Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh, Page 2

  “Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh” is my latest story (it has recently been filmed by China's preeminent director, Zhang Yimou, under the title Happy Days). While at first it may appear to deal primarily with the “downsizing” problem facing today's Chinese workers, in line with the Chinese saying, “Alcoholism is not really about alcohol,” there is more to the story than meets the eye. What I also want to show is how young couples in love are forced to sneak around to share their love. “Abandoned Child,” written in the mid-1980s, concerns one of contemporary Chinese society's thorniest problems — enforced family planning in a pervasive climate of valuing boys over girls. Decades of governmental efforts in implementing a one-child policy have produced impressive results in China's urban centers, where the long-held concept of “boys are better than girls” has undergone a change. But in the countryside, families with more than one child are still the norm, and the general disdain for baby girls is as prevalent as ever. Unchecked population growth remains China's most serious predicament, and a host of social problems emanating from the one-child policy are already beginning to appear.

  “Man and Beast,” also written in the 1980s, continues the family saga of Red Sorghum and describes how, under extraordinary circumstances, the last shreds of humanity can give rise to a blaze of glory. Toward the end of the 1980s I wrote “Love Story,” a tale of puppy love. Set in the ten years of the disastrous Cultural Revolution, when hundreds of thousands of young men and women were sent from the cities up to the mountains and down to the countryside, the story tells of a young country boy who falls in love with a city girl much older than he, an uncommon turn of events. But it is precisely this feature that allows me to explore the concepts of sadness and beauty.

  “The Cure,” “Iron Child,” and “Soaring” are all part of a series of short pieces I wrote during the early 1990s. “The Cure” is a tale of cannibalism and cruelty, and “Iron Child” and “Soaring” can be read as fables. Finally, there is “Shen Garden,” one of my last stories of the twentieth century. What I want to show here is how a middle-aged man turns his back on the love of an earlier time and eventually compromises with reality. In today's society, many Chinese men who have achieved success, even fame, live hypocritical lives. Deep down, their existence is little more than a pile of ruins.

  As I have said, I am a writer with no theoretical training; but I possess a fertile imagination, thanks in part to China's popular traditions, which I am intent on continuing. I may be ignorant of high-flown literary concepts, but I do know how to spin a bewitching tale, something I learned as a child from my grandfather, my grandmother, and a variety of village storytellers. Critics who base their views of literature on scientific theories of one sort or another don't think much of me. But let's see them write a story that captures a reader's imagination.

  M.Y.

  Beijing, 2001

  Translator's Note

  The term shifu is a generic and generally respectful term for skilled workers and the like; widely used, it has, in a sense, replaced other terms, such as “comrade.”It is common in China to use kinship or professional forms of address in preference to given names.

  The Shen Garden in the story of that title, which was located in the southern city of Shaoxing over a millennium ago, is famous as a metaphor for encounters between once married couples. It is where the Southern Song poet Lu You is said to have met Tang Wan, whom his parents had forced him to divorce.

  “The Cure” (literally, “effective medicine”) is an updated version of the famous story “Medicine” by Lu Xun (1881— 1936), twentieth-century China's most renowned literary figure. In the earlier story, a child is treated for consumption with the blood of a beheaded revolutionary, but dies nonetheless; it too is a caustic satire on contemporary society and politics.

  The translator thanks the editor of the Hong Kong magazine Renditions for her editorial suggestions on the story “Soaring” and for permission to reprint. “The Cure” appeared in slightly modified form in my anthology Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused (Grove Press, 1995). As always, my thanks to Li-chun for checking the manuscript and to Mo Yan for his generosity and cooperation. Both have made the translator's job especially rewarding and enjoyable.

  Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

  1

  DING SHIKOU, OR TEN MOUTH DING, HAD WORKED AT THE Municipal Farm Equipment Factory for forty-three years and was a month away from mandatory retirement age when he was abruptly laid off. Now if you put shi (+), the word for ten, inside a kou , the word for mouth, you get the word tian (), for field. The family name Ding can mean a strapping young man. As long as a strapping young man has a field to tend, he'll never have to worry about having food on the table and clothes on his back. That was his farmer father's cherished wish for his son when he named him. But Ding Shikou was not destined to own land; instead he found work in a factory, which led to a far better life than he'd have had as a farmer. He was enormously grateful to the society that had brought him so much happiness, and was determined to pay it back through hard work. Decades of exhausting labor had bent him over, and even though he wasn't yet sixty, he had the look of a man in his seventies.

  One morning, like all other workday mornings, he rode to the factory on his 1960s black and obstinate, clunky Grand Defense bicycle, which presented quite a sight among all the sleek lightweight bikes on the street. Young cyclists, male and female, first gave him curious stares, then steered clear of him, the way a fancy sedan gets out of the way of a lumbering tank. As soon as he pedaled through the factory gate, he saw a group of people clustered around the bulletin board. The voices of a couple of women rose above the general buzz, like hens about to lay eggs. His heart fluttered as he realized that what the workers feared most had finally happened.

  He parked his bike and took a look around, exchanging a meaningful glance with old Qin Tou, the gateman. Then, with a heavy sigh, he slowly walked over to join the crowd. His heart was heavy, but not too heavy. After word of imminent layoffs at the factory had gotten out, he went to see the factory manager, a refined middle-aged man, who graciously invited him to sit on the light-green lambskin sofa. Then he asked his secretary to bring them tea. As Ding held the glass of scalding liquid and smelled its jasmine fragrance, he was engulfed in gratitude, and suddenly found himself tongue-tied. After smoothing out his high-quality suit and sitting up straight on the opposite sofa, the factory manager said with a little laugh:

  “Ding Shifu, I know why you're here. After several years of financial setbacks here at the factory, layoffs have become unavoidable. But you're a veteran worker, a provincial model worker, a shifu — master worker — and even if we're down to the last man, that man will be you.”

  People were crowding up to the bulletin board, and from his vantage point behind them, Ding Shikou caught a glimpse of three large sheets of paper filled with writing. Over the past few decades, his name had appeared on that bulletin board several times a year, and always on red paper; those were the times he had been honored as an advanced or model worker. He tried to elbow his way up front, but was jostled so badly by the youngsters that he wound up moving backward. Amid all the curses and grumbling, a woman burst out crying. He knew at once it was Wang Dalan, the warehouse storekeeper. She'd started out as a punch-press operator, but had mangled one of her hands in an accident, and when gangrene set in they'd had to amputate it to save her life. Since it was a job-related injury, the factory kept her on as a storekeeper.

  Just then a white Jeep Cherokee drove in the gate honking its horn, seizing the attention of the people fighting to read the layoff list; they all turned to stare at the Jeep, which looked as if it had just come back from a long, muddy trip. The clamor died down as dazed expressions showed on the people's faces. The Jeep looked a little dazed too, its horn suddenly silent, the engine sputtering, the tailpipe spitting out puffs of exhaust. It was like a wild beast that sensed danger. Its gray eyes stared as they fearfully sized up the situation. At roughl
y the same time it decided to back out through the gate a chorus of shouts erupted from the workers, whose legs got the message, and in no time the Jeep was surrounded. It tried to break free, lurching forward and backward a time or two, but it was too late. A tall, muscular young man with a purple face — Ding Shikou saw that it was his apprentice, Lü Xiaohu — bent down, opened the car door, and jerked the assistant manager in charge of supply and marketing right out of his seat. Curses rained down on the man's head, translucent gobs of spittle splattered on his face, which by then was a ghostly white. His greasy hair fell down over his eyes as he clasped his hands in front of his chest, bent low at the waist, and bowed, first to Lü Xiaohu, then to the rest of the crowd. His lips were moving, but whatever he was trying to say was drowned out by the threatening noises around him. Ding couldn't make out a single word, but there was no mistaking the wretched look on the man's face, like a thief who'd been caught in the act. The next thing he saw was Lü Xiaohu reach out to grab the assistant manager's colorful necktie, which looked like a newly-weds’ quilt, and jerk it straight down; the assistant manager disappeared from view, as if he'd fallen down a well.

