My childhood home had changed hands several times. The new occupant, I knew, was Director Ji of the General Affairs Building. He had been transferred from the military, where it was said he’d been a regiment vice-commander. He was the head of a large, prosperous and flourishing family. There was a small plaque nailed to the green gate: ‘Five Good Family’, it read, referring to the family virtues of respect for the old and concern for the young, gender equality, marital harmony, household economy and neighbourly solidarity. Was Director Ji’s family really that wonderful? I couldn’t say if the plaque gave me a warm feeling or made me feel hostile. The date tree still standing in the yard dropped a leaf on my head, and when I shook it off, it landed on my shoulder. The leaf alone knew who I was and was welcoming me back. I hadn’t set foot on the street in years. I felt like a stray dog lingering in the ruins of a former dog house.
A youngster rolling an iron hoop came walking by. ‘Did you bring a gift for Director Ji?’ he asked me. ‘There’s no one at home, they’re all at work.’
‘No, I didn’t bring a gift,’ I said. ‘I’m from the Housing Office. Just looking the place over.’
After eleven years on the river, my childhood home was just a reminder of the past. I walked alongside the wall and I spotted the rabbit warren I’d built back then. The Ji family was using it as a rubbish dump. I went up to the window on the eastern wall. It was protected by an iron grille. A curtain on the other side kept out all the light; I couldn’t see inside, but that had been my room. My metal-framed cot had been placed right under the window. I’d like to have seen if it was still there, but I could only pace back and forth outside. I did notice a paper-cut window decoration, a pair of butterflies, so maybe that was now the bedroom of Director Ji’s daughter. I purposefully turned and walked off.
A tall parasol tree stood on the other side of the street, and as I gazed at the shade it provided, I had an idea: that would be an ideal hiding place, a safe spot for me to keep an eye on my childhood home. I started climbing, and the view opened up in front of me. The date tree was still growing; the shade from its canopy covered half the yard. Drying racks had been set up all over the other half, and I was shocked to see all the duck and chicken and fish and meat drying in the sun, more than most families could ever consume. Preserved chicken and duck, pigs’ heads and fish, all in separate groups in the sunlight. I remembered the flowerbed beneath the date tree, where Mother had tended her Chinese rose bushes for years. But unlike other people’s gardens, her roses hadn’t bloomed until the spring we moved away; several flowers, scrawny pink buds, appeared that year for the first time. I’d got up in the middle of the night to relieve myself and had seen her sitting by the flowerbed in the moonlight, reflecting upon her life. ‘This is my fate,’ she’d said. ‘The sins of your father. The roses are about to bloom, just when I’m leaving. I won’t be around to see them.’
But today my mother’s image followed me relentlessly. It reappeared at Number 9 Workers and Peasants Avenue, and beneath the date tree. Her indignant gaze crossed the wall and glared at me, filled with disappointment that I hadn’t improved over the years. ‘I don’t want you climbing that tree. Get down here and come home. Come home!’ I was clear-headed, and knew I could not do as she wanted. The home was within reach, but, unhappily, it was no longer mine. I couldn’t go back.
As I sat in the tree, my hip began to ache, the effect of Old Seven’s vicious kick. It could turn out to be a permanent injury. I rubbed and rubbed, and suddenly a flood of unconnected thoughts came together. For the first time I was actually thinking about my life. Father and Mother: why had I chosen him over her? If I hadn’t fled from her side, would my future have been brighter? Who would have offered me the better education? By staying with her I’d have missed out on the barge and the river, but at least I’d have had a home on the shore. The shore or the river: which life would have been better? Then I heard myself reply forlornly, It’s all kongpi, yes, kongpi. Neither life offered anything good. The shore, the river — both bad. I’d be better off staying here, up a tree.
The higher I climbed, the more entranced I became with the branches and leaves. A brown dog spotted me and walked to the base of the tree, where it barked ferociously, startling me and disturbing the stillness on Workers and Peasants Avenue. I thought that Old Seven and his pals had caught up with me, so I climbed even higher. When I looked down, I saw someone open his door and stick his grey head out to see where the noise was coming from. Seeing nothing, he pulled his head back and closed the door.
The dog’s barking had also attracted the attention of the boy with the iron hoop, who stopped at the foot of the tree, looked up and spotted me. ‘What’s somebody your age doing climbing a tree?’ he shouted, surprised by what he saw.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I was tired, so I came up here to get some sleep.’
‘Liar,’ he said. ‘Only birds sleep in trees. You’re no bird.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m worse off than a bird, because I don’t have a home on the shore and must sleep in trees.’
He didn’t know whether to believe me or not. But then he shouted, ‘You’re lying. You said you were from the Housing Office. You people fix houses, not trees, so what are you doing up there? Planning a burglary?’
‘Is that what you think people who climb trees do? Who do you think you are, you little bastard? You listen to me — when I lived here you were still in your mama’s belly!’
The boy picked up his hoop and dashed over to a nearby gate. I knew he’d gone to fetch an adult, so I scrambled down the tree. I couldn’t keep hiding up a tree. It dawned on me as I jumped down that my hands were empty. I didn’t have my bag; I must have left it in the barbershop. Also, my quilt stuffing should be ready by now.
Keeping my eyes peeled the whole time, I made my way back to the barbershop door, where I carefully surveyed the surrounding area. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except for glinting shards of glass on a rubbish pile. All my doing. I could distinguish the pieces of mirror from the shattered soft-drink bottles. The shop had closed early. The barber’s pole had been turned off, and the sunflowers, seemingly shaken by what had happened, were hiding behind their big leaves, no longer interested in showing their faces. The front door was closed and locked, and there was no one inside. A sign stuck up on the glass door piqued my curiosity, so I went over to see what it said. It took my breath away. Every word slammed into my chest like a bullet.
STARTING TODAY, KU DONGLIANG OF THE SUNNYSIDE FLEET
IS BANNED FROM THIS SHOP.
SIGNED: EMPLOYEES OF THE PEOPLE’S BARBERSHOP, MAY 1977
Banned! They’d banned me from the barbershop! What right did they have to keep me from entering a public establishment? I pounded on the door. There was no one inside, but the noise brought out the cotton-fluffing couple across the street, who were covered from head to toe with cotton fuzz. The man had my bag in his hand, his wife was holding the rolled-up quilt stuffing. ‘You ran off just in time,’ said the old man, smacking his lips at my good fortune. ‘There were actually four of them, but the one called Yama went to buy cigarettes. If he’d stuck around, you’d have been in worse trouble. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? He’s cut the arms off five men in Phoenix. I personally witnessed two of them.’