第五章 (Chapter Five)

Old Liu, to be sure, had not spread word for Xiangzi, yet the tale of the Camel traveled swiftly from Haidian into the city. Though in the past no one could find any real fault with him, that hard, taciturn stubbornness of his had made many think him rather unsociable, a bit of an oddball. But after the story of "Camel Xiangzi" got around, even though he remained as closed-mouthed and aloof as ever, people began to look at him differently. Some said he had picked up a gold watch; others declared he had come by three hundred silver dollars without lifting a finger; and those who were surest they knew the whole truth nodded sagely and said he had hauled thirty camels all the way back from the Western Hills! Though the accounts differed, the conclusion was the same-Xiangzi had come into ill-gotten gains! And towards anyone who has had a windfall, no matter how "unclubbable" the fellow, people customarily feel respect. Since earning a living by the sweat of one's brow is so hard, everyone longs for a stroke of illicit fortune; and since such fortune is so exceedingly rare, those who are touched by it must be out of the ordinary, blessed by fate. Thus, Xiangzi's silence and unsociability were suddenly transformed into the dignified reticence of a man of substance. That was how he should be, and it was only right that they fawned over him. "Come on, Xiangzi! Out with it! Tell us how you struck it rich!" He heard such words every day. He kept silent. Only when pushed to the limit, the scar on his face flushing red, would he retort, "Struck it rich? Damn it all, where's my rickshaw gone?"

Yes, indeed, where was his rickshaw? People began to wonder. But worrying over another's troubles is never as pleasant as sharing in his joy, so they soon forgot about Xiangzi's rickshaw and dwelt instead on his good luck. After a while, seeing that Xiangzi was still pulling a rickshaw, had not changed his trade or bought property, their enthusiasm cooled somewhat. And when they spoke of "Camel Xiangzi," they no longer pressed the point of why he should be called "Camel," as if that were the name he was always meant to bear.

Xiangzi himself, however, had not dismissed the matter lightly. He burned to buy another rickshaw immediately, and the more anxious he grew, the more he thought of his original one. He toiled from dawn till dusk without complaint, but in the midst of his labour, the memory would surface. And each time it did, a lump would form in his throat, and he could not help thinking: What was the use of striving? This world did not become any more just because a man was bent on bettering himself. By what right had they snatched his rickshaw for nothing? Even if he got another tomorrow, who was to say the same thing would not happen again? The past seemed like a nightmare, making him almost afraid to hope for the future. Sometimes, watching others drink, smoke, or visit the lowest brothels, he felt a faint twinge of envy. If striving was useless, why not just snatch what pleasure one could? They were right. He, even if he steered clear of the brothels for now, should at least have a few drinks and take things easy. Tobacco and liquor now held a peculiar allure; he felt these things, costing little, would surely comfort him, enabling him to press on with his bitter struggle while forgetting the bitterness of the past.

Yet he still dared not touch them. He had to save every possible penny. Only that way could he buy a rickshaw of his own soon. Even if he bought one today and lost it tomorrow, he still had to buy it. This was his ambition, his hope, his very religion. Without a rickshaw of his own to pull, life seemed scarcely worth living. He did not aspire to be an official, or get rich, or acquire property. His skill lay only in pulling a rickshaw, and his surest hope was to own one. Without it, he could not face himself. He thought of nothing else all day, constantly counting his money; if he ever forgot this, he forgot himself, and felt he was nothing but a beast that could run, with not a shred of human dignity left. No matter how fine a rickshaw, if it was hired, he pulled it without heart, as unnatural as if he were carrying a stone on his back. Even with a hired rickshaw, he never slacked, always keeping it spotless and handling it with care-but this was mere diligence, not joy. Ah, but tending his own rickshaw was like counting his own money-that was true happiness. So he still would not smoke or drink, and went so far as to deny himself even a decent packet of tea. In the teahouses, rickshaw men of his respectable standing, after a hard run, would treat themselves to ten-copper tea with two packets of white sugar, to restore their energy and cool their inner fire. When sweat dripped from his earlobes and his chest burned, he truly yearned to do the same; this was no mere habit or pretence, but a genuine need for a couple of bowls of tea to settle him. But the thought would pass, and he would drink his one-copper packet of tea dust. Sometimes he wanted to curse himself for such self-denial. But what else could a rickshaw man do if he wanted to save a few coins each month? He hardened his heart. Buy the rickshaw first! Buy the rickshaw first! Once he had a rickshaw, that would make up for everything!

