Explore Chapter 1 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.
The man we're going to talk about is Xiangzi, not Camel, because "Camel" is just a nickname. So we'll start with Xiangzi, and along the way just mention how the nickname got stuck on him. That should do it.
The rickshaw pullers of Beiping fell into several distinct groups. The young and robust, nimble on their feet, liked to rent a smart rickshaw and pull 'full-day' shifts-free to start and quit whenever they pleased. They'd pull out their vehicles and park them at a regular rickshaw stand or outside some mansion gate, waiting specifically for customers in a hurry. On a good day, they might pocket a dollar or two right off. By bad luck, they might idle away a whole day without even earning the daily rental fee, but they didn't much care. This bunch generally nursed one of two hopes: either to pull a private rickshaw for a single household, or to buy a rickshaw of their own. Once a man owned his own rickshaw, it hardly mattered whether he took a monthly contract or picked up fares here and there; the rickshaw was his, after all.
Those a bit older than this crowd, or who couldn't run quite so fast due to their physique, or who didn't dare risk a day without earnings because of family ties-most of these men pulled rickshaws that were eighty percent new. Both man and vehicle were decent enough looking, allowing them to keep some dignity when haggling over price. These pullers might work 'full days' or 'half days.' Those who chose the latter, still having plenty of spirit, would always work the night shift, winter and summer alike. Night work, of course, demanded more caution and skill than the day, and naturally brought in a bit more money.
For those over forty or under twenty, it was probably hard to find a place in the first two groups. Their rickshaws were broken-down, and they didn't dare work the night shift, so they could only start out early, hoping to keep going from dawn until three or four in the afternoon to scrape together the daily rental fee and their own food expenses. Their rickshaws were old and slow, forcing them to walk farther and charge less. They were the ones who hauled goods to the melon, fruit, and vegetable markets. The pay was poor, but at least they didn't have to run fast.
Here, those under twenty-some starting in this trade as young as eleven or twelve-rarely grew into handsome rickshaw pullers after the age of twenty, for childhood injuries had made it hard for them to grow robust. They might pull rickshaws their whole lives without ever cutting a fine figure in the trade. As for the men over forty, many had been pulling for eight or ten years; the decay of their muscles had resigned them to lagging behind. They were coming to realize that sooner or later they'd take a tumble and die in the street. Their pulling posture, their quick wit in bargaining, their knack for shortcuts and detours-all reminded them of past glories, and they'd flare their nostrils at the younger lot. But this bit of glory did nothing to diminish the darkness ahead, and they themselves would often sigh softly as they wiped the sweat away. Still, compared to another set of pullers around forty, they hadn't yet tasted the absolute dregs of misery. These others had never dreamed they'd have anything to do with rickshaws; it was only when the line between life and death had grown blurred that they picked up the shafts. Dismissed policemen or school servants, vendors who'd eaten up their capital, or unemployed craftsmen-when they had nothing left to sell or pawn, gritting their teeth and choking back tears, they set foot on this road to death. These men had already sold the most vigorous years of their lives. Now they dripped onto the streets the sweat and blood that would buy their cornbread buns. Without strength, without experience, without friends, they met with no kindness even from their fellow pullers. They pulled the most broken-down rickshaws, the tires going flat who knows how many times a day. Even as they pulled a passenger, they had to keep begging for pardon, though fifteen big coppers was already considered a sweet deal.
