Man of Old Street
By LIU JIANCHAO
OLD Street winds fluidly along the Yihe River, like a hemp rope someone has casually dumped there. Originating in the Ming Dynasty or earlier, it is a narrow path 10 meters wide and five km long. When heaving with jostling crowds on market days and festivals, from a distance it gives the impression of a wriggling snake.
Shops marshal the Old Street cheek-to-cheek. These businesses, locally owned for generations, have earned their proprietors handsome incomes. People of Old Street aspire to nothing more than modest wealth sufficient to maintain a stable life. Such a mindset made them dread their sons being conscripted or becoming officials. In earlier times they would make donations of cash or relief goods to keep them from leaving their hometown, even though this meant forfeiting any possibility of getting official posts. This tradition gave rise to the saying “There are males in Old Street, but not men.”
Niu Wu lives at the southern end of Old Street. Every day at early morning he trudges through the light mist along the blue slabstone-paved street to Ma’s Mutton Broth eatery at the foot of the Drum and Bell Tower. Niu Wu is always the first customer.
Niu Wu’s daily breakfast is a serving of soup seasoned with spicy oil in which two flat breads are steeping. His head bobs as he blows on the soup, and at intervals he slurps from the rim of the bowl. When it is half finished, he asks for a refill, and starts on the bread, by now tastily saturated.
When the bowl is empty, his face is red, and his forehead gleams with sweat. Contentedly, Niu Wu wipes his mouth and stretches. By this time the sun has ascended above the eaves of the Drum and Bell Tower.
With the same tread, Niu Wu returns home. His sister-in-law tells him: “Wu, three months have passed since your retirement from the army. It’s time to look for a job.” Niu Wu shakes his head: “I was security guard for the commander of a big military region. I cannot bring disgrace upon him. Someone will come to me with an offer, I know it.” And he is right. The offer comes from Mr. Jin, owner of an electronics company.
“Were you security guard for the commander of a military region?”
“Yep.”
“Are you a master of wrestling, Shaolin Kung Fu and Taiji boxing?”
“Yep.”
“Can you hold your drink?”
“Yep.”
“Good, you’re hired, 2,000 yuan a month.”
Business is slow at Jin’s company much of the time. Most is generated by big deals clinched from time to time. One weekend Jin calls in on Niu Wu, telling him he’s after a big fish. “Make sure Director Song enjoys himself. He’s a guzzler. Once he has drunk to his heart’s content, he’ll sign the deal – 3 million yuan! We can then rest at leisure for a whole year.” “Yep,” Niu Wu says, and thumps his chest.
Jin takes Song to the Old Street Water Banquet. Originating in the Tang Dynasty, it is famous far and wide, attracting hordes of traveling merchants and tourists the year round. Its name comes from the way the dishes are served – one course is brought in as soon as that preceding it is finished in seamless continuity, like water flowing. It also refers to how the food is prepared – almost all dishes are soups.
The four men, hosts and guests, sit down at a square table, each with a glass of liquor before them. Jin says with a smile: “A friend from afar brings me good fortune. Mr. Director, you got me so plastered at your home last year that I opened the door to the wardrobe when taking my leave. Now it’s time to repay your generosity.”
“Go ahead,” Song chortles. “Is this bodyguard here to back you up? Come on, a few bottles of liquor should be no problem for him.”
Jin turns to Niu Wu: “Go on lad.”
“Sorry, boss, I don’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“Fine, get my pal some steamed bread and fried pork with leeks. He’d like to munch on something first.”
“And five pieces of fermented tofu,” Niu Wu adds.
When the bread is served, Niu Wu breaks it in half, slathers it in the fermented tofu and gobbles it down in a blink of an eye. The guests are amazed, exclaiming “Good appetite!”
“Eat your fill?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, finish your glass.”
“Oh no, I don’t drink on a full stomach.”
Jin is rattled: “No drink before the food, or after. When exactly do you drink?”
“In the army drinking liquor would get one locked up.”
“Get out,” the furious Jin rants.
“I cannot leave, boss. I will have to take you home after you pass out.”
Niu Wu sees his groggy boss home, carrying him up flights of stairs to his apartment on the fifth floor.
The deal is aborted, and the livid Jin confines himself to bed for two days. Soon after Niu Wu is assigned to the janitor’s room. He however adapts to his new position as good heartedly as before.
One day a voluptuous woman leaves Jin’s office in the wee hours, and asks Niu Wu to open the company gate for her. “It is the company rule to lock the building from 11 pm to 6:30 am the next day. It is not opened for anybody other than for exceptional reasons. You’ll have to wait for 90 minutes,” Niu Wu sternly tells her.
“You don’t want me to bring your boss here, do you?” the woman asks threateningly. But the watchman doesn’t budge: “It is a company rule. Even the top brass must observe it.” The woman fumes, and begins to bawl. But Niu Wu remains nonchalant.
The row arouses other people in the building. Some come down to see what’s going on. When word later reaches Jin’s wife, she storms into his office and bawls into his face.
Jin never brings the issue up with Niu Wu, but his manner is distinctly chilly. Niu Wu’s wages are withheld. Three months later he is told that the company is struggling under mounting arrears. “The K Corporation bilked us out of 300,000 yuan, and hasn’t paid back a single cent in two years,” Jin says. “They are thugs, nobody dares to collect debts from them. If you can get the money back, you can keep 30 percent of it. If not, you’d better look for another place.”
“Yep, I’ll go tomorrow,” Niu Wu replies.
The K Corp. is housed in a stately building. On learning what Niu Wu has comes for, the president laughs. “I owe you money? Your company supplied shoddy goods. I could have sued you for damages. Anyway I understand the travails of your coming all the way here. You can collect 500 yuan from my accountant before you go.”
“I am here for 300,000 yuan, not 500,” Niu Wu replies, clearly unimpressed.
The president drops his amiable expression. “I’m afraid you have no idea of the K Corporation’s standing in the city. You’d better leave before my men become annoyed.” Two bruisers then strut into the room. Niu whose height barely reaches their shoulders, leaves without a word.
He, however, comes back to the president’s office hours later, toting a big sack. When he opens it, a pile of bricks falls out. The president is alarmed, and calls in his two bouncers. Before they approach him, Niu Wu bends over, and chops five bricks piled on top of each other in half with his bare hand. Without pausing to take a breath, he then picks up one brick with his left hand, and effortlessly drills the middle finger of his right hand through the chunk, releasing a puff of red dust. After the drilling the fifth brick fragment, Niu Wu, still breathing evenly, strings the five brick halves on a steel wire before straightening up and clapping dust off his hands. “On our first meeting I present you this necklace as a gift,” he says, and swings the string of bricks from the floor with his toes, flinging it onto the hanger in the corner of the room.
When presented with the check for RMB 300,000, Jin’s jaw drops.
“You’re a nice boss, but there’s no place for me here,” Niu Wu tells him. “I had done so little for you, I felt obliged to stay. Now it’s time to say goodbye.”
Jin takes out a big wad of cash: “Wu, this is for you.”
“No,” Niu shakes his head. “I was a security guard for the commander, and cannot do him any dishonor. Just give me the wages you owe me. I won’t take a cent more.”
LIU JIANCHAO is vice chairman of Luoyang Writers’ Association and vice chairman of the Zhengzhou Micro Fiction Society. He has published more than 600 works, including Forever Friends and Encountering a Real Man.
