The Boat Rocker

by Ha Jin

  “Not from her,” Wenna answered, waving her hand and blinking her eyes. “Your ex owns only a small percentage of the company. She and her husband invested one million dollars in GNA. Jiao is the real owner.”

  “Is he that rich?” I couldn’t imagine him getting that kind of money.

  “Well, he got a huge loan from the Chinese government.” Wenna gave a wry smile. “Have you heard of China’s campaign for acquiring the right of speech?”

  I snorted. “Yes, I have.” I mimicked a senior official who had recently declared: “ ‘Only when we have the right of speech can the world really accept our country as a global player. Comrades and friends, let us rally all the forces to fight the West’s demonization of China.’ ”

  Wenna laughed, rubbing her pudgy nose with the knuckle of her forefinger. “The Chinese government has been spending billions of dollars acquiring and establishing media facilities abroad so its voice can influence the world’s opinions in the same way as the mainstream Western media.”

  “I know they’re eager to set up their own type of CNN and BBC,” I said, nodding. “But GNA was just a tiny business.”

  “Well, that depends on how Jiao and the powers behind him presented GNA to the government. I heard that even some small, sleazy newspapers in Taiwan and Hong Kong were sold to the mainland for millions of dollars apiece. The Chinese government is flush with cash and has been acquiring all kinds of junk. But I’ve also heard there’s some talk in Beijing about how to purchase The New York Times.”

  The idea was absurd—but then, so was everything that had already happened. “Still,” I persisted, “how will Jiao ever pay back the loan? He can’t possibly make a lot of profit from this news business.”

  “That doesn’t bother him. It’s not his own money he’s burning anyway. The government might write off the loan as a loss eventually, like its other failed projects.”

  I shook my head, brooding over everything I’d just learned. “Do you think the Chinese government will ever dominate the media the way they want to?”

  “Hard to tell.” She smiled, her just-whitened teeth gleaming a little. “In any event, for me it’s time to quit.”

  I realized that this was a great opportunity for all the former shareholders of the company to take profits. There had been seven or eight of them—some employees who had been given shares as part of their compensation, some outside investors. They had become millionaires overnight. Wenna must be one of them.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, viewing her with new envy.

  “I’ll go back to Tianjin in January.”

  “Really? You’re giving up journalism?”

  “Is there genuine journalism in China?” she asked drily. “Why should I bother with it? I owned seven percent of GNA. I sold Jiao my shares, so it’s time for me to start another life.”

  Despite my amazement, I said, “Best of luck.”

  “Thanks very much,” she said cheerfully. “Maybe I’ll open a bookstore near a college campus in Tianjin.”

  “You could set up a chain like Barnes and Noble.”

  “No, I need just one store with a little café in it so that customers can sit down and read books if they cannot afford to buy them.”

  “Whatever you do,” I said, “you’ll become a successful businesswoman.”

  She ignored my attempt at irony and said, “Danlin, I’m sorry you lost your job. But you’re a smart man and I know you’ll make it one of these days.”

  “Goodness knows, that day could be light-years away. Does Kaiming still own the publishing house?”

  “Only a quarter of it. Jiao is the real owner.”

  That dashed my hope of continuing to work for Kaiming. I couldn’t believe how quickly he had abandoned his dream of publishing his own newspaper and magazine around the world. I realized I might be the only loser in the takeover. I felt like Don Quixote, the Knight of the Sorrowful Face, charging at windmills with a broken lance and only getting himself dismounted and battered.

  “Oh my, look at this!” Wenna turned her monitor to me. On the screen was a page of Tencent news that showed a photo of Haili holding aloft with one hand the first page of a contract while she beamed, the outer corners of her eyes tilting up. Her other hand held a brand-new copy of her novel, the Chinese original. Larry stood behind her, smiling with one hand in his jacket pocket and his other hand giving a thumbs-up. Above them was the headline FAMOUS AUTHOR SELLS HER MOVIE SCRIPT TO HOLLYWOOD.

