Rickshaw Boy: A Novel Read online

  Having enjoyed, if not necessarily accepted, the counsel of my earlier translators, I have undertaken this project, a goal I set for myself two decades ago, in hopes of making available a complete, faithful, and readable English version of one of China’s modern classics. In doing so, I have worked from a facsimile of the original (1939) Renjian shuwu edition, but have consulted the 1941 Wenhua shenghua chubanshe edition, in which minor errors in the earlier edition have been corrected.

  For a novel that is more than seventy years old, anachronisms are unavoidable. For the most part, I have opted for contemporary relevance over period prose; since this is a translation, the illusion of absolute authenticity is already compromised, so I see no reason to be quaint. There are two major exceptions. First, the title. The Chinese title, Luotuo Xiangzi, is the protagonist’s name, the literal meaning of which is “fortunate son,” preceded by the word for camel (luotuo). Xiangzi is, of course, a young man, not a boy, and while only a few of the characters associated with rickshaws are, in fact, boys, at the time of writing, pullers were known among foreigners as rickshaw “boys” (waiters, servants, and other menial laborers all suffered the indignity of being called boys, irrespective of their age). However distasteful it seems now, “rickshaw boy” fits the period and the tone, and so I follow Evan King in his choice of English title. As for the city in which most of the narrative takes place, China’s current capital has had a number of names over the years. In the Republican era (1912–1945) it was officially called Beiping (“northern peace”); it reverted back to the earlier Beijing with the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949. Lao She used Beiping; so have I, along with two of my predecessors.

  If I have failed in my goal of giving Lao She’s masterpiece the translated version it deserves, it is not because I had no help along the way. The editors at HarperCollins, my agent, Sandra Dijkstra, and my wife, Sylvia Lin, supplied encouragement and assistance whenever I needed it. Finally, a tip of the hat to a couple of killer Chinese Web sites that made sense of the many elusive and highly colorful Beijing-isms no longer in common use.

  —Howard Goldblatt

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’d like you to meet a fellow named Xiangzi, not Camel, because, you see, Camel is only a nickname. After I’ve told you about Xiangzi, we’ll deal with his relationship with camels, and be done with it.

  The city of Beiping has several classes of rickshaw men: first are those who are young, energetic, and fleet-footed; they rent handsome rickshaws, put in a whole day, and are free to come and go as they please. They stake out a spot at a rickshaw stand or by a manor gate and wait for people who are looking for speed. If luck is with them, they can land a fare right off, earning as much as a silver dollar or two. But if luck passes them by, and they don’t make enough to pay for that day’s rental, well, so what? This group of running brothers has two ambitions: one is to land a job as a private hire; the other is to buy one’s own rickshaw, to own one outright. Then it makes no difference if they get paid by the month or pick up odd fares, since the rickshaws are theirs.

  The second class includes men who are slightly older and who, for health reasons, cannot run as fast, or whose family situation will not allow them to go all day without a fare. For the most part, their rickshaws are in good shape, if not particularly new. Since they manage to keep up appearances, they can still demand a respectable fee for their services. Some of these brothers work a full day, others only half a day. The half-day workers generally choose the night shift, even in the summers and winters, since they have the energy to handle it. Working at night requires special care and skill, so there’s more money to be made.

  Men over forty or younger than twenty have little chance of falling into either of these classes. They rent beat-up rickshaws and don’t dare work at night, which means they must set out early in the morning and work till three or four in the afternoon in hopes of earning enough to pay for that day’s rent and food. Given the poor condition of their rickshaws, speed is out of the question, so they wind up earning less for running more. Most of their fares come from hauling melons, fruit, and produce to market; the pay is low, but at least they can run at their own pace.

