P
ROBLEMS WITH
lifestyle meant sex, everyone knew that. Women were always involved when a man was accused of having lifestyle problems.
This was serious, and the more women were involved, the more serious the problem. I was fifteen at the time, still some way
from sexual maturity, but I knew that my father – a man, after all – had sex outside of marriage. I didn’t know how many women
he’d slept with, and had to wonder what was so great about sleeping with lots of women. Since it wasn’t something I could
talk about, I pondered it silently, stopping only when I got an erection. That was something my mother would not tolerate,
calling it a shameful sign of degradation. One morning she awoke me by slapping me with a plastic sandal. Glaring at the little
tent I’d made in my underwear, she drove me out of bed with more slaps. ‘I’ll teach you not to learn such things from him!
It’s shameful! Degrading!’
My mother made a clean break with my father, but stopped short of going her separate way. I later learned that this was not
an act of mercy, but a way to settle scores. She did not intend to come to his rescue. In her eyes, he was little more than
a pile of dog shit, and in no need of being rescued. What she wanted was enough time to do something. What, exactly? Punish
him. Unwilling to give up the advantage she held, she wanted to make
him suffer. At first she concentrated on his mental state, and the unexpected occurred when Father’s spirit, like his bent
back, was irreparably broken. When there was nothing more she could do to his spirit, all that was left was whatever punishment
she could inflict on his body.
Early the next morning, Father pushed Mother’s bicycle outside. ‘Be careful out there,’ he said, ‘and take it slowly.’
‘It’s none of your business how fast or slow I ride,’ she said, ‘and keep your filthy hands off my bike. Maybe a tractor will
come along and put me out of my misery.’
Wisely, Father stepped back, but then said, ‘Read the news slowly during the broadcast and don’t make any mistakes. With everyone
pushing against the wall, it’s ready to topple. You don’t want to give people any excuse to capitalize on a mistake.’
Mother just sneered. ‘At a time like this, how can you pretend to be so caring? With all these daggers in my back, what makes
you think they’ll let me anywhere near a microphone? Know what I do at the studio? I clip stories from the papers for Zhang
Xiaohong.’ The mere mention of how she had to serve a co-worker incensed Mother, and she was on the verge of hysteria. Finally,
she pointed to the ground. ‘Ku Wenxuan, even death would be too good for you! Get down on your knees, you owe me that!’
Hesitant for a moment, Father might have been reflecting on all the terrible things he’d done, and wondering if death would
truly be too good for him. He glanced up at the window to my room before he fell to his knees in the gateway and looked up
at Mother with a tight smile. ‘If death is too good for me, then kneeling is what I deserve.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Then tell me, why do you have to do that here? You want our neighbours to see, is that it? They open their
doors, and there you are, on your knees. Maybe you don’t care about losing face, but I do.’
Father stood up and muttered, ‘Worried about what people
might think, that’s good. Where would you like me to kneel?’ He glanced around, looking for a good spot, and settled on a
stone barbell lying under the date tree. He shuffled over and eased himself down on the stone, gazing helplessly at Mother
and hoping for her approval.
She merely snorted and pushed her bike through the gate, crestfallen over the docility of her husband. But then she turned
and pointed at him. ‘You’re kneeling there only because I told you to,’ she said contemptuously. ‘I tell you, Ku Wenxuan,
a man should not kneel too easily; there might be gold under his knees. Know what I mean? We’ll see if anyone anywhere will
look up to you from now on.’
As he knelt there I spied on him and detected a slight movement. One of his knees rose from the stone, the other one stayed
put. He waited for Mother to leave before getting slowly to his feet, and when he spotted me, an embarrassed look flashed
briefly on to his face as he brushed the dirt from his knees. ‘Just this once,’ he said as casually as possible. ‘It won’t
happen again. All in fun. But tell me, Dongliang, why haven’t you been lifting the barbell lately?’
‘Because it’s a waste of time, it doesn’t do any good. Lifting things doesn’t do any good.’
‘What do you mean, it doesn’t do any good? It makes you stronger.’ He scowled before standing up beneath the date tree, bent
at the waist, deep in thought. After a moment he laughed a brief bitter laugh and said, ‘Truth is, it won’t make any difference.
This family is doomed to split up. Sooner or later your mother will leave us.’
