1
Now he could move. He thought.
His current appearance was like the dark, withering branches and leaves around him. It was impossible to distinguish him from the brushes. The dirt was embedded into his skin, and his coarse clothing had been torn into shreds by branches and stones. The exposed skin beneath the tattered fabric was mottled with bruises, his buttocks marked with overlapping bloody streaks, and his back was covered in scars that had formed into patches, like fences encircling his spine.
A few human voices came from the distance, the sounds of things crunching and tongues clicking interspersed between the words. These noises reminded him of his hometown, Zhifu, where people would tut at the mention of others’ misfortunes. He buried his head, pressing his mouth into the yellow soil, and lay motionless in the bushes, too afraid to move.
The voices grew closer. He caught the smell of cow dung, along with a faint, indescribable odor, something like oil.
Don’t move, and don’t look. He thought.
His face pressed tightly against the dark yellow earth, and several large ants marched past his eyes. To him, the ants seemed as big as grains of gold. The moment the ants sensed the heavy breaths he exhaled, they scurried away, swift as the wind.
He had no idea how long he had been lying there, only that the ants had vanished from his sight. He could only hear the wind whistling over the ridge. Supporting himself with both hands, his arm muscles straining, he struggled to rise. He felt like ants were crawling all over his legs, and any movement would send them scurrying down from his thighs. One step, two steps—before he could take a third, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head, radiating through his entire body, making the sensation of ants crawling on his legs trivial.
He shifted slightly, catching a glimpse of his long, thin pigtail. The pigtail, caked with dust and tangled with leaves, was firmly hooked to a bush branch. Every movement sent a shiver of pain through him, and he could not help but hiss through his teeth in agony. The surrounding branches and weeds rustled and crackled. A few birds chirped “li-woo, li-woo” before flying off. The distant crunching, tutting, and footsteps grew more urgent and closer.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tried to tear his pigtail free. It did not budge, though a few dry leaves fell. He hunched over, picking up stones from the ground. These stones were unlike those inside the fence—those might have held gold, but these were sharp-edged and jagged. Stretching his arm, he laboriously pinched a flat stone with his fingers. His hand, clutching the stone, reached behind his head and began cutting at his pigtail, stroke by stroke. Strands of hair drifted away with each cut, and every slice made his heart ache. By the end, he leaned slightly forward, the piercing pain dissipating. Turning around, he saw the pigtail hanging from the branch, like a trail of dark willow springing from a patch of thistles. He clutched the pigtail tightly, and tears streamed down.
When he finally looked up, two dark-skinned figures stood before him. They had small eyes, broad noses, and thick lips, clad in white shirts and trousers. One was an elderly man, small and thin, with a white circle beard and wrinkles nearly obscuring his narrow eyes. The other was a young man, robust and strong, with jet-black hair and skin darker than the elder’s. He clutched his pigtail, tears streaming down his face as he looked at their dark faces and suddenly felt as if he had encountered fellow villagers. The elder and the young man whispered a few words, clicking their tongues from time to time. Rubbing his pigtail, he suddenly knelt before them, holding the pigtail high and wailing loudly. With a hoarse and cracked voice, the dialect of Zhifu (editorial note: Yantai in Shandong province today) cracked through his sore throat and mixed with his weeps, creating a series of echoes in the rolling mountains before him.
The two people helped him to his feet and led him back to the village. There, clutching his pigtail, he faced the villagers, weeping and gesticulating wildly, as if his entire body had grown mouths to speak.
2
Had he stayed at home, he would have taken good care of his pigtail. Every morning, he would untie his pigtail, comb his hair in the large water jar in the courtyard, and then meticulously braid it section by section, tying it with a black cord. During festivals, he would also anoint his pigtail with lard, then head to the market to beat the drums and do the local dance called the Yangko. Back then, dressed like this, he was often called a loafer. In ordinary times, he certainly never dressed like this. Due to poor harvests in those years, he settled in a dilapidated cottage south of Zhifu City and frequented the second-hand goods fair every day to try his luck, in the hope that some landlord could use some temporary labor.