  Some of the under-twenty men start out at the age of eleven or twelve, and few become top runners after the age of twenty, as they’ll have suffered too many injuries to maintain decent health. They can pull a rickshaw all their lives and still not make the grade. Those over forty will have been at it for at least a decade, which takes its toll; settling for mediocrity, they gradually become resigned to the knowledge that one day they will collapse and die in the street. Their style of running, their shrewd bargaining abilities, and the deft use of shortcuts or circuitous routes help them relive the glories of their past, which is why they turn up their noses at younger men. But past glory has no effect on their current dismal prospects. And so they sigh as they wipe the sweat from their brows. But the suffering of these veterans pales in comparison with another group of pullers, men who never imagined they would one day have to scrape out a living by pulling a rickshaw. Not until the line between life and death has blurred for them do they finally pick up the shafts of a rickshaw. Laid-off policemen and school janitors, peddlers who have squandered their capital, and out-of-work laborers who have nothing more to sell and no prospects for work grit their teeth, swallow their tears, and set out on this road to oblivion. Having mortgaged their youth, they are reduced to spilling the blood and sweat derived from coarse corn cakes on the city streets. They have little strength, scant experience, and no friends; even their laboring brothers avoid them. They pull run-down rickshaws whose tires go flat several times a day, and must beg forgiveness from passengers who, if they’re lucky, will give them fifteen cents for a ride.

  Yet another class of rickshaw men owes its distinction to the peculiarities of environment and intelligence. Those native to Xiyuan and Haidian naturally ply their trade in the Western Hills or around the universities at Yanjing and Tsinghua; those from Anding Gate stick to the Qinghe and Beiyuan districts; while those outside of Yongding Gate work in the area of Nanyuan. Interested only in long hauls, these men disdain the short, penny-ante business. But even they are no match for their long-distance brethren in the Legacy Quarter, who take passengers from the diplomatic sector all the way to the Jade Fountain, the Summer Palace, and the Western Hills. Stamina is only one reason why most pullers will not compete for this business, for this group of men can deal with their foreign passengers in their own languages: when a British or French soldier says he wants to go to the Summer Palace or the Yonghe Monastery or the Eight Alleys red-light district, they understand. And they will not pass this skill on to their rivals. Their style of running is also unique: at a pace that is neither particularly fast nor too slow, they run with their heads down, not deigning to look left or right as they keep to the sides of the roads, aloof and self-assured. Since they serve foreigners, they do not wear the numbered jackets required of other rickshaw men. Instead, they dress in long-sleeved white shirts, black or white loose-fitting trousers tied at the ankles with thin bands, and black cloth-soled “double-faced” shoes—clean, neat, smart-looking. One sight of this attire keeps other pullers from competing for fares or trying to race them. They might as well be engaged in a trade all their own.

  Now with this overview of the rickshaw trade, let’s see where Xiangzi fits in, in order to place—or at least attempt to place—him as precisely as a cog in a machine. Before he gained the nickname Camel, he was a relatively independent rickshaw man. That is to say, he belonged to the young, vigorous set and owned his own rickshaw. He was master of his own fate—an altogether high-class rickshaw man.

  That was no small accomplishment. Only after a year, then two years, and then as many as three or four years—shedding one drop, two drops, unknown thousands of drops of sweat—did he manage to buy a rickshaw. By gritting his teeth through wind and rain and scrimping on food and tea, he finally put enough aside to buy it, a tangible re
ward for his struggles and his suffering, like a medal for valor. In the days when he was pulling a rental rickshaw, he ran from morning to night, from east to west and from north to south, spinning like a top, and never his own man. But his eyes did not falter and his heart would not waver, as he thought of the rickshaw waiting for him, one that would guarantee his freedom and independence, one that counted as his arms and legs. Owning a rickshaw meant never having to suffer mistreatment or do the bidding of people who rented them out. Relying on his strength and his own rickshaw, all he needed to do to make a living was to stay alert.

  Hard work never bothered Xiangzi, nor was he affected by any of the excusable yet reprehensible bad habits so common among other rickshaw men. A combination of intelligence and diligence ensured that his dream would come true. If he’d been born into a better family or received a decent education, he’d never have been reduced to joining the rubber tire crowd; no matter what trade he’d taken up, he’d have made the most of his opportunities. Unfortunately, he had no choice, so, all right, he’d prove himself in the trade he was saddled with. Had he been consigned to hell, he’d have been one of the good demons. Born and raised in the countryside, he had come to the city at the age of eighteen, after losing his parents and the few acres of land they had worked. He brought with him a country boy’s powerful physique and honesty. At first he survived by working at a variety of backbreaking jobs, and it had not taken him long to discover that pulling a rickshaw was an easier way to make a living. At the other jobs his wages were fixed; pulling a rickshaw offered more variety and opportunities, and you never knew when and where you might do better than you thought. Naturally, he realized that chance alone was not enough, that a good-looking, fast-moving man and rickshaw were essential. People knew a high-quality product when they saw it. After thinking it over, he concluded that he had most of what it takes: strength and youth. What he lacked was experience. You don’t start out at the top, with the best equipment. But that was not going to hold Xiangzi back. With his youth and strength, he figured it would take no more than a couple of weeks to be running with the best of them. Then he’d rent a new rickshaw, and if all went well, he’d soon be on the payroll of a private party. Finally, after a couple of years, three or four at most, he’d buy a rickshaw, one that outshone everyone else’s. As he flexed his muscles, he was confident that it was only a matter of time before he reached his goal. It was not wishful thinking.

