Hard Like Water

by Yan Lianke

  Cheng Tianmin, you never expected that this day would ever come, did you? You never expected that the revolution, in the end, would bring a dictatorship crashing down on your own head, did you? You never expected that we would use your own methods against you, did you? If others don’t harass us, we won’t harass them, but if others insist on harassing us, we will definitely harass them in return. I will harass you, attack you, and overthrow you even more aggressively than you would do to us. This is the law of struggle. This is the method of revolutionary struggle. This is the means of revolution. The enemies who took up arms have been killed, while those who didn’t still survive and at some time may attack us even more mercilessly than before. We therefore have no choice and no alternative. Former mayor Cheng Tianmin, Uncle Cheng—you will sit there and watch as Hongmei and I do that thing in front of you! I want you to watch as your daughter-in-law and I produce clouds and rain right in front of your eyes! That way, you’ll forever regret ever having gone to the county seat to report our adultery to Secretary Guan!

  But why didn’t Hongmei emerge from the west lecture hall?

  I headed toward the west lecture hall, and when I entered that medium-size room, I saw that Hongmei was in the process of cutting up the blue mattress on Cheng Tianmin’s bed. I asked what she was doing, and she replied, “Look!” She pointed to the half-open mattress and explained, “I originally came to get the bed, but when I pulled back the mattress, I noticed that it felt like there were manuscripts inside. So I sliced it open, and hidden inside this mattress I found all the works by Zhu Xi and the Cheng Brothers that had originally been stored in the manuscript depository upstairs.” I smelled a warm, musty odor, as though someone had just cut up damp straw in the middle of winter. As I looked in the direction from which the odor was coming, I saw that Hongmei had already moved the bed next to the window, and inside the mattress was a pile of thread-bound books, each volume wrapped in plastic in order to prevent it from being damaged by sweat and humidity.

  I lifted up the mattress and dumped out the books, as though dumping grain out of a cloth sack. Each of these long, narrow volumes was a lithograph copy of a book by the Cheng Brothers or Zhu Xi, printed in traditional characters to be read vertically, with blue cloth covers. The volumes that clattered onto the bed and the floor included copies of the Cheng Brothers’ Posthumous Works, Additional Works, and Collected Works, as well as their commentaries on the Book of Changes. The volumes lay in a pile under the yellow light, as though they hadn’t yet woken up. Some had fallen out of their plastic bags and had curled-up pages, as though they were blinking their hazy eyelids. Others remained in their bags, as though still in bed. They didn’t realize that their owner had been tied up in the courtyard, and they didn’t know that today, soon, they would die a natural death. I took all those books out of their plastic bags and discovered that in addition to the volumes mentioned above, there were also Commentaries on the Classics and Pure Words, as well as Cheng Yi’s essays “Memorial to the Renzong Emperor,” “A Letter of Resignation Submitted to the Faculty of the Xijing Imperial College,” “Treatise on How Yanzi Is Able to Learn So Well,” “A Letter to the Prime Minister on Behalf of My Father,” and so forth. As for Cheng Hao, the elder brother, there were his essays “Memorial to the Palace Master,” “In Response to a Letter from Zhang Hengqu,” “Inscription for Yan Leting,” and so forth. Some of those works consisted of a single volume, while others were multivolume sets, but every work remained absolutely pristine and bore no trace of having ever been opened. From the time I was small, I had heard that Cheng Tianmin could recite many of his ancestors’ works by heart, and that when he was serving as the town’s schoolmaster, before the founding of New China, he would spend all his time reading The Cheng Brothers’ Complete Works. But if these volumes were completely untouched, then what had he been reading? I looked around and was surprised to note that Cheng Tianmin’s room was as messy as any ordinary residence. Apart from the table and bed on this side of the room, behind me was a long narrow table with a bamboo water bottle, two rice bowls, and several pairs of chopsticks. Under the table there were pots and bowls, and next to them was a wooden crate. I opened the crate and found only clothing and bedding. I opened a drawer and saw writing brushes, fountain pens, and a bottle of blue ink, together with an old inkstone. I opened another drawer and found several copies of Chairman Mao’s books, all neatly arranged, wrapped in red paper covers emblazoned with Mao Zedong’s Selected Works in Liu Gongquan–style calligraphy. On top of that set of Mao Zedong’s Selected Works, there were plastic-covered pocket editions of Chairman Mao’s Quotations, Chairman Mao’s Poetry, several Mao badges, and other items. This arrangement was no different from what you would expect to find in any other Chenggang household, the only difference being that some people might place Chairman Mao’s books at the head of the bed, others might put them on the windowsill, and others might keep them on the table.

  I closed the drawer.

  After closing the drawer, I immediately opened it again. I felt that these copies of Mao Zedong’s Selected Works were a little too long, and there was something odd about them. I opened one of them, and a column of traditional, small-block characters written in red ink suddenly erupted into my line of sight:

  The path of the gentleman relies on sincerity, benevolence, and love.