He could not tell how much time had passed since then. That day, after washing and braiding his hair as usual, he headed to the second-hand goods fair. Upon arrival, he found a crowd gathering around some street-side show. He squeezed in and saw a red-haired, blue-eyed foreigner standing in the center, accompanied by a man who looked like an accountant as he wore a dark blue robe with glasses perched crookedly on his nose.
The foreigner spoke, and the bespectacled man translated his words into the local dialect. The foreigner rattled on, and the bespectacled man said, “Anyone who wants to dig for gold will be offered a high salary. You will travel on a large ship to the South Seas, with good food and drink provided. It’s better than the work you do on the streets.”
The foreigner babbled some more, and the accountant added, “The place we’re going is called… what?”
The foreigner mumbled something, and the bespectacled man repeated, “The Land of Gold. The place you’re going is called the Land of Gold. Listen, everyone, there’s gold everywhere. Just go and pick the gold up, you’ll surely find your fortune.”
A few people chuckled as they listened, then walked aside muttering, “It’s a scam.”
Hearing this, he also felt a bit skeptical. Seeing some people leave, the foreigner pulled out a money pouch, his big, hairy white hand scooped out two things to show to the crowd. He pushed through layers of pigtails and caught a glimpse of what the foreigner was holding. One of the items glittered under the sunlight, so bright it hurt his eyes. The other item was colorless, resembling a melting ice cube, with sharp edges, about the size of a fingernail. It glowed white when the sun shone, stinging his eyes again. The foreigner grunted, and the bespectacled man said, “One is gold, the other is a diamond, both come from the Land of Gold. Having seen these two items, what are you hesitating for?”
A dozen pairs of eyes were glued to those two items, unable to look away. Some men who had wandered off earlier rushed back upon hearing the commotion. The foreigner laughed and shouted a few words, and the bespectacled man said, “With a diamond, why would you fear getting nothing in return? If you go with me, you won’t have to spend a penny on travel expenses. The foreign lord will cover all your food and lodging. After finishing the work, you’ll have gold and diamonds, and your whole family will prosper when you return. By then, who won’t envy you when they know? Even the landlords will bow and kowtow to you! You’ll be earning foreigners’ money!” A few young men in patched clothes ran up to the bespectacled man, saying they wanted to go. He tossed his long pigtail and patted the dust off his clothes, then followed the group of young men rushing around.
The foreigner and the bespectacled man led those who wished to go to the Land of Gold to the docks. West of the dock stood a cluster of iron sheet houses, with an open space in front. The area was densely packed with people, most of whom, judging by their accents, were rural folks from the east of the Jiaozhou peninsula. He asked around and learned that the foreigners were going to conduct medical checks on everyone. They must go into the central iron sheet house, where they were required to strip naked. Three foreigners in white coats, each in charge of a group, circled the naked men, poking and prodding here and there. The foreigners’ expressions looked like they were attending a funeral. When it was his turn, the foreigner pressed on his chest and touched his thighs. A piercing chill shot through his body. The foreigner pried open his mouth, and he obediently opened it. The foreigner opened his own mouth wide, prompting him to follow suit. After examining his mouth, the foreigner nodded, wrote something down, and moved on to the next person.
In the end, the foreigners selected four hundred people, including him. Upon hearing his name, Zhang Wanshou, called out by the bespectacled man, he laughed and shouted, “Here I am!” Then he ran forward to press his fingerprints.
After everyone had pressed their fingerprints, they gathered in an open space to listen to the foreigners’ rambling speech. The bespectacled man stood beside him and translated his words, but this time, much of it was beyond Zhang Wanshou’s grasp. Words like “contracts”, “South Africa”, and “permits” flew over his head. He could barely catch the declaration that he was destined for a three-year stint in the Land of Gold, with a decent wage of ten pounds a month, and allowances for his family. Finally, as the bespectacled man waved to the crowd, mimicking the foreigners in a bow, he uttered a sentence that Zhang Wanshou understood, “You might even strike some gold sometimes. Go and enjoy your fortune.”
