Shaozhen tossed and turned through the night. The letter from Ma, Yangyang’s story about her waipo, and seeing Nainai so weak and frail had all left a feeling of uneasiness. His mind was hazy, and he felt like his body belonged to someone else, or some part of it was missing.
He dozed and then got up, shuffling towards the door with bare feet. He retrieved the two buckets and the bamboo pole from where they were kept at the side of the house and set off down the tree-lined path.
It was too early even for the birds, but he made his way through the village to the road by moonlight.
When he arrived at Xifeng, he was surprised to find a few villagers already waiting with their buckets in the dim light of the early morning He walked past them to the other end of the town, barely making a sound as he padded down the pavement.
The hospital doors were locked from the inside. Shaozhen pressed his face against the window but thick curtains blocked his view. He went around the building to where he thought the nurse’s office was located and rapped on the glass a few times.
A young face appeared, framed by dark hair and a prim nurse’s cap. Shaozhen mimed going inside, pressing his palms together to plead his case, but the nurse just shook her head and disappeared.
There was nothing else he could do, so Shaozhen went back to the water queue with his buckets. He nodded to a grey-haired man picking his teeth at the front of the queue and found a spot to wait not too far from the road near a row of food stalls. The delicious smell of steaming meat pancakes caught his attention and his stomach growled. He hadn’t really eaten at all yesterday nor this morning, and he was feeling a bit faint. He sat down and hugged his legs. What he wouldn’t give to have just a taste of a fresh roujiamo, piping hot and fluffy!
His stomach grumbled again but he tried to ignore it. His parents couldn’t send money. There was certainly no money for snacks, especially not with Nainai in hospital and the extra costs of medicine.
He sniffed once, twice, and then broke down sobbing.
‘Wah, are you kidding me? Big boy crying in the street?’ The stern voice sounded familiar. Shaozhen looked up. It was the old man from the hut in the mountains, the one who had found Xiaoping. Shen Yeye, the little boy had called him. What’s he doing here?
He was leaning on his cane, a small bucket clutched in his other hand. Since he had no teeth, his lips folded over his gums, but Shaozhen knew that he was frowning.
‘I’m…I’m sorry.’ Shaozhen felt like he should be afraid of this man but his emotions were in turmoil. He snivelled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Old man Shen set down his bucket and reached into his faded cotton shirt, his hands shaking. He pulled out a grey handkerchief and handed it to Shaozhen. ‘Boys don’t cry in the middle of the street. Only babies. Okay?’
Despite the harshness of his words, Shaozhen felt strangely comforted. He nodded, then blew his nose hard.
Shen took the handkerchief back without blinking and reached into his pocket again. He pulled out a single crumpled note. ‘Go get an old man some of those roujiamo over there. Don’t let her try to short-change you. That’s enough for two and she knows it.’
Shaozhen took the money without a word. He raced over to the stall owner and offered the note. She gave him the once-over, eyeing his bare feet and stiff, grubby clothes. But then she handed him a steaming hot parcel, with two roujiamo tucked inside.
Shaozhen stared at the food in his palm, trying not to drool as he carried the roujiamo back to the old man.
Shen reached for the pack and extracted a warm roujiamo before handing Shaozhen the other. ‘Eat,’ he commanded. ‘No more tears. Unbecoming.’
‘Thank – thank you, Mr Shen.’
Shen scoffed and waved his pancake. ‘That’s the other thing with boys these days. These ridiculous manners, like we still live under imperial rule.’
Shaozhen took the roujiamo from the packet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bought anything from a food stall. Ma and Nainai said it was a waste of money. The roujiamo was no bigger than an egg, and a small one at that. He pulled the white bread apart, watching the steam emerge from inside like a blossom, revealing the hot sticky pork in its centre. He pinched the bun and took a bite. The sweetness hit his tastebuds like a tidal wave, a flood of sticky pleasure and happiness. He hadn’t had a treat like this since the New Year and he was careful to savour the first mouthful, taking the time to let the sinews of braised meat melt on his tongue before swallowing.
He glanced at Shen. The old man was munching away, the soft bread emulsifying between his flapping gums. ‘Before the drought, I could keep the dough to make my own soft bread at home. But you have to keep feeding it.’ Shen shook his head. ‘I miss my bread. Everything else is hard and tasteless as rocks.’
More people were arriving now, and the queue was starting to form. Shaozhen finished his roujiamo, his stomach warm and nourished. He picked up his pole and then took the old man’s bucket.
‘Mr Shen, I’ll line up for the water. You can wait here.’
‘Hah, are you kidding me? You think I would let that bucket out of my sight?’ But he stayed put and Shaozhen joined the fray, feeling Shen’s eyes fixed on him.
The first truck arrived and he was one of the first to receive water. It was pure and fresh, and Shaozhen wondered whether this was why Shen had been out here before the others.
‘Hey, two buckets per household. You know the rules,’ the driver barked when Shaozhen put down Shen’s bucket.
‘It’s not for me, it’s for Mr Shen.’ He nodded towards the old man, squatting by the kerb. ‘Please, he’s been waiting for a long time and I wanted to help him.’