Moreover, peculiar circumstances and knowledge set another group of pullers apart. Those born in Xiyuan or Haidian naturally found it easier to take fares to the Western Hills, Yanjing University, or Qinghua University. Similarly, men outside Andingmen would go to Qinghe or Beiyuan; those outside Yongdingmen to Nanyuan... These were the long-haulers, disdaining short, casual fares. For them, one trip was one trip; they scorned haggling over three or five coppers. Yet even they couldn't match the stamina of the pullers from Jiaomin Lane (the Legation Quarter), these specialists in foreign business who prided themselves on pulling all the way from Jiaomin Lane to Jade Spring Hill, the Summer Palace, or the Western Hills in a single breath. Stamina, however, was the lesser matter. The main reason ordinary pullers could never compete for this business was that these foreign-service men possessed a somewhat unusual knowledge: they could speak foreign tongues. They understood what the British and French soldiers said about Longevity Hill, Yonghe Temple, or the Eight Great Lanes (the old pleasure quarter). They had their own foreign lingo, which they didn't pass on to others. Their running style was also distinctive: a measured pace, neither fast nor slow, heads bowed, eyes fixed ahead, hugging the edge of the roadway, they carried an air of being above the worldly fray and masters of their own craft. Because they pulled foreigners, they didn't have to wear the numbered vests, but all wore long-sleeved white tunics and either white or black trousers with exceptionally wide legs, tied at the ankles with narrow bands. On their feet were broad-faced, thousand-layered-sole black cloth shoes. They were clean, neat, and imposing. At the sight of such attire, other pullers wouldn't come to compete for the fare or challenge them to a race. They seemed to belong to a different trade altogether.
With this simple breakdown, we can now pinpoint Xiangzi's place among them with the accuracy of-we hope-identifying a particular bolt in a machine. Xiangzi, before becoming entangled with the nickname "Camel," was a relatively independent rickshaw puller. That is to say, he belonged to the category of the young and strong who owned their own rickshaws: his own vehicle, his own livelihood, all in his own hands-a puller of the higher class.
This was by no means easily done. One year, two years, at least three or four years. One drop of sweat, two drops, who knows how many millions of drops, before he had sweated out that rickshaw. Gritting his teeth against wind and rain, stinting himself on food and tea, he had finally scraped together the money for that rickshaw. That vehicle was the sum total and reward of all his struggles and hardships, like a campaign medal for a warrior who has fought a hundred battles. In the days when he rented a rickshaw, from morning till night, east to west, south to north, he was like a top whipped into a spin by others; he had no self of his own. Yet in that dizzying whirl, his vision never blurred, his heart never grew confused. He was always dreaming of a rickshaw somewhere in the distant future, a rickshaw that would bring him freedom and independence, a rickshaw that would be like his own hands and feet. With his own rickshaw, he would no longer have to endure the slights of the renters, nor would he need to humor anyone. With his own strength and his own rickshaw, he could open his eyes in the morning and know there would be food to eat.
He wasn't afraid of hardship, and he lacked the common, forgivable but hardly admirable vices of most rickshaw pullers. His smarts and hard work were enough to turn his hopes into fact. Had his lot been better, or had he received a bit more schooling, he certainly wouldn't have ended up among the rickshaw brotherhood. And whatever he did, he wouldn't have failed to make the most of his chance. Unfortunately, he had to pull a rickshaw. Well then, in this trade too he would prove his ability and cleverness. It seemed that even in hell he'd manage to be a good ghost. Born in the countryside, having lost his parents and a few meager acres of land, he had fled to the city at eighteen. With the sturdy physique and simple honesty of a country lad, he had tried his hand at almost every job that meant selling his strength for a meal. But before long, he saw that pulling a rickshaw was an easier way to make money. At other hard labor, the income was fixed; rickshaw pulling offered more variety and chance-you never knew when or where you might run into a reward greater than you'd hoped for. Naturally, he knew such chances weren't entirely luck; both man and rickshaw had to be handsome and spirited. Only if you have goods to sell can you hope to meet those who know their value. After a think, he believed he had the qualifications: he had the strength and he was in the prime of youth. His only shortcomings were his lack of running experience and his reluctance to start off with a handsome rickshaw. But these weren't unbeatable obstacles. With his body and strength as a foundation, he only needed ten days or a fortnight of practice to get the hang of running. Then he could rent a new rickshaw, and who knows, he might soon land a private rickshaw job. After that, by scrimping and saving for a year or two, or even three or four, he was bound to have a rickshaw of his own-a first-rate one! Looking at his youthful muscles, he told himself it was only a matter of time. This was an aim he was sure to reach, no mere dream!