3
The voyage to the Land of Gold lasted nearly a year. Zhang Wanshou had to stay naked in the ship’s hold, sleeping on a shared bunk crowded with dozens of others. The stench in the cabin was nauseating. Along the way, people were retching bile, running fevers, and a few even died in the hold. The ship also docked mid-way in some hot places, and several groups of swarthy people came aboard. The spaces left by the dead were insufficient for the newcomers, so many had to sleep in the boiler room.
Upon arriving in the Land of Gold, they saw even darker-skinned people on the dock. They were carrying wooden crates and would fix their gazes upon Zhang Wanshou and the others, their eyes white and wide-open. The foreigners who greeted them were armed with rifles and wore tall leather hats with wide brims, and most had thick beards. Some were riding on large horses, reeking of horse manure. Several Chinese, with dark faces, straw hats, and tattered shirts, trailed behind the foreigners, relaying their messages.
The foreigners asked Zhang Wanshou and the others to line up and the dark-faced Chinese called out their names one by one. The person calling out Zhang Wanshou sounded like a Southerner, mistakenly pronouncing it as “Zang Manchou”.
Zhang Wanshou had just stepped ashore. He felt as if he were swaying from head to toe, just like the rising tide waves. He did not hear the Southerner calling him. The man called out again but received no response. Only when the Southerner shouted Zhang Wanshou’s name through the crowd did he realize and quietly reply, “Here I am.” The foreigners stared at Zhang Wanshou, and he lowered his head in shame.
The Southerner told them that they had arrived in a place called Durban, and that a train would soon take them to a shelter for the check-up. Once they passed, they could go to Rand.
One voice muttered, “Another check-up? We’re being treated like donkeys!”
Another grumbled, “Didn’t they say we were going to the Land of Gold of South Africa? What is the heck with this ‘dirben’ or ‘durpen’ nonsense?”
Yet another voice chimed in, “It’s definitely related to those Deutsche in Qingdao. Just trust me, it’s for sure.”
The group huddled together, murmuring their guesses and complaints. At this moment, a foreigner in military uniform shouted, gesturing for them to follow him. Zhang Wanshou shuffled along with the crowd. He looked at the yellow earth beneath his feet and thought. This land couldn’t even grow cabbage. It would be quite good if it could have one harvest a year. The distant mountains were covered in grass, completely different from the hilly terrain back home. The ground at home felt soft and fertile underfoot, while here it was thick and hard, like stones. However, the wind, the sun, and the warm weather were not bad for planting apple and pear trees on the ridge.
As he walked, he heard a loud, mournful roar. In the distance, a cloud of black smoke hung over the ridge, drifting into the blue sky. A long, black object rumbled beneath the mountains, slowing down until it finally came to a halt beside a row of wooden poles. Upon seeing this, some of the foreigners mounted on their horses and shouted at them, while others ran around, pushing the Chinese crowd forward. As the smoke cleared, the long object gradually became more distinct, revealing a neat row of iron wires, bars, and crates. Arriving at the metal crates, Zhang Wanshou recognized a black man crawling on all fours, clinging to the iron bars beneath it. His eyes shone brightly, his hair curled, and his arms and legs were bare. He panted heavily, while his tattered clothes fluttered up and down along his ribcage. Some Chinese left the others and approached the black man. Suddenly, a foreigner fired a shot, startling everyone into crouching, clutching their heads, and drooling. Several foreigners then pulled the black man down, kicked him, dragged him to the wooden pole, and scolded him incessantly. As he looked at the groaning black man, a sudden thought flashed through Zhang Wanshou’s mind—go home. People pushed and shoved him from all sides, squeezing him into the dark metal crate.
4
After Zhang Wanshou arrived at his workplace, he discovered that it was not the so-called Land of Gold, but rather “the enclosure” called by the workers. This enclosure, nestled within a valley named the White Water Ridge, was surrounded by high walls of bricks and stones. The walls were so bare and smooth, offering no foothold for anyone attempting to scale it.
