Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh Page 11

  I followed him along the rails heading northeast. Now that I knew how to eat iron, I was no longer afraid of the rails. I muttered to myself, Iron rails, iron rails, don't get cocky, because if you do, I'll eat you up. Now that I'd finished off half an iron bar, I was no longer hungry, and my legs felt strong. Iron Child and I each walked down one of the rails. We walked so fast that in no time we reached a spot where the sky had turned red. Seven or eight huge ovens were spewing flames into the air, and I could smell the fresh, tantalizing aroma of iron. He said, 'Up ahead there is where they smelt iron and steel. Who knows, maybe that's where your daddy and mommy are.' I said, 'I don't care if they're there or not.'

  We walked and walked until the railway came to an abrupt end. We were surrounded by head-high weeds that were home to heaps of rusty scrap iron and steel. Several crushed trains lay on their sides in the weeds, their scrap iron and steel cargo spilled on the ground beside them. Walking on a bit farther, we ran across crowds of people squatting down and eating amid the iron and steel. Flames from the smelting ovens turned their faces bright red. It was mealtime. What were they eating? Meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes with eggs. The food must have been delicious, the way their cheeks were all puffed out, as if they had the mumps. But to me the stench of those meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs was worse than dog shit, and it made me so sick to my stomach I had to run downwind to avoid it. Just then a man and a woman in the crowd stood up and shouted:

  “Gousheng!”

  They scared me at first. But then I recognized them as my daddy and mommy. They came stumbling toward me, and it suddenly dawned on me what horrifying people they were, at least as horrifying as the three old women at the “nursery school.” I could smell the stench on their bodies, worse than dog shit. So when they reached out to grab me, I turned and ran away They lit out after me. I didn't dare turn my head to look back, but I could feel their fingers each time they touched my scalp. And that's when I heard my good friend, Iron Child, yell at me from somewhere in front:

  “Woody, Woody, head for the scrap iron heap!”

  I watched as his dark red body flashed for an instant in the scrap iron heap, and then vanished from sight. I ran into the heap, stepping on woks, hoes, plows, rifles, cannons, and other things as I climbed to the top. Iron Child waved to me from inside a drainpipe. With a quick hunch of my shoulders, I scrambled inside. It was black as night, and I was surrounded by the fragrance of rust. I couldn't see a thing, but I felt an icy hand grab hold of my hand, and I knew it was Iron Child. He whispered:

  “Don't be afraid. Follow me. They can't see us in here.”

  So I crawled along behind him. I had no idea where the pipe, with all its twists and turns, led to, so I kept crawling until I saw a light up ahead. I followed Iron Child out of the pipe and onto the treads of an abandoned tank; from there we crawled up to the turret. White five-pointed stars had been painted on the turret, from which the rusted, pitted barrel of a cannon protruded, pointing up at an angle. Iron Child said he wanted to crawl into the turret, but the hatch was rusted shut. Iron Child said:

  “Let's bite off the screws.”

  Still on our hands and knees, we circled the hatch, biting off all the rusty screws, quickly chewing them up, until we'd broken through. We tossed the hatch away. The turret was made of soft metal, sort of like overripe peaches. Once we were inside, we settled into the soft, spongy iron seats. Iron Child showed me a tiny opening, through which I could see my parents. They were crawling over a distant heap of scrap iron, tossing objects around and making loud clanging noises that blended with their tearful shouts:

  “Gousheng, Gousheng, my son, come out, come out and have some meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs.. ..”

  They looked like strangers to me, and when I heard them trying to tempt me with meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs, I sneered contemptuously.

  Finally they gave up looking for me and headed back.

  After crawling out of the turret, we straddled the barrel of the cannon, a great vantage point to watch the flames leaping out of ovens, some near and some far, and all the people scurrying around them. Picking up iron woks, with a One — Two — Three, they tossed them into the air and then watched as they broke apart when they hit the ground. They then smashed them to pieces with sledgehammers. The sweet aroma of burned iron filings drifted over to us; my stomach started to rumble. Apparently sensing what was on my mind, Iron Child said:

  “Come on, Woody, let's get one of those woks. Iron woks are delicious.”

  We sneaked into the glow, where we selected a great big wok, picked it up, and ran off with it, so shocking the men who saw us that they dropped their hammers. Some of them even took off running.

  “Iron demons!” they shouted as they ran. “The iron demons have come!”

  By that time we'd made it to the top of a heap of scrap iron and had begun breaking the wok into edible pieces. It was much tastier than the iron bar.

  As we were feasting on our iron wok, we saw a man with a gimpy leg and a holstered revolver on his hip limp over and smack the men who were shouting “iron demons.”

  “Bastards,” he cursed them. “Your damned rumors are creating a disturbance! A fox can turn into a demon, and so can a tree. But whoever heard of iron turning into demons?”