  Xiangzi’s stature and muscles outstripped his years. He was tall and robust not long after his twentieth birthday, and even though his body had not reached maturity, he was no longer a boy—he was an adult, in face and figure, who retained a look of innocence and a mischievous nature. After watching the top runners in action, he decided to tighten his belt as far as it would go to show off his hard chest muscles and powerful, straight back. He looked down at his shoulders, broad and impressive. After fixing his belt, he’d put on a pair of baggy white trousers and tie them at the ankles with a band made of chicken intestines, to call attention to his large feet. Yes, he was going to be the finest rickshaw man in town. The thought nearly made him laugh out loud.

  All in all, he had run-of-the-mill features; the look on his face is what set him apart. He had a smallish head, big, round eyes, a fleshy nose, and short, bushy eyebrows. His shaved head glistened. There was no excess flab in his cheeks, and his neck was nearly the same thickness as his head. His face was ruddy, always, highlighted by a large red scar that ran from his cheekbone to his right ear—he’d been bitten by a donkey while napping under a tree as a youngster. He paid little attention to his appearance yet was as fond of his face as he was of his body, both hard and solid. He counted his face as one of his limbs, and its strength was all that mattered. Even after coming to the city, he could do handstands and hold them for a long time, making him feel that he was like a tree that stood strong and straight.

  He really was like a tree: solid, silent, and full of life. He had his plans and his aspirations, but he kept them to himself. Among the brethren, injustices and hardships were constant topics of conversation. At rickshaw stands, in teahouses, and in tenement compounds, the men discussed, described, and argued about their lot, until these things became public property, like popular songs passing from mouth to mouth and place to place. As a country boy, Xiangzi lacked the conversational skills of men from the city. If eloquence was a natural gift, he’d never received it, and he had no desire to imitate the sharp-tongued men around him. He knew what he was about and took no pleasure in talking with them; that gave him more time to think, as if his eyes were focused only on his own heart. Once he made up his mind, he followed the road his instincts told him to travel. If that led nowhere, he’d lapse into silence for a day or two, clenching his teeth as if biting down on his heart.

  He made up his mind to pull a rickshaw, and that is what he did. He rented a beat-up rickshaw to try out his legs. The first day he earned next to nothing. The next day was better. But then he had to take a couple of days off, for his ankles had swelled to the size of gourds, putting his legs out of commission. He put up with the pain, no matter how bad it got, knowing that it was inevitable, a necessary passage on the way to where he was going. Without passing this test, he would never be able to go out and run as he wanted.

  As soon as his legs were healthy, he went out again. He was a happy man, knowing that there was nothing more to be afraid of. He knew the city well and was never bothered if he took the long way round, since he had a reservoir of strength. How to run never presented much of a problem, either, thanks to his experience of pushing, pulling, carrying, and lifting heavy objects. Besides, he’d worked it out that as long as he remained within his limits he’d be safe. As for negotiating a fare, his tongue was slow, and he was too easily rattled to compete with the wily old rickshaw men. Recognizing this shortcoming, he avoided rickshaw stands, waiting instead in places where his was the only rickshaw. In those out-of-the-way places he could take his time when negotiating a fare. Sometimes he didn’t even bother. “Climb aboard,” he’d say, “and give me what you think it’s worth.” People seemed eager to deal with an honest man who had such a likable, innocent face, convinced that a simple young man like that would not overcharge them. Even those who had misgivings would suspect only that he was too new to the city to know his way around and so did not know how much to charge. “Do you know the place?” they’d ask. He’d play dumb and grin, leaving them scratching their heads.