To the east of the valley, near the mountain ridge, lay their dormitory area. These bungalows, constructed with concrete matters of varying sizes, were topped with uniform white iron sheets. From afar, they appeared to be built into the mountain, yet the uneven terrain gave them a rugged, patchwork appearance, akin to patches on a coarse cloth. The dormitory rooms were cramped, packed with eight bunk beds, and reeked of dampness both inside and out. In summer, the white iron roofs shimmered like firewood ablaze, turning the dormitories into sweltering steamers.
Not far from the dormitory area, there was a small shop run by Indians, always with a dilapidated four-wheeled wagon parked in front. It was from this Indian shop that Zhang Wanshou bought his first linen shirt and rubber boots. These few personal items nearly drained his first month’s earnings. The shop did not sell alcohol, but it did have tobacco, sugar, and tea. Before long, the clandestine business of opium gourds, tobacco pastes, and smoking pipes thrived in the shop, and at night, playing cards were peddled in secret.
Upon his first visit to the mining area, Zhang Wanshou was struck by the sheer number of rocks. Large boulders rolled down from the ridge, tiny pebbles pricked his feet, and crushed rocks tumbled within the iron-toothed machines. As he walked down the quarry slope and arrived beside the gleaming white river, he finally saw the gold that resembled fine sand.
The workers wrapped their pigtails around their necks and used sieves to wash the crushed rock back and forth in the river. The gold lay hidden within these stones, some resembling sand, others granular. These gold nuggets were far less lustrous than what the foreigner had displayed before. They appeared as a dark mass, easily mistaken for the dregs in well water if not examined closely.
Grab a handful! Stuff it into the cloth bag! Then he wouldn’t have come here for nothing! Zhang Wanshou thought. Meanwhile, the bearded foreigners with rifles watched them from nearby.
The foreigners assigned Zhang Wanshou to work deep underground to mine ore. Each morning at nine, the foreign foreman led him and about twenty workers down the mine shaft via an iron cage. As they descended, they dared only to gaze at the dark shaft walls, never looking down.
Once, Zhang casually tossed a pebble downwards and never heard it hit the bottom. The deeper he went, the more he struggled to breathe. The workers all wore safety helmets, each with a dent in the middle, holding a candle. Often, the candles went out during the descent, forcing them to wait until they reached the bottom to relight them with a match. At the bottom of the shaft, many workers were already at work, wielding picks and shovels to excavate ore. Upon spotting Zhang Wanshou and the others, they greeted them in a Northern accent tinged with Southern inflections, saying, “More people come to dig gold, huh! The foreigners say, today we must dig thirty-six feet, the more you work, the more you earn. If you don’t finish, no silver for you!”
For the next eight hours, Zhang Wanshou and the others had to chisel at the stone walls and earth before them. When they encountered tough spots, the foreign foreman would detonate explosives. Zhang Wanshou saw the fuse ignite and sprinted back as fast as he could. The roar of the explosion echoed within the shaft, causing rocks of varying sizes to tumble down the well walls. Zhang Wanshou’s ears buzzed, a thick cloud of smoke filled his vision, and the acrid sulfur smell made him cough. He clutched his head, brushed away the dust and debris, and spat out a mouthful of black, sticky phlegm.
The foreman leading them in the work was a bearded man with shockingly pale skin. He always spoke as if he were clearing his throat. While the others toiled, he gestured wildly and yelled loudly. His outstretched arms cast shadows across the entire mine and the echo of his spit-like voice could be heard everywhere. He wielded no shovel or pickaxe, but only a swinging leather whip. In the dim light of the shaft, Zhang Wanshou thought the whip might be made of cowhide, but when it struck him, he realized it was thicker and harder than cowhide. Just two lashes left bloody marks on his buttocks, leaving him unable to sit for a week.
At noon, some food was sent down the shaft. Each person had a dry bun, a big ladle of water, and a handful of sticky beans. They first gulped down the water, then peeled off the dry crust of the bun and swallowed it with the beans.
A few workers sat together, complaining repeatedly, “Damn it, these beans are so hard, even a pig wouldn’t swallow them. You’d have to sprinkle some bean dregs to make it taste good for a pig.”
