The old team leader, who had welcomed us into U Village with gongs and drums, was the one closest to us. He loved managing every affair, large or small, and naturally assumed the role of guardian to the educated youth. When we arrived, the old team leader's extended family was at its zenith: five children — three sons and two daughters — thriving and prosperous. His wife ran the household tirelessly, never complaining, always warm-hearted toward others. Their eldest son, Shanhu, was practically one of our brothers. Slightly older than me, he was even shorter and slighter of build — there may have been some developmental issue — but he was no slouch at farm work. A full laborer, he served as the team's work-point recorder. Shanhu had returned to the fields after finishing primary school and, as the firstborn son, shared the family's heavy burdens alongside his militia-sister. Three breadwinners, plus two younger brothers who gathered manure, herded ducks, and did odd jobs after school — the family earned work points in abundance. This family's flourishing, combined with the old team leader's prestige, rivaled the household of the bald-headed team leader with his four “golden blossoms” (sisters); these two families were the most prominent among the village's sixty or seventy households. The old team leader's home was our home too — we felt as much at ease there as in our own. Everyone in the family was warm-hearted, including the youngest, a six-year-old girl who would wave her arms and jump for joy the moment we arrived. Whenever they cooked something special, the old team leader would call us over. The auntie never complained, always attending to us with a quiet smile as we ate and drank.
Shanhu was lively and sincere, close to us educated youth as a true brother, helping us in countless ways. He always carried his work-point ledger — a notebook full of his scrawls, the point records legible only to himself. I have seen many people with bad handwriting, and my own hand is wretched enough, but to write Chinese characters as ugly, misshapen, and indecipherable as his was a real achievement. After I left U Village for university, we kept in touch. Every letter from him required a long struggle of deciphering before I could make out eight or nine parts in ten. At the end of every letter he would draw little symbols — two hands clasped tight, or a heart with a line attached — a simple, heartfelt wish that our friendship endure forever.
The old team leader was a figure of great prestige in the village — lean, dark-skinned, with a pointed chin, robust of frame, his laughter and talk ringing like a great bell. We never quite knew when he had become team leader, or when he yielded the post to the bald little team leader. What we did know was that he was a veteran, literate and well-traveled, the true heart of U Village. Our arrival thrilled him beyond measure. He bustled about, making arrangements with meticulous care. There was only one thing I found rather comical, inwardly resistant to but never daring to show it: the old team leader, with clockwork regularity, organized weekly political study sessions for us that lasted deep into the night. On these occasions, he would shoo every family member, young and old, out of the house, brighten the kerosene lamp without a thought for the oil it consumed. Deadly serious, sitting ramrod straight, he wore an expression of profound contemplation. I remember him leading us through the Critique of the Gotha Programme, reading word by word with the air of a professor — though he never offered any commentary of his own. As for Marxism-Leninism, I had only dabbled in "political economy" during middle school and understood little of the other works. The things I couldn't grasp, he didn't grasp either — after all, he had only a primary-school education. I often wondered what was going through his mind. Why such fervor for those abstruse Marxist-Leninist texts, and why that perpetual air of deep thought? Back then I saw myself as a mere kid, and the old team leader was a respected, authoritative elder, our pillar of support — even when doubts stirred within me, I never dared question him. These study sessions continued until the day I left U Village.
The old team leader had a magnetic singing voice, tinged with a touch of world-weariness, deeply affecting. I remember the weeding season in the flooded paddies — warm sunshine, emerald-green seedlings, gentle spring breezes. The old team leader would weed and sing in measured cadence, his voice rising and falling like a boatman's chantey, carried by the wind in wave after wave, lingering long in the air. What a scene of color and sound, of harmony and reverie — an idyllic vision of agrarian life.
Many years passed, but the old team leader's song remained lodged in my memory, though I never discovered its origin. Then last year, a new song on my daughter's iPod seized me instantly. It wasn't, of course, the old team leader's song, but its tonal essence bore an uncanny resemblance — it resurrected a long-buried melody in my heart. Whenever the song plays, the old team leader's face and figure reappear before me, along with the clear breezes and gentle sun of those open fields, the simple, unhurried scenes of rural life and labor. I asked my daughter what the piece was. She looked at me as if I were a total bumpkin: "It's Akon — 'Don't Matter,' the song that took the world by storm." This African-American song, released in 2007, quickly dominated the airwaves, holding the number-one spot for two straight weeks. I was amazed — and astonished — that across thousands of mountains and rivers, a mysterious, ancient Chinese folk tune could resonate so perfectly with an African-American song. I could even glimpse in Akon himself the shadow of the old team leader — dark, lean, and capable.