  A pair of police cars stormed up to the compound, sirens blaring. This threw such a scare into Ding Shikou, whose heart was racing, that all he could think of was getting the hell out of there; too bad he couldn't get his legs to follow orders. Finding it impossible to drive through the gate, the police parked their cars outside the compound and poured out of the cars; there were seven of them in all — four fat ones and three skinny ones. Armed with batons, handcuffs, walkie-talkies, pistols, bullets, tear gas, and a battery-powered bullhorn, the seven cops took a few unhurried steps, then stopped just outside the gate to form a cordon, as if to seal off the factory gate as an escape route. A closer look showed that they probably weren't going to seal off the factory, after all. One of the cops, who was getting along in years, raised the bullhorn to his mouth and ordered the workers to disperse, which they did. Like a wolf exposed in the field when sorghum stalks are cut down, the assistant manager for supply and marketing popped into view. He was sprawled on the ground, facedown, protecting his head with his hands, his rear end sticking up in the air, looking like a frightened ostrich. The cop handed his bullhorn to the man beside him and walked up to the cowering assistant manager; he reached down and took hold of the man's collar with his thumb and two fingers, as if to lift him to his feet, but the assistant manager looked as though he was trying to dig a hole for himself. His suit coat separated itself from him, forming a little tent. Now Ding could hear what he was shouting:

  “Don't blame me, good people. I've just returned from Hainan Island, and I don't know a thing. You can't blame me for this… .”

  Without letting go of the man's coat, the policeman nudged his leg with the tip of his shoe. “Get up,” he said, “right now!”

  The assistant manager got to his feet, and when he saw that the person he'd gotten up for was a policeman, his phlegm-splattered face suddenly became the color of a dirt roadway. His legs buckled, and the only reason he didn't crumple to the ground again was that the policeman was still holding him by the collar.

  Before long, the factory manager drove up in his red VW Santana, followed by the vice mayor for industry in a black Audi. The factory manager was sweating, his eyes tear-filled; after bowing deeply three times to the workers, he confessed to them that he was powerless in an unfeeling market that was taking a factory with a glorious history down the road to financial disaster, and that if they kept losing money, they'd have to close up shop. He wrapped up his tale of woe by calling attention to old Ding. After recapping old Ding's glorious career, he told them he had no choice but to lay him off, even though old Ding was scheduled to retire in a month.

  Like a man who has been awakened from a dream, old Ding turned to look at the red sheets of paper tacked up on the bulletin board. There, right at the top of the lay-off list, in alphabetical order, he spotted his own name. He circled his fellow workers, with the look of a child searching for his mother; but all he saw was a sea of identical dull gray faces. Suddenly light-headed, he squatted down on his haunches; when that proved too tiring, he sat down on the ground. He hadn't been sitting there long before he burst into tears. His loud wails were far more infectious than those of the females in the crowd, and as his fellow workers’ faces darkened, they too began to cry. Through tear-clouded eyes he watched Vice Mayor Ma, that agreeable, friendly man, walk toward him in the company of the factory manager. Flustered by the sight, he stopped crying, propped himself up by his hands, and got shakily to his feet. The vice mayor reached out and shook his grimy hand. Old Ding marveled over the softness of the man's hand, like dough, not a bone anywhere. When he thrust out his other hand, the vice mayor reached out with his free hand to take it. Four hands were tightly clasped as he heard the vice mayor say:

  “Comrade Ding, I thank you on behalf of the municipal government and Party Committee.”

  Ding's nose began to ache and the tears gushed again.

  “Come see me anytime,” the vice mayor said.