Some workers were so angry that they threw away their buns and shouted, “I came here to make money, to get gold and diamonds. But all I can see is these stones, and I eat worse than a pig. I can’t even support myself with what I earn. These foreigners dock my pay every day!”
The foreman, his mouth agape, rushed over to berate them. Several workers who knew some foreign languages approached to appease the foreman, but he waved his whip at them, his words spewing forth like he had hawked up phlegm dozens of times.
Hearing this, the workers picked up stones and threw them at the foreman, shouting as they explained to the others. “What the hell, the foreigner says that all we do is smoke opium and gamble, that we’re good for nothing. He curses us for being filthy, for not knowing gratitude. Damn it! We live like prisoners every day, what kind of favor have you done for us?”
Enraged, a burly worker picked up a pickaxe and smashed it into the back of the foreman’s head, leaving him even paler and slumped straight. Many workers kicked, stomped, and trampled on the foreman’s body, causing their helmets to fall off one by one. Several workers climbed up the ladder to the wellhead, their various dialects all conveying one thing: it’s a killing.
5
Zhang Wanshou later heard that the foreman had been bedridden in the hospital near the mine for a long time. The big fellow who led the resistance against him was first drenched in cold water by the foreigners, then soaked in hot water, and whipped thirty times. After the punishment, the foreigners grabbed his pigtail, tied it to the beam of the room, and bound his hands together. His body was lowered, with his toes just touching the ground, resembling a roasted duck hanging from the oven. The foreigners ordered every worker to witness his miserable state before starting work. Those who had complained or spoken out during the resistance were whipped twenty times, while those who remained silent were whipped ten times. Zhang Wanshou received ten lashes.
When he was dragged back to the dormitory, he did not dare to move. For three days straight, he could not eat or drink and was unable to go to work. But he still thought about that big fellow. Every evening, he asked his fellow workers to bring the food he had saved to the big fellow. The workers ate the food themselves. Just as he lay on the bed, unable to move, the foreigners issued a diktat: anyone who showed sympathy for the big fellow would go without food and receive lashes instead.
Lying in his bed, Zhang Wanshou would either sleep or stare blankly at the coin he had earned. On one side of the coin was a profile of a man with a goatee, while the other side had a lion standing on a crown. Both sides were inscribed with foreign words that, in his eyes, resembled patterns left behind by crabs scuttling across. He gazed at the coin for a long time, until tears fell. He did not know the man with the goatee, had never seen a lion, nor had he touched a crown, but all he had ultimately gained was this thumb-sized coin, along with the man, lion, and crown, and a series of curved foreign words. The thought of going home flashed through his mind again.
One night, as he lay prone in his dormitory, Zhang Wanshou sensed an unusual silence around him. There was no sound of the gravel crusher, no shouts of foremen or the cracking of whips, nor the chatter of the workers’ diverse dialects. Amidst the quiet, a rhythmic drumming sound sometimes drifted from afar, faint yet powerful, with just a hint of echo. The drumming seemed to gather force underground, and when the moment was right, thousands of sturdy arms would beat out thousands of different rhythms. Guided by one unifying beat, they wove together into a vast net, merging into a harmonious and powerful symphony.
Listening to the drumbeat, Zhang Wanshou recalled the Yangko dance performed during the New Year celebrations in his hometown. The drumbeats of the Yangko dance sounded in unison. The drumming he heard this time was different, with beats coming one after another and then connected seamlessly in a harmonious order, which ignited a desire in him to sway to the rhythm. He scrambled to his feet, enduring the pain as he stood on the ground, humming a tune and swaying to the drumbeat in cross steps. He could not move his waist and legs as vigorously as he did at home. He was moving as if he had bound feet, faltering forward and then stepping backward stiffly. After a few jerky steps, he wrapped his pigtail around his neck and slowly walked out of the dormitory. While some of his dorm mates gambled or smoked opium at the store, others had received permits to hang around the city. Alone, he made his way slowly towards the store.
