Explore Chapter 7 of "Divorce" with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
Elder Brother Zhang's "Bane of His Existence" had come home. That bane had another name: Zhang Tianzhen. Four or five weeks before any summer or winter holiday, the Bane invariably returned, for his school never held examinations-except once, and just as the papers were handed out, the principal's head somehow flew clean off his shoulders and hadn't been found to this day.
From the day Tianzhen entered primary school to this very moment, it was impossible to count the number of favors his father had pulled or the feasts he had laid out. Elder Brother Zhang's absolute devotion to his son and his impeccable social graces had elevated string-pulling and feast-giving to a high art. In Tianzhen's first year, Elder Brother Zhang had the principal's own relative handle the enrollment, to lend an air of officialdom, even though the primary school entrance exam was a mere formality. On the first day, he personally escorted Tianzhen to pay respects to the headmaster and teachers, even tipping the school gatekeeper fifty cents. The costs for the middle school exams were especially hefty. He failed five schools in a row, despite the fact that the principals and key faculty of all five had dined at his expense, and at two of them, the principals' wives had personally handled the registration. These five failures made him see clearly that "the personal connections still hadn't been pulled to their absolute limit." So, for the sixth attempt, he pleaded with the head of the middle school section in the Education Bureau until the man was nearly in tears. In the end, Tianzhen's total score fell short by a mile, but the section head went to the school personally to have points added here and there until the gap was closed, leaving Tianzhen utterly baffled as to how he'd passed this time, and cursing his rotten luck for having to go back to school. As for university-well, not many knew for sure whether Tianzhen was a regular student or just an auditor. Elder Brother Zhang was convinced the connections had finally been pulled to their limit; otherwise, how could Tianzhen be studying at a university?
Tianzhen was handsome, hollow, looked down on the poor, never had enough money, and only showed up for maybe half an hour of class when broke. Handsome: a high nose, big eyes, cheeks that sloped down a bit. He smiled with a stiff face, so it was a smile that wasn't quite a smile, or a smirk that never fully formed; when he did break into a grin without meaning to, it was solely to display a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. Every move he made was pure movie star; John Barrymore was his saint, his deity. His hair was parted with exquisite care, and he never went without his little indoor cap to keep it perfectly in place. He went to the Russian barbershop in Dongjiaomin Lane for a haircut, and because he couldn't speak a word of English, the White Russian barber looked down his nose at him; he tipped one dollar fifty. The next time he went, would you believe it, that same White Russian spoke Chinese, and rather well too. Tall, with a slender waist and long legs, he wore Western suits. He loved to "watch" dancing, pretended to have ideals, frowned at his reflection in the mirror, and ate tangerines all day long. He'd carry his ice skates to Dong'an Market, sleep in his athletic wear. He read three tabloids daily, knew nothing of affairs of state, and only remembered cinema advertisements. Exceptionally charming with the ladies; also prone to giving his father the silent treatment.
He was home, hating the very idea of coming home, yet having no choice. School was suspended, for reasons he couldn't fathom, which naturally meant he couldn't get involved with any group meetings or work. Going to Tianjin or Shanghai was out-his purse wasn't that fat, and besides, he was a bit of a coward. So home it was, filled with utter discontent. First on his list of grievances was his father, second were the hardwood chairs at home, those emblems of the feudal system. His mother? She didn't count! Luckily, the study had a carpet, where he could casually burn a few holes; tossing cigarette butts into the spittoon was too much bother.
Sister-in-law Zhang was rather in awe of her Tianzhen, as a mother rightly should be of her eldest son, especially such a handsome, dashing, modern-day Don Juan of a son! With the boy back, of course she had to fix something special. She asked him what he fancied, but he said nothing, just gave that stiff-faced smile-it made no difference. If she decided on her own, she feared it wouldn't suit his taste, for her son was terribly hard to please, being a good dozen times more modern than his own father. Overjoyed, she prepared chicken soup with wontons, but her son went out and didn't come back for dinner. Sister-in-law Zhang washed the dishes as tears fell, not daring to let her husband see. After tidying up, she stood by the stove to dry her damp eyes. By midnight her son still wasn't back, so of course a mother had to wait up.
At half past one, he returned. "Hey, Ma, what're you still waiting up for?" He flashed his white teeth.
"Aren't you hungry?" Mother looked at her son's ears, frozen red like two slices of hawthorn cake. "Always in these foreign clothes! So terribly thin!"
"Not hungry! And not cold either-there's fleece lining inside. Here, Ma, feel how thick it is!" Sometimes a son had to humor his mother, teasing her like a child.
Her son put on his little indoor cap, sat on the edge of the bed humming some syrupy love song, peeled a tangerine, and with the burst of sweetness on his tongue, allowed himself a stiff-faced smile, imagining he was Barrymore.
