Old Lianchi

By JIA DASHAN

MIAOHOU Street was the most quiet and beautiful place in the county. A temple stood there whose gates and main palatial building had long since collapsed， leaving only a few stone tablets along with some tall and leafless pine trees from which sprouted a few blackish green branches. At the southwest corner of the temple was a clear pond with ducks， geese and lotus flowers. On the south edge of the pond was a stone where an old man often sat with his arms clasping his knees， looking very much a part of the scenery.

Though the temple was dilapidated， there remained one thing of great value： the bell tower. This was a legacy of the Tang Dynasty. With gray tiles and double eaves， it was a two-story pavilion with a huge bronze bell hanging from the top section. However， the wall of this bell tower was crumbling with woodworm and withered grass sprouted midst the rows of roof tiles. Whenever anyone climbed up there， the old man would yell across the pond：

“Hey， dont go up there – too dangerous！”

The man appeared to be quite old. He was bald， his eyebrows and mustache as white as snow， but his voice was powerful. I did not know his role， until the director of the repository of cultural relics told me that his name was Yang Lianchi and that he was the over bell tower watchman. Since the spring of 1956， he had been hired and granted a subsidy of RMB 4 per month.

I was interested in cultural relics， so when I was not busy at work， I would go to the temple to relax. One day I was walking along the other side of the pond， and called out：

“Grandpa， what a hard time you must have here！”

“Not at all， Im at rest every day.”

“How old are you？”

“Who knows？ Im too muddled to remember.”

After chatting a while， we got to know each other. We talked quite congenially. The old man was single and lived alone. His wife had passed away years ago， and his two sons， both vegetable growers， provided for him. In his own yard he also grew cabbage， turnip， and Chinese green onions. Apart from working in his yard， sitting on the stone by the pond， watching the doves flying up in the sky and the lotus floating on the pond， he also went to the temple to pull weeds and clear dog turds， tasks included in his four yuan stipend.

The director and I went to see him on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival. He sat in the yard， looking quite lonely， so I suggested：“Grandpa， why not buy a TV？”“No， its too expensive.”

“Then get a black and white one， theyre cheap.”

“I dont have enough money.”

“However much you still need， we can lend it to you.”

“Im not buying one，” he insisted， “Its a toy. If I had enough money and bought one， its me whod play with it， but if I became a debtor in order to buy one， then Id be played by it.”

The director and I both laughed， and he laughed， too. That night， the full moon light was beautiful， and he appeared in good spirits and kept talking. He still remembered the exact numbers of Arhats and Bodhisattvas there used to be in the temple years ago， and how many stone tablets， trees， and even coveys of doves used to nestle in the tower. As the autumn night grew chill， I suggested he dress more warmly. Just as he got to his door， he suddenly stood still， holding his breath as he listened carefully. He looked up at the bell tower， and yelled loudly： “Hey！ Come down！ You shouldnt play up there. I wont let you off if you break even a single tile...”

Before his yelling even stopped， a dog-like creature jumped from the tiles of the bell tower to the roof of a house. How did he know there was something moving up in the bell tower？ He told me it was because he had bright eyes and good ears， and what he called “Kung Fu.”

But then one day when I visited my fathers grave， I noticed a new tomb under a small tree nearby， on which was written “Tomb of Yang Lianchi.” Feeling all of this was rather too sudden， I gazed on the tomb and recalled his compassion， and then took out some of the paper “ghost money” prepared for my late father and burned some for Lianchi.

That afternoon， overwhelmed by deep feelings of grief， I went to his courtyard again. As soon as I went through the gate， I was startled– his house was filled with laughter. I opened the door， and several gray-haired folks appeared before my eyes. They were all listening to Lianchi talk about how to keep in good health. He read out a ballad slowly. After each line， the others would clap and echo him：

“Eat one bite less at each meal.”

“Yes！”

“Walk 100 steps after each meal.”

“Exactly！”

“Keep nothing on your mind.”

“Sure.”

“Get an ugly wife.”

The old men laughed out aloud as happily as children. I stared at Lianchi， and felt quite silly asking， “But arent you dead？”

The old folks all looked mortified， as did he. He then threw up his head and laughed merrily. He explained how， last winter when he had gone out of town to gather firewood， he saw more and more tombs sprouting up there. He grew afraid there might be no place for him， so he had heaped up a mound for himself in advance. Hearing this， all the old folk burst into laughter again.

It was getting warmer， as he sat with his arms about his knees， again by the pond watching the doves in the sky and the small lotus flowers in the water...

Every time someone walked up to the bell tower， he would yell， “Hey– dont go up there， its dangerous...” So he embellished the scenery and refreshed the air there like a statue or a verse of ancient poetry.

On the Tomb Sweeping Festival， I went again to pay respects to my dead father at his tomb， and found Lianchis tomb gone. So I went to ask him， “Wheres your mound？”

“I razed it down.”

“Why？”

“It stood out as a reminder.”

He told me， if you have too many things on your mind， your “Kung Fu” could be broken， and then you might not make it.