The last item I packed into my duffel bag was “The Travels of Marco Polo.” It took me a long time to decide whether to bring this book along, so I ended up being the last soldier to board the deck. Some people suggested I take it: we were heading to Beijing to defend the legation and fight the Boxers with real swords and guns. We could die at any moment, so we should bring our valuable belongings. This might be your last chance to read it. And if you’re unlucky but fortunate enough to survive an attack and end up in a hospital recovering, you’ll need something to read.
There were also reasons not to bring it: we weren’t going on a vacation; we wouldn’t have time to read. Did I think I was Commander Seymour? In a life-and-death situation, focusing on a book would be suicidal. If the fighting got intense, I wouldn’t even know where the book had ended up. In the end, I decided to take it. Life and death are beyond our control, and carrying an extra book wouldn’t make a difference.
The sea breeze failed to cool us down. Everyone rolled up their sleeves and pant legs, exposing as much skin as possible. They rubbed their fists, not in preparation for battle, but eager to finally set foot on land after being cooped up on the ship, which could drive anyone mad. With no one behind me and enough space to place my duffel bag, I sat down, leaning against it. I was a bit tired, having just returned from the shore in the afternoon after taking some leave.
I had given the last five Manila square-headed cigars my brother sent to the officer. This was the fourth time. Five cigars each time. My brother taught me this, saying to use good steel on the blade’s edge and not to spoil those bastards all at once. When I couldn’t hold back anymore, I’d take out five cigars. I don’t smoke, but I needed to run around, and my brother knew it. I had come to China for this very purpose, determined to take every opportunity to see an extra foot of the Grand Canal.
To be able to move around freely, aside from having a passport that allowed me to enter and leave mainland China, I went to great lengths to clear all the necessary checkpoints. God bless me, the top officer was a heavy smoker; otherwise, if he casually coughed, I would never have been able to leave the warship. But I understood that giving him good cigars was only part of the reason.
More importantly, we were from the same hometown. He lived on the outskirts of Verona. Even though we had traveled a long way and crossed the ocean to China, he had never visited Juliet’s house, which was only thirty miles from his home. He rarely had the chance to go to the city. With a countryman’s curiosity, he made me describe every corner of Juliet’s house. When I humbly asked him for leave, his vanity was greatly satisfied, and he happily granted it each time. Everyone envied me.
It’s true that for a sailor to frequently leave the ship and go ashore is rather inappropriate. But I couldn’t help it; I just wanted to get off the ship. I didn’t want to be like them, constantly watching our superiors’ moods, making every day as orderly as military posture just to please the officers and climb the ranks quickly. I told them that the Chinese have a saying, “Being desireless makes one strong,” and that described me.
At first, I said this with confidence, but later, I felt a tinge of shame. It wasn’t that I had no desires; I had my reasons for going ashore. Running around near the warship and the base had its purpose, and I wasn’t embarrassed. It felt so noble to see China’s beautiful scenery, like Marco Polo; it was incredibly lofty. But recently, these last four times, I went ashore to see a Chinese girl, Qin Ruoyu.
Chinese characters are truly wonderful. When I couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night, I would silently turn those three characters over and over in my mouth, biting my teeth to prevent accidentally speaking them aloud. A name that you think about day and night but can’t openly say is no lighter than carrying Mount Vesuvius on your back. I truly wanted to hold those three characters in my heart.
I spent the past few days near Qin Ruoyu. Most of the time, I watched her from afar, and rarely, for a brief moment, I could be close enough to feel her warmth and catch the fragrance her dress stirred as she passed by. She did only one thing every day: she colored the dolls, lotuses, and big carp on the paper. Her family made Yangliuqing New Year pictures. She painted the dolls, David Brown painted her, and under the pretense of watching David paint, I watched her. I watched both the painted Ruoyu in David’s art and the real Ruoyu painting.
I used to believe David could become Britain’s greatest painter. Now I have my reservations. His painted Ruoyu doesn’t compare to the real Ruoyu standing before the rice paper, painting chubby dolls with her braids tied up. It’s true. But I wouldn’t bluntly tell David that. I still give a thumbs up to his painted Ruoyu, saying it looks just like her and is beautiful. I don’t want him to get petty and refuse to bring me along next time or choose a different place to sketch. Of course, I could come alone, but what would I say? I can’t just say I came to see her. I can’t even say that in Chinese. Ruoyu’s father wouldn’t allow a foreigner who’s only interested in his daughter to visit their home. He still harbors some hidden hostility towards foreigners.
David is my excuse and my translator. He knows some Chinese, at least enough for basic daily communication. That’s why I always thought this Brit was a genius. If he wanted to do something, there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish. Everyone knows Chinese is the hardest language to learn, yet he could freely interact with Chinese people after only six months in Tanggu. When he first arrived in China, he was temporarily assigned as an aide to a high-ranking officer in the British fleet and lived in the foreigner-concentrated city of Tanggu. He shouldn’t have had many opportunities to interact with Chinese people, but for a linguistic genius, that time was sufficient.
The first time I saw Ruoyu was in one of David’s paintings. He asked me if she was beautiful. I said she was, pointing out her eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, hands, and neck. Ruoyu’s pose while washing clothes in the Bai River was captivating—half-squatting and sideways, her movements formed a perfect Chinese Tai Chi circle in the water. David clarified that he was asking if the painting was beautiful. I replied, of course, it was. His paintings were always beautiful. He asked if I was just flattering him. I said I was just genuinely admiring, with no ulterior motives. David mentioned that my words sounded familiar. I realized I had praised him the same way four years ago in Venice, not a word different.
We became friends in Venice. My father was in the gondola business, with several boats ferrying tourists along the canals and lagoon. David was studying at the University of Venice and was close to graduation, spending his free time painting by the Rialto Bridge. He aimed to capture the changing scenes of the Rialto Bridge through the seasons.
One day, out of sheer boredom, I volunteered to row a gondola. In the mid-afternoon, a heavy downpour scattered the tourists, who dashed for their inns, turning Venice into a ghost town. I donned my raincoat and leisurely rowed through the canal, enjoying the rare solitude in the rain. Under the Rialto Bridge, exhausted, I stopped to rest in the archway. Above me, a young man was painting under an umbrella. Venice had many painters, as common as beggars in China, but painting in a heavy rainstorm was rare. I watched him paint.
After half an hour, the rain stopped, and I disembarked as he finished his painting. He had included me and my gondola in his artwork. That’s how I met David Brown, a student from England. During the time my father and I spent in Venice, we had many opportunities to meet. He showed me his previous works. We were the same age. One painting depicted an Italian girl glancing back. I commented on its beauty and the skill with which it was painted. He asked my purpose in praising it so highly, and I said it was just genuine admiration, with no ulterior motive. Through him, I met one of his female classmates. I had never had a girlfriend before. Unfortunately, the girl from Naples already had a boyfriend.
After leaving Venice, David and I lost contact. Unexpectedly, we reunited in China. One day, we disembarked from our respective ships and took a launch across ten miles of choppy sea to the mouth of the Bai River. From there, we switched to a smaller boat to cross the sandbars. Once past the sandbars, we could see the Chinese town of Dagu on the southern bank of the Bai River, with the city of Tanggu opposite. After disembarking in Tanggu, a two-hour train ride was required to reach Tianjin, covering about thirty miles. This was the tedious journey we had to undertake to get to Tianjin.
On that small boat, crammed with sailors from four or five different countries, David ended up sitting next to me. We hadn’t seen each other in four years, and we both had changed, but the tuft of golden hair behind his left ear remained the same. Those ten or so gleaming English curls were unique to him. I called out, “David, David Brown,” and he immediately recognized me. He insisted my voice sounded like it had a piece of sandpaper lodged in my throat, a mix of allure and torment that even a master of sound imitation couldn’t replicate.
He had arrived in China a year before me and was practically my teacher in this ancient and vast country. All my knowledge about China came from Marco Polo and the rivers, lakes, and seas that crisscross the country like blood vessels; especially the Grand Canal. My Italian compatriot, Marco Polo, traveled south along the canal from the capital, witnessing a wondrous country unimaginable to a European sitting at home.
David and I shared a heartfelt embrace on that boat. He had joined the service, while I had volunteered out of curiosity about China. Regardless of our reasons, we both knew that once you cross the ocean armed, you’re an invader. The longer we stayed in China, the clearer this became. We talked the entire trip, or rather, we talked all day until we returned the same way to our ships. We spent the entire day together, visiting the same shops, drinking the same alcohol, and eating the same food. He was still painting, and I still loved rivers and wandering.
Due to the strict rules on the ship and the frequent patrols, our opportunities to meet were limited. We agreed that whenever we went ashore and knew the next time we would be on land, we would leave a note in a tree hollow on the sandbar. Starting from the willow tree by the dock, it was the third tree on the right, halfway up the trunk, where there was a hidden, narrow hollow. If one of us left a note there, it would stay until the other retrieved it. This primitive method of communication proved surprisingly effective. Each of the four times I visited Ruoyu, it was with David. He went to sketch, taking any boat from the sandbar or renting one to row himself, stopping wherever he felt inspired along the Bai River. This had been his routine during his two years in China.
Once, while we were shopping in Tanggu, I told him that his real purpose wasn’t sketching but finding a refined excuse to wander and relax. He tilted his head and thought for a moment, then agreed. He often returned without a single line on his paper, despite being out all day. Staying cooped up on the ship was indeed stifling. However, his trip to Fengqi Dian was different; he had painted a dozen sketches there.
Fengqi Dian was a place that was part village, part town—larger than a village but smaller than a town. Homes lined the Bai River on both sides and though the dock was not very large, it sufficed for passing boats to stop. David had seen Ruoyu washing clothes by the riverbank, and the interplay of movement and stillness, the relationship between the whole and the parts, inspired him. He set up his easel across the river and started painting. If not for my curiosity about Fengqi Dian and my secret hope to see that ethereal girl again, David might not have gone back after finishing his painting. But because I wanted to go, he went again, and because I wanted to keep going, he continued to accompany me.
When we arrived at Fengqi Dian, we went straight to the place where the girl washed clothes, without detours. Naturally, her home had to be nearby; who would go far to wash clothes in front of someone else’s house? There were four or five houses lined up by the riverbank. Because they faced the river, none of them left their gates wide open, all were tightly shut. David gave me a mischievous grin. Emboldened, I said we should knock on each door, joking that we might find dynamite inside.
I hadn’t even thought about what we’d do once the doors opened. Later, we learned that the locked doors were not just to avoid prying eyes from passing boats, but also to prevent trouble. The Boxer Rebellion was in full swing in Fengqi Dian and those who could still get by hoped for peace and stability. Opening their doors would only invite disaster.
We decided to knock on the door closest to the laundry spot because it had two particularly attractive door gods pasted on it: Qin Shubao and Yuchi Gong. David remarked that these were in the style of Yangliuqing New Year paintings and took the opportunity to explain what Yangliuqing New Year paintings were. He had once accompanied a high-ranking officer he served to the ancient town of Yangliuqing, where they watched local artisans create these festive paintings.
I knocked three times. Without hearing a single footstep, the door opened. Since I was close to the door with my right foot on the threshold, the face of the person opening the door was almost touching mine. We both jumped in surprise. A woman’s voice cried out. I didn’t need to see her face clearly; just from her voice, I knew she was the laundry girl. Later, Ruyu told me that we scared her badly. Seeing two faces at the door, and foreigners at that, she thought she had seen ghosts.
This was a bit exaggerated. No matter what, David and I look better than those ferocious door gods. Ruyu insisted that Qin Shubao and Yuchi Gong were more handsome; she wasn’t used to foreigners with high noses and deep-set eyes. I don’t look as foreign as David. At least my hair is straight and black; thanks to my ancestors for this unique heritage. David, on the other hand, has a head of blond hair, big curls entwined with small curls, looking exactly like a curly-haired poodle.
She asked who we were. I couldn’t understand her. David said we were tourists who noticed the lifelike door gods on the gate and, finding them rare works of art, dared to disturb them. David translated his awkward but understandable Chinese into English for me. I thought this guy was truly talented; after less than two years in the army, he had picked up some bad habits, saying such sappy things without batting an eye. But I was very grateful to him. In such an emergency, if I had to answer, I would have probably said something like, “I wanted to see you, so I knocked to see if this was your home.” Given Ruyu’s shyness and temper at the time, she would have slapped me twice, called me a rogue, and kicked me into the river in front of the house.
Unexpectedly, complimenting the door gods worked well. Ruyu’s father was in the spacious hall with Ruyu and another apprentice, coloring New Year pictures. Qin Shubao and Yuchi Gong were old Qin’s works. Old Qin didn’t like foreigners, but praise is praise, and he enjoyed it. Since then, David and I have visited many times without being turned away, partly thanks to David’s flattering introduction. Brother David, wherever you are, I will always be grateful to you. They invited us inside. The father, daughter, and apprentice were coloring the same New Year picture called “The Three Stars.”
There were three identical pictures, each depicting three oddly shaped old men: one with a flower in his hat representing “Fu” (Good Fortune), one with an official’s hat representing “Lu” (Prosperity), and one bald with a large lump on his forehead representing “Shou” (Longevity). Each old man was accompanied by a chubby child: one holding a big peach, one carrying a jade scepter, and one holding an official seal. The old men and children looked so plump and kind that you couldn’t help but want to pinch them. In addition to these three, many other New Year pictures printed from woodblocks were pasted around the doorway. Old Qin was coloring the old men and children himself while explaining to Ruyu and the apprentice.
Coloring New Year pictures was no small matter. On our third visit, I decided to try my hand at it. I colored the simplest ones, like “Lotus Giving Birth to Sons” and “Lotus Year Abundance,” each about the size of a book. If a stroke went wrong, nobody made a fuss. Chinese people buy New Year pictures for the festive spirit; as long as there’s plenty of red and green, the colors are fine. David was skilled; coloring wasn’t much of a challenge for him. He tried his hand at a picture of “The Three Stars,” and both Ruyu and Old Qin’s apprentice praised his work.
But David’s main task wasn’t coloring; it was painting. He painted Old Qin, his apprentice, and Ruyu. This scratched Old Qin’s itch a bit; as fellow artist, David painted exceptionally well, even capturing the difference in Old Qin’s left and right arms. After years of carving New Year pictures, sanding pear wood blocks, and carving with a knife, Old Qin’s right arm had naturally become thicker. Old Qin used David’s painting to teach his daughter and apprentice: this was the eye’s judgment; the details determined the success or failure of a painting, and the details also determined the success or failure of an artist. It was entirely thanks to David that I had the chance to visit Ruyu again and again.
Old Qin must have let us in out of respect for David. He probably saw David as a disciple who had come from afar to pay his respects, expecting the foreign disciple to take him to the master’s seat, then step back three paces, bow, and offer tea, performing the ceremony of paying respects to the master. At that time, tensions were high in North China; the Boxer Rebellion was raging, with cries of “Support the Qing, Eliminate the Foreigners.” Old Qin was certainly aware of this, so he closed the door to avoid trouble. He probably didn’t have a favorable opinion of foreigners either, but at this moment, having one more disciple, especially a foreign one who had come from afar to admire him, he thought it might improve the reputation of the Qin family’s New Year pictures.
During turbulent times, only two families were making New Year pictures in Fong-chien: the Qin family and the Yuan family. Old Qin and Old Yuan competed. In the bustling town of Yangliuqing, every street and alley was filled with New Year picture makers. If you wanted to compete, it meant you were picking a fight with all of them. That would make you enemies with everyone and invite unnecessary trouble. Instead, if you just focused on competing with each other, the world would remain peaceful.
In Fong-Chien, only two families were making New Year pictures, both of whom had moved from Yangliuqing in the previous generation. With each glance, you only saw each other. It was hard to remain calm; if you didn’t come chasing after each other, the neighbors would start comparing you, and once they concluded, it was hard to stay indifferent. The difficulty was too great.
In recent years, with droughts, bandits, and unrest, life has become difficult. However, the festive atmosphere during the New Year only seemed to grow stronger, and the market for New Year pictures kept soaring. Old Qin and Old Yuan had been at odds for a long time before their rivalry finally escalated. They had been under the scrutiny of the villagers of Fong-Chien for years. Old Qin’s craftsmanship surpassed Old Yuan’s, but it wasn’t so obvious to outsiders, which made the villagers of Fong-Chien even more eager to pit them against each other. Therefore, the war caused by competition had been ongoing, but there was no way to have a confrontation in public. Then came the year of Gengzi (1900), and the tensions suddenly surfaced.
Old Qin spent a year carving a block and printed a New Year picture titled “Dragon King Bringing Rain.” This picture suddenly set Old Yuan apart. I examined it closely at the Qin’s residence. After Old Qin carefully colored and mounted it, the picture was hung in the center of the main hall, measuring exactly six feet. The drought of the past few years has persisted until now. For the people of Northern China, the most precious thing was not money but rain.
They longed for rain more than they dreamed of getting rich. “Dragon King Bringing Rain” vividly expresses this pent-up desire accumulated over five or six hundred days. The head of the dragon was extremely clear, with the rest of its body and tail sprawling across half of the paper. The other half depicted abundant rain and the flourishing life nourished by it. This subject matter went beyond traditional New Year pictures, touching on real-life issues.
