by Ha Jin
I had to skirt a huge jam of onlookers to get through to Cloud Bridge Road, which led to the hospital. The air reeked of sweat, diesel oil, vinegar, soy sauce, fried garlic and scallion, roast chicken, and braised pig’s feet. Dismounted cyclists kept cranking the bells on their handlebars, some yelling at one another. Fifty yards away in the west a tractor loaded with black bricks was put-putting clamorously, but had to mark time. As I pushed my bicycle past the front of an ice cream stand, a tall simian man in dark glasses, who looked like an official or an entrepreneur, said loudly to an old woman about the students, “These nitwits must’ve been overstuffed and have too much energy to spare. If we starved them just for a week, I bet none of them would come here to make such a fuss. We should ship them all to the vegetable farms in the suburbs and make them work the fields twelve hours a day.”
“Tut-tut-tut, these brats are real spoiled,” said the woman, shaking her puckered face and waving a horsehaired fly whisk. She stretched her neck and called out, “Ice brick, half a yuan apiece.”
“Damn, it’s so hot,” cursed the man. “I screw their mothers for giving birth to these bastards!” He spat on the ground, scraping the phlegm with his boot.
I stared at him and he glared back. His dull eyes, reminding me of cooked oysters, were so ruthless that I ducked my head. Before stepping away, I caught a glimpse of the muzzle of a pistol that stuck out of the ribbing waistband of his jacket. Evidently he was a plainclothes agent. As I walked along, I noticed that among the spectators about a dozen men and women wore the same kind of dark glasses as that man’s. Raising my eyes, I saw two men in white shirts and blue pants working a video camera on the rooftop of the department store. The machine panned down to follow the demonstrators. Despite the hustle and bustle, few of the vendors, sitting on their haunches or on canvas stools, had stopped crying for customers. Some people were still haggling over prices.
When I reached the corner of Swift Horse Road, a middle-aged jaundiced man appeared, waving a miniature flag made of orange paper. “Down with the Communist Party!” he yelled. No one repeated his shout, but immediately a crowd, about twenty people thick, gathered around him. He fluttered the triangular flag again and screamed, “Down with socialism!” Still, the crowd was silent, watching him in horror and confusion.
Before he could shout more, three plainclothes agents, two men and one woman, rushed over, grabbed his hair and arms, and handcuffed him from behind. “Help! Save me!” he hollered, his eyes bulging and flashing, sinews drawn tight in his neck. His mouth went agape, dripping saliva. “Don’t be slaves anymore!” he shouted at us over his shoulder.
Nobody interfered. Instead, a bowlegged locksmith walked over, and wielding his long pipe, he struck the man’s crown three times with its brass bowl. “Damn you, how dare you call me a slave?” he barked.
“Ow, don’t hit me, Uncle!” the man screeched. At once a thread of blood trickled down his forehead. A few bystanders laughed.
“Serves you right, such an unreformable reactionary!” the old locksmith said through his teeth, and bent down to pick up his own flat cap from the ground.
“What a moron!” said a young herb peddler. “He can’t see that cops are everywhere.”
The three agents dragged the man away despite his blustering resistance. From time to time his legs stretched straight, his feet unyielding, yet they hauled him along. One of the agents kept thrashing his shoulders with the buckle end of a leather belt while the woman kicked the backs of his knees. Within a minute they disappeared past a barbershop door. Throughout the commotion, a gray-browed cobbler, sitting next to a toy stand, his lips clamping a few tiny nails, hadn’t even once stopped hammering the sole of a leather shoe mounted on his last. All around, people talked about the arrested man, calling him a fool and saying that at least one of his family members had been executed by the Communists.
The students seemed aware of the odds against them, so they behaved guardedly, marching in good order. Now and then they shouted “Salute to the workers!” as a way to appease the hirelings from the steel plant. Slowly they headed toward the City Hall, which was a few blocks away in the northeast. Once I had threaded my way through the square, I leaped on my bicycle and pedaled away to the hospital at full speed.
