Raising Children Chronicle

Author: Su Tong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-08-01
Features: Su Tong, a native of Suzhou in Jiangnan. In 1980, he enrolled in the Chinese Department of Beijing Normal University. It is said that he spent four unforgettable years there, yet his name was still repeatedly mentioned in this renowned institution. In 1983, he devoted himself to writing fiction and has since been unstoppable, leaving an indelible mark on the contemporary Chinese literary scene. He enjoys "new trends" and once immersed himself in them. He also appreciates "tradition," delving into the historical fluctuations of China. One day, The was published, and then, under the direction of the acclaimed filmmaker Zhang Yimou, it became the famous Big Red Lantern, which went on to compete for the Academy Award, though the outcome was not entirely satisfactory. However, it shook the Chinese film and literary worlds, both significantly. The Chinese public learned of The through Big Red Lantern and became fascinated with this charming Su Tong, who, in turn, used The as a new starting point, embarking on his unique literary path.
The Spring in the Slaughterhouse People referred to the factory where Jin Qiao worked as the slaughterhouse, a habit born of laziness and adherence to tradition. When I tell you the story of Jin Qiao, the first thing I want to clarify is that Jin Qiao does not work in the slaughterhouse; he is a worker in the slaughterhouse of Dongfeng Meat Processing Factory. Jin Qiao is indeed involved in the profession of slaughtering pigs, but daily interaction with live pigs does not mean he is a butcher. Moreover, from the day he entered the meat processing factory, he began to scheme how to leave this greasy and repulsive place.
The spring sun shone on the red factory buildings and outdoor washing troughs of the meat processing plant. This was the season of pork abundance, and the cheerful sounds of machines cutting pork came from the windows of the factory. The female workers in bulky cotton coats suddenly appeared behind Jin Qiao from the washing trough. They leaned against the trough, pulled off their masks, and a flood of vulgar curses poured into Jin Qiao's ears. The women were cursing someone: "Pig head, offal, bladder." They were using professional terms to curse someone. Jin Qiao found it amusing. He didn’t know who they were cursing, but it wasn’t him. Jin Qiao put down the brush in his hand, turned off the water faucet, and stopped scrubbing the stain on his clothes. He turned around and smiled at the women. "Who are you cursing?" "Who?" "Besides that pig head, who else could it be?" One woman waved the mask in her hand. Her tone was initially resentful, but when she realized Jin Qiao was a stranger, her body turned awayly, and she half back on the washing trough. "Are you a new worker?" she examined Jin Qiao and suddenly burst into laughter. "What are you brushing?" "Work uniform?" "What’s there to brush? It’ll get dirty again tomorrow. If you love being clean so much, you shouldn’t have come to the meat processing plant." Jin Qiao said, wiping a patch of pig blood on his chest. "It was harder to wash than I thought. No matter how I scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off." "Aren’t you a spy?" the woman asked. "Aren’t you going to report on him?" Jin Qiao asked in return. "Report to whom?" "To the pig head," the woman said, almost flirtatiously, as she gave Jin Qiao a sidelong glance. Then she added, "If you dare to report, we’ll drag you to the icehouse and freeze you with the pigs." Jin Qiao was taken aback. Just as he was about to ask something, the women by the washing trough suddenly fell silent. Their gazes turned as one to the intersection between the slaughterhouse and the bathroom. A man wearing a duck billed hat was dragging a bag from there. The women cursed almost in unison, "Pig head, offal, bladder," as they hurriedly scattered.
Jin Qiao watched their figures disappear behind the cotton curtains of the icehouse and felt that the people in the meat processing plant were a bit strange. Jin Qiao picked up the brush and scrubbed his right chest again. His peripheral vision caught the man in the duck billed hat. Jin Qiao had noticed that the man had a rosy complexion, clear features, and a nimble, efficient demeanor even as he dragged the bag. "He’s the pig head," Jin Qiao thought. "Why call him the pig head?" In the northern part of the city where he grew up, people were accustomed to calling those with ugly or eccentric appearances "pig heads," which was an insulting term. Yet the man walking toward him with the bag looked like a world-renowned diplomat, famous for his demeanor, eloquence, and refinement. As his slender figure and the snake skin bag behind him grew closer, Jin Qiao almost stared in disbelief. If it weren’t for the stained snake skin bag, if he had been wearing a deep blue Zhongshan suit and sticking a pen in his pocket, Jin Qiao would have believed he had seen the ghost of the deceased diplomat.