When I returned to the village after graduating from university, the old team leader had already passed away — cancer had taken his life. His daughter had married far away; word came back that her husband was jailed for gambling. The second son had died of hepatitis when treatment came too late. The auntie, battered by blow after blow, had aged into silence. Gone was the laughter from that household; only Shanhu held it together, nearly thirty and still unmarried. When I brought it up, he would give a bitter smile and say there was no hurry — he had to put his younger siblings through school first; his own affairs could wait. My heart sank, heavy with grief at the capriciousness of fate: that once flourishing household, first robbed of its pillar, then ravaged by one misfortune after another, now so desolate. The song buried in my memory grew more achingly bittersweet with the weight of time.
The past drifts like smoke. The day before yesterday, revisiting old haunts, I ran into Sis II— now surrounded by children and grandchildren.
I have only now sorted out the relationships: it turns out the old team leader and the new team leader were the two great intermarried clans of the village. The old team leader, who welcomed us three educated youth with gongs and drums, had two siblings — his younger sister was the barefoot doctor who housed us in those early days and looked after us then. The old team leader's younger brother married the new team leader's second sister (whom I called Sis II). The photograph is their family portrait. The homes of the old team leader and his siblings all stand not far from this pond. Beside the pond was the vegetable plot allotted to us educated youth.
Returning to the old place, I encountered Sis II at the village entrance. She said, "Wei was always the scholarly one — he knew English and was forever at home listening to English radio broadcasts." That was me, having brought my family's transistor radio to the countryside to catch the English-language lecture programs on Anhui and Jiangsu provincial radio. Somehow, during the Cultural Revolution, some official must have approved it, because many provinces launched English radio courses — a rare opportunity for foreign-language study in those years. Sis II told me the third and youngest sisters are both doing well now. Sis III lives nearby, just in town. The youngest works out of town.
