Fortunately, they were eventful days. Father got busy as the twenty-seventh of September, the anniversary of Deng Shaoxiang’s martyrdom, neared, and so did I. In order to prepare River Day candles and paper flowers, he sent me into town to buy coloured paper and a jug of rice wine. The wine served two functions: I was to spray half of it on the martyr’s memorial and bring the rest back to the boat for him. He never touched alcohol, except on the twenty-seventh of September, when he drank to the spirit of Deng Shaoxiang.
I went first to the stationery shop to buy coloured paper. As she was taking a stack of paper down off the shelf, the shop assistant blurted out, ‘You’re not from the school, are you? And you’re not from the General Affairs Building, so what do you need coloured paper for?’
‘Coloured paper isn’t rationed,’ I said. ‘What do you care where I’m from? I’m buying, and you have to sell it to me.’
She gave me a suspicious look. ‘Do I have to sell it to you if you’re buying it to write counter-revolutionary slogans? Don’t roll your eyes at me. I know who you are. You’re Ku Wenxian’s son, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So what? Can’t Ku Wenxian’s son buy coloured paper?’
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and snorted. ‘Your father owes us money. Back when he was one of the town’s big shots, he took lots of our paper — plain white paper, writing paper, coloured paper, even some fine paper for calligraphy. But we never saw any money.’
‘That’s your problem,’ I said. ‘You could have made him pay for those things.’
‘You’re quite the talker,’ she said. ‘He was a local tyrant who told us to charge it to the General Affairs account. Who’d dare to refuse? Then there’s your mother, Qiao Limin. She wasn’t in the habit of paying for her purchases either: books, fountain pens, pencils, pencil cases, notebooks. All for official business, she said, so charge it. Oh, we did that all right. It would have been fine, except that Ku Wenxuan fell from power and Zhao Chuntang refused to honour the bill. We’re the losers. Our books and inventory never match.’
Telling me about my parents’ past deeds embarrassed me and made me angry. ‘That’s none of my business,’ I said, rapping my knuckles on the counter. ‘I don’t want to talk about what they did. I’m here to buy coloured paper. If you won’t sell it to me, I’ll just take it.’
‘Fat chance,’ she replied. ‘The son inherits the father’s debts. And what makes you think that you, who owes us money, can act like a little tyrant? Nobody’s afraid of you any more. Why should we be? You can buy your paper somewhere else.’ When she saw me move closer to the display case, she slammed the door shut. Then she gave me a shrill warning: ‘I doubt you’d dare to rob us, but if you did, the police station is right down the street, and they’d come running if they heard me scream.’
The assistant and I were confronting one another across the glass-topped counter when a three-wheeled vehicle loaded with cardboard boxes pulled up in front of the shop. The driver entered carrying a large box and set it down. It was the shopkeeper, Old Yin, a round-faced man with big ears. He’d save the day, since in the past he’d been a frequent guest in our home. Back then he used to rub my head whenever he dropped by. He didn’t do that this time, but he hadn’t forgotten who I was. ‘Dongliang,’ he said, ‘why the scowl? You’re not shopping for a knife to kill someone, are you?’
‘That’s exactly what he wants,’ the assistant said, ‘all because I told him to go home and remind his father that he owes us money. What I got was that look in return. With such a long face, someone who didn’t know better might think we owed him money.’
Old Yin was a man who enjoyed digging up local anecdotes and was thoroughly versed in Milltown’s revolutionary history. When he learned that I’d come to buy coloured paper he glanced up at the wall calendar. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow’s Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial day.’ With that, he agreed to sell me paper, and even separated it by colour to let me choose the ones I wanted.
‘I don’t know how to choose,’ I said. ‘You do it for me.’
So he bent over and began selecting the right colours. ‘Your father has a good heart,’ he muttered. ‘Even after what happened to him, he makes a point of observing September the twenty-seventh. But what I don’t understand is, since he refuses to come ashore these days, how will he memorialize the martyr?’
‘Water’s as good as land,’ I said. ‘He’ll just face Phoenix and toss paper flowers into the river.’
Old Yin raised his head and gave me a dubious look. ‘Phoenix, you say? You don’t know? You really don’t know?’
I gaped at him, having no idea what he was talking about. ‘Know what?’
He glanced at me, cleared his throat and spoke in an authoritative, almost callous tone. ‘There’s new information your father couldn’t know about, since he’s out of the picture. Go home and tell him not to rely on the almanac. They’ve discovered that Deng Shaoxiang wasn’t from Phoenix after all. That coffin shop was moved to Phoenix from Running Ox Village. You understand what I’m saying? Deng Shaoxiang was born not in Phoenix but in Running Ox Village. Ever hear of it?’
I stood transfixed in front of the counter. I neither shook my head nor nodded. I glared at Old Yin. I’d never heard of Running Ox Village, and people were going to think this was a joke. My father insisted that he was Martyr Deng’s son, and that I was her grandson. But neither of us had ever heard of Running Ox Village!
My face reddened with embarrassment. I scooped up the paper and ran out of the shop, followed by the loud voice of the shop assistant. ‘Who do you think you are?’ she shouted. ‘A pretender! Stop being stupid. Father and son — one’s a cheat, the other a little hooligan. If Deng Shaoxiang had descendants like you, any commemoration would be a waste of time.’
I walked down the streets of Milltown with the coloured paper under my arm, anger boiling up inside me, not just because of the shop assistant, but also because of the murky nature of Martyr Deng’s life. Deng Shaoxiang, your glorious deeds are worthy of song and tears, but why did you lead such a complicated life with so many twists and turns? You are the most famous of martyrs, your name remains with us even after your death. You were not a cloud, so why did you drift from place to place, here one minute, there the next? Where did you actually come from? And who is your real son? When will all the doubts be dispelled? Martyr Deng Shaoxiang, I beg you, won’t you show yourself to tell us the truth?
I looked into the sky above the chess pavilion. The people who saw me gave me curious stares. Those who didn’t know me asked, ‘What’s up with him?’ Those who knew me said, ‘Don’t mind him, he’s Ku Dongliang. He often walks with his head up, but sometimes he keeps it down. Whatever makes him happy.’
I was walking with my head up because I wasn’t happy. But the noise from a crowd of people around the general store calmed me down. I lowered my head, and there on the steps of the store stood a throng of women and children, baskets in hand, lined up to buy sugar. An announcement had been pasted up on the door:
A SUPPLY OF SUGAR IN COMMEMORATION OF NATIONAL DAY HAS ARRIVED. THREE OUNCES OF SUGAR WILL BE SOLD FOR EACH SUGAR COUPON.