by Ha Jin
At about two o’clock in the morning, both Manjin and Tingting, after being ordered to turn in their confessions in two days, were released. Bofan told Manjin that he must show his remorse sincerely, writing out a self-criticism as well. Now it was up to him to decide whether he could remain in the Communist Youth League Section. Bofan’s words frightened Manjin, and he couldn’t help imagining the terrible life he’d have to live if he was sent back to the Wheel Factory, where he had once worked as an apprentice in its smithy.
The next day, whenever he had a free moment, he would think about how to write the confession. At noon, when others had left the office for lunch, he unlocked the file cabinet, intending to sniff Tingting’s panties so as to make sure they had the same smell as the mysterious woman’s. But, to his surprise, the envelope was unsealed and the panties had already lost their original scent.
Word came in the evening that Tingting had killed herself with a bottle of DDT. The police went to search through her belongings, looking for her last words, but she hadn’t left any.
Her death shook Manjin. He was still unsure whether it was Tingting who had sat beside him in the theater or someone else, or a ghost. When alone, he’d weep and curse himself and his bad luck. To his surprise, the leaders didn’t press him for an elaborate self-criticism. The one he had turned in was poorly written, and he had anticipated that they would demand revisions.
He was ready to return to the Wheel Factory, but no such orders ever came. He felt a little relieved when he was informed that the Political Department had issued only a disciplinary warning to him, for such an action wouldn’t affect his official career and would be removed from his file at the end of the year if he worked well. It seemed all the leaders were eager to forget this case.
In the Workers Dining Hall girls didn’t glance at him anymore; those tall nurses would overlook him as if he were a stranger. Soon he began to eat dinner at the guesthouse with other officials and often got drunk there. He stopped going out in the evenings. If his roommates were not in, he would go to bed early, sometimes with the butterfly panties under his pillow.
The Bridegroom
Before Beina’s father died, I promised him that I’d take care of his daughter. He and I had been close friends for twenty years. He left his only child with me because my wife and I had no children of our own. It was easy to keep my word when Beina was still a teenager. As she grew older, it became more difficult, not because she was willful or troublesome, but because no man was interested in her, a short, homely girl. When she turned twenty-three and still had no boyfriend, I began to worry. Where could I find her a husband? Timid and quiet, she didn’t know how to get close to a man. I was afraid she’d end up an old maid.
Then, out of the blue, Huang Baowen proposed to her. I found myself at a loss, because they’d hardly known each other. How could he be serious about his offer? I feared he might make a fool of Beina, so I insisted they get engaged if he meant business. He came to my home with two trussed-up capons, four cartons of Ginseng cigarettes, two bottles of Five Grains’ Sap, and one tall tin of oolong tea. I was pleased, though not very impressed by his gifts.
Two months later they got married. My colleagues congratulated me, saying, “That was fast, Old Cheng.”
What a relief to me. But to many young women in our sewing machine factory, Beina’s marriage was a slap in the face. They’d say, “A hen cooped up a peacock.” Or, “A fool always lands in the arms of fortune.” True, Baowen had been one of the most handsome unmarried men in the factory, and nobody had expected that Beina, stocky and stout, would win him. What’s more, Baowen was good-natured and well educated—a middle school graduate—and he didn’t smoke or drink or gamble. He had fine manners and often smiled politely, showing his bright, straight teeth. In a way he resembled a woman, delicate, clear-skinned, and soft-spoken; he even could knit things out of wool. But no men dared bully him because he was skilled at martial arts. Three times in a row he had won the first prize for kung fu at our factory’s annual sports meet. He was very good at the long sword and freestyle boxing. When he was in middle school, bigger boys had often picked on him, so his stepfather had sent him to the martial arts school in their hometown. A year later, nobody would bug him again.
