Hard Like Water

by Yan Lianke

  I said, “Don’t worry that the dust won’t wash off; just be concerned that it can’t be swept away.”

  She said, “I emphasize prevention and am concerned about hygiene and increasing the People’s health.”

  I said, “You must be brave and be willing to go to battle. You mustn’t be afraid of sacrifice and instead must be willing to fight and advance, to fill the breach left by our fallen comrades. Only in this way can the world be ours and all the demons be eliminated.”

  She said, “Qualitative transformation begins from quantitative change, and a great disaster begins from a small sprout. If contradictions are not resolved when they are still small sprouts, setbacks and failure will inevitably come in the future.”

  I said, “You won’t develop painful abscesses just because you wash yourself later than usual or happen to take fewer baths than usual, and even if you do, such things will quickly be cured. Like the word ‘private,’ the abscesses will disappear after being criticized.”

  She said, “In the short term, dust is an invitation for illness, and in the long term it is an obstacle to happiness. Running water doesn’t become stagnant, and stagnant water doesn’t run. If you’re dirty and don’t clean yourself promptly, the dirt may develop into a disease that will eventually reach your soul, and you’ll regret it as though you crushed your own foot with the stone you were carrying.”

  I said, “We must carry an iron broom in one hand and a heavy staff in the other, since what is the point of having tiny ants celebrate the nation or having tiny bugs try to shake a tree? When facing feudalism, we are invincible; when facing the Five Black Categories, we’ll rise up with fervor; when facing American imperialists and Soviet revisionists, we must force them to return to their own countries.”

  Afterward, I didn’t need to use a loudspeaker, and even less did I need to beat myself to make my member hard. Instead, in the warm environment that we created using revolutionary songs, not only could I successfully do that thing, I could further develop our memories, eloquence, knowledge of theory, and class consciousness.

  Even without relying on broadcasts or self-beatings, I was able to make myself hard every day and do that thing. And although the happiness Hongmei and I were able to create was short-lived and was not nearly as crazed or lengthy as when we were listening to songs and music, it was nevertheless as warm and gentle as a drizzle falling on parched earth, as a cool breeze blowing on a sweat-soaked body, or as sucking on one of those sour plums they sell in the city when your throat is parched. We were very proud of this discovery. Sometimes we even felt that whether or not we actually did that thing was of secondary importance, and instead the primary thing was the excitement and pleasure we derived from our revolutionary verbal battle.

  Afterward, whenever we met for a rendezvous in the tunnel, we dispensed with the loudspeakers and instead would casually mention something and then proceed to engage each other in a verbal battle. We engaged in battle over the old pickax that had been left in the tunnel, over the dust on the earthen bed, and over the tunnel’s megaphones and loudspeakers. We engaged in battle over the straw, bedsheets, water droplets, and boxes, as well as over the hair, fingernails, breasts, pillows, air holes, and clothes. Other than the quotations and the portraits of political leaders hanging from the walls, everything in the tunnel that could be seen or thought of became a potential object of verbal battle. We even used semi-obscene and semi-divine language to pursue a revolutionary poetic battle of words revolving around male and female genitalia. As with a drinking game, the loser of the round would be the person who was unable to answer or who deviated from the specified topic. We agreed that whoever won a round would kiss the loser fifty or a hundred times (until their lips were numb), and whoever lost a round would have to caress the opponent’s private parts or would have to place the opponent’s member in their mouth. We were like pigs or dogs, naïve and innocent, as though we had returned to our youth. We were completely shameless. We were even beneath pigs and dogs. Yet we were also pure and chaste, sincere and genuine. I gestured at the shovel lying on the ground, and said, “Pursue revolution, promote production; use a shovel to overturn the earth.” Hongmei replied, “By using a shovel to incite revolution, we can terrify the enemy.” I said, “A shovel can overturn not only the earth but also the heavens, and a billion people will burst into smiles.” She said, “A shovel can be used as a rifle, with a heroic fighting spirit.” I said, “I like to look at endless waves of grain, and in all directions there are heroes in the sunset mist.” She said, “Gao Aijun, Mayor Gao, in that last statement you didn’t refer to a shovel. My back itches, so your punishment is to scratch it.” I said, “Xia Hongmei, Party Branch Secretary Xia—without a shovel, how would you harvest the endless waves of grain? The sole of my foot itches, and as punishment you must scratch it ten times.”

  She scratched the sole of my foot ten times, and we both laughed and proceeded to turn everything upside down in bed.

  She pointed to her hair and said, “My hair is long, and my experience is not short. Women hold up half the sky.” I pointed at my own hair and said, “My hair is short, but my experience is long. The nation’s affairs are close to my heart.” She then pointed at her eyes and said, “My heart is clear and my eyes are bright, my eyes are bright and my heart is broad.” I pointed to my eyes and said, “With my piercing gaze, I stare at the American imperialists and Soviet revisionists. With my piercing gaze, I will burn up our country’s own evil spirits.” She then pointed to her left breast and said, “I eat grass and produce milk. Watch as I, Hongmei, proceed into battle.” I pointed to my right breast and said, “I emphasize form for the sake of beauty, but in the end am nothing but a pool of stagnant water.”

