The Crazed

by Ha Jin

  Whatever the truth was, I thought I’d better stop him from hallucinating. He might damage his brain. I shouted, “Hey, Professor Yang, wake up. We’re in the hospital now.”

  He made no response and kept singing and “dancing.” I went over, held his wrists, and clapped his hands a couple of times, hoping this might wake him. But it didn’t. He paused, then yelled, “Long live the Communist Party! Down with warlords! Long live the New China!” My mind boggled and I let go of his hands. He must have been imagining himself as a revolutionary martyr being dragged to an execution ground by the police like a hero in a propaganda movie. He was hopelessly crazy.

  I hurried out, heading downstairs to the nurses’ station. I knew Dr. Wu often prescribed sedative-hypnotic drugs for Mr. Yang.

  I expected to find Hong Jiang in the office, but the small woman wasn’t there. A nurse in her mid-twenties sat on a broad windowsill, her unbuttoned robe revealing her sea-green dress. Her hands were busy embroidering a butterfly on a white tablecloth. On her right, toward the corner and against the baseboard, stood a line of scarlet thermoses containing boiled water, their mouths emitting tiny hisses. She recognized me but didn’t budge, as if I were one of the nurse’s aides hired to do cleaning. Her large eyes were fixed on the needle-work in her long, rosy fingers; the butterfly, as large as a palm, was still missing a wing. Ignoring her slight, I walked up to her and asked if she was in charge of Mr. Yang’s medication.

  “Uh-huh,” she said without lifting her eyelids. Overhead a fluorescent tube was blinking with a faint ping-ping-ping sound.

  “My teacher has gone berserk today,” I told her. “He’s been singing and raving like a madman. Can you sedate him?”

  She only half listened and didn’t respond, so I repeated my request. After a few more stitches, she placed the tablecloth on the sill. She yawned but immediately clapped her narrow hand on her mouth. “I’m so tired,” she said, smiling feebly. “You know what? We tried to give him a sedative pill this morning. I mean your classmate Comrade Fang and I tried, but your teacher thought we were going to poison him and yelled for all he was worth. We couldn’t force him to take the medicine, you know. That would’ve agitated him more.”

  “Can you give him another tablet now?” I asked.

  “Well, I have no right to give him anything.”

  “But Dr. Wu often prescribes drugs for him, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he’s not here.”

  “Please help me calm him down, I beg you. I’m afraid he’ll hurt his brain if he goes on like this.”

  “Well, maybe we can put a pill into his porridge at dinner.”

  She squinted her left eye, then winked at me, as if asking, Isn’t this a smart idea?

  “But he’s running wild now,” I said. “Dinner’s still three hours away. Can’t you give him an injection or something? Help him, please!”

  “You’re a pretty good student,” she said dryly. She came down from the windowsill and went over to the long desk, on which sat a few shiny metal cases and a row of amber bottles containing drugs, all with glass stoppers in their mouths. She picked up the phone and called the doctor.

  I felt relieved to see her jotting down a prescription. She hung up, selected two ampules of medicine, and wrapped up an injection kit. Together we headed out. On our way upstairs, she told me that her name was Mali Chen and that she had just graduated from a nursing school in Shanghai. A metropolitan girl, I thought, no wonder she looks frail and anemic.

  Opening the door of the sickroom, I was surprised to see Mr. Yang sitting on the bed with one foot tucked under him. Strands of gray hair stuck out above his temples, making his face appear broader. How could he sit up by himself? Had somebody slipped in when I was away? Impossible. He must have done this on his own.

  Mr. Yang was still humming something that I couldn’t make out at first. Then lifting his voice, he chanted in gasps, “How powerful the tall cranes are! They can pick up tons of steel easily . . .”

  I realized he was impersonating the retired stevedore in an aria from the revolutionary opera The Harbor, praising the brawn of some newly installed cranes, but his voice was too smooth and too thin to express the proletarian mettle. I hadn’t known he could sing Beijing opera. He had seldom gone to the theater and must have learned the snatch from the radio.

