The Bridegroom

by Ha Jin

  “I’ll remember that,” Huping said, punching his left palm with his right fist. He wore high leather boots and a short cudgel slung across his back.

  Director Yu’s gaze swept through the crowd, and he asked loudly if everyone was ready. A few people nodded.

  “Action!” he cried.

  The door of the cage was lifted up. The tiger rushed out, vigorously shaking its body. It opened its mouth, and four long canine teeth glinted. It began walking in circles and sniffing at the ground while Huping, with firm steps, began to approach it. The animal roared and pranced, but our hero took the cudgel from his back and went forward resolutely. When he was within ten feet of the tiger, the snarling beast suddenly sprang at him, but with all his might Huping struck its head with his cudgel. The blow staggered the tiger a little, yet it came back and lunged at him again. Huping leaped aside and hit its flank. This blow sent the animal tumbling a few feet away. Huping followed it, striking its back and head. The tiger turned around with a menacing look. Then they were in a real melee.

  With a crack the front half of the cudgel flew away. Huping dropped the remaining half, just as Wu Song does in the story. The beast rushed forward, reached for Huping’s leg, and ripped his pants, then jumped up, snapping at his throat. Our hero knocked the animal aside with his fist, but its attack threw Huping off balance—he tottered and almost fell.

  “Keep engaging it!” Director Yu shouted at him.

  I stood behind a large elm, hugging my ribs.

  “Closer, closer!” the director ordered the cameraman.

  Huping kicked the tiger in the side. The animal reeled around and sprang at him again. Huping dodged the attack and punched the tiger’s neck. Now the drug began taking effect; the tiger wobbled a little and fell to its haunches. It lurched to its feet, but after a few steps it collapsed. Our hero jumped on its back, punching its head with all his strength. The tiger, as if dead, no longer reacted to the beating, only its tail lashing the grass now and again. Still Huping pulled and pushed its huge head, forcing its lips and teeth to scrape the dirt.

  “Cut!” Director Yu called, and walked over to Huping as two men helped him up from the unconscious animal. The director said, “I guess we didn’t time it well. The tiger passed out too soon.”

  “I killed him! I’m the number-one tiger-fighter!” Huping shouted. With his fists balled at his flanks, he began laughing huskily and stamping his feet.

  People ran up to him and tried to calm him down. But he wouldn’t stop laughing. “I killed him! I killed him!” he yelled, his eyes ablaze.

  The medic poured some water into the bowl and took out a sedative tablet. He made Huping take the medicine.

  “Good wine, good wine!” Huping said after drinking the water. He wiped his lips with his forearm.

  Then, to our astonishment, he burst out singing like a hero in a revolutionary model opera:

  My spirit rushing toward the Milky Way,

  With my determination and bravery

  I shall eradicate every vermin from earth. . . .

  A young woman snickered. Two men clutched Huping’s arms and dragged him away while he was babbling about plucking out the tiger’s heart, liver, and lungs. They put him into the back of a truck.

  “He’s punch-drunk,” said Secretary Feng. “Tough job—I don’t blame him.”

  The tiger was lifted back into its cage. Director Yu wasn’t happy about the botched scene. According to the classic story, which our audience would know well, the hero is supposed to ride the tiger for a while, bring it down, and punch its head hundreds of times until it breathes its last. The scene we had just shot missed the final struggle, so we would have to try again.

  But Huping was in no condition to work. For the rest of the day he laughed or giggled at random. Whenever someone came into sight he’d shout, “Hey, I killed the tiger!” We worried about him, so we called in a pedicab and sent him to the hospital for a checkup.

  The diagnosis was mild schizophrenia, and the doctor insisted that Huping be hospitalized.

  What should we do about the fight scene? Get another tiger-fighter? Not so easy. Where on earth could we find a fellow as handsome and strapping as our Prince? We looked through a pile of movie and TV magazines in the hopes of finding someone who resembled him, but most of the young actors we saw were mere palefaced boys; few had the stature and spirit of a hero.