  I skimmed the article, fighting a pointless sense of panic. The piece outlined the transaction as a joint venture between the Great Wall Movie Studio and Shocket Pictures, a company based in L.A. The price of the script was more than a million dollars, according to the report, which characterized the deal as great progress in the two countries’ cultural exchange. More Chinese actors would soon be bound for Hollywood to act in the film. Haili told the reporter, “Now, everyone can see who’s a liar. Feng Danlin should find a crack on the ground and hide in there like an earthworm that can make no noise.”

  “Do you believe this is real?” I asked Wenna.

  “Whether I believe it or not is irrelevant,” Wenna said cryptically. “She has a contract in hand now and must be in seventh heaven.”

  “But this is so different from what she claimed,” I said, getting angry once more. “She didn’t sign with Panorama Pictures. The film will certainly be bankrolled by the Chinese side.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” Wenna said, a little sadly, “but we both also know that the public never cares about those kinds of details.”

  “I guess they might no longer care whether Haili’s novel will appear in other languages either.”

  “I think that the movie will overtake everything,” Wenna said, scanning the article once more. “From now on, they’ll start talking about which star should join the cast, how big the budget is, where it should be shot, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Her words made me realize that there would be no point writing about Haili’s fraudulence anymore. According to the article, Haili was going to be the manager of the Dolphin Publishing House, a new company, based in Brooklyn and owned by Jiao Fanping, that would bring out fine art books, translated classics, nonfiction, and posters. She had triumphed with the support of the Chinese state. How lucky it is to have a big country behind you! If only you didn’t have to obey it like a mutt, with drooping ears and downcast eyes, or have to learn when to wag your tail and when to tuck it between your legs.

  With heavy steps and a stuffed backpack slung over my shoulder, I lugged myself out of GNA. The northwesterly wind whistled, biting at my back. My bike creaked as I pedaled along—since I would likely never be coming back here, I’d have to take it on the train back to Flushing. It was overcast, the sky slate gray, and dead leaves skittering across the road. I felt myself floundering, as if my very world was crumbling.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “What do you plan to do?” Niya asked me, her chin propped on one hand. We were sitting in Lovely Songs in downtown Flushing.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, squeezing a slice of lime into my tequila. “Maybe I can work as a carpenter—my father taught me the trade when I was growing up. I know this guy, Randy, at a construction company. He said he might take me on when I needed a job.”

  A giggle burst out of Niya’s lips; then a bubbling sound sizzled in her nose as if she was suppressing a laugh. I asked, offended, “What’s so funny? Is that such a bad idea? Carpenters can make good money.”

  “No, no, I admire that. Whether you rise or fall, you can always survive, Danlin. You’re a man.” She lifted her ginger ale and took a large sip, then continued. “I saw Haili yesterday, and she wanted me to pass a message to you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’d like to offer you a job at the Dolphin Publishing House.” Niya widened her eyes. “See, like I said, she can be very generous.”

  “What kind of job?” I asked, certain that the offer wasn’t as g
enerous as Niya believed.

  “Maybe an accountant.”

  “More likely a bookkeeper, because I don’t have a certificate in accounting. She knows I’m too honest to embezzle funds.”

  “You should appreciate her kind gesture, shouldn’t you?” Niya said warmly. “I think she might still have feelings for you.”

  For a moment I considered her words. Then I realized that Haili couldn’t have initiated the job offer—it must be a trap laid by the trio. I shook my head and said, “Tell her I can always work as a carpenter. I can do without them—I’m above them.”

  “Why can’t you be more conciliatory?” Niya prodded. “She meant to help you.”

  “She couldn’t have made such an offer on her own,” I snapped, unable to hide my annoyance. “They want to control me. Once my livelihood is in their hands, I won’t be able to write anything against them. And Haili knew I might not accept an offer from her directly, so she had you be the messenger. Of course, it’s all supposed to demonstrate how magnanimous she is.”