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? Immaturity and confusion had me swaying from one parent to the other. There were
moments when my sympathies lay with my mother, but most of the time I felt sorry for my father. I stared at the smudges on
his knees and then let my gaze drift cautiously upward, until I
noticed a bulge in the front of his trousers that was sliding disconsolately downward, like a broken farm tool hanging uselessly
from a scrawny tree. I didn’t know what Father looked like with an erection, nor did I know how many women he’d slept with,
or the times, the places, the details, and the sorts of women they were. Deep and complex emotions rose irrepressibly inside
me, and the look on my face surprised him. He gazed down at his crotch. ‘What are you looking at?’ he barked.
‘Nothing.’
Father angrily smoothed down the front of his trousers. ‘Then what are you thinking?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Liar. I know there are bad thoughts racing through your mind. You can fool other people, but not me.’
‘I’m not thinking anything,’ I said, ‘so stop trying to get into my head. My head’s a
kongpi
, nothing but a
kongpi
.’
‘
Kongpi
? What’s that?’ He gave me a dubious look. ‘
Kong
is “empty”, I got that. And
pi
is “ass”. But what do they mean together?’
‘Go and ask somebody else. I don’t know. That’s what they call me now. I used to belong to the Ku family, but now my surname
is Empty. And I’m not Dongliang, I’m Ass.’
‘Who gave you that terrible nickname? And why?’
‘What good would it do to tell you?’ I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘It’s your fault!’ I complained. ‘It’s all because of
you! And stop calling me Dongliang. From now on you can call me Kongpi!’
Father stopped and thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I know. When the city gate burns, the fish in the moat die. I dragged you into
this.’ Still bent at the waist, he began to pace around the tree, casting an occasional look my way, but quickly shying away
from the loathing in my eyes. Finally he walked over to a clothes line in the yard, on which hung some of Mother’s fancy costumes
from
her youth. She’d held on to them all, preventing them from getting mouldy by airing them each autumn. The sight of them hanging
there was like watching birds singing in the spring: a Uighur cap, a black vest with threads of gold, a long emerald-green
skirt, a Tibetan blouse with half sleeves, a pair of felt boots, a colourful apron, a traditional Korean robe, white with
a red belt, and two pairs of ballet slippers, all hanging from the clothes line with a show of bluster.
Father looked up, and I noticed that he was blinking. Inspired by the costumes, he was recalling the time when Mother had
been a beautiful stage performer. He set the ballet slippers in motion, then took down the Uighur cap and brushed the dust
off it. He sighed. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, wanting to make me feel better, ‘having a nickname is nothing to worry about. Your
mother is the one I’ve hurt the most. She’ll never be allowed back into the drama troupe, and now even broadcasting is closed
to her. If she can’t be a broadcaster or an actress, her talents will go to waste.’
It was obvious that in his eyes my anguish counted for little next to Mother’s, and I felt like saying, ‘Well, let me call
you Kongpi, and see how you like it.’ But I thought better of it. What he said made sense. What does a nickname mean, anyway?
What does it prove? The family was breaking up, and I knew I could not cast my lot with him. That left only Mother. If she
had a future, so did I. If she was neglected, I would be too. And if she wound up as a nobody, then I’d be a real
kongpi
, and not just in name.
Let me tell you about my mother, Qiao Limin, and her artistic talents.
In her youth she was Milltown’s most ravishing beauty, the star of mass literary and arts activities, and known popularly
as Milltown’s Wang Danfeng. If she hadn’t been a bit long in the body, with short legs, she’d have been more beautiful and
more exceptional than the famous 1940s movie star. She had upturned,
slanted eyes and a straight nose with a slightly bulbous tip, an oval face, and a voice equally comfortable with sweet lyrics
and loud, sonorous arias. But singing and dancing aside, her real talent lay in the realm of broadcasting. For Milltown residents,
the perfect enunciation and intonation of broadcaster Qiao Limin’s voice was like a musical weathervane. Her mid-range notes
told them that everything was fine, in China and in the world; her lower register told them that news of battleground victories
by workers and peasants was pouring in; her alto tones told them that people’s lives were like sesame stalks, whose blossoms
grow higher and higher. But the loudest cheers were reserved for her soprano notes, for in them were hidden rare metals with
natural powers of penetration and shock. The slogans thundering from her during one open trial actually caused the historical
counter-revolutionary Yu Wensun to lose control of his bladder up on the platform. On another occasion, before she’d finished
her slogan, a corrupt bookkeeper at the purchasing station by the name of Yao fainted dead away. If you’d been there to hear
my mother broadcasting you’d know I’m not exaggerating. Her whole existence was tied up in sloganeering, and her shouts were
full of noble aspirations and daring; they pierced the heavens and crackled like magnificent yet graceful thunderclaps in
the sky above Milltown, sending chickens flying and ducks leaping, and striking cats and dogs dumb. Below the platform, people’s
ears rang, and those few individuals with sensitive eardrums were forced to stuff their ears with cotton to withstand the
tonal assault.