16
Professor Song came to see Mr. Yang the next afternoon. As soon as he stepped into the room, I retreated to the window and sat on the sill. Seated in the wicker chair, he took his jujube-wood pipe out of a chamois pouch and absently tamped down tobacco into its bowl. He looked haggard, with dark patches under his lower lids, and his breath smelled of alcohol. Although he was given to drink, I have to admit that I had never seen him drunk. He bicycled around all the time, but somehow always eluded accidents.
“Shenmin, how are you doing these days?” he asked Mr. Yang in a hearty voice, addressing him by his first name.
My teacher raised his eyes. “I’m doing poorly, going to die in a couple of weeks.”
“Come, I still need you to quarrel with me. Our graduate program depends on your guidance. You can’t leave us so soon.”
“No more bickering, I forgive you,” mumbled Mr. Yang.
“I miss sparring with you. To tell the truth, I miss your gibes.”
“It’s all over between us.”
A lull set in. Professor Song glanced at me, then asked Mr. Yang, “How’s your appetite?”
“I still eat something.”
“Try to eat more.”
“I’m neither a glutton nor a gourmet.”
Professor Song put the stout pipe between his teeth, about to thumb his lighter, but he paused to look at me inquiringly. Before I could say go ahead, he removed the pipe from his mouth, unloaded the tobacco into the pouch, tied the kit up, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He said again, “Shenmin, don’t worry about anything and just concentrate on your recuperation, okay?” He sounded quite sincere.
“I have thought of nothing these days but how to save my soul.”
“All right, don’t worry about your classes and the journal. I’ve made arrangements, and you’re still the editor in chief. I assigned a few young hands to help you with the editorial work. Everything’s fine.”
“You can suit yourself. I’m not interested in that sort of clerical work anymore. From this day on I shall think only my own original thoughts and shall write for nobody but posterity.”
A shock crossed Mr. Song’s face, but he managed to reply, “Okay, you should write like that. I also mean to tell you that our department has submitted your name for a full professorship. I’m sure there will be no problem this time. You deserve a promotion, it’s long overdue.”
“Give it to anyone you want. I have no need for that.”
“Why?” Professor Song looked puzzled.
“I don’t want to be a clerk anymore. I have quit.”
“What are you talking about? Are you not our best scholar?”
“No, I’ve been a clerk all my life, so have you. We’re all chattels of the state.”
Professor Song looked at him in alarm. He said, “I don’t understand this, Shenmin. Why should we look down on ourselves so? We’re both intellectuals, aren’t we?”
“No, we’re not. Who is an intellectual in China? Ridiculous, anyone with a college education is called an intellectual. The truth is that all people in the humanities are clerks and all people in the sciences are technicians. Tell me, who is a really independent intellectual, has original ideas and speaks the truth? None that I know of. We’re all dumb laborers kept by the state—a retrograde species.”
“So you’re not a scholar?”
“I told you, I’m just a clerk, a screw in the machine of the revolution. You’re the same, neither worse nor better. We are of the same ilk and have the same fate, all having relapsed into savagery and cowardice. Now this screw is worn out and has to be replaced, so write me off as a loss.”
Mr. Song bowed his head. The room was so quiet that you could hear sparrows twitter
ing outside, one of them drumming its wings.
A moment later Professor Song said rather timidly to Mr. Yang, “Don’t be so pessimistic. There’s still hope.”
“What hope?”
“For instance, the new generation of scholars, like Jian, will make improvements. Indeed, our lives were mostly wasted, but they’ll learn from our mistakes and losses and will live a better life than ours.”
“False. At most he’ll become a senior clerk.”
Professor Song looked at me as my heart tightened. He said again, “Shenmin, don’t be so harsh on young people. You’re not yourself today. I know you love them, or you wouldn’t want Jian to go to Beijing University.”
