by Ha Jin
“I will.”
“Remember, avenge me and . . . don’t forgive any one of them. K-kill them all!” His eyes suddenly opened, glinted fiercely, then closed, for good.
I was stunned by his last words, of which I could make nothing. I hunched over the bed with a blank mind, my eyes fastened on him. His mouth was half open as though he were still struggling to inhale, and his face gradually stiffened. Behind his parched lips, his teeth were yellow and dark along the gums. Two of his molars had gold fillings.
I was still in a daze as Mrs. Yang broke into short, rapid sobs. Mali Chen held my arm and pulled me away so that the other nurses could disconnect the apparatus from him. Not until now did I begin weeping. Tears ran down my face while something was writhing in my chest; I was sobbing shamelessly like a wretched small boy. Except for Banping, who looked sideways at me now and again, nobody seemed surprised by my crying. None understood why I had suddenly given way to my emotions. Even I myself couldn’t explain my feelings until some time later. A middle-aged woman said to Nurse Jiang about me, “He must love his teacher dearly like a father.” Two other nurses tried consoling Mrs. Yang in the opposite corner of the room.
Mali Chen handed me a clean towel. “Don’t be so heartbroken, Jian,” she said with wet eyes. “He often called to you at night. He must’ve been relieved to see you before he passed away.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
Then Banping held my elbow and led me out of the room. My head was swimming, unable to understand the full meaning of Nurse Chen’s words. The stains of drying tears were still stinging my lower lids.
In the hallway Banping sighed and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t be too sad, Jian. Maybe it was time for him to go. He suffered enough.”
His words brought me back to my senses to a degree. As we walked along the corridor, I said to him, “It was an awful, awful death!”
“Come, it’s normal,” he said impassively. “All the dead have the same ending. Death is the ultimate equalizer.”
“How can you say that?” I couldn’t help staring at him.
“All I mean is that he died naturally. A lot of people are bedridden for years before making their final exits. By comparison, our teacher didn’t suffer that much. We should be grateful for that.”
“Do you know what his last words were?”
“What were they?”
“He told me to kill all his enemies!”
With the same unperturbed face he replied, “Considering he wasn’t himself anymore and what he’d gone through, that isn’t too outrageous. We all have our enemies and shouldn’t judge the dead too harshly. We should forgive him for saying that.”
I realized it was impossible to make him see the monstrosity of our teacher’s death, because he thought of suffering only in the physical sense. What a callous mind he had! As an educated man, why did he seem to have no spiritual dimension in his mind at all? He had heard Mr. Yang sing songs and recite poems and had witnessed his struggle to save his soul, but nothing could touch him deeply or enable him to commiserate with our teacher beyond the level of bodily pain. He only understood the suffering of the flesh. No wonder he was so at home in this world, where callousness is a source of strength, essential for survival, and where most people are obsessed only with the health and longevity of the body. I took the Rose cigarette he lit for me, dragging on it relentlessly.
To me the worst part of Mr. Yang’s death was that he had died in hatred. Did he save his soul? Probably not. Possessed by the desire for vengeance, he couldn’t possibly have attained the spiritual ascent he had striven for. He failed to liberate his soul from the yoke of malevolence. His soul must still have bogged down in the muck of this life.
His death shook me to the core. In my mind a voice kept dictating, “At all costs you mustn’t die a death like his!” This sentence reverberated in my head for the rest of the day. It wasn’t just about death. It presupposed that I must live differently in order to avoid a virulent end. As a human being, I should spend my life in such a way that at the final hour I could feel fulfillment and contentment, as if I had completed a task or a journey. One doesn’t have to be an accomplished scientist, or a consequential official, or a billionaire, or a great artist to feel that death is no more than a natural change like a sleep after a long day’s work. In short, death should be a comedy, not a tragedy. This realization strengthened my resolve to leave the university for the Policy Office.
30
For most of the next day I lay in bed thinking about Mr. Yang’s last moment and about how to talk to Meimei when she got back. It rained the whole morning, frogs croaking like crazy outside. In the afternoon the sun came out, but it was so muggy that the bamboo mat underneath me remained sticky. I hated this enervating climate. Unlike my hometown in the Northeast, there was seldom a brisk breeze here in spring or summer.
