The Taste of Apples

Preface

In regard to the mastery of modern Chinese—known as guoyu, or national language, in Taiwan and putonghua, or common language, on the Chinese mainland—Taiwan was a relative latecomer. Guoyu’s widespread use dates from the end of World War II, following Taiwan’s retrocession to China. But the return of the language after half a century of Japanese colonial rule was accomplished by the transplanted Nationalist government only after a concerted effort to promote it and to force the local dialect into disuse. Like all colonial powers, the government carried out its political agenda with utter disregard for ethnic friction and ideological opposition.

The first generation of Taiwanese to write in acceptable guoyu rather than a Chinese remake of Japanese, and who were permitted to publish their works openly, did not appear until the early 1960s. I was one of those writers. But though we had some proficiency, we were denied a rich environment in which to let our language mature, particularly where ideology was concerned. In middle school, we had an insatiable thirst for literature, even if we were too young to understand and appreciate what we were reading; we devoured any book we got our hands on, just so long as it was literature or philosophy, like a goat that will eat anything, so long as it’s green, even a plastic bag. I guess you could call this an age of philosophy and us, literary youth.

In those days, the Nationalist government was troubled by domestic unrest and foreign adventurism, beset by ethnic discord and pressure from the Chinese Communists. So it embarked upon an anti-Communist agenda that set out to accomplish two goals: first, to stamp out Communist ideology and eliminate spies (Communists), and second, to strictly control the activities of the people at large and curtail their freedom of speech. During the nearly forty years of martial law, from 1950 to 1987, a white terror enshrouded Taiwan.

At first, our middle school textbook, Selected Chinese Texts, was thrown out because it included writers who had been members of China’s League of Leftist Writers in the 1930s. Then at least half the books in our school library were taken off the shelves. All works by League members or by Russian and Soviet writers, whether literary or scientific, original or translations, were banned. What remained were either anti-Communist tracts or nostalgic writing by mainlanders, sentimental yearnings for the good old days back in their hometowns. Luckily for us, some Anglo-American literature was spared, unless, of course, the translators happened to live on the mainland.

And so, at the time, foreign works fed my hunger: Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea and The Killers; Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County; Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily, The Bear, The Wild Palms; and the like. Most, of course, were American, thanks to the U.S. policy of anti-Communism. Then troubling events took place at school. Some of our favorite teachers began quietly disappearing. My homeroom teacher, who taught literature, was one who met that fate. This unfortunate teacher’s name was Wang Xianchun; she was a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six. I mention her in particular because it was she who set me on the path of creative writing. The most obvious difference between the Taiwanese and mainland students at the time was that we Taiwanese lagged behind in our ability to speak guoyu and to write Chinese with a brush. Once, when I turned in a writing exercise I called The Autumn Farm Family, Miss Wang shrewdly cautioned me not to imitate other people’s writing. Knowing that she thought I’d copied the story from someone else, I protested and asked her to let me write another story. When she read the second piece, she saw that I had some literary talent and, on the eve of the book bannings, gave me two collections of fiction she’d brought to Taiwan from the mainland: an anthology of short stories by Shen Congwen and a Chinese translation of stories by Chekhov. After I’d finished them, she sat me down to talk about what I’d read. Unfortunately, those heady days didn’t last long; one day she simply didn’t show up.

During the summer that followed, while on a tour of military academies and the National Defense Medical College, some of my schoolmates spotted her body on a table in the dissecting room. She’d been a member of the Chinese Communist Youth League, and our public security agencies determined that she was a secret agent. Of course, we didn’t find this out until later.

There’s no doubt that my love of literature is in large measure a result of the encouragement I received from Wang Xianchun. My American translator has written elsewhere that many of my stories are decidedly Faulknerian in style and tone. After mulling this over, I’ve come to the conclusion that this can be linked to the environment in which I grew up. My hometown and childhood experiences are at the core of my writing. In the sixties and seventies, when the modern world began making inroads into the out-of-the-way town of Lanyang, where I was born, the conflicts between the new and the old created a rich source of powerful and dramatic material. Whenever my antennae detected the new dramas being played out in my old hometown, the desire to write about them raged inside me. The stories in this collection were written during those two decades.

