Chu noticed that his father’s hands were shaking badly. “What kind of trouble?” he pursued.
His father took a deep drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. “It would be easier if he just came right out and asked for a bigger payoff,” he said, calmer now. “Instead, he has set up what he calls a shipping company — using county government trucks, mind you — and wants us to pay him for shipping our oranges to Amoy City.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that!?!” his father sputtered. “What’s wrong with that is that he wants to charge about five times the going rate for freight. We bought our own truck two years ago. We can ship our own fruit to market for the cost of diesel fuel and a driver.”
“So do it,” Chu said.
“I told him I intended to,” his father replied. “That’s when he imposed a new tax on shipments between villages. ‘A road tax’ he called it. Of course, if we use his trucks, we don’t have to pay. So we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t!” He threw the half-smoked cigarette down and ground it into the dirt. “He’s a corrupt Party official, Dugen! A parasite on the working class!”
The conversation had veered onto dangerous ground, Chu thought. All Party bosses were corrupt to some degree. It went with the system. The Party had periodic campaigns to try and control corruption. Sometimes they kept it within manageable limits. More often not. “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that,” he said, trying to calm his father down. “You usually get along well with Secretary Fu.”
“I have never gotten along with Secretary Fu!” his father snorted. “Twenty years ago your uncle and I started clearing wasteland and planting citrus groves. Fu encouraged us, telling us that we would be exempt from taxes. It was backbreaking work, and before the trees were firmly rooted we had to haul water with buckets and carrying poles. Each year we expanded, until we now have 160 mou under cultivation. Then when the crops started coming in, and we began to make money, he began showing up and demanding a cut.”
This was news to Chu. “You mean taxes?”
“Taxes, dogshit!” his father burst out. “He wanted to line his own pocket. He demanded a payoff. If we didn’t pay up, he told us that he would declare that we had planted the trees illegally on public land. We were afraid that the orchards would be confiscated, so we paid up. Every year since have given him about a third of our profits. He keeps track of how many truckloads of oranges we take to market, and comes over after the harvest to demand what he calls ‘his share.’ His share! The bloodsucker has never done an honest day’s work in his life!” His voice took on a raw edge of anger. “He wants us to be his serfs again, just like under the commune system!”
“Father, Father, calm down,” Chu said uneasily, taken aback by his father’s unaccustomed vehemence. “Let’s go see the orchards. I need to stretch my legs.” And get you off this dangerous subject, he thought to himself.
A few strides took them into the nearest grove. This had been one of the earliest plantings, and the trees now towered twice as high as a man’s head. They walked in silence for a few minutes. The luxuriant green foliage had a calming effect, and Chu sensed that his father’s mood was beginning to shift.
His father began to talk, slowly at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm as they walked on. There was land to be cleared for another planting. There was next year’s harvest to be estimated. The cooperative — voluntary, his father stressed — was to be expanded to include a couple of neighboring villages. They came to the edge of the orchard. “We’ve come this far,” Chu’s father urged. “Let’s walk to the top of Turtle Knob. From there you can see the whole plateau. We’re planting another ten mou on the slopes this winter.”
Chu needed no convincing. From the time he was a little boy, he had always loved listening to his father describe his plans for the future. Each time his father had made his vision a reality. By strength of back and dint of will, his father had made a road, had planted an orchard, had prospered a village. His father was a man of his word, loved and trusted by all, and by no one more than his only son.
From the top of Turtle Knob, the orchards made an impressive sight, covering the entire plateau and running halfway up the gentle hills beyond. Someday, his father said, orange groves would run all the way to the top.
Chu had not the slightest doubt this would be the case. His father was a force of nature. He remembered a time when nothing but brush and scrub had covered these hills. He had spent hours walking their lower slopes, gathering grass, twigs, and anything that would burn for the cook stove in his mother’s old kitchen lean-to. Now, thanks to the muscular, determined man standing beside him, those same slopes were covered with neat lines of orange trees. Now his mother cooked with propane in a bright, new tiled kitchen. And she cooked very well.
The entire village was at the Chu’s that night. The men gathered around four circular tables that had been set up in the main room, the women retired to the kitchen to help with the last-minute preparations, while the children ran about, giggling and laughing, entertaining themselves.
As soon as the men were seated, Chu’s father and uncle opened the several liters of rice liquor that Chu had brought from the base commissary. The liquor went directly from the bottles into the rice bowls that sat in front of each man. The rice would not be served until they had finished this bowl and more.
Chu’s uncle then stood up, gestured for silence, and turned to face his nephew. “Wo jing Zhongxiao Tongzhi yi bei!” he said loudly, cupping his hands around his bowl in a posture of supplication, “I respectfully offer Comrade Lieutenant Colonel a toast.” His mock formality caused great guffaws of laughter.
Chu leapt to his feet. “Wo jing Bofu yi bei,” he replied, “I respectfully offer my father’s elder brother a toast.”
Chu and his uncle both raised their bowls high in a sign of mutual respect before bringing them to their lips. While Chu’s uncle downed a couple swallows of the fiery contents, Chu himself took only a small sip. He had been a guest of honor at a feast before. He knew what was coming. If he wanted to be on his feet at the end of the evening, he had to pace himself.
The room was boisterous with congratulations. Everyone insisted on toasting his promotion — one at a time. “Ganbei,” each of the men challenged him in their turn, holding his bowls high. “Bottoms up.”
“Suiyi,” he replied time and time again, “just a sip.” He received several dozen toasts in quick and pungent succession. His uncle followed him around with the bottle, grinning, making sure his bowl stayed full.
Then he saw his father, who had been quiet up to that point, start to rise from his seat. “I respectfully offer my father a toast,” Chu said quickly before his father could speak. “I owe you everything that I am.” He lifted his bowl high with both hands, waited for his father to do the same, then took a sip.
His father slugged down the entire bowl of liquor in a single motion, eliciting “oohs” and “aahs” from his watching friends. Then he turned it upside down and shook it to show his son that not even a drop remained. “Ganbei,” he said firmly, with only a hint of a smile.
There was nothing Chu could do. Everyone’s eyes were upon him. “Ganbei,” he said, shrugging helplessly, draining his own bowl in turn. His uncle was quick to refill it.