Suddenly laden with worries, I walked faster, in case Father came out and called me back. I hustled past the piers, where I heard Li Juhua reciting poems inside the oil-pumping station. ‘Youth, ah, youth, you are a flame that burns for Communism! Burn on!’ On my way past, she burst through the door, just like a flame, and nearly crashed into me. ‘What’s your hurry?’ she said. Where’s the fire?’
I smiled. ‘You’re reciting poetry. Is there going to be a theatrical festival?’
Apparently, she didn’t want me to know why she was reciting poetry, so she shook her head, sending her pigtails in motion, and said, ‘Ku Dongliang, how about going to the general store and buying a couple of rubber bands for me. Mine are about to snap.’
‘No time,’ I said, ‘can’t do it.’
She snorted. ‘No time? You, Ku Dongliang? Except to spend a couple of hours sitting in the barbershop. You ought to take advantage of your trip to read a paper or shoot some hoops, do something healthy for a change. Is there a circus troupe living in the barbershop? Aren’t you afraid people will talk if that’s the only place you ever go?’
Though that bothered me, I kept my cool and said, ‘People will talk? What do you think I do there? I get a haircut. That’s not against the law, is it?’
I went to the People’s Barbershop for a haircut, but I wouldn’t let Huixian do it. Old Cui cut my hair, and in his chair I felt as if I were the sunflower and Huixian the sun. I turned to face her, wherever she was. ‘Sit still,’ Old Cui would say as he turned my head back, ‘and quit looking where you’re not supposed to. Keep your eyes on the mirror.’ So I looked at the mirror, and my gaze was transformed into a sunflower that struggled to turn to the sun, usually squinting at Huixian out of the corner of my eye, which gave me a strange, ugly appearance. When Old Cui glanced in the mirror and saw what I was looking at, he thumped me on the shoulder. ‘Watch out, Kongpi, or your eyes will fall out of their sockets.’
Ah, the mirror had revealed my secret, so I went over to get a newspaper and covered my eyes with it. Running short of patience, Cui tore the paper out of my hands and tossed it to the floor. ‘High officials can read the newspaper when they’re getting their hair cut, not you.’ Knowing what was on my mind, he didn’t like it one bit, and he took his disgust out on my scalp. He cut everybody else’s hair with tender concern, but not mine. To him my head was a dark, bleak patch of ground, which he attacked with scissors in one hand and clippers in the other, like a reaping machine. And there was nothing I could do about it, because when I complained that it hurt, he stopped, turned to Huixian, and said, ‘Here, take over. The people from the Sunnyside Fleet are too much trouble. I’m turning them all over to you.’
Huixian would shoot me a quick glance before smiling ambiguously at Old Cui and saying, deftly masking her attempt to get out of it, ‘You’re a model worker, Old Cui. No one can compete with you, so you go ahead. Besides, he won’t let me work on him anyway.’
Why wouldn’t I? She should have been curious, should have wondered what that was all about, but she wasn’t curious about an eccentric like me, and not interested in asking. I actually felt OK about that, since I didn’t have to make up a story. But disappointment took over as I tried to imagine what place, if any, I held in her heart. Maybe to her I was a kongpi, and the thoughts of a kongpi are kongpi, as are the eccentricities of a kongpi, so there was no need to give me another thought.
At the People’s Barbershop I was able to probe the rumours I’d heard about Huixian. Given the infrequency of my trips ashore, the accuracy of my research was about one in ten thousand. There were times when I wished I were one of those swivelling chairs, so I could be with Huixian morning, noon and night. Or I wished I were her scissors, always in the vicinity of people’s heads, wondering who they were and if they’d really come for a haircut, or were just pretending. Why did some people keep dawdling until they could get her to cut their hair? They talked about anything and everything, and they could well have been flirting. I needed to keep a close eye on them. My eyes were a camera focused only on Huixian. My ears were a phonograph, with the same intent. Too bad my time ashore was so limited, and my camera and phonograph had such restricted functions. When I was there, Huixian was so close, but still I was unable to glean any secrets of her heart.
The women who came to the barbershop talked mostly of romance and marriage. I found their wagging tongues valuable, but they could never stay on one topic long enough. They were eager to pry into her private life. Did she have a mate picked out, they wondered aloud. Is the boy you’ve chosen really in Beijing? That’d get my antennae twitching. But when they saw she wasn’t interested in talking to them, they’d switch to the weather, or ask about the latest hair-styles. What would look best for my face, Huixian? I had to bite my tongue to keep from reminding them that no hair-style could improve their looks. Ask more questions, go on, ask her who the boy is. They couldn’t hear me, of course, and they only wanted to talk about hair-styles. The camera in my eyes was secretly aimed at Huixian, the phonograph in my ears went on strike, and I angrily shut it down.
I once ran into Zhao Chunmei at the barbershop. She was wearing white high-heels and holding a white handbag as she sat in one of the barber’s chairs, waiting for Old Cui to do her hair. She’d aged a bit, but had lost neither her charm nor her spite and resentment. I didn’t recognize her at first, but she knew who I was right away. ‘What’s he doing here?’ she demanded.
Before Old Cui could reply, Huixian laughed. ‘What’s he doing here? Good question. This is the People’s Barbershop. He counts as “people”, and he’s here to have his hair cut.’
Zhao Chunmei snorted. ‘The people — him? If he is, then there are no class enemies. Do you know that he writes counter-revolutionary slogans? Mostly targeting my brother!’
Enemies are bound to meet on narrow roads. It was an awkward encounter. Coming face to face with women who’d had relationships with my father not only made me blush, but threw my heart into turmoil. I still recalled their names, those few people who had been instrumental in my sexual initiation. Now those ageing faces, thickening waists and limbs, and cellulite-laden buttocks brought shame on those wonderful, moving, desirable, tantalizing names. I was ashamed to let my mind dwell on thoughts of their sexual encounters with Father, but then his reminder was confirmed: my crotch underwent an unexpected occurrence, as my wayward organ broke loose from my underwear and subtle changes appeared in the creases of my trousers. All of a sudden, I had trouble breathing. I thought I could see my father’s bizarre penis; after surgery, it had sort of regained its original appearance, but it was still ugly, comical even. Why had this mark of shame been transplanted on to my body? Crushed by unimaginable terror, I held tightly to the smock and could not hold up my head. I heard Huixian’s voice — she was defending me. ‘Don’t get involved in class struggle and political issues,’ she was saying. ‘Opposing Chairman Mao or the Communist Party, now that’s counter-revolutionary. He was opposing Secretary Zhao, an ordinary section chief, so nothing written about him can be considered counter-revolutionary.’
With a click of her tongue, Zhao Chunmei turned and attacked Huixian. ‘What are you to him?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you to defend him? An official? What sort of political stance do you call that? Writing about my brother isn’t counter-revolutionary, is that what you’re saying? Are you trying to stir up the masses in opposition to leaders of the Party?’