In the Lap of the Gods Page 3

  “You sit here,” the old man said. “We’ll put the babies in the back.”

  4

  THE BABIES HAD AWOKEN, ONE BY ONE, AND FIRST IT WAS the new foundling who cried from hunger. The others sensed her distress and joined in like a chorus of baby sparrows. Each crying mendicant had its own pitch, each raspy voice chimed in where another faltered to catch a breath. They did not know that Mother would never come again, and for better or worse, their fate rested in the hands of a mercenary old man who knew how to make deals.

  The cacophony of cries brought the men back into the house. Fang stirred up some gruel in the kitchen, a thin mixture of rice, chicken stock, and bone marrow. As the mixture came to a boil, he added a capful of daqu jiu, a pungent blend of sorghum liquor that chased away ailments and sorrows. It was a sedative for even the youngest of souls.

  Fang poured the gruel into two soup bowls and returned to the sitting room. “Grab those pillows and prop the babies up,” he said, handing Liu a spoon. Fang raised his own spoonful of gruel and took a whiff.

  “Ah, when I’m really old and toothless, I’ll have a maidservant feed me like this.” Fang smiled. “With much more alcohol, of course.”

  Liu stared at his spoon and dipped it into the porridge. “Will she be able to take this?” he asked, pointing to the infant he had rescued.

  “She’s sucked on a woman’s breast enough. Sooner or later we all have to be weaned.” Fang edged close to the boy infant, yanked opened his jaw, and released the spoonful of gruel into the baby’s mouth. The little boy sputtered, then swallowed the mixture. Traces of gelatin clung to his severed upper lip.

  Liu didn’t have as much luck. He offered porridge to the foundling, but she turned her head away. He tickled her chin to get her attention. She only writhed in protest. He nudged at her lips with the spoon, but she gritted her three tiny teeth until he backed off. The foundling let out a vengeful yelp, and in his haste Liu spilled some of the gruel.

  In the meantime, Fang had finished with the two other girls. He tossed Liu a towel, grimacing at the small puddle on his rug. “Trying to starve her, Liu? She’ll be worth less than a sparrow egg.”

  Fang hustled Liu out of his chair and fed the rebel infant. A few quick motions, and the gruel went down without fuss. Liu stared on, shaking his head.

  The broker grabbed a small bag and filled it with medicines, a toothbrush, a comb, a change of clothes, and playing cards. Outside, he lined the back seat of his car with a pile of old newspapers. It would be a long trip, and those diapers could give out. From the front seat, he scooped up an old radio and a pile of magazines. He wrinkled his nose at the faint perfume of glossy paper. The cover model was too thin and primped up for his tastes. He was a refined man, but he preferred the stocky type, a sturdy peasant woman. Like the one he used to know. He shoved the heap into the trunk, and kicked the dust off his shoes before going back inside.

  Fang stared at Liu’s pants and frowned. “Been sleeping in a bed of mice, Liu? Better look presentable in the big city.” He threw the scavenger a pair of cotton trousers. “Grab two babies, will you?” he said.

  The two men emerged from the house with a baby in each arm and placed them in the back seat. Fang started the car. The engine whined like a dentist’s drill for several seconds before cranking up.

  Liu climbed into the passenger’s seat, and scratched his crotch unceremoniously. “Uh, these are too tight.”

  “Sorry, my friend, it’s what I’ve got.” Fang nudged his companion. “Besides, we don’t want you making babies when we get to Chongqing.”

  “Chongqing? That’s really far, Ol’ Fang.”

  “You think this old buggy can’t make it?” Fang said, letting out a puff on his pipe.

  “No, Fang, it’s not the car,” Liu replied. “I thought we would have to go by boat.”

  “Too risky.” Fang lowered his voice. “Four babies on a small boat would draw the attention of authorities. On a big boat, there’s too many people, too many nosy questions. Besides, there’s a highway now. Trust me; it’ll be quicker by land.”

  “Is it safer?”

  “You’re safe in my hands,” said Fang. “Of course the river’s easier going now, with the new dam. But you have to wonder. All that rubble at the bottom of the river, like drowned souls.”

