Around this time, Papa and I worked as seasonal farmhands. He planted rice, wheat, and cotton and carried manure. My job was to plant soybeans along the edges of the fields. Each day, Papa and I woke before dawn to go to work. As a child, I was paid less than an adult, but I was glad to be earning money. I had to compete with other children, especially boys. I always proved that I was faster than the boys when it came to planting soybeans. I used a chopstick to poke a hole and threw a soybean into each one. I kicked dirt into the hole and sealed it with my big toe.
The coolie market where we got our jobs closed after the planting season was over. Papa and I couldn’t find any work. Papa spent his days walking the streets in search of a job. No one hired him, although he was received politely. I followed Papa throughout the town. When I found him wandering into the surrounding hills, I started doubting his seriousness about finding a job.
“What a glorious view!” Papa marveled as he beheld the countryside spreading below his feet. “Willow, come and admire the beauty of nature!”
I looked. The wide Yangtze flowed freely and leaped aside into small canals and streams that fed the southern land.
“Beyond the valleys are hidden old temples that have stood for hundreds of years.” Papa’s voice rose again. “We live in the best place under the sun!”
I shook my head and told him that the demon in my stomach had eaten away my good sense.
Papa shook his head. “What did I teach you?”
I rolled back my eyes and recited, “Virtue will sustain and prevail.”
Virtue finally failed to sustain Papa. The demons in his stomach took over-he was caught stealing. Neighbors no longer wanted to be associated with him. The pity was that Papa never actually succeeded as a thief. He was too clumsy. More than once I witnessed him being beaten by the folks he stole from. He was thrown into the open sewage. He told his friends that he had “tripped over a tree stump.” Laughing, they asked him, “Was it the same stump you tripped over the last time?” One day Papa came home holding his arm, which had been knocked out of its socket. “I deserved it,” he said, cursing himself. “I shouldn’t have stolen from an infant’s mouth.”
By the time I was eight years old I was already a seasoned thief. I began by stealing incense for NaiNai. Although Papa criticized me, he knew that the family would starve if I stopped. Papa would sell the goods I stole.
I snatched small items at first, such as vegetables, fruit, birds, and puppies. Then I went for farming tools. After selling what I stole, Papa would rush to a local bar for rice wine. He took his sips slowly, closing his eyes as if concentrating on the taste. When his cheeks began to redden, he would recite his favorite poem. Although his friends had long since left him, he imagined his audience.
The Grand Yangtze River runs toward the ocean,
Never to return, so went the dynasty’s glorious days.
When would the time come again for heroes?
Though music continues playing, swiftly and triumphantly,
Reform miscarried, reformers beheaded,
Foreign troops plagued the country
His Majesty locked in the island of Yintai.
Where have been the gods’ responses?
Weep the learned man,
Brokenhearted and in despair…
One day a man clapped. He was sitting in a corner. He stood up to congratulate Papa. He was tall, a giant in the eyes of the Chinese. He was the brown-haired and blue-eyed foreigner, an American missionary. He was by himself with a thick book and a cup of tea in front of him.
He smiled at Papa and praised him for his fine poem.
Absalom Sydenstricker was his name. The locals called him the “plow-nosed and demon-eyed crazy foreigner.” He had been a fixture in town for as long as I could remember. Not only was he ceiling tall, he also had hair growing on his forearms and the backs of his hands like weeds. All year long Absalom wore a gray Chinese gown. A queue went down his back, which everyone knew was fake. His costume made him look ridiculous, but he didn’t seem to care. Absalom spent his time chasing people on the street. He tried to stop them and talk to them. He wanted to make us believe in his God. As children, we were taught to avoid him. We were not allowed to say things that would hurt his feelings, such as “Go away.”
Papa was familiar with Absalom Sydenstricker since he, too, spent time wandering the streets. Papa concluded that Absalom was laying up credit for himself so that his God would offer him a ticket to heaven when he died.
“Or else why leave his own home to wander among strangers?” Papa questioned.
Papa suspected that Absalom was a criminal in his own land. Out of curiosity that day, Papa listened to what the foreigner had to say. Afterward, he invited Absalom home for “further discussion.”
Thrilled, Absalom came. He didn’t mind our dirty hut. He sat down and opened his book. “Would you like a story from the Bible?” he offered.
Papa was not interested in stories. He wanted to know what kind of god Jesus was. “Based on the way he was tortured, stabbed to death, nailed and tied to posts, he must be a royal criminal. In China such elaborate public torture would be given only to criminals of high status, like the former Imperial prime minister Su Shun.”
Excitement filled Absalom’s voice. He began to explain. But his Chinese was difficult to understand.
Papa lost his patience. When Absalom paused, Papa interrupted. “How can Jesus protect others when he couldn’t even protect himself?”
Absalom waved his hands, pointed his fingers up and down, and then read from the Bible.
Papa decided that it was time to help the foreigner. “Chinese gods make better sense,” he said. “They are more worshipper-friendly…”
“No, no, no.” Absalom shook his head like a merchant’s drummer. “You are not understanding me…”
“Listen, foreigner, my suggestions might help you. Put clothes on Jesus and give him a weapon. Look at our god of war, Guan-gong. He wears a general’s robe made of heavy metal, and he carries a powerful sword.”
“You are a clever man,” Absalom told Papa, “but your biggest mistake is that you are knowledgeable of all gods but the true God.”
I observed that Absalom’s face was a big opium bed with a high nose sitting like a table in the middle. His eyebrows were two bird’s nests and under them were clear blue eyes. After his talk with Papa he went back into the streets. I followed him.
“God is your best fortune!” Absalom sang to the people who paused in front of him. No one paid attention. People tied their shoelaces, wiped snot off their children’s faces, and moved on. Absalom stuck his long arms out like two brooms in the air. When he saw Papa again, he smiled. Papa smiled back. It took Papa quite a while to figure out what Absalom was trying to say.
“We have shed blood unlawfully,” Absalom said, waving the Bible in Papa’s face. “It may be innocently, but the stain remains upon us. Mankind can only remove it by prayers and good deeds.”
I discovered where Absalom lived. His house was a bungalow located in the lower part of town. His neighbors were coolies and peasants. I wondered what had made Absalom choose the place. Although Chin-kiang was the smallest town in Jiangsu province, it had been an important port since ancient times. From the water’s edge, stone-paved streets led to shops and then the center of the town, where the British Embassy was located. The embassy occupied the highest point, with a broad view of the Yangtze River.
Although he was not the first American missionary to come to China, Absalom claimed he was the first to arrive in Chin-kiang during the late nineteenth century. According to old folks, soon after Absalom arrived, he purchased a piece of land behind the graveyard, where he built a church. His intention was to avoid “disturbing the living,” but to the Chinese, disturbing the dead was the worst crime one could commit. The church’s tall shadow stretched out over the graveyard. The locals protested. Absalom had to abandon the church. He moved down the hill and rented a shop as his new church. It was a room with a low ceiling, crooked beams, falling studs, and broken windows.