Sometimes I couldn’t help wondering why Baowen had fallen for Beina. What in her had caught his heart? Did he really like her fleshy face, which often reminded me of a blowfish? Although we had our doubts, my wife and I couldn’t say anything negative about the marriage. Our only concern was that Baowen might be too good for our adopted daughter. Whenever I heard that somebody had divorced, I’d feel a sudden flutter of panic.
As the head of the Security Section in the factory, I had some pull and did what I could to help the young couple. Soon after their wedding, I secured them a brand-new two-bedroom apartment, which angered some people waiting in line for housing. I wasn’t daunted by their criticism. I’d do almost anything to make Beina’s marriage a success, because I believed that if it survived the first two years, it might last decades—once Baowen became a father, it would be difficult for him to break loose.
But after they’d been married for eight months, Beina still wasn’t pregnant. I was afraid that Baowen would soon grow tired of her and run after another woman, as many young women in the factory were still attracted to him. A brazen one even declared she’d leave her door open for him all night long. Some of them frequently offered him movie tickets and meat coupons. It seemed that they were determined to wreck Beina’s marriage. I hated them, and just the thought of them would give me an earache or a sour stomach. Fortunately, Baowen hadn’t yet done anything outside the bounds of a decent husband.
One morning in early November, Beina stepped into my office. “Uncle,” she said in a tearful voice, “Baowen didn’t come home last night.”
I tried to remain calm, though my head began to swim. “Do you know where he’s been?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I looked for him everywhere.” She licked her cracked lips and took off her green work cap, her hair in a huge bun.
“When did you see him last?”
“At dinner yesterday evening. He said he was going to see somebody. He has lots of buddies in town.”
“Is that so?” I didn’t know he had many friends. “Don’t worry. Go back to your workshop and don’t tell anybody about this. I’ll call around and find him.”
She dragged herself out of my office. She must have gained at least a dozen pounds since the wedding. Her blue dungarees had become so tight that they seemed about to burst. Viewed from behind, she looked like a giant turnip.
I called the Rainbow Movie Theater, Victory Park, and a few restaurants in town. They all said they had not seen anyone matching Baowen’s description. Before I could phone the City Library where Baowen sometimes spent much of his weekends, a call came in. It was from the city’s Public Security Bureau. The man on the phone said they’d detained a worker of ours, named Huang Baowen. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened. He just said, “Indecent activity. Come as soon as you can.”
It was a cold day. As I cycled toward downtown, the shrill north wind kept flipping up the front ends of my overcoat. My knees were sore, and I couldn’t help shivering. Soon my asthma tightened my throat and I began moaning. I couldn’t stop cursing Baowen. “I knew it. I just knew it,” I said to myself. I had sensed that sooner or later he’d seek pleasure with another woman. Now he was in the hands of the police, and the whole factory would talk about him. How would Beina take this blow?
At the Public Security Bureau I was surprised to see that about a dozen officials from other factories, schools, and companies were already there. I knew most of them—they were in charge of security affairs at their workplaces. A policewoman conducted us into a conference room upstairs where green silk curtains hung in the windows. We sat down around a long mahogany table and waited to be briefed about the case. The glass tabletop was brand-new, its edge still sharp. I saw worry and confusio
n on the other men’s faces. I figured Baowen must have been involved in a major crime—either an orgy or a gang rape. On second thought, I was sure he couldn’t have been a rapist; by nature he was kindhearted, very gentle. I hoped this was not a political case, which would be absolutely unpardonable. Six or seven years ago, a half-wit and a high school graduate had started an association in our city, named the China Liberation Party, which eventually recruited nine members. Although the sparrow is small, it has a complete set of organs—their party elected a chairman, a secretary, and even a prime minister. But before they could print their manifesto, which expressed their intention to overthrow the government, the police rounded them up. Two of the top leaders were executed, and the rest of the members were jailed.