Toward dinnertime, when the loudspeaker began to play the song “Both Hands Water Happy Flowers,” my stomach at last rumbled, reminding me that I had not eaten lunch. I wouldn’t go to the dining hall because Little Owl might pick on me again; instead, I went to Deli Bite, a noodle joint nearby that had opened recently. It stood next to a grand Gothic church, built by German missionaries in the nineteenth century, which had served as a depot for cotton yarn for over three decades. A year ago the church had been renovated and reopened; now hundreds of people went to it on Sunday mornings. As I walked toward the church, I noticed that its windows, formerly glassless, were all glazed now, some of the panes flashing in the setting sun. The peaked towers looked awesome, though the belfry was still empty.
Through the window of Deli Bite I saw two large wicker baskets sitting on the glass countertop, both covered with white quilts. They must have contained twisted rolls and wheaten cakes stuffed with pork and chives. I’d heard that noodles here were especially good, so I bought a radish soup and a plate of noodles fried with slivers of lean pork and mung bean sprouts. At an empty table in a corner I sat down, eating unhurriedly.
The owner of this place was a middle-aged woman, who was so stout that she had no neck and her bare arms resembled two long loaves of bread. Her small eyes were almost buried in their hanging lids. She was fiddling with the beads on an abacus; once in a while she slapped at a fly with a leather swatter. Although she looked cranky, I liked this place. Different from state-owned restaurants, it was relatively clean and quiet here. Besides, it offered cheaper food.
As I was eating, a squat man sauntered in. He must have been a peasant, in his mid-forties, having a mud-colored face, piggy eyes, a severe underbite, and cupped ears. He was stripped to the waist and wearing only black slacks, secured above his hips with a band made of the same cotton cloth as that of his trousers. His triangular breasts jiggled a little as he walked. His body reminded me of a Buddha’s, though his pudgy face showed no benevolence.
“A bowl of noodles with fried soya paste,” he drawled as if speaking through his nose, and handed a banknote to the woman behind the counter.
In a little while a large bowl of noodles with a pair of connected chopsticks standing in its middle was put before him. The woman stretched out her hand to deliver the change. The man counted the money, then his sparse eyebrows knotted together. “Why did you charge me five fen more?” He spoke loudly for everybody to hear. Besides me there was only one other customer eating in this place.
“Don’t you have eyes?” the woman asked sharply.
“Why did you shortchange me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Give my five fen back, now!” He threw up his hands.
“Can’t you see the pair of chopsticks on top of the noodles? That costs five fen. You’re not blind, are you?”
“I don’t want them chopsticks. You gave me that yourself.” He pointed his index finger at the woman while his other hand took a green plastic spoon out of his cloth waistband. He waved it and said, “I have my spoon. Who wants your shit-digging sticks?”
“Watch your mouth
!” she yelled. “I have no change for you. Clear out of here, will you?”
“Uh-uh, not till you give my money back.”
“Okay, you stay here. I’ll give you something for change. I’ve never met a customer cheaper than you.”
“You’re cheap, you gyp people.”
Arms akimbo, he stood by the counter waiting patiently while the soybean paste atop the noodles was sending up steam. I was amazed that they were fighting over such a trifle, just five fen, which wasn’t worth the anger they had worked up. I was curious to see how this squabble would end.
Then out of the kitchen came a tall young man in jeans, the cuffs of which were tucked in knee-high rubber boots. He looked savage, with sloping eyes and an athletic build; a knife scar curved at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the bum that wants money?” he shouted, and went straight to the waiting customer, who was too petrified to make a peep. The man seized the peasant’s hair with his left hand; with his right fist he started punching him in the face. “This is your change! Take this!” he kept saying through his teeth.
The peasant was groaning and stamping his foot. “Ow! Ow!” he yelled, trying in vain to cover his face with both hands. He struggled desperately but couldn’t break loose from the thug, who was striking him harder and harder.