  The scavenger recoiled, a look of horror appearing his eyes.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” said Fang. “There’s no ghosts in the mountains.”

  THE DEADLY SHOALS OF THE THREE GORGES, WHICH HAD gutted ships and pulled sailors to their watery graves for centuries, were no more. They had created fearsome rapids and whirlpools, a scourge to the boatmen of the Yangtze’s fiercest stretches. But they were also the stuff of legends. As a child, Liu had learned that rocks were gods and magical animals that protected humans, or caused them misery.

  Nestled in Wu Gorge, the Goddess Peak was famed for slaying dragons and protecting the ancient wayfarers on the Yangtze. She had been a fairy, more interested in human affairs than life in the heavens. As she receded from view in the car’s mirror, Liu wondered if the goddess would be bored again overlooking the tamed river. It seemed as if a new world had been created over the course of a day, a week, six years since the great Yangtze had been dammed by the authorities. Now they, like gods, controlled the river.

  As a boy, he had stood on the edge of the mountains, gazing down at the river from old trackers’ trails. He had climbed high up on the slopes, feeling the swirl of the gales that could hurl a child into the depths if the spirits were angry. But never before had he been in the interior of these mountains, populated by the spirits and legendary warriors of his boyhood. Now that new roads sliced through this rugged landscape, perhaps the spirits, like the people of the Yangtze, would be forced to move.

  On the outskirts of Wushan, the car sputtered into a lower gear as it ascended into the mountains. The new highway offered a smooth ride, although the engine twanged like a poorly tuned instrument when the car accelerated. On the roadside, giant honeycombs of concrete braced the slopes, holding back the slippery earth. There was no goddess, no benevolent spirit, around to watch over the luckless traveler.

  “How do you suppose people make a living out here?” Liu asked.

  “Just as they’ve done for thousands of years,” said Fang. “Wasn’t your father a farmer?”

  “Yes, and my folks died poor. I learned that years after I left.”

  “Anyone with a romantic idea about the countryside should spend a week out there.” Fang grunted. “I did, for six months. Nearly killed me.”

  “I don’t miss it,” Liu replied. “But don’t you ever have an urge to live a simpler life? You must deal with a lot of crooks.”

  “That’s why I’m good at what I do,” said Fang. “I know which wheels to grease, which ones roll straight and which send you off a cliff.”

  “Ever get tangled in them yourself?”

  “Why, of course, my friend. Why else do you think I live as a broker in the shadows?” Fang waved his pipe with a flourish. “Why, I could have been a rich tycoon with factories in the city, fancy cars and big houses in the country. Like my father.”

  “Your family screwed you up, too?” Liu did not elaborate on his past, but felt a curious impulse to hear the old broker’s musings.

  “No, the government screwed us, all of us.” Fang’s voice was gruff and devoid of emotion. “There are some things, my friend, you are too young to know.” And Fang proceeded to tell Liu about his family.

  FANG SHUPING’S FATHER WAS A SHIPPING MAGNATE IN THE 1930s in Shanghai, on the eastern seaboard of China, where the Yangtze meets the ocean. The city was a major center of trade that, on its bright face, glittered with wealth and foreign influence. His father owned factories producing silk, iron, and tung oil, and boasted an impressive fleet of steamships that cruised the lower Yangtze. An imposing man whose mustache never went untrimmed, he was the envy of Shanghai businessmen. His profits helped the struggling Nat
ionalist government in its war against the invading Japanese and the Communist underground. Fang said his father had met Chiang Kai-shek, not just once, but on several occasions.

  When the Communists took over the country, the elder Fang was thrown into prison along with other capitalists from the old regime.The government seized his factories and vessels and ordered him to turn over his other assets. He was jailed for a year, living on thin gruel flavored by the spittle and snot of the guards, who were merely peasant boys conscripted to the cause. By a twist of fate, the Communist government released Fang’s father and put him to work in the state-run shipping industry. The man had a wealth of experience, and Party leaders knew that they couldn’t get by on Communist aphorisms alone. But still they kept their eyes on him.

  “You see, my friend,” Fang said, glancing at Liu, “in those days I could not tell you what I knew, what I really thought. Why, you could turn me over to the Party officials. You couldn’t trust anybody.”