  “I see,” said Niya, looking sheepish. “Then you should avoid them.”

  I took another sip of my drink to calm down. But I couldn’t quell my curiosity for long. “What has Haili been doing these days?”

  “She and Larry are planning to go to China to adopt a child.”

  “A baby?” I rubbed my eyebrows.

  “Yes, a girl, two years old. I saw a photo of her. She’s lovely.”

  “I never knew Haili liked children.” In the years we were together, she’d never once mentioned a desire to become a parent.

  “She said she was dying to become a mother.” Niya shrugged. “Every woman feels that way at some point in her life.”

  “So Larry and she can’t have a baby of their own?”

  “It seems not.”

  “Well,” I conceded, “I have to admit they’re doing something good if they can give the child a stable home. There are far too many abandoned baby girls in China.”

  “They’ve also been hunting for an apartment. They want to buy a place in Chelsea.”

  “Pricey!” I noted. “So the movie deal is real?”

  “Absolutely, it’s a joint venture—the Chinese side has agreed to provide seventy-five percent of the budget.”

  “She’ll get her million dollars?”

  “I believe so.”

  “See,” I said, driving my point home bitterly, “it always pays to serve a big country, even if you sell your soul in the process.”

  “Well.” Niya blinked. “Is your soul too expensive for sale?”

  “Without a doubt,” I said wearily. “It’s priceless.”

  “No wonder Haili calls you a megalomaniac.” Niya laughed. “But I like you for that.”

  I laughed too, put my hand over hers, and gave it a shake in gratitude. Her fingers felt dry but warm. “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe I’m just too proud, and too stupid to give in.”

  “I don’t think you should do carpentry, though,” Niya said seriously. “You have more meaningful things to offer.”

  “Like my articles?” I snorted. “No one seems to want those anymore.”

  “We both know you have readers all over the world,” said Niya, ignoring my scorn. “You were already voted a public intellectual by those readers, and you should fulfill that role, shouldn’t you? Didn’t you say you’d like to live up to that title?”

  “But I don’t have a platform anymore. Where would I publish? How will people hear me? Even if I were to start a blog on my own, I’d still need a paying job so I can survive.” I took a gulp of my tequila. “And another thing—I don’t think writing articles is more meaningful than making furniture. It’s just something I’m good at.”

  “In any case, if I were you, I’d go to grad school and do a PhD,” Niya said, undaunted.

  “That would take years, and that’s if I’m lucky enough to get into a graduate program in the first place.”

  Niya let out her breath in frustration. “You Chinese men—you only think of speed, always looking for a way as effortless as eating noodles. I believe there’s only one way to do one thing right—and that’s usually the hardest way. Now, you’re not a real intellectual yet, but it’s not too late for you to grow into one. If I were you, the last thing I’d do is resign myself to chance.”

  “It’s always easier said than done,” I said stubbornly.

  “Think about it, okay?”

  That softened me some. “You believe that going to grad school is the only way for me to become a real intellectual?”

  “Is there an alternative?”

  I nodded, seeing her point. “I’ll think about it.”

  When Niya got up go to the ladies’ room, I saw that she’d left a copy of the magazine Open on top of her coat on the extra chair. The cover featured the Ping-Pong player Lili Liu, who had just won the Asian championship, representing Japan. I knew her story and began leafing through the article. Originally she’d been trained on China’s national team and often participated in international competitions. Once, at a top world game, the coaches of the Chinese team ordered her to let a teammate win the final match so that China could secure more medals, and she agreed. But when she and the teammate got into the final round, Liu played furiously and routed her opponent three to zero. Although Liu won the gold and China didn’t lose any of the expected medals, she was dismissed from the national team and banned from all domestic and international games, including the Olympics. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she married a Japanese man, left China, and resumed training in Tokyo. Six years later, once naturalized, she reemerged, representing her adopted country at the Asian Games. The Chinese national team ignored her, considering her nothing more than a has-been, but Lili Liu, wreaking vengeance, played vehemently and, one after another, defeated all the top Chinese players. Whenever she scored a point, she would shout, in Japanese, “Gotcha!” When Chinese reporters interviewed her after her victory, she spoke only Japanese. Her defiance infuriated millions of Chinese Ping-Pong fans, who condemned her as a traitor, and some threatened to trash her parents’ home in Shanghai.

