The Dragon's Village: An Autobiographical Novel of Revolutionary China (25 page)

Tightly hugging the remaining empty pages of my diary I threw myself back onto the kang. I was sure that I was not the only secret writer. If we refused to bow in submission to tyrants, small or big, some of us would outlast them.

I lit the small oil lamp on the table and began to write about my nightmare, jotting down every single detail.

14
  

It was time to elect a new government in Longxiang. Since the old Guomindang officials had fled late in the previous year, Shen and Tu had in effect been the local provisional government. They received orders from the county government in Yuzhong. But the presence of the work teams and the land reform movement were changing all that. In all the villages and townships, including Longxiang, a growing number of militant peasants were beginning to want to take affairs into their own hands. Responding to the new situation, the county leadership had sent word that every township should elect a local council that could throw its authority behind the land reform and carry it through. Every work team had been told to cultivate good candidates and get out the vote.

Like all the other instructions we had been getting from the county this was easier said than done. We wanted a government that represented all the peasants, but the work teams had sometimes been too successful when they encouraged the middle peasants to become more active. I had heard of elections in which the middle peasants, despite being a minority, had carried off most of the seats. The power of this group should not have been underestimated: They had not gotten where they were by accident. They had to be skilled and toughly egotistical to survive and prosper in conditions where most others had sunk into
abject poverty. Usually, they were astute enough not to exclude the poor peasant candidates entirely, but they did their best to get their own candidates in.

We in Longxiang tried to prepare for the election by fostering some very good candidates: veteran farmers like old Gao, the village sage; adults in their prime like Shen; and a few forceful, capable younger people. We felt it very important to have at least one woman cadre in the government, and we were hopeful—indeed, confident—that Xiu-ying would be elected. But even with such a strong slate, Wang Sha, Cheng, and I knew that we would have to do all we could to help elect our young poor peasant activists and have a good turnout at the election.

One morning two weeks before the election I went to visit Xiu-ying. She wasn't home, and her mother told me that she'd gone out on an early-morning errand but would soon be back. There was a pile of dry stalks in a corner of the courtyard and I lay down on them, snug in my padded coat and trousers, and waited for her. The winter sun played warmly on my face but was too bright for my eyes, so I turned over to lie face down. The scent of the stalks was pleasant and I closed my eyes to enjoy the quiet and the calm.

“Ling-ling is here,” I heard Xiu-ying's mother call out from the cottage.

“Where?” came Xiu-ying's voice.

“Right under your nose.”

“She's gone to sleep.”

“No, I'm awake.” I rolled over and lay on my back. I smiled up at her. “Where have you been?” As I asked this I got up and followed her into the house.

“I was chatting with Shen and Tu. They're worried that they are going to lose their authority when the new cadres are elected.”

“Rubbish. There'll be much more work to do after the land reform. They couldn't possibly do it all by themselves.”

“Shen said he doesn't care how the voting goes. He was bragging that he would go to Xian to visit relatives and
that they will get him a job in a factory there. He says that city life is much more interesting.”

“He's just talking. Of course he cares if he's elected or not.” I looked right at her. “What do you really think of Shen?”

“He's a bit lazy and he doesn't like to take on big responsibilities. But he'll win. He has many friends in the Poor Peasants' Association. Everyone knows now that that's where the power will be when the land share-out takes place. So he sits there all the time and lets people get used to him sitting there. They will vote him in, most of them, because his face is familiar. Why choose someone you don't know?”

“Xiu-ying, you are exaggerating,” I chided her.

She laughed. “Not much.”

Xiu-ying was a delightful chatterbox. The activities of the land reform had brought out her real capabilities and opened up a world of new possibilities. Every day I discovered some new facet of her character as she asked questions tirelessly, thirsting for knowledge. She wanted to know how my watch worked, how a bank operated, how women lived in the cities. One day we were talking about marriage. In Longxiang, a new bride immediately puts up her hair. Xiu-ying asked me, “Do girls keep their long braids after they are married in the city?”

“Some do, some don't.”

“Uh.” She thought this over while she reached into the stove and pulled out a roasted ear of corn, which she handed to me.

“Here, eat this,” she said.

“No, you eat it.”

“Let's share it.” And she broke it in two.

My hand was reaching out for the half, but her hand holding it suddenly pointed at the door leading to the bedroom, from which were coming some muffled sounds and then some angry shouting.

“Listen. Father is beating Mother again.”

“What's the matter?” I had come to love this family, and I was genuinely concerned.

“Nothing.” She shrugged as if there really were nothing
unusual going on, no reason to get upset. “My father is good-tempered and will only give her a taste of his fist.”

Indeed, Xiu-ying's mother soon emerged from the room, unhurriedly, smoothing down her disheveled hair with her hands. She asked kindly, “How do you like the corn, Young Sister?” and passed on out into the courtyard. She picked a dock leaf, spat on it, and put it on her red swollen cheek. Then she sat down on a millstone, some old clothes on her lap ready for patching and her arms resting idly. Looking quite serene, she sat for a while basking in the morning sunshine. We watched her as we munched on the ears of corn, enjoying the kernels' sweet burned taste.

“Mother told me that men all beat their wives,” remarked Xiu-ying. “There are no exceptions. I'll be lucky if I marry a man as kind as Father.” But even as she said this, her face clouded.

The older woman bent over her sewing, using her worn teeth to break a thread. The leaf fell from her face. As she picked it up, she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. She squirmed in her seat like a child as if to say, “Aren't I shameless? An old woman acting as awkward as a child who has been spanked.”