  “But somebody like me, from a peasant family, what could I do? Turn a plow into a weapon?”

  “Maybe so. It was mad enough in the cities.” Fang grunted. “When I went off to Nanjing University in 1965, the paranoia spread like a disease. Why, anyone who stuck their head out could be an enemy of the revolution, not just an old shipping tycoon, but his son, his wife, his dog.”

  Fang told of the feverish battles that raged during the Cultural Revolution. His friend’s father, a prominent Party leader, was tied up and paraded through the streets, then dumped outside town in a trough of pig slop.

  “The man was kind of a pig himself,” said Fang. “Ate well while the rest of China starved. But tell me, Liu, what did he have to confess? That he actually had some ideas of his own about government? That he wanted to give farmers a real incentive to produce more crops? Back then, it was blasphemy. And for that, he nearly lost his life.”

  Liu thought for a moment. “Today the man would be paraded around town like a hero.”

  “That’s right. Too bad he didn’t live long enough to enjoy the changes.”

  “Did you ever get into trouble?”

  “What, with women? Wine? Creditors?” Fang poked Liu in the ribs. “I’m indulgent, you know, but I watched my tongue during those years. I had a black capitalist background, as they called anyone who wasn’t a poor wretch before Mao took over, so I chose to study a perfectly innocuous subject, math. I stayed away from things that could be labeled bourgeoisie.” Fang paused, choosing his next words with care. “I did get into hot water once.”

  “You talked too much?” said Liu, chuckling to himself.

  Fang raised an eyebrow, and gave Liu a wry smile. “Hey, I may talk nowadays, but believe me, I was not about to throw more ink on my black background. But the revolutionary frenzy was growing, and in the fall of 1966, some of my classmates talked about starting a faction of the Red Guards. They slapped on the red armband, the signature cap, and they turned into different people. Truth is, they weren’t the sons and daughters of Party loyalists. They had that capitalist stain, you know, but these rascals went around smashing statues and burning books. And denouncing their parents, as custom dictated. Think about it. They disowned their parents!”

  “Why didn’t the government send in the cops?”

  Fang curled his lip. “Don’t you see? The government was behind it all. Stirring up the coals. I minded my own business, steered clear of trouble.”

  Liu was silent, trying to imagine a younger Fang, a less talkative one who didn’t call the shots.

  “And I was doing a good job of it,” Fang continued, “until a rival faction came to town. They arrived early one morning with big banners, marching lockstep like soldiers to the university gates. They raised their little red books in the air and shouted, ‘Surrender.

  . . . All class enemies! Long live Chairman Mao!’ My friend Chiu and I heard the commotion in the courtyard. We went outside to join the growing crowd. Professor Shen was the target of ridicule. He’d taught pre-Communist history, God forbid, so he was an enemy of the revolution.”

  “What did they do to him?” Liu asked.

  “Well, our school’s faction of Red Guards came out. At first, they joined the struggle session. It was a good time to beat up on your teachers. After all, Professor Shen had given those kids a few bad grades.

  “Until now, we’d seen bonfires and charred books and the like, but nothing violent had happened. That day, the outside faction grew more aggressive after they had their fun with Shen. They formed a line and advanced toward our group. ‘You’re too soft for struggle. Must be children of capitalist pigs!’ they shouted. Some of our classmates began throwing rocks at them. The rival Red Guards whipped out pistols hidden under their uniforms. One fired a shot into the air. We were stunned; nobody let out a peep. And then all hell broke loose. Chiu and I started to run, but an enemy guard cornered us. He was armed. He told my friend to drop to his knees, pressed his boot into Chiu’s spine, then grabbed me by the wrist.

  “I was terrified. I wanted to run, but he turned my wrist until I cried in pain. I looked at Chiu, my dear friend humiliated by this devil. And then, in a bold move, Chiu turned around and smacked the guard.The boy’s pistol clattered to the ground, and I broke free. ‘Fang, run!’ Chiu cried. I ran hard, ducking through the chaos, until I got to the countryside, where I collapsed in an abandoned shed.”