  Somehow the prefecture’s Propaganda Department heard about the governor’s interest in our TV series. Its deputy director phoned, saying we should complete the revision as early as possible. It was already mid-September, and trees were dropping leaves. Soon frost and snow would change the color of the landscape and make it impossible to duplicate the setting.

  Because it was unlikely that we would find a substitute for Huping, some people suggested using him again. Quite a few of us opposed this idea; those who supported it didn’t seem to care that a man’s life was at risk. In private, some of us—clerks, assistants, actors—complained about the classic novel that contains the tiger-fighting episode. Why would an author write such a difficult scene? It’s impossible for any man to ride a tiger and then beat it to death bare-handed. The story is a pure fabrication that has misled readers for hundreds of years. It may have been easy for the writer to describe it on paper, but in reality, how could we create such a hero?

  Full of anxiety, Director Yu suffered a case of inflamed eyes—they turned into curved slits between red, doughy lids. He’d wear sunglasses whenever he went out of the office building. He told us, “We must finish the scene! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

  One night he even dreamed he himself wrestled the tiger to the ground, and his elbow inflicted a bruise on his wife’s chest.

  We were worried, too. Our company couldn’t afford to feed the tiger for long; besides, we had no place to shelter it for the coming winter.

  The following week, Secretary Feng held a staff meeting with us. We discussed the predicament at some length. Gradually it became clear that if we couldn’t find a substitute, we might have to use Huping again. The proponents of this idea argued their position logically and convinced us, its opponents, that this was the only way to get the job done.

  At the end of the meeting, Director Yu stressed that this time everything had to be accurately designed and calculated. The tranquilizer dart should carry a smaller dose so that the tiger would remain on its feet long enough for our hero to ride it a while. Also, we would have to be more careful not to let the beast hurt him.

  To our relief, when the leaders broached the plan with Huping, he eagerly agreed to fight the tiger again. He said that he’d live up to their expectations and that he felt fine now, ready for work. “I’m a tiger-fighter,” he declared. His voice was quite hoarse, and his eyes glittered.

  “Yes, you are,” agreed Secretary Feng. “All the provincial leaders are watching you, Huping. Try to do a good job this time.”

  “I shall.”

  So we trucked the tiger to the site the next morning. The weather happened to be similar to that of the previous time: a little overcast, the sun peeking through the gray clouds now and then. I identified the elm and the spot where the fight had taken place before. Huping sat on a boulder with a short cudgel across his naked back while the medic was massaging his shoulders. After a tranquilizer dart was shot into the tiger’s thigh, Huping rose to his feet and downed a bowl of White Flame in two gulps.

  Director Yu went over to give him instructions, saying, “Don’t lose your head. When I shout, ‘On the tiger!’ you get on its back, ride it for a while, then bring it down. Until it stops moving, keep punching its head.”

  “All right.” Huping nodded, his gaze fixed on the caged animal.

  In the distance, on the hillside, a few cows were grazing, the west wind occasionally blowing their voices to us.

  The tiger was let out. It pranced around, bursting with life. It opened its mouth threateningly. It began eyeing the distant cows.

  “R
oll the camera!” shouted Director Yu.

  As Huping was approaching the tiger, it growled and rushed toward him. Our hero seemed stunned. He stopped and raised the cudgel, but the beast just pounced on him and pawed at his shoulder. With a heartrending cry, Huping dropped his weapon and ran toward us. The tiger followed, but having been caged for weeks, it couldn’t run fast. We scattered in every direction, and even the camera crew deserted their equipment. Huping jumped, caught a limb of the elm, and climbed up the tree. The animal leaped and ripped off Huping’s left boot, and instantly a patch of blood appeared on his white sock.

  “Save me!” he yelled, climbing higher. The beast was pacing below the tree, snarling and roaring.

  “Give it another shot!” Director Yu cried.

  Another dart hit the tiger’s shoulder. In no time it started tottering, moving zigzag under the elm.

  We watched fearfully while Huping yelled for help. He was so piteous.