His frame and muscles had developed ahead of his years. By his early twenties, he was already big and tall. Though time hadn't yet set his limbs in a fixed mold, he already looked like a grown man-a grown man whose face and body still showed a naive, mischievous air. Watching the high-class pullers, he planned how to cinch his waist tight to better show off his iron-fan chest and ramrod-straight back. He turned his head to look at his own shoulders-how broad, how imposing! With his waist tightly cinched, he'd put on a pair of wide-legged white trousers, the cuffs tied with chicken-gut tape, revealing those oversized feet! Yes, he could undoubtedly become the most outstanding rickshaw puller. He laughed at himself like a simpleton.
He wasn't much to look at; what made him likable was the spirit in his face. His head wasn't too big, with round eyes, a fleshy nose, and very short, thick eyebrows. His head was always shaved to a glossy shine. There was no extra flesh on his cheeks, but his neck was almost as thick as his head. His face was forever ruddy, and especially bright was a good-sized scar between his cheekbone and right ear-a donkey had taken a bite out of him when he slept under a tree as a child. He didn't pay much mind to his looks. He loved his face just as he loved his body, both so solid and sturdy; he seemed to count his face among his limbs, as long as everything was sturdy. Yes, even after coming to the city, he could still stand on his head, upside down, for a good half-hour. Standing like that, he felt he resembled a tree, with not a single part from top to bottom that wasn't straight and sturdy.
He did indeed rather resemble a tree: sturdy, silent, yet full of life. He had his own plans, a certain shrewdness, but he wasn't one to talk them over with others. Among rickshaw pullers, a man's personal grievances and difficulties were public talk. At the rickshaw stand, in small teahouses, in crowded tenement courtyards, everyone would be reporting, describing, or noisily airing his own affairs, and then these tales became common property, making the rounds like folk songs. Xiangzi was a countryman, not as glib as city folk. If glibness was a matter of inborn talent, then he was born disinclined to talk much, and had no wish to learn the city people's sharp, quarrelsome tongues. He knew his own business and disliked discussing it with others. Because his mouth was often idle, he had time to think; his eyes seemed forever turned inward, fixed on his own heart. Once he had made up his mind, he would follow the path that opened there; and if that path led nowhere, he could go a day or two without uttering a word, gritting his teeth as if biting down on his own heart!
He decided to pull a rickshaw, and so he did. Renting a broken-down vehicle, he first practiced getting his legs into shape. The first day he earned almost nothing. Business was better on the second day, but then he had to lie up for two days, his ankles swollen like two bottle gourds, utterly unable to lift. He bore it, no matter how it hurt. He knew this was unavoidable, a trial that every rickshaw puller had to pass. Only after clearing this hurdle could he dare to run with all his might.
Once his feet had healed, he dared to run. This pleased him no end, for now there was nothing left to fear. He knew the city's streets well, and even if he had to take a slight detour now and then, it hardly mattered, since he had strength to spare. As for the techniques of pulling, drawing on his past experience of pushing, pulling, carrying, and shouldering loads, he found them not too hard to grasp. Besides, he had his own plan: stay extra careful, avoid fights, and he'd probably stay out of trouble. When it came to haggling over price or competing for a fare, his slow tongue and hot temper were no match for the old hands. Knowing this weakness, he simply steered clear of the rickshaw stands, parking instead wherever there were no other rickshaws. In these quiet spots, he could bargain at leisure. Sometimes he wouldn't even name a price, merely saying, "Hop on. Pay what you think it's worth." He looked so honest, his face so simple and endearing, that people felt they had to trust him, unable to believe this big, simple-looking fellow could be out to fleece them. If they did feel suspicious, they could only suppose he was a fresh arrival from the countryside, probably unfamiliar with the streets and thus unable to quote a proper fare. And when people asked, "Know the way?" he would just give a smile that seemed part feigned ignorance, part playful cheek, leaving them at a loss as to how to take it.