The driver hesitated and Shaozhen heard some grumbling from behind him but eventually he relented and held Shen’s bucket under the stream.
They walked back along the road to Hongsha in silence, Shaozhen carrying both of his own buckets on the pole, as well as Shen’s small pail. The going was slow, and Shen stopped to rest twice, mopping the sweat from his brow with the dirty handkerchief.
He stopped again to lean heavily against a tree, his whole body sagging. ‘Am I holding you back, boy? You don’t have to wait. I can take care of myself, you know. No matter what anyone says, I’m not a kooky old man.’
‘No, no, of course not, Mr Shen,’ Shaozhen said.
An awkward silence fell over them and Shaozhen tried to think of something to talk about. Shen seemed mean on the surface, but he’d bought roujiamo, plus Xiaoping seemed to like him. Shaozhen wondered if Shen had any family. ‘Do your children live with you in the mountain, Mr Shen?’
The old man’s face darkened. ‘All right, enough with this “Mr Shen” business as well. Call me Shugong.’
‘Okay…Great Uncle Shen.’ Shaozhen smiled, hoping the expression would be returned. He received a grunt and a nod instead.
When the pair started walking again, the only sound was the creaking of the bamboo strips that held the buckets to the pole. But then they were interrupted by a soft chip chip chirrup.
A small brown bird landed on the edge of one of the buckets, the surprise of it nearly throwing Shaozhen off balance. A young maque. Its feathers were surprisingly glossy, its eyes shining and bright. The creature cocked its head to the side and stared up at him, then dropped forwards like it was bowing deeply.
‘Maque. Nuisance birds.’ Shen shook his head. ‘Our generation spent a season trying to get rid of these pests. The Great Sparrow Campaign.’ He hoisted his walking stick in the air. ‘We shouted and blew trumpets and beat the drums until the maque fell out of the sky from sheer exhaustion.’
Shaozhen reached his hand out to the maque and whistled. The bird was curious, eyeing the small perch he’d made with his forefinger. Finally, it hopped on. Its claws were thin but not too sharp, and Shaozhen lowered the little creature towards the surface of the water.
The bird bent down and drank.
‘Wasting water, giving it to some pest.’ Shen’s remark was laced with disapproval but Shaozhen didn’t care. He smiled as the bird dipped its teeny beak back to the liquid, stretching its soft wings as it tried to keep its balance.
‘You young ones are all softies. I’d bet you’d keep it as a pet.’
Shaozhen shook his head. ‘My father had pet birds, but I didn’t like seeing them in the cage, so I set them free. Do your children like animals?’
‘I don’t have children,’ Shen spat, his eyebrows pulling forwards like little spears. Shaozhen felt his face reddening. He hadn’t meant to offend Shen. But then the wrinkled features softened. ‘I lost my boys to the big famine. The littlest was three and he died in my arms.’
Shaozhen knew only vague details about the big famine and the history of that time. Three years of hardship, bitterness and misfortune had befallen the country between 1959 and 1961, and many people had died. He’d been taught in school that they called them ‘Three Bitter Years’. He’d asked Nainai about it – she would have been a girl then, just twelve or thirteen. But while Nainai was always happy to regale him with stories about how tough her life had been, she never gave specific details. ‘We all starved as children,’ she’d say. ‘The Chinese people have suffered many hardships but we have persevered.’
‘What happened to him? Your son.’ Shaozhen knew he shouldn’t ask but his curiosity was piqued.
‘What happened to any of us?’ Shen’s eyes were moist. ‘Dark times had befallen us. There was no more food. We’d eaten it all. Everything we grew on the fields was controlled by the cadres. They sent it all away, every last bit, and all we were left with was soil and rocks.’ His voice was so quiet that Shaozhen strained to hear him. ‘Their ma went first, she got sick and there was no medicine. I tried to feed the boys enough. I would have eaten nothing, as long as the boys could. But there was no food to put in their bowls. My elder son was climbing a tree, hoping the nest he spotted would have eggs in it. He fell and hit his head, died on the spot.
‘My littlest one, he was so strong. He was his ma’s darling, his eyes big and shining like a little bird. That’s what she called him, her little bird. He hardly ate anything – he was so tiny – but even that amount I couldn’t provide.’
Shaozhen felt his heart wrench. He wasn’t aware of just how hard it had been in the village for old men like Great Uncle Shen and his own grandparents. ‘I’m sorry, Shugong.’
The old man had his face in his hands. His body shook like he was crying, but when he looked up at Shaozhen, his face was dry. ‘Sorry doesn’t erase sorrow. But let me tell you something, boy: after all that, you learn to rely on yourself. You learn to find your own strength, carry your own water.’ He nodded to the buckets. ‘You learn what it takes to survive. You don’t depend on anyone, certainly not the local officials, you hear?’
The maque chirped loudly, as if to agree. It flapped its wings and took off.
‘Not even a nod of thanks,’ Shen grumbled. ‘Nothing but pests.’