  She said, “Gao Aijun, a breast is not a form, and milk is not water. My thigh itches, so I want you to lick it.”

  I therefore proceeded to repeatedly lick her thigh.

  For three months, we almost completely lost our revolutionary spirit and our initiative as we became completely absorbed by these revolutionary word games. Apart from obligatory meetings and study sessions, we stopped going out—we stopped going to the fields to oversee production and even stopped going to the production brigade meeting hall to attend meetings relating to class struggle. We no longer paid attention to our neighbors’ quarrels over property boundaries and didn’t care that the irrigation canal collapsed during the final autumn rain and needed to be repaired. We didn’t care that the wooden stand in front of the village with the phrase PROPAGANDA GARDEN OF MAO ZEDONG THOUGHT had been toppled by the wind. We didn’t care that there had been a lawsuit after the son of a rich landlord urinated on the head of the son of a poor peasant. Instead, we handed all these matters over to Cheng Qinglin, hinting that he should consider them preliminary practice, since after Hongmei and I were promoted, he would need to know how to handle all the work related to the Chenggang production brigade. Each new game gave us a new experience, but after having used every object in the tunnel as a topic for our verbal sparring, we would sometimes run out of topics and instead sit naked on the edge of the bed staring silently into space—like someone at a banquet who is unable to come up with an appropriate response for a drinking game. Sometimes, when we were at home or out at a meeting, we would suddenly think of a new topic and experience a surge of delight. We would immediately write the idea down on a sheet of paper, and then we would fold it up and find someone to deliver it to our opponent—so that they could make the appropriate mental and material preparations for their response and the crazy bout that would inevitably follow.

  By the twelfth lunar month (that dark, dark month), the earth and heavens were bitterly cold, and all the villagers were sitting idly at home. These villagers were particularly fond of getting together and warming themselves by the fire, and after discussing some revolutionary topics they would chat about everything under the sun, just to pass the time. During that period, the village’s young men would gather in my house, while the young w
omen with revolutionary passion would gather in Hongmei’s house. During that period neither Hongmei nor I could come up with a good topic for which we would need to go underground, and therefore, more than half a month passed without our meeting up in the tunnel. I felt that that half month passed as slowly as though I were walking from the town to the county seat or were traversing the hundred li from the county seat to Jiudu. I very much wanted to find a topic for which I could invite Hongmei to meet me in the nuptial chamber, but I simply had no inspiration. One day just after lunch, however, Hongmei asked her daughter, Tao’er, to bring me a note on her way to school. I opened the note, and saw that it said:

  Quickly write the newest and most beautiful text.

  Quickly paint the newest and most beautiful images.

  I knew that Hongmei, too, must have felt that the preceding half month had passed very slowly, and that she had finally come up with a new topic. Without waiting for my guests to arrive at the usual time (and even forgetting to give Hongsheng his school money), I pushed aside my rice bowl and immediately proceeded into the tunnel.

  When I reached the nuptial chamber, I found that Hongmei was already waiting for me. When she saw me, she broke into an excited smile, and under the lamplight she resembled a pink curtain hung in front of a window. Needless to say, we first embraced and kissed, and after settling our debts from the previous half month I noticed that the Shuangling-brand alarm clock on the cabinet was ringing. I asked her about the beautiful new text and images to which she referred in her note, whereupon she removed two pencils and two piles of paper from her pocket and handed me one of each. She explained that the county’s department of education had appointed Qingdong to represent Jiudu at the “Learn from Zhang Tiesheng” meeting that had been convened by the district’s education committee, and when Qingdong left for the meeting, his fountain pen had fallen to the floor—which had given her inspiration for a completely novel topic.

  I said, “What is it?”

  She said, “Guess! It has to do with pens.”

  I replied, “Guns.”

  “It is guns, but it’s also not guns. It’s not guns, but it also is guns.” She looked at me mysteriously for a moment, then explained, “The phrase Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun includes five key words: ‘gun,’ ‘barrel,’ ‘out,’ ‘politics,’ and ‘power.’ So, I propose that we take each of these five words and use them as our topics. For instance, first we’ll take the word ‘gun’ as our topic, and each of us will have five minutes to write a ‘seven rule’ poem dedicated to Marx. Then, we’ll take ‘barrel,’ and each of us will have five minutes to write a short essay of at least two hundred words dedicated to Engels. Then, we’ll take ‘out,’ and in five minutes we’ll each write five aphorisms dedicated to Lenin. Then, we’ll each take ‘politics,’ and in five minutes will write five Neo-Confucian philosophical phrases dedicated to Stalin. Finally, we’ll each take the word ‘power,’ and in five minutes we’ll each write five heroic sayings dedicated to Chairman Mao.”

