‘I thought you went ashore early,’ Desheng said. ‘What are you hanging around here for?’
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. They turned and saw what was behind them. ‘Hey, it’s Scabby Five and Baldy Chen, and there’s
Xiaogai. What are they doing? They seem burdened by a guilty conscience, whether they’ve done anything wrong or not.’
Someone, it must have been Six-Fingers Wang, uttered a panicky scream. ‘They’re going to arrest us!’ The women grabbed their
kids and scattered, while the men’s reactions varied: some bent at the waist, clenched their fists and stood their ground;
others wrapped their arms around roadside trees. Chunsheng, timid as always, crouched down and covered his head.
The chaos among the boat people was echoed by chaos among the security group. A flustered Xiaogai blew his whistle madly –
with no results – then cupped his hands, gesturing for everyone to come back. ‘Don’t scatter,’ he shouted. ‘Stay as a group.
Don’t pay any attention to Six-Fingers’s crazy talk. We’re not going to arrest anybody! We’re here to supervise people, not
arrest them.’
Looks were exchanged, followed by a tentative return to the middle of the street by a few of the boat people, who watched
Xiaogai and his friends nervously. ‘Close up ranks!’ Xiaogai shouted, repeating his gesture. ‘Close up ranks, I say! Stay
together and keep going. We’re not going to arrest anybody.’
‘So what?’ Sun Ximing said. ‘Do you expect thanks for not arresting us? What are you up to? Who said you could supervise us?’
Xiaogai took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. ‘Who, you ask? Read this and you’ll know who. It’s from the General Affairs
Building.’
Sun tried to take the paper from Xiaogai, then, barely literate, he called me over. ‘Come here, Dongliang, and tell us what
this says.’
I walked up and read what was on the pink sheet. It was, as Xiaogai had said, a new regulation: ‘Effective immediately, members
of the Sunnyside Fleet must travel as a group on shore under the supervision of the security group.’ I read it again, this
time out loud for the benefit of the people who had gathered around me. The bickering started at once. ‘Are we counter-revolutionaries
or a labour-reform group?’ Desheng shouted to Xiaogai. ‘Why should we let you supervise us?’
‘You heard what this said.’ Xiaogai shook the sheet of paper. ‘These are critical times. When that’s no longer the case and
you can go back to your normal jobs, we’ll stop supervising you.’
Baldy Chen glared at Desheng. ‘You’ve got quite a temper, Li Desheng, haven’t you? What’s so bad about being supervised? Will
it give you haemorrhoids? Or cancer?’
Before Desheng could reply, his wife counterattacked: ‘No haemorrhoids and no cancer. Just baldness so severe that not a single
blade of grass will grow on his head.’
The crowd roared, all except Sun Ximing, who looked glum. ‘Go ahead, supervise,’ he said, ‘but not like this. Anybody who
sees us will think you’re letting prisoners out for fresh air and exercise.’
‘Nobody cares about appearances during critical times,’ Xiaogai replied. ‘By staying in line you make our job easier.’
Sun didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘What the hell does that mean? First you say you’re going to supervise us, then you
want us to do your job for you. When a cat chases a mouse, the mouse doesn’t just roll over!’
Apparently, Xiaogai was serious about getting us to cooperate, since he offered Sun a Front Gate cigarette. Sun hesitated
before accepting the cigarette, which eased the tension on both sides. The boat people continued to grumble and maintain their
dignity as best they could as they silently closed ranks, no one making a reckless move. With the false alarm over, the odd
procession moved slowly towards town, its tails still attached. But a subtle change came over the group, as the people rearranged
themselves in families. Related men, women and children walked together in tight little units, apprehensive looks on the faces
of the adults, who held tightly on to their puzzled children.
Walking a few paces behind Desheng and his wife, I was the
sole straggler. My father had refused to come ashore, so I held my tote bag as if it were his hand. Made of grey leatherette,
it was crammed full of oil and soy-sauce bottles and a sack for rice. But the most important contents were in the lining pocket:
two letters. Father’s letters. One was a petition appealing against the decision of the Martyrs’ Orphan Appraisal Team, in
which he argued that the team had been swayed by rumours, leading to an unjust decision. The second letter was also an appeal,
not on his behalf but on behalf of the spirit of the martyr, criticizing Zhao Chuntang for his passive attitude towards the
preservation and maintenance of Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial stone. I recall that one was addressed to Comrade Wang Chuan at
the District Party History Office, the other to the appropriate person at the Civil Administration Section. My steps that
day were heavier and more cautious than those of the other boat people, owing to a feeling that Father was hiding in my bag,
vacillating between indignation and terror; I heard his voice emerge from inside: ‘Careful,’ he was saying nervously. ‘Be
very careful.’
