The Crazed

by Ha Jin

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t want to die full of hatred.”

  “I know he had an awful life.”

  “Do you think Meimei has lost faith in me?”

  “Don’t be silly. Pull yourself together, Jian. Give her some time, she’ll come around.”

  Although not convinced by her words, I ordered myself, Stop crying! She’ll tell Meimei about this. Stop!

  A few minutes later I calmed down, wiping my face on my sleeve. Outside the window, alongside the fence made of wooden boards, the dozen sunflowers my teacher and I had planted together were half dead, their broad leaves wilted by the heat. I had watered them every other day before my trip to the countryside.

  When I returned to the dorm, a letter from Meimei was lying on my bed. My roommates were not in, so I couldn’t know when she had come. I opened the envelope and saw her squarish handwriting on the ruled paper.

  6/1/1989

  Jian,

  It’s time for us to part, since we have different dreams and have to travel separate ways. This is a painful decision for me, but it’s necessary. Good luck with your life and career.

  Meimei

  I was so upset that my brain turned numb, though my scalp went on smarting. I sat in the darkness for two hours on end, unable to think coherently. A pair of geckos were resting on the window screen like two question marks, growing bronze against the moonlight. Above them were some lace-wings, motionless as if glued to the mesh. It was so sultry that even mosquitoes were too exhausted to fly, although crickets were shrilling metallically outside. If only there had been someone I could talk with about this whole mess.

  33

  You folks are disgusting!” Mantao said to me and spat on the concrete floor. “The People’s Army’s tanks have rolled into Beijing ready to attack the students, but you’re still going to hold the dance party this evening.”

  “It’s time to show a right political attitude, Comrade Jian Wan,” Huran butted in. He was lying in bed wearing nothing but his underwear, while Mantao and I sat at our desk.

  I said, “Even if they paid me a hundred yuan I wouldn’t make an appearance there, but we were ordered to attend.”

  “If I had a bomb, I would plant it in that building,” Mantao said. His chubby face puckered as though he had accidentally chewed on a grain of sand.

  “Come on, don’t be so nasty,” I said, tapping my cigarette over a chipped cup that had a broken handle and served as our ashtray.

  Despite strong opposition from some of us, the college had refused to reschedule the farewell party for the departing graduate students. Every department had taken measures to make sure there’d be enough attendees. The party was to be held in a small assembly hall in the basement of the main classroom building at seven o’clock.

  When I arrived, many graduate students were already there. Above the door to the hall stretched a long scroll proclaiming GO ANYWHERE OUR MOTHERLAND NEEDS US! Inside the hall, colorful balloons and golden streamers hung from the ceiling, fluttering a little whenever somebody passed beneath them. Eight frosted-glass lampshades, affixed to gilt chains and resembling huge round loaves of bread, rendered the white walls yellowish. Some people sat on the slatted benches arranged in a large horseshoe, but most stood around, chitchatting with drinks in their hands. The room was droning like the inside of a train station.

  Weiya was over there with a group of female graduate students, some of whom were drinking soda pop directly from the bottle. She had on a sleeveless black dress, with a tiny white chrysanthemum pinned to the right side of the bodice. Her outfit seemed to indicate that our teacher’s death was still on her mind. As I was wondering where she had gotten the fresh flower, she saw me and smiled. I waved, then went over. Unwittingly she touched the mum on her chest, her hand thinner than before, as if translucent. Secretary Peng was in a corner talking with Professor Song, who was wearing an eyeshade over his left eye, having suffered a detached retina recently. She glanced at Weiya and me from time to time.

  “Are you all right?” Weiya asked me in a concerned voice.

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t look like your usual self. What happened?”

  “Meimei and I have broken up.”

  A lull followed while she gazed at me, her eyes dimming with feeling. She whispered, “I never thought Mr. Yang’s death would affect both of us so much.”