Frankly speaking, translating these stories, with all their rural Taiwanese customs, into English isn’t something just anyone with a decent command of the two languages can manage, and I’m sure that Howard Goldblatt has found it necessary to be creative in transforming the stories you will read. He has also never stopped urging me to continue writing. Even now, in my sixtieth year, he keeps at it. For that I thank him. Writers are seldom blessed with friends like that.

HC-M

The Fish

You told me to bring a fish with me the next time I came home, Grandpa. Well, I’ve brought one—it’s a bonito! Ah-cang shouted happily to himself as he left the little town behind him on his rickety old bicycle.

A twenty-eight-inch bike was not made for a boy as small as Ah-cang, and as he set out he was tempted to stick his right leg through the triangular space below the crossbar. But then he changed his mind, figuring he shouldn’t be riding a bike that way anymore. After all, he wasn’t a kid any longer.

Perched on the big bike, Ah-cang could not keep his rump from slipping off first one side of the seat and then the other. The cooked bonito, wrapped in a taro leaf and hanging from the handlebars, swayed violently with the motion of the bike. Ah-cang knew that bringing a bonito back to the mountain would make his grandpa and his younger brother and sister very happy. They’d also be surprised to see that he had learned to ride a bicycle. Besides, riding to and from the foot of the mountain at Pitou would save him twelve Taiwan dollars in bus fare. That was why he’d pleaded with the carpenter to lend him the rickety old bike that lay unused in the shed.

Ah-cang pedaled down the road with the single-minded purpose of getting that fish home to his grandfather as quickly as possible; not even the clanking sounds of the old bike disturbed his thoughts. The moment he saw his grandfather, he’d hold the fish up high and ask, Well, what do you say? I’ve got a pretty good memory, haven’t I? I brought a fish home.

Ah-cang, the next time you come home, try to bring a fish back with you. It’s not easy getting saltwater fish up here on the mountain. Bring a big one if you can.

But I don’t know when I’ll he able to come home again.

"I’m saying when you come home."

That’ll be up to the master.

"I know that! That’s why I said to bring a fish back with you when you come home."

"When I come home? I may not have any money when I come home."

"I mean when you do have the money."

That’ll depend on the master too.

When will he start paying you wages?

You should know—you’re the one who took me there. Didn’t he say I’d have to be an apprentice for three years and four months before I got any pay?

That’s right. You’re there to learn a trade. How long before you can nail a table together all by yourself?

Nailing a table together is easy. I learned how to do that a long time ago.

Then you shouldn’t be an apprentice any longer.

I haven’t been there three years and four months yet.

Oh? How long have you been there?

I still have a year and a half to go. Ah-cang sighed. Sometimes I feel I might spend my whole life there without ever finishing.

The old man quickly chided him. Hush! Children aren’t supposed to sigh!

Why not?

Because they’re not supposed to. He paused for a moment. It’s bad luck. You remember that.

Grandpa. Ah-cang looked up at the old man.

Hm?

When you’re really low, it makes you feel good to sigh.

The old man laughed loudly.

What’re you laughing at?

You don’t look any older, but you talk like you’ve grown up a lot.

I mean it! After I sigh, I always feel really really good.

Don’t walk on that side where the road curves. The day before yesterday one of the shop owners from the foot of the mountain got a little careless while he was coming up to collect some bills and lost his footing there.

Was he hurt? Ah-cang craned his neck to look over the side.

Of course he was hurt. The bamboo down there had just been cut, and each stalk looked like a crow’s beak. When he went over the side, he was stuck by pointed bamboo all over. He also broke his leg. Okay, that’s enough looking down there. That bend in the road has always been a nasty spot.

Who owed him money?

Who up here on the mountain doesn’t owe money to the flatlanders?

