根男 Gen Nan

我爸有一个发小，和我爸隔一个村子一起长大，我不确定他全名叫什么，总是听亲戚们叫他根男。我奶奶经常说，我爸现在是怎么样，根男现在是怎么样，言语中透露出一点骄傲。因为根男是我爸那个镇上有名的黑社会。

我印象里的根男，个子比我爸高出一个头，很精瘦，牙齿缺了一颗，但他好像无所谓，总是笑嘻嘻。印象最深的是他的眼睛有一圈深黑色，不知道是因为睫毛很浓密还是眼睑自带的颜色，像是涂了一圈眼线，让人过目不忘。

根男发际的故事，我是从不同的亲戚口述中拼凑出来的，我那时候年纪小，方言也不能完全听懂，可能有些出入。据说根男年轻的时候模样秀气，经常去镇上的舞厅跳舞，一来二去就认识了一个富婆。他和富婆们经常一起打麻将，富婆手边有些闲钱就借给根男去开棋牌室。江浙农村的棋牌室，说白了就是赌场。于是根男就靠着棋牌室和给赌徒放高利贷挣了不少钱。我记事起，根男就已经是大家茶余饭后常常提起的根男了。这个叔叔行踪总是很神秘，从不参加家里的聚会，却经常平日里没事就来找我爸喝茶吃饭。有一年大年初一，叔叔来我们家拜年，他匆匆塞给几个小孩红包就走了，连口茶也没喝，说是要去办事。他走后，我奶奶很不高兴，觉得根男走得太急。我姑妈说，他是赶着去讨债，不知道今天又要去把谁的手指头砍下来了。我奶奶让我姑妈赶紧不要讲，叹了口气说，作孽啊。我分不清姑妈是在开玩笑还是认真的，但我着实吓了一跳，又或者说是恍然大悟。

根男有个女儿，倒是经常会被放在我们家。上了初中，她得了很严重的面神经麻痹，俗称面瘫。半张脸都歪了。亲戚们议论纷纷，说根男是遭了报应。那之后，他们家就带着她到处寻医问诊，我就不常见到她了。

我对于根男最后的印象，是在2008年，初一升初二的暑假。简中网络上我们这一代知识分子，常常谈起的2008年。我爸带我参加他的生日会，多少岁生日我不记得了，总之是很隆重的一个生日。我爸带我从市里的家驱车一个小时到了镇上最豪华的饭店，根男在那里定了一个包厢。我印象很深的是，一推门进去有四五张大圆桌，几乎坐满了人。那场面令我害怕，因为坐满了根男的朋友。虽然我年纪不大，但我猜得出来，那些都是他的小弟。他们操着不同的外地口音，争相恐后地要给根男进酒。一开始我和我爸跟一桌这样的人坐着，有几个叔叔明显已经醉了，来找我们说话，我有点害怕，于是我爸就安排给我们换到了另外一桌。

这另外一桌，坐了几个根男和我们家的远亲，因为我都不认识，我爸就一个个介绍，告诉我该叫婶婶还是姑妈。还有一家人，看上去和别的包着头巾的婶婶们不太一样，像是城里人的样子。我爸一脸神秘地问我：“你猜这个叔叔是做什么的？”，我看看他，看看他老婆和儿子，说不出话，也怕说错话。我爸说：“叫警察叔叔。”我心里非常吃惊，盯着叔叔看。那叔叔脸上有点不好意思，自己赶紧补了一句：“派出所小职员。“我不动声色地吃饭，心里满是嘀咕，为什么这个警察叔叔可以带着一家人来一个黑社会大哥的生日会？我又偷偷瞄了一眼他，他的身后，一群光着膀子纹着纹身的男人们兀自闹成一团。这对那时候的我，是一个不可思议的场景。

那天的饭，我没什么心思吃，因为包间里烟味很大，声音很吵。那天晚上是北京奥运会的开幕式，我爸白天在外面买好了卤菜在冰箱里。我迫不及待想要回家一边吃卤菜一边看奥运会了。我跟我爸爸说，来得及赶回去看开幕式吗？那个警察叔叔听到了，说他们等下也要回家看开幕式，他老婆也赶紧附和。我爸请他们走的时候顺便送我回家。看来我爸还得在这儿待一会儿。

时间差不多了，警察叔叔起身，我也跟着起身跟他们一家三口往门口走。之前那一桌的叔叔看我们准备走了，赶紧过来问怎么这么早就走了。我说我们要回去看奥运会。其中一人说，他们等下要去工人体育场，看刘德华的演唱会，还问我要不要去，他们跟刘德华认识，可以去后台见刘德华。我心里觉得他们本事真大，但我对刘德华一点兴趣都没有，就拒绝了。现在想想，我那时候竟然还天真地斟酌了一下，那不过是他们喝醉酒说的大话，认识刘德华或许是这些小弟们混出头的梦想。