  The tiger fell. Director Yu was outraged and couldn’t help calling Huping names. Two men quietly carried the cage over to the motionless animal.

  “Idiot!” Director Yu cursed.

  The medic wiggled his fingers at Huping. “Come down now, let me dress your foot.”

  “No.”

  “The tiger’s gone,” a woman said to him.

  “Help me!” he yelled.

  “It can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “Shoot him!”

  No matter how many comforting words we used, he wouldn’t come down from the tree. He squatted up there, weeping like a small boy. The crotch of his pants was wet.

  We couldn’t wait for him like this forever. So Secretary Feng, his face puffy and glum, said to a man, “Give him a shot, not too strong.”

  From a range of five feet a dart was fired into Huping’s right buttock.

  “Ow!” he cried.

  A few men assembled under the elm to catch him, but he didn’t fall. As the drug began affecting him, he turned to embrace the tree trunk and began descending slowly. A moment later the men grabbed his arms and legs and carried him away.

  One of them said, “He’s so hot. Must be running a fever.”

  “Phew! Smelly!” said another.

  Now that our hero was gone, what could we do? At last it began to sink in that the tiger was too fierce for any man to tackle. Somebody suggested having the beast gelded so as to bring the animal closer to the human level. We gave a thought to that and even talked to a pig castrator, but he didn’t trust tranquilizers and wouldn’t do the job unless the tiger was tied up. Somehow the Choice Herb Store heard about our situation and sent an old pharmacist over to buy the tiger’s testicles, which the man said were a sought-after remedy for impotence and premature ejaculation. In his words, “They give you a tiger’s spirit and energy.”

  But finally realizing that the crux of our problem was the hero, not the tiger, we decided against castrating the animal. Without a man who physically resembled Huping, we could get nowhere, even with a tamed tiger. Then someone suggested that we find a tiger skin and have it worn by a man. In other words, shoot the last part of the scene with a fake animal. This seemed feasible, but I had my doubts. As the set clerk, whose job it is to make sure that all the details match those in the previous shooting, I thought that we couldn’t possibly get a skin identical to the real tiger’s. After I expressed my misgivings, people fell silent for a long time.

  Finally Director Yu said, “Why don’t we have the tiger put down and use its skin?”

  “Maybe we should do that,” agreed Old Min, who was also in the series, playing a bad official.

  Secretary Feng was uncertain whether Huping could still fill his role. Director Yu assured him, saying, “That shouldn’t be a problem. Is he still a man if he can’t even fight a dead tiger?”

  People cracked up.

  Then it occurred to us that the tiger was a protected animal and that we might get into trouble with the law if we had it killed. Director Yu told us not to worry. He was going to talk with a friend of his in the Municipal Administration.

  Old Min agreed to wear the tiger’s skin and fight with Huping. He was good at this kind of horseplay.

  Two days later, our plan was approved. So we had the tiger shot by a militiaman with a semiautomatic rifle. The man had been instructed not to damage the animal’s head, so he aimed at its chest. He fired six shots into the tiger, but it simply refused to die—it sat on its haunches, panting, its tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth while blood streamed down its front legs. Its eyes were half closed, as though it were sleepy. Even when it had finally fallen down, people waited for some time before opening the cage.

  To stay clear of anybody who might be involved with the black market, we sold the whole carcass to the state-owned Red Arrow Pharmaceutical Factory for forty-eight hundred yuan, a little more than we had paid for the live tiger. But that same evening we got a call from the manager of the factory, who complained that one of the tiger’s hind legs was missing. We assured him that when the carcass left our company, it was intact. Apparently en route someone had hacked off the leg to get a piece of tiger bone, which is a kind of treasure in Chinese medicine, often used to strengthen the physique, relieve rheumatic pains, and ease palpitations caused by fright. The factory refused to pay the full price unless we delivered the missing leg. But how on earth could we recover it? Secretary Feng haggled hard in vain, and they docked five hundred yuan from the original figure.

  This time there was no need to persuade our hero. Just at the mention of beating a fake tiger, Huping got excited, itching to have a go. He declared, “I’m still a tiger-fighter. I’ll whip him!”