They silently skirted the bend in the road.

Where are you going?

Nowhere. I’ll just walk you down the mountain.

You don’t have to. I’ll be careful, and I’ll remember to bring a fish back with me the next time I come home.

That’s great. But if you can’t, don’t worry about it. Sometimes when the weather turns bad, the fishermen don’t go out to sea, and then you can’t get a fish even if you’ve got the money.

Then I hope there’s no bad weather.

As they approached a narrow stretch of road, the old man let his grandson walk ahead of him; he gazed at the boy from behind and asked, Is it a rough life?

What can I do about it? They make me do just about everything in the master’s house, even wash the baby’s diapers. . . . The boy began to choke up.

Then what does the master’s wife do?

The boy just shook his head without saying a word.

"So that’s the kind of woman she is! Then the old man comforted the boy by saying, It doesn’t make any difference. You’ve put up with it so far, haven’t you?"

You told me I had to.

Then you’re doing the right thing. You have to set a good example for your brother and sister.

Ah-cang looked off at nothing in particular on the mountain slope. He saw a herd of goats grazing in the acacia grove.

How’re our goats?

Oh, they’re just fine.

We ought to raise a few more.

That’s what I’ve been thinking.

Let them hurry up and have some kids.

That’s what I was planning to do.

After all the time we’ve been raising goats, we still only have those three.

That’s because they’re all males.

Males are worthless!

If they were all females, they’d be just as worthless.

I figure we should raise a few more goats, then we could swap them for a set of carpenter’s tools. Ah-cang casually picked a blade of mugwort from the side of the road.

Be careful, that can cut your finger. The old man quickly returned to the subject at hand. Are you ready for a set of carpenter’s tools?

Sure! the boy said. I can do more than make tables—I know how to make wardrobes, doors, beds, and chests too.

That’s wonderful! the old man said delightedly. I’ll go ahead and raise a few more goats so you can exchange them for carpenter’s tools.

When?

What’s your hurry? Grandpa’ll take care of it right away. I’ll swap two of our male goats for one female with a flatlander, and we can start.

You’d better hurry, because I’ll be a carpenter pretty soon!

That’s what I mean! the old man said, then added lovingly, But you’ll have to put up with whatever comes along for the time being. You know that, don’t you?

I know. I’ll have to be patient.

Once they passed the acacia grove, they could see the bus sign off in the distance at Pitou. They fell silent. When they finally reached flat land the old man asked, Do you get enough to eat?

. . .

Do they beat you?

. . .

What’s wrong? Why don’t you say something? The boy lowered his head and fought back the tears. Don’t cry. Why would anyone cry when he’s about to become a carpenter?

The boy shook his head as he wiped away the tears. I’m not crying. But he refused to raise his head.

Hey, do as Grandpa says and take this sack of sweet potatoes along for your master. Maybe they’ll treat you better if you do.

No.

Go ahead, take it. The old man slipped the sack of sweet potatoes off his shoulder and set it in front of the boy. Don’t forget to bring the sack back.

I said no! They’d laugh at me!

These are the best sweet potatoes anywhere around here!

The boy looked up at the old man with eyes red from crying and shook his head.

All right then! the old man said angrily. I’d rather feed them to pigs than give them to anyone who’d touch a single hair on my grandson’s head!

Grandpa, go on back now.

All right, after I’ve rested here a minute. You hurry on down to wait for the bus.

Before the boy had taken more than a few steps, he was called to a halt by the old man.

Are you sure you don’t want to take the sweet potatoes?

I’m sure.

Who knows, they might even buy a fish for you to bring back the next time you come home.

I told you I’d bring a fish back for you.

Come over here. The old man took a couple of steps toward the boy. Your grandpa once carried a heavy load of sweet potatoes to market because he wanted to buy a fish for you kids. Is the bus coming?

Not yet.

Tell me when it is. You know that fish costs more than most foods. That day I walked around and around the fish stalls until the fishmongers finally got tired of calling out to me. But I kept walking, trying to make up my mind. You know why?