  “What happened to your friend?” Liu asked.

  Fang paused, and for the first time, Liu could sense a heaviness in the old man, undisguised by sarcasm or wit. Fang did not take his eyes off the road, but his gaze seemed fixed on an unseen horizon.

  “He was killed,” said Fang. “I found out when I returned to school two days later. My friend had saved my life.” There was a catch in the old man’s throat, almost imperceptible.

  Liu stared ahead, saying nothing. He fidgeted with a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Fang, but the old man declined. His own suffering seemed to pale in comparison with the travails of an earlier generation. These were matters the older folks rarely spoke about. Old injustices were hidden like rot under the skin of overripe plums. In time the fruit would fall and the old tree wither away, but the poison would remain, potent for generations to come.

  It puzzled Liu that someone as smart as Ol’ Fang wouldn’t use his connections to become a da lao ban, a prosperous businessman above the ground. Now Liu realized that while he never fully trusted Fang, the old man had long ago lost his trust in others. Perhaps it wasn’t the common folk that Fang despised, but rather the people in power, who could stir up such hatred between father and son, brother and brother. Liu wondered if there was more to the loathing he had felt toward his own brother.

  After some time, Fang resumed his story. He had wanted to leave Nanjing after this incident. The revolutionary flame was turning into a forest fire. And then, in 1968, the violence had gotten so bad that the government sent millions of Red Guards to live in the countryside, to be sobered up by hard labor. Fang managed to get deported with a gang of Red Guards to a remote commune in Sichuan.

  “Life was hard. Those bad boys, the sons of high officials, had gotten soft in a generation, too soft to carry firewood for hours and sleep in the freezing cold of winter.” Fang sneered, exhaling a ring of smoke. “But after another year of hell at Nanjing, not knowing who would be exposed or ridiculed or killed next, I found peace in the countryside. In the morning the sun would rise over the floodplains, and everything sparkled, like a thousand jewels.We grew rice and wheat. I would stand on the muddy ridges between the rice paddies and watch wild ducks and geese sailing by overhead. I lost touch with my family, but so had many of the other young people.”

  “Did you ever hear from your parents again?” Liu asked.

  “Ah, yes, but that’s a story for another day.” Fang’s voice became very soft, almost gentle in a way that surprised Liu. “That day I learned my friend was killed, some part of me went with him. I lived like a troubled ghost for many months. Nob
ody puts up an altar for the living dead, eh?”

  Liu shook his head. “When I left Nanjing with those scoundrels, I was thrilled to be sent away,” said Fang. “It was a second chance at life, and I seized it.”

  5

  AS THE AFTERNOON SLID BY, FANG BLEW LAZY RINGS THAT filled the car until they wafted out the window, where the air was tinged with the faint aroma of pine and cedar.

  The diorama of peaks unfolded in an endless jagged line, marking a silent pulse. Silhouettes of distant mountains rippled in the stillness, but Fang felt a nagging unease amidst the calm. The babies in the back seat slumbered, and the only noises the men heard were an occasional burp or cough, and the rapid breathing of an infant when an unpleasant dream must have invaded sleep. As the car groaned up a steady incline, Liu dozed off and began snoring softly.

  Fang thought about some of the things he had told Liu. He asked the ancestors to forgive him if he’d spoken too much. Out of habit, he wondered what the younger man could do with these stories. Was there a prying official eager to turn in old misfits? Could criticisms of the government be used against him? Fang played with his pipe and looked at his sleeping companion. Liu’s head was propped up against the window, and his tongue lolled to the side, framed by a set of crooked, yellow teeth.

  The old man grunted. It was a guttural sound that almost gave way to a laugh, enough to shake off his paranoia. He’s just a peasant’s boy, Fang thought to himself. And besides, his life is in my hands right now. Just like those babies in the back.

  Fang approached a steep incline, gunning the engine. The car kicked into lower gear with some reluctance. Then it slowed down, although he sank the pedal as far as it would go. The engine whined furiously, like a sick infant. The ancient sedan barely crested the hill before sputtering to a halt. Fang pumped the pedal, cursing and pleading for divine intervention. Still, the car would not budge.