Long Hair Drama, Part 4

by Lijia Zhang
– China

Sundown left a trail of blood-red clouds in the western sky, yet evening offered no respite from the burning heat. With the plum rain season at an end Nanjing renewed its reputation as one of China’s four furnace cities, the temperature soaring over 40 degrees, or so we all believed – the government reported only 38 or 39. Yes, even the temperature was dictated by the authorities. Once it officially exceeded 37 degrees one working hour would be cut from the day. If it topped 40, all could go home.

The loudspeakers spitting propaganda and stirring tales of model workers were all the more unbearable in such heat. But I was riding away from them.

Two sentries stood at the factory gate, still as robots. When I passed, I stepped off my bike, right foot brushing the ground like a dragonfly skimming water, before getting back in the saddle. I had quickly learnt not to bother showing my work pass. “Warmly congratulate the successful launch of the carrier rocket,” read a massive sign papered over the entrance above the sentries’ heads, the bold red characters fading into pink after so much rain. Not long before, China had blasted a carrier rocket into the Pacific demonstrating its capability of carrying multiple warheads. The missile would enable China, for the first time, to strike at the continental United States. I knew my factory had played a role since each worker was awarded a generous bonus.

“See, what a great job I got you! Benefit your whole life.” My mother looked out for such occasions, as if to convince herself the decision to retire early had been the right one. By now, she was grudgingly collecting market fees from private business, a job she regarded as degrading for a former state-owned enterprise worker.

A whole life in Chenguang? I let out a long sigh as I pedalled over the sticky tarmac road, realising that my entire life was restricted to a ten-minute bike ride, all within the boundary of the immense compound: going to the factory to work in the morning, lunching in the factory’s dining hall, returning home to one of the factory’s residential areas, taking a shower at the factory’s shower house or receiving indoctrination at its cinema. If only I were not so tinghua, if only I had a little of Little Zhi’s panther nerve, I would have happily remained at school.

I was on my way to visit my little hero. I had not seen him for more than two weeks. Shortly after the denouncement of “capitalist trash” as the enemy of the people, Little Zhi was caught by the “secret agents” – plain-clothes security personnel who scoured the factory for workers whose appearance was tainted. That morning, Zhi was told to get a proper haircut if he ever wanted to set foot in the factory again. He had not done so since.

When he failed to show up Boss Lan had called his home, one of the few with a telephone. Zhi had returned for money and clothes before storming out again, his mother said. She begged Boss Lan not to inform Zhi’s father. Not yet.

The silence of the corridor, without Zhi’s tapping, marked his absence. When rumour reported his return I decided to pay him a visit, worried that he would lose his job. The labour law stated that any employee who failed to report for work for 15 days was considered to have left the position. I had never taken a serious interest in a boy before but the spark of affection had brightened my life, otherwise still and stale as a pool of stagnant water.

There were many people outside the compound. Having fled from their cramped bamboo steamer rooms, they peeled off their clothes, and splashed the pavement with buckets of water, again and again. But the heat bounced back, humidity heavily in the air.

High in the trees, cicadas chirped mechanically, on and on. Sweat crawled on my sticky skin like ants that had somehow made their way into my throat too. I coughed nervously as I knocked on his door.

“Aiya, please come in!” Zhi’s elegant mother greeted me, delighted a colleague had come to visit. She led me into her son’s room, where he lay on a sofa, listening to songs by the pretty-faced Taiwanese singer Teresa Deng. Colourful lights danced on the cassette player as the music played.

“Little Zhang, how come? Which wind brought you here?”

He stood up in surprise. He wore “trumpet trousers” with large flares, and a white singlet, rolled up to his stomach as if exposing some flesh would provide relief from the heat. I could not avoid noticing what a bamboo stick he was without the cover of his loose white shirt.

“Er, I’ve just been to the shower house. I came to see how you’re getting on.” I pushed my glasses back up my nose, trying to sound causal.

“Sit, sit.” He pointed at a sofa opposite, rolled down his singlet and moved to turn the music off.

“Please, just lower the volume.” Being alone in a young man’s room, I felt uncomfortable and hoped Deng’s feminine voice would put me at my ease. I enjoyed the chance to listen to “rotten music” – Deng’s songs were banned from public radio. Her sweet voice, whispering soft words of love, felt like a gentle breeze after the violent gale of revolutionary songs.

As the music faded into the background, I sank deeper into the first sofa I had ever sat on. A fan on the wooden floor blasted air across the spacious room. These block buildings were designed in the 1950s by the “Old Hairy Ones” – our nickname for the hirsute Soviet experts sent to guide the factory’s missile programme before political differences saw them off in the 1960s. Now, the spacious blocks housed factory dignitaries.

“What a luxury to have your own room!” I could hardly contain my envy. At home, I shared a bed with my grandma and my younger brother.

“Alright,” he grunted and lit a cigarette, waiting for me to take the conversation on.

“Are you going to leave the factory?”

“Not sure yet,” he replied, brushing his hair with his long fingers.

Some friends had proposed setting up a business, but he was not convinced. “Don’t really fancy the hard work, though the money could be good.”

“So why don’t you go back to work until you have a mature plan?”

His mother, eavesdropping from behind the door, stepped into our conversation with green tea and a plea. “Listen, listen to your colleague, please. I am worried to death. If you are expelled by the factory, where will your father put his face? He’ll die…”

“Stop nagging, old woman!” Zhi shouted at his mother. “I hate that fucking factory, so many fucking rules. Do you know, on that day, that stupid secret agent wanted to measure my hair with a ruler!”

“But you can’t just hang around at home forever!” his mother snorted.

“I can if I want.” He sounded like a spoiled child, complaining about food did not like. His mother was worried; he was not.

I had admired his courage. But now I saw his war of resistance was rooted in stubbornness, and in the knowledge that, as a privileged son of the system, his problem would be solved for him.

His mother softened her tone: “Look, as long as you agree to go back to the factory, I’ll arrange everything.”

Little Zhi returned to work a few days later, his hair – still long in style – cut just above the earlobes. His director father had been informed of the situation, and arrangements had been made. Zhi received a mild punishment with the excuse that he had been tending to his sick mother. But I didn’t think his long hair was so cool anymore – it was a mere façade, a plea for attention, not the statement of rebellion I had believed.

The percussive tapping returned to the corridor but it was no longer musical to me. A ripple in my stagnated pool had subsided.

Long Hair Drama is adapted from Lijia’s memoir Socialism is Great! – A Worker’s Memoir of the New China, published by Atlas books in March 2008 and appearing on The WIP in four parts – Ed.

About the Author
Lijia Zhang was born and raised in Nanjing, participated in the Tiananmen Square protest and ended up an international journalist. Her articles have appeared in South China Morning Post, Japan Times, the Independent (London), Washington Times, and Newsweek. She is a regular speaker on BBC Radio and NPR. She now lives in Beijing with her two daughters.

Visit Lijia’s website at www.lijiazhang.com