The boat people passed silently in front of the General Affairs Building, with its sunlit, flower-filled square. A gigantic
banner hung horizontally across the top of the building: ‘
MOBILIZE TO WELCOME THE EAST WIND PROJECT NO. 8
!’ I tapped Desheng on the shoulder to point it out. ‘Ah, so that’s what the so-called critical times are all about.’ He stopped
and gazed at the banner; the others in the group did too. They may have been poorly educated, but they weren’t stupid, and
they immediately made a connection between their situation and the East Wind Project No. 8, though there was doubt on their
faces. Given their level of political consciousness, they did not understand what their journey through town had to do with
the project.
Seeing that the procession had stopped and that everyone was looking up at the banner put the security men on their guard.
They drew their truncheons and nudged the gawkers. ‘What are
you stopping for? Loitering in front of government facilities is prohibited.’
Sun Ximing grabbed Scabby Five’s truncheon and said, ‘Hold on a minute. I can read what that banner says.’ He raised his eyes
and read it aloud, stumbling over some of the words. When he had finished, he grew animated. ‘We enthusiastically support
East Wind Project No. 8,’ he shouted to Scabby Five, ‘and we’ll do nothing to interfere with it. So there’s no need to keep
following us.’
With a sarcastic laugh, Scabby Five said, ‘Interfere with East Wind Project No. 8? You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Since you know that,’ Sun said, ‘why waste energy following us? Don’t you have anything better to do?’
Xiaogai walked up and said softly, ‘Pipe down, old Sun. Don’t cause a scene. The General Affairs Building has been designated
a strategic area. It’s where our military experts work these days. The consequences of making any impact on their work would
be more than you could deal with.’
‘Just where have these military experts come from?’ Sun asked with increasing doubt. ‘And why would they be here at the General
Affairs Building instead of on the front lines?’
Xiaogai snorted. ‘Maybe I know and maybe I don’t, but I wouldn’t tell you even if I did. It’s top secret.’
Brandishing his truncheon, Scabby Five tried to get the crowd moving. ‘Break it up,’ he said. ‘We’ll get rough if you cause
a scene here.’
After weighing up the situation, Sun decided not to say anything more and led the group away from the building, grumbling
as he headed to the flowerbeds, followed by the rest of the group, who were grumbling too. When they reached the public toilet
on People’s Avenue, they stopped and automatically reached for their belts. With a glance at Sun Ximing, they broke the silence.
‘Toilet break.’
‘OK, no harm in that,’ Sun said. ‘Who has to go? They can control heaven and earth, but not our bowels or bladders.’
Xiaogai stopped Scabby from interfering. ‘Are you all going?’ As the official in charge, he mulled over the prospect for a
moment before dismissing them with a wave of his hand. ‘Go ahead, do your business. But don’t forget that these are critical
times and that sanitation teams are everywhere. Don’t bring Milltown into disrepute by making a mess in there.’
Sun Ximing led the crowd into the toilet. These people habitually stopped at the public toilet every time they walked down
People’s Avenue. It was, after all, the finest toilet in town, with four taps, at least two of which provided running water
all year round. Automatic flushes every five minutes cleared the foul air. Local residents could use the facility daily, but
for the boat people it was a rare treat, and they’d have been fools to pass up the opportunity, whether there was a need or
not. A bit of symbolic relief was better than nothing. Even washing their hands with running water was enjoyable and free.
Xiaogai waited at the door while we went inside, followed by Scabby Five and Baldy Chen, who stood just inside the doorway,
one on each side, like guardian deities. ‘Watch where you’re peeing, Six-Fingers,’ Scabby called out, disgusted by the man’s
indelicate way of relieving himself. ‘Are you a man or a donkey? You’re pissing all over the place. You’re in town now, not
on the boat, so step up to the urinal.’
‘What’s your interest here?’ Six-Fingers replied. ‘Security or pissing? Or is pissing part of security?’
‘That’s enough smart talk from you,’ Baldy Chen said. ‘You can read, can’t you? See that sign on the wall? “
ONE SMALL STEP CLOSER TO THE URINAL IS A GIANT LEAP FOR CIVILIZATION
.” It wouldn’t kill you to step up closer to the urinal, would it?’
