China's Son Read online

“Son, you play beautifully now,” he said, surprised. He gathered me into his arms and roughed me up excitedly. “I hardly believed my ears as I walked along the fields. I could hear you a mile away from here.”

  “Dad, do you really like it?” I asked.

  “Like it? I love it. I think with a little tuning here and there, you're ready to perform in an amateur troupe somewhere and eventually graduate to a professional one.”

  “Do you want me to be a professional?”

  “Well, school is doing nothing now, not with that Zhangsomething guy in fashion. It's wonderful that you have a skill. You have an edge over others.”

  From then on I practiced even harder—much to the annoyance of my family—and I began to hang around the rehearsal hall of our commune's performing group. In the evenings, I would invite my friends to come with me to the rehearsals at the commune. They went and clung to the windows for a glimpse of the young and pretty actresses and laughed their heads off when those pretty things teased each other and giggled in singsong voices.

  There was an outstanding, arrogant flutist in the troupe from Putien City who was paid to be the music director of the orchestra. He was a woodwind expert and could even play the French horn. Every morning he demanded at least five precious eggs. For lunch, half a chicken. And for dinner, lots of pork and another five eggs. He said playing the French horn and the flute used up all his energy and he needed the nutrients. Hungry kids actually trooped by to sniff his French horn, which smelled like eggs.

  I copied his techniques and replayed the music by ear. At Yi's, my friends would listen to my flute and smoke in silence.

  As my interest in music grew, I became fascinated with the violin.

  The first time I heard one, I was picking grains of rice from the muddy rice fields under a summer sun. The commune had set up a crackling loudspeaker at the edge of the fields and played a simple violin solo through it. The music was supposed to cheer the farmers, and I fell head over heels in love with it. It was sensuous and tender and caressed my soul in a way that no instrument had done before. I stood there holding the dripping rice, lost in the beauty of the music.

  “Go to work,” a farmer's voice behind me urged. She was the opposite of what a violin was. I bent down again and went on working, the melody resonating deep in my soul.

  I wanted to learn that instrument, but how?

  Once again, Dad came through like a champ. This time he contacted a young man named Soong, originally from the city of Putien. He was the son of a Christian dentist who had died in jail, and he had taken over his father's old practice. The family had been labeled counterrevolutionaries because of their dogged belief in God and had been sent to live in exile in Heng Tang, a tiny village near Yellow Stone.

  Dad had heard of Soong on one of his visits to a patient who was a neighbor of Soong's and who had complained often about the strange, foreign music the young man played at night.

  Having met with Soong, Dad reported that the young man had readily agreed to teach me the basics if I was willing to walk there every day during the summer vacation.

  The fifth grade finished without the expected finals and report cards. Everyone graduated. But whether I was going to high school remained a mystery. Politics was in; grades were out. My fate stood undecided, wavering in the wind like a blade of grass along the Dong Jing River.

  Heng Tang was nestled at the foot of Hu Gong Mountain. When the sky was overcast, the village floated like a mirage among the clouds. When it rained, it totally disappeared. During the summer, it was hidden under the thick foliage of persimmon trees, but in spring the village blossomed like a wild garden.

  I finally arrived at Mr. Soong's dental office, in an old temple at the edge of the village.

  “Da, right?” Soong greeted me warmly, taking off his surgical mask.

  He had just finished with a teary-eyed young boy who was being comforted by his mom.

  “Mr. Soong. How did you know it was me?”

  “The violin.” He smiled and revealed the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I supposed it came with the business.

  I smiled back, hiding my teeth, regretting not having brushed them again before coming. I studied him as he washed his hands and hung up his white coat. He was in his twenties, fair-skinned and good-looking, with long hair that touched his collar. He wore a pair of tight bell-bottom trousers and a silk shirt. A city dude to the bone.

  “A barefooted violinist?” he said, smiling at me. “Let's see what you've got there.”

