Back at school, his daily routine was unchanged, except that Bing, approaching adulthood, couldn’t help but experience the usual drama of both physical and psychological evolution during the fast growing period of his life.
One irritation was the acnes on his face, which seemed never to stop thriving, disturbing his tender self-consciousness in all of his waking hours. It budded red, tight and painful to the touch, until its tip was fully developed, at which point, a pricking, so tempting and irresistible, seemed to be the only solution. Nevertheless, its removal by whatever tools he could find at hand, either a scrap of paper or simply his bare fingers, was not entirely unentertaining, for every time the thing, nasty and matured, was rid of from his face, he could almost have a degree of relief as one might have enjoyed after going to the toilet. He even stared, for some time, at the white substance in his fingers as if wondering why on earth this thing, alien and grotesque and so much like waste, could have come to intrude on his youth, and why should it seek to reside in his face, instead of other places where he could more easily hide it from people, particularly from the girls who seemed to always fix their eyes on his face whenever they passed him by.
However, the fact that he, like other male classmates, was not in much liberal engagement with the girls, made the nuisance of acne not as unbearable as it might have been. He even noticed some girls in his class bearing the similar chronic sufferings. Indeed, to grow into adulthood was not as smooth and joyful as it seemed to be. Came with it was trouble and ugliness.
During his last year in the school, he had two lots of good news from home, one was that his sister Ming had passed the exam and succeeded in her enrolment into the same high school as his; the other was that his dad had opened an electronics shop in the county town of Sangton, repairing radios and watches and the sorts of household appliance. Bing knew his parents must have borrowed considerable amount of money to start the business.
The last year in the school was thus becoming a much more delightful experience to him. He and his sister spent together most of their spare time at the school. They went together to the dining hall, sharing the same cup of tofu soup. And nearly every weekend they would take a trip to their father’s shop, to have lunch together with him; then once a month, their mother would travel to the County, delivering the rice and taros and other necessities to them, when the gathering of four was never so merry and joyful. Busy as he was in his final year’s preparation for the university entry exam, he found his happiness never so substantial.
One Friday afternoon Bing, after the last lesson, was soon in the students’ throng heading for supper. Arriving in the dining hall, he glanced first at the desk where he and his sister usually sat, and noticed on it two aluminium boxes. So Ming had come before him and had already fetched their rice bowls and gone to buy the food from the window. He checked the queues, six of them, all very long and crowded. The hungry diners were bustling about the place, some of them clanging their cups or bowls with their spoons, making a noise like his grandpa used to make when peddling his goods.
Since Ming joined him, he had become once again a person as much pampered as when he was at home. The rice sack and lunch-boxes were stored in Ming’s place. She would fill both of them three times a day, though they had only their lunch and supper together. In the morning they had to rush for class, and didn’t have time to wait for each other for breakfast. At lunch and supper, whoever arrived first at the dining hall was to collect both bowls and leave them on the desk and then join the queue for the food provisions on sale.
Without finding her figure, Bing stayed at the desk, idly waiting. He covered the aluminium surface with two hands, feeling its soft warmth, contemplating for a moment upon the name ‘BING’ he had inscribed with a pencil knife. In his middle school, the rice container had been a ceramic bowl; without the cover the water was easily spilled over, and the rice would turn hard and dry. This aluminium box, with a cap to prevent water loss, was indeed an evidence of a life that had been really improved.
‘Ge,’ Ming called him, placing a plate with beans and some lumps of pig-meat onto the desk, in a triumphant gesture like she had won a running race. But it was the sight of pork that had delighted his eyes more, although the pieces looked fatty and chunky. ‘Oh, you bought pig-meat. Second time this week! You got some spare money?’
‘Remember dad gave us two extra Yuan two weeks ago?’ she confided. ‘I haven’t used it.’
‘Oh, ’ Bing nodded, and opening the rice box cover that released immediately the sweet fragrance of the steaming rice, he made a haste for the taste.