  The men replied as if with one voice:

  “We're not lying, Political Instructor. We were smashing some iron woks when a pair of iron kids, covered with rust, came rushing out of the shadows, snatched one of the woks, and ran off with it. They simply vanished.”

  “Where did they run off to?” the gimpy man asked.

  “The scrap iron heap,” the men answered.

  “You fucking rumor-mongers!” the gimpy man said. “How could there be kids in this desolate spot?”

  “That's why we were scared.”

  The gimpy man drew his pistol and fired three shots into the scrap iron heap — clang clang clang. Golden sparks flew from the scrap iron.

  Iron Child said:

  “Woody, let's take his gun away from him and eat it, what do you say?”

  I said:

  “What if we can't get it away from him?” Iron Child said:

  “Wait here. I'll go get it.”

  Iron Child climbed lightly down off the scrap heap and crawled on his belly through the weeds. The people out in the light couldn't see him, but I could. When I saw him crawl up behind the gimpy man, I picked up a piece of iron plate and banged it against the wok.

  “Hear that?” the men shouted. “The iron demons are over there!”

  Just as the gimpy man raised his pistol to fire, Iron Child jumped up and snatched it out of his hand.

  The men shouted:

  “An iron demon!”

  The gimpy man fell down on his backside.

  “Help!” he screamed. “Catch that spy—”

  Pistol in hand, Iron Child crawled up next to me.

  “Well?” he said.

  I told him how great he was, which made him very happy. He bit off the barrel and handed it to me.

  “Eat,” he said.

  I took a bite. It tasted like gunpowder. I spit it out and complained:

  “It tastes terrible. It's no good.”

  He bit off a chunk above the handle to taste it.

  “You're right,” he said, “it's no good. I'm going to toss it back to him.”

  He flung the pistol down at the feet of the gimpy man.

  I flung the partially eaten barrel at the same spot.

  The gimpy man picked up the two pieces of his pistol, gaped at them, and started to howl. He tossed the things away and hobbled off as fast he could go. From where we sat on the scrap heap we laughed our heads off over the funny way he ran.

  Late that night a narrow beam of light pierced the darkness off to the southwest, accompanied by a loud chugging noise. Another train was coming.

  We watched as it steamed up to the end of the tracks, where it plowed into another tra
in already there. The cars of the train accordioned into one another, noisily dumping the iron they were hauling to the side of the tracks.

  There would be no more trains after that. I asked if there were any parts of the train that were tasty. He said the wheels were the best. So we started eating one of them, but stopped when we were halfway through it.

  We also went down to the smelting ovens to find some newly smelted iron, but none of it tasted as good as the rusty iron we were used to.

  We slept on the scrap iron heap during the day, then made life difficult for the smelters at night, sending them scurrying off in fear.

  One night, we went out to frighten the men who were smashing woks. Spotting a rusty red wok in the flames of one of the ovens, we ran over. But we no sooner got our hands on it than we heard a loud whoosh as a rope net dropped over us.

  We attacked the net with our teeth, but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't bite through the rope.

  “We caught them,” they cried out ecstatically, “we caught them!”

  Soon afterward, they scraped our rusty bodies with sandpaper. It hurt, it hurt like hell!

  The Cure

  THAT AFTERNOON, THE ARMED WORK DETACHMENT POSTED A notice on the whitewashed wall of Ma Kuisan's home, which faced the street; it announced the following morning's executions at the usual place: the southern bridgehead of the Jiao River. All able-bodied villagers were to turn out for educational purposes. There were so many executions that year that people had lost interest in them, and the only way to draw a crowd was to make attendance mandatory.

  The room was still pitch-black when Father got up to light the bean-oil lamp. After putting on his lined jacket, he woke me up and tried to get me out of bed, but it was so cold all I wanted to do was stay under the warm covers — which Father finally pulled back. “Get up,” he said. “The armed work detachment likes to get their business over with early. If we're late, we'll miss our chance.”

  I followed Father out the gate. The eastern sky was growing light. The streets were icy cold and deserted; winds from the northwest had swept the dust clean during the night; and the gray roadway was clearly visible. My fingers and toes were so cold it felt as if they were being chewed by a cat. As we passed the Ma family compound, where the armed work detachment was quartered, we noticed a light in the window and heard the sound of a bellows. Father said softly, “Step it up. The work detachment is getting breakfast.”

  Father dragged me up to the top of the riverbank; from there, we could see the dark outline of the stone bridge and patches of ice in the hollows of the riverbed. I asked, “Where are we going to hide, Father?”

  “Under the bridge.”

  It was deserted under the bridge and pitch-black, not to mention freezing cold. My scalp tingled, so I asked Father, “How come my scalp is tingling?”

  “Mine, too,” he said. “They've shot so many people here that the ghosts of the wronged are everywhere.”

  I detected the movement of furry creatures in the darkness under the bridge. “There they are!” I shouted.

  “Those aren't wronged ghosts,” Father said. “They're dogs that feed on the dead.”

