第十一章 (Chapter Eleven)

Elder Brother Zhang's "cardiac ailment" had come home. This ailment went by another name: Zhang Tianzhen. Four or five weeks before summer or winter break, Mr. Ailment would invariably return. The school he attended never gave exams-they'd only held one, and just as the test papers were being handed out, the principal's head, for no apparent reason, took flight from his shoulders and has yet to be recovered.

From the moment Tianzhen entered primary school to the present, no one could tally the times his father had pulled strings or hosted banquets on his behalf. Elder Brother Zhang's sincere devotion and meticulous courtesy elevated string-pulling and feast-hosting to an art form. In Tianzhen's first year of primary school, Elder Brother Zhang had a relative of the principal handle the enrollment, as this lent an air of officialdom, even though the entrance test was a mere formality. On enrollment day, he personally escorted Tianzhen to pay his respects to the principal and teachers, even slipping the gatekeeper fifty cents. When it came to middle school applications, the spending reached extravagant heights. He failed five attempts, despite the principals and key staff of all five schools having dined at his expense, and at two places, the principals' wives personally handled the registration. These five failures drove home the lesson: "The connections simply hadn't been pulled to perfection." So for the sixth attempt, he pleaded with the head of the middle school department at the Education Bureau until tears flowed. As a result, Tianzhen's total score fell woefully short. The department head personally went to the school to make up the deficit, leaving Tianzhen both astonished that he'd passed this time and cursing his rotten luck at having to return to school. When it came to university-though few knew for certain whether Tianzhen was a regular student or an auditor-Elder Brother Zhang conceded that the connections had been pulled to perfection. Otherwise, how could Tianzhen be studying at university?

Tianzhen was handsome but hollow, scornful of the poor, and perpetually short of cash. When broke, he'd occasionally sit through half an hour of class. Handsome: a high nose, big eyes, cheeks that sloped ever so slightly. He wore a stern face even when smiling, so his smile seemed not quite a smile; when he laughed without cause, it was solely to flash his pearly whites. Every gesture aped the movie stars; John Barrymore was his saint, his god. His hair was meticulously parted, and indoors he always sported a small cap to keep it flat. He got his hair cut at the Russian barbershop in Dongjiaomin Lane. Not speaking a word of English, he earned the contempt of the White Russians; he tipped them one-fifty, and on his next visit, lo and behold, the White Russians spoke Chinese, and rather well. Tall, with a slender waist and long legs, he dressed in Western suits. He loved to "watch" dancing, affect ideals, frown at his reflection, and gorge on tangerines. He'd haul his ice skates to Dong'an Market and sleep in his athletic wear. He devoured three tabloids daily, oblivious to national affairs, fixated only on cinema ads. With women, he was all charm; with his father, he nursed silent grudges.

Home he was, though he loathed it, yet home he had to come. School was out, for reasons unknown, so naturally he couldn't join any group meetings or work. Going to Tianjin or Shanghai was out of the question-his pockets weren't that deep, and he was timorous besides. So home it was, much to his chagrin. First on his list of dislikes was his father; second, the hardwood chairs at home, those emblems of the feudal system. His mother was neither here nor there. Fortunately, the study had a carpet, so he could idly burn a few holes in it-tossing cigarette butts into the spittoon was too much bother.

Mother Zhang was rather in awe of Tianzhen-as a mother should be of her eldest son, especially such a handsome, dashing figure, a heartthrob of the new age with all his legendary charm. Her son home, she naturally whipped up something tasty. She asked him, but he said nothing, only offering that stern-faced smile, indifferent. If she planned the meal herself, she feared it might not suit his taste, for he was a hard one to please, being a dozen times more modern than his father. With bright anticipation, she prepared chicken soup with wontons, but her son went out and didn't return for dinner. Mother Zhang washed the dishes with tears in her eyes, careful not to let her husband see. After tidying up, she stood by the stove to dry her damp eyes. Her son hadn't returned by midnight, so of course the mother kept vigil.

At half past one, her son returned. "Hey, Ma, why're you still up?" he said, baring his white teeth. "See, if I didn't wait, you'd have to scale the wall?" "Alright, Ma, don't wait for me anymore from now on." "Aren't you hungry?" His mother saw his ears, frozen like two slices of hawthorn jelly. "Always in these foreign clothes-so flimsy!" "Not hungry, not cold either-there's a fleece lining. Ma, come see how thick the fleece is!" Sometimes a son had to indulge his mother, teasing her like a child. "My, it is thick!" "Twenty-six yuan-and not paid for yet-but genuine English goods." "Aren't you going to see your dad? He hasn't laid eyes on you." Her eyes held a plea. "Tomorrow. He must be asleep by now." "It wouldn't hurt to wake him. He's up early tomorrow and out early, and you never know when you'll rise." "Let it be. I'll get up early tomorrow." Her son smoothed back his hair in the mirror, glossy as a lacquered betel nut spoon. "Ma, off to bed."

His mother sighed and went to bed.

Her son put on his small cap, sat on the edge of the bed, humming a love song while peeling a tangerine. Savoring the sweet juice, he allowed a stern-faced smile, imagining himself as Barrymore.