Chapter Seventy-Four: The Second Master

Now, the cricket cage can be placed inside, the water trough set, and a wooden feeding board laid atop—this is to keep the jar clean, so the food for the crickets is always set on this little plank. According to the old man, the jar must be kept moist, but the cage itself must remain dry. That’s why each jar should have at least two or more cages, swapping in a dry one every day, though the moisture inside the jar must not be too low.

Whether the water is for adjusting humidity or for the crickets to drink, tap water must never be used; instead, rainwater is required. This is because tap water contains disinfecting chemicals, which might be harmful to the crickets. So every summer, those who keep insects set an empty water tank in the courtyard to collect rainwater. If you meet one of these enthusiasts, he might ask, “Did you collect rainwater this year?”—which is really his way of asking whether you’re still keeping insects this year.

That old man had only gotten this far in his lesson to Hongtao today; he hadn’t even touched on fighting crickets, let alone how to judge the quality of singing or fighting insects, or which special foods should be given to which champion fighters, or the techniques used in matches—none of that had been passed on yet. According to him, to truly master the art of cricket-keeping would cost a person half his life, and a great deal of dedication.

“No wonder the bannermen descendants were useless at everything—after their reliable income dried up, they had to sell their houses and land just to survive. Turns out all their time was spent pondering over things like this. If they lived in later times, they’d be folk culture masters—wouldn’t starve, and might even live quite well.” Cradling his five jars, Hongtao returned to his grandmother’s house, sneaked into his uncle’s room, and began examining each of today’s acquisitions with great care.

“Xiao Tao, what have you brought back here? Cricket jars? They look pretty nice!” At that moment, his young uncle burst in with a face full of excitement, reaching out at once for the jars.

“Don’t touch! These jars are worth more than you. If you dare lay a finger on them, tomorrow I’ll shout the whole story of you and Stinky Big Sister all through your building’s hallway.” Hongtao no longer had to bribe his uncle; now he gripped his uncle’s greatest weakness—affection!

“Tch, who even plays with these anymore? Let me show you the gun I just made—I used two of your bike spokes.” Young uncle fished out a handmade pistol fashioned from No. 8 wire.

This gun was different from the slingshot guns he’d made before: the muzzle was fitted with several sections of bicycle chain, which could be pried open in the middle; a spoke nut was hammered into the frontmost chain link, and at the back, a striker was lashed on with several rubber bands.

“It’s just a match gun.” Hongtao recognized it at once—this was the era’s favorite homemade toy among boys. You’d wedge a match into the chain, thread it through the spoke nut’s hole so the match head was caught in the chain, then snap the chain shut. Pull the trigger, the rubber bands would sling the striker forward to strike the match head, causing it to explode, flinging the spent matchstick far off, and giving a sharp, crisp crack.

“You’ve played with one of these too? I only finished it this morning…” His uncle had been brimming with pride, but Hongtao named the toy in a heartbeat, ruining his moment of glory once again.

“Uncle, do you know where I can find any pieces of wall brick? I need some.” Hongtao didn’t bother discussing childish toys further. He’d thought about telling his uncle how to modify the match gun into a **, but on further thought, that would be a bad idea—the ** could actually hurt someone. He couldn’t let his uncle play with it.

“Wall bricks? What do you want those for?” His uncle couldn’t keep up.

“For raising crickets—you wouldn’t understand. Just tell me where I can find some.” Hongtao’s uncle was a typical streetwise kid, whose footprints could be found in every courtyard around.

“There’re a few in the inner yard, under the pickle jars. What’s so fun about keeping crickets? We’d be better off catching ground beetles—three for a penny, and in just one evening we could earn more than a dime.” His uncle had no interest in crickets; he only cared about two things: money, and Stinky Big Sister.

“Here, this is my beetle-catching money for today. Let’s say I joined you. In a few days, I’ll have you catch crickets with me. Don’t say I didn’t go with you today!” Hongtao handed him a ten-cent note, then grabbed a hammer from the toolbox and headed straight for the backyard.

According to tales from his grandmother, not long before Hongtao was born, the city moat still had its walls. Later, when air-raid shelters were being dug and bricks were in short supply, the ever-resourceful people simply tore down the city wall and used its bricks to line the shelters. Still, plenty of bricks remained; some became stepping stones, some were left abandoned in corners for years on end. Only in the twenty-first century did these big old bricks once again become treasures.