In two or three weeks, he had broken in his legs. He knew his running style was a fine sight. A man's running style was the proof of his ability and his qualification. Those who splayed their feet, flapping them like a pair of palm-leaf fans against the ground, were undoubtedly greenhorns fresh from the villages. Those who ran with heads sunk low, feet shuffling along at a pace barely faster than a walk yet with a studied air of running, were the old men past fifty. The thoroughly experienced but strengthless had another method: they'd hollow their chests deeply, lift their legs high, and with each step thrust their head forward. In this way they gave the impression of running with great effort while in fact being no faster than anyone else; they relied on 'style' to keep their dignity. Xiangzi, of course, adopted none of these postures. His legs were long, his strides powerful, his waist remarkably steady. He ran almost noiselessly, each step springy, the shafts barely trembling, making his passenger feel secure and comfortable. To pull up, no matter how fast he was running, he needed only to scrape his big feet lightly against the ground twice and he'd stop; his strength seemed to reach every part of the rickshaw. With his back slightly bent, hands loosely holding the shafts, he was agile, neat, and precise. He didn't look hurried, yet he ran fast; he was fast, yet without danger. Even among private-rickshaw pullers, this would be considered a prized style.
He changed to a new rickshaw. From the very day he made the switch, he had found out the price: a rickshaw like the one he rented-with flexible springs, genuine copper fittings, a large rain canopy, double lamps, and a slender-necked brass horn-was worth a little over a hundred dollars. If the paintwork and copper fittings were somewhat slapdash, one could be had for a flat hundred. Roughly speaking, then, with a hundred dollars he could get himself a rickshaw. The thought struck him suddenly: if he could save ten cents a day, a hundred dollars would take a thousand days. A thousand days! To pile a thousand days together-he could hardly fathom how distant that was. But he had made up his mind: a thousand days, ten thousand days, he must buy a rickshaw! The first step, he decided, was to pull a private rickshaw. If he found a master with a busy social calendar and many dinner engagements, averaging a dozen banquets a month, he could pocket an extra two or three dollars in meal allowances. Add to that the dollar or so, perhaps even three to five dollars, he could save from his monthly earnings, and in a year he could put aside fifty or sixty dollars! This brought his hope so much closer. He didn't smoke, drink, or gamble; he had no vices, no family encumbrances. If only he was willing to grit his teeth, nothing could prevent his success. He swore an oath to himself: in a year and a half, he-Xiangzi-would own a rickshaw of his own! A made-to-order one, brand new, not a refurbished secondhand job.
He did indeed get a private-rickshaw job. But reality didn't entirely cooperate with hope. True, he gritted his teeth, but after a year and a half he hadn't fulfilled that vow. He did pull a private rickshaw, and he watched over his duties with careful caution. Unfortunately, the affairs of this world aren't one-sided. No matter how careful he was, that didn't prevent his employer from letting him go. Whether it was after two or three months, or a mere eight or ten days, the job would blow up in his face, and he'd have to find another. Naturally, while searching, he had to take on casual fares to make ends meet; he couldn't afford to sit idle. During such spells, he often made blunders. He forced himself to keep his spirits up, not merely to earn a day's food expenses, but to keep saving for the rickshaw. Yet forcing one's spirits is never a sound state of affairs. When pulling his rickshaw, he couldn't concentrate wholeheartedly on the running; it was as if he were always mulling something over. The more he mulled, the more fearful and resentful he grew. If things went on like this, when would he ever buy his rickshaw? Why was this happening? Could it be that he wasn't trying hard enough? Lost in such muddled thoughts, he'd forget his usual caution. A tire would run over broken crockery or glass and blow out, forcing him to quit for the day. More gravely, he sometimes bumped into pedestrians, and once, in his haste to squeeze through a gap, he even knocked off a hubcap. Had he been pulling a private rickshaw, these blunders would never have occurred. Once he'd set aside his regular job, his heart was troubled, and he became somewhat reckless. Damaging the rickshaw meant he had to pay compensation, which only increased his anxiety, adding fuel to the fire. To avoid causing greater trouble, he sometimes tossed and turned in bed for a whole day. And when he opened his eyes to find the day utterly wasted, he'd be filled with regret and self-reproach. Moreover, during these times, the more anxious he was, the more he neglected himself; his eating and drinking grew increasingly haphazard. He thought he was made of iron, but it turned out he could fall ill after all. When he was ill, he couldn't bear to spend money on medicine, trying instead to tough it out. The result was that the illness grew worse, forcing him not only to buy medicine but to rest for several days straight. These difficulties made him grit his teeth and work all the harder, yet the sum of money for the rickshaw didn't come together any faster because of it.