Elder Brother Zhang's hopes for his son weren't grand-folks in Beiping didn't set their sights too high for their sons-he just wished for him to become a presentable, respectable-looking man with some minor official post, a family and a home, a solid middle-of-the-road sort. Section head was a tad too ambitious, while a middle school teacher was a notch too low. A clerk in a bureau, a customs officer, a chief dispatcher in a county yamen-Tong County being the furthest acceptable-that was the sweet spot, neither too high nor too low. Graduate from university-any university-then land a clerkship, fame and fortune both secured: that was the ideal son. Don't take work too seriously, but cast your social net wide; have a virtuous wife at home-preferably from an old-fashioned family, somewhat literate, pleasingly plump, good for bearing plump sons. Tianzhen's university credentials were sure to be his; even if he was just an auditor, he'd get his diploma when the time came, and with the right connections, anything was possible. Post-graduation, with Elder Brother Zhang's network, it wouldn't be hard: the Education Bureau, the Public Security Bureau, the Municipal Government-he knew people everywhere. Marriage was the real puzzle. For the past four or five years, this had been the biggest thorn in Elder Brother Zhang's side. Having been a matchmaker for half his life, if he ended up with a daughter-in-law as plain as a cornbread bun, well, that would be a disgrace to plummet right off the Western Hills! But that was just looking at it from the girl's side; surely Elder Brother Zhang could find a suitable young lady? No, Tianzhen himself was the real problem, the Bane. As for Tianzhen's studies, yes, failing the middle school exams five times was because the connections hadn't been fully pulled, but Elder Brother Zhang couldn't help having his doubts. Tianzhen's handwriting, that mishmash of vernacular and half-baked classical prose in his essays-it sent a chill through Elder Brother Zhang. Other things could slide, but a clerk needed presentable penmanship and writing. Sure, good foreign language skills could also land you a clerkship or even a section head post, but Tianzhen's foreign language probably couldn't produce more than a few mangled words. Connections were essential, but you needed some ability too; Elder Brother Zhang wasn't a provincial governor who could appoint a complete illiterate as a county magistrate! This was the sickness! What if Tianzhen truly wasn't up to snuff? Even if he found the perfect daughter-in-law, what good would it be?
And then there was Tianzhen's behavior, downright peculiar. Call him a revolutionary? That'd be unfair. Yet he had no sense of propriety, no consistency whatsoever. Call him tough? He bought ice skates but was too scared to actually skate, afraid of cracking the back of his skull. Call him soft? He dared to glare defiantly at his own father. Call him a fool? He could seem quite sharp. Call him sharp? He'd act the perfect fool. Elder Brother Zhang couldn't for the life of him fit his son into any neat category. In other words, on his mental scales, Tianzhen bobbed up and down, with no fixed weight. A heartache, impossible to discuss with outsiders: a father knows his son best, they say, yet here he was, a father who didn't understand his own son!
With one end of the scales already bobbing up and down, how could the other end stay steady? Not being able to arrange a marriage for his son-was there anything more mortifying under heaven? If he didn't arrange one, what if he… Elder Brother Zhang squeezed both eyes shut tight!
As for property, Elder Brother Zhang had entered government service at twenty-three and now, after nearly twenty-eight years, he hadn't saved much, though he'd always had a post and his purse always seemed comfortably lined. That very appearance of comfort was precisely why he couldn't save. The façade! Keeping up the façade made saving impossible! True, he never tossed away a single copper coin, and Sister-in-law Zhang never squandered a hundred coppers, but a single meal of Mongolian hot pot cost five or six dollars! And when you had to host guests-and as a clerk, how could you avoid it?-you had to buy the freshest cilantro, the finest vinegar. Of course, five or six dollars for hot pot was far cheaper than a twelve-dollar banquet-which, with drinks, rice, carriage fare and tips, came to over twenty-but five or six dollars was still five or six dollars, and you couldn't very well have it every day. His children's education was a major drain, and his children weren't the saving kind. Social obligations were another huge expense, and Elder Brother Zhang took great pride in contributing to and attending every event. When he celebrated his fortieth birthday, he received a full thousand gifts-now that was face, tremendous face-but if he didn't give gifts in return when others had occasions, how could he expect a thousand when his own turn came?
For Beiping people, property meant houses. Running shops was for Shandong and Shanxi men-with the Cantonese joining in lately. Land was limited to what you inherited, family property and graves. Speculation was far too risky. Investing in those international savings plans was an option, but not entirely reliable. The only truly safe path was living off your rents. Elder Brother Zhang owned three small houses, including the one he lived in. For a mere clerk to own three small houses-in the eyes of his colleagues, this was nothing short of a miracle.
Tianzhen thought his father was rolling in money. Mentioning him to Xiuzhen, he'd tilt his head-"that capitalist old fossil!" He didn't know how much his father had, nor did he bother to ask. If Father didn't hand over cash, he hoped for a good dose of "communism." If Father did give money, he hoped this "communism" wouldn't extend to Father's wealth, so he could spend it all by himself. Money in hand, he'd drop three or four dollars on a haircut, eat ice cream by the half-dozen, devour oranges by the tens-because he'd heard all the foreign youth loved ice cream and fruit. Besides these regular expenses, there were the silent, act-first-ask-later临时 expenses: buying things first, then shoving the bills under his father's nose! The capitalist old fossil had no choice but to pay up-a nice, bloodless form of "expropriation."
