by Ha Jin
The whole tall tale, in a way, was in keeping with Haili’s personality. It was a familiar routine to me, and now that I knew what I was dealing with, it didn’t bother me too much. What did appall me were the novel’s ridiculous sex scenes, in one of which the narrator described her husband’s hips at length, calling them “milky in color and perfect in shape and size, as if sculpted by a master artist.”
I read the passage out loud to Katie. She laughed, then stepped behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Time for bed,” she whispered.
I was always eager to go to bed with Katie. Sometimes after sex, I’d be awash with desire again before daybreak. Tonight I woke up shortly afterward, but my mind was preoccupied with the remaining chapters of Haili’s novel. Katie was sound asleep, her breath whistling faintly. I gently extracted myself from her arms, slid out of bed, and walked softly into the living room. Sprawled on the sofa, I went back to Haili’s manuscript. The story was getting stranger by the page. The heroine, heartbroken over the loss of her husband, ran into a husky Australian on a flight home to Melbourne. She and the Aussie, a kind of double of her lost husband, fell for each other at first sight. They sneaked into the plane’s lavatory and made love there. The narrator described it in relentless detail—the various positions, the maddening but fulfilling act that culminated in multiple orgasms. She confessed, “Walking back up the aisle. I felt my legs buckle as though he were still deep inside me, and my head were about to burst….Even after I returned to my seat, I still felt his kisses all over me—on my earlobes, on my neck, on my nipples, and down below. My mouth and tongue ached from our kissing, while my heart was flooded with pain and ecstasy. Oh, I was teetering between life and death!” With that Haili ended the chapter titled “Romance in the Air.”
“Bullshit!” I snorted, wondering how I should approach my article. I was sure that no serious publisher in the West would acquire such a simpleminded book, but why had Haili written it in the first place? And why were the Chinese media pushing it so hard? The novel seemed to be targeted at teenage girls who dreamed of having foreign men (“princes riding white horses”) as their future husbands. But even if their marketing succeeded and their sales skyrocketed, it was unheard of to celebrate a sentimental fledgling writer as a literary star.
FOUR
I didn’t go into the office the next day—I worked at home instead. On Xinhua, Tencent news, and also the official site of Chinese Writers’ Association, I found more about Haili’s novel. Hype seemed to be gathering steam in the Chinese media. A long article in the Journal of Literature and Art by a critic named Gu Bing declared the publication of Love and Death in September a major event in contemporary Chinese literature. It was poised to become an international best seller, he wrote, one that would throw open the doors to the American and European book markets for other Chinese writers. It was part of a new genre that blurred the distinction between fiction and nonfiction, its vividness and authenticity enhanced by raw and stunning photographs. More important, with its fearless and sophisticated protagonist, the novel introduced into today’s fiction a new breed of young Chinese woman: one who took migration as the human-historical condition; one who moved around following nothing but her passions while aspiring to a physical and spiritual harmony in her personal life; one who, unlike the majority of the Chinese, who were unable to travel abroad, was absolutely cosmopolitan and multilingual, mingling effortlessly with people of all cultures, feeling at home on all continents. As China was opening its doors fully and more people could go abroad, surely more female characters of this kind would appear in both fiction and nonfiction. Above all, this extraordinary novel celebrated the endurance and universality of human emotions, untrammeled by cultural and linguistic boundaries. As a critic, Gu said he must take off his hat to the deceptively fragile debut author, whose mighty pen had at one stroke secured her a permanent position in Chinese letters.
Who was this Gu Bing? I wondered. Another drooling fraud? Then I remembered the name—I had read about him a few years before. He was the editor in chief of People’s Arts, a print monthly magazine that boasted a circulation of 140,000 copies and was one of the few Chinese arts periodicals to pay its contributors well. A notorious quote was attributed to him: “I am the standard of your arts.” He had said that to a young choreographer in private, but the outraged woman had spilled it publicly. A critic of Gu’s power and stature could indeed make or break an artist. But why was he so involved in Haili’s book? Did he also have a hand in this scam? Had Haili been carrying on with him? It was possible. She had degenerated into one of those social butterflies, hovering in literary circles, willing to do anything to get their writing published.
As I continued to sort through my search results, I came across a report on a celebratory gathering that had been held in a hotel in downtown Beijing the previous afternoon. It was a news conference of sorts, presided over by Gu Bing and attended by a dozen or so well-known critics, half of whom were professors of contemporary literature. They each spoke to praise the novel and its young author, who must have been inspired by a magnificent vision and a burning ambition. They confessed that they’d been impressed, stunned, even moved to tears. One proclaimed her book “a triumph”; another, “a masterpiece written in iridescent prose, destined to last”; a third, “a majestic work of globalized fiction”; a fourth, “a book of sui generis beauty, poetry, depth, and complexity”; a fifth said it had “transcended personal grief and reached the commonality of human fate”; a sixth raved, “Imagine, four hundred pages without a single false note. As a fellow novelist, I am utterly bowled over. What a splendid debut! Bravo!”