There was a four-wheeled wagon parked in front of the store, the back of which was loaded with goods. Inside the store, workers huddled together, loudly calling their card numbers. Some workers, clutching large pipes, lay limp on the dirt road outside the store. Several white policemen, guns at their waists, stood around the smoking workers and started to argue fiercely about something. Zhang Wanshou fixed his gaze on the wagon, occasionally glancing at the police. When the policemen turned their backs to smoke, Zhang Wanshou grabbed onto the wagon’s wooden partition. Bearing the pain, he hoisted himself in and hid deep inside, covering himself with a pile of dry hay. The sound of his heartbeat drowned out all the noise around him.
After a while, an Indian man carried a box of goods and placed it in the back of the wagon. Zhang Wanshou peeked at him through the gaps in the hay. After the Indian had placed the goods, he jabbered with someone nearby and then drove the wagon away. Zhang Wanshou swayed with the wagon, feeling a little nauseous. He slowly turned his body to the side, which made him feel slightly better.
As the wagon approached the gate of the enclosure, shouts erupted, and the wagon immediately stopped. Two policemen armed with large rifles glanced at the vehicle and began talking loudly with the Indian man in front of the cargoes, their voices growing increasingly intense. The Indian man gesticulated, speaking loudly and pointing at the goods. Then, the two policemen lifted a crate directly, took it off the wagon, and opened it in front of the Indian. One of the policemen with a mustache took a bottle of wine from a box, tried the weight a few times, and whispered a few words to the Indian. The Indian then brought down another box, and it was at this moment that Zhang Wanshou fully caught sight of their figures, along with the large rifles in their hand. The policemen shouted in Zhang Wanshou’s direction, and he desperately held his breath, closing his eyes. He waited for the sound of a gunshot, but all he heard were laughter and the Indian’s shouts as he scolded the horses. Then, the sound of the gate opening flooded in, and the wagon began to move, swaying as it drove out the gate. When Zhang Wanshou opened his eyes, the gate was already out of sight, and all he saw was the dim silhouette of the White Water Ridge and the dark yellow veld under the moonlight.
Zhang Wanshou kept a keen eye on the scene before him. On his first day at the mine, the foreigners had mentioned that they could go out with permits, but they were only allowed to stay outside for a day and a half. In actual practice, apart from a few interpreters and the Chinese foremen who could obtain permits, few workers were allowed to step beyond the walled confinements. He had only heard descriptions of the outside world from those fortunate enough to go. They said it was not enjoyable, “Walking on the streets, those white people and black people stared at you, making you feel uneasy. It was better not to go out, or you would only feel uncomfortable.”
“Yet the big city was truly bustling. Johannesburg, the real Land of Gold, had tall buildings, trams, and women in long skirts. Just walking on the gas-lit streets made your scalp tingle. However, you must steer clear of the police. As soon as you leave the curb and head toward the middle of the road, they’ll approach, point at the red light and levy a fine of one silver pound.” They also said.
As he recalled these words from memory, Zhang Wanshou could see a stretch of rolling grassland before him, and the dirt path beneath was covered in remnants of shrubbery struggling to grow back. After the wagon passed through a grove of low-lying trees, Zhang Wanshou brushed away the dry hay on him, awkwardly but stealthily opened the boot of the wagon, and leaped out of the vehicle. He rolled over, his body twisting and turning along a ditch, his clothes torn into shreds by rocks and branches, eventually coming to rest in a thicket of bushes. He remembered this much before he heard the two dark-skinned men approaching.
6
The moonlight was shining brightly, and the large, thatched cottage in the village stood in plain sight. Zhang Wanshou gesticulated with his hands while mumbling in the local dialect of Zhifu. He held his pigtail tightly and folded it in half. Tears hung on his face, mixing with the dust and gradually turning into mud. The two people could not understand the story Zhang Wanshou was telling, so they could only pat his back and whisper a few words that Zhang Wanshou could not understand either. More and more villagers gathered around, and their voices were merging into a continuous buzz, with some seemingly engaged in heated arguments. However, seeing Zhang Wanshou crying non-stop, those intense voices grew quieter and quieter, leaving only a faint whisper and the crackling of the campfire.