His sister managed the money and any other economic issues for both of them, assuming a role like his mother. She washed his clothes for him, which always inspired envy from his roommates. Every time she came to his dormitory to fetch his clothes, and also to return the cleanly folded ones, he would hear the half-teasing announcement from them, ‘Someone’s lovely sister is coming, to collect his dirty clothes.’ And invariably, Bing would be exalted with a swelling pride, for after all, it was a rare chance for a boy having a sister in the same school who could help with the chore. Ming would stand outside, waiting for Bing to exchange his clothes. Her face would turn away from the door, so to avoid the peering eyes from inside the room. When Bing came out and handed the clothes to her, he could detect the flush on her face. She was shy, in front of the boys’ building, but she never suggested Bing go to the girls’ to call upon her. It would be a kind of unthinkable experience for him if he had to stand waiting while attracting the girl’s eyes to the aches on his face.
Ming had a lovely round face, younger looking than her true age of fifteen. Her dark eyebrows and big eyes were assuming a stronger character than her other softer features might have displayed. Nowadays, her face seemed to be affected easily with colour, especially at the presence of other boys.
‘Hi Bing, and Ming,’ a voice, undoubtedly of Kai, chimed over the desk, causing two bent heads to be raised simultaneously. ‘Hi, Kai.’
Kai sat beside Bing, putting down on the table his rice box and a plate of cabbage.
‘Oh, pig-meat,’ he said, carefully digging into his rice with the silver spoon.
‘Have some,’ Bing encouraged.
‘No, no, you eat,’ Kai appeared modest and reserved, in contrast to his usual quick and harsh manner when only with Bing.
Bing selected a good piece of meat and put it into Kai’s box. ‘Just one, no more, hehe.’
Kai only smiled, a little meekly. Bing would think it must have something to do with his sister who had now grown from the innocent girl into a sort of young woman’s posture.
In the middle of their silent eating, Bing’s curious eyes caught the vague uneasiness of both Ming and Kai. He was secretly amused.
‘How about your brothers and sister in the middle school? Are they doing well with their study?’ Bing asked, in his intent to ease the atmosphere a little.
‘My second brother did poorly in his exam last year, otherwise he could come to us, like Ming.’
Ming lifted her face, coloured beautifully, and said, ‘I heard he only missed by five marks, is that true?’
‘Yes,’ Kai answered, looked up at her and quickly down to his food.
Supper was soon finished, no food crumbs left. After all, considering the growing size of their appetite, they could have devoured double the amount.
The following Saturday, Ming and Bing were on their way to visit their father, which was their most cheerful time during the week.
‘I guess Kai likes you a bit,’ Bing said, suddenly.
‘What?’ Ming was astounded, and recovering, she struck on his arm. ‘How could you say that?’
‘Haha…’ Bing was rubbing his arm. ‘Don’t you see how nervous he is when you are present?’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ Ming retorted seriously, yet richly coloured. ‘Dare you say any more of this!’
Bing chuckled, and didn’t let his mirth easily pass. ‘But why do you flush all the time?’
Halting her steps, and in her exacerbated bashfulness, she stared at him, puncturing out her words, ‘I do not go with you!’
Seriously she turned and began to walk back.
‘Okay, okay, I say no more,’ Bing surrendered. ‘Let’s go.’
She slowed down, and after Bing’s repeated entreaty, finally settled her indignation and resumed her forward trip.
A number of bicycles were passing by. The riders, with their legs elegantly folding and unfolding to the pedal’s rise and fall, with their straight backs propping up so majestically their heads, and with their hands thrusting so leisurely upon the handles, looked so lofty and proud, so assured of their supremacy over the common walkers, that Bing couldn’t help but feel himself like a humble chick besides an arrogant rooster. And should the rider be a girl, he would be so much impressed with her motion, that his eyes seemed unable to move away from her back, from her fluctuating buttocks, and instantaneously a sort of hard, impotent desire would arise from his heart.