回去的路上，警察叔叔开车，他儿子坐在副驾，我和他老婆坐后面。路上他们对刚才的饭局只字不提，只是简单聊了聊期待看到开幕式里的谁，还有猜测谁会是火炬手。主要还是他和他老婆聊那些所有家长都会关心的话题，他们听说我在一所很好的初中念书，就很自然地当着儿子的面数落了一番他们儿子的贪玩。这些很寻常的家庭话题，让刚从那个烟雾缭绕声色犬马的酒楼包间的我，有些恍惚。前面的路逐渐平坦宽广了起来，远处是市区五颜六色的景观灯，小镇在我身后越来越远。我渐渐把刚才的晚餐抛到了脑后，开始期待冰箱里的猪耳朵。

第二天，我爸稍微提了提那个警察和根男的关系。我妈不忘损一下我爸：”还是你爸厉害，黑道白道通吃。“我说：”我爸不就是白道吗？“我爸赶紧说：”不要瞎说八道。“ 之后我爸给了我一个红包，说是根男给我的，马上开学了可以买点书。我心里想，那个警察叔叔的儿子，应该也拿到了。

后来我印象里就再也没有见过根男，等到我上了高中，隐约从我爸妈的争吵里得知，根男被抓进去了，判了很多年。那段时间在大搞扫黑除恶，根男的那些关系都没有派上用场。而我妈之所以跟我爸吵架，就是因为我爸借给了根男一笔数目不小的钱，说是投资，当时根男保证每年都给我爸分红，而如今根男进去了，钱一分也没有拿回来。

再后来，我背井离乡去遥远的地方上学，回家的时候亲戚们提到根男，总说，不知道什么时候能出来。他面瘫的女儿，后来去读了卫校，家里还费了很大的劲通关系，安排她去动迁社区旁边新建成的医院里去当护工。没能当上护士，因为编制比以前难弄了很多。但我再也没有见过她，不知道她的面瘫好点了没有。我爸从来都没提起他借给根男的那笔钱，我妈说有二十万，后来我出国留学的时候我妈还鼓动我爸去问根男家里人要，不知道他有没有去。那几年房价节节攀升，动迁小区里包着头巾的婶婶各个都成了包租婆，听说还组团去日本玩了一圈。我妈则再也没提起借给根男的那笔钱。

English Translation

My dad has a childhood friend, someone he grew up with in a neighboring village. I’m not sure of his full name because I always hear relatives call him "Gen Nan." My grandma often compares the two, saying things like, "Your dad is doing this now, and Gen Nan is doing that," with a hint of pride in her tone. That’s because Gen Nan is known in my dad’s town as a local gangster.

In my memory, Gen Nan is a head taller than my dad, very thin, and missing a tooth. He didn’t seem to care about the missing tooth, always grinning. What stands out most about him are his eyes—surrounded by dark circles, either because of thick eyelashes or some natural pigmentation, giving him an unforgettable look like he was wearing eyeliner.

I pieced together Gen Nan’s story from various relatives’ accounts. I was young at the time, and I didn’t fully understand the local dialect, so there might be some inaccuracies. They said Gen Nan was quite good-looking when he was younger, and he often went to the town’s dance hall. Eventually, he met a wealthy woman. They played mahjong together, and she lent him money to open a gaming parlor. In rural Jiangsu and Zhejiang, these parlors were essentially small casinos. Gen Nan made quite a bit of money running his gaming parlor and lending to gamblers at high interest rates. As far back as I can remember, Gen Nan was always a topic of conversation during meals. He rarely attended family gatherings but often came by to have tea or a meal with my dad.

One year on the first day of the Lunar New Year, Gen Nan came to our house to pay his respects. He hurriedly gave out red envelopes to the children and left without even having a sip of tea, saying he had something to do. After he left, my grandma wasn’t happy, saying he left too quickly. My aunt joked that he was off to collect debts, maybe even cutting someone’s finger off. My grandma quickly told her to stop talking and sighed, "Such sin." I couldn’t tell if my aunt was joking or being serious, but it startled me, or perhaps it made me suddenly realize something.

Gen Nan had a daughter who often stayed at our house. When she entered middle school, she developed severe facial paralysis, commonly known as Bell’s palsy. Half her face was twisted. The relatives gossiped, saying Gen Nan was facing retribution. After that, their family took her everywhere seeking treatment, and I didn’t see her much anymore.