I couldn’t conjure up the sublime literary terrain in which these scholars had placed the novel. On what grounds could they call it a “landmark” book? Some of them I knew personally—they’d been sane and modest, and I would never have dreamed that they would join in such false rhapsody. They must have been paid handsomely for their lavish words. With enough money, you can hire the devil to scrub your feet and wash your underwear.
Gu, whose photograph on the website of People’s Arts showed a balding head, hooded eyes, and a heavy-boned face, declared that translations of this novel were already under way and that soon it would be published “in more than thirty languages simultaneously”—I did a double take, thinking the number might be a typo, but thirty it was—“in nearly forty countries.” Gu continued, “This is a tremendous boost to the dwindling reading culture, like a timely rain falling on thirsty fields.”
I shook my head in disbelief. It was as if today was these critics’ last day on earth and they no longer cared what people would say about them tomorrow. Still, they had families. What would their children and spouses think of them?
I called my boss and reported my findings. “Gu Bing is another crook,” Kaiming said.
“You know him?” I asked.
“I met him in Beijing three weeks ago.”
“Why are they doing this? To commemorate 9/11?” I couldn’t contain my sarcasm.
“For money. They want to make a huge profit, so the book must stand out among thousands of novels published in China this year.”
“But it’s a piece of crap. I read parts of it last night.”
“See, that’s why I put you on the case. I figured nobody but you could get access to the manuscript.” Kaiming chuckled.
“What’s going on between Gu Bing and Yan Haili?”
“Gu is her editor. I forgot to mention him to you.”
“But…I thought he just edited his arts magazine.”
“He’s been working for Jiao Fanping’s publishing house on the side. He can’t wait to see Haili’s novel become an international best seller so he can have his share of the profit. He already told me he was planning to use the money for down payments on a Volkswagen Jetta and an apartment on the outskirts of Beijing.”
“I can’t believe he’s planning to get rich this way.”
“Gu said he and the author had a
greed to split the royalties, half and half.”
“Can I mention his plan in my column?”
“No, no, you’d better not or Gu Bing will surmise I told you that. It would be unprofessional to quote your boss. Frankly, if it was a good book, I wouldn’t give a shit about how they promote it.”
“But we started the investigation and will publish our report. There’s no way you can stay clear of this.”
“We report it because we must prevent those crooks from putting on a spectacle here. Besides, they’ve been misleading Chinese people and making it look like China and the U.S. are similar.”
“I agree. Inside China they can bamboozle heaven and earth into trading places, and perhaps no human being can stop them there. But why would they bring all of their lies here?”
“Through New York the book can enter the world market. There are only four or five gateways for writers in China to go through if they want to gain an international readership. Paris is the French gateway, Berlin the German gateway, London and New York the English gateways. The Big Apple is by far the widest gateway. Only through one of these entrances can writers from a non-Western language break onto the international scene. In your ex-wife’s case, they picked New York as their point of entry.”
“Where did you get the gateway idea?”
“I figured it out by myself.”
Kaiming was a sharp fellow from Shaoshan, the town where Mao Zedong was born—because of this, some people had dubbed him “Chairman Mao’s grandnephew.” But he was much handsomer than the great leader—he had dark features, bright eyes, a strong, straight nose, and a slightly cleft chin, which often made me think that if I were him I’d have grown a beard. Kaiming was a gifted entrepreneur: he had come to the States with only six hundred dollars seventeen years before, and now he owned a substantial part of our agency. Even the Chinese consulate here respected him. He was invited to all the major public events in the Asian communities in D.C. and New York. His personal networks spanned the world: he had connections from South Africa to Finland. Before hanging up, I mentioned Katie’s visa application. Kaiming said he’d bring it up with an official at the consulate.
In the afternoon I continued to research the novel and think about my angle. It was obvious to me that Haili was hand in glove with her publisher and editor, but for now I needed to stick to the evidence I had. As I was about to start the first paragraph of my report, my phone rang. It was Haili, who sounded anxious.
I told her I couldn’t ignore the lies she had multiplied, and that I had to do my job. “To be frank,” I said, “I cannot figure out why you would claim that your lightweight romance novel is a literary masterpiece.”
“Don’t be such a prig,” she shot back. “When Jane Eyre was first published, it was considered a romance. So was Gone with the Wind. Even Anna Karenina was a kind of romance novel, wasn’t it? There’s no reason for maintaining a literary hierarchy in our times.”
“That’s beside the point. The question is whether you have written as important a book as you claim.”
“I knew it—I knew you’d find a way to get even with me.”
