God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [85]
We were met at the entrance to the building by Wen’s wife, twenty years younger than he. She comes from a rural village. Her pretty face exuded warmth and determination. She said she was attracted to his talent and strong personality and knew she would spend the rest of her life with him. After their marriage, she bought a flatbed tricycle with which she pedals her husband and his musical equipment around the city. “I’m his wife, chauffeur, nanny, bodyguard, and eyes,” she joked. Wen must have heard our talking in the hallway and opened the door. I recognized that smiley face right away.
I told him about hearing him perform “Stepping into a New Era” and mentioned it seemed to be popular among blind street musicians: I’d heard it performed in Urumqi in the far northwest and in Beijing, but I liked his version best because he used blaring amplifiers. Wen said with mock aggression, “Are you making fun of us?” I laughed, “Would I dare?”
Wen Huachun: You know, times have changed and society is moving forward. We have to watch our backs and be optimistic about the future. Coping with the Communist Party is like handling a big tiger. You can pat and brush it, but you must be gentle. If you brush in the wrong direction, you’ll be in big trouble. I think this applies to both the blind and normal people. We have to “step into a new era.”
Liao Yiwu: Tell me about your life. How did you lose your sight?
Wen: I was born on December 8, 1944, in Huangjiaoye, on the south side of Chongqing city. As an infant, according to my mom, I had perfect eyesight. Everyone liked me because I never cried. I remember my mother taking me to wedding banquets and people around the table treating me like a dish, passing me around and smacking their lips to tease me. The hosts would always fill my pockets with candies. I also remember chasing and catching chickens in the yard. Even now, I can still see in my mind the old streets and the stores near my house. My grandma used to carry me on her back. She bought me tofu soup from street vendors. Then, in September 1947, before I turned three, my nanny realized I had what the locals called “rooster eyes.”
Liao: What’s that?
Wen: I could see fine in daylight, but at night, nothing. I was like a rooster. It was like my eyes were covered with a heavy curtain that couldn’t be lifted. I don’t know if you notice, when a rooster looks at something on the ground, it tilts its head. When I was going blind, I would do the same, tilting my head and trying to see. Sometimes, my neck would crane forward. Eventually, I couldn’t see anything at all and would cry and rub my eyes.
Liao: Was it some kind of infection?
Wen: I don’t know. My parents were busy with their business in the city. I was raised in the countryside by a nanny. In those days, children were not treated like they are today. My nanny had several children of her own. She had to farm in the field during the day and do house chores at night. She breast-fed me during breaks. So I spent most of my days crawling around on the floor, my face covered with dirt and mud.
But you know how people in Chongqing love spicy food! I started eating spicy food at a very young age, before I could even walk steadily. I would carry a big bowl of rice topped with a thick layer of red peppers. They were so hot that sweat and snot and tears streamed down my face. It was so good. People who didn’t know me would have thought that I was being punished for some misdeed. On summer days, I would sit around a hot pot and dip raw meat in hot spicy broth. My clothes were soaked with sweat. I would strip down to my underwear. When my parents moved me back to the city, they had to take a whole jar of peppers away from me because I broke out in a rash all over, on the corners of my mouth, inside my armpits, and on my back. There were two big red sores on each side of my temple, as big as peanuts. I kept