Compared to other New Year pictures, it seemed more solemn, but Old Qin skillfully incorporated round, cheerful children climbing onto the dragon’s claws, reminiscent of the iconic Yangliuqing New Year pictures. It was a joyous scene. The sales of “Dragon King Bringing Rain” set a record in the history of the Qin family’s New Year picture sales and left the Yuan family trailing by two miles. Old Yuan was not pleased and friction began. When David and I visited, it was a showdown between the next generation of both families.
In China, many family traditions are passed down through workshops, typically from father to son, and from the eldest to the youngest son, emphasizing the importance of the eldest son in inheritance. Throughout the Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, this tradition was also followed by emperors, where the eldest son would inherit the throne. Only if the eldest son was incapable would they consider the younger ones or even someone else’s son who had closer blood ties.
The Yuan family flourished with three sons, regardless of their capabilities, all engaged in the family trade. Additionally, Old Yuan took on two apprentices, withholding their unique skills from outsiders and mainly engaging them in menial tasks under the guise of apprenticeship. The Qin family, on the other hand, faced a more difficult situation.
Old Qin only had one daughter, Ruyu, who was skilled and talented, but Old Qin still harbored doubts. He believed that men were more reliable for carving woodblocks, considering strength as a crucial factor. Old Qin hesitated to pass on his craft, waiting to see if his daughter was capable. If she couldn’t bear the responsibility, he would have to consider a son-in-law. Fortunately, Old Qin was younger than Old Yuan, and Ruyu didn’t feel pressured to marry yet. He reluctantly took on an apprentice and also enlisted help to search for a suitable son-in-law from Yangliuqing.
When we arrived at Fong-Chien, we found both families competing to see whose team was larger. In terms of sheer numbers, Old Yuan’s team won, of course. But if Old Qin were to take on a foreign apprentice, it would significantly change the dynamics, attracting at least three or five locals. Coincidentally, this foreign apprentice was also skilled, sparing him from starting from scratch. Old Qin allowed the two of us to enter with this intention.
Ruyu later revealed this to me. However, at that time, he never imagined that I had come for Ruyu. Firstly, because I was a foreigner, he never even entertained the idea of marrying Ruyu off to a foreigner; it was akin to desecrating his ancestors’ graves. Secondly, even if he had considered foreigners eyeing Ruyu, he would only have thought of David. If it came down to it, he might reluctantly agree to his daughter marrying David. As for me, Federico Di Marco, an Italian, he wouldn’t even have considered me in his worst nightmares; he surely saw me as David’s lackey.
Over the next thirty-four years of my life, whenever I thought of David Brown, I would ask Ruyu the same question: How did you know it was me pursuing you and not David? Ruyu would patiently repeat the same answer: It’s all in the eyes. In this world, only your gaze never wavers. Is there anything else? I would continue to ask. Well, there’s also the fact that every time you both came, David would find an opportunity to ask me to teach you Chinese. Ah I see.
Without those sessions of intensive Chinese language learning, along with my humble inquiries to David and diligent self-study during the long days when I couldn’t see Ruyu, two months later, when I returned to Fong-Chien, I would have been utterly mute. At that time, dressed in rags, armed with only a few broken Chinese phrases, after a journey by water and land, I knocked on the shattered door of the courtyard and said to Ruyu, “I’m here.”
I waited for over an hour, awakened by a string of curses. I had fallen asleep leaning against my luggage. The person ahead said, “Go back to your cabin and sleep comfortably; we’re not leaving tonight.” There weren’t enough boats for everyone to disembark, and we were at the back of the line. The sky had turned dark, with multinational warships and vessels anchored nearby. Shadows moved beneath the lights, and I could see small boats heading towards the mouth of the river. The deep sea was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, a complete, absolute blackness. Even the unseen wind was black. The officers ordered us to return to our cabins, rest, and await further instructions. We could depart at any moment.
Everyone was a bit excited when it came time to disembark; nobody could sleep, and conversations buzzed with heads close together. I climbed into bed and fell asleep instantly. Rowing the boat upstream along the Baihe River was quite a physical task. As dawn approached, someone kicked me awake. Outside, voices were shouting, urging us to bring our supplies and disembark immediately. I slung my bag over my back and groggily climbed onto the small boat, continuing to doze off in the dim light of dawn. Two and a half hours later, we arrived at the mouth of the Baihe River.
The row of Krupp cannons on the Dagu Fort glinted majestically in the sunlight. As our lengthy convoy passed by, Chinese soldiers curiously gathered on the shore to watch. One fellow ahead of me remarked, “Look all you want, but one day it might be blades and guns facing each other, and then you’ll wish you’d seen less.” I didn’t think it was much of a problem; finding a good spot to sit down, what couldn’t we discuss?
At the Tanggu train station, the officer ordered us to unload the supplies, ammunition, and water bottles into the carriages assigned to us. We were on the fourth train, which was to transport our Italian troops, along with Russian and French troops. The first three trains were arranged as follows: the first carried half of the British troops, all of the Austrian troops, and American troops, while the remaining carriages were filled with railway equipment, sleepers, and a large group of Chinese laborers, intended for road repairs in case of problems with the rails.
The second train carried the rest of the British troops, all of the Japanese troops, and some French troops, while the third train exclusively transported German troops. The sun was scorching as it rose, and we sweat profusely as we moved various supplies into the carriages, our clothes drenched with perspiration. I had never seen such rudimentary train carriages; they didn’t even have roofs.
If you removed the carriages and hitched a couple of horses or cows to the front, I would believe it was a horse-drawn or ox-drawn cart. Loading the trains was a frenzied affair, with officers from each country pushing us to hurry. Once everything was loaded, there was suddenly a delay of two hours. Soldiers from various countries, mostly sailors, sang their national anthems and marches in their formations. After one song finished, they started another, and after three songs, some began searching for toilets, causing chaos in the queue.
We scrambled onto the train amidst the clattering noise and around four-thirty, we arrived in Tianjin. The Tianjin station had organized a grand welcoming ceremony, and all the foreigners who could attend were present. They were well aware that if there were mistakes made by the Beijing legation, their days wouldn’t be any easier. The Germans were generous, cheering wildly for their soldiers and thrusting hundreds of bottles of beer into their arms.
We swallowed our saliva in our formations, enduring the scorching sun and swirling dust, feeling like our throats were cracking like dry earth. There were too few Italians in Tianjin, and I only managed to drink half a bottle of water. Judging by the spectacle of the farewell ceremony, it seemed we wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. I leaned against my luggage and slouched, seeking comfort for a while.
Suddenly, a pair of feet approached, and as I looked up, I saw David giving me a wink. I picked up my bag and followed him.
David had somehow acquired six bottles of German beer and led me to hide beside the first train to drink. The train provided a comfortable shade for us. I told David, “When we get back, let’s go to Fong-chien again.” But he advised against thinking about such pleasant things, urging me to pray to God to return alive first. He was quite pessimistic about this journey. With over two thousand men mobilized, according to embassy reports, it still wasn’t enough to give them a sense of security.
They hoped the numbers would double or triple. “What’s there to fear?” I asked. “Haven’t you been to Beijing?” The crowds there, you can’t even walk a few steps on the street without pushing and shoving; with two thousand people entering Beijing, it’s like a drop of rain falling into the Baihe River. And then there’s the Boxers. He had his doubts about them too. Rumor had it that those people were invincible, bullets couldn’t harm them; they could even catch bullets mid-air.
It was all too much for me to comprehend. “What are these people made of?” I wondered aloud. David’s terrifying deductions didn’t affect me. There was only one important thing in the world for me: to return to Fong-chien, push open the gate guarded by the door gods, and see Ruyu. We drank all six bottles of beer. The alcohol went to our heads, and a little man was spinning around in my mind. David didn’t hold his liquor as well as I did. We lay side by side, our heads resting on my luggage, chatting aimlessly by the railway tracks until eventually, one of us slipped into the realm of dreams.
The chaotic noise of boarding the train went unnoticed by both of us. It took the shrill blast of a whistle right next to our ears to jolt us awake. An English officer stood there with a whistle between his lips, wearing a mischievous grin as he looked at us. Beside him stood a higher-ranking officer, hands clasped behind his back, his lips curled downward, eyes piercingly cold. Shiny black military boots added to his imposing stature.
David scrambled to his feet, snapped into a salute, and said, “Good morning, sir!” Morning? I was still a bit groggy. Such a high-ranking officer? I had only heard that the overall commander of the Allied forces was a British Major General, Seymour. I asked David, “Seymour?” David smirked at me. My drunkenness evaporated instantly, and I leaped up from the ground, saluting Seymour too. “Reporting, sir!” I said. “Reporting what?” Seymour’s shoulders relaxed, and his knees quivered slightly. “There’s nothing to report,” I said. “Reporting, sir, I’m returning to my unit.” “Which unit?” “The Italian.”
David dragged me towards their first train. The officer with the whistle remarked, “The Italians are at the back.” David replied, “Well, we’re all going to war. It doesn’t matter which train we’re on.” Seymour chuckled softly, “True. In this business, whether you live or die is a toss-up. Get on the train.” The officer with the whistle said, “Sir, isn’t this inappropriate?” “What’s there to differentiate in war? We’re all soldiers here,” replied Seymour.
“When you meet the Italians, let them know.” “Have you been to Britain?” I asked. “Yes.” “Then you’re one of us. Remember, the sun never sets on the British Empire. That includes here,” Seymour gestured with his scabbard.
I followed David onto the first train. In the many years that followed, Ru Yu often asked me, “If it weren’t for those few bottles of beer if we hadn’t encountered General Seymour if I hadn’t mixed with David but had returned to the fourth train car where I should have been, would my experiences have been different? Would my life have turned out differently?” “No,” I told her, “unless I died in battle, as long as I drew breath, I would still seek her out; no matter how stifled, I don’t regret my current life. Having endured a long war, slaughter, and plunder, I know how fragile and contingent life is, so I also understand how precious love is, and how difficult it is to remain together.
At first, I treated war too lightly, setting off for the battlefield amidst laughter and banter. I mingled among British, American, and Austrian soldiers, with a Chinese train driver who knew what we foreigners, armed to the teeth, were up to. He played dumb, feigning issues here and there. His assistant even discreetly discarded coal and let water drain out; without coal and water, the train would have to stop. We stationed people to monitor the Chinese driver from the coal and water car. Along the way, we encountered the Boxers. They poured oil on the sleepers and set them on fire; some sleepers were already charred, with smoke billowing from many places. We signaled with our guns and promptly drove them away. Orders from above: don’t fire unless necessary; our mission was to reach Beijing as quickly as possible.
Halfway through, we came across a Chinese military camp. Qing soldiers slept at their posts, only waking when the train passed by. Nie Shicheng, the plump, mustachioed governor of Zhili Province, rode a tall horse, leading a group of men, inspecting the camp of over four thousand soldiers. About a month later, I saw Governor Nie again at Baliqiao. That day, we turned back to attack Tianjin, and the Allied Forces clashed with the Qing troops at Baliqiao. It was a fierce battle, just the thought of it still makes my heart tremble.
Before Baliqiao, there was a small bridge where Nie Shicheng, mounted on his horse, stood overseeing the battle personally, and none of Nie’s soldiers dared to retreat. The battle dragged on for days, and we were all nearly exhausted, but thankfully, fresh reinforcements kept pouring in. Nie Shicheng wasn’t as fortunate; his forces dwindled with each passing hour. Yet, he held his ground, though he changed horses four times, and bullets struck both his legs, rendering him unable to stand. A fragment tore through Governor Nie’s abdomen, spilling his intestines, which he pushed back in and continued to inspire and command his soldiers in battle. Later, one of our shells exploded beside him; a piece of shrapnel entered Nie’s mouth and exited from the back of his head, while another pierced through his chest, and one went straight into his temple. He fell from his horse, aged sixty-five.
He was our enemy, but it must be acknowledged that he was the greatest warrior I had ever seen. As the flames of battle subsided that day, we, a group who admired him, respectfully removed our hats in mourning for him.
On the evening of June 10th, around seven o’clock, our train stopped not far from Luofa Station because the railway bridge ahead had been blown up by the Boxers. The one hundred Chinese coolies and the materials we had brought along for repairing the railway came in handy. While the coolies worked, we dined and camped by the railway side. We ate bread, and there was a bit of salted meat. Without tents, David and I spread the waterproof sheet on the ground, wrapped ourselves in blankets, and lay down together.
The days were scorching, but the nights were icy cold. Moonlight bathed the vast expanse, with three long trains surrounded by soldiers from various countries camping in between. Some tossed and turned, some talked in their sleep, some burped and farted, some stumbled half-asleep to relieve themselves just a few steps away, and some, like me, lay awake, gazing at the surroundings and the night sky. I saw many Chinese stars beside the Chinese moon. The fourth train carrying Italian soldiers had yet to arrive.
At four in the morning, the wake-up call sounded, and the air carried a scent of dew-covered hay, with the sky appearing less imposing than the night before. The aroma of coffee drifted over from where the officers were dining, and David and I each swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
At seven o’clock, we hit the road, with frequent stops due to the need for railway repairs. The Chinese coolies were skilled workers and, under the guidance of civilian engineers, worked efficiently. Of course, this was also because the Boxers typically only destroyed one rail, and materials from the other could be used to repair the damaged one.
Before reaching Luofa, the most horrifying sight was a pile of bodies, scattered and mutilated near a burnt-out waiting shelter. Soldiers who investigated reported back that they were four Chinese railway officials, likely dismembered by the Boxers for trying to prevent railway destruction, with one person’s heart even gouged out. One of the inspecting soldiers vomited on the spot, earning some laughter from the rest of us. As I joined in mocking him, my heart suddenly clenched as if someone had grabbed it. David remarked that my face turned as white as paper.
Finally, we arrived at Luofa. A small British contingent from the cruiser “Endymion” remained at Luofa, using the station as a defensive position to prevent Boxer attacks, which we called “Fort Endymion.” David and I continued with the rest of the troops toward Beijing. The heat was intense enough to roast a person alive, and the air seemed to shimmer with heat haze. We had to resort to using bamboo sticks to prop up our blankets over our heads to create some patchy shade.
The train carriage was already crowded, filled with supplies, ammunition, and luggage, making the air thick and stifling like porridge. At six in the afternoon, just as we were dozing off, the shrill whistle of the steam engine sounded. We repeated the alarm and quickly assembled. A large group of Boxers had appeared. We jumped off the train, and several Boxer members suddenly emerged from a small grove. David quickly slapped my hand holding the gun.
“They’re within our range,” he said sharply.
Almost instinctively, I raised my gun. I didn’t know if I hit any of the Boxers, but within ten seconds, all of them were lying on the ground, like several trees felled by the same gust of wind. We pushed forward across the open ground towards a row of houses, where it sounded like a significant gathering of Boxers had congregated.
It was our first taste of real combat, David and I, both with parched throats. We were assigned to a small team, with the left flank circling to the back of the houses to join forces with the second team from the right flank, launching a sudden attack on the defending enemy. David was ahead of me, and nearby, sporadic gunfire erupted, causing us both to crouch. As we rounded the corner of the house, we found ourselves on flat ground, where a group of Boxers waved their darts, spears, and swords, performing various bizarre movements.
Most of us were dumbfounded at the sight. If they had charged at us directly with weapons or opened fire from cover, our reaction would have been much swifter. While we had witnessed Boxer members performing erratic movements akin to epileptic fits before, seeing it on the battlefield was a different experience altogether. These individuals wore red headbands, scarves, belts, and leg bindings. Suddenly, one Boxer leaped into the air as if struck, only to fall straight to the ground.
Just as we wondered who had fired the shot and who possessed the ability to penetrate his “golden bell cover iron cloth” technique, he sprang back up from the ground, seemingly resurrected. Startled by this dance-like performance, at least ten members from our team and the circling second team opened fire simultaneously. Bang, Bang, Bang! The Boxers fell in droves. They charged at us with darts and swords, and we responded with another volley of gunfire, and they fell again.
The subsequent support from the third and fourth teams arrived, and before we could comprehend their frenzied shouting, all the Boxers on the flat ground lay defeated. Their blood stained their once-white clothes red, turning their headbands, scarves, belts, and leg bindings black. Our team leader retrieved a talisman from a Boxer’s pocket, a red plaque embroidered with four yellow characters: “Support the Qing, Exterminate the Foreigners.” It was said that this talisman made them invincible against blades and bullets. The leader stuffed the blood-soaked talisman back into his pocket and kicked one of the bodies, cursing, “Damn it, stop with the theatrics!” We planned to press forward with the search when the signal to regroup sounded behind us. The Boxers were assembling for the next assault on the neighboring village.
Back on the train, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and I felt a level of exhaustion and thirst I’d never experienced before. Every nerve and muscle in my body was tense. I found a spot to lie down. Everyone found a spot to lie down. With limited space, my legs rested on your hips, and your head lay on my stomach. The passengers in the carriage were piled up in a tangled mess, not a sound escaped anyone’s lips.