  “My world has fallen apart,” I said, wondering how differently her life had changed from mine. Probably for her the change was for the better. She had benefited from our teacher’s death, hadn’t she? At least his death had set her free. In spite of my bitter thoughts, I noticed that as I was talking with her, a peculiar kind of calm was settling over me, almost like the feeling of security. Whenever I was with her, the same kind of placidness would come upon me, whereas with Meimei I couldn’t help but get excited and restless. This must be one of the reasons why I had felt drawn to Weiya. I understood she might have ended her relationship with Mr. Yang willingly, and nobody should blame her for that. What else could she have done? Still, I was amazed that she could be so at ease. She looked as innocent as a little girl, but on the other hand, she was a woman with a lot of self-assured grace. If only I could have despised her.

  She leaned closer to me and said under her breath, “I’m leaving academia.”

  “What? You’re going to work somewhere else?”

  “No, I’ll stay in town and do my own thing.”

  “What thing are you talking about?” I couldn’t imagine she would abandon her regular job, which she had been so afraid to lose just a few weeks before.

  “I’ll sell my paintings to support myself. In fact, I sold two pieces last week. Mr. Yang’s death made me think a lot about life. I’m already thirty-one. Heaven knows whether I can live another thirty years. Why should I continue to live under others’ thumbs?”

  “You’re really brave.” I realized that with Mr. Yang gone, there was indeed no reason for her to remain at this university. Besides, giving up her teaching position would be an effective way to get out of Ying Peng’s clutches. Despite understanding the logic of her decision, I was still stunned; never had I thought she could be so strong-minded and so bold. “It’s a stupendous move, I’m impressed,” I said to her. “What does Yuman Tan say about this?”

  “He supports me.”

  “That’s good.”

  “By the way, I’ve painted a portrait of Mr. Yang. Would you like to stop by and see it?”

  “Sure, where is it?”

  “At Yuman’s place.”

  “I’ll stop by this weekend.”

  Somebody clapped loudly. “May I have your attention please,” Vice Principal Huang said into the microphone. People quieted down, some taking seats. There weren’t enough benches, and many of us remained on our feet. Yuman Tan appeared from behind Weiya and stood next to her; he was so happy today that his mouth seemed unable to close, smiling at everybody while his eyes darted in all directions. He looked rather silly with his hands thrust behind him like a smug official. I walked away to join Banping, still thinking about Weiya’s decision. I was amazed that within such a short period of time she had been able to utilize Yuman Tan’s apartment and make a breakthrough in her art. Heaven knew what she couldn’t accomplish if given more opportunities.

  The vice principal started delivering the farewell speech, his silvery hair shimmering as he read from a sheaf of paper with affected gusto. It was annoying to hear him click his tongue every two or three sentences. Bored by the tedious speech, Banping told his wife, who was waving a magazine as a fan, that he was going to have a smoke outside. He tugged my sleeve, so I left the hall with him. We hadn’t met since Mr. Yang’s funeral, and I wanted to talk with him too. His eyes were lackluster with whitish gum in their corners, perhaps because he had been working hard on his detective novel lately. As soon as we got into the foyer, he asked me why I hadn’t taken the exams.

  “Just didn’t want to,” I sai
d sourly.

  “Was it due to Mr. Yang’s death?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re too sensitive. You gave up too easily. If you don’t go to Beijing, what’s going to happen to your engagement to Meimei?”

  “I’ve no idea.” I bristled. Two weeks ago he himself had advised me to leave academia, assuring me that I didn’t have to be a Party member to enter the Policy Office. Apparently he had heard that I, a non-Party man, was disqualified for the job. I wondered whether he knew how the new requirement for that position had come into existence.

  Before I could ask him, Secretary Peng stepped out of the hall and said loudly, “Where have you been these days, Jian? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She was pretending; she had seen me with Weiya just now.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “We need to know what courses you’d like to teach next semester.”

  “Anything.”

  She was taken aback and said, “I’m serious.”

