2014.02.01 薄壳中的希望

shiyi18

Hope in a thin shell
In Chairman Mao’s China, it wasn’t just supplies that were rationed. The novelist Yiyun Li remembers the queues and what they taught her

Feb 1st 2014 (Updated Sep 4th 2015)

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By Yiyun Li

when i think of food, I think of queues. I was a child of rationing, and a big part of my education about the world and the people who inhabit it came from queuing for food. This was Beijing in the 1970s, and most of the things on our table—rice, flour, oil, pork, fish, eggs, milk, sugar, sesame paste, tofu—were rationed.

What was not rationed were the marvels a child could find in the world. Every Sunday I went shopping for food with my father. There was always more than one queue, and my father would install me in the longest one before joining a shorter one himself. The queues moved at the speed of a worm. It took courage and faith for a child of four or five to stand in line alone with people several times their size threatening to cut in. To secure my place I learned the trick, much to the frustration of whoever was in front of me, of pressing myself tightly to their backside. And then there was the fear that would never go away: what if I reached the front and my father didn’t show up? What if I were abandoned in that line for ever?


But he did always come back in time, so I learned to enjoy the wonders in the shop. It had an overhead transit system with motorised lines zigzagging around. The shop assistants would attach the payments to metal clips, the money would travel to the cashier and later the change would travel back. There was an apparatus fixed to the giant jar of cooking oil, and when each person handed a bottle to the assistant, he would only need to raise a lever to release the right amount of oil through the funnel into the bottle. On the counter were huge chunks of pork that looked inviting, though the slice the assistant cut for us always had more fat than lean meat—but don’t ever think of complaining, because the moment you opened your mouth he would withdraw the meat, and others would ask for it. Rationing didn’t mean you could always get your share.

Among the marvels, there were glimpses of grim reality. A man walked from line to line, saying he had lost his family’s ration book: had anyone picked it up? But no one would meet his pleading eyes. Another time, a crowd gathered to watch two women calling each other nasty names. One was foxier than the other, and stood accused of using her charms to get a better slice of pork. From time to time the shop assistants, reigning from the other side of the counter, would stop to have a long chat about a movie, just so they could keep everyone waiting. One day the line spilled outside the shop, and I watched a bus pull in. The conductor leaned out of the window, looking at an old man running to catch the bus. The moment the old man reached the door, panting, the conductor hit the button and banged the door shut, waving goodbye with a wide smile.

If you were a child of the rationing system, sooner or later you learned that it wasn’t just food that was rationed. So was hope, dignity, comfort, love. When my mother heard that I had cried for the old man, she dismissed my tears as shameful, saying my heart was too soft.


But even that soft-hearted child could find the goddess of fortune smiling on her. Standing in the queue one Sunday, I noticed a basin of eggs on the counter. It can’t have been the first time it had happened, as I already knew that one lucky customer would get that basin of eggs, sold off cheap and—best of all—not recorded in the ration book.

We waited for the shop assistant to point her magic finger. It picked out my father and she said the eggs would be ours if we wanted. I trailed home a step behind my father, watching more than a dozen eggs, yolks and whites, floating in a clear plastic bag. It was a warm day and we didn’t have a refrigerator, so my father cooked them right away, and I found myself tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs.

If you were that child of the rationing system, you’d have never seen such luxury. You would grow up and always feel hope when you see a full plate of scrambled eggs. That feeling is still there 30 years later, but it comes with another shadow. The day you were lucky enough to get a basin of eggs, you also watched a long line of strangers eyeing you with jealousy, even hatred. You were not who you were, but what you were rationed to be.