A nineteen-year-old British sailor rested his head against my ribs, slowly inching upward until his head nestled into my armpit. I raised my head to look at him, and he looked back at me, his eyes still filled with lingering fear. He said, “I killed someone.” He raised his right hand slightly as if it still bore traces of blood. I opened my left arm to give his head a more comfortable place to rest and said, “I did too. At least one, I’m sure of it.” I could even smell the gunpowder and blood in the air.
Officers paced along the railway, loudly delivering speeches to us, summarizing the skirmish we had just endured. They believed that sailors, accustomed to naval combat, lacked experience and training in land battles. For the upcoming fights, they urged everyone to drop their backpacks whenever possible and go into battle lightly, as there might be a lot of running involved. I said to David, lying diagonally at my feet, that I had to take my baggage with me, partly because I might need to rejoin the unit at any moment and partly because I couldn’t afford to lose “The Travels of Marco Polo.” I came to China to be Marco Polo, not a killer.
When Marco Polo was seventeen, he left home with his father and uncle and headed east to China. He spent seventeen years in China, befriended Kublai Khan, and held high positions in the Yuan Dynasty. His legendary experiences in China sparked Europe’s imagination about China and the world, leading explorers to chart new routes and eventually creating the first world maps. I didn’t envy such grand achievements, nor could I achieve them.
I just wanted to be my own Marco Polo, a Marco Polo on the canals, traveling by water, living by the riverside; to be friendly with the Chinese like he was. And if possible, maybe a little more, like marrying a Chinese girl. David said that when we returned from Beijing if we were still alive, he would borrow my copy of “The Travels of Marco Polo” and read it thoroughly.
Close to eight o’clock, as night fell, the train began to move again. After a short while, it came to a stop, and we were notified to camp where we were. It was still wilderness. The northern wilderness all looked the same—desolate, with wild grass, trees, and the incessant, hysterical chirping of unseen cicadas. Even the moonlight seemed to stir up the dry earth, sending dust flying with every beam. Everyone was exhausted, yet strangely devoid of appetite. It wasn’t that dinner couldn’t go into our mouths; it was as if our eyes couldn’t take it in. Only as we neared the end of the meal did appetites slowly return, as if awakening from a stupor.
No one took walks. Those on guard duty dispersed to various corners to prevent any nighttime attacks from the Boxers. Those without tasks lay down, while the insomniacs sat and smoked. There were noticeably more smokers that night. Though I didn’t smoke, I asked David for one and took a puff. It made me cough instantly, but exhaling the bluish smoke in wisps felt oddly satisfying. It felt like being alive. And you could entirely prove it to yourself.
I slept beside David, with the nineteen-year-old British sailor laying the waterproof sheet next to me, smiling. Many years later, I could still recall his shy and trusting smile, illuminated by the moonlight, revealing his perfectly white teeth. Trust was quite simple to earn; it just required lifting an arm. That night, I slept soundly, with only occasional false alarms triggered by sentries firing their guns, but there were no real disturbances or attacks. It was said that the Chinese feared ghosts, so the Boxers dared not lurk about at night. Other than the chirping and biting of mosquitoes, the only other thing that disturbed our sleep was the nightmares each of us individually endured.
As dawn broke, the train slowly made its way towards Langfang. With frequent stops, there were scarcely any intact railway tracks or stations along the way. The unseen enemy had sabotaged them in advance. Repairing them became increasingly difficult. Beyond the railway, new problems arose. The water towers were destroyed, leaving the locomotives without water. The train became a machine on the verge of dying of thirst. The officers ordered us to search nearby villages for wells.
We entered the village with our rifles, but the streets were deserted, and the few houses we checked were empty; the villagers had all fled. They must have heard the rumors or perhaps were instigated by the Boxers to evacuate. The only living creatures left in the village were the poultry—chickens, ducks, geese, pigeons—and pigs that couldn’t be taken away. There wasn’t a single horse, cow, or sheep to be seen. The village was quite large, and after circling it for a while, we still hadn’t found a well.
Some of us eyed the poultry hungrily, imagining the succulent taste of roasted meat. However, the officer warned us to focus solely on finding water and not to deviate from our mission. Those with cravings could only endure. Someone found a few eggs hidden in a bamboo basket and secretly cracked one open, slurping up the raw contents to avoid detection by the officer. Soon, the basket was empty. As we continued our search, everyone became more vigilant, checking rice jars, cabinets, and even under pots for hidden food like eggs.
Then, in one kitchen, we discovered an elderly woman paralyzed and sitting blankly on a cushion. Since she couldn’t move, we decided to leave her there. We gestured for water, and she pointed to a water barrel beside the stove. We shook our heads and gestured again, miming fetching water, but she pointed in all directions, completely confusing us. I asked her to speak slowly, relying on my limited knowledge of Chinese to decipher her vague directions.
The captain instructed us to carry the old woman to the well. After drawing up a bucket of water, we let her drink first to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. She scooped up a ladle and drank calmly. Returning to the train, news of the well spread instantly to the other carriages, and a crowd rushed into the village. When they emerged from the village, they carried not only water but also chickens, ducks, geese, pigeons, and even a small black pig, courtesy of an American soldier.
In the afternoon, David and I lay beneath the train, dozing off and on. Whenever we woke up, I asked him to teach me Chinese. It was cooler under the train. I asked him how to say “I love you.” He said that Chinese people are shy and don’t say “I love you”; instead, they say “I like you” or “I will treat you well.” So, how would one say “Marry me”? “Come with me.” Come with me. I silently repeated it twenty times in a row.
A message came from the previous carriage underneath the train: a messenger from the American embassy had arrived from Beijing. The news of the Allied forces heading to Beijing had caused a stir in the capital, and people from all nations were eagerly awaiting our arrival as saviors. The messenger also brought a map of the gates of Beijing and intelligence on the feasible attacks.
We couldn’t see the specific intelligence due to our rank, but the captain disseminated the news to boost our morale: Look, how important you are! Keep it up! Captain Winning commanded the “Griffin” contingent to establish a “Griffin Fortress” similar to the “Endymion Fortress” established here. General Seymour’s intentions were clear—he was steadily advancing, aiming to have our presence everywhere. The sailors from the “Griffin” were now acting as laborers, and we watched as they erected machine guns on the water tower and rooftops, wondering how long this fortress could hold out. The situation didn’t look promising. Various reports indicated that the Boxer rebellion was of a magnitude far beyond our imagination.
Despite the grim news, there was also cause for celebration that afternoon: a train loaded with supplies arrived from Tianjin. It carried my favorite salted meat, bread, beer, various canned goods, cigarettes, and most importantly, water stored in large earthenware jars, along with straw mats to serve as shelter for the carriage roofs. The latter two items were especially crucial. The village wells were running dry, and the water quality was deteriorating. Another piece of good news was that we could finally rest easy for a few nights; the Boxers had completely removed the rails ahead of us.
It took three days to fix. During those three days, David and I had a lot of free time. I wrote a love letter to Ruyu, though I couldn’t send it. I just worried that when we met, I wouldn’t be able to say many things clearly. After finishing, I asked David to help me translate it. He’s not very good at writing Chinese characters, so he used phonetic symbols instead.
During those three days, there was also a battle. Several hundred members of the Boxer Rebellion suddenly attacked the Fortress of Griffin. We were washing clothes by the village well when we heard gunfire near the camp. Clothes hadn’t been changed for days and were starting to stink. I barely managed to clean them with half a bar of soap when the gunshots rang out. I hurriedly put on the wet clothes, grabbed my gun, and followed the British sailors back.
By the time we reached the Fortress of Griffin, the battle was over. The heavy firepower from the machine guns on the water tower had stopped the Boxers’ attack. Eighteen Boxer rebels lay dead beneath the fortress. Five members of the allied forces died; they were caught off guard during the Boxers’ ambush and were chopped into pieces on the spot. As the sun set, we held a solemn funeral for the five fallen soldiers. Besides those on guard duty, the rest of us lined up, received a review from the officers, and then saluted the deceased with our guns. We had already dug graves in front of the locomotive shed at the station and, under the prayers of the British army chaplain, buried our five comrades.
The news came from the Fortress of Endymion that they too had been attacked by the Boxers. At Lofa, the Boxers gained nothing and left behind over two hundred bodies, a few flags, and two old rifles. But the message also hinted at another layer of meaning: just like what everyone saw in the battle at the Fortress of Griffin, these Chinese people wielding rudimentary cold weapons were so fervent that their courage in attacking, even at the cost of their lives, frightened us.
In subsequent confrontations and skirmishes with the Boxers, or through observation, I became more confused. I couldn’t understand what kind of people they were. They were brave yet cowardly, cunning yet ignorant, sincere yet hypocritical, hardworking yet deceitful, noble yet vulgar, public-spirited yet greedy, warm and friendly yet cold and cunning, far-sighted yet narrow-minded, and so on. These qualities, completely contradictory, could be endlessly listed, yet they were all embraced and harmoniously fused into one body.
Every moment in war is crucial; half a second from the barrel of a gun means a life lost. But war pays no heed to time. We were left hanging, consumed by anxiety every day as we struggled to repair the railway. Suddenly, news arrived that the railway ahead couldn’t be fixed. We had to abandon our northward advance and turn back to Tianjin. We were all surprised; after days of effort, it seemed all for naught. Furthermore, there was another urgent plea for help from a diplomat in Beijing.
They said the Boxers had surrounded all the foreign legations, turning them into fortresses. With the Boxers constantly firing shots and artillery at the legations, thousands of refugees crowded into any safe space they could find, gasping for air being a luxury. The messenger was Chinese; only a Chinese person might stand a chance of safety on the roads. Just a few days ago, Sugiyama, the secretary of the Japanese legation, was killed.
In two days, the German minister, Ketteler, would also be shot dead. Anything non-Chinese in Beijing was in danger. The messenger dismounted, breathless; they said their horse had collapsed by the roadside, exhausted from the mad dash. Between Beijing and Tianjin, all the telegraph poles had been chopped down, wires torn out, leaving communication stranded in the age of marathons. We had to return to Yangcun. Even upon return, we would have to rebuild the railway and remain vigilant against sudden attacks from the Boxers. If a rail were raised, our train would grind to a halt.
Colonel McKellar of the American detachment was tasked with repairing the railway. We followed Colonel Zelicke of the flagship Seymour, dispersing nearby Boxers. They were holed up in a village. We first fired three shells into the village with our nine-pounder guns, destroying the earth-packed houses and raising a cloud of smoke. Then we stormed the village. The squad leaders issued orders: aim at the flags and shoot at anyone you see.
There were two types of Boxer flags stuck atop village rooftops: large rectangular ones and small triangular ones. Later, I saw many such villages in northern China. They called them “stockades”: the entire village was enclosed by a long wall, with only a few fixed gates for entry and exit. If you could seal off all the gates, you’d have the fish trapped in the jar, with no escape. But that day, we couldn’t seal off all four gates of the stockade in time. After we stormed in, most of the Boxers had already fled.
The captain reiterated Vice Admiral Seymour’s instructions: Any houses found to conceal weapons or railway materials were to be burned on the spot. As the enemy engaged and retreated, we set fire to the buildings. Some people smuggled chickens, ducks, geese, and other goods under their arms, trying to curry favor with the captain. With a wave of his hand, the captain signaled, “Do what you can. Take what you can carry.”
This marked our final battle before returning to Yangcun.
In the afternoon, our train arrived back in Yangcun, only to find the railway ahead severed. The scale of destruction made everyone doubt it was solely the work of the Boxers. David said, “Even with your knee, you’d figure out that the regular Chinese army must be involved.” When I asked for his reasoning, he replied, “Do we need a reason for this? If someone’s running around with guns and cannons in your backyard, acting like they own the place, you wouldn’t be pleased, would you? Your brother wouldn’t be pleased, and your parents certainly wouldn’t be pleased.
Anyway, if someone messes with us at home, our whole family won’t let them off lightly.” “But they’ve offended us,” I argued. “If one day they offend you in Rome or offend me in London, I’ll agree with you,” David replied. He pulled out a squashed cigarette from his pocket, turned it around before handing it to me, then fished out another one, leaving only the butt in his mouth. We lit up and smoked. I trusted David’s words. “I want to pick a Chinese name; can you help me brainstorm?” I asked. “Mafeide,” David suggested, then shook his head. “Still not Chinese enough.”
“Mafude,” he said. “Yes, Mafude. That’s your name.”
On June 18th, a heavy rain fell. Everywhere that received rain rejoiced. The prolonged drought had broken the trust of the Chinese people in their dragon king, worshipped for thousands of years. We didn’t rejoice; we only lamented. While sunny days were uncomfortable, rainy days were even worse. The grass mats barely shielded us from the rain; droplets leaked through the cracks incessantly. Rain poured outside while a drizzle seeped into the carriage. Just as I was about to fall asleep, a large droplet landed on my face, jolting me awake. We had to move under the carriage to sleep. While it reduced the dripping, the ground was colder, and the chill penetrated to the bones in the latter half of the night. People started sneezing, coughing, and blowing their noses before dawn.
The only piece of good news on June 18th was that the German army managed to snatch four boats from the Boxers. These four flat-bottomed boats became our most crucial tools for leaving the area the next day. With the railway broken before Langfang and after Yangcun, we were stranded, lacking any means of transportation to move. If we couldn’t find suitable transport, we would be trapped here. The Germans were patrolling the railway bridge towards Tianjin when they spotted a Chinese flat-bottomed boat loaded with railway sleepers.
They hailed the boatmen, but they ignored them and sped up. The Germans opened fire. Several other boats nearby were also being loaded with railway materials by Boxer militants. The German troops acted decisively, engaging in a short but intense battle and capturing the four flat-bottomed boats. Fourteen Boxer militants lost their lives. On the boats, the Germans found weapons used by divers, a flag, and the Boxers’ red armbands.
Leaving was imperative; otherwise, the lack of drinking water alone could defeat us. The thirst was unbearable, and we had to resort to the murky river water. The heavy rain had washed down mud, debris, vegetation, and even corpses from upstream. We were issued small charcoal filters, with every three people sharing one. However, the complex composition of the river water was too much for a simple filter to purify completely. Many people started having diarrhea, with some suffering from dysentery so severe they couldn’t even pull up their pants. The young British lad who slept curled up in my armpit had an accident in his trousers. He walked around bare-bottomed when drying his pants. No one made fun of him; instead, a few envied him. How convenient it must be, not needing to take off your pants to relieve yourself, just squatting down whenever needed.
The commander passed on the message: Vice Admiral Seymour chaired a military conference of the Allied forces, deciding to abandon the trains and retreat along the Bai River. Four flat-bottomed sailboats would carry the wounded, some firearms and ammunition, supplies, and luggage. The remaining soldiers would only bring essential items and march southward along the riverbank. Our task now was to load the belongings from the train onto the flat-bottomed boats. After spending ten days on the train, we had developed some attachment to it.
The gloomy weather added a touch of melancholy as we left the carriages. All the spoils captured during these days were thrown into the water: various Boxer flags, tokens, peculiar weapons, and some curious items pilfered from village houses. I dare say, anyone who could collect all the discarded items could open a decent museum. But firearms, ammunition, and essential supplies had already burdened us. David and I were assigned to the boat carrying mostly ammunition and supplies because we had traversed the Bai River a few times and had some experience in operating civilian boats. The officer instructed us, “Stay sharp.” In the evening, the boats set sail, and the queues on the shore also departed. The British troops led the way, followed by the French, American, and Russian troops, then the Germans and soldiers from other countries.
Sailing downstream from north to south was challenging. We were still navigating through the smaller rivers connecting to the Bai River, where the shallow waters made it difficult for the heavy boats to pass. The boatmen had to exert all their strength to paddle. When that wasn’t enough, we had to figure out ways to shuttle supplies between the four boats. We also tried not to follow the same route with all the boats to avoid all of them getting stranded at the same spot. The troops who had marched along the shore before now looked back at us, still paddling in the rear, and began to take pleasure in our misfortune.
Apart from exhaustion, there was inevitable sorrow on board. Two British soldiers on the medical boat succumbed to their severe wounds during the night. We carried them ashore and buried them where they lay. There was no music, only the prayers of the military chaplain as we raised our rifles, wishing them peace in God’s embrace.
Intermittently, we encountered both the Boxers and the regular army of the Qing government. It was the troops on land who dealt with them, leaving us isolated between the enemy and the four flat-bottomed sailboats, creating a safe zone. Sometimes, we could hear the gunfire intensify, indicating clashes with the regular army. They employed horses to maneuver lightweight modern 5cm Krupp field guns, giving them a broader operational range.
In contrast, lacking horses, we had to drag our coastal guns with soldiers. From the deck, we could witness the shells hitting houses on both sides, and flames engulfing wherever the war reached. We gauged the intensity of the battle by the number and frequency of wounded brought on board: the more and the more frequent, the harder the fight; if after prolonged gunfire, only a few with superficial wounds were brought, the battle likely went well.
Another challenge onboard was drinking water, mirroring the dilemma on land. We relied on water sources along the shore. Even on the Bai River, we couldn’t directly access the water; war had severely contaminated it. Corpses of Boxer members and innocent civilians swollen from soaking often drifted past. Our comrades on shore were tasked with finding wells in the villages along the way. Their water supply was our lifeline.