"Pig head?" Jin Qiao recalled the vicious curses of the cold women. They had actually cursed him as the pig head. A sudden sense of taking someone else’s place surged through Jin Qiao’s heart, and inexplicably, his face flushed.
I want to draw the attention of those concerned about Jin Qiao’s situation to this detail: when Jin Qiao first met Xu Kexiang by the washing trough in the meat processing plant, Jin Qiao scrubbed his defiled work uniform with the brush one last time, then quickly straightened his hair, collar, and belt. Like a listless plant suddenly stimulated by rain and sunlight, he stood straight and orderly. Of course, what was more important was the gaze Jin Qiao fixed on Xu Kexiang—besides unnecessary embarrassment and confusion, there was also a deep reverence, as if paying homage to an idol.
"You’re Jin Qiao?" Xu Kexiang recognized him at a glance and put down the snake skin bag, walking over to shake his hand. "How’s your first day at work?" Xu Kexiang said. "How are you finding it? Do you like it?" Jin Qiao stared at Xu Kexiang, a little disoriented. "Glasses, a pair of white-rimmed glasses. Do you also wear white-rimmed glasses?" "I don’t wear glasses. I’m just Xu Kexiang. Call me Old Xu," Xu Kexiang said. "Everyone in the meat processing plant calls me Old Xu. Don’t call me the director or the secretary. Just call me Old Xu." "Old Xu, I… I feel like you’re a lot like someone," Jin Qiao said. "Like a worker?" "Haha, I’m originally from a working-class background," Xu Kexiang suddenly burst into laughter, his expression becoming even happier. "Everyone says so. It’s good to be like a worker. If Old Xu ever stops being like a worker and starts acting like an official, Xu Kexiang abruptly stopped laughing, swung his right hand behind his shoulder, and said, "Then Old Xu will become bureaucratic. You won’t call me Old Xu anymore. You’ll call me Xu Bureaucrat."
Jin Qiao was once again shocked by Xu Kexiang’s gesture. Swinging his right hand behind his shoulder—just like the deceased diplomat did when emphasizing something, lightly yet decisively. No one could easily imitate such a gesture. Jin Qiao stared at Xu Kexiang’s right hand. He suddenly felt that the right hand should be clenched and placed on his hip. Jin Qiao didn’t know what caused this miraculous phenomenon, but he saw Xu Kexiang’s hand slowly rise to his hip.
"Why are you so reserved?" Xu Kexiang, one hand on his hip, patted Jin Qiao’s shoulder affectionately with the other. "Don’t be afraid of me, Jin Qiao," he said. "You don’t even know who I am, yet I can remember your name. I read your file and remembered everything at once. I’m not very good at leadership skills, but I have a good memory. I can remember anything." "I have an uncanny ability to memorize things. Diplomats are like that," Jin Qiao murmured. "It’s too similar. You’re almost exactly like him."
At this moment, Xu Kexiang’s attention returned to the snake skin bag at his feet, and his expression suddenly turned serious. His two swords-like eyebrows furrowed together. "Jin Qiao, let’s take this bag back to the icehouse," he said, grabbing a corner of the bag and sighing. "This can’t go on. We have to stop this tide of wrongdoings." "What wrongdoings?" "Pig heads, offal, and other things. Some people are always trying to undermine the meat processing plant. They sneak the bag to the fence, throw it over, and someone outside picks it up. I’ve caught them several times." Xu Kexiang said. "Pig heads and offal aren’t national property either? How can they steal them?" "This can’t go on. We have to stop this tide of wrongdoings."
Jin Qiao helped Xu Kexiang lift the bag toward the icehouse. The oil and blood stains on the bag once again dirtied Jin Qiao’s clean hands. The stench of pig organs seeping from the bag made him feel nauseous. Jin Qiao struggled to suppress his urge to vomit as he walked in step with Xu Kexiang to the icehouse door. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in and dropped the bag, letting out a loud "."
"You’re not used to the environment of the meat processing plant yet. Once you get used to it, you won’t throw up anymore. It’ll be better once you get used to it," Xu Kexiang said from behind.