‘He had it coming,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll make amends if he’s blind.’
‘Make amends, make amends! Talk’s cheap. How the hell many eyes do you have to make amends for?’ Baldy took out a filthy handkerchief to wrap around the idiot’s eyes. ‘What the hell’s got into you, Kongpi?’ he said as he poked me with his truncheon. ‘This time you’ve gone too far. What are you standing around for, when you should be rushing him to the hospital? If he dies, you’re done for!’
‘I’m not going to take him. He’s the one who insisted on a life for a life. Besides, neither of our lives is worth a damned thing. If he dies, I’ll make amends with mine.’
I could no longer hold back my tears. Nor could my body stand the stress. Slowly I fell to my knees in front of the stone, my face pressed against its cold surface, which sharply chilled my cheek as if cold water had been poured over it. Whose tears were they, mine or Deng Shaoxiang’s? The martyr’s spirit was judging me, making its presence known. Overcome with profound regret for what I’d done to Bianjin, I punished myself for my unconscionable behaviour by slapping myself across the face, which was hardly sufficient to absolve myself. Self-pity and grief, the likes of which I’d never experienced, filled my heart. I slapped myself again even harder, as punishment for feeling sorry for myself. Then, like Bianjin, I buried my face in my hands and wept.
As I wept before the memorial stone, Baldy Chen kept poking me with his truncheon. ‘You’ve got a nerve, crying like that,’ he said. ‘You reduced him to this condition, so you have to take him to hospital, and I mean now. What good does crying do? You don’t expect me to take him, do you?’
Speaking almost incoherently between sobs, I said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Are you out of your mind? Look at his injuries. His eyes might not make it till tomorrow.’
He could prod or tug me as much as he liked, but I was staying on my knees. I wasn’t getting up, and through the mist of my tears I watched Baldy leave with Bianjin for the hospital, followed by a cluster of ducks. The two geese, on the other hand, stuck around to avenge their guardian. They attacked, one of them going after one of my feet.
Night’s darkness was deepening and the air brought a strange smell to me. Not a fishy odour, nor rotting grass, and definitely not the smell of chemical fertilizer from Maple Village. Whatever it was, it caught my attention. I stopped crying and sniffed the air to see where it was coming from. Then I discovered a pool of congealed blood the size of a mulberry leaf between the fingers of my right hand. And there was blood on my sleeve, a stain the size of a willow leaf. The knees of my trousers were also stained. Bianjin’s blood was all over me; no wonder the smell was so strong. I remembered when my father had bled all over the cabin of our barge, several years before; Bianjin’s blood had a much stronger smell than Father’s. Worrying that the stone might be spattered with the idiot’s blood, I stood up. I was right. A pool of still-wet blood where his head had rested gave off a reddish glow. I picked up a sheet of newspaper and, after scrubbing the stone three times, wiped it clean.
Now that they were gone and I had stopped crying, I regained my composure and looked down at the memorial stone lying on the ground in the moonlight. I wasn’t about to abandon it, but would it abandon me? I got up, grabbed hold of the rope and pulled; there was a moment of resistance before it started moving again, and it seemed to me as if it had raised its head and had its sights trained on barge number seven. Then it began to slide along the ground. It was a miracle, a true miracle. Deep down, I believed that the stone had eyes that I could not see and an unfathomably compassionate heart. I wasn’t stealing it, I was taking it where it wanted to go; it was determined to meet my father. That had to be a miracle.
I took a look around; the piers were encased in silence. It was like a dream. The searchlight in front of the oil-pumping station lit up a corner of the embankment wall, allowing me a view of our barge nestled quietly up against the bank. The bank and the river, the barge and my father were all neatly and quietly immersed in a happy dream. Mustering all my strength, I dragged the stone towards the river, listening to it slide across the ground: move, keep moving. When I reached our boat, I looked behind me and saw the piers in their pristine brightness, uncommonly quiet, illuminated in turn by the moonlight and the searchlight. They had let me pass; the moon was not after me, nor were the searchlight or any people. The stray cat was there, all alone, slinking back and forth and watching me with its shining eyes.
I had no time to ponder why this night, which had started out with such bitterness, had ended so sweetly, why luck had been with me in the end, for I now had a problem. How was I going to move such a heavy object on to the boat? Our gangplank wasn’t up to the task, and I couldn’t borrow anyone else’s. Now what? Could I make a ladder out of bamboo? As I anxiously considered tactics for moving heavy objects, I shouted out happily, a note of triumph in my voice, ‘Dad, I’m back! I’m home! Come and see what I’ve brought you!’
Come Down
MY GREATEST regret during the eleven years I spent on the river was tying my father up. I still recall that night. ‘Easy,’ he said as I worked to loosen the ropes. A rare expression of fatherly concern emanated from his weary, bloodshot eyes. He’d forgiven me. I led him to the gangplank to show him the memorial stone I’d left on the riverbank. Holding on to my clothes, he followed me on shaky legs, like an obedient son. Fear, I knew, was one of the reasons, but the sight of Deng Shaoxiang’s memorial lit up his soul, as if the light of a nameless deity shone down on it. All his misgivings and fear fell away. ‘Good,’ he said with a smile. ‘Wonderful. You’ve brought your grandmother home.’
To get the stone up on to the barge, I’d need to use one of the cranes, and this was the perfect time, since there was no one around. I climbed into the cab of one of them by removing a window, and though I had no experience of operating the machine, the instrument panel seemed almost magically familiar that night, and everything went without a hitch. The crane picked up the stone and, after one uncontrolled and somewhat dangerous swing, lowered it on to the bow, where Father helped me bring it down. ‘Careful now, be careful.’ The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to the stone.
I’d brought a heavy gift home to Father and he accepted it happily.
Father wanted the stone up next to the sofa in the cabin, facing aft. But the door was too narrow, which disappointed him, though we gave it our all, with me pushing and him giving directions. So, with the stone halfway in and halfway out of the cabin, he sat next to it, stroking it lovingly. ‘You’ll just have to stay here,’ he said, ‘which is actually better, since the cabin is stuffy. The air out here is better, and so is the scenery. This way you can enjoy the sights of the river, Mama.’
By then it was very late. The freshly washed moon shone down on the Golden Sparrow River. I lit all four of our lanterns and hung them strategically to shine their warm light on Father and his martyr’s stone. After gazing at the inscription for a long while, he said he wanted to see the relief image on the back. So I mustered up the strength to turn it around for him. ‘Gone!’ he shouted in alarm. ‘I’m gone!’
That gave me such a fright I didn’t know what to do. Again he said, ‘I’m gone, I’m gone!’ His hand rested forlornly on the carved basket, shaking uncontrollably. As soon as I went over to look I knew what had happened: the infant’s head was missing from the top of the basket.