  I looked again at the other texts and saw that they were written in this same style of classical Chinese as that earlier volume. I immediately turned over the book’s cover, and inside I found a second cover that read: The Cheng Brothers’ Complete Works. I took those volumes titled Mao Zedong’s Selected Works that were actually The Cheng Brothers’ Complete Works and handed them to Hongmei, then shook the pillow at the head of the bed again. As I expected, several bundles of paper written in calligraphic brushstrokes fell out. This paper was horizontal double-line stationery, at the top of which appeared the words “Serve the People,” but below consisted of Cheng Tianmin’s writings from the past decade. Fuck his ancestors! I haven’t yet written a book, yet he already has! Fuck his ancestors! If I can’t destroy him, then who can I destroy? I picked up the first couple of pages of that bundle of stationery, and read several lines:

  A New Understanding of Cheng Neo-Confucianism

  The political implications of Cheng Neo-Confucianism in Song dynasty China

  The political implications of Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucianism in the dynasties following the Song dynasty

  What should be the uses of Cheng Neo-Confucianism’s new society?

  What has been the influence of Cheng Neo-Confucianism in the Balou Mountains?

  (Melody, Lotus Falls; backstage singing, with bamboo clappers.) Heavens, heavens! My heavens, my heavens! Birds long to enter the earth, and mice long to ascend to heaven. Grass longs to become a rainbow and a tree that produces grain, while ants want to cross the sea and pose as heroes. Originally, a hen’s former home was a phoenix nest, and those suffering from famine as well as those who have sufficient food need to establish a state and make a court.

  (A pale, thin man is pulled forward by several others, and made to kneel at the front of the stage.)

  A (with surprise): Quick, look, what is this?

  B (astonished): Heavens! … This is a written record in anticipation of our future comeback!

  (Silence descends, and everyone stares at the old man, who is now standing, trembling, at the front of the stage.)

  A (steps toward the front of the stage): We have been liberated, New China has been founded, and the armed enemies have been driven out. However, as for the unarmed enemies, the hidden enemies (he looks at the old man), they haven’t halted their dream of toppling the socialist fatherland, nor have they arrested their scheme to usurp the proletarian state. Although the trees are still, the wind has not diminished …

  C (takes the record of a future comeback, and sighs): Had it not been for this record of a future comeback, how could I ever have believed that Old Wang, this seemingly honest peas
ant, is actually a special agent left behind by Chiang Kai-shek for the purpose of counterattacking the mainland?

  B (glares angrily at Old Wang, who is kneeling at the front of the stage, then pounds his knee with his fist): Ha! … It was only yesterday that Old Wang said he had no more grain at home, and I myself delivered a sack of returned grain to his house.

  A: That’s fine—this way, you’ll be even more able to wipe your eyes and see more clearly the face of the class enemy. (He turns to face the others.) Comrades, fellow villagers, now that this record of our future comeback has fallen into our hands, what do you think we should do with Old Wang?

  B (furiously): Seize and flay him!

  C (grinding his teeth in anger and waving his hands): Rip out his tendons!

  (Old Wang is so terrified his face is covered in sweat.)

  D (with clenched jaw): Chop off his head and display it on the village gate!

  E: Douse him with gasoline and light him on fire!

  F: Mount him on a torture rack!

  (In response to everyone’s excitement and surprise, Old Wang’s expression continually changes, until finally he falls unconscious on the stage.)

  A (calls for a halt): Now, now, we can’t let ourselves be driven by our emotions. We have our democracy, and we have our laws. We have our dictatorship … Now, release Old Wang!

  (Everyone releases the trembling Old Wang. Applause.)

  We dragged Cheng Tianmin’s bed out to the center of the temple and placed it in front of him. Perhaps he didn’t realize what we were going to do, didn’t realize to what point the revolution had developed. He sat on the chair and watched as we went in and out of his room, his face completely expressionless—like a wooden board covered in dust that has been left under a bed for many years. The moon had never been as bright as it was that night, and we could even make out the various colors of the grass growing between the bricks in the temple floor. Occasionally a cloud, as white as silk, would float in front of the distant moon. The village remained as peaceful as before—without any footsteps, barking dogs, or crowing roosters. Periodically the crow in the front courtyard would caw, the sound of its cries falling from its nest, then fading away, eliciting responses from sleep-talking sparrows under the eaves of the third courtyard’s Qixian Great Hall.

  When we brought out the bed, we left behind the bedding and mattress and didn’t even use Cheng Tianmin’s sheets. Instead, we unrolled the bamboo mat that he had on his bed. Hongmei asked whether or not we should place a mattress on top. In response, I asked, didn’t she think it would be dirty? She replied that Cheng Tianmin’s younger sister had washed the mattress a few days earlier, when she returned to her mother’s house. I replied that, even after it had been washed, the mattress had still been used by a class enemy. Hongmei replied that we couldn’t use only the bamboo mat.

  I said, “What if we pad the bed with the Cheng Brothers’ books and Cheng Tianmin’s own manuscript?”

  Hongmei said, “That would work—let’s send these Cheng clan bibles straight to hell.”