  It took only two or three weeks for Xiangzi to get his legs into shape, and he knew he looked good when he ran. Running style was proof of a rickshaw man’s ability and qualifications. Those who ran with their feet splayed like a pair of palm-leaf fans had obviously just come in from the countryside, while those who ran with their heads down and shuffled along at a walking speed that only looked like a run were in their fifties or older. Old-timers who lacked physical strength had their own way of running: with their chests drawn in, they strained forward and lifted their legs high in the air, jerking their heads forward with each step, appearing to run but never moving faster than a brisk walk. They relied upon style to retain their self-respect. Needless to say, none of this appealed to Xiangzi. With his long legs, he took great strides, his hips hardly moving, and made little sound as he ran, each step like a spring, keeping the rickshaw level and his rider safe and comfortable. When told to stop, no matter how fast he was going, he planted his feet and pulled up smartly. His strength infused every part of the rickshaw as he bent his back slightly and gripped the shafts loosely. He was lively, nimble, and precise, fast without looking rushed, never flirting with danger. All this was rare even among men who pulled for private parties.

  Xiangzi traded in his beat-up rickshaw for a new one, and on that day he learned that rickshaws with soft springs, solid brass fittings, large rain hoods with flaps, two lamps, and thin-necked horns cost more than a hundred yuan. For a little less, he could buy one that had so-so paint and fittings. That was all he needed to scrape
together. If he put aside ten cents every day, in a thousand days he’d have a hundred yuan. A thousand days! He tried to calculate just how long that was but failed. Yet that did not faze him. A thousand days, even ten thousand days—it wouldn’t matter. He was going to buy his own rickshaw. With that in mind, he decided to hire out to a private party and went looking for an employer with an active social life, someone who often attended dinner parties, at least ten a month, which would translate to two or three yuan in tips. That, on top of the one yuan he could save from his monthly pay, would add up to four or five yuan a month, or fifty to sixty a year, bringing him even closer to his goal. He did not smoke, he did not drink, and he did not gamble. With no bad habits and no family burdens, there was nothing to keep him from his goal as long as he persevered. He made a vow to himself: in a year and a half, he—Xiangzi—would own a rickshaw. And it had to be brand-new, not refurbished.

  He found an employer. But his hopes were not favored by reality. He persevered—that was the easy part—but a year and a half later his vow remained unfulfilled. He had his private hires and was prudent and cautious. What a shame that the affairs of the world are not always simple, for that did not keep his employers from sacking him. Sometimes he lasted two or three months, sometimes only eight or ten days, after which he was out looking for steady work again. Meanwhile, he took as many fares as he could while he looked for another monthly hire, which was like riding one horse while looking for another. He simply could not remain idle. That led to mistakes, as he threw himself into his work, not only to make enough to fill his belly but to continue saving up to buy a rickshaw. And yet, hard work alone was not enough. His mind wandered as he ran, with thoughts crowding into his head, and the more he thought, the more fearful he grew, and the more indignant. At this rate, when would he ever have enough to buy a rickshaw? Why was this happening? Was he not trying hard enough? Such confusing thoughts led him to throw caution to the wind. He’d run over sharp pieces of metal on the road, causing a blowout, and that would be it for the day. But there were worse mishaps: he sometimes ran down a pedestrian or two, and once even lost a hubcap by failing to squeeze through a narrow opening. None of that would have happened if he’d had a steady job, and his disappointment at not having one made him clumsy and careless. Naturally, he had to pay for damages to the rented rickshaws, which increased his anxieties, like throwing oil on a fire. One way to avoid a serious accident was to spend all day in bed, but when he opened his eyes in the morning, he chastised himself over the loss of a day’s wages. To complicate matters, the more he agonized over his situation, the worse he treated himself, stinting on regular meals. He considered himself made of strong stuff, but that did not keep him from getting sick. Too tightfisted to spend money on medicine when he fell ill, he tried to tough it out, which only made things worse, until he not only had to spend even more on medicine but had to take several days off to recuperate. To these troubles he responded by gritting his teeth and working even harder, which still had no effect on the speed with which he saved up money.