Zhang Wanshou looked around, and the appearance and demeanor of the dark-skinned people around him made him feel as if he had returned home. The men were wearing thin clothes and shorts. The women wore calico of various colors, while most of the children were naked, sucking their fingers and staring at him with wide eyes. There was little furniture in the cottage, the walls were bare, and some millet was spread out on the side near the door. In the corner on the other side, there was a drum that looked like an inverted gourd.
He stared at the drum for a long, long time. The old man with a gray beard saw him staring at the drum and walked over to fetch it. The old man sat cross-legged, his legs gripping the drum. He began with a few bright, high-pitched beats, followed by a mix of high and low tones. The tempo flowed like water and the rhythm fell like rain, growing increasingly intense with each passing moment. Suddenly, the drumming ceased, and the old man uttered a few drawn-out phrases, all in the same tone but with measured pauses. He struck a slow beat and then kept patting and hitting. At this moment, another drum joined in, slightly faster than the first. Then a new drum sounded, steady and unhurried, as if reining in the rhythms of the previous two drums and smoothing them over like oil. The villagers gradually dispersed, some bringing out their drums, some clapping their hands, and some stomping vigorously, kicking up clouds of yellow dust. Their limbs stretched out to the farthest reaches of their bodies, lifting high and then slamming down to the ground in waves, one beat after another, filling the air with the scent of yellow soil. Just like this, the drumming became more and more intense with the old man’s beat guiding the rain-like rhythm.
Zhang Wanshou stood up. He walked out of the cottage, swinging his pigtail, and started to recall the rhythm of the Yangko dance: right foot forward, left foot diagonally backward, right foot back again, left foot crossing diagonally over the right. The pigtail in his hand followed his feet in the air, fluttering like a cross. Intrigued by Zhang Wanshou’s peculiar dance, the old man suddenly sped up his beating, with a burst of renewed energy. The other rhythms followed suit, accelerating to sync with the old man’s pace, in tandem with Zhang Wanshou’s movements.
Zhang Wanshou danced faster and faster, sweat streaming down his forehead, his pigtail whistling through the air. He widened his waist and hips, vigorously twisting in the cross-steps of the Yangko dance, while also lifting his legs high and stretching his arms like the villagers. If he had danced like this in his hometown, he would have been laughed at: Zhang Wanshou, the loafer! But now all he felt was joy, emanating from the villagers’ dances. There was the joy of the drums, the joy of the Yangko, the joy of stretching his limbs, and the joy from music. The movement of his pigtail resonates with the old man’s drumming, and Zhang Wanshou whipped it down hard, as if the yellow earth he was standing on was a boundless drumhead. He shouted, “You use your hands to beat the drums, we use mallets, but I have no mallet—this pigtail is my mallet!” The crackling sound of the pigtail was like thunder breaking into the rain-like drumming, and the dust around him shattered into fine particles, colliding back and forth in the firelight. The villagers laughed and danced, and some paused in surprise, watching the pigtail rise and fall.
The drumming of the pigtail spread across the village, into the wilderness, over dense thickets, and into nearby fences. If Zhang Wanshou’s co-workers could put down their playing cards, discard their opium pipes, clutch their silver coins and shed tears of longing for home on their beds in the iron sheet dormitories at the foot of the White Water Ridge, then they would surely hear the faint drumming from afar, and recognize the sound of the pigtail hitting the drumhead of the earth fiercely.
