A Flock of Swirling Crows and Other Proletarian Writings by Kuroshima Denji

Author:Kuroshima Denji [Denji, Kuroshima]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Hawai‘i Press
Published: 2005-04-11T17:00:00+00:00

MILITARIZED STREETS

1

Several single-wheeled carts were rushing full tilt through the slum. A coolie the color of dust was pushing each one. The solitary wheel of each vehicle groaned as if in pain beneath the weight of huge gunnysacks. Across from the slum stood a Chinese barracks with blue roof tiles. The carts, their rhombus-shaped sails inflated, left the slum and disappeared behind the unbaked brick walls of the barracks. The sails vanished from view. Only the wheels continued to groan in the distance …

A child was defecating behind a sorghum straw fence of a slum shanty, squatting surreptitiously as even Mencius himself might have done when young, and poking at the excrement with a slender stick. Heaps of refuse—scraps of paper, rags, straw, broken glass—lay scattered everywhere. A woman with bound feet hurried by looking like an ancient curio from a thieves’ market. Coolies with flattened faces were rummaging hungrily through the bits of trash, the peanut shells, the watermelon rinds. Anything that seemed edible—carrot stems, wilted greens, or radish peels—they pulled out and ate.

In the opposite direction from the groaning carts, a match factory’s machine saw was devouring poplar logs with a roar as though whittling bones. Four or five White Russian soldiers stepped out of the bluish black interior of the Chinese barracks.

“Need a ride?” A crowd of rickshaw pullers in search of customers materialized and surrounded the Russians. The seats of the coolies’ trousers shone with wear. They squabbled noisily, each trying to be the first to grab a customer. “Need a ride?”

The Russians, not so much as glancing at them, walked off with great long-legged strides. Long ago they had fled east from their native land and then from Siberia escaped to China. The only clothes they had arrived in had fallen apart, even the belts. Although penniless, they managed to lay hold of suits and overcoats that were ten years out of style. As in the past, they wore Cossack hats of smudged black fur, leather boots, and gray-blue trousers that were baggy in the seat and tight in the knees. Their heads and shoulders towered above the shorter Chinese. A man walking alongside dressed in Chinese clothing addressed them. It was Yamazaki.

“What did you get paid this month?”

“Not a penny.”

“And last month?”

“Last month, too, not a penny.”

“And the month before that?”

“The month before, too, not a penny.”

“Smack that man!” Yamazaki, a Japanese wearing Chinese clothing, lowered his voice. “To hell with him, smack him! Give that great big Chang Tsung-ch’ang a good smack on his fat blubbery cheeks!”

The White Russian soldiers tossed their heads back and burst into mirthful laughter. Their chief, Mirklov, had sold them to Chang Tsung-ch’ang. After that they were bought by the Shantung Army. Straddling short Chinese horses, their shoes nearly dragging along the ground, they were sent repeatedly into the danger of the front lines. At the front, some had intercepted bullets and fallen. Some were driven back having lost a leg, an eye, or an arm. Some grew tired of the smell of garlic wafting about the Chinese and deserted.

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