Chapter Three: The Oddity

But today, for the first time, Hong Tao’s father broke his own rule. After slapping him, still seething with anger, he reached for a broom to continue the beating, only to be stopped by the staff at the nursery and Hong Tao’s grandmother. This time, Hong Tao was truly terrified; he didn’t even dare to cry, and obediently followed the nursery staff back inside. As for how his parents apologized to the teacher with the long braid, he never found out, but her shin bore a patch of bruises for days afterward.

From that day forward, everyone at the nursery knew Hong Tao was a wild child, fierce and unrestrained. Moreover, when his grandfather came home from work that evening and heard what had happened, he marched straight to the nursery the next day and almost beat up the director as well. Consequently, all the teachers considered Hong Tao a burden. As long as he wasn’t causing too much trouble, they left him alone, treating him like something unpleasant stuck to their shoes. The other children followed suit, avoiding Hong Tao and fearing him. It’s likely that at home, their parents warned them too: “Hong Tao hit a teacher—he’s a bad kid. Don’t play with bad kids!”

“I... I’m really going up now!” Zhang Dajiang was one of the few children not afraid of Hong Tao. In truth, he was afraid of everyone—even the girls at the nursery bullied him—so in his simple mind, Hong Tao was no different from any other child. In fact, Hong Tao seemed a bit friendlier, because in the entire nursery, only the two of them were true outcasts: one a little slow-witted, the other treated like dirt. Misery made them kindred spirits.

“Hurry up, just don’t jump! Climb on slowly!” Hong Tao thought of Zhang Dajiang’s chubby backside and his legs began to tremble. He really wasn’t sure he could carry him.

“Charge!” Zhang Dajiang obediently climbed onto Hong Tao’s back. When he felt Hong Tao swaying as he struggled to stand, he was so overjoyed that snot bubbles puffed from his nose. This was probably the first peer, apart from his parents, willing to give him a piggyback ride in his four years of life.

“Damn you! You’re crushing me! I must owe you from a past life, destined to suffer at your hands!” Gritting his teeth, Hong Tao staggered forward with this mountain of flesh on his back, edging toward the battlefield where the rest of the children were playing. “Edging” was the only word for it—if he tried to run, he’d definitely end up face-first in the dirt. The inertia was too much; slow and steady was the only way.

“Kill! Giddy-up... giddy-up... chase him, chase him!” Zhang Dajiang, atop Hong Tao’s back, was a hero. He was actually very strong; if it came to a real fight, three Hong Taos wouldn’t be his match. But he was far too timid and never dared to provoke anyone. This time, though, it was different—riding on Hong Tao’s back seemed to give him courage. Any child he caught hold of was hauled down in a single move, sometimes dragging both “horse and rider” to the ground. Their path was marked by howls and groans.

“Chase your own grandpa!” Hong Tao was gritting his teeth so hard they might shatter. The other kids had grown wise—knowing they couldn’t win against Hong Tao and Zhang Dajiang, they started running away whenever they approached. Hong Tao’s spirit was willing, but his strength had run out. In the end, before anyone else could stop them, he let go of Zhang Dajiang’s hefty legs and set him down.

“I’ll carry you now!” Zhang Dajiang wasn’t stupid; seeing Hong Tao’s red face and bulging neck veins, he realized his “horse” was spent. But he was having too much fun to stop, and was perfectly happy to be the horse if it meant continuing the game.

“I... I have no strength left... Go play with the others...” Hong Tao was so out of breath he could hardly speak, collapsing to the ground while the veins at his temples pulsed madly.

“This is my last piece of candy. You eat it...” Zhang Dajiang dug into his pocket and produced a piece of candy, unwrapped it, and handed it to Hong Tao.

“You eat it yourself...” Hong Tao couldn’t have cared less about candy at that moment; he didn’t even bother to look.

“Half each!” Zhang Dajiang bit the candy in half with a crunch, then offered one half to Hong Tao.

“Alright... half each.” Looking at Zhang Dajiang’s earnest, chubby face, Hong Tao reached out and took the half piece, saliva and all, and shoved it in his mouth. He didn’t dare savor it; he chewed twice and swallowed, it was just too gross.

“I’m done playing too. Come to my house tonight—we’ve got more candy!” Zhang Dajiang plopped down beside Hong Tao, trying to tempt him with the promise of more candy. To him, having someone to play with was a happiness greater than any sweet.