You were going to steal one?

Nonsense! The old man straightened up. That’s something you must never do. I could never do anything like that. I’d rather starve! Then he bent over again and explained to the boy, I did it because fish was so expensive and the fishmongers are all crooks. If they aren’t tampering with the scales, they’re padding the weight. I didn’t know how to figure, and I knew if I just asked them how much the fish sold for, they’d reach in to get a fish and weigh it using wet rush stems. Keep your eye out for the bus. Tell me when it’s coming.

Not yet.

So I kept walking around the fish stalls looking the fish over and trying to find an honest face among the peddlers. Finally I stopped at a stall where bonitos were sold and pointed to one of them. I repeatedly told the fishmonger to give me an honest weighing and not take advantage of an old man. She told me not to worry, over and over, so I bought a three-catty bonito. But when I weighed it at home I found it was a catty and a half light! The old man knitted his brows. I should have been able to buy a three-catty bonito with the money I got for a full load of sweet potatoes. . . .

The bus is coming! I can hear it.

The old man, having stooped over too long, straightened up with considerable difficulty and looked with the boy off in the direction where the bus would be.

If you can only hear it, then we’ve still got time.

Who knows, maybe it’s a Forestry Department truck, the boy said excitedly.

That’s even better. You could hitch a ride. The old man paused. Let’s see now, where was I?

You were saying you should have been able to buy a three-catty bonito with the money you got for a full load of sweet potatoes.

"So you have been listening to me?"

The boy nodded.

They robbed me of a load of sweet potatoes. Those people are bandits, pure and simple. I was so upset I fretted over it for days. To tell you the truth, even today I won’t go near fish stalls in the marketplace! He heaved a deep sigh. Ai! It’s not easy for us mountain folk to eat saltwater fish. . . .

Here comes the bus.

The old man gazed off, bleary-eyed.

Over there. See that trail of dust?

You’re probably right. You go on now. Grandpa’ll stay here and rest a moment.

I’m going now.

Ah-cang, don’t forget . . .

. . . to bring a fish back with me, the boy finished the sentence. They both laughed.

Grandpa, I didn’t forget. I brought a fish back with me—a bonito! Ah-cang said repeatedly to himself, his happiness tinged with feelings of triumph. As he rode along he envisioned wide-eyed looks on the faces of his brother and sister when they saw the bonito, and he could almost see the tips of his grandfather’s trembling chopsticks as they reached out to pick up a morsel of fish. Grandpa, I’ll be a carpenter in two months!

Clank! That damned chain! Ah-cang jumped down off the bike, put the slipped chain back onto the sprocket, then turned a pedal until it was once again engaged. The chain had kept slipping off the sprocket the whole way, so he knew he shouldn’t ride too fast—but he invariably forgot. This time, after brushing some of the rust and oil off his hands, he discovered to his horror that the fish had fallen off! All that was left hanging on the handlebars was the now-empty taro leaf. He quickly headed back, and a mile or so down the road he found what he was looking for, though now it was nothing but a squashed imprint on the muddy road. The fish had been run over by a truck.

More than two hours later, as he headed back up the mountain, the crestfallen Ah-cang could cry no longer over this freak accident. Off in the distance he saw his grandfather sitting in the doorway weaving implements out of green bamboo. Lacking the courage to call out Grandpa, he just quietly walked up to the old man.

The old man jerked his head up. Hey! When did you get back?

Just now, the boy answered as he walked into the house.

The old man laid the things in his hand down, then stood to follow the boy inside. But between starting to get to his feet and finally straightening up, he had plenty of time to ask the boy several questions.

Ah-cang, did you see our goats by the roadside on your way home?

No answer.

They’re over there in the couch grass. Your brother and sister are watching them. I managed it for you—you’ll have your set of carpenter’s tools any day now.

That made Ah-cang feel even worse.

Ah-cang, did you hear what I said? the old man asked as he walked into the house.