“Ah!—Oh, you wicked boy, you nearly scared me to death! What are you doing sneaking about in the dark?” Just as Hongtao found the water jars in the inner yard and was about to hammer off a chunk of wall brick, a figure emerged, startled by him.

“Auntie, I’m just grabbing a bit of wall brick, it’s nothing, you go ahead with your business.” Hongtao replied as the hammer fell.

Clang—crash—damn! The brick lost a corner, but Hongtao’s swing lacked force: the hammer bounced up and struck the water jar beside it, smashing it.

“Oh, now I’ve caught you at last! If you’re not getting into mischief every few days, you’re tearing the roof tiles off. Come, let’s see what your grandpa has to say about this—see if there’s any more excuses left!” The neighbor aunt, who’d just been leaving, returned at the noise, grabbing Hongtao by the ear.

“Let me think—surely it’s been over half a year since I last had to stand up for you? Are you worried grandpa’s too idle, so you cause a little trouble for my amusement?” Grandpa didn’t shield him this time; he promised the neighbor aunt compensation for the broken water jar, then turned to Hongtao.

“Hehe, this time was an accident. I was trying to break off a piece of wall brick, but accidentally smashed the jar.” Grandpa’s humor surprised Hongtao, who found himself amused despite the trouble.

“What did you want the wall brick for?” Grandpa wasn’t inclined to defend him—mainly because he had a good relationship with old man Zhang next door and didn’t want a broken jar to stir up trouble between families. Were it any other neighbor, he’d surely have said: “Your jar was in the wrong place! Luckily nothing happened to our Xiao Tao; if he’d been hurt, could you have paid for it?”

“Wait here, I’ve brought back something interesting today—I’ll fetch it for you.” Hongtao never hid small things from his grandpa. He dashed back to his uncle’s room and returned with the big box of cricket jars.

“Oh my, aren’t these cricket jars! Let me have a look—yes, these are old pieces!” Grandpa wasn’t a true insect enthusiast, but he was at least an amateur—he might not know all the subtleties, but he could certainly recognize the jars.

“I bought them from the consignment shop for four yuan—do you think they’re worth it?” Hongtao slashed the true price by a factor of ten; he did this often. Buy an old watch for eighty yuan, tell grandpa it was twenty, even getting the shop clerk to write him a fake receipt to fool grandpa—never a real stamped one, of course, but always an unstamped slip. The real receipts he kept well hidden.

“Well worth it! Judging by their condition, they’re at least from the late Qing. Older than my grasshopper gourd, in fact. Next time you find a good gourd, get one for grandpa. My grasshopper doesn’t sing much—I’ll need to find another.” Grandpa didn’t dwell on the money.

“Today I met an old man surnamed Na, a pedicab driver. He taught me a lot about raising crickets. Do you know him?” Hongtao wanted to find out more about the old man from grandpa, who’d lived his whole life in this area.

“Big Baldy? With the shiny tricycle?” Grandpa recognized him right away.

“That’s the one—he gave me a ride home and told me all sorts of cricket-keeping rules.”

“He’s quite the character. Years ago, his family had a big courtyard in Qianliang Alley. Later, their reliable income vanished—reliable income means…” Grandpa began to explain the old man’s background.

“I know what that means, grandpa. Go on!” Hongtao always had to interrupt adults like this in conversation—not out of rudeness, but because adults would always start explaining things they thought he shouldn’t know.

“Later, his father sold off most of the family’s belongings and opened a car factory. The business did well; everyone in the East City called him Na Gold Tooth—he had a mouthful of gold teeth. After Liberation, his eldest son, an officer in the Nationalist army, tried to escape by plane with his family. There were only three tickets, meant for the old man, his younger brother, then let the mother and sister-in-law stay behind and face whatever came. But Old Na was tough: he gave the ticket to his pregnant wife and stayed in Beijing with his mother instead. What a tragic fate!” Grandpa sighed, visibly moved.

“What happened after that?” Hongtao hadn’t expected such a complicated history behind that grinning old man.

“His mother died within a few years. He sold everything they had, ignored government bans, and hired a crowd of monks from the Western Hills to perform funeral rites for her, all the way from Dongsi Avenue to outside Dongzhimen. Later, the government seized the family courtyard. He built himself a little house next to it, worked first shaping coal balls for others, then somehow got hold of that tricycle and became a pedicab driver. As for his wife and child, no one ever heard from them again. He never remarried, just lived alone all these years. When his time comes, not a soul will be there to see him off—a tragic fate indeed…” Grandpa sighed for the second time in as many minutes.