“Yes, I want him to do that. What else can I expect of him? He flunked TOEFL, so he blew the opportunity to study comparative literature at the University of Wisconsin. He let me down.” Mr. Yang exhaled a sigh and resumed: “He’d better leave this iron house soon so that he won’t end up a mere scribe here. In our country no scholars can live a life different from a clerk’s. We’re all automatons without a soul. You too should go before it’s too late. Don’t get trapped here.”
“Shenmin, maybe we shouldn’t continue like this—you’re talking in circles. In any case, take it easy and get well soon. We all want you back in the department.”
“Nobody can use me anymore.”
Professor Song gave me a nod that indicated it was time for him to leave. He rose to his feet and said good-bye to my teacher. I went out of the room with him. In the hall I begged him, “Please don’t take to heart what Mr. Yang said. He’s not himself today.”
“I know. Actually I liked our talk and will think about what he said. Your teacher has suffered a lot. Don’t distress yourself about his opinion of you. He didn’t mean it.”
“I don’t mind that.” I grimaced.
As he walked away with measured steps, he fished out his tobacco pouch and began loading his pipe again.
I felt relieved that he wasn’t offended. Although Mr. Yang’s drivel often sickened me, there was one virtue in it which I did like, namely that he spoke his mind now. Never had I imagined that he didn’t see any meaning in my effort to enter the Ph.D. program. He had obviously been disappointed by my low TOEFL score. Without question he wanted me to go abroad so that I wouldn’t end up a clerk here and his daughter could avoid the fate of a technician.
I didn’t return to the sickroom immediately, and instead sat on a bench in the corridor for a while. Nurse Chen came along the hall, holding an empty cream-colored pail. She stopped in front of me and smiled, saying she had just been assigned to attend Mr. Yang at night, from 6:00 P.M. to 1:00 A.M. After her shift, Nurse Jiang would take over until morning. “So we’re on the same team now,” Mali Chen said. “He’s a well-learned man, I mean your teacher. Sometimes I like listening to him.” She smiled again, fluttering her eyes.
I said, “Well, we count on your help.”
“Don’t say that. We help each other. By the way, did you read the book Mr. Yang translated?”
“Which one?”
“The Good Woman of Szechwan.”
“Oh yes, I read it a while ago.”
“Why are all the people so nasty and so greedy in the play except Shen Te?”
“You mean the prostitute?”
“Yes. What a bizarre world the play shows.”
“Not like ours?”
“Of course not. Doesn’t the foreign playwright understand China at all?”
“He didn’t mean to present China. He wanted to express his understanding of the world.”
“I know, his philosophy. Still, what a world it is! Where nobody but a streetwalker is a good person.”
“Perhaps it’s like ours, don’t you think? Tell me, where can we find a good woman or a good man?”
“That depends on how you define a good person.”
“I mean someone you can absolutely trust.”
“Your mother or father.”
“You really think so?”
“Don’t you trust your parents? My, you’re such a misanthrope.”
“No, I’m not, only grim.”
“Like teacher, like student. Just joking.” She tittered, waving her thin hand.
Somebody called to her from the stairwell, and she left in haste, the handle of the pail in her hand making rhythmic creaks.
I was still preoccupied with what Mr. Yang had said about me a moment before. Unhappy as I was about his reproach, I had to admit that he did have a point. The more I thought about some professors and lecturers at Shanning University, the more they resembled clerks and technicians. Even if someday I became a scholar as erudite as my teacher, I would have to remain in the clerical ranks. Then why should I bother so much about it all?
17
Meimei’s letter arrived, and I couldn’t wait to read it.
May 6, 1989
Dear Jian,
I hope my father is getting better. Tell him that I’ll be back as soon as I’m done with the exams. Actually at this moment it’s unclear whether the exams will be given on time. Things are in chaos here. Hundreds of students from my school have gone to Tiananmen Square a few days in a row to join the students of other colleges already there. Together they demand a dialogue with the premier. I just heard that the exams might be postponed. If so, I’ll come home sooner.