If he was miserly with spending, he was even more relentless in earning. Without a monthly hire, he pulled all day, starting early and finishing late, refusing to quit until he had made a set amount, regardless of the hour or the state of his legs. Sometimes he pushed on for a full day and night. Before, he would never have snatched another man's fare, especially from the old, weak, or disabled. With his strength and his rickshaw, how could they possibly compete? Now he hardly cared. He saw only money-every extra copper counted, no matter how tough the job or whose business he was stealing. He would grab the fare and run off, feeling a little better, convinced that only by never stopping could he hope to buy a rickshaw. Gradually, the reputation of "Camel Xiangzi" fell far below that of plain Xiangzi. Many times he snatched a fare and dashed away, a stream of curses following in his wake. He never answered, just lowered his head and ran faster, thinking to himself, 'If it weren't for buying a rickshaw, I'd never stoop so low!' It was as if he were pleading for their understanding with this silent thought, though he would never say it aloud. At the rickshaw stand or in a teahouse, seeing them glare at him, he wanted to explain; but faced with their coldness, and given that he never drank, gambled, played chess, or chatted with them anyway, the words stayed locked inside. Humiliation slowly turned to resentment, and his own temper flared. They glared, he glared back. Remembering the respect he had commanded when he first escaped from the hills, and now being looked down upon like this, made the sting even sharper. Sitting alone with a pot of tea-if he was in a teahouse-or counting his newly earned coppers-if he was at the rickshaw stand-he would swallow his rage with all his might. He did not want to fight, though he was not afraid to. The others, for their part, were not afraid of a fight either, but taking Xiangzi on was something to think twice about. None was a match for him alone, and ganging up on one man was not exactly honourable. Forcing his anger down, he could see no other way but to endure for now. Once he bought his rickshaw, all would be well. With his own rickshaw, he would not have to worry about the daily rental first thing; he could afford to be easy-going, no longer offending people by snatching their fares. Thinking this, he would shoot them a glance as if to say: Just you wait and see!

For his own sake, he should not have driven himself so hard. After escaping back to the city, he had not waited for a full recovery before starting to pull again. Though he never admitted weakness, he often felt utterly spent. Tired as he was, he dared not rest, believing that working up a few more good sweats would wash the lassitude away. With food, he did not starve himself, but neither did he indulge in good meals. He could see he had grown much thinner, but he was still as tall and his frame as sturdy as ever, so he reassured himself. He always assumed that being bigger than others meant he could endure more hardship, never considering that a larger frame under greater strain might actually need more nourishment. Tigress had warned him more than once: "If you keep this up, you'll cough up blood, and it'll be your own lookout!"

He knew perfectly well this was sound advice, but things were not going his way and he was neglecting his health, so he felt irritable. Giving her a slightly narrowed glance, he said, "If I don't drive myself like this, when will I ever buy a rickshaw?"

If anyone else had looked at her like that, Tigress would have cursed up a storm for half a day; but with Xiangzi, she was all politeness and solicitude. She merely pursed her lips.

"Even buying a rickshaw should be taken steadily. You think you're made of iron? You ought to take three good days' rest!" Seeing that he would not listen: "All right, stick to your stubborn ways. Just don't blame me if you drop dead!"

Fourth Master Liu, too, was none too pleased with Xiangzi. His desperate toil, out at dawn and back at dusk, certainly was not good for his rickshaw. Although hiring by the day placed no limit on hours, and one could start or finish whenever one liked, if everyone drove himself as hard as Xiangzi, a rickshaw would wear out at least half a year sooner. Nothing, however sturdy, could withstand such constant punishment! Moreover, Xiangzi was so intent on dashing about that he seldom had time to help wipe down the rickshaws and such-another loss. The old man felt displeased, but he said nothing. Hiring by the day without time limits was the general rule; helping to clean the vehicles was a favour, not an obligation. Given his own standing, he could not lower himself to show Xiangzi any overt sign of disapproval. He could only let a hint of dissatisfaction show at the corner of his eye or lip, while keeping his mouth tightly shut. Sometimes he felt strongly inclined to throw Xiangzi out; but a glance at his daughter stayed his hand. He had not the slightest intention of making Xiangzi a prospective son-in-law, yet since his girl was fond of this stubborn lad, he thought it best not to interfere. He had only this one daughter, and it seemed she had no hope of marrying, so he could not very well drive away her friend. To tell the truth, Tigress was so useful that he really did not want her to marry; this bit of selfishness made him feel rather guilty toward her, and so he was somewhat afraid of her. The old man, who had feared neither heaven nor earth all his life, found himself in his old age afraid of his own daughter. In his slight embarrassment, he reasoned it out: as long as he feared someone, it proved he was not entirely a law unto himself. With that fact, perhaps he would not meet with a dreadful retribution when his time came. Well, having admitted he ought to fear his daughter, he would not drive Xiangzi out. This did not mean, however, that he would let his daughter run wild and marry Xiangzi. No. He could see his daughter might not be without such ideas, but Xiangzi had not dared make any advances.

So he would just keep a watchful eye, that was all. No point upsetting his daughter needlessly.