“Let’s be fair. If your book were actually important, you’d be entitled to promote it any way you want, and even I might sing your praises. But it’s terrible—it made my skin crawl. How could you describe a black girl’s eyes as being ‘as pretty and fresh as iced Coca-Cola’? How on earth could you compare Larry’s butt to a masterpiece of sculpture? Honestly, I don’t think his ass can be that gorgeous. It’s really beyond me. To top that, you seemed—”
“Stop attacking me! It’s fiction, understand? You can’t match everything in the story with real life like you can find a seat with a ticket in an opera house.”
“But in the book and in your interviews you emphasized time and again that the novel is thoroughly autobiographical, that every episode is factual, and that you even lost your virginity to your American husband. Was that true?” I stopped and closed my eyes. I remembered the night of our wedding—I had gotten drunk from nerves and had thrown up in our newly painted bedroom. Haili had cleaned up the mess without a word and then stirred vinegar and honey into a bowl of boiled water for me.
“Danlin, are you still there?” Haili asked.
“Yes.”
“You know I still have a soft spot for you. Can we meet somewhere and talk more about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you used to insinuate that you’d love to spend time with me?”
“That was before I met Katie.”
“Can we spend a night together? I’ll be free tonight and tomorrow night, and I’ll be good to you.”
“I see.” I pretended to think about it. “Where’s Larry?”
“He’s in Mexico City for a conference.”
“You know, I had the most amazing sex with Katie last night. Oh, you can’t imagine how good she is in bed. She has such beautiful hips.”
Silence followed.
Then Haili said, “I know you’re my enemy. If you’re resolved to rock our boat, we’ll have to sink you first.”
“That’s fine. Suit yourself.”
“I warn you not to interfere with our business. The novel is a national project. My publisher’s parents have infinite pull in China and can ruin you and your family.”
“They may rule heaven and earth there, but not in the United States of America. You know it was a bunch of journalists who brought down Richard Nixon. But even if Jiao Fanping’s parents ruled the White House, I would still do what my profession asks of me.”
“You’ll have hell to pay.”
“I hear you. Bye now.”
I hung up. I had waxed idealistic over the phone, but practically speaking I could afford to stick my neck out on this story because my parents were retired. I had only them and an older sister back in China, and she didn’t work outside her home. There was little that Haili and her collaborators could do to hurt them. In addition, by her own confession, Haili loved my parents—she had even visited them two years ago, when she returned to China on business. They were still unaware of our divorce—we had agreed to spare them the heartache. Haili still called them Mom and Dad, and I knew she had just mailed them two bottles of amino acids. She had also sent them a box of peppered beef jerky before the last Spring Festival. I didn’t believe that Haili would ever actually turn on my parents, who still adored her and praised her to high heaven in front of anyone who would listen.
I had another trump card unknown to Haili. I’d just been naturalized, and I no longer had to obey the Chinese officials here or fear that they might revoke my passport. At the moment I held no passport. I had sent my old one to the Chinese consulate for renewal a couple of months ago and hadn’t gotten it back yet. I had surrendered my green card to the INS at the naturalization ceremony, so legally I was in transition from Chinese to American citizenship. The United States recognizes dual citizenship but discourages it; China absolutely does not accept it. I understood their mind-set—on paper, I knew loyalty ought to remain undivided, though in my heart I sometimes felt torn, nagged by doubts about giving up my Chinese citizenship, even stung by something close to grief. Yet to survive, I had to break away, to find space where I could live safely and freely. Freedom and equality were precious enough to me that I was willing to go through the pain of uprooting myself. I had mailed in my citizenship certificate and a photo that showed both ears for a U.S. passport—I expected to receive it in a month or so. Although Haili’s threat was by no means idle, I believed that in America, as long as I paid my taxes and obeyed the law, the state would protect me.
FIVE
I finished my column the next morning, and our website posted it, as usual, in the early afternoon. Within hours, our notification system signaled that the piece had been linked to sites in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Europe. In the article I held up the shoddy reality of Haili’s novel against the image of the brilliant tour de force projected by her publisher, quoting several
of the book’s most egregious passages to make my point. I revealed the illicit business connections between the author, the editor, and the publisher, saying, “The book is a brainchild of this troika, who intend to exploit people’s memories of 9/11, swindle them out of their money, and get rich overnight.”
Because the anniversary of the tragedy was just around the corner, my article got a lot of attention. Many community newspapers in North America asked GNA for permission to reprint it, and the next day our phone rang continuously. Some callers were ordinary people giving leads to other exploitative business deals in their communities—they’d had no recourse before, but now they hoped we would investigate. On the entertainment sites of SINA and Tencent, people condemned Yan Haili and Jiao Fanping and Gu Bing, calling them “an evil triangle” and “a gang of three.” A number of readers insisted that Haili must have given favors to that shameless editor in chief, who was said to be a notorious womanizer. “She must be Gu Bing’s mistress and a social climber,” one person wrote. Another joined in, “The three must be a ménage à trois.” Some photos, not only of the three of them but also of some critics present at the news conference about the novel, were posted online as a roster of the shameless. I allowed myself a small, private moment of triumph. Everything indicated that the scam might be falling apart.