Still no response.

What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a bride who hides in the corner the minute she steps into the house. He walked into the bedroom, then into the tool shed, and finally into the kitchen, where he found Ah-cang taking big gulps from the water ladle. Ah, here you are! Did you bring a fish home?

Ah-cang kept drinking.

The weather’s been bad the past few days, so there wouldn’t be any fish for sale in the marketplace, the old man said, knowing full well that the weather had been fine. You can’t use our weather here as a gauge—out at sea it’s always changing.

Ah-cang purposely got his face all wet so his grandfather wouldn’t know he’d been crying. He raised his wet face and said, They’re selling fish.

Well?

I bought one—a bonito.

Where is it? The old man searched the kitchen with his eyes.

I dropped it!

Dropped it?

Dropped it! Ah-cang didn’t dare look the old man in the eye, so he buried his face in the water ladle again, though he didn’t want any more water—he couldn’t drink another drop.

How . . . how could that have happened? The old man was bewildered. The pain he’d felt that time when he’d been cheated on the weight of the bonito returned.

But Ah-cang, not knowing how the old man felt, argued defensively, I really did! I’m not lying to you. I hung it on the handlebars of the bike, and it just fell off.

The bike?

That’s right. I know how to ride a bike now! He waited to see if this made his grandfather happy.

Where’s the bike now?

I left it in the care of a shop at the foot of the mountain.

It fell off the handlebars? The old man spoke every word slowly and clearly.

Ah-cang’s disappointment was now complete.

I really did buy a bonito, but a truck ran over it and squashed it.

Isn’t that the same as not bringing one home?

No! I did bring one! he shouted.

That’s right, you did, but you dropped it. Is that right?

Ah-cang was angry that his grandfather had taken such a matter-of-fact attitude.

I really did bring one with me, the boy said angrily.

I’m aware of that.

"I’m not lying to you! I am not lying to you! I swear!" Ah-cang began to cry.

I know you’re not lying to your grandpa. You’ve never lied to me. It’s only that the fish fell on the road, he said in a comforting tone.

No! You don’t believe me! You think I’m lying. . . . Now Ah-cang was sobbing.

You can bring one home next time. Won’t that take care of it?

But I already brought one back today!

You say you brought a fish with you today, and I believe you, so what are you crying about? You’re acting silly.

But it never got here.

It fell off and was squashed by a truck, right?

No! You don’t know! You don’t know! You think I’m lying to you. . . .

Grandpa believes every word you’re saying.

I don’t believe you.

What do you want me to say? Beginning to lose his patience, the old man spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

I don’t want you to believe me, I don’t want you to believe me, Ah-cang shouted as he threw the ladle to the floor, then began to sob again, sounding like a calf.

The old man, finding himself cornered, began to fume. He reached behind the door to pick up his carrying pole and began hitting out with it. Ah-cang was struck on the shoulder and quickly darted out of the room, the old man right on his heels.

Ah-cang ran through the tea orchard, followed closely by the old man. He then ran over to the bramble patch and quickly threaded his way in to a depth of five or six feet. From there he hopped down onto the road leading home. The old man stopped at the entrance to the bramble patch. Ah-cang turned and saw that the old man had stopped, so he did too. There was by then a considerable distance between them.

The old man stood there gasping, one hand waving the carrying pole, the other resting on a bramble bush.

Don’t you dare enter my door again! he shouted. If you do, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life!

Ah-cang responded in the loudest voice he could manage, I really did bring a fish back!

It was then approaching evening, and the mountain was very quiet. The old man and the boy were both startled to hear the crisp echo coming to them from the valley:

. . . really did bring a fish back!