  I took out the violin and he plucked a few notes on it, adjusted the pegs, redid the bridge, tightened the bow, then cradled it between his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes and a soothing melody flowed out of my instrument. His fingers ran quickly along the strings, up and down, and the bow jumped, making curt sounds. I was amazed at his skill and was falling in love with the music when he stopped suddenly.

  “You got a great violin here.” He put it down carefully. “Smoke?” I shook my head.

  “Want to be an artist?” I nodded, not knowing where he was heading.

  “Then take one.” He threw me a filtered cigarette and lit it for me with a lighter. I puffed on it and inhaled deeply. “I'm no teacher. Don't call me Teacher or anything, but I could use a friend like you.” He looked out his small window, then at a pile of dentures lying on his messy desk. “It's boring here. In fact, if you want to be a dentist, I can teach you that as well. I have plenty of time on my hands and all these teeth need to be filed to fit into patients' mouths.”

  “I'll do the violin first,” I replied, “but I can help with your work during my break.”

  “No need, I was joking.”

  It didn't take me long to like him.

  The next few days I spent walking around his office, holding my violin between my shoulder and neck and practicing bowing. It was a painful experience that made my neck swell and left my shoulder raw, but he kept saying I was making progress. He showed me pictures of stone busts of Beethoven and Mozart and told me stories about them, amazing stories.

  I practiced constantly and was making fast progress, which Mom and Dad noticed with considerable pride. To thank Soong, Mom would sometimes ask me to bring fruit and meat to him, and Dad sent him cartons of cigarettes and liquor, gifts given him by his acupuncture patients. Soong would cook the food I brought and ask me to stay for dinner, then send me home on his bike in the evening. Sometimes, when his mother was visiting his brothers, I'd bring a lot of food and stay over for the weekend. There would be no violin lessons or any other music during those times. We would go hunting.

  Near the end of the summer, Soong said, “Da, there isn't much I can teach you anymore. From here on, you have to practice and just figure it out for yourself. Besides, school is starting soon, right?”

  “I'm not sure I'm going to high school.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you're going. You're so young.”

  “I haven't got my notice yet. Others already did.” I hung my head.

  “Come on, young fellow. Don't feel bad; you could always come to learn dentistry with me. Kids are learning nothing in school now anyway.” He smiled. “But I want you to come and visit me on weekends and I'll take you to Putien to meet some of the coolest young musicians in the city.”

  “I promise.”

  Finally I was issued a notice stating that after careful consideration by the commune education board, I would not be given the opportunity to pursue my schooling any further. Neither was I allowed to do so at other schools in another commune.

  No reason given. No reason needed.

  A patient of Dad's secretly told us that the board's reason was simple. My ancestors and family had had enough education; it was time we made do without more.

  I felt sad and isolated again. Everyone in my school went on to high school, even the worst of the students. I couldn't go because my dad had gone to college, as had my grandpa. What kind of reasoning was that? Why did I have to carry the burden of my parents
' generation?

  Mom prayed day and night, promising three chickens and four piglets to Buddha if any high school accepted me. I promised a thousand kowtows on my own. And then good news came in an unusual way. Dad's regular guest, the sugarcane farmer, casually mentioned that he had delivered some high-quality fresh canes to the high school last night because the almighty principal's aging father had just had a stroke. The only thing he could eat was juice squeezed from the fresh sugarcane. The principal was upset and restless and didn't know what to do.

  That evening at dinner, a young high school teacher came hurriedly to our house and wanted to meet Dad privately. Dad took him into our back room. Five minutes later, Dad emerged and said he was going to the see the principal's father right away because the patient was still in critical condition.

  He came back late. The news was good. I would be in the fourth group in grade one of junior high a month later. The delay was due to the specific order from the commune that I was not to be admitted under any condition. They would sneak me in after all the hubbub died down. I thanked Dad and then crawled quietly to the attic, got on my knees, and kowtowed a whopping thousand and five times. Five extra were done to make up for any possible miscalculation in the hasty up-and-down motions.