“Do men in the cities beat their wives?” asked Xiu-ying.

I didn't know how to explain to her, so that she could understand, that I grew up in one circle in one city at one specific time; it wasn't that easy to generalize about a vast city like Shanghai. I said, “I've never seen it happen among my friends. But I do know one wife who beats her husband.”

She stared at me, speechless, for a while, and then throwing away the finished cob, reached for its stalk. She chewed at this, peeling the shiny skin away with her strong, white teeth.

“See how I do it? You try!” She suddenly broke into a peal of laughter. Her eyes lit up and she gazed beyond the cottage walls.

“It's a—what is that word that means very, very happy? I can't remember.” She was vexed at herself. “What a poor memory.”

“What word? Oh, don't bother with that now.” I changed the subject. “Now we've got the election to think about.”

She looked down her nose pensively. After a while she exclaimed, pointing her finger upward at nothing in particular, “Oh, I remember: ‘blissful.' ” She laughed and flushed with joy. She carefully intoned every word: “You—live—a—blissful—life.”

“It's too soon to be thinking about a blissful life. There's too much to be done right now.” I brushed aside her further questions, laughing. “We must get going. It's our job to get everyone to vote,” I reminded her.

We walked up the main street between two rows of cottages. Villagers gathered there exchanged the latest news. As she passed, Xiu-ying called out greetings to her friends and neighbors as she usually did, but there was a subtle difference in her manner. The election was evidently very much on her mind. She was no longer greeting just neighbors but constituents. With a mixed sense of amusement and disquiet, I watched her move through groups of people, engaging them in animated conversation like a seasoned campaigner.

When we finally reached the crossroads at the end of the lane, we parted, she to visit a group of women who had not yet registered to vote, I turning right along the path that led to the cottage of Old Tian with the wispy goat's beard, Malvolio Cheng's friend. He was sweeping his courtyard, and a layer of dust covered his naked feet like brown suede slippers. He greeted me cheerfully. By now his old attitude to me had completely changed. I was no longer just a woman or a girl, but a “cadre,” one of the new neuter gender that the revolution had created.

“Come and have a drink of water with Old Gao and me,” he offered.

I was pleased with this cordial invitation and stepped through the gate. His crony sat on the stone steps which led into the house. By no means accidentally, Old Tian's voice rose higher, warning Gao that I was coming into the
courtyard. They apparently had been discussing something they didn't wish me to hear.

“Good morning,” I answered Old Tian. “You start the day early.”

“You started even earlier. I saw you with Xiu-ying.” And he shook his head disparagingly. “She was showing off again, huh?”

“Grandfather Tian, why do you say that? She isn't in show business.”

“Well, she might be, the way she carries on. She doesn't walk any more. She dances.”

I smiled because it was partly true. Xiu-ying walked with a confident spring in her step, not like the village girls of old, always prepared to take second place.

“She's working very hard because it's getting near election time.”

“Election?” There was a shrewd twinkle in Tian's eye. His attention roused, he rested his chin on his hands cupped over the end of the handle of his “broom,” a whisk of twigs tied to a pole. A small smile creased his face.

I could read his every thought. When you come down to it, he was thinking, the local rulers have always been appointed by the higher-ups. From time immemorial, it had always been so. Before, the higher-ups were landlords like Chi and the old Bai. Now there might be different people, but the election would still be staged to cover the deals behind the scenes. He was grinning from ear to ear as if to say, “You can't fool me. I know the rules of the game.” The old fox.

“Grandfather Tian,” I said politely, “I hope you'll join one of the voters' small group meetings to name and discuss the candidates. The small groups will recommend fifteen candidates and put them up for general consideration by the voters.” Then I added with a smile which I hoped would be meaningful enough to drive the point home: “Do you know what the young people are saying? They bet that you won't take part in the election. But I said you will.”

“I don't go in for a lot of talking.” Tian's voice showed that he couldn't be caught so easily. “But I am plain-spoken. I say what I mean.”

I saw that I had touched a raw spot. His face grew red and the veins in his temples stood out. He threw down the broom, took one step away, paused, took another step, and then halted. He thought for a moment, then with a stride as agile as a youth's he marched into the cottage. He picked up the piece of board that served as his dustpan and began furiously sweeping chicken droppings onto it.

“Please don't be angry about what they say. They are young and full of pranks,” I apologized.

“Have you heard that old saying, ‘Don't trust the judgment of a man with a beardless chin'?” he said to me sharply.

“Well … um … I told them that there were different kinds of old people. Some grow senile, but others become braver and wiser with age.”

“What did they say to that?”

“They laughed, I'm sorry to say.”

“Let's see who has the last laugh.” He swept up the dung so vigorously that it overshot his dustpan.

“It's interesting that you're telling him about the election,” said Gao. “I was just urging him to come to our discussion meeting. He knows so much about everything and everybody around here. His words carry weight.”

Gao was campaigning for himself, that was clear, and his chances were good. But he had enough skeletons clanking in his closet to worry him. One story going the rounds about him concerned the notorious death of a goat. Several years ago he had rented a goat to mate with his ewe. He had paid a fee for a single mating, but when he brought the goat back to its owner he practically had to carry it through the gate into the goat shed. At that time the owner just thought that Gao was being extra careful with the animal. But the goat died soon after, and suspicions crept in. A rumor went around that the poor animal died of exhaustion. Gao, of course, denied any responsibility. And now interest in the matter had revived.