My last memory of Gen Nan was in 2008, during the summer between my first and second years of middle school. 2008 is often talked about by intellectuals of my generation online. My dad took me to Gen Nan’s birthday party. I don’t remember how old he was turning, but it was a big celebration. My dad drove us an hour from our city home to the town’s most luxurious restaurant, where Gen Nan had booked a private room. I remember clearly that when we opened the door, there were four or five large round tables almost completely full. The scene scared me because all the guests were Gen Nan’s friends. Even though I was young, I could tell they were his underlings. They spoke with various accents, eagerly competing to toast him. At first, my dad and I sat with a table of those people. Some uncles were clearly already drunk and came over to talk to us, which made me uneasy. My dad noticed and arranged for us to move to another table.

At this new table were a few distant relatives from both Gen Nan’s side and ours, none of whom I knew. My dad introduced each one to me, telling me whether to call them "aunt" or "cousin." There was also one family that looked different from the others—less like the headscarf-wearing women at the other tables and more like city folk. My dad mysteriously asked me, "Can you guess what that uncle does?" I looked at him, his wife, and his son, but I was too afraid to say anything. My dad said, "Call him ‘Police Uncle’." I was shocked and stared at the man. He seemed embarrassed and quickly added, "I’m just a small employee at the local police station." I quietly ate my meal, my mind spinning. Why was this police uncle here, attending the birthday party of a gangster? I snuck another glance at him, and behind him, a group of tattooed men were boisterously carrying on. It was an unbelievable scene for me at the time.

I didn’t have much of an appetite that day because the room was filled with smoke and very noisy. That evening was also the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. My dad had bought some braised food earlier and put it in the fridge. I was eager to get home, eat the food, and watch the Olympics. I asked my dad, "Can we make it home in time for the opening ceremony?" The police uncle overheard and said they were heading home to watch it too, and his wife quickly agreed. My dad asked them to take me home when they left. It seemed my dad still had to stay a while.

When it was time to go, the police uncle got up, and I followed him and his family out. One of the uncles from the previous table rushed over and asked why we were leaving so early. I said we were going home to watch the Olympics. One of them said they were going to Workers’ Stadium later for an Andy Lau concert and asked if I wanted to go, claiming they knew him and could take me backstage. I thought they must have some serious connections, but I had no interest in Andy Lau, so I declined. Looking back, I was so naïve to even consider it. They were probably just talking big in their drunkenness, and knowing Andy Lau was likely just a dream for these underlings.

On the way home, the police uncle drove, with his son in the front seat and me and his wife in the back. They didn’t mention the dinner at all, only chatting about which performers they were excited to see at the Olympics and speculating who would light the torch. Mostly, they talked about typical parental concerns, scolding their son for being too playful, right in front of him, when they heard I went to a good school. Their ordinary family chatter left me feeling a bit disoriented, having just left the smoky, chaotic scene of the dinner. As we drove, the road became smoother and wider, with the colorful city lights visible in the distance. The small town was fading behind me. I gradually forgot about the dinner and started looking forward to the pig ears waiting for me in the fridge.

The next day, my dad mentioned the police uncle’s relationship with Gen Nan in passing. My mom teased him, "Your dad is impressive, playing both sides of the law." I said, "Isn’t Dad on the right side of the law?" My dad quickly replied, "Don’t say such nonsense." Later, my dad gave me a red envelope, saying it was from Gen Nan, for buying books as the school year was starting. I thought to myself, that police uncle’s son probably got one too.

After that, I never saw Gen Nan again. By the time I was in high school, I vaguely learned from my parents’ arguments that Gen Nan had been arrested and sentenced to many years in prison. It was during a national crackdown on organized crime, and none of his connections could help him. My mom was upset with my dad because he had lent a significant amount of money to Gen Nan, calling it an investment, with Gen Nan promising annual dividends. Now that he was in prison, they never saw a penny.

Later, I left home for school in a faraway place, and when I returned, relatives would occasionally mention Gen Nan, saying no one knew when he would be released. His daughter, the one with facial paralysis, eventually went to nursing school. Their family pulled many strings to get her a job as a caregiver at a new hospital near the resettlement community. She couldn’t become a nurse because it was much harder to get a position than before. But I never saw her again, and I don’t know if her paralysis got any better. My dad never brought up the money he lent to Gen Nan. My mom said it was 200,000 yuan, and when I was studying abroad, she even encouraged my dad to ask Gen Nan’s family for it back. I don’t know if he ever did. Those years, housing prices skyrocketed, and the women from the resettlement community, with their headscarves, all became landlords. I heard they even took a group trip to Japan. My mom never mentioned the money again.