  “See, the pill is still here,” Nurse Chen said to me and pointed to a small cup on the bedside cabinet. It contained a large yellowish tablet, probably barbiturate.

  While she was preparing the injection, I removed the quilt from Mr. Yang’s legs and got hold of the string of his pajamas, which was a long shoelace. He stopped short. Before I could untie his pants, he opened his eyes—only to see the syringe spurting a white thread of liquid. His face turned horror-stricken, though Nurse Chen forced a smile and said enticingly, “Well, Professor Yang, it’s time to have some—”

  “Help! Help! Mur-der! They want to poison me!” he screamed, his eyes glinting. He kicked his right leg but was unable to raise his arms. He was gasping, agape like a spent fish.

  The nurse looked scared, her eyebrows pinched together. She turned to me and asked, “Do you think we can still make him take the needle?”

  I didn’t answer. Mr. Yang kept howling, “Save me! They’re assassinating me!”

  “Stop this, please!” I begged him in an undertone.

  “Help me!”

  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Don’t kill me!”

  Nurse Chen took apart the syringe, dropped the needle back into the oval metal case, emptied the medicine into the spittoon, and wrapped everything up. “I think we’d better leave him alone,” she said with a toss of her head. “Let him cool off by himself. Every time we try to put him to sleep, we only upset him more.”

  I said nothing. Anger was surging in my chest, but I checked my impulse to yell at him.

  “Well now, I must be going,” she continued. “Don’t disturb him. It’ll take a while for this one to become himself again.” She put the injection kit under her arm and said to me casually, “Bye-bye now.” She left, her heels clicking away toward the stairwell.

  Professor Yang started sobbing; tears leaked out of his closed lids, trickling down his cheeks and stubbly chin. He whimpered something incoherently. I listened for a moment and felt he seemed to be begging mercy from someone, who might be an imagined murderer. He went on wagging his head and grunting like a piglet; his words had turned to gibberish.

  This mustn’t continue. I decided to give him the sedative pill no matter how hard he resisted. With a spoon I set about grinding the tablet in the porcelain cup until it became powder. On the cabinet stood an opened bottle of orangeade. I poured some of it into the cup and stirred the concoction for a minute, then sat down beside him. “Mr. Yang, drink this please,” I pleaded and raised the cup to his lips.

  He opened his eyes and saw the juice. He said, “You want to poison me, I know. I refuse to take it.”

  “Come on, it’s just orangeade. See, I also drink some myself.” I lifted the spoon to my mouth and made a gurgling sound as a parent would do to convince a child. “Ah, it’s so delicious. Please try it, just a small cup.”

  He said, “You slipped ratsbane into it, didn’t you? I know your dark fat heart.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Please have some!”

  “I won’t.”

  Hesitantly I used the spoon to pry his mouth open, but his teeth were clenched, and the steel scraped them noisily. I was afraid this might hurt his gums, so I stopped, wondering what to do. He jabbed his elbow at the cup in my hand, and a splash of the drink fell on the sheet and left a yellow stain. His mouth was sealed up like a startled clam.

  I wouldn’t give up and raised half a spoonful of the orangeade to his lips again, begging him, “Please try this. It will do you good. I just want to feed you and won’t hurt you.”

  “No, I won’t. You cannot cajole me anymore.”

  “Please, just a sip.”


  “No, that will be lethal.”

  Out of patience, I shouted, “Look at me! You don’t recognize me? Do I look like a murderer? I’m Jian, your future son-in-law.” I said the last word diffidently, but thrust my face in front him. His eyes opened a crack, then fully.

  “Oh,” he muttered, “I didn’t know I had a son.”

  “This is Jian Wan, remember me?”

  “I didn’t know it was you. What is it that you want?”

  “I’d like to feed you. Here’s a small cup of orangeade, please open your mouth.”

  Miraculously, he obeyed me like a well-behaved child. I carefully put the spoon into his mouth and turned it over. Slowly he swallowed the juice, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “I like the tangy flavor. It tastes excellent,” he said.

  “Sure it does,” I agreed.

  “What did you put in it?”

  “Nothing.”