Six-Fingers didn’t move, so Scabby walked up, stuck his security truncheon into the man’s back and nudged him forward. ‘I’m
warning you, Six-Fingers, don’t give me any lip. It’s not just your pissing attitude I’m concerned about. You have political
problems too. Who told you to shout something about arrests back there? I tell you, starting rumours is a political offence!’
The stream from Six-Fingers stopped abruptly, and I had to laugh. Scabby turned his anger on me. ‘Go ahead, Kongpi, laugh
all you want, but you’re a worse case than him. Do you really think we don’t know what you did?’ He jumped over to the squat-toilet
area and pointed to the scribbling on the wall with his truncheon. ‘Did you write this scurrilous attack on the leadership?’
I moved up to get a closer look. The words ‘
ZHAO CHUNTANG IS AN ALIEN CLASS ELEMENT
’ had been written in crayon. ‘Who says I wrote this? I don’t even know what an alien class element is. You’re the genius,
you tell me.’
He obviously didn’t know either. ‘I know it’s nothing good, or it wouldn’t have the word “element” in it,’ he said. ‘You’ve
written counter-revolutionary slogans before, so who are we supposed to suspect if not you?’
Everyone has his Achilles heel, and that was mine. I was too young to have a black mark on my record, that I knew, but I couldn’t
work out what doing a number two in a public toilet had to do with politics. That added to my discomfort at having our toilet
activities so closely monitored. Not knowing how to deal with Scabby, I squatted there to kill time. Keeping those guys holed
up in a public toilet was the only tactic available to me in this struggle.
Desheng also squatted a few places away, mumbling to himself. Then he decided to taunt Baldy. ‘Why aren’t you monitoring what’s
going on in the women’s toilet? With your authority, what’s to stop you?’
‘Enough of that,’ Baldy said. ‘Our security group is understaffed at the moment, but there’s a female comrade coming.’
Scabby Five appeared at my side and glared at me. ‘Kongpi,’
he said, ‘is that the best you can come up with, a bit of passive resistance? You’re supposed to pull down your pants before
you shit. But go ahead, squat there. I’ll keep you company.’
As I looked up at the crayoned graffiti on the wall – ‘
ZHAO CHUNTANG IS AN ALIEN CLASS ELEMENT
’ – I wrestled with the word ‘alien’. ‘I’ll squat here as long as I want,’ I said, ‘and I’ll get up when I feel like it. You’re
welcome to stay with me if you can stand the smell.’
‘Kongpi, your thoughts stink worse than your shit. You and your anti-socialist hatred.’
‘Bullshit,’ I said. ‘I love socialism, it’s you I hate. Your kid brother and sister stole half a buttered bun from me. That’s
a political issue – why don’t you deal with them?’
‘You hate the proletariat,’ he replied, ‘which means you hate me because I’m part of it. Interesting how you can’t let go
of something as small as half a buttered bun.’
All the time I was arguing with Scabby Five, my eyes were fixed on Zhao Chuntang’s name on the wall. Every debt has a debtor,
every injustice a perpetrator. With hatred building up inside me, I spat on it. Hatred, Scabby Five had said, and he was half
right. I didn’t really hate him, or Wang Xiaogai. I no longer hated my childhood enemies, and as I squatted in that public
toilet, I began to understand the blind hatred that had risen within me: my number-one enemy was my father’s number-one enemy;
my father’s enemy was my enemy. And that was Zhao Chuntang. I hated him from the bottom of my heart.
And so, finally, I got to my feet, looked at Scabby Five, and said, from memory, one slow word at a time, ‘“Zhao – Chun –
tang – is – an – alien – class – element.” How’s my pronunciation?’
‘I wouldn’t be too cocky, if I were you,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later we’ll get to the bottom of that slogan, and whoever wrote
it will be punished.’
When I emerged from the public toilet I spotted the green
window of the Milltown Post Office. A postbox stood at the entrance, tall and dignified, mouth open, seemingly waiting there
for me. The boat people had no need for the post office, which they had passed on their way to the open-air market. But that
postbox and I had an appointment. When I reached it, I considered stuffing in Father’s letters while I was being watched by
the security group. I delved into the bag, and when my hand touched Father’s letters I looked behind me, to see Scabby Five
staring at me, his eyes shining. ‘Be careful,’ Father had said. ‘Be very careful.’ It was strange, but I felt the letters
slip through my fingers, letters that had retained the warmth of Father’s hands. But this time they were fearfully cold, as
if they wanted to escape. I tucked them back into the lining, and that made me feel that I was keeping Father safe with me.