  ELEVEN

  “You're the guy who plays the violin, I heard.”

  “Yeah, what do you want?” I looked up from a stack of new textbooks to see a well-dressed fellow sauntering up to me. His clothes were neatly layered from the inside out. He wore shoes and socks with brightly colored patterns, a rarity among Yellow Stone boys. He was flanked by a couple of shorter fellows with toothy grins.

  “Nothing, nothing, just a casual visit.” He stuck out his hand. As the sleeve rode up, a gold watch glistened in the morning sun that filtered through the window of our classroom. “Name is I-Fei. Do you care for a cigarette during the break?”

  He became my best friend in class. His pomposity came from his family's background. His father was the mayor of Han Jian, the second largest town in Putien. His mother was the president of the women's federation at a government dry goods manufacturing factory. Both were seasoned Communist cadres. His parents had become too caught up with their lives and had deposited him at his aunt's, thus making him a big fish in a small pond. He lived on a fabulous monthly stipend and rode a brand-new bicycle to school once in a while, just to show it off to the girls. The teachers tolerated him because his mother controlled the supply of sugar and cooking oil in the county. She was all sugar and oil. Poorly paid, some teachers often could be seen begging I-Fei for oil and sugar coupons, which would allow them to buy those rare commodities, unobtainable on their pathetic rations.

  I-Fei searched out interesting fellows in school and made alliances with them. Even the cool guys in senior high greeted him like an old pal. He dragged me around wherever he went and introduced me as his buddy. We were the same height and build; soon we were wearing the same hairstyle. I even asked Mom for socks to wear, a giant step for someone who had only operated in bare feet before.

  By midterm, I was on the school Ping-Pong team and also in the school band. Three days a week I practiced Ping-Pong after school, and the rest of the week I played the flute and stumbled along on my violin, preparing for the rehearsal of a grand seven-act play directed by Mr. Ma, the high school drama teacher.

  Schoolmates were amazed by my violin. They called it “the shoulder thing.” There were always eager faces pasted at the windowpanes of the rehearsal hall. Now they had one more thing to look at besides the alluring faces of the school's stars.

  Soon I was a recognizable face in a school of two thousand students.

  “Did you hear that?” I-Fei asked me angrily one day as we walked into the rehearsal room.

  “What?” I asked.

  “There was a guy out there, bad-mouthing you, calling you a landlord's son, and this and that.” I-Fei's face was burning.

  “Who was it?”

  “A skinny little rat from group one called Han or something. Aren't you going to do anything about it?” He put his hands on his waist.

  “Listen, he was my old enemy from elementary school.”

  “And you let him run through you like that?”

  “I'll take care of him later.”

  “Not later.” He stared at me. “Now.”

  “I don't want to make a scene here.”

  “I'll make a scene. Let's go.”

  “Not now. You don't understand.”

  “I do understand. They used to pick on you, but not in here.”

  He marched me out of the room and we went toward a small crowd.

  “You stay cool, okay,” I-Fei said in a hushed voice, “and do as I say.”

  “What are you going to do?” The fear of getting kicked out of school washed over me again.

  He didn't answer. I saw him walk straight to Han, who stopped laughing and turned to face I-Fei.

  “You've been cursing me behind my back, you son of a whore,” I-Fei shouted, spitting at Han and waving his fists.

  “I wasn't talking about you,” Han said. “I was talking about him.”

  He pointed at me.

  “That's not true, I heard you do it.” I-Fei moved in closer; his eyes were popping. He started to push Han. Han pushed back.

  “Come on, Da,” I-Fei yelled. “Now the rat confessed he has been cursing both of us. How dare you!” My blood rushed to my head. The old pain began to come back. I was shaking and trembling.

  “Come on, Da!” Suddenly I turned fearless and hit Han right in the temple with my fist. Han stumbled back a few steps. I-Fei ducked down and swung his right foot against Han's unsteady legs. Han fell onto the dirt ground. A cheer went up among the crowd.