  With less than ten spoonfuls I emptied the cup. I told him, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you and won’t let anyone hurt you. Now you should have some sleep.”

  Shamefacedly he watched me as I tried to move his half-paralyzed body; he even tried to shift his hips a little to facilitate my effort. Still, I had to exert myself hard. When I had finally put him back into bed, I was huffing and puffing.

  A few minutes later he went to sleep.

  3

  I didn’t expect that Banping and his wife, Anling, would make flounder dumplings. This was the first time I had eaten this dish, which my host told me was a delicacy in some coastal areas for celebrating spring. The stuffing was juicy and toothsome, tasting like prawn. It made me miss the fat catfish, long pike, and stout carp from the lower reaches of the Songhua River in the Northeast, where my parents lived.

  While we were eating, Banping bragged about his cookery. He had prepared the filling, seasoned with leeks and crushed sesame seeds. He even described to us how to debone the large flounder, how to peel its skin, and how to get rid of its blood so as to reduce the fishy taste, but Anling accused him of “cooking only with his mouth.”

  “Come on, don’t be so mean,” Banping said to her. “Didn’t I work the whole afternoon?”

  “You help only when we have good stuff to cook.”

  “That’s because I’m like a chef.”

  “So I’m just a kitchen maid who only chops vegetables and does dishes in this home?”

  “Uh-oh,” I stepped in, “you’re both chefs, of the first rank, all right?”

  We all laughed.

  “Don’t you have other music? This is too loud,” Weiya said to Banping, referring to the Beethoven that his cassette recorder was playing. I too felt uncomfortable; the symphony was so overpowering it seemed to be urging us to compete in wolfing down the food. Banping worshiped Beethoven and regarded Romain Roland’s Jean-Christophe as his bible. Inspired by the biographical novel, he often talked about the joy of life. To my thinking he was too optimistic.

  He got up and put a tape of popular songs into the player. Things eased up immediately.

  I noticed that under the washstand, welded of iron bars, sat a new electric stove, at least 1,500 watts strong, which was strictly prohibited in the dorms because of the drain on the electricity. In fact, a top school official, Vice Principal Huang, was in charge of catching users of electric stoves, teapots, immersion heaters, and cookers. He would personally spot-check dormitory houses and buildings, especially in the late afternoons.

  “Boy, you want to appear on the honor roll again,” I said to Banping, alluding to the list of “electricity thieves” often posted on the bulletin board at the front entrance to campus.

  “I told him to be more careful,” Anling picked up.

  “As long as they don’t fine me, I won’t mind,” Banping said, exhaling smoke.

  “My roommate was caught last Friday,” put in Weiya.

  “Was she fined?” I asked.

  “No, she’s a first-time offender.”

  In reality, Banping was afraid of being caught. On the back of his right foot was a burn scar in the shape of a tangerine segment, caused by a splash of boiling broth. One afternoon the previous fall, as he was stewing chicken and taros on an electric stove, suddenly somebody had pounded on the door. “Open it!” came Vice Principal Huang’s raucous voice. Hurriedly Banping hid away the stove under his bed, pushed the window open, then went to answer the door. The leader stepped in, sniffing the meaty air. At the sight of the wire and plug on the floor, he bent down and pulled the whole thing out from under the bed. The pot overturned. “Ouch!” Banping yelled, hopping on one leg; some broth had spattered on his foot. Chunks of chicken and taros were scattered on the concrete floor, and the room at once became steamy. Though the “electricity thief” was in pain, the vice principal dressed him down and confiscated his stove. Later Secretary Peng interceded for Banping with Huang’s office, saying his scalded foot was already an indelible lesson to him; otherwise, by rule, he’d have been fined fifty yuan.

