, keeping on only his thin undershirt. He wanted to run, to run wildly, to run until he forgot everything. If he fell and died, it would hardly matter!
Whenever he thought of the old man and Little Horse, Xiangzi felt like casting all hope aside and snatching what pleasure he could from each day. Why keep gritting his teeth and torturing himself? The lot of the poor, he seemed to see clearly now, was like a jujube pit, pointed at both ends: if you didn’t starve to death as a child, you could count yourself blessed; if you didn’t starve to death in old age, that was next to impossible. Only the middle stretch, the years of youthful strength when a man could withstand hunger and toil, could you live something like a human life. And in those years, if you didn’t dare seize joy when it was offered, you were a perfect fool. The chance, once missed, would never come again! Thinking this, he didn’t even want to fret over the business with Tigress anymore.
But then, catching sight of his clay money pot, his thoughts shifted again. No, he couldn’t just throw caution to the wind. He was only a few dozen dollars short of buying a rickshaw. He couldn’t abandon his goal now, couldn’t squander recklessly the savings in that pot, hoarded with such difficulty! He must stick to the straight path, he must! But what about Tigress? There was still no way out. He still had to worry about that hateful twenty-seventh.
Worried to the point of despair, he hugged the earthenware pot and muttered to himself, "Let come what may, this money is mine! No one can take it from me! With this money, Xiangzi fears nothing! If I’m driven too hard, I’ll just stamp my foot and run. With money, my legs are free!"
The streets grew livelier and livelier. Malt sugar melons for the Kitchen God Festival filled the stalls; wherever you went you could hear the cry, "Malt sugar melons! Malt sugar melons!" Xiangzi had been looking forward to the New Year, but now he felt no enthusiasm whatsoever. The busier the streets, the tighter his heart clenched, for that dreadful twenty-seventh was almost upon him! His eyes were sunken, even the scar on his face seemed darker. Pulling his rickshaw, with the streets in such commotion and the ground so slippery, he had to be extra careful. Harried by his worries and his need for vigilance, he felt his mind could not cope. Thinking of one thing, he would forget another, often starting suddenly, his skin prickling as if a child had broken out in a summer heat rash.
On the afternoon of the Kitchen God Festival, a steady east wind brought a sky full of dark clouds. The weather suddenly turned a bit warmer. By the time lanterns began to be lit, the wind had died down further, and sparse snowflakes drifted down. The malt sugar melon vendors grew anxious; with the warmer weather and the snow, they kept sprinkling white clay powder on their wares, afraid the candy would all stick together. The snow did not fall heavily; it turned into fine grains that rustled softly as they fell, whitening the ground. After seven o’clock, shops and households began their Kitchen God ceremonies. Amid the glow of incense, the flash of firecrackers, and the thickening snowfall, the festive air took on a faintly eerie cast. Everyone on the street looked somewhat hurried and tense. Pedestrians and rickshaw passengers alike were eager to get home for the sacrifices, but the ground was wet and slippery, and they dared not stride out freely. The candy vendors, frantic to sell their seasonal goods, shouted themselves hoarse, their cries strangely unsettling to the ear.
It was about nine o’clock when Xiangzi, pulling Mr. Cao, started home from the western part of the city. Passing the bustling market area near Xidan Pailou and turning east into Chang’an Avenue, the stream of people and vehicles gradually thinned. A layer of thin snow covered the smooth asphalt road, glittering faintly under the street lamps. Occasionally a car would pass, its headlights casting beams far ahead, the fine snow grains gleaming with a yellowish light in their glare, like myriads of golden specks. Nearing the Xinhua Gate area, the road was exceptionally wide, and with the thin snow it seemed to broaden one’s vision and refresh the spirit. Everything appeared more solemn. The Chang’an Archway, the gate tower of Xinhua Gate, the red walls of the South Sea-all wore white caps, set off by vermilion pillars and crimson walls, standing silent in the lamplight, displaying the dignity of the ancient capital. Here and now, one felt as if Beiping had no inhabitants, as if it were a realm of jade palaces and pearl towers, with only the snowflakes drifting softly down.