‘If only we have a bicycle, then we wouldn’t have to walk, and you could sit on the back,’ he said. ‘Dad used to have one, I wonder why he didn’t bring it back when he came back home.’
‘No, that was not his. It belonged to the council,’ she said. ‘It was returned when he left there.’
The road they were strolling on was between the acres of fields full of green crops, like spreads of blanket. One peasant was working in the field. She bent her body, her back horizontal. Then she straightened up, then bent again. She must be plucking the weeds, like his mother had been doing.
And, yes, the swallows, the nimble and swift figures, imprinted in his mind ever since he was a baby or a child and forever inspiring his imagination, were hovering, flitting, soaring, and shrilling in the air. Then a ponderous cow, stern and unhappy, was coming slowly over, led by an old man with a deeply furrowed forehead. He was smoking, a cigarette plugged between his lips. And, yes, there was another self-manufactured cigarette clutching at his ear, which reminded Bing of his uncle who had remarkable skills of rolling cigarettes. Then in another instant his mind was replaying the bird shooting experience with his uncle. Ah! what a thrilling blast….
He looked at his sister. She had grown up to such a girlish charm; far different from the little girl, who at age of four, had her finger crushed in a threshing machine.
‘Ming, show me your hand,’ he said to her.
‘Why?’ she asked in doubt, but getting closer to him, extending her hand.
‘No, the other one.’
She opened the other hand, her eyes wondering.
Bing paused to check her middle finger. The new nail had grown, but much smaller than its peers. ‘You can’t remember when you crushed your finger, can you?’
‘Of course not, mum told me I was only four.’
‘Yes, when I was six. I shouldn’t have brought you with me so close to the machine.’
‘How could you know, mum told me you were almost killed by a wood-grenade.’
‘Well, not dead, not that serious, nearly blind, I would say.’
‘Horrible.’
‘Yes,’ he winked.
It was a long walk, taking them nearly an hour to get to the Wang’s Repair Shop.
‘Dad,’ they called as soon as they entered the shop.
Their father, in a pair of glasses, raised his head from behind a glass-walled workbench and replied, ‘Oh, you’re here.’ Then he continued to do his delicate operation on a watch.
The shop size was about four meters wide, five meters deep. Against the walls there were two long benches strewn with radios, electric stoves, and other items of customers. A narrow staircase led upwards to the first floor where a bed was installed. Under the stairs stored the usual items in a kitchen: a basin with two colourful ducks painted inside, a rusty thermos, a small electric stove on which sat a small wok. And jutting out from the wall, a rusty water tap was still dripping, gently to the ground with a sinkhole around the corner.
Bing sat on the stool, toying with the items on the bench. There were a number of radio receivers, some small, some big. One or two were dismantled, baring little tubes and wires in its chamber. A solder stick was perched on a holder, a roll of tin in a tray. Bing took a small radio on the bench, and turning it on, he heard immediately a sizzling noise. He then adjusted its little wheel carefully until a human voice came out. It was a lady’s, sweet and soft, and sexy, yet resolute, saying that ‘Reform and opening the door to the outside world is Deng Xiao Ping’s established guidance and policy.’
Then, his father suspended his work.
‘You two go to the market and buy some food,’ he said, fishing out from his pocket a note of two Yuan, ‘same as last time, half kilo of pork, mixture of lean and fat, and two bunches of cabbages, and a stick of celery.’
They went out to the Jiefang Street. As wide as the only market street in their home town, its two sides were lined with flat-roofed bungalows of various heights. The ground floor was invariably refurbished as a business outlet, most commonly, of barber, hardware, grocery, and restaurant.
There was a bicycle repair shop, where a man, squatting at an upside-down bicycle, was turning slowly the wheel with a wrench to align the chain to the gear. Bing stopped to watch him with keen interest. The man had a swarthy face, very serious looking. He had a layer of moustache, but very short, like a brush of ink. His hands were dirty with black grease, and with a filthy rag that resembled very much his own pants in both colour and texture, he was wiping swiftly the chain and the wheels.