  We proceeded to place the Cheng Brothers’ writings and several volumes of Zhu Xi’s annotations on the bed’s bamboo mat, as though they were piles of straw. As we were laying down those piles of volumes, Cheng Tianmin’s eyes grew wide, and a thick, white gurgling sound began to emerge from his throat, as though at last he was trying to ask us what we were doing. Finally, when we brought out Cheng Tianmin’s manuscript, the so-called New Understanding of Cheng Neo-Confucianism, ripped and crumpled it up, and placed it on the bed—it was only then that he seemed to realize what we were doing and began violently shaking his head and even moaning. When, in the moonlight, he was able to see that it was, in fact, his own manuscript that we were ripping up, he tried to stand up by placing the tips of his toes on the ground and lifting up the chair he was tied to. When the chair fell back to the ground, it made a loud clank, so that the courtyard’s moonlight and starlight and the shadows from the buildings and the trees all began to tremble.

  “Cheng Tianmin!” I hollered at him. “Don’t you dare try to move! Did you think that, by writing this sort of old-style book, you’d be able to alter the heavens? Did you think you’d be able to overthrow the socialist regime and the dictatorship of the proletariat?” While saying this, I continued tossing his ripped-up manuscript onto the bed, page by page, shred by shred, as if it were a blizzard of snowflakes falling to the ground.

  Sure enough, Cheng Tianmin eventually stopped moving, and even the gurgling sound in his throat faded away. It was as if it was only after being jostled a bit that he remembered that he had been tied to a chair by the dictatorship of the proletariat, and it was only then that he realized that he was facing not only a pair of young, strong, and vigorous revolutionaries but also, more importantly, a whole camp of powerful revolutionaries—while he represented decadent, feudal capitalism.

  We finished padding the bed with The Cheng Brothers’ Complete Works. We ripped up the New Understanding of Cheng Neo-Confucianism manuscript and tossed the pieces into the air. The temple courtyard became filled with glittering stars, with fucking Cheng Neo-Confucianism floating in the air and a layer of snow on the ground. The bed of love became even more sacred. Cheng Tianmin, I want you to open your eyes wide and watch as Hongmei and I engage in conjugal bliss in front of you. We aren’t afraid that you’ll react violently or fiercely, nor are we frightened that you’ll report us as adulterers or claim we aren’t proper revolutionaries. Real revolution or fake revolution—history will decide. Windy rain has sent spring away, and flying snow has welcomed it back. After the mountains are again covered in blooming flowers, she will be sitting there, laughing.

  Once the bed was padded, Hongmei took a step toward it, then looked at me—as though waiting for a command from me that would turn on all the world’s lights. The moon was already in the southwestern part of the sky, and we seemed to have spent more time preparing the bed than we had anticipated. The shadow from the center courtyard wall was now longer and thicker than before, and it was only at this point that I had a chance to take a proper look at the rear library. The Qixian Great Hall was just as I remembered it from my youth—big and tall, with flying buttresses and hanging eaves, and in the moonlight it appeared more mysterious and majestic than ever. But on either side of this enclosure, which was more than two mu in size, there were two parallel sets of lecture halls. It is said that, back in the old days, this is where the Cheng Brothers’ students came to attend classes and do their work, and later this was where descendants of the Cheng School gathered to drink tea and discuss the Tao. After the founding of New China, these lecture halls were no longer of any use, apart from being filled with emptiness and the dust of history, and therefore it was here that followers of the Cheng Brothers would gather to conduct observations and research, discuss the past and present, and indulge in endless talk. This was where, with their red mouths and white teeth, they set about confusing the masses and making preparations for restoring feudal dynastic rule. Currently, this whole place—including the Qixian Great Hall and the four lecture halls; the yellow tiles, aeolian bells, and the dragon and phoenix carvings on the roof; together with the grass and vegetation in the courtyard and the brick-laid ground beneath the bed—knew that it was fated to die a natural death, because the revolution wouldn’t permit such things to continue hiding out, enjoying a leisurely and carefree life while waiting for an opportunity to counterattack. The place remained silent—even the wind chimes hanging from the four upturned corners of the main audience hall.

  It seemed that Cheng Tianmin still didn’t fully understand why we had brought out his bed, nor why we had padded it with pages from The Cheng Brothers’ Complete Works and from his own manuscript. Even if he were facing death, he still wouldn’t have been able to really believe that Hongmei and I were about to do that thing right in front of him—the same way that capitalists, even as they were about to disappear from this world, still couldn’t believe that socialism could
have the power to set a prairie ablaze with a single spark. The truth has this sort of unbelievable power, and the more you attack it, the more your attacks empower it. The source of truth’s power lies precisely in the people, events, and things that attack it. Cheng Tianmin would never understand this, because he is one who attacks truth. He has never understood politics, society, or humanity. A thick, moldy smell was rising up from the bed in front of Cheng Tianmin, since the bamboo mat had not been washed for years. As the smell was spreading, Hongmei’s nose jerked up. Gazing at the moon and stars in the sky, she said, “Aijun, put down a sheet.” I also looked up at the sky and said, “There’s no need. We’re going to carry out a revolution, so we should let these decayed things be directly targeted and destroyed by our attack.”