“My dad doesn’t let me go out at night... I’ll bring you a paper gun tomorrow, you can have it.” Looking at Zhang Dajiang’s hopeful eyes, Hong Tao couldn’t bring himself to refuse outright, but he really didn’t want to go over to his house—never mind whether the family would welcome him, what would they do together? Pee in the mud? Fart contests?

“I’ll bring you candy tomorrow.” Zhang Dajiang wasn’t disappointed. He really liked the kind of gun Hong Tao brought before, as did the other boys, but those were hard to make—folded from notebook paper into little components and then assembled. Actually, Hong Tao hadn’t made them; his uncle had. He’d only managed to show it off for a day before his uncle took it back. But now, Hong Tao didn’t need to rely on his uncle; he could make them himself. He’d made plenty of such toys back in elementary school.

“Teacher Zhang, look at Hong Tao—he seems different all of a sudden. There’s something odd about the way he looks at people. Is he going to cause trouble again?” The speaker was the long-braided teacher who’d been injured by Hong Tao. Ever since then, she’d developed a habit of watching him, perhaps out of fear that he might snap again.

“It’s nothing. I talked with his father after last time. The boy’s not bad—he’s just gotten wild without his parents around. His father gave him a good beating, and it’s been over a year with no incidents, hasn’t it?” The older teacher didn’t think much of it and offered a few words of reassurance before going off to settle a dispute between two other children.

“Even a university teacher can raise such a child! Freak!” The long-braided teacher was just about to relax when she caught Hong Tao glancing her way. There was something in his eyes utterly unlike any child’s, and a strange smile flickered at his lips. She considered calling over another teacher, but after Hong Tao grimaced at her and turned away, she hesitated. In the end, she simply muttered a quiet curse to herself.

When the first parent appeared at the nursery’s gate, Hong Tao knew it was time to go home. The nursery didn’t provide dinner; each child waited for their parents to appear, then waved goodbye to friends and teachers before heading home. The scene at the gate was nothing like the bustling crowds of later years; pickup times varied. Families with grandparents came early, while those with two working parents and no elders arrived later.

After half-past four, parents could come in at any time, greet the teacher, and collect their eager children from inside. Of course, you could only take your own child; no one ever took someone else’s kid, and no one entertained such thoughts. In those days, children were the least valuable commodity.

Most families had more than one child and didn’t need more. Besides, where would you sell a stolen child? All daily necessities were rationed, and the household registration system was strict. Without the proper paperwork, you couldn’t even buy grain for a child. And you couldn’t cripple a child and send them out to beg—begging was forbidden. There was no subway for street performers, nor any market for trading organs. Only the old folks would occasionally shout, “Stay in the alley! Don’t wander off! If you stray too far, the Old Monkey will snatch you away!”

There was little worry about traffic accidents, either. There were no cars in the hutongs; even on East-West Changan Avenue, automobiles were a rare sight. The biggest, most impressive vehicles you might see were three-wheeled trucks hauling coal or vegetables—loud, slow, and impossible to miss. In those days, most people simply didn’t worry about their children’s safety.

Who came for Hong Tao was never certain. Sometimes his mother, if she was back in town, would collect him as early as three. If his grandmother was feeling lazy, she’d send either his youngest uncle or one of his aunts. When Hong Tao saw his eldest uncle appear at the classroom door, he didn’t need to glance at the wall calendar to know it was Saturday. Only on Saturday afternoons did his uncle return from the military cartography compound in Beitaipingzhuang to their grandmother’s house, staying through Sunday and heading back Monday morning.

Hong Tao’s grandmother’s family name was Hu. His eldest uncle was Hu Shizhong, the second in the family, with an older sister—Hong Tao’s eldest aunt—who was already married. Her husband was a Manchu working at the housing management bureau, and their home was in Beijing’s suburbs, in a place called Gaoliang Bridge. It lay just outside the north wall of Beijing Zoo, a bit west of Xizhimen, near Jiaotong University.

In later years, this would be considered the city center, but in the 1970s, it was still the outskirts. Beijing’s urban area was much smaller then; the northern city was bounded by what is now the Second Ring Road, beyond which were fields and old graveyards. To take a bus there, you needed one with a three-digit number starting with 3—the suburban lines. The south was the same: beyond Yongdingmen lay the countryside, and places like Fangzhuang and Dahongmen were lush with crops.

Below his eldest uncle were two younger sisters and a younger brother. Hong Tao’s mother was the elder of these sisters, the youngest was his second aunt, and his youngest uncle—the baby of the family—was, after Hong Tao, the apple of their grandfather’s eye.