This was too much, worse than robbery. The other diner, an old lecturer in sociology, hurriedly finished his meal and made for the door. I stood up and went across to the brute. “Cool it! That’s enough,” I said firmly, glaring at him. He stopped and inadvertently let go of the peasant. “You mustn’t beat your customer up like this,” I added.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he exploded. “This is none of your business.”
“It is my business to stop you from committing a crime, ” I insisted.
To my surprise, he turned and walked away toward the kitchen. He shouted at me over his shoulder, “You wait for me there! Damn you, you act like a ghost that’s never afraid of death. I’m going to give you a test.”
The peasant was still gasping with tears. Dark bruises appeared on his face, and his eyes had become puffy, almost sealed. He bent forward, loosened his waistband, and retied it. On the floor were his broken spoon and drops of blood from his nose. As soon as I handed him a piece of paper, the young thug rushed over with a cleaver in his hand. At the sight of the knife the peasant cringed, then dropped to his knees, begging, “Master, please spare my worthless life! I won’t come to make trouble again.” He clasped his hands before his chest and then put them down on the floor. Shamelessly he began to kowtow, knocking the concrete floor as if his head were a block of wood. I took a deep breath and tried to refrain from trembling.
Initially the brute had come for me, but the racket the peasant made invited him to deal with him first. He said to him with a wicked smirk, “Come again whenever you like. You’re always welcome.” He raised the cleaver over the man’s head.
“No, Master! I won’t cross your doorstep again. Please spare me. Oh help, help!”
The cleaver drew a circle in the air and came down onto the peasant’s head, but as it was falling it twisted so that its side struck his crown with a crack. “Ouch!” He collapsed to the floor and instantly began crawling toward the door. The thug kicked him in the buttocks again and again until the squealing man rolled out into the street.
Now the brute came at me. He placed the cleaver on my shoulder, pulling and pushing it as if sawing my neck. The blade sent a chill down my body, but it wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood. My right leg was shaking.
“See how stiff the shaft of your neck is?” He cracked a smile, half closing his lozenge eyes. His lips protruded, spit flying about as he spoke.
I couldn’t say a word. As though my chest were jammed with sand, I could hardly breathe.
“You think you’re mighty smart, huh?” he hissed. “Now feel this. I didn’t expect you were that wild a moment ago. How do you like this now, boy? Cold, eh? Why are you so tame?” His grin distorted his pimply face. Out of his nostrils came hot, alcoholic fumes, which kept brushing my forehead, but I wasn’t sure if he was drunk.
I swallowed to catch my breath and remained unbudging, though the cleaver still rested on my shoulder. He said, “If I like, I can hack your noggin off and it’ll drop to the floor like a rotten pumpkin.”
How I wished I had taken off! Cold sweat was running down my back, my armpits were clammy, and my heart was lurching.
The thug snarled, “You think you’re mighty gutsy to help that worm. Fact is, you’re just a jackass. Where’s he now? He doesn’t care a hoot about how you’ll end here, does he? He just crawled out the door to save his own ass. He’s a dumb animal, a yellow-faced ape, and shouldn’t be treated like a man.” His words sent a sharp pang to my heart. “Knees!” he cried, pressing my shoulder with the side of the cleaver.
Heedless of his order, I said, “I’m going to have you arrested.”
“What?” He tipped his head back and went off into loud laughter. Unwittingly withdrawing the cleaver, he kept on, “You, such a little book bag, have me nabbed? Boy, you never fail to amaze me.”
“I’ll do it soon.”
“All right, I’m going to let your noggin stay on your neck for a while so I’ll see how you can nab me. Now, get out of here. Your grandpa’s tired of handling you today—I don’t want to soil my hands to beat the shit out of you. Do you hear me? Get out of my face!” He still held the knife before his chest. There was dried pig’s blood on the blade.
I braced myself to say to both him and the fat owner of this place, “I’m going to work in the Policy Office at the Provincial Administration. The first thing I shall do is have your business closed.”
He turned to look at the woman, who was visibly stunned by my words. Flaring his nostrils, he let down the cleaver, which hung along his thigh lifelessly. Beads of sweat emerged on his nose and cheeks. I left without another word.