Then a young man of about Bing’s age came out to the yard, a flat tyre hanging on his wrist. And using a pedal inflator, he pumped to enlarge the tyre, before placing it into the water of a basin. Slowly he shifted and turned the tyre until a stream of bubbles swirled up. He then took it out, dried the spot with a rag, and left it on the ground.
‘Dad, where is the rubber? Have we run out of them?’ he called.
‘It is on the top of the shelf,’ his father replied.
Bing still stood there, wishing to see him to complete the job. But Ming nudged and dragged him, ‘Ge, let’s go, we are late.’
He took his steps but lagged behind his sister, his head turning back frequently to the shop, his eyes full of admiration for their skills of repairing things. His father was also repairing, but his job was too complicated, the radios and watches were not as understandable as the bicycles.
And the bicycle, if only he could have one! Then he could carry his sister on its back.
Bing was a tall person in the street, most of the pedestrians had an average height like Ming, shorter than 165cm. And, as he just noticed, a woman, sitting on a door step, was feeding a baby; her shirt was rolled up to reveal half of her white breast. A quick and strange guilt called off his glimpse at once, though he had an honest desire to see more.
In the school, it was black and white, only books and solemn faces of teachers. But here so much was different.
Inside the market was a noisy crowd. The odour was pungent; it was a blended mix of chickens, ducks, pig-meats, fishes, various types of blood, different kinds of vegetables, and live dogs. To exaggerate a little, it was almost incorporated with everything that Bing had so far smelled in his life. Fortunately it had not taken long, after stepping inside from the airy street, for him to get used to the odour.
Bing gave the money to Ming, who was the acknowledged leader in this type of situation. They waded through the crowd, first to the pig-meat benches. The male butchers, standing frightfully behind the bench, called out to them even before they reached their stalls. But Ming only paused a second, upsetting those butchers by passing them over, until she got to a stall run by a woman, who was smiling at her very friendly. Ming told her what she wanted. The woman grabbed the chopper, with a force and gesture even more impressive than her neighbouring male butchers, banged on a large piece of meat, and tossed the cut to the plate of a weighing scales. Then lifting by the ear-string tied onto the head section of the scaling stick, she moved the weight along the length until a balance was reached. The measuring device, in her hands, looked exceedingly slender and delicate, elaborated by the thin strings that held together all three parts – a marked stick, a plate and an iron-weight. However, gripped in her big, rough and greased hands, its delicacy was as if being squashed and tortured.
‘Six Liang,’ she said, and then without showing in her face any trace of math calculation, she had the total cost on her lips, ‘one Yuan two Jiao.’
Ming gave her the note. She fished some change out of the oily pouch hung in the middle of her apron, and gave it to Ming. Then swiftly and skilfully, she pinched a thin lock of rice straws, circled the meat to make a knot, and then make another knot for handling.
Ming took it over by the knot with her index finger, before transferring it to Bing. ‘You carry it.’
They proceeded to the vegetable section for the cabbages and celery.
Minutes later, they were out of the market and back on the street. In a while, Bing noticed a dog was following him. It was scrawny; its body barely covered by its little and loose hair, its skin heavily creased and, worse, spotted ghastly by numerous red rashes. Its sick, pathetic and bulging eyes, apparently attracted by the pig-meat in Bing’s hand, were half begging, half threatening. Oh, how disgusting!
Immediately, Bing held the pig-meat in his front so as to hide it from the dog. He nudged his sister to walk faster, without the stomach to look back at it. Oh, what a horrible sight!
He didn’t mind dirt. The dog at his home was never clean, and he, when born as a baby, as his mother had told him, was dirty and dusty on the floor. But they were at least healthy and natural, but that diseased dog was just…
When they arrived at the shop, their father had already started cooking the rice in an aluminium pot.