We also had our share of terror on the water. Suddenly, a shell landed on our boat. Everyone closed their eyes, and for a moment, I even had a thought: would the time left be enough for me to think of Ruyu? It was a dud. They forgot to insert the fuse into the shell. This incident made us all more vigilant. Any slight movement prompted us to look up, knowing we could well be within the shell’s range. This heightened alertness proved crucial. The boat behind us narrowly escaped disaster by hoisting a pole in time when a shell fell. But some things couldn’t be avoided no matter how we tried; they lingered over our heads: Ours.
Upon reaching Xigu, Admiral Nie’s troops disagreed with our attempt to dock and opened fire with various weapons. By then, David and I had already been reassigned from the ammunition boat to overseeing the boat for the wounded.
Admiral Nie’s refusal stemmed from the fact that the arsenal in Xigu had been occupied by the Allied forces, and the Qing army had previously lost the front line at Military Granary City to both the Allied forces and their reinforcements. Whoever was blamed for these losses was undoubtedly furious. The significance of seizing the Xigu arsenal cannot be overstated. Simply put, if the Allied forces hadn’t accidentally taken the arsenal, history might have been rewritten.
The term “accidentally” is entirely because the Allied forces stumbled upon this Chinese ammunition depot. After the withdrawal from Yangcun, where they were ambushed along the way and supplies couldn’t keep up, the Allied forces had become a weary and ragged bunch. With Nie Shicheng’s tens of thousands of troops in hot pursuit, the Allied forces’ days seemed numbered. However, luck was on the Allied forces’ side when they discovered the Xigu arsenal. Just take a look at what the arsenal contained: 38,000 Mauser rifles, 38 million bullets, German-made swords, cannons, and Maxim machine guns, medicines and bandages from the Kiel pharmacy, ammunition belts with instructions from Ismael, hundreds of bags of rice, and plenty of high-quality drinking water.
The vast stockpile alone was enough to make the Allied forces jubilant, not to mention the arsenal’s incredibly sturdy walls, easy to defend and difficult to attack. For Nie Shicheng’s army to capture this fortress was no easier than building a new one. Vice Admiral Seymour would chuckle in his dreams about this.
Our flat-bottomed boat zigzagged beneath the walls of the arsenal, dodging the indiscriminate cannon fire. If one had hit us, David and I might not have had a chance to become wounded; we might have gone straight to meet God. It was the most perilous boat journey I had ever endured in my life, with cannon fire and rifle shots pounding like drums, bullets raining down from the sky. Thankfully, we managed to find a safe corner, where the Allied forces from inside the arsenal came out to greet us and usher us into the courtyard.
The wounded were placed on beds made of louvered wooden boards, covered with blankets underneath. When David was helping the wounded, he tripped and fell onto the blanket, laughing heartily when I asked if he was hurt. “Damn it,” he said, “even a soldier’s backside craves this soft cushion.” David and I usually assisted in tending to the wounded, but in emergencies, we had to grab our rifles and head to the front lines.
Admiral Nie’s troops attempted to retake the ammunition depot, sending twenty-five battalions to pressure the Allied forces. The battle was brutal and bloody. Fortunately, the Qing soldiers’ marksmanship was lacking; otherwise, we would have suffered even greater casualties. Wave after wave of attacks were repelled, and the Chinese finally relented. After nearly two days of respite, the gunfire and artillery ceased, and sandstorms swept in. On the morning of the 25th, the Russian relief forces arrived, ending our ordeal. At three in the morning the next day, we broke camp and left the Xigu arsenal, carrying two hundred and thirty wounded soldiers towards Tianjin.
Vice Admiral Seymour ordered a team of British soldiers to stay behind and set fire to the arsenal, leaving nothing of use to the Chinese. As we moved away, the arsenal erupted in a deafening explosion. The sound echoed in my ears as we marched for six hours to Tianjin, the buzzing still not ceasing.
Tianjin was shrouded in smoke, with ruins and charred bodies everywhere. No language in the world can aptly describe the smell of death and decay emanating from this city.
I skirted around every corpse I encountered, feeling as if I had killed them myself when I saw their mangled limbs. David attributed it to exhaustion, much like the ringing in my ears that lasted for over six hours. But I didn’t see it as a hallucination; their deaths were somehow linked to us. If a group of foreigners with high noses and deep-set eyes hadn’t arrived in this manner, would the Chinese have perished like fallen leaves? But discussing death amid war was untimely; guns were firing, cannons were booming, and the cries of battle never ceased.
On the 27th, we divided into three columns to attack the Eastern Arsenal outside Tianjin, known to the Chinese as the “Eastern Bureau.” This place manufactured firearms and gunpowder, guarded by thousands of Qing troops. It was a powder keg stationed in front of the Tianjin Concession, and it had to be neutralized. Surprisingly, it went smoother than we anticipated; the arsenal’s ammunition depot was blown up, and as the Qing troops withdrew, we occupied the Eastern Arsenal. The explosion at the ammunition depot was a mystery; it was unclear whether it was hit by Allied artillery or if the Qing troops, fearing it would fall into our hands, set it ablaze themselves. Either way, things suddenly quieted down afterward.
Both sides were regrouping. We sprawled on the ground in all directions, and I volunteered to read “The Travels of Marco Polo” to David. I read with my eyes to the sky while he listened, and even if he dozed off, I continued. Sometimes I’d read in Italian, sometimes translate it into English, and sometimes mix all three languages. The unexpected silence amid war had a chilling effect; it felt particularly surreal, with an inexplicable sense of absurdity.
The thunderous cannon fire that had vanished often reverberated in your mind, amplified because there were no other noises to drown it out. Occasionally, you could even feel warm gusts of air hitting your face. A nineteen-year-old sailor said he hoped I wouldn’t return to my unit so he could sleep beside me every night. I didn’t want to go back either; fighting was everywhere, and if bullets were flying, nationality hardly mattered.
Many people began writing letters home, fearing they might be struck down by a bullet without leaving a word for their loved ones. I, too, considered writing a letter, but what could I say? The only time I wrote to my family was when I asked my brother to send Manila cigars back home.
On July 1st, the sound of gunfire erupted once again. The Qing army launched an attack on the concession, and in retaliation, we fiercely bombarded Tianjin city with our cannons, the skirmish continuing well into the night. I suspect our cannons may have turned Tianjin city into a sieve. In the following days, there was back-and-forth action, but both sides were hesitant to make any bold moves. Scouts brought word that the Qing army and the Boxers were at odds. This was good news. Whether it was the formidable Qing regulars or the fervent Boxers, each posed a significant challenge on their own. With them joining forces, our precarious situation in these days of constant danger was only amplified, which is why I can’t help but feel that this turn of events might not be unfavorable for us.
Nie Shicheng looked down on the Boxers for their constant posturing, and the Boxers, in turn, resented being treated as cannon fodder by the regular army. During the attack on the concession, the Qing army drove the Boxers forward and showed no mercy in retreat, resorting to violence and leaving the Boxers vulnerable from all sides. The casualties were devastating. Fed up, the Boxers took action while Nie Shicheng was engaged in battle with the Allied forces, seizing the opportunity to kidnap the families of high-ranking officials.
The tensions finally came to a head. Nie Shicheng dispatched troops to pursue the Boxers, but sympathetic local allies of the Boxers counterattacked Nie Shicheng’s forces and spread rumors of rebellion within his ranks. It’s said that this incident deeply affected Nie Shicheng, igniting a fervent sense of self-disgust. He dedicated himself even more fervently to the cause, loyal to the end, yet internally rejected by his peers and humiliated by the rebels, leaving him feeling lost and disillusioned. This ultimately led to the Battle of Bali Tai, where he sustained severe injuries but refused to retreat, ultimately sacrificing himself for the Qing Empire.
The Battle of Bali Tai also marked my final confrontation. Nie Shicheng’s death left me profoundly shaken. However, I must admit, his heroic demise didn’t stoke my fighting spirit but instead awakened an urge to “escape.” My brother always resented this tendency of mine, despising my inexplicable disappearances. In his letters, he admonished me, urging me to stay put since I had already ventured off to China, to be honest, and dutiful, to write home regularly: “Do you know how worried sick Mother is for you every day? Do you know Father, who never believed in God, now attends church twice a week?” Of course, I knew. But still, I continued to wander.
And now, I just want to disappear. On the evening of July 9th, on my last day of battle, in the final hour of my participation, just as I had planned my escape, a bullet pierced through my left leg, shattering the bone. Damn it, it felt like a blow to the head, followed by the growing weight of my left leg and ultimately the excruciating pain that forced me to stop.
During a lull in the gunfire, David glanced at me and noticed my bandaged leg was soaked through with blood. He crouched down, untied the bandage, and expertly wrapped the wound before helping me behind a nearby rock, ensuring I lay down comfortably. Then, he went off to find medics and a stretcher. By the time he returned with a French surgeon, I was drifting in and out of consciousness from the blood loss. The sound of gunfire seemed distant, echoing as if from a year ago, and David’s face, hovering before me, appeared blurred like an overexposed photograph. The French doctor applied a tourniquet and placed me on the stretcher. David and a Russian soldier lifted me and carried me to the makeshift field hospital.
As David prepared to return to the front lines, two British soldiers carrying another stretcher approached him, informing him that the battle was over. They placed the wounded soldier next to me, a young sailor of nineteen. A bullet had pierced his heart. The young sailor struggled to open his eyes; I couldn’t tell if he managed to see me or if his effort was because he recognized my presence. A German doctor, stethoscope hanging around his neck, approached and stood beside the young sailor for no more than two seconds. He bent down, gently closing the sailor’s half-opened eyes with his fingers. The sailor’s eyelids lacked the strength to move again; he was gone.
Using my elbows to prop myself up, I shifted my entire body closer to the young sailor. Once in the right position, I lifted my arm, allowing his dust-covered, smoke-stained, bloodied head to rest snugly in the crook of my elbow. Then, I let out a wail, mourning uncontrollably. At that moment, all I could do was cry. I didn’t want to do anything else. Nothing at all.
The wounded were transferred onto a flat-bottomed boat. My lower leg underwent surgery, where the bullet and bone fragments were removed, and then it was bandaged, medicated, and splinted. I couldn’t do much but reread “The Travels of Marco Polo.” The doctor informed me that given the severity of the bone fragmentation, keeping the leg was feasible, but I shouldn’t expect it to function like a normal one; the terrain would be unpredictable for me. “So, I’ll be a cripple?” I asked. The doctor nodded affirmatively, “A cripple.” Then he added, “Consider yourself fortunate to become one, compared to those young men who lost their lives.” It seemed that my life’s highest aspiration was to be a happy cripple. I managed a smile at him.
News trickled in from the front lines. The British brought in two terrifying cannons called “Lydite guns”; one shot could kill anyone within a hundred yards just by the smell. Though such gas guns had been used once in African battles and were forbidden by the laws of war, they were used again. David came to confirm this.
Three hours after Tianjin fell, they patrolled the streets and alleys, encountering many Chinese soldiers standing against the walls, staring at them defiantly. A poke with a bayonet sent them collapsing to the ground, lifeless for some time. The concession suffered destruction by the Chinese, and post-battle Tianjin faced even more frenzied retaliation. Bullet holes and cannon scars littered everywhere, and countless corpses of Chinese civilians lay unattended on the streets, left for flies and scavenging animals. The Allied forces looted all the remaining businesses, pawnshops, and wealthy households in Tianjin, even the government offices were stripped bare. Once thriving with prosperity and grandeur, the city was now reduced to rubble, a wasteland of devastation.
As the end of the month approached, David visited me again. Our hospital had relocated from the boat to the banks of the Bai River. He informed me that they were gearing up to head to Beijing soon, pending the appointment of a commanding officer by the Allied forces; every nation was vying for the position, making negotiations as intense as the battlefield. Before departing, our superiors advised us to send letters promptly if we had any, as there might not be another chance for a while. David asked if I wanted to send one too, and offered to mail it for me. After a moment’s thought, I agreed.
On August 4th, David accompanied the Allied forces as they marched northward along the Bai River towards Beijing. He came to the hospital before departing to collect the letters. I folded mine neatly and tucked it inside “The Travels of Marco Polo.” I figured it would give him something to read during any downtime when he could put down his rifle. In a country like this, for an outsider like him, it seemed like essential reading. “And what about you?” David asked. “I can almost recite it from memory,” I replied.
We made a pact that if we both survived, we would continue leaving notes in the hollow of the old locust tree by the riverbank; if one of us didn’t make it, the other would write a letter to their family on their behalf. In the letters to my parents and brother, I explained that I had become a cripple, but the war was still ongoing, and we were still killing people. I confessed my weariness with this life, which held no more appeal than death. If one day I were to disappear from this world, they need not grieve, but please forgive me. And so on.
David helped me out of bed, and we embraced by the bedside, saying our goodbyes. My left leg had improved significantly; I could now hobble around nearby with crutches every day. The external wounds had long since healed, and once the bones had sufficiently mended, the splint could be removed altogether. I waved to David as he departed into the distance, leaning on my crutches. I waved for a long time, fearing it might be my only chance to bid him farewell.
David Brown went to Beijing. The next day, I slept for a whole day, and by evening, I was as lively as a bull in the ring. I slipped out of the field hospital without the doctor’s knowledge. I knew the way and how to remain undetected. In a thicket, I changed into the spare Chinese clothes I had prepared in advance and affixed a fake braid to my hair. I was aware of my doubtful resemblance to a Chinese person, and the braid wasn’t very convincing, so I wore a hat, pulling down the brim low over my face. I followed the Chinese custom of carrying a bundle slung diagonally across my body.
Inside were two clean garments, basic medical supplies for wound care, a few pieces of Chinese flatbread that wouldn’t spoil easily, a military canteen, all the loose change I had, a revolver with several rounds of ammunition, and a military knife tucked into my waistband. The clothing and accessories were purchased from the Chinese, costing very little money. They were even willing to give them away for free, as long as they weren’t asked for their lives. In their eyes, even a foreigner on crutches was as fearsome as a demon. Chinese pants had ample room in the crotch, causing a breeze while walking, effectively acting as a built-in fan for the hidden regions. I hopped along on my crutches, making my way towards the Bai River in the dark.
Just as the sun was rising, around six in the morning, still some distance from the riverbank, I encountered a goat herder leading five goats along the dirt road through the wilderness. I quickly ducked behind some bushes at the roadside. Half a mile away, there was a patch of woods. Once the shepherd had moved on, I crossed the field and slipped into the forest. Traveling during the day was inconvenient; my armpits had been sore and swollen from propping myself up with crutches all night, feeling like two unfermented Chinese steamed buns. I dozed intermittently in the woods throughout the day, ate two pieces of flatbread, drank from my canteen, and by evening, felt refreshed and energized. I resumed my journey to the riverbank with my crutches. When I reached a village by the river, it was completely dark.
The village was low and dilapidated, with several dozen scattered households lying still in the darkness. There were no lights, no sounds of human activity, only a few dream-like barks from dogs, faintly floating on the surface of the darkness. I had passed through this village several times with David; I knew where each family’s small dock was and which boat looked the sturdiest. I drew a bucket of water from the well at the village entrance, drank my fill, filled my canteen, and then headed straight for the boat with the character “Meng” carved on the prow. Thankfully, the oars and paddle were still there. I left some money at the modest dock of the Meng family, enough for them to purchase a better boat if they wished. After finding a half-brick to weigh down the boat, I untied the mooring rope and paddled north against the current.
I had a good understanding of the Bai River’s currents. When encountering rapids or dangerous shallows, I hugged the riverbank tightly and slowed down. Whenever I felt tired, I found a suitable place to pull ashore and rest. I steered clear of any night boats coming towards me and let faster boats behind me pass first. Nighttime navigation on the water was inherently perilous, especially given my status as a foreign deserter. If passing boats mistook my little vessel for a floating leaf, that would be ideal. Sailing at night was akin to traveling on foot at night, requiring constant vigilance; the darkness demanded that my arms remained active, keeping the boat on course, while my mind worked overtime.
I had to prepare for various scenarios of meeting Ruyu, finding the most appropriate words to say, preferably in Chinese. It was the aspect I felt least confident about. In the latter half of the night, most of the time, I was the only boat on the Bai River. The solitude and the sense of heroism were magnified by the darkness, even moving myself to tears. It felt as though not only was I alone on the Bai River, venturing into an unknown love affair, but also in the entirety of Tianjin, Zhili Province, and the entire Qing Empire, I was the only one navigating the August nights of 1900.
As dawn approached, I arrived at Fengqi Dian. Seeing the gate of the Qin family’s courtyard, I suddenly felt nervous and lost all the courage I had imagined while on the boat. Knocking on the door, I imagined sitting calmly at the steamy breakfast table across from Ruyu, gentle, virtuous, and welcoming. She would extend her slender, fair hand across the table, offering me a fragrant golden pancake. The boat was idling in place, and eventually, I reminded myself to stay calm.
It had been over fifty days of separation, enough time to contemplate most matters in the world. Caution was paramount. Just then, a boat approached, adorned with red and yellow, likely members of the local Boxer Rebellion. I quickly maneuvered my boat into a nearby reed bed to conceal myself. The river mirrored my disheveled appearance, my unkempt hair, and my rugged countenance, portraying the image of a fugitive in need of tidying up.