He could wait no longer. His original plan had been to buy the most perfect, most modern, most desirable rickshaw, but now he had to settle for what a hundred dollars could get. He couldn't wait; what if something happened and he lost a few more dollars? By chance, there was a newly made rickshaw-custom-ordered but left unpaid for-that came fairly close to what he wanted. It was originally worth over a hundred, but because the deposit had been forfeited, the rickshaw shop was willing to let it go for less. Xiangzi's face flushed crimson, his hands trembled as he slapped down ninety-six dollars. "I want this rickshaw!" The shopkeeper tried to haggle up to a round number, uttering who knows how many persuasive words. He pulled the rickshaw out and back in, raised and lowered the canopy, pressed the horn; every move was accompanied by a string of the finest adjectives. Finally, he kicked the steel spokes twice. "Hear that sound? Like bells! Take it. Even if you pull this rickshaw to splinters, if a single one of these steel spokes goes soft, you bring it back and smash it in my face! A hundred dollars, not a cent less, or we're through!" Xiangzi counted his money once more. "I want this rickshaw. Ninety-six." The shopkeeper saw he had met a man of firm resolve. He looked at the money, then at Xiangzi, and sighed. "Let's be friends. The rickshaw's yours. I guarantee it for six months. Unless you smash the body to bits, I'll do any repairs for free. Here's the warranty. Take it!"
Xiangzi's hands trembled even more violently. He tucked away the warranty, took hold of the shafts, and almost burst into tears. He pulled the rickshaw to a quiet spot and examined his vehicle minutely, even trying to catch a glimpse of his own face in the shiny lacquer! The more he looked, the more he loved it. Even the parts that didn't quite match his ideal were forgivable now, for it was his. Deeming the rickshaw could rest awhile, he sat down on the new foot mat in the splash guard and gazed at the gleaming brass horn on the shafts. Suddenly he remembered: this year he was twenty-two. With his parents dying early, he had forgotten which day was his birthday. Since coming to the city, he had never celebrated it. Very well, then; today, having bought a new rickshaw, let this be his birthday-his and the rickshaw's, easy to remember. And since the rickshaw was the product of his own heart's blood, there was almost no reason not to count man and vehicle as one.
How to celebrate this "double birthday"? Xiangzi had a plan. The first fare of the day must be someone respectably dressed, definitely not a woman. Best to go to Qianmen, or failing that, Dong'an Market. Once there, he would treat himself to a meal at the best food stall-something like hot sesame cakes stuffed with quick-fried mutton. After eating, if business was good he'd take on one or two more fares; if not, he'd call it a day. After all, it was his birthday!
From the day he owned this rickshaw, his life took on a new zest. Whether pulling a private rickshaw or taking on casual fares, he no longer had to worry about the daily rental fee; every penny he earned was his own. With a contented heart, he was more amiable toward others, and his business went more smoothly. After half a year, his hopes grew even greater: if he kept on like this, working for two years-at most two years-he could buy another rickshaw. One, two… he might even open a rickshaw yard of his own!