The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers by Anton Piatigorsky Page A

low cover and guesses that it will pour in a few seconds, a rain lasting three or four minutes at most, and probably ceasing as quickly as it began. This is not unusual for a spring afternoon in Shaoshan. He feels the pressure all aroundhim in the volatile pre-storm air, much like the climate in the village whenever he’s present—the incredulous squints and open grins of the labourers and landowners in the tiny shop where he exchanges sugar for pork, and the gossip and laughter at his expense as soon as he leaves. He knows what they’re saying about him. “Did you hear that Mao Tse-tung hasn’t yet slept with his wife? Impotent Tse-tung.”
    The rain collapses on the countryside all at once. Tucked under the tree, only sporadic, thick drops pass through the foliage to smack against Tse-tung’s homespun clothes. He pulls his knees into his chest and hides his book behind his back. He shakes his head at the dirt, wishing he could disappear, but then chastising himself for that desire. He knows Sung Chiang wasn’t as lazy as he is, always reading under a tree. He knows that he wouldn’t last a single week in the company of real bandits. No, he would be mocked and forcibly expelled from their hideout. Why would heroic bandits want to have as a brother a little boy who can’t even sleep with his wife—no, not even a boy, but a weak, crying girl with dainty hands, a high voice, and an awkward shuffle? All he is missing are the bound feet.
    The sunlight cuts through the dark clouds in angled shafts as the rain lessens. From atop his knoll, Tse-tung spies the labourer Wu working a few hundred metres away, standing ankle deep in the flooded field, his back bent as he plants young shoots. The clouds pass and the world floods with light, the irrigation pool sparkling around the rows of young shoots. Tse-tung wonders if Wu can provide him with a path out of Shaoshan, an escape from his humiliation. He grabshis book and tucks it into his large sack, slinging the sack around his shoulder. He puts on his rattan hat and marches into the muck of the rice paddy.
    Wu is focused on his planting and doesn’t see the boy coming. He only glances up when he hears the suck of Tse-tung’s feet in mud. They nod at each other, Wu seemingly indifferent to the youth’s presence, and certainly not about to start mocking him openly for his failure with woman Luo. That’s good. Tse-tung will show Wu that he’s a real man, as capable of working the fields as any stoic labourer. He unwraps a wet cloth around his first batch of rice shoots and withdraws a small spade. He digs a hole in the mud and stuffs the shoot inside. Wu will know all about the nearest Ko-lao hui lodges in Hunan province, as easily half the labourers in the region are members of that ancient and rebellious society, which has long opposed the Manchu rulers of the Qing dynasty, and is clearly modelled after the bandits in
Water Margin
.
    The landowner’s eldest son and the hired labourer Wu work side by side, each maintaining an efficient pace so as not to be called lazy by the other. Drops of perspiration slip from their foreheads and dissipate in the pool below. Their feet slosh in the mud. The rhythm of planting the rice lulls them both. The humidity is so thick that their repeated motions seem to carve ruts in the air. Tse-tung can’t bring himself to ask Wu his question, and yet, if he doesn’t, he’ll stay trapped in Shaoshan forever, as rooted in the earth as the rice shoots he’s planting. The work pains his back, but it’s also peaceful and cleansing. Tse-tung counts his shootsand realizes he’s planting faster than Wu. That’s a good sign; someone who works this quickly might someday become a leader of the Ko-lao hui, just like Sung Chiang. Tse-tung might succeed if he leaves Shaoshan and joins the bandits.
    “When’s your next trip to Hsiangtan?” he asks suddenly, without stopping.
    Wu flashes him a concerned look. “After planting season.”
    “And