favored by fate. And so, sullen and standoffish Xiangzi was transformed into a man of distinction who had every right to be taciturn and was worthy of being fawned over.
“Come on, Xiangzi, tell us how you got rich!” It was a refrain he heard every day. He remained tight-lipped. If they pressed him, the scar on his face turned red and he said, “Rich? Then where the hell is my rickshaw!”
And that was the truth. Where was his rickshaw? That got them thinking. But commiserating with people is never as easy as congratulating them. And so they forgot all about Xiangzi’s rickshaw, focusing instead on his good fortune. For a few days, that is, until they saw him pulling a rickshaw again instead of taking up a new trade or buying a house or some land, and their attitude cooled off. Now, when someone mentioned Camel Xiangzi, no one bothered to ask why he was called camel, of all animals. They just accepted it.
Xiangzi, on the other hand, could not forget what had happened to him. He was burning to buy a new rickshaw, but the greater his impatience, the more he thought about his first rickshaw. He pushed himself, working hard with no complaint, but not even that erased the memory of what had happened, thoughts that nearly suffocated him. He couldn’t help wondering what good it did to try so hard. The world didn’t treat you any fairer just because you tried hard. Not a world in which his rickshaw had been taken from him! Even if he managed to get another one right away, who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen again? It was a nightmare that destroyed his faith in the future. He often watched enviously as the other men drank and smoked and visited whorehouses. If trying hard was a waste of time, why not enjoy life for a change? They had it right. Though he wasn’t quite ready to go to a whorehouse, he could at least have a drink or two and relax. Alcohol and tobacco suddenly held a strong attraction; neither cost much, and both brought a bit of comfort, an incentive to struggle on and help a man forget past suffering.
And yet he could not bring himself to try either one. Every cent he saved brought him that much closer to his goal of buying a new rickshaw. Not buying one was unthinkable, even if it was taken from him the day after he got it. It was his ideal, his aspiration, almost his religion. He had no reason to live if he could not pull his own rickshaw. He did not aspire to become an official, or get rich, or start up a business. His talent was in pulling a rickshaw, and his unwavering hope was to buy one of his own; not to do so would have been a disgrace. Day and night, this was the thought that occupied him and the reason he counted his money so carefully. The day he forgot this would be the day he forgot himself, and he’d then be little more than a beast that knew how to pull a rickshaw, lacking all traces of humanity. Even the finest rickshaw, if it was a rental, he pulled half-heartedly, as unnaturally as if he were carrying a rock on his back. He didn’t slack off just because it was a rental; he always cleaned it up after bringing it in for the day, and took pains to keep from damaging it. But he did this to be prudent, not because he enjoyed it. Yes, taking care of his own rickshaw brought the same satisfaction as counting his own money. He still neither smoked nor drank, and would not even treat himself to a cup of good tea. In teahouses, reputable rickshaw men like him, after burning up the streets awhile, would spend ten cents for a bag of tea and two lumps of sugar to revitalize themselves and cool off. When Xiangzi ran until sweat dripped from his ears and his chest felt the strain, that’s what he’d have liked to do, not out of habit or to put on airs but because it was what he needed. Yet after a moment’s thought, he’d settle for a one-cent bag of tea dross. There were times when he felt like cursing for being so hard on himself, but what was a rickshaw man set on putting a bit of
“Come on, Xiangzi, tell us how you got rich!” It was a refrain he heard every day. He remained tight-lipped. If they pressed him, the scar on his face turned red and he said, “Rich? Then where the hell is my rickshaw!”
And that was the truth. Where was his rickshaw? That got them thinking. But commiserating with people is never as easy as congratulating them. And so they forgot all about Xiangzi’s rickshaw, focusing instead on his good fortune. For a few days, that is, until they saw him pulling a rickshaw again instead of taking up a new trade or buying a house or some land, and their attitude cooled off. Now, when someone mentioned Camel Xiangzi, no one bothered to ask why he was called camel, of all animals. They just accepted it.
Xiangzi, on the other hand, could not forget what had happened to him. He was burning to buy a new rickshaw, but the greater his impatience, the more he thought about his first rickshaw. He pushed himself, working hard with no complaint, but not even that erased the memory of what had happened, thoughts that nearly suffocated him. He couldn’t help wondering what good it did to try so hard. The world didn’t treat you any fairer just because you tried hard. Not a world in which his rickshaw had been taken from him! Even if he managed to get another one right away, who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen again? It was a nightmare that destroyed his faith in the future. He often watched enviously as the other men drank and smoked and visited whorehouses. If trying hard was a waste of time, why not enjoy life for a change? They had it right. Though he wasn’t quite ready to go to a whorehouse, he could at least have a drink or two and relax. Alcohol and tobacco suddenly held a strong attraction; neither cost much, and both brought a bit of comfort, an incentive to struggle on and help a man forget past suffering.
And yet he could not bring himself to try either one. Every cent he saved brought him that much closer to his goal of buying a new rickshaw. Not buying one was unthinkable, even if it was taken from him the day after he got it. It was his ideal, his aspiration, almost his religion. He had no reason to live if he could not pull his own rickshaw. He did not aspire to become an official, or get rich, or start up a business. His talent was in pulling a rickshaw, and his unwavering hope was to buy one of his own; not to do so would have been a disgrace. Day and night, this was the thought that occupied him and the reason he counted his money so carefully. The day he forgot this would be the day he forgot himself, and he’d then be little more than a beast that knew how to pull a rickshaw, lacking all traces of humanity. Even the finest rickshaw, if it was a rental, he pulled half-heartedly, as unnaturally as if he were carrying a rock on his back. He didn’t slack off just because it was a rental; he always cleaned it up after bringing it in for the day, and took pains to keep from damaging it. But he did this to be prudent, not because he enjoyed it. Yes, taking care of his own rickshaw brought the same satisfaction as counting his own money. He still neither smoked nor drank, and would not even treat himself to a cup of good tea. In teahouses, reputable rickshaw men like him, after burning up the streets awhile, would spend ten cents for a bag of tea and two lumps of sugar to revitalize themselves and cool off. When Xiangzi ran until sweat dripped from his ears and his chest felt the strain, that’s what he’d have liked to do, not out of habit or to put on airs but because it was what he needed. Yet after a moment’s thought, he’d settle for a one-cent bag of tea dross. There were times when he felt like cursing for being so hard on himself, but what was a rickshaw man set on putting a bit of
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