I bathed in the depths of the reed marsh. It was quite challenging, lifting my legs to prevent the wound from getting wet, then changing my clothes and putting on the splint again. Without any tools to trim my hair or beard, after a thorough wash, I glanced at my reflection in the water and still looked somewhat presentable. Near the edge of the reed marsh, there was a dead tree partially submerged. I paddled the boat over and climbed up to get a view of the Qin family’s gate. The sunlight was intense, casting a heat haze between the dead tree and the Qin residence, distorting the air.
I could faintly see the gate open and people coming and going. Climbing down from the tree, I washed my dirty clothes and hung them on the handle of the boat oar, then entered the cabin and lay down. A nap seemed in order. If it weren’t for a curious wild duck that pecked at my ear when it ventured into the cabin, I might have slept until evening. I opened my eyes to find a peculiar little head before me, tilted to the side with its round eyes staring at me. In its right eye, I saw my face. I jolted upright, hitting my head on the cabin ceiling, startling the duck, which flapped its wings and flew out of the cabin. The boat swayed gently.
It was well into the afternoon, and the sunlight had weakened. I ate half a piece of bread, drank the last sip of water from the kettle, and pushed the boat out of the reed marsh. The dense and vast reeds echoed behind me, cheering me on my way. I practiced the five characters “Ru Yu, I’m here” repeatedly along the journey, my tongue never quite cooperating.
As the wind picked up, boats from the Dian family began to move—vendors, shoppers, visitors, and those plotting mischief. I lowered my straw hat, tucked my crutches into the cabin, and placed my injured left leg behind my right. When the boat reached the Qin family pier, there was no one around. I quickly moored the boat, propped up my crutches, and knocked on the brass door handle.
Someone had torn off half of Yuchi Gong’s face from the right door panel. After the sixth knock, the door hesitantly opened. Ru Yu took a step back, clearly not recognizing me immediately. Once she did, she covered her mouth in surprise. Motioning for me to hurry inside, she swiftly waved me in. As soon as my crutches crossed the threshold, she slammed the door shut and bolted it. It took considerable effort for me to speak, and I said, “Ru Yu, I’m here.”
Old Qin, sitting in front of the hall door, drinking tea from a purple clay teapot, recognized me and flung the pot aside, shattering it on the cobblestone path. Fragments of the pot scattered at my feet. Ru Yu’s mother hurried over, gave me a cold glance, and then squatted down to pick up the pieces of the teapot, muttering, “Husband, we can’t be angry, let’s talk it out.” Ru Yu wanted to reach out to support me, but withdrew her hand, “What happened to your leg?” These two sentences were later repeated to me by Ru Yu when she explained, at the time, I only caught a word or two, but their expressions and reactions conveyed enough: something went wrong, and I wasn’t welcome. I stood there unsure of what to do, unlike any scene I had rehearsed in my mind.
Here’s what happened next:
Old Qin pointed outside and said to me, “Get out!” Mrs. Qin pushed him back into the hall, whispering, “Lower your voice, are you afraid others won’t hear?” “Ru Yu let him in first, don’t let others see!” In the hall, Ru Yu closed a door behind her, and I sat on a chair in the shadow. Next to me was a row of doors, adorned with two half-colored New Year pictures titled “Four Seasons Peace”: two chubby kids playing with four fluffy chicks, and on a table behind them were two blue-and-white porcelain vases, each with four blooming peonies.
The paint cups had dried into clumps, at least two days untouched. I wanted to ask Ru Yu what had happened, but I couldn’t find the words. After struggling for a while, what came out of my mouth was, “I like you.” Ru Yu’s face flushed instantly, and Old Qin and his wife looked even more displeased. I knew I had made a mistake, and in my panic, I remembered three words: “What’s the matter?” They understood, but explaining it to me became the issue. They couldn’t speak English, let alone Italian, and I could only understand a little Chinese. Ru Yu saw the New Year pictures on the door and got an idea.
She fetched rice paper and ink and began to draw. I understood as soon as she started. Three heads: two Westerners with prominent noses and deep-set eyes—David with curly hair, and me with straight hair, looking very alike—and a Chinese person wearing a Boxer Rebellion headscarf. It was because David and I had caused trouble for their family. I had a question though: what would it mean if a Chinese person happened to see two Westerners? I gestured to Ru Yu with an open hand, shaking my hand five times, indicating that this was only our fifth encounter.
Ru Yu drew two more heads: one was Old Qin’s apprentice, her senior martial brother, with an unfocused gaze that looked eerily real; the other was an old man, with a beard blacker and longer than Old Qin’s, with arched eyebrows, someone I didn’t recognize. Ru Yu said, “Yuan.” She drew two hands on each of their heads: Old Qin’s apprentice gripping one of Old Yuan’s hands, while Old Yuan held a string of money in his other hand. Vivid imagery. I understood: that their competitor, Old Yuan, had bribed Old Qin’s apprentice, who had betrayed us and handed our dealings with David and the Qin family to Old Yuan. Old Yuan poked at the Boxers, just the term “Westerners” made them furious, thus the current situation, where various unsavory characters kept coming to cause trouble. No wonder Old Qin looked so dignified.
I picked up the first drawing and hobbled over to Old Qin. I clasped my hands together, the way Chinese people do when begging for forgiveness, although I could have knelt if my leg hadn’t been injured. Then I bowed to Old Qin and Mrs. Qin, apologizing in the Western manner. Next, I pointed to the splint on my leg and then to the Boxer Rebellion symbol in the drawing, miming a shooting action with my hand. I didn’t know if it was the Qing army or the Boxers who fired the shots, but this connection seemed to reassure Old Qin somewhat, and his expression softened a bit.
In this courtyard, we were in the same boat. Ru Yu came over and said, “Dad, it’s Uncle Yuan’s problem, it has nothing to do with David and Feder.” Old Qin’s facial muscles, which had just relaxed, tensed up again. “Shut up! It’s getting dark, hurry up and let him go!” Mrs. Qin gave her daughter a meaningful look, signaling her to take me aside.
We returned to sitting in front of the door. I gestured to Ru Yu, suggesting we color the New Year pictures; otherwise, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought about reciting the half-baked Chinese love letter David had helped me translate, but with the current situation, if I recited it, I’d probably never get a chance to enter the Qin family’s door again.
Old Qin, who was coloring the New Year pictures, turned a blind eye. Since I couldn’t leave at the moment and we were all idle, adding some color to the New Year pictures brought us closer to the finished product. Why not let this big silly foreigner do it? I enjoyed this painting activity because Ru Yu was by my side. I had cleaned myself thoroughly before coming, but still, when I caught a whiff of Ru Yu’s fragrance, I couldn’t help feeling that I stank from head to toe.
She made a stroke, and I followed suit; she didn’t speak, and neither did I. No need for words; no words were necessary. If we could remain silent like this forever, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Ru Yu. Ru—Yu. I rolled her name on my tongue slowly, like two precious gems. Ru Yu. Occasionally, she glanced at me, smiling faintly. I didn’t know what she was smiling about, but I liked seeing her smile. I waited for her to glance at me again, and then maybe one more time. My coloring skills were quite mediocre.
I had dinner at the Qin family’s house, but unfortunately, I didn’t get to sit opposite Ru Yu. According to Chinese etiquette, Old Qin, as the head of the family, sat at the main seat facing the door. The seats on either side of the main seat were also considered prestigious and usually reserved for guests. Mrs. Qin intended for me to sit on Old Qin’s left side, where David used to sit, with me facing David’s former seat, but Old Qin blocked me and insisted that I sit across from him, with my back to the door, the lowest position. It didn’t matter; I was already overjoyed to sit at the same table as Ru Yu.
During the meal, Mrs. Qin asked me to help myself with the dishes. She always forgot my name, and Ru Yu reminded her, “Feder, Feder Di Marco.” I tried to pronounce it in twisted Chinese, “Oh—Jiao—Ma—Fu—De.” Ru Yu burst out laughing. She wasn’t laughing at my Chinese but at my name. She said that hearing my name, she thought I was from Fengqiadian. I chuckled in response. Old Qin slammed his chopsticks onto the table, “Eat!” Ru Yu lowered her head, and I suppressed my laughter.
Night descended swiftly by the water’s edge. Darkness crawled out of the Bai River and was the first to reach the Qin household. The wind in Fengqiadian seemed as if it had suddenly been silenced. There was no need for Old Qin to cough; Mrs. Qin had already gestured with her chin to Ru Yu that it was time to see the guest off. We all sat in darkness, each holding a palm leaf fan to both fan ourselves and chase away mosquitoes. The smoldering mosquito-repelling incense stick offered little relief; without wind, its ash-gray smoke lazily rose into the sky. No lights were lit. Later, I discovered that nobody in Fengqiadian lit lamps at night, so as not to attract the attention of the Boxers. In chaotic times, everyone who desired a peaceful life buried themselves deep in the darkness.
Old Qin smoked his pipe with a troubled expression. Ru Yu filled a water jug and accompanied me to the dock where no one was around. I said, “I like you.” She replied, “Get on the boat.” I said, “Tomorrow, I’ll come again.” She shook her head. I asked, “Then when will you come?” She urged, “Get on the boat quickly.” I boarded the boat and said again, “I like you.” She waved her hand and asked me, “Where do you live?” She also stuttered, mimicking a sleeping gesture with her hand.
I pointed to the dark expanse of the reed marsh in the distance. She asked me to wait and returned home to fetch a dozen or so dry incense sticks. The mosquitoes in the reed marsh were as big as flies and could bite. I rowed away, nearing the reed marsh, and glanced back to see a shadow sitting on the Qin family pier. I raised an oar, and she stood up, waved once, and then turned and walked back into the courtyard.
Without wind, the reeds still swayed, as if ordered to tilt from east to west and then back again. They swayed endlessly throughout the night. I wasn’t afraid of the damp chill on the water at night, the mosquito bites, or the strange sounds in the darkness. But I dreamt that my little boat drifted downstream, crossing the mouth of the Bai River into the Bohai Sea, then through the Yellow Sea and the East China Sea into the Pacific Ocean. I woke up startled. In the dream, I knew I was getting farther and farther from Ru Yu. No matter how hard I paddled, the boat steadfastly headed southeast, and the more I paddled, the faster it went. I was afraid of getting farther and farther from Ru Yu.
After waking up, I couldn’t sleep anymore and suddenly felt like smoking. I found a few dried reed leaves by the light of dawn, crushed them, and stuffed them into a reed stem pipe. I lit a match with the smoldering incense stick and took a drag. It was the most bitter smoke I’d ever tasted.
As dawn broke, I started considering food. I needed something nutritious; otherwise, my bones would grow too slowly. I paddled slowly through the reed marsh, startling quite a few wild chickens and ducks. Catching them was too difficult, and I dared not use a gun—if a shot rang out, I’d have to bid farewell to the reed marsh altogether. Fishing was even more challenging; even if I managed to catch some, I might not eat them due to too many bones—I’d been stuck by fish bones several times.
I truly admired the Chinese; they could put a piece of fish in their mouths, and with a flick of the tongue, spit out all the bones. After circling empty-handed, I realized I had missed out on a delicacy—I could have collected all kinds of bird eggs: pheasant eggs, duck eggs, and various other bird eggs. Bird eggs were smaller than chicken eggs but tasted even better, whether eaten raw or cooked. At first, I ate them raw, cracking a hole and pouring them straight into my mouth. Later, Ru Yu brought a clay pot, and I boiled the bird eggs in water. That wide-mouthed clay pot had not only boiled various bird eggs but also fish.
I quickly mastered the skills of fishing and eating fish. Ru Yu also brought fishhooks and a piece of fishing line, sneaking them from her father, Old Qin. Living alone on the water was indeed not easy, but I got used to it. Ru Yu brought various materials sporadically, and I renovated the cabin, so I didn’t have to worry about water flooding in when it rained. In a month of life on the water, two things were crucial: timely relocation of the boat to another reed marsh and Ru Yu’s occasional visits to my small boat, always at night.
Let’s start with the first incident.
One afternoon, I was studying Chinese using the love letter David had translated for me. Two Fengqiadian youths were rowing into the reed marsh to hunt birds. One of them paddled the boat while the other held a long-handled net, ready to pounce on any living creature they saw. The net had a huge opening, big enough to catch a goose without a problem; when they struck, they hit with precision. Whenever I heard a noise, I’d row away to avoid revealing my whereabouts. If it weren’t for that wild duck, they wouldn’t have spotted me. To avoid making too much noise, I dared not row too quickly, but I could still hear the two youths’ voices getting closer, their boat’s passage through the reeds growing louder. They were excitedly shouting, chasing after some wild prey. I sped up. They sped up even more. “Ahead, ahead!” they shouted.
A wild duck flew out of the reeds, landing on my boat before I could even see its face, and then disappeared into the cabin. Despite my attempts to paddle away slowly, they caught up to me, shouting for me to stop. I had no choice but to halt. “A wild duck flew onto your boat,” they pointed out, gesturing. Though I couldn’t understand them, I could sense their meaning. I lowered my hat and shook my head, palms open, indicating that I hadn’t seen anything. They asked me what I said, and I replied, “Nothing, nothing.” My voice was already hoarse, and speaking Chinese was difficult for me; they mistook me for a mute.
The boy paddling the boat said, “Oh, a mute.” The boy catching ducks stopped talking to me and instead gestured at my cabin as if dealing with a mute person. He motioned for me to search the cabin. I set down the paddle, bent over, and crawled into the cabin. Something was moving under a piece of clothing. Carefully lifting a corner, I found a wild duck—the same one that had pecked my ear. We locked eyes in mutual recognition; there was no mistaking it. I let the clothing fall back into place and emerged from the cabin, shaking my head and gesturing to them. I strained my voice to sound even more hoarse, “No, no.” The duck catcher probably cursed and angrily tugged at his braid. Fortunately, the reed marsh was abundant with resources, and with a few bird calls, they turned their boat around and headed elsewhere.
I released the wild duck from beneath the clothing; it stood still, not moving. Removing my hat, I lowered my head to offer my ear, and without hesitation, it pecked twice before happily quacking. Then, it leaped into the water and swam into the reeds. Before disappearing, it glanced back at me. I knew I had to find a new spot.
The boat spun until darkness fell, finally settling on a good spot, nestled in a backwater far from the shipping lanes and the gusts of wind. The reeds were dense, and from the rustling leaves to the chirping birds and the swirling wind, there was a vibrant sense of wilderness. This hideout was just right. The next day, I heard the voices of duck hunters. They brought an adult with them, but they never expected to find a boat tucked away where I was. One of the boys said he saw a mute person yesterday but didn’t know where they went.
Now, onto the second matter.
For the first few days, I went to the Qin family almost every evening. I’d knock six times on the door, and if there was no response after a while, I’d row away. It was only on the third day that the door remained closed, and Yu still hadn’t told me why. The next evening, I tapped on the door knocker, and Yu opened the door. She motioned for me to enter the courtyard and wait.
Soon, she handed me a filled water jug, along with some steamed buns and a small jar of pickled vegetables, and then pushed me out the door as if I were a beggar. I nearly cried on the way back. I consoled myself, thinking Yu still cared for me—after all, she gave me food and drink. On the third day when the door stayed shut, I told myself, “If it doesn’t open tomorrow, then I’ll cry.” The next time the door opened, I drank water from the Bai River.
On the fourth day, the door finally opened. Qin Shubao’s head was missing from the left door. I knocked the fifth time, and Yu opened it, carrying a piece of coarse cloth. Dry rations, vegetables, and water were all ready, and she even poured me a jug of cold boiled water. She didn’t speak, and I only said one thing. I said, “Yu, I like you. Come with me, and I’ll treat you well.” I managed to fit several rehearsed sentences into one. She escorted me out, and as I boarded the boat, she suddenly cried, then turned and walked away. Before I could react, she had closed the door.
The fifth day. The sixth day. The seventh day. The eighth day.
On the ninth day, both door gods were gone. A red and yellow triangular flag of the Boxer Rebellion was stuck on the lintel of the Qin family’s door. You escorted me to the pier and began untying her family’s small boat. I asked, “What are you doing?” She reached out and tugged on my beard, “It’s getting long, just like my father’s.”
Never had I seen moonlight so bright. We rowed the boat to the edge of the reed bed. With no one around, she jumped onto my boat, took out scissors, and snipped away. I closed my eyes, hoping for something soft and warm to touch my face. Of course, that wouldn’t happen. This wasn’t Italy; Yu was a Chinese girl. She didn’t shave off all my beard; she thought a stylish beard could mask my foreign features. She trimmed my hair, even took out a razor, and shaved the front half of my head bald, so when I attached the fake braid, I looked more like a Chinese man. “Okay,” she said, gesturing for me to open my eyes and look into the water.