The Drowning of an Old Cat

1. THE LAY OF THE LAND

The out-of-the-way county in this story was designated by the Taiwan Provincial Government as a developing area. Its center was Jiezai, a small market town of forty or fifty thousand people. When the town youth were in the presence of people from the outlying countryside, they habitually put on airs of self-importance to show that they were urbanites; the somewhat older people, with their greater understanding of humility, would go no further than to nod their heads with slightly superior smiles. People from the countryside cheerfully and loudly informed anyone within earshot that their daughters had married men who lived in town. And even though the ears of the listeners rang with this barrage of talk, they felt it only proper, for had they had an eligible daughter, she too would have left the farm and married a townsman (or so they thought). Even greater glory came to someone whose son brought a townswoman back to the farm as his wife, for no matter how their lives together turned out in the end, at least in the beginning there was a great deal of loud, enthusiastic talk.

The market town was only about seventy or eighty kilometers from the nearest big city, and transportation to and from the city—by train or by bus—was quite convenient. The roads were well traveled, since a round trip took no more than four hours; a person could ride to the city, take care of business, and return home all in the same day. As a result, big-city fads easily found their way to the market town. Miniskirts that stopped twenty centimeters above the knee were displayed on local girls, and go-go dancing was popular at parties held by the town’s youth. As for their elders, a fear of death led to fashionable trends such as early-risers clubs, which were said to have beneficial effects on one’s health.

Someone had recently discovered young children swimming in Clear Spring Village, and before long, men with bulging pot bellies and respectable positions in society got up at the crack of dawn and rode over to soak in the spring. Later, when they discovered they were able to take in their belts one hole after another, their numbers increased. Not even inclement weather could stop them. After a while, in addition to soaking in the water, they learned to propel themselves a bit through it, more or less in the fashion of swimming. Among them were physicians, senior bank officials, lawyers, school principals, assemblymen, businessmen, and many more. Nearly every member of the local Rotary Club participated, except for David and Tom, one of whom had an artificial leg, the other a case of congenital rickets.

Clear Spring Village had gotten its name from a spring the size of two parcels of land in the middle of the village and was under the jurisdiction of the local Water Control Board. Actually, if one were to have dug a hole three to four or maybe five to six feet deep anywhere in Clear Spring Village, a bubbling spring of sweet water would have risen to the surface in a steady flow.

The sixty or more households who lived there were as pure and simple as the spring water that flowed to the surface; there was little difference between them and the unbroken gush of water as they diligently tilled the more than forty parcels of land they owned, plus the side of Guzai Hill. There had never been a drought over the farmland there, yet for years it had been an impoverished area, which was the source of the people’s pure and simple nature. Though no more than two and a half kilometers separated them from the market town, the road crossed the hill and was fairly steep, and since there was no bus line between the two places, the townspeople sensed that Clear Spring Village was a great distance away.

2. THE SKY IS FALLING

In the year the Temple of the Patriarch was erected, a banyan tree was planted beside it; now that more than sixty years had passed, fully half of the four thousand square feet of temple ground lay in the shade of this tree. On the portion of the red-tiled temple roof that stood under the shade day in and day out, year after year, a carpet of deep green moss and grass flourished, while on the other half the aged red tiles were in full, sunlit view. For this reason the people referred to the Clear Spring Village Temple of the Patriarch as the Yin-Yang Temple, or the Temple of Dark and Light. This long process of change was mirrored in Uncle Ah-sheng and four or five other old-timers who lived in the village, as they had grown old watching the gradual changes take place. In earlier days they had hitched rides on the back of the oxcart that carried the bricks used to build the temple, getting an occasional taste of the carter’s whip. Now they were the oldest people in the village, and on every temple festival the duties and activities of the villagers were under the direction of these few men, led by Uncle Ah-sheng.

But temple festivals only came around a few times a year; during the remaining long days these old-timers congregated in one of the temple’s side rooms. In the winter they secured the door, each of them carrying a small brazier to warm himself; in the summertime they swung the door open and availed themselves of cool breezes that passed through the side room and carried up to the heavens the fragrant smoke of incense from black joss sticks symbolizing the people’s devotion. For the most part, these men talked of the past, and even though their talk was repetitious, they never tired of it. With great fondness they recalled those early days when they’d struggled