朝华午拾 · 第10章：插队山村（下）
敲锣打鼓把我们迎进村的老队长跟我们走得最近。事无巨细，他都爱来管，自然充当了知青监管人的角色。我们插队的时候，正是老队长大家庭最鼎盛的时期：五个孩子，三男二女，人丁兴旺。老伴操持家务，任劳任怨，对人热情有加。大儿子山虎算我们哥们，比我略长，但长得比我还矮小一大截，似乎发育有问题，但干活并不赖，是个整劳力，担任队里的记分员。山虎小学毕业就回乡种田，作为长子，与女民兵姐姐一起，帮助父亲分担家庭重负。三个劳力，加上两个弟弟拾粪、放鸭，放学做点零工，一家人挣足了工分。这个家庭的红火兴旺，加上老队长的威信，可与家有四朵金花的光头队长一比，这两大家是村子里六七十户人家里面的显赫人家。老队长的家也是我们的家，在他家里我们感觉在自己家一样地自在。一家都是热心人，包括最小的六岁女儿，我们一来，就手舞足蹈，欢呼雀跃。家里做了好吃的，老队长就把我们叫去。大娘从不抱怨，总是笑吟吟默默在一旁伺候我们吃喝。
山虎很活跃，实诚热心，跟我们知青亲如兄弟，给了我们很多帮助。他总是随身带着他的记分簿，满本子是他的涂鸦，只有他自己能看懂的那些工分记录。我见过不少字写得差的人，我自己也一手烂字，可把汉字写到他那样难看，那样奇形怪状，不可辨认，还真不容易。我离开尤村上大学期间，我们一直保持着联系，每次读他的信都要辨认老半天才能猜八九不离十。他每封信尾总是画点图示，两只手紧握啊，或者一颗心系上一条线，朴素地表示他对我们友谊地久天长的祝愿。
老队长是村里德高望重的人物，他清瘦黝黑，尖小巴，身子骨健朗，谈笑如洪钟。他哪年当的队长，哪年让位给光头小队长，我们不很清楚。只知道老队长是退伍军人，识文断字，见多识广，是尤村的核心。我们的到来，老队长异常兴奋。他跑前跑后，张罗安排，滴水不漏。只有一件事，我感觉有些滑稽，内心有抵触，却不敢流露：老队长雷打不动，每周要组织我们政治学习和座谈一次，一学就是一夜。每当这个时候，老队长就把家里的大小孩子统统驱离，把煤油灯点得亮亮的，一点不心疼熬油。他不苟言笑，正襟危坐，特别严肃深思的样子。记得他组织学习《哥达纲领批判》，一字一板地阅读，那样子很象个教授，可从来也没见他有自己的讲解。对于马列，我只在中学迷恋过"政治经济学"，对于其他著作不是很懂。我听不明白的，他其实也不懂，毕竟他也就小学毕业的文化程度。当时我就好奇，他心里在想什么。为什么对那些深奥难懂的马列原著那么热衷，而且总摆出若有所思的样子。我当年自觉是个小毛孩，老队长是可敬有威的长者，是我们的依靠，即便心里有疑惑，也从不敢追问。这样的学习一直持续到我离开尤村。
老队长唱歌富有磁性，略带沧桑，很有魅力。记得在水田薅草的时节，暖洋洋的阳光，绿油油的禾苗，春风和煦。老队长一边薅草，一边张池有度地唱起歌来。听上去有点象船工号子，声音高高低低的，随着风，一波一波袭来，抑扬悠长，不绝如缕。那是怎样一种有声有色，和谐无间，引人遐想的农耕图景啊。
很多年过去，老队长的歌声却一直留在我的记忆中，虽然我从未搞清这首歌的来历。直到去年，女儿的 iPod 新增的一首歌，一下子把我抓住了。这歌当然不是老队长的歌，可曲调内蕴与老队长的歌神似，是它复活了我心中掩埋已久的歌。每当歌声响起，老队长的面容身影，广阔天地的清风和日，单纯悠长的田家生活和劳动的场景，就在我眼前浮现。 我问女儿这是什么曲子。女儿一副我是土老冒的惊讶，这是 Akon 啊，那首红透半边天的歌曲 don't matter 啊。这首黑人歌曲2007年一出品，很快在电台热播，连续两周居于排行榜首。我惊喜，也感到诧异，远隔千山万水，神秘古老的中国民间小调居然与带有美国非裔色彩的黑人歌曲如此契合。甚至我在 Akon 本人身上也隐约看到黑瘦干练的老队长的身影。
我大学毕业的时候曾回村探望，那时老队长已经离开人世，是癌症夺走了他的生命。女儿远嫁，传回的消息是女婿赌博被抓进了局子，二儿子肝炎治疗不及时丢了性命。大娘经受这种种打击，显得衰老无语。家庭再也没有了欢声笑语，只有山虎撑着这个家，快30的人了一直未娶媳妇。谈起来，他总是苦苦一笑，说不急，先把弟妹上学供出来，自己的事可以放一放。我的心沉沉的，感伤世事无常，那么鼎盛兴旺的大家先失了顶梁柱，复遭种种不幸，如今如此零落。那记忆深处的歌声在我心中也更加增添了些许沧桑的苦涩和无奈。
补记（2019年三月23日）
往事如烟：前天寻访旧地，遇到了插队时姐妹花中的二姐，如今是子孙绕膝了。
现在才梳理清关系，原来老队长和新队长是村子里联姻的两大旺族。敲锣打鼓欢迎我们三位知青入乡的老队长一共兄妹仨，妹妹是赤脚医生，是我们的东家，当年也对我们很照顾。老队长的弟弟娶了新队长的二妹（我叫二姐）。照片就是他们的全家福。老队长和他姐弟三家都在这个池塘边不远。池塘边还有分给我们知青的菜地。 重返旧地在村口巧遇二姐。二姐说，维当年就是学问人，会英语，老在家听英语广播。那是我把家里的晶体管收音机，带到乡下，为了听安徽台和江苏台的英语广播讲座。文革年代不知道哪位领导批准的 很多省开办了电台的英语讲座，是当年难得的外语学习机会了。二姐告诉我，三妹小妹如今日子都还不错。三妹不远，就在镇上。小妹在外地做工。