Scarcely had I stepped out the door when the woman caught up with me and pleaded, almost in tears, “Please don’t have my business shut down. Have mercy, comrade! My brother’s just an asshole. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. He has eyes but they’re only rotten meatballs in their sockets, so he can’t see a high official in front of him. I’ll ask him to apologize to you. This place’s all we have. Please don’t wreck us. You can eat here for free . . .”
I walked away without giving her a look, though she followed at my elbow for about fifty yards. I was shivering with fear and excitement; an itchy laugh was mounting to my throat, but I suppressed it. A long truck passed by carrying four concrete electrical poles, moaning fitfully and throwing up a cloud of dust. I was headed for the campus, amazed by the effect I had produced just by mentioning my future job. On the other hand, I was embittered, as the thug’s remark about the peasant rankled me more now. How right he was about him! I had intended to rescue that man, but he wouldn’t have had second thoughts about letting me be butchered alone. I felt betrayed, realizing he was one of those people I meant to help.
31
The memorial service for Mr. Yang was held the following day at New Wind Crematorium, which was at the foot of One Thousand Buddhas Mountain, two miles south of the city. Meimei had come back the night before and attended the service. Most of the faculty of our department were present; so were several school officials. Mrs. Yang, Meimei, and I wore black armbands and white roses made of gauze on our chests. People came to us and gave their condolences. Meimei wiped her eyes with a foulard handkerchief the whole time and kept saying if only she had been with her father when he was dying. I stood beside her as though I already belonged to her family. And most people shook my hand too.
Mr. Yang lay in a massive coffin, which most of the dead shipped here would occupy for a few hours or a day before being pushed into the furnace at the back of the house. On either side of the coffin stood a thick white candle, shedding bronze light on the long strips of paper attached to the wreaths that stretched away toward t
he side walls. The strips carried elegiac words, such as In life you were a man of distinction; in death, an immortal spirit! Boundless glory to you! Your noble soul will never perish! You will live in our memory forever! Mr. Yang looked awful, his face shiny with a thick layer of rouge and his bloodless lips slightly apart. A fat fly crept into his mouth and a moment later came out, zigzagging on his chin. All his wrinkles had disappeared, but his features didn’t seem to have relaxed; he looked as though still thinking hard about something. His hair seemed wet, combed back neatly and parted in the middle, and it exuded an odor like ammonia water.
Professor Song, as the departmental chair, delivered the memorial speech. He praised Mr. Yang as a diligent, erudite scholar and a model teacher, who had loved the people and the Party with “a pure heart like a newborn baby’s,” and whose death was a great loss to the university and to our country. He wanted all the mourners to transform our grief into energy and strength so as to carry on my teacher’s cause, which was to build a first-rate literature department that would eventually offer a Ph.D. program. He concluded with a small sob, “Comrade Shenmin Yang, may you sleep in peace. Your heroic spirit will always remain with us.”
Then the pair of black loudspeakers hung up in the corners of the hall bellowed out the mourning music as loudly as though some monsters had broken loose and were haunting this place. People lined up to pay their last respects to Mr. Yang. Among them were Weiya and Kailing. When it was Kailing’s turn, she burst into tears at the foot end of the coffin, crying, “Professor Yang, we still have many books to translate together. Why did you leave so soon?” She wailed with abandon, hands holding her sides. No one seemed surprised, probably because she had a reputation for being visceral. I stole a glance at Mrs. Yang, whose face remained unchanged, sad but dignified.
A few women teachers of the Literature Department shed tears, too; even some men had wet eyes. Weiya stood by a half-moon window, motionless as if lost in thought. She didn’t show much emotion, though she seemed ill, colorless, her cheeks more prominent. I couldn’t help but look askance at her. She was unaware of my observation and absently held something in her hand, perhaps a key or a tiny pen. However, as she went to the coffin and bowed deeply to Mr. Yang, I noticed a solitary tear hanging on her right lower lid. The tear didn’t move, as though congealed. She turned and hurried away, her face rather haggard, bonier than before. Approaching the door, she covered her mouth with her palm, and her shoulders trembled. With lurching steps she left alone before the others.