  Because the shooting could be repeated from now on, there wasn’t much preparation. We set out for the woods in just one truck. Old Min sat in the cab with a young actress who was allergic to the smog and wore a large gauze mask. On the way, Huping grinned at us, gnashed his teeth, and made hisses through his nose. His eyes radiated a hard light. That spooked me, and I avoided looking at him.

  When we arrived at the place and got off the vehicle, he began glaring at Old Min. The look on his face suggested intense malice. It made me feel awful, because he used to be such a good-hearted man, gentle and sweet. That was another reason why the girls had called him Prince.

  Old Min changed his mind and refused to play the tiger. Director Yu and Secretary Feng tried to persuade him, but he simply wouldn’t do it, saying, “He thinks he’s a real tiger-killer and can have his way with me. No, I won’t give him the chance.”

  “Please, he won’t hurt you,” begged Director Yu.

  “Look at his eyes—they give me goose bumps. No, I won’t have anything to do with him.”

  Desperate, Secretary Feng shouted at us, “Who’d like to play the tiger?”

  There was no response, only a grasshopper snapping its whitish wings in the air. Then an explosion was heard from the distant mountain, where granite was being quarried.

  Director Yu added, “Come on, it will be fun, a great experience.” Seeing nobody step forward, he went on, “I’ll treat whoever takes the part to an eight-course dinner.”

  “Where will you take him?” asked the young truck driver, Little Dou.

  “Four Seas Garden.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “Of course—on my word of honor.”

  “Then I’ll try. I’ve never been in a movie, though.”

  “You know the story Wu Song Beat the Tiger, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just imagine yourself as the tiger being beaten by the hero. Crawl and roll about, keep shaking your head until I say, ‘Die.’ Then you fall down and begin to die slowly.”

  “All right, I’ll give it a shot.”

  Huping was already in his outfit, but this time not wearing the cudgel.

  They wrapped the small driver in the tiger’s skin and tied the strings around his belly. Director Yu said to him, “Don’t be scared. Try to be natural. He’ll wrestle
with you bare-handed. This tiger skin is so thick that nothing can hurt you.”

  “No problem.” The driver spat on the ground, then pulled on the tiger’s head.

  The director raised his hand, an unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. “Action!” he called.

  The tiger crawled into the grass, wandering with ease. Its rump swayed a little. Huping leaped on its back and began riding it around, shouting, “Kill!” Gripping its forelock with his left hand, he hit the tiger hard on the head with his right fist.

  “Oh, Mama!” the tiger squealed. “He’s killing me!”

  Huping kept punching until the tiger staggered, then collapsed. Just as we were about to intervene, Director Yu motioned for us not to move. Old Min laughed boisterously, bending forward and holding the swell of his belly with both hands. “Oh my! Oh my!” he kept saying.

  Meanwhile, Huping was slapping the tiger’s face and spat on it as well. The animal screamed, “Spare me! Spare me, Grandpa!”

  “He’s hurting him,” said Secretary Feng.

  “It’s all right,” Director Yu assured him, then turned to the crew. “Keep the camera rolling.”

  I said, “If he cripples Little Dou, it’ll cost us lots.”

  “Don’t put such a jinx on us!” the director snapped at me. I held my tongue.

  Finally, Huping got off the motionless tiger, but then he started in ferociously kicking its flank, head, neck, face. His boots produced muffled thuds as he cursed, “Kill this paper tiger! I’m going to finish him off!”

  How frightened we were! The driver wasn’t making a sound at this point. Huping stepped aside and, picking up a rock as large as a melon, muttered, “Let me smash this fake.”

  We ran over and grabbed him.

  “Stop it!” the medic yelled at our hero. “You’ve already beaten the crap out of Little Dou!”

  Huping wouldn’t listen and struggled to reach the tiger. It took five men to restrain him, wrench the rock from his hands, and haul him away. He shouted, “I killed another tiger! I’m a real tiger-fighter!”