Dragon's Gate. Vivian Bi
He wanted to rush over to save them but his feet were frozen to the ground. Watching the woman getting closer to his parents, with all his might he shouted: “GET UP, OR YOU’LL GET BURIED!” This time he managed to make a distorted sound and he woke up.
The dream was so vivid that Shi Ding could not be sure it had only been a dream. Slowly, his surroundings regained their colours. The two-toned grain in his desk, the autumn hues of the Fragrant Mountain painting, the patchwork quilt, all created by his father, proved the world was not a dull place.
The world was not frozen either. Shi Ding felt warm, although there was no stove in his room. This traditional compound did not have central heating, and to keep their houses warm in winter, everyone simply moved their stoves inside and installed stove-pipes to work as both smoke ducts and radiators. The Shi family’s stove was installed in the kitchen, at the front of the house; Shi Ding’s room was at the back of the house. But his father had punched holes in every wall and fashioned a web of piping along the ceiling of every room so that every part of the house felt warm as toast.
Shi Ding reached for the double-bell clock on the desk. It was a gift from his father when he had started school. He had painted one bell red and the other green so that they looked like two old fashioned hair buns. Shi Ding smiled. He really appreciated his father’s ingenuity and passion for colour.
Lately, there had been quarrels between his parents because of his father’s passion and hobbies. His mother argued that in the spirit of the times, his father should devote his talents to the big picture: he should participate in revolutionary propaganda in the Beijing Turbine Factory where they both, and most of the neighbours, worked. “It’s time to abandon your useless gimmicks,” she said.
His father was sparing with his words and his only rebuttal was that it was his “gimmicks” – his innovations in the factory – that had once brought honour to their family name.
Shi Ding had never forgotten the day his father had successfully replaced the heavy, foot-operated system of the big punch machines with a hydraulic button. The factory leaders escorted him home with drums and gongs. Shi Ding was seven at the time, so the red silk flower pinned on his father’s breast appeared enormous in his eyes.
His father’s “gimmicks” had also appealed to Shi Ding’s vanity. Last year, he had helped his father assemble a three-band transistor radio. It had a pleasant tone, and was smart and compact with a stainless steel frame and fine black mesh over the speaker. As far as Shi Ding knew, this radio was the flashiest piece of electronics in the neighbourhood. He boasted at school that he and his father would soon assemble a television set, an invention they had only heard of, but never seen.
But Shi Ding had been taking his mother’s side and believed that if his father had used his talent for “big things”, he would have made Shi Ding as proud and elated as his neighbour Wang Lixin. Wang Lixin enjoyed absolute authority over all the youngsters of No. 10 simply because his father, Wang Tong, had been successful in the factory. And what had Wang Tong achieved besides having some slogans on big banners hung around the factory and forming Beijing Turbine Factory’s Revolutionary Propaganda Team? All these would have been as nothing if his father had bothered to take part in “big things”.
“Get up, or you’ll get buried!” The shrill voice from the yard startled Shi Ding and he recalled the very same words in his dream. Was he dreaming that he was dreaming? He cried out: “Dad! Where are you?”
“I’m here”. Shi Wangcai pushed open the door and popped his head in, holding his hands in the air to avoid touching the door. They were covered in white flour. “A nightmare? It’s okay now.” He smiled at his son and said, “Nine o’clock already. Get up, will you? It’s been snowing all night. Aunt Sun has been calling people to clear the snow for some time.”
“Really? Has everything turned white?”
“What do you think? Just get up,” Shi Wangcai continued as he disappeared behind the door. “Today is Lantern Festival so I’m making dumplings.”
Shi Ding quickly put on layers of clothes, folded his quilt and smoothed the sheet, one of the “good habits” his father had taught him. Then he went to the front of the house where the living room and his parents’ bedroom were. Opening the front door, Shi Ding once again fell into a trance – was he really awake? The drain in the middle of the yard, framed by a 50 centimetre high square cement wall, had vanished. The courtyard was a level snowfield. The coincidence of dream and reality was thrilling.
“Shi Ding, Shi Ding! Come and help us! We can’t open the door.” Muffled voices rose up from the southern house.
No. 10 View Street was a 300-year-old residential compound with a large open outer yard and enclosed front and rear courtyards. The front courtyard had an ornamented gateway that led people into it from the outer yard. Inside, four evergreen pines stood at the four corners, guarding the four households. Shi Ding’s family lived in the northern house, traditionally the master house, which stood at the top of a flight of white marble stairs. Its deep veranda looked down on the southern house, the servant rooms, built three steps below ground level to match their occupants’ humble station. This was where Shi Ding’s classmate Dong Ermei now lived with her father and brother.
Dong Ermei was a pretty girl who attracted many boys’ attention – Shi Ding was one of them. Her father was always Mr Dong to his neighbours, never the familiar Old Dong or, to the children, Uncle Dong, because he had joined the Kuomintang before the Communist takeover. He was a night-shift doorman in the factory. Ermei did not get on with her father. “My father hates me because I am nothing like my brother. He’d be happier if I didn’t exist.”
She had indeed nothing in common with her brother, Dong Pingshun. While she was noisy and cheerful and failed her school tests every now and then, Pingshun was gentle and melancholic and had been a top student in high school. If it hadn’t been for Mr Dong’s political problem, Pingshun could have studied philosophy at Beifang University. Instead, he worked as a labourer in a small factory. Mr Dong devoted himself to his son out of guilt. “Dad would wipe my brother’s bum if he asked,” Ermei said resentfully. “But to me, ha, he has never shown a kind face. ‘Ermei, don’t do that!’, ‘Ermei, you’re so shameless!’” She mimicked her father’s tone, her face full of contempt. “Mum died a long time ago; otherwise I’d ask her if I was picked up from a rubbish tip.”
Now the front door of Dong Ermei’s house was banked almost halfway up with snow. The small glass panel in the door was frosted over but Shi Ding could see a pair of eyes behind a little clear patch. They were Ermei’s, bright and expressive, and madly attractive to the young man. He rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over in his haste. Lifting his knees high and carefully avoiding the invisible drain, he made his way across the yard and down the concealed steps of Dong Ermei’s house. He pressed his face against the glass panel in hope but found himself gazing into the suspicious eyes of Ermei’s father. Startled, he jumped back and lost his balance, landing heavily on his bottom on the steps. “Ha, ha, ha …” Dong Ermei stifled a laugh. Pained and embarrassed, Shi Ding scrambled to his feet and started to scoop the snow from the steps with his bare hands, crying out in a funny voice: “Help! Help, everyone. Mr Dong has been buried alive!”
Just then, with a big stretch and yawn, Wang Lixin emerged from the eastern house, which opened onto the podium of the gateway and was traditionally the residence of the chief guard. Wang Lixin was another of Dong Ermei’s admirers, and when he realised what had happened, he shouted, “Ermei, don’t worry, I’m coming!” Then he saw Shi Ding. “Are you stupid? Do you want to watch them die? Go and get a shovel! Quickly!” He jumped into the snowfield and made his way towards Dong’s house.
Shi Ding stood up, silently cursing. “You insufferable idiot. If it wasn’t for your father, who’d take you seriously?” Many other young people hated Wang Lixin’s bullying, but no one dared offend him because their parents had warned them not to. Shi Ding’s mother had recently been promoted to factory chef, and she repeatedly cautioned him: “Don’t displease Wang Lixin. It’s impossible to get a good job like mine without his father’s support. You don’t mind tasting all those