  Although I recognized that she must have already planned out her answers, giving her a distinct advantage, I nevertheless enthusiastically agreed to her proposal. I asked, “What will be the penalty for the person who loses?” She laughed and said, “You can pick the penalty.” I said, “If I lose, I’ll unfasten all of your buttons and take off your clothing using only my mouth. Similarly, if you lose, you’ll have to remove all of my clothing using only your mouth.”

  Her eyes glittered with excitement, and she exclaimed, “OK!”

  With that, we began our competition, which was creative and original, but which also contained, buried within it, the roots of a future disaster. After placing the clock on the bed and the paper on the mats, we squatted down next to the bed. Over the next twenty-five minutes, the only sound to be heard in the nuptial chamber, apart from the urgent ticking of the clock, was our excited breathing and the scratching sound of pencils on paper, together with the occasional rustling as we gazed up at the leaders’ portraits and the whirring of the gears in our heads.

  The atmosphere in the room was very tense, and the light was muddy, as our sweat poured down like rain and our wrists became numb. Under our sheets of paper the reed mats whispered; under our pencils the paper rustled; and in our hands the pencils were screaming. The clock’s brassy sound was like a hammer pounding down on our heads. When we peeked at each other, our gazes were like a hawk’s talons. The leaders’ kindly smiles flowed down our backs like warm water. In reality, those twenty-five minutes were a hundred-meter sprint of ideological awareness, theoretical ability, and literary talent. We were attempting to conquer each other, to engage in a battle that would end with love’s triumphant return. It was a time-limited, simultaneous performance after our corporeal and spiritual contradictions had been resolved. I knew that Hongmei had already prepared her responses prior to beginning the competition, and consequently, while I, revolutionary genius that I am, required twenty-four minutes to complete my five assignments, she needed only twenty-three to complete hers.

  This event represented the culmination of our competition—a meeting of two heroes. After we finished, we took the poems, essays, aphorisms, phrases, and sayings that we dedicated to Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, and Mao, and pinned them below the corresponding portraits. Then we began to read and assess our work.

  The poem Hongmei dedicated to Marx read:

  Gun (枪)

  A “seven rule” poem

  —Dedicated to Marx

  Your thought is a bullet

  And my pen is the barrel of a gun

  Class enemies light fires

  Let them rot from oral and written attacks.

  The American imperialists and Soviet revisionists are forced to the borders.

  Angrily swinging my massive cudgel, I bring this to an end.

  The people of the world are united

  In their common hatred of the enemy.

  The poem I dedicated to Marx read:

  Gun

  A “seven rule” poem

  —Dedicated to Marx

  The morning sun rises over Laiyin River

  Great theory releases a bright light

  Like a blade slicing the old world

  Or gunfire shattering the dawn stillness

  There is a boundary between bright day and dark night

  There are two camps of advanced reactionaries

  The power of imperialism must perish

  While communism spreads throughout the whole world

  Note: The phrase the whole world refers in my poem to the global commonwealth, which is to say, the entire globe’s implementation of communism.

  (Her poem had a novel topic, combined with a great and momentous tone; while mine had a firm standpoint, combined with poetic charm and pictorial splendor—which was particularly evident in the line “The morning sun rises over Laiyin River.” Verdict: tie.)

  The essay I dedicated to Engels was as follows:

  Barrel (杆)

  —For Engels

  The word “barrel” refers to a rod, and the word “rod” refers to weaponry. Your great work Socialism: Utopian and Scientific is indeed a theoretical weapon for the proletariat to use against the bourgeoisie, and a great cornerstone for socialism to affirm its scientific basis with respect to capitalism, and offers an explanation of a materialist conception of history and of the surplus theory of value. It permits socialism to develop from a utopian ideal into a science; it permits socialism to open the door to a scientific class struggle of the proletariat; it permits the working class to observe the process by which medieval society, which is to say individual small-scale production, undertakes its necessary development toward capitalism and ultimately to a proletarian revolution. It permits the exploited and oppressed proletariat to see the beacon of their own emancipation and progression toward the future.

  (Hongmei’s assessment: “It’s good but perhaps a bit hollow. Also, it doesn’t resemble an essay as much as a
piece of expository writing, and furthermore, it’s rather pedantic.” I agreed with this assessment.)

  The essay Hongmei dedicated to Engels read as follows:

  Barrel

  —For Engels

  The word “barrel” refers to a flagpole.

  Marx is the most, most, most important person in the world, and therefore his love for Jenny also became the world’s greatest, greatest, greatest love. However, had it not been for Engels’s selfless and spectacularly communist assistance, would we ever have had Marx’s Kapital? And without the great Kapital, would we have had Marx and Jenny’s great love? If it can be said that Marx is the greatest component of Marxism, then we must acknowledge that it was Engels who served as the great bridge that helped launch Marx forward. If it can be said that Marx is Marxism’s great flag whistling in the wind, then Engels is Marxism’s flagpole. As the flag flutters in the wind, it relies on the flagpole’s support, and if we celebrate the rumbling of machinery, then we should celebrate even more the spirit of the silent screws. If we revere the spiritual flag of Marxist theory, then we should revere even more the spiritual flagpole of Engels’s support, which helped raise that flag to the sky.