As I was wondering about the nature of Baowen’s crime, a middle-aged man came in. He had a solemn face, and his eyes were half-closed. He took off his dark-blue tunic, hung it on the back of a chair, and sat down at the end of the table. I recognized him; he was Chief Miao of the Investigation Department. Wearing a sheepskin jerkin, he somehow reminded me of Genghis Khan, thick-boned and round-faced. His hooded eyes were shrewd, though they looked sleepy. Without any opening remarks he declared that we had a case of homosexuality on our hands. At that, the room turned noisy. We’d heard that term before but didn’t know what it meant exactly. Seeing many of us puzzled, Chief Miao explained, “It’s a social disease, like gambling, or prostitution, or syphilis.” He kept on squirming as if itchy with hemorrhoids.
A young man from the city’s Fifth Middle School raised his hand. He asked, “What do homosexuals do?”
Miao smiled and his eyes almost disappeared. He said, “People of the same sex have a sexual relationship.”
“Sodomy!” cried someone.
The room turned quiet for at least ten seconds. Then somebody asked what kind of crime this was.
Chief Miao explained, “Homosexuality originated in Western capitalism and bourgeois lifestyle. According to our law it’s dealt with as a kind of hooliganism. Therefore, every one of the men we arrested will serve a sentence, from six months to five years, depending on the severity of his crime and his attitude toward it.”
A truck blew its horn on the street and made my heart twinge. If Baowen went to prison, Beina would live like a widow, unless she divorced him. Why had he married her to begin with? Why did he ruin her this way?
What had happened was that a group of men, mostly clerks, artists, and schoolteachers, had formed a club called Men’s World, a salon of sorts. Every Thursday evening they’d meet in a large room on the third floor of the office building of the Forestry Institute. Since the club admitted only men, the police suspected that it might be a secret association with a leaning toward violence, so they assigned two detectives to mix with the group. True, some of the men appeared to be intimate with one another in the club, but most of the time they talked about movies, books, and current events. Occasionally music was played, and they danced together. According to the detectives’ account, it was a bizarre, emotional scene. A few men appeared in pairs, unashamed of necking and cuddling in the presence of others, and some would say with tears, “At last we men have a place for ourselves.” A middle-aged painter wearing earrings exclaimed, “Now I feel alive! Only in here can I stop living in hypocrisy.” Every week, two or three new faces would show up. When the club grew close to thirty men, the police took action and arrested them all.
After Chief Miao’s briefing, we were allowed to meet with the criminals for fifteen minutes. A policeman led me into a small room in the basement and let me read Baowen’s confession while he went to fetch him. I glanced through the four pages of interrogation notes, which stated that Baowen had been new to the club, and that he’d joined them only twice, mainly because he was interested in their talks. Yet he didn’t deny he was a homosexual.
As it was next to a bathroom, the room smelled of urine. The policeman brought Baowen in and ordered him to sit opposite me at the table. Baowen, in handcuffs, avoided looking at me. His face was bloated, covered with bruises. A broad welt left by a baton, about four inches long, slanted across his forehead. The collar of his jacket was torn open. Yet he didn’t appear frightened. His calm manner angered me, though I felt sorry for him.
I kept a hard face and said, “Baowen, do you know you committed a crime?”
“I didn’t do anything. I just went there to listen to them talk.”
“You mean you didn’t do that thing with any man?” I wanted to make sure, so that I could help him.
He looked at me, then lowered his eyes, saying, “I’d thought about doing something, but, to be honest, I didn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I—I liked a man in the club, a lot. If he’d asked me, I might’ve agreed.” His lips curled upward as if he prided himself on what he had said.
“You’re sick!” I struck the table with my knuckles.
To my surprise, he said, “So? I’m a sick man. You think I don’t know that?”
I was bewildered. He went on, “Years ago I tried everything to cure myself. I took a lot of herbs and boluses, and even ate baked scorpions, lizards, and toads. Nothing helped me. Still I’m fond of men. I don’t know why I’m not interested in women. Whenever I’m with a woman my heart is as calm as a stone.”