  “Well, what do you make of her? Isn’t she something?” Niya asked about Lili Liu when she’d sat down again.

  “I can’t blame her for what she did,” I said, putting the magazine on the chair. “The country betrayed her first—she was justified.”

  “I disagree. She went too far and spat at China.”

  “But the country had wrecked the six or seven best years of her career, and it’s understandable that she would be angry. I take her defiance as a way of asserting her existence.”

  Niya shook her head, unconvinced. “The coaches of the national Ping-Pong team don’t stand for the country, just as the Communist Party doesn’t represent China.”

  “Who represents China then?” I demanded. “You or I, or the waitress over there, or the bartender behind the counter? Or those two dissidents in Maryland who just apologized to the Dalai Lama on behalf of all the Chinese? At this point in history, the Communist Party is in fact the country because it rules China and sits on the UN Security Council. It’s naïve to maintain the distinction between the state and the ruling party, because every high official in China is a Party member—the Party has made itself identical with the country. The truth is that a country is not a god, it’s a historical construct. It’s foolish to imagine the country as a mystical figure, a generous mother that has raised all the Chinese, who in return must be obedient, longing for her love and nurturance. That’s a fallacy, a lie.”

  “Wait a second,” Niya broke in. “I object! I believe we must maintain the distinction between the country and the ruling power, just as I love China but hate the Chinese government. Shame on you for what you just said.”

  “Well, let me tell you a story. The other day I read in The Sing Tao Daily that five men in Taiyuan City had burned themselves because their homes had been torn down by a demolition crew so a hotel could be built on the same site. Because
the country owned the land, to which those families had only users’ rights, they had to surrender their homes. Once their homes were gone, life no longer had any meaning for them. The five men believed that their deaths would secure some government funding for their families, so they set themselves on fire. Two of them didn’t die, but instead of getting compensation, they were sent to jail in spite of their severe burns. At first they were charged with arson—then that was changed to ‘incitement to public discontent.’ Now, do you think those men would maintain the same distinction you do—it was the local officials, not the country, that destroyed their homes? The country is always good and only the corrupt local officials are bad—would they think that way? The officials didn’t make the law, nor do they own the land. They work for the government, but what does the government represent? The country.” I paused, then said, more quietly, “I’ve been thinking about those men ever since I read their story. It’s been gnawing at me. I’m sure they felt that it was the country, the owner of all China’s land, that made their livelihood impossible. The fact is that whoever holds state power speaks of the country. I simply don’t buy the nonsense that the country is a benign, magnanimous matriarch that spawned and raised all the citizens, who in turn must behave like filial children bowing down to her will. That’s a lullaby, a fetish for dopes, or a tall tale that corrals people into servitude. I have outgrown all that. If a country misbehaves, people have every right to rein it in, give it a good kick in the ass, and fix it. This is the responsibility of the citizens.”

  “What a fine load of bull you just let out. That’s sacrilege.” Niya scowled at me, her eyes ablaze. “You must maintain some difference between the country and the state.”

  “No, I won’t,” I insisted. “The powers that be never use the word state when they brainwash people and condemn dissidents. They’ve always kept themselves as identical as possible with the country so that they can appear legitimate and sacred. Anyone against the totalitarian government is classified and punished as a traitor to the country. It’s time for us to look the country in the face and debunk its myth and sanctity.”