There was a full moon reflected in the water, surrounded by white clouds. The river surface seemed like it was coated in silver, and I could see my reflection. I was once again a twenty-four-year-old lad, though I felt much older. On that day, Yu was nineteen and a half. The moon shone brightly, the clouds drifted without restraint. Italy didn’t have such a perfect moon. I urged Yu to return quickly, but she insisted on seeing where I lived. Leading the way, I took her to the safe and secluded reed bed. She nodded in approval. After the tour, she paddled the boat out. I followed her out, escorting her back to the small pier.
From that evening onward, Yu no longer let me go to her house; instead, she came over in the evenings, bringing food, water, and everyday items and tools I might need for my life on the water. Things like a clay pot for boiling water and cooking, bowls, chopsticks, salt, needles and thread, a mosquito net, a fish spear, a length of fishing line with a few hooks, and two bags of white flour. I chopped some good-quality wood from the shore and made a makeshift sail for my boat.
These materials more or less settled my life in the reed bed; when we fled northward together, they met our basic needs, though it was tough, we managed to survive. I had become quite proficient in using Chinese chopsticks. Now and then, Yu would come over, saying very little, never explaining why she hadn’t come the day before or the day before that.
We communicated only in the simplest, most basic Chinese. If I couldn’t express myself clearly or didn’t understand, she would repeat it several times; I could remember almost all the words and sentences she repeated. One night, Yu told me that with a bit more effort, I could catch up to David. She was encouraging me. I knew my Chinese pronunciation wasn’t as good as David’s, but I believed her words were sincere. From the beginning, when we couldn’t communicate at all, to now, when we could communicate most things through speaking, gesturing, and guessing, she was still quite happy.
We sat in the reed bed, the boat swaying gently, the reeds swaying like waves in the darkness, and water birds calling in their sleep. In the black of night, it was just us and the vast expanse of water; the Qing Dynasty, the Boxer Rebellion, and the allied forces led by Waldersee were all in another world. During the times when we couldn’t meet, we talked about our respective lives, mostly me. If I didn’t speak, we could sit facing each other all night without saying a word. Between us was a burning reed torch, and she wouldn’t let me reach over.
For a Chinese girl to come over to a man’s boat alone was already a huge concession. I couldn’t say much. Without leaving the reed bed, and with no one else around for days, all I could do was tell her stories about the water, the reeds, the water birds, wild chickens, and ducks, and my fishing adventures. Later, I told her stories about my love for the canals in Verona and Venice. She didn’t know where Verona and Venice were, nor did she know what European canals looked like. Marco Polo was a name she heard for the first time. Excellent, I had stories to share with her for a lifetime. When she got tired of listening or perhaps tired of my gestures, or when it got late, she would stand up, and I would accompany her home.
On the pitch-black Bai River, not a single boat could be seen. There was still a distance from her house to the pier. She asked me to stop. I watched her row to the pier, dock the boat, return home, close the courtyard gate, and then raise the sail to head back to my Eden. In the long night, I had plenty of time to gradually master the tricks of using the sail. I called that reed bed my Eden.
It was only after our escape that Yu told me why they hadn’t allowed me to come over during that time. At that time, the Boxer Rebellion was at its peak, and Lao Yuan had struck a deal with a senior member to target the Qin family. They began smearing their name, accusing them of being Christian because foreign devils often visited. Lao Qin invited the local leader of the group to his home, treating him to lavish food and drink.
After drinking quite a bit, he asked the leader to inspect their family’s foreheads. Lao Qin asked, “See anything?” The leader replied, “Nothing.” Lao Qin said, “Then you can confirm that we are not Christians, right?” The leader had fallen into Lao Qin’s trap. At that time, there was a bizarre method popular among the Boxers for identifying Christians, looking for a cross on the forehead.
Of course, there was no such cross; it was just an excuse to accuse and frame others. If they weren’t Christians, it was hard to take action against them, so the matter was put on hold. At that time, there were also many incidents involving Christians, and the Boxers were busy. Whoever they didn’t like, they would discreetly pass a note accusing them, and that family would be labeled Christians. They might face public criticism at best, or if unlucky, they would be dragged out and killed.
In the area where the Boxers were active, there was a small team specialized in killing. They even invented a method called “monkey climbing trees” for execution: they hung the braids of the “Christian” who committed severe crimes on tree branches. To prevent the scalp from being ripped off, the victim had to grab onto the branches with both hands, hanging themselves on the tree like a monkey, while the executioner aimed between their waist and armpits with a double-bladed axe, hanging the upper body on the tree and dropping the lower body on the ground.
The inventor of the “monkey climbing trees” execution method was quite proud because after the execution, the internal organs wouldn’t spill out messily, it was clean. The victim would grip the branches tightly until death, so there was no worry about them falling off the tree during the long public display, and there was no need for post-processing, such as tying their hands to the tree. Because the braids were also hung on the tree, the victim looked like the half-figures popular in Europe, hanging straight and dignified on the tree.
This method of execution indeed had a certain artistic flair, but it required a high level of skill from the executioner and the axe. During that time, because there were too many people to be executed, the execution squads were exhausted, with sore arms from hacking through two rows of ribs and a sturdy spine with each blow—it was far from an easy task.
The axes would often lose their edge after chopping two or three people, so not only did the executioners complain, but the knife sharpeners also lamented endlessly. Due to these difficulties, the Boxers decided to spare the Qin family. They were well-respected in the village, and Lao Qin had even drawn a willow charcoal portrait for their door. Lao Qin was also generous, always waiving small debts. To show support for the Boxers, Lao Qin even hung a triangular flag at the entrance of his courtyard.
However, Lao Yuan was not convinced. During this time, there was suddenly an outbreak of dysentery in Fengqidian, with many people unable to pull up their pants. Rumors started circulating again: someone had poisoned the wells. Since many people in Fengqidian drank from those wells, it indicated that the poisoner was an outsider. Many boats were passing through Fengqidian, but the only recurring visitors were guests of the Qin family—two foreigners.
Back then, all foreigners were called “foreign devils.” Anyone associated with “foreign” things had to change their names: foreign medicine became local medicine, foreign cloth became local or western cloth, foreign stores became general stores, Japanese cars were renamed peace cars, foreign currency was called devil money, foreign cannons were called devil cannons, foreign guns were called devil rifles, foreign gunpowder was called scatter powder, even railroad tracks were renamed iron centipedes. Even the character “洋” for “foreign” had the character “火” (fire) added to its right side, to symbolize the conflict between “water and fire.” It was evident that foreigners were undoubtedly bad people.
The foreigners hadn’t visited the Qin family during this time, so the Qin family’s proxies might have poisoned the wells. Either way, the Qin family couldn’t escape suspicion. Despite all three members of the Qin family trying to explain, they had also drunk the well water in Fengqidian. If there was poison, wouldn’t they be affected too? The people of Fengqidian argued that this could only mean that the foreigners had given them an antidote.
The poisoning of the wells was different from the Christian incidents: the Christians were the concern of the Boxers, while poisoned wells affected the daily lives of all Fengqidian residents. The Qin family had become widely hated, leading to the continuous destruction of their door gods. The Qin family had recently stopped allowing me to visit, hoping to avoid further trouble. They prayed and made offerings every day, hoping for an end to the dysentery outbreak in Fengqidian.
But with the heat, it was normal for dysentery to spread; heatstroke could cause vomiting and diarrhea, and drinking cold water could also lead to stomach upset. Fengqidian’s sanitation issues were similar to those in other areas; Tianjin City was filthy to the extreme. Along the Bai River, there were sporadic sightings of decapitated bodies drifting by due to war and famine; the fact that there hadn’t been a large-scale epidemic was considered a blessing from God. However, they didn’t believe in science but were curious about the possibility of foul play. Over the past two months, the Qin family had been trying to navigate through the twists and turns of fate to protect themselves.
Then came a new development: Yu had promised to come the next evening but failed to show up. She said she had some free time and planned to bring some New Year prints for me to color. When she didn’t show up the following evening, and I waited until midnight on the third evening, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the reeds. I thought something might have happened. At dusk on the fourth day, I prepared the boat, had a hearty dinner, loaded bullets into the revolver, and headed for Fengqidian.
As the evening wore on, the boats became fewer, and occasionally a corpse would brush against the boat’s hull; I lowered the brim of my hat as low as possible. The gate of the Qin family’s courtyard was wide open, torches lit inside. After parking the boat and securing the pistol at my waist, I hobbled ashore with a pair of crutches. The three members of the Qin family sat side by side in the courtyard, with two Boxer members holding dart guns standing beside them. Two Boxer leaders sat on chairs nearby, one with his legs crossed, chewing on a dry tobacco pouch, and the other swatting mosquitoes on his arms.
You saw me first and shouted, “Quick, leave!” The Boxer behind her was dozing off but suddenly woke up, reaching to cover Yu’s mouth. The dart gun fell to the ground, and his other hand drew a large knife from his back, holding it against Yu’s neck. One of the Boxers responsible for watching Lao Qin and his wife didn’t know how to react, lifting the dart gun to point at me, seeming to think it would intimidate me. The two leaders, however, remained composed, standing up and leisurely picking up their knives from beside their chairs. “He’s finally here!” one of them exclaimed. They had been waiting for me with the bribe money from the Yuan family.
On the second evening, Yu did go out. As she neared the reed beds, she habitually glanced around and noticed another boat following her at a distance. There were at least two people on that boat. She made a turn, skimming past another patch of reeds, circling, and then headed back home. The boat also followed her in the same pattern. On the third evening, as she untied her boat, she spotted people nearby also untying a boat. Two individuals had been squatting on the dock smoking cigarettes. When she started rowing, they did too; when she stopped, they stopped.
You decided to row across the river to the grocery store and bought a cleaver. Knowing they were watching, she forcefully chopped the cleaver onto the back of the boat. She suspected they were sent by the Yuan family to tail her. She wasn’t sure if it was her or myself who had exposed our movements. I couldn’t figure out where the mistake was, but with the vast river and numerous eyes, it was understandable if there was a slip-up. The Yuan family had paid off some Boxer members to keep an eye out.
They caught us. One said, “Reveal your face.” Since we were here, whether we revealed our faces or not didn’t matter, so I took off my hat and hung it on my back. The leader chuckled in the firelight, a true foreign devil. Another said, “Zhuang Wang Zaixun has issued a notice, offering rewards for killing foreigners. Fifty taels of silver for killing a male foreigner, forty taels for a female foreigner, and twenty taels for a child foreigner.
We’re going to cash in tonight.” They approached me, holding their knives, as I leaned on my crutches. Holding my crutches horizontally, I blocked their path. Two knives wouldn’t gain an advantage against my crutches; these two, with their weathered complexions, looked to be around ninety years old combined. Their tactics were too straightforward, or perhaps the Yuan family couldn’t afford decent Boxer members. I slowly moved towards Yu, and the two guards hesitated, torn between continuing to watch over the Qin family or aiding their superiors.
The situation took a sudden turn in that half-minute. One of the leaders shouted, “Take her and get reinforcements!” The thug holding the knife against Yu’s neck snapped into action, grabbing her by the clothes and pushing her towards the exit. The Qin couple wailed, begging their daughter not to go, but the blade of the other thug’s knife was held menacingly close, immobilizing the elderly couple. The two leaders had me pinned down, and if I didn’t act soon, Yu would be taken out the door. I drew my pistol from my waist and fired a shot, hitting the thug pressing Yu from behind in the back.
These rural thugs, accustomed to lawlessness, hadn’t heard many gunshots before. With their comrade instantly dropping dead, they were momentarily stunned, howling in panic before realizing they needed to flee for their lives. The three of them bolted towards the door with their knives. I discharged two more shots, dropping two thugs in the Qin courtyard. Before I could fire a third shot, Yu grabbed my arm. “No more killing,” she said firmly, covering her ears. Distracted by her plea, I let the remaining small-time leader slip out the door.
At the time, I grumbled about Yu’s compassion towards her enemies. Would the outcome have been different if we hadn’t let one informant go? Upon reflection, whether that person lived or died, the result would have been the same. The quiet nights of Fengqiandian were disrupted by the three gunshots, unable to be concealed. The elderly Qin couple would never have left under any circumstances. For people of their age in China, while death was frightening, it wasn’t as terrifying as leaving their homeland. They would rather die at home than live as fugitives.
Mr. Qin slumped onto a chair, watching his wife and daughter embrace each other in tears. I dragged each of the corpses outside and tossed them into the river. When I returned to the courtyard, panting, the Qin couple emerged from a room. Mr. Qin carried a large rectangular package wrapped in cloth, while Mrs. Qin held a heavy bundle. She thrust the bundle into Yu’s hands, and Mr. Qin handed me the large rectangular object. As I took it, I instantly recognized it as the woodblock printing of “The Dragon King Bringing Rain.”
The elderly couple spoke, and though I didn’t catch every word, the gist was clear: they entrusted Ruyu to me. Madame Qin’s sincerity shone through; as long as I treated her daughter well, she deemed me trustworthy. Mr. Qin, on the other hand, seemed more reluctant; his expression and tone indicated that entrusting his daughter and the woodblock to me was out of necessity. Nevertheless, as I slung the woodblock behind me, he tightly grasped my hand. Suddenly, tears welled in his eyes, trembling, as if about to kneel before me in gratitude, startling me into steadying him. I bowed to him in return. It was a man’s trust in another man, a promise exchanged between us. Stammering, I urged Ruyu to come along. But Ruyu shook his head; they wouldn’t leave under any circumstances. The three of them embraced each other, weeping inconsolably.
In the distance, the clamor of battle echoed, accompanied by a cacophony of footsteps. “Go!” urged the elderly couple. I took Ruyu’s hand and guided him outside. “Which way?” Ruyu asked. Glancing at my empty armpits where crutches once rested, I realized I no longer needed them. Then I noticed my left leg; I couldn’t help but limp as I walked. I had indeed become a cripple.
As soon as we boarded the boat and pushed off, dozens of Boxer rebels rushed towards us. They stood on the dock, shouting and hurling spears and arrows at the boat. I instructed Ruyu to steer while I hoisted the makeshift sail and adjusted its angle. Riding the increasingly gusty night wind, the boat sped away, deflecting all incoming projectiles into the water. The Boxers receded into the distance. The Qin family receded into the distance. Fengqiandian receded into the distance. The reed marshes receded into the distance. The direction of the Qin family was ablaze, the fire growing larger and brighter, a wound in the darkness of the riverside night, bleeding profusely.
Ruyu ceased crying and pulled me to the stern of the boat, insisting, “Call them.”
I nodded, “Father, Mother, I’ll take good care of Ruyu, you—” At that time, I hadn’t yet learned to say “Don’t worry.”
Ruyu had thought ahead; now that we were husband and wife, traveling would be easier. Poor Ruyu, she now only had me, a foreign man who could barely string a sentence together.
The boat sailed through the night. Ruyu cried incessantly until he finally slumped over in the cabin and fell asleep around dawn. I fought to keep my eyes open, pushing on as far as possible. When exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me, I splashed some river water on my face; it carried an eerie stench of decay. As the sky brightened, numerous bodies drifted downstream from upstream. Another battle or massacre had taken place. When Ruyu woke up and saw the floating corpses occasionally bumping into the boat, men’s faces downward, women’s faces upward, their swollen bellies bobbing, she thought of her parents and began crying again. Her tears stirred within me a vast sense of emptiness and desolation. I steered the boat, trying my best to steer clear of each corpse; if avoidance was impossible, I aimed to minimize direct collision.
On the battlefield, people were mowed down like crops in a field. I had never felt the fragility of life so acutely, as if it could be snuffed out with a mere breath. I held Ruyu close. “A few deaths mean nothing, and no one’s death means anything.”
We traveled along the river, passing through Wuqing, then Xianghe, and finally arrived at Manziying in Tongzhou, near the end of the Beiyun River. The weather was clear, and we could see the beacon tower standing tall to the north. It was the beacon tower of the canal boats; seeing it meant we could breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that our mission of escorting grain shipments was over. I decided to head to Tongzhou when I saw a group of Boxer rebels scrambling to board boats heading south. At the time, we were hiding in a thatched shed in Xianghe, with the rushing canal in front of us.
Ruyu asked, “Is it dangerous to go to Beijing now?” I replied, “Actually, this is the safest time. With a large number of Boxers heading south, it means they’ve stirred up trouble and can’t stay in Beijing anymore.” Indeed, it turned out that Empress Dowager Cixi had issued an edict to eradicate the Boxers while she fled westward. Even before the Allied forces entered Beijing, the Qing government had already begun collaborating with them to hunt down the Boxers. We set out on our journey northward. If the canal could reach the North Pole, I would have gladly continued forever.
Manziying is situated to the southeast of Tongzhou City, where a group of people from southern China congregated. Southerners were often referred to as “Nanmanzi,” while foreigners were called “Manyi.” The southern Chinese had little interest in the Boxers and didn’t spend their days shouting about killing foreigners, making this place suitable. It was said that when Lord Macartney had an audience with Emperor Qianlong, he was arranged to disembark here to understand his place. Ruyu and I rented a dilapidated courtyard by the river. After half a month, the village registrar responsible for daily affairs came to register our identities. Ruyu handled all interactions with him.
“What’s your name?”
“Qin Ruyu.”
“And the man?”
“Ma Fulde.”
“Let him speak for himself.”
I stepped forward and croaked, “Ma—Fu—de.”