Outraged by his confession, I asked, “Then why did you marry my Beina? To make fun of her, eh? To throw mud in my face?”
“How could I be that mean? Before we got married, I told her I didn’t like women and might not give her a baby.”
“She believed you?”
“Yes. She said she wouldn’t mind. She just wanted a husband, a home.”
“She’s an idiot!” I unfolded my hanky and blew my clogged nose into it, then asked, “Why did you choose her if you had no feelings for her at all?”
“What was the difference? For me she was similar to other women.”
“You’re a scoundrel!”
“If I didn’t marry her, who would? The marriage helped us both, covering me and saving face for her. Besides, we could have a good apartment—a home. You see, I tried living like a normal man. I’ve never been mean to Beina.”
“But the marriage is a fake! You lied to your mother too, didn’t you?”
“She wanted me to marry.”
The policeman signaled that our meeting was over. In spite of my anger, I told Baowen that I’d see what I could do, and that he’d better cooperate with the police and show a sincere attitude.
What should I do? I was sick of him, but he belonged to my family, at least in name, and I was obligated to help him.
On the way home I pedaled slowly, my mind heavy with thoughts. Gradually I realized that I might be able to do something to prevent him from going to jail. There were two steps I must take: first, I would maintain that he had done nothing in the club, so as to isolate him from the real criminals; second, I would present him as a sick man, so that he might receive medical treatment instead of a prison term. Once he became a criminal, he’d be marked forever as an enemy of society, no longer redeemable. Even his children would suffer. I ought to save him.
Fortunately both the Party secretary and the director of our factory were willing to accept Baowen as a sick man, particularly Secretary Zhu, who liked Baowen’s kung fu style and had once let him teach his youngest son how to use a three-section cudgel. Zhu suggested we make an effort to rescue Baowen from the police. In the men’s room inside our office building, he said to me, “Old Cheng, we must not let Baowen end up in prison.” I was grateful for his words.
All of a sudden homosexuality became a popular topic in the factory. A few old workers said that some actors of the Beijing Opera had slept together as lovers in the old days, because no women were allowed to perform in any troupe and the actors could associate only with other men. Secretary Zhu, who was well read, said that some emperors in the Han Dynasty had kept male lovers in addition to their large harems. Director Liu had he
ard that the last emperor, Puyi, had often ordered his eunuchs to suck his penis and caress his testicles. Someone even claimed that homosexuality was an upper-class thing, not something for ordinary people. All this talk sickened me. I felt ashamed of my so-called son-in-law. I wouldn’t join them in talking, and just listened, pretending I wasn’t bothered.
As I expected, rumors ran wild in the factory, especially in the foundry shop. Some people said Baowen was impotent. Some believed he was a hermaphrodite, otherwise his wife would’ve been pregnant long ago.
To console Beina, I went to see her one evening. She had a pleasant home, in which everything was in order. Two bookcases, filled with industrial manuals, biographies, novels, and medical books, stood against the whitewashed wall, on each side of the window. In one corner of the living room was a coat tree on which hung the red down parka Baowen had bought her before their wedding, and in another corner sat a floor lamp. At the opposite end of the room two pots of blooming flowers, one of cyclamens and the other of Bengal roses, were placed on a pair of low stools kept at an equal distance from each other and from the walls on both sides. Near the inner wall was a large sofa upholstered in orange imitation leather, and next to it, a yellow enamel spittoon. A black-and-white TV perched on an oak chest against the outer wall.
I was impressed, especially by the floor, inlaid with bricks and coated with bright red paint. Even my wife didn’t keep a home so neat. No doubt it was Baowen’s work, because Beina couldn’t be so tidy. Already the room showed the trace of her sloppy habits—in a corner were scattered an empty flour sack and a pile of soiled laundry. Sipping the tea she had poured me, I said, “Beina, I’m sorry about Baowen. I didn’t know he was so bad.”