In less an hour, lunch was ready. The pork was fried together with the celery; the cabbages were also rich in oil. In the corner there was a bowl of congealed pork-fat saved by his father. Like what most households usually did, his father separated the fat from the pig-meat, and fried it into the liquid form, before storing up in the bowl for future use. In recent years, benefiting from Deng Xiao Ping’s Reform and Open policy, pigs were not as scarce as before. Peasants were encouraged to raise more poultry and crops to alleviate the scarcity caused by the People’s Commune way of operation.
Life was getting better, at least in terms of pig-meat.
His dad frequently distributed the pork pieces equally to the rice bowls of Bing and Ming, at the same time repeating his lifetime doctrine of ‘You can rarely eat this at school, eat more, eat more…’
‘Dad, you eat yourself,’ Ming said, then told him the truth. ‘We had some pig-meat yesterday.’
‘Really?’ he said, taking in a mouthful of rice with the chopsticks, but only picking some cabbages.
In regard to the food, his dad, like his mum, were always children-first. It was as if they could fill their own stomach by just watching the children eat. However, Bing often wondered why he didn’t seem to have the similar intimate feeling towards his father as he did with his mother and grandma. He was a good father, no doubt, caring for his children, concerning with their study more than anything else. But he didn’t have the necessary level of communication with both Bing and Ming. For the major part of Bing’s childhood, his father was not often seen at home and had always exerted a distant authority to the family, like a superior figure hovering the edges of his mind. Only since he began his repair business in the county, he had become a parent Bing saw more frequently than his mother.
Glancing at his father at close range, he noticed his big eye-bags, also, the deep chicken-claws at his eye corner. At an age of thirty-eight, his father was by no means old, but white hairs began to speck among his bristly hair. The lines on his forehead were folded like waves, and deeper when he raised his eyebrows or frowned over a technical problem of the mysterious radios and watches. The weariness and probably unhappiness, as Bing thought, seemed to be with him all the time, even now that he had successfully opened the shop as he must have wished for quite a long time.
An idea suddenly came to Bing. Yes, like his grandfather, his father rarely laughed. When was the last time he saw his father laughing freely? To his dismay, he couldn’t remember any.
‘Eat more, better finish it, not worth taking the rest to the school,’ his dad said.
On the way back to school, Bing asked Ming, ‘Sister, I just realized dad never laughs.’
‘What?’ Ming paused, and gazed at him incredulously. ‘Of course he laughs, everybody does!’
‘Tell me, when did he laugh last time, can you remember?’
‘Ehem..’ she stammered, while searching her memory. ‘Strange…maybe you are right.’
‘Yes, now, listen, do you still remember anything about grandpa?’
‘Of course, I was already twelve when he died.’
‘Could you remember him laughing, or even smiling?’
A short silence elapsed, before she admitted, ‘No.’
Bing continued, ‘Now, go through your memories for mum, grandma, uncle, aunt.’
‘They all smiled quite often, they laugh though not in the big way as we do,’ she recalled. ‘Wait a minute, I think, dad did smile today when he saw us, didn’t he? I am a bit confused.’
‘No, he didn’t, he only said, “Oh, you’re here”, probably a smile was there inside him, but not on his face.’
‘Why did you suddenly have this idea?’ Ming looked at him, her eyebrow stressed into a question mark.
‘Well, I’m just wondering why dad doesn’t seem to be happy enough.’
‘It is obvious, he had worked as an electrician in the town for so many years, and all of the sudden he was driven home to be a farmer! I am pretty sure he smiled and laughed a lot during that period of time. It was only that we hadn’t been able to see him as often as others.’
‘Hehe…you could be correct.’
In mid afternoon, they reached the school and departed to their respective dormitory. And Bing knew that the first thing Ming was to do was prepare the rice boxes for their supper.
Nearing the university admission exam, Bing, like all the students of the year, had never been busier with their books and numerous mock tests. Even holidays were cancelled. The exam was an once-in-a-lifetime battle that, believed by millions of Chinese, would determine a life, fix a fate, glorify a family or even, in Bing’s case, an entire village.
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