“Why does he sound like a mute?”
“That’s just how he is. His family called him a mute when he was young.”
“Oh, then I’ll just write down ‘Mute.’ Not Han, nor Manchu. A camel herder from the Western Regions?”
“He’s from the northwest. He used to herd over a dozen camels, but in troubled times, and not being able to speak, he gave it up.”
After that, the people of Manziying knew that the new arrival, the limping mute, was a camel herder from the northwest named Mute Ma. There were many Mas from the northwest. Northwest was the northwest, mute was mute, and a camel herder was a camel herder. I could venture outside now.
The neighborhood gossip, Hui Sao, remarked to Ruyu, “Your husband’s skin is quite fair.” Sometimes I wore a bamboo hat when people were around, but I took it off when no one was present and even removed my jacket to bask in the sun. A wheatish complexion was healthier. I even plucked out my chest hair when it bothered me, striving to blend in with Chinese men. By the time I started eating and working shirtless like them, most of my chest hair was gone.
The landlady asked Ruyu, “Is your husband, Laoma, much older than you? Is he twenty years older?” Ruyu replied, “Not that much.” I decided to keep my beard.
Foreigners who have children with Chinese people are called “Ermaozi.” In bed, I asked Ruyu, “Aren’t you afraid of having an ‘Ermaozi’?” Ruyu grabbed my lower body, saying, “Quit talking nonsense and come here again.” She was a decisive woman.
Ruyu had a mole under her left eye, which she said the Chinese called a “tear of a wounded husband,” indicating bad luck for me. I told her that was a Chinese superstition and didn’t apply to Italians. I liked her mole; it gave her eyes and expressions a serene sadness. Sad yet not painful. In Italian and English, we call that sexy. She asked what it meant, so I closed the door, letting the light from the small window shine on her face, and then began to undress her. That’s what it means. You’re my only light.
We cultivated a plot of land on the riverbank, planting crops and vegetables. Ruyu knew a little, and I followed her lead, doing as others did. Sowing, watering, fertilizing, pest control, harvesting. The yield was poor. The riverbank was unpredictable; you never knew when the water would rise. We worked hard for a season, only for a flood to wash everything away. Sometimes, thieves stole our crops, often by boat. Spring onions, garlic, and radishes were most popular; pull them out, wash them in the water, and they were ready to eat. One year, we planted radishes on two plots, and half of them were stolen within two days.
Across from Manziying, on the other side of the canal, there was a village called Yangtuo, mostly inhabited by northern refugees, some of whom had been Boxer rebels. They thought I looked foreign and would jeer at me when I ferried them across the river. I remained silent. There were no bridges on the Beiyun River; it was too troublesome to dredge the channel for one. To cross from one side to the other, you needed a ferry. The landlord’s elder brother used to do this job. He was fond of alcohol, and after earning some hard money, he’d buy liquor.
One day, he drank too much and tried to ferry himself across, but he fell into the river and drowned. His body was found in the reed marshes south of Zhangjiawan. Robbers frequented that area, so some said the landlord’s elder brother died at their hands. Regardless of how he died, he was dead. The landlady hoped I would take over this job, with the condition that one-quarter of the ferry money went to her and her daughter. It wasn’t easy for a widow and her daughter, so Ruyu and I agreed. It was a profession for me. I did this job for decades.
In the past, the landlord’s elder brother ferried using brute force, relying solely on his arms to contend with the current, which was risky when the water was high. I chose two large trees on either bank of the river and bought a thick, sturdy rope, tying one end to each tree trunk. This created a sort of operating rope across the river, allowing me to pull the boat from one side to the other by simply grabbing onto it. It was labor-saving, convenient, and safe.
When a small boat approached, I could lift the rope for it to pass underneath, and for larger sailboats, the ends could be untied at any time. After the cessation of canal transportation, the number of large vessels passing through decreased significantly. The people of Yangtuo, having received no response to their provocations, gradually became friendlier. They had no choice but to use my ferry. In this section of the canal, from the Xiaosheng Temple Pier northward along the riverbank, hardly anyone had not used my boat; you could count them on less than ten fingers.
On the Manziying side, there was a Dongyue Temple, and near the Xiaosheng Temple, they worshiped the Dragon King, and the people coming and going on both sides, my boat served as their bridge. They would say, “Crossing the river? The mute is here,” or “The cripple is waiting,” or “That camel herder, he’s an honest man.” Ruyu worried that the constant coming and going would bother me, but I reassured her. I enjoyed the feeling of sailing on the water. It reminded me of my time in Venice when I snatched an oar from the gondoliers’ hands, saying, “Let me help you row but don’t tell my father.”
I constantly reminded myself that Marco Polo was first and foremost a fearless man.
When I went to Tongzhou City to buy salt, I also picked up a set of tools for painting and calligraphy, including rice paper, watercolors, ink, brushes, and a seal carving set. Additionally, I needed a carpenter to make a door, so I asked Ruyu to inquire with the landlady about which carpenter in Manziying was skilled. Ruyu stopped me from packing away the painting and calligraphy supplies. She didn’t want to make New Year prints anymore; it reminded her of her parents and a big fire. When I asked about the woodblock, she said it was still stored away and hadn’t been touched since.
Paul Di Marco. I always suspected my brother stole my name. My parents said it was nonsense; my brother’s name was chosen when he was born. Well, Paul Di Marco’s brother could still learn from Marco Polo.
Life by the canal was indeed far from what I had imagined. We were trapped in a corner of the world by circumstances and livelihood, or rather, we were excluded from the world because of them. Occasionally, I thought about returning to Italy, and I regretted it too. I had oversimplified the world and life. I could think this way, but I couldn’t let Ruyu think like this; she was innocent. The thought of being with such a woman, even if it meant going to hell, was worth it. One night, I woke up and looked at the mole under her left eye in a small patch of moonlight. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, and we both jumped. I nestled into her arms. It wasn’t me who cried; it was her.
When the ferry was idle, I would join a group of men in pulling barges upstream on the Beiyun River. Each step of a large vessel required dozens or even hundreds of people to drag it along. They knew the lame mute never shied away from exerting himself when pulling ropes.
Pulling barges was the heaviest task Ruyu could accept. Hui Sao’s brother invited me to go to Mentougou to dig coal, but when I asked Ruyu, she said, “Only if I’m dead.”
Marco Polo spoke Uyghur, Arabic, Persian, and Syrian but not Chinese. I spoke Chinese.
Going to the reed marshes in the south to pick reed leaves for making zongzi, I liked eating the cooled zongzi; the refreshing fragrance penetrated to the bones. When we went ashore, I picked a bunch of wildflowers for Ruyu, and she blushed as if it were the first time I had undressed her, not knowing what to do. I said, “Every woman deserves such a gift, but unfortunately, I can’t give you anything prettier.” She plucked a piece of dogtail grass from the bouquet and waved it in front of me. “This one is the most beautiful.”
Marco Polo and his party set out from Venice, first visiting Acre to meet the newly elected Pope, then proceeding to Laas, and then directly to the Turkish city of Erzurum via the port of Leiasos. From there, they traveled through the Persian cities of Baghdad, Sava, Yazd, the Kingdom of Kerman, and Hormuz, all the way to the Persian Gulf. They continued northward, crossing the Pamir Plateau, and finally arrived at the palace of Kublai Khan. This journey lasted four years.
In November 1900, the weather started to get cold. Ruyu wanted to return to Fengqidian to see, in her dream at night, her parents walking in the strong wind dressed in willow green as if to leave earlier than later, as the cold river water would freeze soon. I packed all the bedding and winter clothes into the cabin, rigged a new sail, and sailed downstream with the wind and current. The late autumn in the north was the last bustling time of the year, and seeing it in winter would make one cry. The reed tassels were as white as snow, and the red and yellow leaves on the trees looked like flames burning.
As expected, the Qin family’s home had become a ruin, with even the gatehouse collapsed. Old Mr. and Mrs. Qin had perished in the fire; they had no intention of surviving in this world. I wanted to go and find their ashes, but Ruyu stopped me. Since her parents didn’t want to leave, this was the best resting place for them. Let them be buried in a large grave. We landed at the dock at night and followed the custom of Fengqidian, burning three sheets of paper, kowtowing six times, and then leaving in the darkness.
Then we went to the mouth of the Baihe River and found a letter left by David in the hollow of an old locust tree on the sandbar. It wasn’t addressed to me but to my parents. He had transcribed a copy. Did he think I was still alive, or had I died?
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Di Marco,
I am a friend of Feder’s, an Englishman named David Brown, who has just returned from Beijing to the warship stationed off the coast of Dagu. I am unsure if writing this letter is appropriate. Feder and I agreed that when the war came to an end, whoever survived should write a letter to the other’s family. I managed to survive the brutal war in Beijing, though I lost an arm.
Compared to the soldiers from various countries, both Allied and Chinese, who lost their lives in the fighting, I consider myself among the luckiest. I hope Feder is also among the fortunate, but from the moment I left Beijing until my return to the warship, I have not heard anything about his survival. Neither the English nor the Italians know, I did not see him on the battlefield, nor in the hospitals.
Without intending any disrespect, I must explain to you that countless unknown individuals have silently perished along the lengthy frontlines and vast battlefields of China—Chinese and foreigners alike. The rivers are filled with unidentifiable corpses, staining half of this country’s land and rivers with blood. If this letter brings you lasting sorrow, I apologize. I sincerely hope it is an entirely unnecessary correspondence.
I do not know if Feder set off for Beijing after our parting at the hospital; I hope he did not. Death is a cruel affair, but surely there are things in this world even more merciless than death, and this journey to Beijing was one of them. We marched from Tianjin to Beijing, a journey of unparalleled hardship for me since joining the military. We traversed endless sandy deserts and crossed marshes overrun with weeds, where the foul-smelling stagnant water felt like walking through a massive steaming pot.
Apart from the Japanese and Russian soldiers, who managed to march on despite the conditions, British and American soldiers collapsed by the roadside, unable to continue. The intense heat even overwhelmed the Indian mercenaries. Many fell ill with dysentery from drinking contaminated water, leaving us like empty shells drifting along. As we marched, I couldn’t help but think that Feder should be recovering his left tibia in the hospital; this was no place for a man. We captured a large number of Chinese laborers to transport military supplies, using whips, bayonets, and rifles to force them to take larger strides, thereby accelerating our progress. We commandeered two hundred sailing boats on the river, loaded with ammunition and provisions, similarly employing force to coerce Chinese laborers into serving as boatmen, dragging the vessels slowly upstream.
We’ve been fighting all the way. I can’t even remember how many battles we’ve been in. One night, I fell asleep standing with my gun in my arms. We fought against the Boxers, against the Qing army; we killed countless, and others killed us. People died like weeds. It reminds me of those ants I used to crush underfoot when I was a child – we were like that cruel foot sent by the Grim Reaper. On the night of August 13th, we reached the outskirts of Beijing, when suddenly a fierce storm broke out, lightning flashing and thunder rumbling.
I thought, this is it, we’ve provoked such sinful slaughter, and now God is finally angry. Beneath the shaking of the storm, I prayed at the foot of the city walls, and a whole platoon prayed along with me, begging for God’s forgiveness. We told God that we aimed our guns at the Chinese people to rescue our compatriots trapped in the embassies. Was this reason sufficient? Anyway, God calmed down, and the storm subsided. And then we began our attack. Rows of cannons were set up, and the shells rained down like another heavy shower, densely hitting the ancient gates and towers of Beijing.
The next morning, the Russian army broke through the Dongbianmen Gate and stormed into Beijing, followed by the Japanese and French troops. The British entered Beijing through the Guangqumen Gate. We entered the embassy district through the sewers. The envoys were saved.
I thought the war would end there. But the slaughter and looting had only just begun. On the 15th, Empress Dowager Cixi fled west with Emperor Guangxu, and the next day, we seized control of the major palace gates. From that day on, the bodies of Qing soldiers and Boxer rebels piled up beneath the city walls, and the ancient and beautiful buildings began to burn, turning into ruins or about to become ruins. We began to search for and shoot the Boxers.
They had once arbitrarily accused others of being “foreign religion members,” and now we began to arbitrarily accuse innocent people of being “Boxer supporters.” If someone rubbed us the wrong way or we wanted to grab something from them, we would point our fingers at them with righteous indignation and say, “You’re a Boxer.” And then the knife would come down. An American commander said he was certain that for every Boxer killed, fifty innocent people were buried alongside.
The French army captured more than twenty people in Wangfujing Street because they refused to give any information, and none of the twenty were spared; one corporal stabbed fourteen people to death in one breath. There was also a pair of Frenchmen who forced the Boxers, Qing troops, and civilians into a dead-end street, shooting continuously for fifteen minutes with their guns, leaving not a single survivor. American troops ambushed street corners and shot every Chinese man who appeared like target practice.
The Russians and Japanese had a hysterical lust for women, raping and torturing, little girls no less. Thousands of women committed suicide to save themselves from abuse; twenty-nine girls were thrown into a well in Tongzhou; a mother preferred to drown her two daughters alive in a large pond. The mortal sins of rape and murder, which even the most heinous of men would dare to commit in the dark, abound in broad daylight. How is it that Europeans and Americans, who have always claimed to be civilized, have suddenly lost their shame, goodness, and dignity, and have become as brutal as animals? Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dimak, I wish I could deny all this, but I have to admit that it is all true.
When the allied forces entered Beijing, they openly authorized their soldiers to loot for three days. The looting did not stop until we left Beijing. In the name of capturing Boxers and searching for ordnance, we traveled the streets and alleys, kicking in doors and robbing them. Bedrooms, chambers, stoves, toilets, anything that looked good, we looted it all. I have never seen people so frightened. The civilians in Peking hurriedly made all sorts of flags and white flags to put on their doors or asked someone to write a note to say that their homes had also been looted, or that their property had been taken over by some European or American, in the hope that they would be spared. One German soldier played a prank and wrote a note to a
A German soldier played a prank and wrote a note to a family: I have ten thousand dollars, a beautiful wife, and two tender daughters, come to my house! The Chinese man, who did not know the language, proudly posted it on the gate of the courtyard; a group of foreign soldiers rushed into their house with wild laughter, and he was completely confused as to what had gone wrong.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dimmock,
Allow me to recount an incident that still fills me with profound sorrow and shame to this day. One day, two Russian soldiers and an Italian soldier encountered me on the street and invited me to “take a look” at a Chinese household. The house seemed to be doing well. The homeowner was a remarkably composed Chinese man, who, despite his despair, remained calm upon seeing us. He opened his chests, revealing valuable items, freely inviting us to take whatever we wanted. We filled our pockets.
When the two Russian soldiers spotted the hostess and her fifteen or sixteen-year-old daughter hiding in the kitchen, they suddenly became interested and instinctively loosened their trousers. The Chinese man was terrified, standing in front of the kitchen door, but he was grabbed by the collar by one of the Russian soldiers and thrown aside.
His Russian companion began to undress. Meanwhile, the Italian soldier and I lingered in the courtyard, unsure whether to intervene and pull him away or simply turn a blind eye and walk away. Suddenly, the sound of a flute echoed behind us. The Chinese man got up from the ground, retrieved a flute from his room, and began playing the Russian national anthem. The two Russian soldiers suddenly stood up straight, quietly listening to the entire melody. Then, they took out the jewels they had looted from their pockets and left the house, stepping onto the street. The Italian soldier and I returned the items to their rightful owner.
It must be admitted that this was the only touching glimpse of humanity I witnessed amidst the chaos of this catastrophe. I am also a guilty participant. It is precisely for this reason that I loathe myself even more. In the name of civilization, justice, dignity, and rescue, we once again became slaughterers and bandits. Forty years ago, the great writer Hugo criticized the looting of the Old Summer Palace by the Anglo-French allied forces: “One day, two bandits broke into the Old Summer Palace.
One of the victors filled his pockets, and the other filled his trunk: arm in arm, they laughed their way back to Europe… We Europeans are civilized people; we regard the Chinese as barbarians. And this is what civilization does to barbarism… History records a plunder and two thieves.” Now, history records another plunder: this time, not with fewer thieves, but with more; not with two, but with eight. Even the benevolent missionaries and elegant diplomatic ladies have turned red-eyed; they are collecting and transporting the wonders of China in caravans.
The war is still raging, and the slaughter and looting continue. Our targets are not only Beijing but also Zhili, Shaanxi, and the whole of China. Everywhere there are dead, everywhere there are corpses, foxes roam in broad daylight, and packs of wolves and wild dogs roam around, no longer satisfied with just eating the dead. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dimmock, as I ponder upon these countless sins, I feel fortunate for Federl; life is not necessarily better with length, and compared to hands stained with blood, I would rather see my dear brother ascend to heaven with a clean conscience. That is something I can never achieve. Federl saw Marco Polo as a model for life, hence he came to China; I will leave this land burdened with the shame of a murderer and a bandit.
The expeditionary force marched into Baoding, and I returned to the ship in Dagukou. Being wounded was just an excuse; I hoped to return to England as soon as possible, not wanting to stay another day. The sea breeze carried the distant scent of blood. War would never cease.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dimmock, I wish you safety and good health. Dear Brother Federl, wherever you may be, fate determines life and death; may you find peace. David Brown forever embraces you!