  “I know how serious you have been.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You understand.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  As I was about to say something more, Meimei and a tall young man appeared atop the stairs, holding hands. The man wore a brand-new tuxedo with a bow tie like a giant butterfly. I had seen tuxedoed men in some Western movies before, but had never met anyone in the flesh wearing such a jacket. Meimei had on a white dress with red polka dots on it, its middle cinched by a cream-colored leatherette belt, which outlined her strong but shapely waist. Her gauzy dress billowed out a little, through which her streamlined thighs and underthings were partly visible against the harsh light at the landing. This was the first time I had seen her made up—her face was delicately powdered, her lips rouged crimson, and her eyebrows, penciled in the arching Russian style, stretched from the root of her nose to her temples. This way she looked a few years older, but still glamorous like an actress. On the other hand, her two little braids, which barely reached the base of her neck, kept her less exotic. With all the makeup, her face was rather rigid, smiling at no one in particular. As she and the man were coming down toward the door of the hall, she let go of his hand. My breath tightened, but I tried to steel myself to face her. Secretary Peng and Banping waved at them. Apparently they knew the young man, who returned their greetings, baring his broad teeth in a grin. He asked, “Are we late, Aunt Peng?”

  “No, just on time. The dance hasn’t started yet,” replied the secretary, smiling ingratiatingly.

  I felt it strange that the man had addressed Ying Peng in such a familiar manner. Meimei walked nonchalantly, her chest out and her chin up, the heels of her stilettos clattering on the terrazzo floor crisply. I intended to greet her and even opened my mouth twice, but no word came out because she wouldn’t deign to pay me a scrap of attention. It was as though I were a total stranger and she had spent many wild nights the previous summer not with me but with another man. I felt stupid and maimed.

  The young man, lanky and dandified, had a horsy face and a sparse mustache. His hair, to which he must have applied a cup of pomade, was wet and shiny. They passed by, and Meimei left behind a minty scent. Though the fellow’s black jacket looked very expensive, his dark blue pants were baggy and too long, the cuffs scraping the floor.

  As Banping watched the couple pass, his mouth fell ajar. He shook his heavy chin at me. “Is all this because you won’t go to Beijing?” he asked.

  “Who is he?” I said almost in a shout.

  “He’s Vice Principal Huang’s son, his only son. He teaches at Beijing Foreign Language Institute. He speaks French fluently. I heard he’s going to do research at the Sorbonne this fall, but I didn’t know he and Meimei were so close.”

  My temples were hammering as things began to swim before my eyes. Unconsciously I stretched out my hand to hold Banping for support.

  “Easy, take it easy,” said Ying Peng.

  I regained my composure within seconds, though my heart was still shuddering. Shaky-footed, I hurried away to look for a place where I could be alone and untangle my thoughts.

  I went out of the building and hid behind some lilac bushes. I sat against the wall beneath a window with my head in my hands. My neck hurt, stiff with a crick from the previous night. About fifty yards away, on a curved ramp, two girls were playing badminton with Ping-Pong paddles, which hit the birdie with rhythmic thuds. Somewhere people were laughing, and their laughter rose and fell in the gathering dusk.

  Gradually my mind began working. So this was why Meimei had jilted me. The young man was in Beijing and must have been carrying on with her for a long time. At last I understood why Vice Principal Huang had visited Mr. Yang in the hospital—it was not about Weiya but about Meimei. He intended to help his son secure a relationship with my fiancée. This was the true meaning of his request “Let her decide what to do herself.” He was asking my teacher not to interfere with his daughter’s private life. I used to think that Mr. Yang’s death-bed instruction, “Save her,” referred to Weiya; now clearly he must have had his daughter in mind. But Meimei wasn’t in any danger, was she? She had dumped me of her own free will. Probably she joined that man with an eye to making sure that she could remain in Beijing if the pediatric program didn’t accept her. She knew how to take care of herself.

