THE AERONAUT
1
That morning in 1979 when Li Mingqi first showed up at his doorstep, Gao Likuan bristled, and not just at the boy’s outlandish attire—although his bell-bottoms and flashy leather belt certainly didn’t help. Gao had known Mingqi all his life, along with his two younger brothers and six little sisters; the family really was that large. The Lis lived in the row behind the Gao household, and beyond them was Red Flag Square, originally built by the Japanese, who paved it with marble from their quarry in Fuxin. When the work was done, the foreigners released a flock of pigeons into the square, which locals swiftly caught and took home for dinner. The next day, they released another flock of pigeons but stationed soldiers to guard them with rifles; that’s how the Chinese learned that these birds were there to be fed, not eaten. The Japanese surrounded the square with banks and offices, abandoning the structures when they departed. In 1967 a statue of Chairman Mao was erected in the middle, and the pigeons all flew away, never to return. Beneath the Chairman stood a squad of stone soldiers led by a man with rolled-up sleeves who carried a great crimson flag that billowed in the wind.
The Li house was another Japanese remnant, covering some thirty-odd square meters, with a high ceiling and exquisitely crafted windows. Though the printing company had provided both the Gao and the Li homes, Li Mingqi’s father had added a loft to his, with five steps stuck into the wall leading up to it. A family of eleven, women sleeping below and men above—not a bad arrangement.
The main reason for Gao Likuan’s annoyance, apart from Li Mingqi’s ridiculous clothes, was that Mingqi’s father had once been Gao’s apprentice before going on to surpass him, and it stung to have the man’s son now courting his daughter. Gao was a senior technician at the company, and there was nothing he couldn’t do—no printing problem ever daunted him. He was also well respected: the foreman would offer him a cigarette whenever they spoke, and even light it for him. His status was due not only to his formidable skills but also to his long-standing Party membership: born into hardship, Gao Likuan had grown tired of people’s sneers and joined the Communists to print their leaflets. His leaflets were better than anyone else’s, his colors more vivid, only growing stronger with time. He had no schooling but learned to read and write at the printing company, and after he’d picked up enough words to turn a phrase, he would occasionally punch up the managers’ slogans to make them even more inspiring. One of the bosses later sent him a letter saying he was proof that great masters existed in every line of work, including propaganda. He wasn’t Master Gao yet—back then he was still Young Gao, and Young Gao spent two years printing leaflets, getting thrown in jail twice, first by the Nationalists and then by the Japanese. Both times he was beaten, so viciously the second that he was blinded in one eye, and subsequently he was known as One-Eyed Gao.
For some time after Liberation, One-Eyed Gao was happy: after all, it was a brand-new world, a brand-new era, even if he was still at the printing firm cranking out leaflets. It took a little longer for him to realize exactly what was so new about this world. The author of the complimentary letter was now the deputy mayor, and when he happened to think of Gao one day, he called the firm to ask if the propaganda genius was still around, or if he’d been martyred. The reply came: Yes, he’s still around, and still printing leaflets, only he’s lost an eye; he used to mix colors with two eyes, and now he does it with one, but the colors are just as bright. The deputy mayor sent someone to fetch him. They chatted for a while, and then the mayor announced that he was sending Gao off to cadre school. A few months of study, and Gao could be a deputy foreman. Gao Likuan said, I’m not presentable, I only have one eye, and anyway I’m no leader—I’m clumsy with words, I shake before crowds. I wasn’t fit to be an officer during the Revolution, and now that we’re in the New China, I’m very happy as I am, so why not continue as a worker? The deputy mayor replied, We owe you an eye, and that debt needs to be paid; besides, you have a bit of learning and your family background is impeccable—this is too good an opportunity to miss. Whether you want to or not, you’re reporting to school tomorrow.
Gao Likuan felt distinctly uneasy after getting back from City Hall, and asked his apprentice to come over for a drink. For his first visit to his mentor’s home, Li Zhengdao brought half a chicken and a bottle of strong baigan liquor. They pulled the chicken apart while they drank.
—Zhengdao, this chicken isn’t bad at all, where did you buy it?
—You can’t buy this anywhere, sir. I roasted it myself.
—Why the hell are you still working in a factory? Open a restaurant—you’ll make a fortune.
—It took me so long to roast this chicken, I’d just lose money. But of course I’m happy to do it for you, sir. Next time, I’ll roast you a rabbit.
Gao Likuan was delighted—not only could his apprentice make a mean roast chicken, he knew what to say to make you feel good. Gao took a big swig of liquor and began to impart his wisdom about the printing business. Zhengdao listened with his head tilted to one side, now and then tearing off a particularly delectable morsel of chicken for his mentor. Gao, who was drinking quite quickly, finally remembered what he’d wanted to discuss.
—I was summoned to City Hall today. I don’t feel good about it.
—How so, sir? When you got carried away in that big sedan chair, everyone just about lost their minds. Who knew you were an old revolutionary? You never said.
—Why the fuck would I say anything about it? If you have a big ass, you don’t need to take off your pants to prove it.
—That’s true.
—That courtyard in front of City Hall used to belong to the Japanese. That’s where I lost my eye. There’s still Japanese writing on the wall—they never painted over it. I don’t want to go to cadre school, but I’ve got no choice; I can’t offend the deputy mayor. I may only have one eye, but I can see clearly, and I know there’s no point in me going. Why ask a fish to walk on land?
They drank late into the night, and though Zhengdao stayed over, Gao Likuan snored so thunderously, Zhengdao didn’t get a wink of sleep. At dawn the next morning, he made Gao a large mug of tea and went off to work.
Gao turned out to be absolutely right—the wise have the gift of self-knowledge. The other people in the study session couldn’t really read, and some were even less articulate than he was; they spoke their local dialect, which was intelligible only to themselves. One man was an opium addict and went into withdrawal halfway through a class, rolling around on the floor and twitching until they sent him home. Gao Likuan may have had a facial deformity, but his bearing was respectable—his shoulders were broad, his face was square—and though he couldn’t speak as well as the professor, he could muster a couple of talking points when absolutely necessary. The mere fact that he separated his thoughts into points, rather than jumbling them all together like a bowl of congee, put him head and shoulders above the other students.
Copyright © 2022 by Shanghai Translation Publishing House