  2

  Originally, the Municipal Farm Equipment Factory had been a capitalist operation called Prosperity Metalworks, which produced mainly kitchen cleavers and scythes. After it became a semipublic company, its name was changed to the Red Star Met-alworks. It produced the Red Star two-wheeled, double-shared plow, which had been so popular in the 1950s; then in the 1960s it specialized in the Red Star cotton seeder. In the 1970s its name was changed to the Farm Equipment Manufacturing and Repair Company, producing millet and corn threshers. In the 1980s, it manufactured sprinklers and small reapers. In the 1990s, using new equipment imported from Germany, it produced pull-tab beverage cans; its name was changed once again, this time to Silesia Farm Machinery Group, but people habitually referred to it as Farm Equipment Manufacturing and Repair.

  After shaking hands so warmly with Vice Mayor Ma, Ding was caught up in a mood of empty joy, the sort of feeling he'd had as a young man after climbing off his wife. His restless, seething fellow workers began to calm down in the presence of the police, the vice mayor, and the factory manager. Without intending to, old Ding set a fine example for all the workers. He heard the factory manager say to the assembled workers: “Who among you can boast of old Ding's seniority? Or match his contributions? Just look at how quietly he's taking the news. So why are the rest of you kicking up such a row?” Then it was the vice mayor's turn: “Comrades, you can learn a lesson from Ding Shifu by looking at the big picture and not making things hard on the government. We will do everything in our power to create new job opportunities, so you won't be out of work for long. But between now and then, you'll have to come up with something on your own and not just rely on the government.” With mounting excitement, he added, “Comrades, if members of the working class can reverse the course of events with their own two hands, it shouldn't be hard to find a way to make a living, should it?”

  The vice mayor drove off in his black Audi, followed by the factory manager in his red Santana. Even the now disheveled assistant factory manager drove off in his white Cherokee. The crowd of workers grumbled a while longer before breaking up and heading home. Lü Xiaohu walked up and took a leak on the bulletin board, then turned and said to old Ding, who was propped up against a tree:

  “Let's go, Shifu. You'll go hungry hanging around here. The old man's dead and the old lady's remarried, so it's every man for himself.”

  Old Ding nodded to Qin Tou, the gateman, and walked his Grand Defense bicycle through the factory gate. Qin Tou called out to him, “Wait up, Ding Shifu!”

  He stopped just beyond the gate and watched the former high school teacher come running up to him. Everyone knew that old Qin was well connected, which was how he was able to take on the light duties of a gateman and newspaper delivery-man after retiring as a schoolteacher. When he caught up to old Ding, he reached into his pocket and took out a business card.

  “Ding Shifu,” he sai
d somberly, “my second son-in-law is a reporter for the provincial newspaper. This is his card. Go ask him to plead your case in the court of public opinion.”

  Old Ding hesitated a moment before taking the card. Then he swung his unwilling leg over his Grand Defense and started off. But he hadn't ridden more than a couple of feet before his legs began to ache badly; he lurched sideways and fell off, the heavy bicycle crashing down and pinning him to the ground. Old Qin ran up, lifted the bicycle off, and helped him to his feet.

  “Are you okay, Ding Shifu?” old Qin asked with genuine concern.

  Once again he thanked old Qin and headed home slowly, walking his bike this time. Warm April breezes brushing against his face infused feelings of emptiness, sort of saccharine sweet. He felt dizzy, borderline drunk. Clusters of snowy poplar blossoms on the road by the curbs waved back and forth. A flock of homing pigeons circled in the sky above him, their trainers’ whistles falling on his ears. He was a long way from crushing torment, yet he couldn't stop the river of tears running down his cheeks. As he passed a neighborhood park near his house, a little boy chasing a ball ran smack into him, sending shooting pains up his leg that forced him to sit down beside the road. The little boy looked up at him.

  “Gramps,” he said, “how come you're crying?”

  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and said, “You're a nice little boy. I'm not crying. Got some sand in my eyes. …”