The Ancient Ship. Zhang Wei
drunker than any of the others. At first, like them, she swayed as she worked, but then she began to spin and fell in a heap, happily chatting away. Parts of a woman’s body that ought not to be exposed were, but just for a moment, before she straightened her clothes and stood up. Now she was steady on her feet, but Jiansu began to sway and had to support himself with his hand on the wall. The swarthy man above was still banging his ladle and singing his off-color song. With difficulty, Jiansu walked out the door and somehow made his way back to where the others were still drinking. He leaned up against his uncle.
Just before he fell asleep Jiansu vaguely heard his uncle say something about “a leak on the port side” and immediately felt as if he were sailing on the high seas. That continued for a while, and when he heard his uncle say, “We’re in port,” he woke up. The first thing he saw after opening his eyes was Zhao Duoduo, neck stretched taut as he listened intently to Li Zhichang, whose voice gradually reached Jiansu. What he heard sobered him up in a flash. He was talking about buying a used piece of machinery from the prospecting team and turning it into a generator, which would light up all of Gaoding Street. He said he’d already spoken with the street director, Luan Chunji, Party Secretary Li Yuming, and Fourth Master, who had given his approval. At this point Li Zhichang grew animated, talking about how he wanted to apply scientific principles to the entire noodle factory. Pouring the starch into hot water, the sedimentation process, and sifting would all be accomplished by machines. The first step would be to install variable gears, large and small, and though others might not believe him, three or four of the gears had to be the size of peaches.
Given his experience in the old mill, Duoduo was eager to believe what he was hearing. He toasted Li Zhichang. When Jiansu coughed loudly, Li turned to look. Jiansu glared back. That had the desired effect: Li stopped talking. A few minutes later, Jiansu got up and walked off. A moment after that, Li made his excuses and left.
Together the two men stepped onto the concrete platform of the drying floor, where they were refreshed by a cool breeze. Neither spoke. They stood there for a long while before Jiansu reached out and took Li’s hand, squeezing it tight. “What do you want from me?” Li asked.
“I want you to give up your plans.”
Li freed his hand. “I can’t do that,” he said, “and I won’t! We’re buying the machinery, end of discussion. And the variable gears will be installed. It’s something I have to do. Lights will shine in Wali, you have my word on that.”
Jiansu’s eyes flashed in the starlight as he pressed forward and said in a low voice, “I’m not talking about a generator. I’m talking about putting variable gears in the noodle factory. I want you to stop that.”
“That can’t be stopped,” Li replied stubbornly, “none of it can be stopped—the mechanization plan must go forward.”
Jiansu held his tongue and ground his teeth. Li gave him a puzzled look, and when Jiansu’s hand sought out Li’s, it was feverish. Li pulled his back in alarm. Jiansu gazed at the little window far off on the other side of the river. “The noodle factory is mine,” he said, seemingly to himself, “mine and Sui Baopu’s. Listen to me, Zhichang. When the Sui clan takes back the factory we’ll go ahead with your damned plans.” Li took a couple of steps backward and gasped. “You don’t believe me?” Jiansu said. “It won’t be long. But don’t tell anyone.”
Li kept retreating and wringing his dark hands. In a quaking voice, he said, “I won’t tell, I won’t tell a soul. But I won’t give up my plans for the gears, not unless Sui Buzhao tells me to, only him.”
With a sneer, Jiansu said, “Then go ask him. But you’ll have to wait until he returns from his sailing trip with Uncle Zheng He.”
The conversation ended there.
As promised, Li Zhichang did go to see Sui Buzhao, who was hesitant, and Li knew that Jiansu had already spoken with him. At that moment he understood the depth of the enmity between the two families. So long as the Zhao clan was running the factory, his gears would turn only in his mind, day and night, making sleep all but impossible. There were times when golden gears seemed to be turning just above his head, and he’d excitedly reach up to touch them. There was nothing to touch, of course. In his dreams he’d hook his finger around one of them and give it a kiss. Now all the plans he’d drawn up had been nullified on the night of the Midautumn Festival, in a scene he played out in his head over and over: He and Jiansu were standing shoulder to shoulder on the concrete platform, buffeted by cold winds. Jiansu’s hand had been so hot he had to let go, and he knew he must no longer let those gears come to him at night. And yet, the fervent images burned their way into his breast, day and night. He must keep his passions in check. The only person he had to listen to was Sui Buzhao, who could give Li a new lease on life.
Li Zhichang had mixed feelings toward the older generation. He hated them, and he loved them. His grandfather, Li Xuantong, who had not considered himself an ordinary mortal since the age of fourteen, had shaved his head and traveled to a distant mountain to become a mystic. His father, Li Qisheng, had operated machinery for a capitalist in northeast China, making his return to Wali an inglorious one. People said that no respectable man would do what he did. Though he later tried to redeen himself through good service, the townspeople refused to forgive him. In their eyes, Li’s family was synonymous with abnormality, to be neither understood nor trusted. Once the smartest boy in school, after finishing the fifth grade Zhichang was ready for middle school but was told he could not continue his education. The reasoning was convoluted, but it rested primarily on the fact that his father had operated machinery for a capitalist. An elementary school education was deemed sufficient for someone like him. He returned home burdened with unquenchable loathing for both his father and his grandfather.
In his nineteenth year something happened that left Li Zhichang with eternal regret. What he experienced that year made him realize that a man must always behave scrupulously; he must neither be slack in his work nor allow himself to get carried away with it.
Early one warm spring day, a feverish Li Zhichang walked alone on the bank of the river; never before had he felt such a need for something as he did now. He wanted it desperately. Sunset colors created a beautiful reflection on the water; budding new leaves on the floodplain willows swayed in the breeze like bashful maidens. He wanted it desperately. He strolled aimlessly for a while before crossing the floodplain to head back. But when he reached the willows, his throat turned hot and began to swell. He stopped, feeling weak, and sat down on the hot sandy ground. Time for pleasure.
Li Zhichang did not make it back home until nightfall, feeling more relaxed, his hands unusually soft. He slept well that night.
The next morning he drew curious looks when he was out for a walk. “Did you have a good time out in the willow grove?” a boy asked. With a malicious laugh, another boy went up to him and said, “In books they call that masturbating.” Li felt an explosion go off in his head. He turned and ran, heedless of everything around him. Damn it! he cursed inwardly. Goddamn it! Laughter was following him. “I saw you!” someone shouted. “I saw everything!”
The young Li Zhichang refused to go out after that. His gate remained shut, and after several days had passed, people began to sense that something was wrong. So Li Yuming, the Gaoding Street Party secretary, and a clan member tried Zhichang’s door. Not only was it locked, apparently something was blocking it; it may even have been nailed shut. With a sigh, Li Yuming left, saying that the boy would have to get through it on his own. Others tried their luck but with the same result. Sighs were heard all over town. “The Li clan, ah, the Li clan!”
Last to show up at Zhichang’s door was Sui Buzhao, possibly the only person in town who understood the Li clan, and someone who had become a friend to the young man. He asked him to come out but was rebuffed. So he pounded on the door and cursed. “Uncle Sui,” Li answered weakly from inside, “there’s no need to curse. I’m not worthy of your friendship, I’ve done a terrible thing, and all that’s left for me is to die.” Sui Buzhao pondered this for a moment before leaving. He returned with an ax, with which he easily broke down the door. By then Zhichang was skin and bones, his face ashen, his uncombed hair in tangles. He stepped unsteadily up to Sui. “Uncle,”