  Weiya sat opposite me at the square table and looked pensive. Throughout dinner she seldom smiled; her mouth closed without showing her eyeteeth as she would do when she was happy. Her luxuriant hair, held by two orange barrettes, was slightly tousled. Her egg-shaped face had lost its usual pink, though she was wearing a cherry-red shirt that should have given her cheeks more color. I had never seen her eyes so lazy. She had a high nose and almond-shaped eyes, which usually were vivid and bright but today were bleary with sadness. Even her voice sounded cheerless and rather whispery. Our teacher’s stroke must have affected her deeply. Although already thirty-one, she looked to be in her early twenties; some people in the Literature Department often referred to her as an old maid; I often wondered why she didn’t have a boyfriend and why she never seemed in a hurry to look for one. With her looks and intelligence, she should have had no difficulty in finding a suitable man.

  Upset as we all were, we felt lucky in a way, because we were going to graduate soon; if not, with Mr. Yang hospitalized, the three of us would have been transferred into other professors’ hands as “foster children.” We also talked about the prognosis in Mr. Yang’s case. Banping said that normally it would take a whole year for a patient with cerebral thrombosis to convalesce, that most stroke victims couldn’t recover completely, and that some had to move around with the aid of a crutch for the rest of their lives.

  After we were done with the dumplings and cleared the table, Banping brewed a pot of jasmine tea. We started talking about the possible causes of Mr. Yang’s stroke. We believed that apart from his pathological condition, something else might have set off his collapse. We all offered our guesses. Weiya suggested something I hadn’t thought of before. She told us that Secretary Peng had pestered Mr. Yang continually ever since he had returned from Canada. “I’ve heard that the school demands he pay the money back,” she said rather mysteriously.

  “What money?” I asked.

  “The dollars he spent for his Canadian trip last winter.”

  I was surprised. As his prospective son-in-law, why hadn’t I gotten wind of this? Before I could say anything, Anling piped in, “How much did he spend?”

  “About eighteen hundred dollars,” said Weiya.

  “Goodness, who can pay off such an amount!” Anling turned to me and went on, “How much does he make a month?” At last her hands stopped folding a toffee wrapper into a crane.

  “One hundred and ninety yuan,” I answered.

  “That translates into how many dollars?”

  “About thirty,” Weiya told her.

  With his chin propped on his hand, Banping said, “But I heard that Secretary Peng tried to persuade the school not to make him pay it back. She said she had helped Mr. Yang out.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Weiya brought out.

  “Neither do I,” I agreed.

  Five months ago Mr. Yang had gone to Canada for a conference on comparative literature. He had arrived at Vancouver too late t
o give his talk; yet seizing the opportunity, he visited San Francisco on his way back. Indeed, such a “sight-seeing trip” was inappropriate, yet making him pay for the fare and the hotel would ruin his family financially. Many leaders of our university had visited North America, Japan, Hong Kong, Africa, and Europe without accomplishing a thing, but they had never bothered about the expenses. And they often reminded us of how much the country spent for our education, saying it took at least seven workers or twenty-four peasants to support one college student.

  Banping sighed and said, “Anyway, it’s so hard to live a scholar’s life nowadays—you always have too much to accomplish and too little to live on.” He lifted his cup and sipped the piping hot tea. “Worst of all, as a poor scholar your fate is never in your own hands. That’s why I don’t want to stay here.” He looked me in the face and sighed again.

  I well understood his gaze. Unlike him, I would stay in academia. If I couldn’t get into the Ph.D. program at Beijing University, I’d soon begin teaching here. Truth be told, I didn’t mind what he said. He only meant to justify his decision to pursue an official career; also, he couldn’t help but lament our teacher’s collapse.

  Banping had decided to serve as a junior clerk in the Provincial Commerce Department after graduation. The position could be lucrative, but I felt he had made a mistake, because he, gauche and slightly dense, might have a tough time surviving in official circles and might never rise to a high post. Our graduate program had admitted him mainly because he had memorized some classics and excelled in the political exam that required no thoughts of one’s own. Some people considered him a complete blockhead. He really ought to remain at the university, where he could at least hold a secure job. I asked him half jokingly, “Did you get Anling’s permission to enter government service?”

  “You bet I did. If I weren’t going to the Commerce Department, she’d divorce me for sure.”

  Both his wife and he laughed. “Get out of here,” she said, raising her small fist to shove his shoulder. Her smile revealed her lopsided teeth and made her eyes almost disappear.