His daughter was also a worry, though not as consuming as his son. A daughter was born to be a money sink; from her third-day bath onward, he was resigned to spending on her for a good twenty years, then marrying her off, after which she might still come back home in tears. It was fate, and nobody could fight it. Whoever Heaven blessed with a daughter had to perform this duty. Thinking you could profit from a daughter was utter nonsense; Elder Brother Zhang couldn't sell his girl, but in all honesty, it was a duty everyone performed with gritted teeth. A son was different, after all-as long as he wasn't a complete wastrel. Was Tianzhen a wastrel? Who could say for sure?
He'd promised Mother he'd get up early the next day-while Father was off to the yamen, he was still lost in his sweetest dream. He finally emerged at half past ten. Mother had specially prepared soybean milk, bought the tiniest, crispiest fried dough rings, and laid out foreign white sugar-but fearing her son might not like sweet milk, she'd also set out a dish of Laotianyi's eight-treasure pickles. From his first yawn to applying the last dab of face cream, it took her son exactly one hour and forty minutes.
Mother went to tidy his room. Father was the capitalist old fossil, Mother was the slave! Tianzhen often dreamed of communizing Father's wealth, but it never crossed his mind to liberate slave Mother. No one would believe this was the bedroom of such a handsome fellow: half the quilt on the floor, cigarette butts-all neatly self-extinguished-leaving greasy rings on the tea saucer, the floor littered with newspapers, which in turn were littered with orange peels, combs, big brushes, little brushes. A fine-tooth comb rested on the pillow, a hair-oil bottle lounged on a slipper. Orange seeds sat in the teacup. Discarded socks practiced the dead man's float in the spittoon. Mother frowned. Tianzhen was, in his own way, the very lotus rising unsullied from the mud, a perfect match for the neighbor, Wang Er's wife. Wang Er's wife's quilt could shed whole chunks of grime, you could scrape a pound of fertilizer off her pot lid, yet the moment she stepped out, her face was polished like a silver doll's, her clothes fresh as tender lotus petals. From the wrists up, from the neck down-pure mud. Mother had the least respect for Wang Er's wife, and yet, by some twist, she had a son just like that!
But catching the scent of sweat on her son's pajamas, the mix of perfume and tobacco on his handkerchief, Mother seemed to find a sliver of comfort. So big, so strapping, yet with something almost girlish about him! Clutching the pillow, Mother thought of her daughter for a long while. Her daughter's little apple-face, that smile! The frown eased from Mother's brow, and the chaos on the floor suddenly seemed to have a purpose. She only hoped for a pretty daughter-in-law, certainly not one like Wang Er's wife!
By the time Mother finished tidying, her son had long since polished off every last drop of soybean milk and crumb of dough ring.
"You little scamp, if I don't have an understanding with him, who would-!" Mother finished the sentence with a laugh. Her son showed his teeth again, then decided Mother was probably willing to plead his case after all, so he ought to broaden his smile, opening his mouth to draw in a breath laced with the scent of soybean milk.
That evening, father and son faced each other. Tianzhen smoked, with nothing to say. Elder Brother Zhang smoked, with nothing to say. Tianzhen watched the blue smoke rise. Elder Brother Zhang studied his pipe out of the corner of his eye. A good long while passed before Elder Brother Zhang decided that staring at his pipe wouldn't get things done. "Tianzhen, how much longer till you graduate?"
"Best to go study abroad in the West." Tianzhen gave a tug to straighten the seam of his Western trousers.
Elder Brother Zhang couldn't find more words. A son who dared ask for two or three thousand a year from a father of his means was clearly a son with no sense, not worth wasting breath on.
Tianzhen didn't press further, leaving it as a tentative proposal to be nudged along slowly later. The capitalist old fossil's money didn't flow like water.
"The narcissus is lovely this year. You dried them yourself again?" Tianzhen saw his opening. He knew pleasing the capitalist old fossil was step one to studying abroad, and praising the old man's home-dried narcissus was the shortcut.
"Not particularly good." The capitalist old fossil's eyes moved from his pipe to his son's face. He then calmly stood up. "Not particularly good." He walked over to the narcissus, held his hand flat beneath the buds. "Last year's were only this tall. This year's grew all wild. Room's still too warm."
"Too slow. Won't bloom till early February by the lunar calendar. And they're terribly dear this year, forty-five cents a bulb! Can't afford the hobby. Lovely things, though. Flowers up top, roots down below. Take good care of them, the roots grow this long. Just heard the other day, after foreign narcissus bloom and the leaves dry out, you hang the bulbs upside down somewhere dark and dry, and they'll flower again in winter. Strange business, how hanging upside down"-he pointed his pipe stem downward-"makes them send up new shoots again. Must be a reason for it." Elder Brother Zhang put on his thoughtful expression.
"Raise a kid upside down like that, he's bound to become a high official when he grows up." Tianzhen found himself terribly witty, and excessively amiable toward his father.
Mother's laughter shook down a dangling strand of dust from the ceiling. "We really ought to sweep the room, look at all this filth!"