  I shrank back until I bumped into the bone-chilling cold of a bridge piling. All I could think about was Grandma, whose eyes were so clouded over with cataracts she was all but blind. The sky would be completely light once the cold glare from the three western stars slanted into the space under the bridge. Father lit his pipe; the fragrant smell of tobacco quickly enveloped us. My lips were turning numb. “Father, can I go out and run around? I'm freezing.”

  Father's reply was, “Grate your teeth. The armed work detachment shoots their prisoners when the morning sun is still red.”

  “Who are they shooting this morning, Father?”

  “I don't know,” Father said. “But we'll find out soon enough. I hope they shoot some young ones.”

  “Why?”

  “Young people have young bodies. Better results.”

  There was more I wanted to ask, but Father was already losing his patience. “No more questions. Everything we say down here can be heard up there.”

  While we were talking, the sky turned fish-belly white. The village dogs had formed a pack and were barking loudly, but they couldn't drown out the wailing sounds of women. Father emerged from our hiding spot and stood for a moment in the riverbed, cocking his ear in the direction of the village. Now I was really getting nervous. The scavenger dogs prowling the space under the bridge were glaring at me as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb. I don't know what kept me from getting out of there as fast as I could. Father returned at a crouch. I saw his lips quiver in the dim light of dawn but couldn't tell if he was cold or scared. “Did you hear anything?” I asked.

  “Keep quiet,” Father whispered. “They'll be here soon. I could hear them tying up the condemned.”

  I moved up close to Father and sat down on a clump of weeds. By listening carefully, I could hear a gong in the village, mixed in with a man's raspy voice: “Villagers — go to the southern bridgehead to watch the execution — shoot the tyrannical landlord Ma Kuisan — his wife — puppet village head Luan Fengshan — orders of armed work detachment Chief Zhang — those who don't go will be punished as collaborators.”

  I heard Father grumble softly, “Why are they doing this to Ma Kuisan? Why shoot him? He's the last person they should shoot.”

  I wanted to ask Father why they shouldn't shoot Ma Kuisan, but before I could open my mouth, I heard the crack of a rifle, and a bullet went whizzing far off, way up into the sky somewhere. Then came the sound of horse hoofs heading our way, all the way up to the bridgehead; when they hit the flooring, they clattered like a passing whirlwind. Father and I shrank back and looked at the slivers of sunlight filtering down through cracks between the stones; we were both frightened and not quite sure just what was happening. After about half the time it takes to smoke a pipeful, we heard people coming toward us, shouting and clamoring. They stopped. I heard a man whose voice sounded like a duck's quack: “Let him go, damn it. We'll never catch him.”

  Whoever it was fired a couple of shots in the direction of the hoofbeats. The sound echoed off the walls where we were hiding; my ears rang, and there was a strong smell of gunpowder.

  Again the quack: “What the fuck are you shooting at? By now, he's in the next county.”

  “I never thought he'd do anything like that,” someone else said. “Chief Zhang, he must be a farmhand.”

  “He's a paid running dog of the landlord class, if you ask me,” the duck quacked.

  Someone walked to the railing and started pissing over the side of the bridge. The smell was rank and overpowering.

  “Come on, let's head back,” the duck quacked. “We've got an execution to attend to.”

  Father whispered to me that the man who sounded like a duck was the chief of the armed work detachment, given the added responsibility by the district government of rooting out traitors to the Party; he was referred to as Chief Zhang.

  The sky was starting to turn pink on the eastern horizon, where thin, low-hanging clouds slowly came into view; before long, they, too, were pink. Now it was light enough to make out some frozen dog turds on the ground of our hiding place, that and some shredded clothing, clumps of hair, and a chewed-up human skull. It was so repulsive I had to look away. The riverbed was as dry as a bone except for an ice-covered puddle here and there; clumps of dew-specked weeds stood on the sloped edges. The northern winds had died out; trees on the embankments stood stiff and still in the freezing air. I turned to look at Father; I could see his breath. Time seemed to stand still. Then Father said, “Here they come.”

  The arrival of the execution party at the bridgehead was announced by the frantic beating of a gong and muted footsteps. Then a booming voice rang out: “Chief Zhang, Chief Zhang, I've been a good man all my life …”

  Father whispered, “That's Ma Kuisan.”

  Another voice, this one flat and cracking
with emotion: “Chief Zhang, be merciful… . We drew lots to see who would be village head; I didn't want the job… . We drew lots; I got the short straw — my bad luck… . Chief Zhang, be merciful, and spare my dog life… . I've got an eighty-year-old mother at home I have to take care of. …”

  Father whispered, “That's Luan Fengshan.”

  After that, a high-pitched voice said, “Chief Zhang, when you moved into our home, I fed you well and gave you the best wine we had. I even let our eighteen-year-old daughter look after your needs. Chief Zhang, you don't have a heart of steel, do you?”