  How did Ying Peng collude with Vice Principal Huang in this case? No doubt she’d been helping his son all along. She assigned me to tend Mr. Yang every afternoon in order to distract me from preparing for the exams. She dispatched me to the countryside with a view to wasting my time, too. Now I realized why she had been so delighted when I told her that I would withdraw my application for the Ph.D. program. She had been an accomplice of Vice Principal Huang all the while, and her task was to prevent me from passing the exams so that I couldn’t join Meimei in Beijing.

  Ever since the death of Mr. Yang, I had been wondering who were his enemies—those to be killed in his last wish. Now clearly Vice Principal Huang was one of them too.

  Sitting in the deepening twilight, I felt like a small insect snared in a spiderweb. The harder I struggled, the tighter the strong, entwining filaments would enfold me, choking the life out of me little by little. Then came to mind the image of the dark, rubber-surfaced room described by Mr. Yang. I too felt trapped in such an indestructible cocoon, although I hadn’t despaired of escape yet.

  When I returned to the dormitory, Mantao declared, “I’m going to Beijing tomorrow morning with some undergrads to demonstrate in Tiananmen Square.”

  “He’s going to join the revolution,” Huran said to me. I made no comment.

  “Do you want to come with us?” Mantao asked him.

  “No way, not even for a thousand yuan,” replied Huran. “I’m going to marry next month.” He was joking. He didn’t have a girlfriend yet.

  “How about you, Jian?” Mantao asked.

  “My wallet is empty and I can’t pay for the train fare.” I told him the truth.

  “No problem, I can give you fifty yuan. Look, I have money.” He pulled out a wad of banknotes from his pants pocket. Somebody must have given him the cash for the trip, because he was poorer than the other graduate students and often scrimped on food. Each month he would mail twentyfive yuan, almost half of his stipend, to his younger sister, who went to college in Wuhan City.

  “My, he’s so generous today. What a philanthropist,” Huran put in.

  Mantao said, “We’ve decided to join the struggle in Beijing. If we don’t take part now, there’ll be no hope for China anymore.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” Huran asked me.

  “No.”

  “What made you interested in politics all of a sudden?” he kept on.

  “It’s too stuffy here, and I want to get some fresh air in Beijing.”

  “You may take in the smoke of gunpowder instead.”

  “Fine with me
.”

  Mantao said with genuine emotion, “Jian, you’re my friend, a real man!” He handed me a Tsingtao beer, which I downed in two swallows. Again a film veiled my eyes; I felt like sobbing, but restrained myself. Meantime Huran drank his beer silently, amazed by my outward insouciance.

  That’s how I decided to go to Beijing with Mantao and thirty-two undergraduates. Different from them, I had no grand purpose or dream of democracy and freedom; nor did I have the sense of responding to our national exigencies. My motive was mainly personal—I was driven by desperation, anger, madness, and stupidity. First, I meant to show Meimei that I was not a coward and could go to the capital at any time and in any way I chose. Second, I wanted to puncture a hole in this indestructible cocoon that caged me; somehow I felt that the right place to plunge a knife in was Beijing—the sick heart of this country. I was crazed, unable to think logically, and was possessed by an intense desire to prove that I was a man capable of action and choice. So I set out for the capital with a feverish head.

  34

  On the morning of June 3 we boarded the 5:30 train bound for Beijing. Through a light fog, the eastern sky was just turning pale. Two teachers saw us off at the platform. One was Kailing and the other a lecturer in physical education, our school’s soccer coach, whose son was among us. Kailing was wearing sunglasses and a windbreaker. With a secretive air she whispered something to Mantao near the iron paling, about twenty yards away from us. Then she handed him a folded envelope, which I suspected contained cash. It was said that she had made quite a bit of money by translating modern German fiction, and that unlike most poor teachers, she hired a maid for cooking and housework. Ever since Mr. Yang’s death, I had felt she was evasive whenever I ran into her, probably because she suspected I had my doubts about her relationship with him, which I was actually inclined to regard as mere friendship.