There can be no doubt that the injustices I’ve suffered have their origin in those visited upon my father. Now that he was no longer Deng Shaoxiang’s son, I was not her grandson. Not being Deng Shaoxiang’s son meant that he was a nobody. And his being a nobody had a direct impact on my mother and on me. I too was now a nobody.
The next day I became a kongpi. And that became my nickname.
Everything happened so fast that I was caught on the back foot. On the day after the news broke, before I had chance to amend my princely ways, I ran into Scabby Five and Scabby Seven on my way to school. They were standing in front of the pharmacy with their older sister, waiting for it to open; Seven’s head was swathed in gauze stained by thick gunk that attracted hordes of flies, which encircled all three of them. I stopped. ‘Scabby Seven,’ I said as I gaped at the flies on his head, ‘have you opened a toilet on your head? Is that why all those flies are landing on it?’
Their eyes were glued to me, especially Scabby Seven’s, who was looking at the buttered bun I was holding. He swallowed hungrily, then turned to his sister. ‘See!’ he bawled. ‘He’s got a buttered bun. He gets one every day!’
With a little pout, his sister shooed the flies away from his head and said, ‘What’s so great about a buttered bun? Who cares if he’s got one?’
‘Who cares?’ Seven complained. ‘I’ve never tasted one. I ought to care about something I’ve never tasted, shouldn’t I?’
His sister paused, glancing at the bun in my hand, and sighed. ‘They cost seven fen,’ she said. ‘We can’t afford that. I’ve never tasted one either, so let’s just pretend we don’t care.’
But Seven was having none of that. Stiffening his neck, he said, ‘His father isn’t Deng Shaoxiang’s son and he’s not her grandson. So how come he gets a buttered bun?’
His sister’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re right, he’s a nobody. Who said he can eat that for breakfast? He’s mocking us.’
The siblings exchanged glances, and in that brief moment I had a premonition that something bad was about to happen. But not ready to trust my instincts, I stood there, unafraid. Then, as if at an agreed signal, they all rushed at me. Holding the bun over my head, I said, ‘How dare you try to steal my food?’ They ignored me. Seven jumped up and, like a crazed animal, grabbed my wrist. Then his sister prised my fingers apart, one at a time, until she could snatch the bun, now squeezed out of shape, from my grasp.
I was fifteen at the time. Scabby Five and Scabby Seven were both younger than me, and shorter. And their sister, well, she was just a girl. But by ganging up on me, they easily snatched the food out of my hand. For that I have only lack of preparation to blame, thanks to my princely habits, not ability or physique. Someone riding past on a bicycle turned to look at me and then at the brothers and sister. ‘Stealing food,’ they said. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
They weren’t. Scabby Seven’s sister watched with a sense of pride as he took big bites. ‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘Don’t eat so fast, you’ll choke on it.’
After a long moment I began thinking logically. This incident was tied up with my father. Since he was not the martyr’s son, Scabby Seven was free to steal my bun, and bystanders could look on without lifting a hand. I understood what was going on here, but I refused to take it lying down. I pointed at Scabby Seven. ‘How dare you eat my bun!’ I shouted. ‘Spit it out!’
He ignored me. ‘What are you shouting about?’ his sister said. ‘I don’t see your name on it. Buns are made of flour, and that comes from wheat, which is planted by peasants. Our mother’s a peasant, so some of this belongs to her.’ She dragged her younger brother over to the wall and used her body as a shield. ‘Hurry up!’ she demanded. ‘Finish it. He won’t be able to prove a thing once it’s in your stomach.’ Apparently she was getting worried, though she put on a brave front as she searched the faces of the people near the pharmacy. Then she looked at me again. ‘What are you complaining about? You eat a bun every day, but my brother has to settle for thin gruel. That’s not fair, it’s not socialism! It gives socialism a bad name.’
She walked off, dragging Scabby Seven along with her and followed by Scabby Five. I took a few menacing steps towards them. ‘Is this a rebellion?’ I said. ‘Well, go ahead and rebel. Eat up. Today the bun is my treat; tomorrow I’ll bring you shit to eat!’
She raised her arm and gave me a threatening look. ‘To rebel is right! Chairman Mao says so! Don’t you dare come over here! If you do, you’re thumbing your nose at Chairman Mao. Shit this, piss that. How about cleaning out that filthy mouth of yours? See those people? Are they coming to help you? The people’s eyes are too bright for that. Your dad has fallen into disgrace, and you’re nothing, a nobody, nothing but a kongpi!’
No doubt about it, that was a big loss of face. But I can’t avoid the fact that, thanks to that girl, I had a new nickname. I was now Kongpi. I can still recall the glee on the faces of the crowd that had gathered at the sound of those two syllables. In wonderful appreciation of his sister’s quick-witted sarcasm, Scabby Seven burst out laughing so hard he nearly choked. ‘Kongpi! Kongpi! That’s right, now he’s a kongpi.’ Their glee infected everyone within hearing. People around the pharmacy, early-morning passers-by on the street, and those standing beneath the family-planning billboard echoed their gleeful laughter, and within seconds I could hear those two syllables swirling triumphantly in the air all over Milltown.
Kongpi, Kongpi, Kongpi!
People may not know that kongpi is a Milltown slang term that dates back hundreds of years. It sounds vulgar and easy to understand, but in fact it has a profound meaning that incorporates both kong, or ‘empty’, and pi, or ‘ass’. Placed together, the term is emptier than empty and stinkier than an ass.
River
IN THE winter of that year I said goodbye to life on the shore and followed my father on to a river barge. I didn’t know then that it was to be a lifetime banishment. Boarding was easy, getting off impossible. I’ve now been on the barge for eleven years with no chance of ever going back.
People say that my father tied me to the barge, and there were times when I had to agree, since that provided me with the justification for a life of sheer tedium. But in the eyes of my father, this justification was a gleaming dagger forever aimed at his conscience. At times when I could not contain my displeasure with him, I used this dagger as a weapon to injure, to accuse, even to humiliate him. But most of the time I didn’t have the heart for that, and while the procession of barges sailed downstream, I gazed over the side at the water and felt that I’d been bound to the river for eternity. Then I looked at the levees and houses and fields on the banks and felt that I was bound to them as well. I saw people I knew there, and others I didn’t; I saw people on other barges, and couldn’t help feeling that they were the ones who had bound me to the barge. But when we sailed at night, when the river darkened, when, in fact, the whole world darkened, I turned on the masthead lamp and watched as the hazy light cast my shadow on to the bow, a tiny, fragile, shapeless watermark of a shadow. The water flowed across the wide riverbed, while my life streamed on aboard the barge, and from the dark water emerged a revelation. I discovered the secret of my life: I was bound to the barge by my shadow.