Xiangzi had not noticed the old man's mood. He had no time for such side issues. If he ever felt like leaving Renhe Yard, it was not out of pique, but in hope of landing a monthly hire. He was beginning to dislike taking on casual fares. First, because snatching fares made people look down on him. Second, because his daily income was so unpredictable-good one day, poor the next-that he could not tell when he would save enough to buy a rickshaw. He wanted certainty. Even if it meant saving only a little, as long as he could count on a fixed sum each month, he would feel hopeful and at ease. He was a man who liked everything in its proper place.

He got a monthly hire. Hah! It was just as vexing as taking on casual fares! This time it was at the Yang residence. Mr. Yang was from Shanghai, Mrs. Yang from Tianjin, and the Second Mrs. Yang from Suzhou. One husband, two wives, who between them, in a cacophony of southern accents, had produced who knows how many children. On his very first day, Xiangzi nearly passed out from exhaustion. First thing in the morning, Mrs. Yang went to market by rickshaw. On returning, he had to ferry the young masters and misses to school-some to junior high, some to primary school, some to kindergarten. Different schools, different ages, different looks, but all equally tiresome, especially in the rickshaw, where even the most docile had more tricks than a monkey. With all the children delivered, Mr. Yang went to his yamen. After dropping him off, Xiangzi hurried back to take the Second Mrs. Yang to Dong'an Market or on visits. Back again, he collected the students for lunch. After lunch, he delivered them back to school. Returning from that, Xiangzi thought he might finally eat, but Mrs. Yang barked in her Tianjin drawl, ordering him to fetch water. Sweet water was delivered to the Yangs', but the bitter water for washing clothes was the rickshaw puller's job. This task was outside the agreement, but to keep the position, Xiangzi dared not argue and silently filled the vat. Setting down the buckets, just as he was about to reach for his rice bowl, the Second Mrs. Yang sent him out shopping. Mrs. Yang and the Second Mrs. Yang usually did not get along, but in household management they saw eye to eye on two points: no servant was to be idle for a moment, and no servant was to be seen eating. Xiangzi, unaware of this, thought he had just happened to land on an unusually busy first day, so again he said nothing and bought a few griddle cakes with his own money. He clung to his coppers for dear life, but to keep his job, he had to steel his heart.

Back from shopping, Mrs. Yang told him to sweep the yard. The master, the mistress, and the second mistress of the Yang household dressed to the nines when they went out, but the house and yard were like one giant rubbish heap. The sight of the yard turned Xiangzi's stomach, so he just set to sweeping, forgetting that a rickshaw man was not meant to double as a handyman. With the yard tidied, the Second Mrs. Yang told him to sweep out the rooms while he was at it. Xiangzi did not refuse, though what amazed him was how two such elegant ladies could live in filth you could hardly set foot in. With the rooms straightened up, the Second Mrs. Yang handed him a one-year-old mud-spattered imp. He was at a complete loss. He was good at all sorts of manual labour, but he had never held a child. Cupping the little master in his hands, if he did not hold tight, the child might slip; if he squeezed, he might hurt its tender bones. He broke into a sweat. He thought of handing this treasure over to Nanny Zhang-a big-footed amah from north of the Yangtze. Finding her, he was met with a volley of the foulest abuse. Servants at the Yangs' usually lasted three to five days. The master and mistresses seemed to think servants were household slaves, not worth their wages unless worked to the bone. Only this Nanny Zhang had lasted five or six years, for the sole reason that she dared curse anyone to their face-master or mistress, offend her and you got an earful. Against Mr. Yang's venomous Shanghai-style swearing, Mrs. Yang's robust Tianjin tirades, and the Second Mrs. Yang's fluent Suzhou reproaches, they were usually invincible. But encountering Nanny Zhang's sheer ferocity, they began to sense a sort of reciprocity, a meeting of worthy adversaries, and so they quite prized her, keeping her as their personal guard.

Xiangzi, born and raised in the northern countryside, abhorred casual cursing. But he dared not hit Nanny Zhang-a true man does not fight women-nor did he wish to answer back. He just shot her a glare. Nanny Zhang fell silent, as if sensing some danger. Just then, Mrs. Yang called Xiangzi to fetch the students. He hurriedly returned the mud doll to the Second Mrs. Yang. Thinking he meant to slight her, the Second Mrs. Yang unleashed a torrent of abuse, painting him with every colour of the rainbow. Mrs. Yang, for her part, was also displeased that Xiangzi had helped the Second Mrs. by holding the child, and hearing her curses, joined in with a voice slick as oil, cursing him too. Xiangzi became a shield for their insults. He hurriedly pulled his rickshaw out, even forgetting his anger, for he had never seen the like. Confronted so suddenly, he felt quite dizzy.