Was my character flawed? I didn’t know. But for years I fought off the erections, for my benefit and for Father’s. By now everyone knew how he had suffered over his erections, and how he’d come up with a unique way of dealing with the problem — in essence, cut the weeds and dig up the roots. With one snip of his scissors, he had eradicated the evil at its source, thus atoning for his sins. It had also afforded him plenty of moral capital. By overseeing what went on in my head and how that affected my crotch, he was able to exercise control over me. He considered this to be a lifelong mission.
I was stuck. Why did he have to be my father? He forced me to study Marxist-Leninist texts, believing it was for my own good. Guarding against and forbidding erections was also for my own good. I knew that he was not like other people, and that his rules of discipline differed from theirs. Sometimes I humoured him, as if I were the father. If he told me to read something, I pretended to read it, even though it was all an act and I was actually doing something else as I held the book in my hands. I’d become very good at that. But what angered and shamed me was his scrutiny of the front of my trousers. No matter where or when he did this, it put me on edge. If, on a sunny day, Chunsheng called me over to his barge to play cards, I’d only make it halfway there before I heard my father shout, ‘You should know better. Don’t go over there in shorts. Come back and change your clothes.’ Or I’d wake up on a cold night to discover that he’d pulled back my quilt and, by the light of a lantern in his hand, was examining my face and my crotch. ‘What were you dreaming? That’s all you think about, day and night. Look at you, and look at this mess on your quilt! Don’t tell me you weren’t having one of your sordid dreams.’
My genitals were a constant worry. Genitals have no brain, no knowledge and no ability to pretend. God, how I hated my hand! Its assistance was the reason why I left evidence of my genital crimes on my quilt. I tried everything. I made it a point not to let my hand come into contact with my genitals. They had to be kept apart, and the best way to do that was to give up some of the comforts of sleep. So I began wearing long trousers and a belt to bed; I got into the habit of slipping under the covers each night wearing a pair of work trousers over my underpants, and prayed to the image of Deng Shaoxiang to help me get through the night without incident. I lay stiffly on my army cot, not relaxing until I heard the martyr’s stern command — Come down, come down — and fell asleep. The habit served me well. Granted, the stink of sweat rose from my bedding, but my dreams were clean and pure. All I had was an infrequent nightmare. I’d wake up out of fright, drenched in sweat. I had one particular bad dream I never told my father about. In it I saw Huixian standing on the shore, calling my name over and over again. I stayed in the cabin, unable to move, since many people had conspired to tie me up and get Father to repeat a ritual over me. He was crying as he snipped off half my penis with a pair of scissors. As he wiped the blood off the scissors he said to me with fatherly concern, ‘Try to bear the pain, Dongliang, it’s for your own good. Now you’re just like me, we’re the same, and I don’t have to worry about you any longer.’
On the river and on the shore, I was a captive of Father’s shadow. My trips ashore were tightly controlled, my freedom severely restricted. He limited the time I could spend off the boat to two hours, one of which was for buying provisions, taking a bath, getting a haircut and visiting the public toilet. The remaining hour was to be devoted to carrying out his instructions: checking the fleet postbox, and going to the General Affairs Building to see if any political work teams were coming to town from the district headquarters. The arrival of one of those teams was a special occasion that required special arrangements, and I was to head back to the barge and tell him without delay if one came. He would then break his own rule by going ashore. If a team arrived in Milltown, he’d hand over eleven years’ worth of reports on his ideological progress and detail the unjust treatment and misfortunes he’d suffered during that period.
Before going ashore I’d put whatever I needed in my bag, then take pains to make myself as presentable as possible. Father reminded me to wear my wristwatch. ‘I see you’ve polished your shoes. Well, keep your eyes off your shoes and on your wristwatch.’ Then he pointed to the alarm clock in the cabin and re-stated his rule. ‘I’ll be watching that clock,’ he said. ‘Two hours, no more. Last time you were fifteen minutes late coming back. Don’t let it happen again.’ I climbed out of the cabin, bag in hand, but stopped in the hatchway and turned for one more instruction: ‘Let me see you,’ he said.
I knew what he meant by that. Sucking in my gut, I shook my trousers and said, ‘OK, take a good look. See anything out of order?’
With concern in his eyes, he looked at my crotch. ‘What kind of attitude is that? It’s for your own good. Be careful out there. Don’t go anywhere you’re not supposed to go or do anything you shouldn’t.’ That left only the final ritual. I raised my eyes towards the image of the martyr hanging on the wall, as he said in a sombre voice, ‘Whatever you do, always remember your lineage. Shaming me doesn’t count for much, but don’t you dare besmirch the reputation of Deng Shaoxiang!’
Over our eleven years on that barge, people — me included — had pretty much forgotten Father’s and my status. Except for on River Day, the twenty-seventh of September each year, and the infrequent occasions when I walked past Milltown’s chess pavilion, I had all but forgotten that I’d once had the honour of being Deng Shaoxiang’s grandson and that we’d enjoyed the status of being a revolutionary martyr’s descendants. Father defended his glorious bloodline like a drowning man vainly clutching a leaky life-raft. I was baffled by my bloodline. Father had been registering appeals over the bloodline issue for eleven years, but I had no place to appeal to. I was Ku Dongliang, and Ku Dongliang was Ku Wenxuan’s son. If he was not Deng Shaoxiang’s son, then I was not her grandson. And if somebody like me was not the descendant of a martyr, I was a kongpi. And if I was a kongpi, what relationship could I ever have with Deng Shaoxiang? That being the case, what could I possibly do to vilify her name?
My bloodline held no fascination for me. I was too caught up in my concern for Huixian, and that constituted the greatest betrayal of my father’s wishes from my youth onwards. That betrayal brought me no rewards. Huixian’s attitude towards me bounced back and forth from cold to hot. Maybe she wasn’t interested in me — I could deal with that. But I had to know who she was interested in.
As I was going ashore I saw Six-Fingers Wang’s daughters Big and Little Phoenix on the deck of their barge, drying mustard plants. Big Phoenix was standing with an armload of plants and looking at me with fire in her eyes. ‘Look at you, all dressed up. Off to find a bride?’
Regardless of how bold Six-Fingers’s daughters were, or what they said to sound me out, or whether they were wearing shorts and revealing vests, you have my word that I would never have given either of them a second look. Big Phoenix took being ignored in her stride, but Little Phoenix felt a need to take up the fight on behalf of her sister. ‘If you haven’t got anything to do,’ she said, ‘go and talk to the river, but don’t waste your breath on him. Everybody knows what he does over there. He hangs out at the barbershop like a moron waiting to snag a wife, or like a toad wanting to feast on swan!’
No question about it, Desheng’s wife had not been able to keep her mouth shut, and my secret was now public knowledge. Sooner or later it was bound to reach Father’s ears, and maybe sooner than I imagined, if he was within earshot of Little Phoenix’s shouts.