Father once said that Mother exuded revolutionary romanticism that had a distinct charm. Revolution and romanticism were for
her a single-minded pursuit. She’d spent her youth in Horsebridge, where her beauty and artistic flair were first spotted,
though the place was too small for her talents to be fully realized. Either out of envy or prejudice, the locals had not held
her in high regard, referring to her behind her back as a butcher-shop Wang Danfeng,
a nickname that drew attention to her origins and bloodline. My maternal grandfather lived in Horsebridge, but I’d never met
him. Why? He was a butcher by trade, a man whose profession called upon him to slaughter pigs. Neither a member of the bourgeoisie
nor a landlord or rich peasant, he still could not lay claim to the status of proletarian. Being born into a questionable
family was a hindrance to Mother’s chances of making a good match. Rumours went round that during the famine Grandfather had
sold buns stuffed with human flesh, a scandalous story that was widely publicized when each new campaign was launched, causing
Mother unbearable humiliation. And so, over the years, she nurtured a plan to escape from her family, which she carried out
soon after her eighteenth birthday. She came home one day, broke open her cherished savings jar and, while she was counting
the money, announced gravely that she was making a break with her family.
‘And how will you accomplish that?’ they asked.
‘I’ll no longer let you feed or clothe me,’ she said. ‘I’m going to strike out on my own.’
‘How do you, a mere girl, expect to do that, especially on that little bit of money? Have you got a mate in mind? Who is it?’
Angered that her family had underestimated her future prospects, she said, ‘Who is my mate? You wouldn’t understand even if
I told you. My mate is the performing stage! You may think I’m callous, but if I don’t make a break with you, you will control
my future, and while you may not care about the future, I do!’
After leaving the Horsebridge butcher’s shop, Mother’s travels took her to many places. She applied for membership of the
Beijing Opera Troupe, the Armoured Corps Cultural Troupe, a Shaoxing Opera Troupe, as well as district Beijing Opera troupes.
She even applied for an acrobatic troupe. But her hopes were dashed each time – in like a tiger’s head, out like a snake’s
tail,
as the saying goes – either because they thought her legs were stumpy or that her family background presented problems. After
being refused entry into the traditional cultural troupes, she’d used up all her travel money and had become discouraged.
So she lowered her expectations, setting her sights instead on the popular stage, to perform for the masses. By taking a step
back, she opened up new vistas and quickly found work at the Harvest Nitrate Fertilizer Factory, which was home to the celebrated
Golden Sparrow River Region Cultural Propaganda Troupe. And there she received the recognition she deserved; at last her beauty
had caught someone’s attention. During the day, workers at the factory packaged fertilizer, but after hours they rehearsed
for cultural performances. My mother was either the lead singer or lead dancer in the amateur troupe. When she walked out
of the factory door at the end of her shift, her blue uniform reeked of ammonia, but the captivating world of the stage lived
beneath her collar.
One day, my father, who worked as a woodsman at the time, went to the factory to buy fertilizer and laid eyes on my mother
for the first time. He was surprised to see a bright-red silk jacket under her work clothes, her costume for the red silk
dance. He did not know what to think about her costume or how to sum up her singular charm. Their second meeting, which was
arranged by a go-between, took place by the fertilizer drainage ditch; he watched as she emerged from the factory’s rear door,
lithe and graceful, again with a costume under her work clothes, this one a familiar light-green dress, which, he recalled,
would be worn in the tea-picker’s skit. This time he was prepared. He stirred feelings in her with the first thing he ever
said to her: ‘Comrade Qiao,’ he said, ‘your body emanates the spirit of revolutionary romanticism.’