7
The next morning, thunder startled Zhang Wanshou awake. He opened his eyes to see the old man sitting at the doorway, grinning. Noticing Zhang Wanshou was awake, he mimed drumming, then imitated Zhang Wanshou’s movements of swinging his pigtail in the Yangko dance. Zhang Wanshou’s face crinkled with laughter as he joined the old man in hearty chuckles. Soon after, three young men, bare-chested, entered the room, each carrying a bucket filled with a dark liquid and a brush inside. Zhang Wanshou jumped up in surprise, wide-eyed as he stared at the villagers and their buckets. The old man picked up the brush, pretended to paint himself a few times, then spread his hands and smiled, showcasing his body. Then, he took a few steps back and led Zhang Wanshou out the door, pointing towards the distant mountain range. The three young men with the buckets kept murmuring something to Zhang Wanshou. In their eyes, Zhang Wanshou caught a glint and saw his dark face reflected in their black pupils. He stripped off his clothes, then grabbed a brush, dipped it into the dark liquid, and began painting himself. Two of the young men also helped apply the paint. As Zhang Wanshou watched his dull yellow skin gradually turn black, tears streamed down his face. The tears ran down his blackened cheeks, leaving two faint yellow streaks. He closed his eyes and pressed them tightly shut, trying desperately to hold back his tears.
The sky darkened as clouds gathered, obscuring the light in the valley. The three young men led Zhang Wanshou up the ridge. By now, Zhang Wanshou blended in well with the three dark-skinned youths, his skin even darker than theirs, though his nostrils were less broad and his lips less thick. He trailed behind the three young men, beads of sweat densely covering his forehead. The further they went, the darker the sky loomed, and the more stifling the air felt. They moved up and down the narrow paths of the ridge, crossing streams and pushing through the thistles. They did not speak a word, only hurried forward. Zhang Wanshou’s sweat dripped out like morning dew, revealing patches of his yellow skin. Gunshots occasionally echoed along the path. Hearing the gunfire, the three young men pulled Zhang Wanshou into the woods, seeking dense foliage to hide in, while also scooping up dirt to smear over his sweaty patches. Once the gunfire faded, the four dashed out of the woods and sprinted down the ridge.
Thunder rumbled across the ridge. The surroundings became blurred, as if enveloped by a vast black fog descending from the sky. Zhang Wanshou panted and ran, no longer feeling the stifling heat, only the cool water splashing his skin. The air was thick with the damp smell of earth. The sound of rain pounding on the veld grew louder and louder. One of the youths rushed to a hillside, pointing to a valley below, where a cluster of iron sheet houses stood. He pointed at one of the houses, then smiled and pointed at Zhang Wanshou. Through the rain, Zhang Wanshou squinted and made out some words that seemed to be written on the iron sheets. Ignoring how slippery the slope was or how many gullies lay beneath his feet, he sprinted forward. Rainwater streamed down his body like a river and black streaks flowing from his body wherever he ran. He stumbled a few times but quickly scrambled back up, rushing towards the words on the iron sheets.
As the words loomed closer, and he could see them clearly—they were Chinese characters. Below them were the foreign letters from the silver coins he had earned. He had yet to make out what the Chinese characters said, but he knew he must reach them to find relief. The rain pounded his body, his clothes soaked and clinging to him, yet he felt no discomfort. He wanted to shout, but instead, he cried, and his throat choked as if something were stuck, only letting out muffled sobs. A flash of lightning lit the sky, followed by the thunder, and his energy surged, his strides lengthening. The Chinese characters on the iron sheets loomed large, and he heard the roar of rain pounding on the metal. Raindrops sluiced over his body, the black liquid swishing away, exposing his otherwise dull yellow skin.
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This piece has been awarded Second Prize in the category of fiction in the First Global China-Africa Writing Competition (2024) held by CASIN (China-Africa Shanghai International Network). The competition is managed by Dr. Flair Donglai Shi (Shanghai Jiao Tong University), under the directorship of Dr. Jodie Yuzhou Sun (Fudan University). The judging panel of 2024 consisted of Dr. Cheng Ying (Peking University), Dr. Ignatius Suglo (The University of Richmond), Dr. Mingqing Yuan (Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg) and Dr. Zhang Yong (Zhejiang University). The piece was originally written in Chinese, and this English version was translated by Xiao Chenyixuan (Shanghai Normal University) and edited by Flair. The Elephant is granted rights to publish this translation first by both CASIN and the author herself. For more details about the competition and CASIN, contact us at casinwriting@gmail.com.