But you shouldn’t be disconcerted by this information. Keep working on your Japanese and reviewing the textbooks. All we can do is get prepared.
I have just heard from my mother that she will be on her way home soon. She thanks you for looking after my father.
These days I’m so busy that time passes almost unnoticed. Quite a few friends here have tried to drag me out of my room, but at this point of my life I have to sacrifice fun and excitement, so that eventually I can become a pediatrician in Beijing. I miss you, Jian. In my last letter I mentioned that I liked something very much about you. Have you guessed what? Why didn’t you ask me when I was back ten days ago?
Well, I don’t want to keep you guessing. To save your brain for your work, let me spill it out: I love your voice most. If only I could hear you talk to me every day.
All right, enough of this girlish stuff. I have to return to anatomy. Please be considerate to my father and keep him clean.
Good luck with your preparation.
Yours,
Meimei
My fiancée’s letter bothered me to some extent, particularly her mentioning “quite a few friends” of hers. I knew there were always some young men running after her in Beijing, and they’d find ways to get her attention and spend time with her. Mrs. Yang had once told me, not without pride, that her daughter was a top beauty in her college—one of the so-called “school flowers.” Even if Meimei was fond of my voice, my physical absence from her life might provide an opportunity for those men to step in.
What should I do? The question cropped up in my mind again, but it wasn’t about Meimei only. For several days I had wondered whether I should take the exams, bedeviled by my doubts about the meaning of pursuing a Ph.D. The former vision of myself as one who must study hard to become an eminent literary scholar had vanished, replaced by the image of a feckless clerk who was already senile but wouldn’t quit scribbling. Now I felt unable to work toward a doctorate just for the practical reason of settling down in Beijing eventually. But if I withdrew my application, I’d waste a whole year’s work. More worrisome, if I changed my mind, Meimei would be so angry that she might break up with me. Since I loved her, shouldn’t I just take the exams for her sake? Rationally I should do that, yet somehow my heart couldn’t help revolting against such a concession.
In the evening I went to see Banping in hopes that he could help me straighten out my thoughts. His wife hadn’t returned from her textile mill yet, so we two alone talked over chrysanthemum tea. Between our squat cups sat a clay teapot like a small turtle. Banping was always proud of his tea set, which he claimed was of a classic model. While we were
chatting, he now and then got up and went to check a pan of eggplant cooking on his electric stove in a corner. Apparently these days the school officials were too occupied with the student movement to bother about “electricity thieves.”
I described my predicament to Banping, whose hair had just been cut, cropped to his scalp. He saw my point and even said that at last I had begun to think like a man. He asked me, “If not Beijing, where would you like to go? Stay here?”
“Honestly I don’t know.”
“How about joining me at the Provincial Administration?”
To be a real clerk? I responded mentally.
He went on, “They still need somebody for the Policy Office. Man, you would be an ideal candidate for that position. You’re smart, trustworthy, and easygoing. If you get into that office, don’t forget me. I’m sure you’ll become a powerful figure in a couple of years.”
“Don’t they want a Party member for that job?”
“I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t have seriously considered it before I decided to go to the Commerce Department.”
Indeed Banping wasn’t in the Party, though he had applied for membership. I said, “But I’m not cut out for an official.”
“Who is? You can always learn to be one. For a man of your caliber nothing’s easier than holding a job like that.”
“Banping, the crux of my trouble is that if I don’t go to Beijing, Meimei may split up with me. You know how much I love her.”
“You shouldn’t worry too much about that. Is there any future in doing a Ph.D.? Look at our teacher—he collapsed out of the blue and can’t stop babbling like a moron. To be honest, he often reminds me of the human insect in Kaf ka’s Metamorphosis who can’t communicate with others anymore. If you remain in academia, you may end up either like Mr. Yang or like one of the four middle-aged teachers in our school who died of exhaustion and cirrhosis last year.”