  My legs flew and I started kicking him in his chest and groin. He screamed. I-Fei pinned his head down. Then I jumped on him and hit him till my arms were exhausted. We let go of him.

  Han crawled to his feet like a dog hit by a truck and limped away, mud, sweat, and tears covering his face. I was in tears too.

  “Why are you crying?” I-Fei asked, puzzled.

  “Happy.” I wiped my face. “Thanks.”

  “He would never dare look you in the face from now on.”

  That evening, Mr. Ma took us into his office and severely criticized us. I said it was my fault, I-Fei said it was his. Mr. Ma said if it were not for the upcoming dress rehearsal of the revolutionary drama, we would all be fired from the production. We tried to suppress our laughter as we left the office.

  Our show was ready by the New Year. For that period, we had already gotten fifteen bookings, mainly from the small villages that made up the Yellow Stone commune. Our play was about how a female high school student, at first a bookworm, was helped by the Red Guards to join the revolutionary camp. She became a Red Guard and denounced her past affiliation with a counterrevolutionary, who was trying to corrupt her young mind with intellectual studies. The total cast was about fifty people, including teachers. It was not much of a play, but to a village where there might be a movie once a year, any form of entertainment was reason to celebrate, especially when it coincided with the New Year.

  A few days before the New Year, we were invited to perform in the village of Ding Zhuan, where my distant cousin Wen Qui lived, and where I had hidden myself earlier. Now it was time for a happy reunion.

  In the morning, the village sent tractors to pick us up. We sang all the way there, crowded into the back. When we arrived, small children chased us with interest. “The music men are here!” they shouted.

  The band's job when we got to each destination was to hang all the curtains, layers of them, and set up all the props. Ding Zhuan had an outdoor dirt platform facing a large square. A few bamboo poles were erected at the four corners. I-Fei and I climbed up the poles and tied the curtains to them while others carried the heavy props to the back of the stage and passed the curtains to us. Teachers shouted at us as we rocked on the tip of the poles for fun. Then we helped the
electricians set up the spotlights.

  Out in the dirt yard, villagers had long since claimed their spots with their own chairs, camping out since the day before. These kids hadn't had such fun for a long time. At the village headquarters, where all of us would be staying for the night, a large kitchen was preparing a banquet for us.

  “Three big fat pigs and lots of other food,” the chief of the village said proudly. “You will have plenty to eat.” He passed out cigarettes on a tray to everyone, including the students. Mr. Ma stared at us like a disapproving parent and snatched them all back.

  That afternoon, I visited my cousin Wen Qui, bringing along my violin.

  “Welcome, welcome. I didn't expect to see you.” Wen looked a few years older and now had an unruly mustache. “All I knew was that you were in high school.” He was beaming with joy. His wife patted my shoulders lovingly.

  “I am in high school and I'm playing the violin now.”

  “Just like your dad. That's very good. Here, play something for us.”

  I played a simple melody and they listened quietly.

  “I can see you are surviving well, on the school propaganda team and all. It makes me think of the old days, when you were hiding here,” my cousin said sentimentally.

  His wife's eyes were misty, but she smiled and held my hands in hers.

  “How is school?”

  “Well, no one is serious about school nowadays. That's why I'm doing this.” I plucked a few notes and put the violin away.

  “But it's difficult to make a living doing that, unless you're very talented.”

  I was quiet.

  “It's fun, singing and dancing and lots of good food—and probably lots of smoking. I've done all that before.” Wen Qui looked at his wife, who smiled back. “But you should try to study as much as possible in school.”

  “What's the use?”

  “What's the use? Knowledge. Nobody can take that away from you. Times will change, then you'll be sorry,” he said.

  I stayed quiet. I had gone there expecting to talk about my exciting winter schedule with my favorite couple, discussing my music and friends.