Pictured The author (right) with her older sister and their egg-scrambling father in Beijing in 1980



薄壳中的希望
在毛主席的中国，被配给的不仅仅是物资。小说家李逸云回忆起排队的情景，以及排队教会她的东西。

2014年2月1日 (2015年9月4日更新)


作者：李逸云

提到食物，我就想到了排队。我是配给制的孩子，我对这个世界和居住在这个世界上的人的教育，很大一部分来自于排队买食物。那是1970年代的北京，我们餐桌上的大部分东西--米、面、油、猪肉、鱼、鸡蛋、牛奶、糖、芝麻酱、豆腐--都是配给的。

没有配给的东西是一个孩子可以在这个世界上找到的奇珍异宝。每个星期天我都和父亲一起去买菜。排队的人总是不止一个，父亲会把我安排在最长的队伍里，然后自己再加入一个较短的队伍。排队的速度像虫子一样快。对于一个四五岁的孩子来说，独自排队是需要勇气和信心的，因为有比他们大几倍的人威胁要插队。为了确保我的位置，我学会了一个技巧，让排在我前面的人感到非常沮丧，我把自己紧紧地贴在他们的背上。然后是永远不会消失的恐惧：如果我到了前面而我的父亲没有出现怎么办？如果我被永远遗弃在那条队伍中怎么办？


但他总是及时回来，所以我学会了享受商店里的奇迹。它有一个高架运输系统，周围有机动的线，呈之字形。店员们会把钱夹在金属夹子上，钱会被送到收银员那里，随后零钱会被送回来。有一个固定在巨大的食用油罐上的仪器，当每个人把瓶子交给助手时，他只需要抬起一个杠杆，就能把适量的油通过漏斗放进瓶子里。柜台上放着大块的猪肉，看起来很诱人，虽然助手为我们切的那片肉总是肥肉多于瘦肉--但千万别想抱怨，因为你一张嘴，他就会把肉收回来，其他人就会要求吃。配给制并不意味着你总是能得到你的那份。

在这些奇迹中，也有一些严峻的现实的一瞥。一个人从一排走到另一排，说他丢失了他家的配给册：有人捡到了吗？但没有人愿意接受他恳求的目光。还有一次，一群人聚集在一起，看两个女人互相骂对方的脏话。一个比另一个更狡猾，她被指控利用自己的魅力来获得更好的猪肉。柜台另一边的店员们不时地停下脚步，就一部电影聊上几句，以便让大家等得更久。有一天，队伍排到了店外，我看着一辆公共汽车驶入。车长从窗户里探出头来，看着一个跑来赶车的老人。当老人气喘吁吁地走到门口的那一刻，售票员按下按钮，砰的一声关上了车门，带着灿烂的笑容挥手告别。

如果你是配给制的孩子，你迟早会知道，配给的不仅仅是食物。希望、尊严、安慰和爱也是如此。当我的母亲听说我为老人哭了，她认为我的眼泪是可耻的，说我的心太软。


但即使是那个心软的孩子也能发现幸运女神在向她微笑。一个星期天，我站在排队的队伍中，发现柜台上有一盆鸡蛋。这不可能是第一次发生，因为我已经知道有一个幸运的顾客会得到那盆鸡蛋，廉价出售，而且最重要的是没有记录在配给簿上。

我们等着店员用她那神奇的手指指着。她选中了我的父亲，并说如果我们愿意，这些鸡蛋就是我们的了。我跟在父亲身后一步步回家，看着十几个鸡蛋，蛋黄和蛋清，漂浮在一个透明的塑料袋里。那是一个温暖的日子，我们没有冰箱，所以我父亲马上就把它们煮了，我发现自己正吃着一盘炒鸡蛋。

如果你是那个配给制度下的孩子，你就不会看到这样的奢侈。你会长大，当你看到满满一盘炒蛋时，你会一直感到希望。这种感觉在30年后仍然存在，但它伴随着另一个阴影。在你幸运地得到一盆鸡蛋的那一天，你也看着一长串的陌生人用嫉妒，甚至仇恨的眼光盯着你。你不是你自己，而是你被配给的东西。

图为 1980年，作者（右）与她的姐姐和他们的炒蛋父亲在北京。