Stories of the Sahara by Sanmao, translated from the Chinese by Mike Fu, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2020
Around ten the night is wine-inspired, and even the most tight-lipped Chinese émigrés, bruised from decades of survival, come around to reminiscing. Shenzhen and Xiamen and northeastern accents collide, comparing childhood hardships, fears, regrets. Sunflower shells are cracked and peanut skins snow the table, and the dialogue coheres at a single incredulous certainty: how lucky. How lucky we are to be here, because how easily it could have been otherwise.
One of the most beloved characters of most Chinese children born after 1940 is the infamous Sanmao (三毛 / Three Hairs), a pitiful orphan so impoverished he could only manage to grow, well, three hairs. Set largely in nationalist Shanghai, the narrative of Sanmao detailed his nomadic wanderings, involving most often ignominious miscarriages of justice, teetering hunger, and desperate, one-yuan schemes. Round-headed, ribcage-baring, picking up cigarette butts on the street, Sanmao was adored by children like myself—poor but not destitute, bred with an uncertain yet determined idea of the world’s cruelties, cultivating a helpless, weary sort of empathy for a two-dimensional friend.