After reading David’s letter, I tore it into pieces and scattered it onto the water’s surface. Federl was now a new Federl, and David was also a new David. As Yu said, it was meant for you. I nodded. I embraced Yu, grateful that you saved me.
Marco Polo’s father, Niccolò, and his uncle, Maffeo, did business in the best city of the Chagatai Khanate, Bukhara, for three years. The finest porcelain came from China to Bukhara, as did the finest silk, and some exquisite and valuable gold products. When the people of Bukhara commented on women, they often said, “She’s as beautiful as a Chinese woman”; when they spoke of Chinese craftsmen, they said, “They have two eyes, while Frankish people have only one.”
Language is the most important path to delve into a heterogeneous life and culture.
Marco Polo was a frequent visitor in the felt tents of Kublai Khan. He told the Great Khan about Palestine, Pamir, deserts where horses sank into the sand, and even about hermits in the mountains. When Marco Polo was by Kublai Khan’s side, people from Madagascar brought the Great Khan the finest gifts: ivory and ambergris extracted from the intestines of whales; the most precious of all was the feather of a bird, known as the bird of destiny in Arab legend, which measured ninety inches long.
When my son was young, he often coughed in the middle of the night, and each cough shook my heart. I held onto my son’s little hand, while I had to hold onto Ruyu’s hand with the other. I thought Ruyu was stronger, but she said, “When you’re not home, I’m always worried that our son’s next cough will bring the sky crashing down.”
Marco Polo traveled across the vast land of China for six months, remembering everything and recounting it all to Kublai Khan upon his return. The Great Khan was both amazed and amused, calling Marco Polo a sage, and began sending him to different countries.
Marco Polo arrived in the kingdom of Zardandan, where the people had mouths full of golden teeth. When a wife was in labor, the husband would also lie on the bed, his cries louder than the woman’s. After the wife gave birth, the husband would still lie there, accepting congratulations from others. He would pretend to be very exhausted to prove that the child was his own. There were no written characters here; their currency was gold, and small change consisted of shells. They counted with small sticks.
When my son turned fifteen, I took him to Beijing. Somehow, we ended up at Taiji Factory, a lane called Marco Polo Road by foreigners. The Italian embassy was here, next to the British embassy. I heard there were two bronze lions in front of the main embassy building. We weren’t allowed in. An Italian gentleman was entering the embassy area, and I avoided my son, whispering to him in Italian that we were compatriots. The gentleman, dressed in a white suit and wearing white gloves, glanced at me and replied in fluent Chinese, “You’re a lunatic if you think we’re compatriots!” before entering the embassy area. A group of patrolling soldiers approached, and he stopped them, cautioning them in English to be careful and not let random people infiltrate our territory.
He pointed at me, saying, “That Chinese man is very dangerous, he even speaks Italian, although not very well.” I realized my own Italian was rusty; I hadn’t spoken it in over a decade. I took my son away. He asked, “What did that man say?” I replied, “I don’t know, couldn’t understand bird language.” Then I asked my son, “Do I look like a Chinese man?” He said, “Dad, you look a bit foreign.” I laughed; finally, I was a genuine Chinese man. “Son, let’s go eat donkey rolls with my injury, and then we’ll go home. Your mother must be worried sick.”
I wonder if there’s still hope for me, this cripple, to become Marco Polo, or perhaps by staying here, I am already Marco Polo?
In January, I heard they started fighting with the Chinese army at Shanhaiguan, and by April, I could hear the sound of artillery right at my doorstep. They bombarded Tongxian County across the canal. These little Japanese, move fast; they came prepared. Ever since the news of the September 18th Incident, I knew this day would come. David said, “War will never cease.” David was right.
On this land where Ruyu and I live, war has never ceased; when others don’t fight us, we fight among ourselves; if there’s a period without visible war, it’s only because the guns are being reloaded behind us, bayonets are being sharpened, and bullets are silently being loaded. I tell Ruyu, “Stay indoors if there’s nothing urgent, especially with the children, and keep a close eye on the grandchildren.” Women often don’t grasp the concept of war; she says, “What does all this killing have to do with us common folks?” I reply, “There are no common folks in war, only the living and the dead.”
We’ve both grown old. Over the years, we’ve avoided countless wars. We’ve huddled in our home, watching war pass through the canal, from the village entrance of Manziying, past our doorstep—after renting from the landlord’s wife for five years, we finally built our own house and courtyard. I don’t want to look at war even for a moment. But this time is different; I have no confidence in escaping. Thirty-three years ago, I knew what the Japanese soldiers were like.
Among the coalition forces, no soldier from any country dares to say they are more disciplined, tougher, more resilient, and more combat-ready than the Japanese soldiers; perhaps no soldier from any country dares to say they are more cruel, greedy, and destructive than the Japanese soldiers. Since they’ve come, they must be determined to either win or die. This nation is like a spring, either gentle or suddenly taut, leaving no room for maneuvering.
By May, orderly footsteps were passing by the Dongyue Temple early in the morning. I was still lying in bed. With old age, sleep is scarce; I wake up before dawn and linger for a while before getting up, just to catch a glimpse of my granddaughter. The little girl sleeps with us, the old couple.
After their son got married, he lived separately, just a wall away. Both of them felt there was no need to divide the house, but I insisted. We should each live independently, saving on expenses. When we were dividing the house, I didn’t realize that it was my Italian roots stirring within me. Over the years, I’ve fully embraced Chinese culture: when Chinese men wore braids, I wore braids; when they cut their braids, I cut mine; when they wore baggy pants, bound their legs, and wore cloth shoes, I did too; when they smoked a pipe, I smoked a pipe; my chopstick skills were as good as any Chinese person’s, and I could expertly remove fish bones.
I can’t even remember what champagne, wine, whiskey, or beer tastes like anymore. Now, I drink baijiu, sip by sip, cup after cup. I still speak little; as I’ve aged, my voice has become hoarser. Others still call me mute, but I can speak almost all Chinese dialects, though writing remains a challenge. But that’s okay; most men of my age in the village can’t read either.
One day, Ruyu said to me, “Grandpa, why does your nose look shorter?” I looked in the mirror and indeed, it wasn’t as high as it used to be when I was younger. My skin had turned bronze, and beneath the wrinkles, it was all dark. Ruyu went to the mirror, and she was still so fair, even more like a white person than me.
It was probably the first time we both stood in front of a mirror together in over twenty years. Back then, Ruyu used to worry about the differences between our facial features. Now, to our surprise, the two faces in the mirror resembled siblings. Our differences had diminished infinitely, and our faces and expressions were growing towards the same standard. As the Chinese saying goes, years of friendship make one like siblings, and years of marriage make one like siblings. I always thought it meant that married couples living together for a long time develop an unbreakable bond akin to blood relations. But there’s another layer of meaning, that our appearances also converge, like siblings inheriting the facial features of their elders. Ruyu and I embraced each other and laughed heartily. “My dear wife,” I said, “you no longer need to worry that I’m a foreign devil.” Ruyu kissed me.
If I were to say I’ve made any changes to Ruyu over the years, it’s successfully getting a Chinese woman accustomed to kissing and hugging in daily life. Ruyu once said, that in Chinese marriages, apart from intimacy in bed, even a touch of fingers when getting out of bed feels novel; even in bed, it’s only when engaging in “private matters” that skin-to-skin contact occurs, and once done, each retreat into their cocoon of covers, sleeping separately; if one gets too old for “private matters,” the latter half of life becomes like being of the same sex, repelling each other like magnets, with no physical intimacy.
That morning, I woke up but didn’t get up, propping myself up to watch my granddaughter. She always runs over to our bed at night, climbing in between Ruyu and me to sleep. We had been wanting a granddaughter. With two grandsons already, and another on the way with our daughter-in-law, the whole family hoped for a girl. As luck would have it, Ruyu and I were overjoyed; we wished we could carry the little girl around with us every day.
She’s affectionate with us too. The genetics skip a generation; the girl looks like me. People say the traits of the Lo family have returned, and good deeds have their rewards. My son resembles Ruyu. Thank goodness he takes after his mother; otherwise, it would’ve been hard to tell. That morning, as I woke up and watched our granddaughter with Ruyu, we heard the orderly footsteps heading towards the Dongyue Temple. “Uh-oh,” I said, “the Japanese must be here.”
“Why couldn’t it be Chinese?” Ruyu asked.
“The boots,” I said, “the Communist Party doesn’t have such good boots, nor does the Nationalist Party have them so neatly.”
I had Ruyu pack up some decent things into a jar and bury it. Tomorrow is the big market day in Tongzhou City, so I’ll go stock up on food and supplies.
The next morning, I first ferried people on both sides of the river who were in a hurry to cross, then went home for breakfast, and hurriedly took the borrowed donkey to town. Before leaving, I reminded Ruyu and the family not to wander around, especially not to let my daughter-in-law and the children go out. A small squad of about a dozen Japanese soldiers had been stationed nearby. When I was ferrying in the morning, I also ferried three Japanese soldiers and an interpreter.
As soon as the boat reached the other side, I wanted to rest and smoke a tobacco pouch. Four men in military uniforms walked out from behind the trees. The one in the front had a waist knife, his trousers tucked into his boots, not very tall, with a small potbelly, his goatee like a black paper stuck to his lips, and he was holding a large wolfhound with a tongue nearly half a foot long sticking out. He rattled off something to me.
The skinny monkey behind him was the interpreter, who said, “The Captain says, hey, you, Chinese man smoking, stand up, the Imperial Japanese Army needs to cross the river.” I flicked off the ashes and stood up to untie the mooring rope. They also saw me as Chinese, which made me quite pleased; otherwise, given that goatee and the nodding hayseed interpreter, I would’ve surely told them the boat belonged to someone else and I couldn’t manage it. While crossing the river, the interpreter asked me, “Is the Dongyue Temple powerful?” I said, “That depends on what you’re asking for.” They didn’t say what they were seeking.
You never know when trouble will arise. On my way back from town, I met Hui’s grandson, Er Dan. Fifteen-year-old Er Dan was out of breath, his words stretching out as he gasped for air, “Mute grandpa, mute grandpa, something happened!” I asked what happened. Er, Dan said, “Ruyu grandma was bitten to death by the Japanese soldiers’ dog!” My head buzzed, and my right leg tripped over my bad left one, and I fell to the ground. Er, Dan helped me up, finally straightening out his tongue, “Mute grandpa, let’s go home first before we talk.” I handed the donkey and the saddlebag to Er Dan and sprinted home.
No one had ever seen an old crippled man run like this before. His beard was white, his hair was white, only his skin was dark, and his running posture resembled that of a skinny worm with a broken bone. He felt like the sky was falling. Yes, I felt like the sky was falling. In thirty-three years, I had never been this panicked, I couldn’t even remember how to lift my other foot before one touched the ground. A lost cripple ran on the last stretch of his life.
Ruyu was gone. I had never thought about what I would do if Ruyu died, not once in thirty-three years. I was afraid to think, I couldn’t think. She was my only connection to this world. I once thought Marco Polo was important, and the canal was important, but later I found out that compared to Ruyu, nothing else mattered. The world could do without Marco Polo, without the canal, even without Italy, but it couldn’t do without Ruyu. I ran crookedly, swaying, and crying loudly.
I didn’t mind an old man crying uncontrollably in public. He didn’t cry, just hadn’t reached the point of crying, just like in the past thirty-three years, except for crying bitterly at the age of nineteen for the death of a British sailor in a mobile field hospital during the war, I had never cried so much. Now it was time to cry. This was the only chance in my life to let me cry freely. Let me cry out the remaining tears and voice.
The yard was full of neighbors. Ruyu’s body lay on a grass mat in the yard, covered with our whitest cloth. My son, daughter-in-law, and two grandsons knelt beside the body, holding the granddaughter in the daughter-in-law’s arms. She didn’t know what her brother and the adults were doing, just looked in horror at the silhouette of her grandmother under the white cloth. Blood seeped through the white cloth, turning it purple-black, shocking to the eyes. The neighbors made way for me, but my legs gave out, and I fell to the ground. Ruyu. In my hoarse voice, I had never shouted such a sturdy and powerful voice in my life, and I even burst my throat. Ruyu.
I only lifted a corner of the white cloth, it was unbearable to look at. Ruyu’s face and body were torn apart by that wolfhound. The wolfhound was released to attack the granddaughter, Ruyu stood in the middle, the wolfhound leaped up and pounced, Ruyu grabbed the wolfhound’s two front legs and was knocked down, no matter how the dog bit and scratched, but she never let go. Ruyu’s hands were like two clamps firmly fixed on the dog’s legs until she was torn apart and her internal organs were scratched until she died. Because Ruyu held onto the wolfhound, the granddaughter was able to escape and was carried back home by the eight-year-old grandson.
The three Japanese soldiers returned from the Dongyue Temple and needed to cross the river to the other side. The interpreter asked the villagers where the ferryman lived and went straight to my door. Ruyu was playing with the granddaughter with sandbags. The door of the neighbor’s son’s house was half open, and the daughter-in-law was embroidering in the main room. The best way to prevent any unexpected trouble was to quickly send the Japanese away, so Ruyu decided to ferry them.
When the water wasn’t too fierce, Ruyu often helped me with the ferry, her hands becoming robust from it, making her grip strong. She carried the granddaughter into her son’s house and closed the door, then went with the Japanese and the interpreter to the ferry. As they neared the pier, the granddaughter caught up, followed by the grandson, who had been sent by his mother to watch over his sister. The daughter-in-law had no idea that the Japanese had come to the door for a ferry.
The Japanese went fast and had already boarded the ship. Rendan’s mustache clapped his hands and said my little granddaughter looks like a Western doll. The Japanese soldiers in the back then began to shout, the interpreter translated their request to Ruyu, they wanted to see the woman who gave birth to the doll, it must be a beautiful Western woman.
The Japanese soldiers’ voices, expressions, and movements were full of eroticism and lewdness as they spoke of a Western woman. Ruyu said, no, her mother was a skinny, short Chinese woman. The interpreter translated their Japanese again, so the child is a bastard of a Western man, that’s all the more reason to see what kind of woman can sleep with a Western man. Ruyu told the youngest grandson to hurry up and take her sister home, she had to head for the ship; when the ship moved, the matter was closed. The little grandchildren back on the back of the sister to go back, but this time the Japanese soldiers holding the dog lost the leash, the wolf-dog quickly jumped ashore to go after the little granddaughter. Ruyu dodged to block the path of the wolf-dog, the wolf-dog was stimulated, jumped up, and pounced on Ruyu.
The house nearest to the edge of the Manzi Camp was still some distance from the river, so when the neighbors heard a few cries that quickly ceased, they didn’t think much of it. When the two children returned home and awkwardly called for my son, Ruyu was already lying dead in the wild grass, face up, her body exposed, torn apart by the wolfhound. To pry her hands from the dog’s legs, the Japanese had gruesomely broken Ruyu’s finger joints. The Japanese themselves ferried the boat to the other side without securing the mooring rope, then jumped ashore and fled. The boat drifted downstream and got stuck in a curved bend.
Death is inevitable for humans, but even if you gave me ten thousand heads, I couldn’t fathom such a cruel, violent, and senseless way to die. We endured through one chaotic era after another, weathering countless storms and hardships, only for a new era to begin emerging, and she didn’t even have the chance to stand firm, to endure, before she died. What makes life meaningful? What kind of death is worthwhile? No matter who says it, it doesn’t matter. If it’s your time to go, you can’t escape it; if it’s not, worrying about it is pointless. Take your steps and follow your fate.
I kept watch over Ruyu for two days, sitting by her side day and night. It was getting hot, and she couldn’t stay unburied any longer. I asked my son, grandson, and Erda to gather all the wildflowers from the riverbank and place them in Ruyu’s grave. Her body was covered with flowers underneath and on top. I wanted her to smell as fragrant as when I first met her, to leave this damn world with the scent of flowers. My son and I dug another hole beside her. My son asked, “Why are we digging this?” I said, “Bury me when I die.” The grave was on the riverbank, and neither my son nor Hui’s wife agreed; it could easily be washed away if there was a flood. I said, “If it washes away, it’s good to go with the flow and return to the windblown silt.”
After burying Ruyu, my life could also come to an end. Marco Polo said, “China is the end of the world.” I carefully circled near the camp where the Japanese soldiers were stationed, then came back to dig up the urn where Ruyu was buried under the ginkgo tree in the yard. The revolver was still there, just like new after thirty-three years of disuse; the bullets were still full of vigor, without a hint of rust. After dinner, I held my granddaughter in my arms and told my son, daughter-in-law, and two grandsons that I was going to see their mother and grandmother. I asked my son and daughter-in-law to take care of the three children and the two grandsons to look after their sister; it was too dark outside. They thought I was going to sit by Ruyu’s grave for a while.
Indeed, I went to Ruyu’s grave. I sat beside her and smoked a bag of cigarettes, speaking a few words to her. In the end, I didn’t know what else to say to her. As I stood up, I said, “Ruyu, wait for me, I still need to be good to you over there.” I felt my waist and pocket, the gun was hard and the bullets rattled.