In the Pond

by Ha Jin

  “We should report it to town police,” Ma said to Liu, returning from the park.

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, it’s damage to public property, you know.”

  “Forget it, Old Ma. We’ve no idea where the shit came from or who to suspect. The police can’t do a thing if we don’t give them any clue.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  After exchanging views, they decided to keep quiet about the incident and not have it investigated, because they felt that their reticence might pacify the workers some. Indeed it did; within a few days they could see that those resentful eyes became less hostile.

  Director Ma assigned a group of temporary workers, hired from a nearby village, to clean and whitewash the walls of the apartments and scrub the cement floors with caustic soda and Lysol. The two leaders went to Workers’ Park over ten times within a week to ensure that no trace of human stench was left in their future homes. Afterwards, their wives also went over to check the sanitary conditions. Mrs. Ma wanted the window frames and the doors to be repainted; this took four workers another day.

  In three weeks the cartoon appeared in the literary and art section of the Lüda Daily. Apparently, the editors of the newspaper hadn’t taken it as a significant piece of work; it came out only four by three inches, inserted in the bottom left corner of the page. Yet the author’s name, authenticated by the mention of his workplace, stood below the drawing. Anyone with a little imagination wouldn’t fail to link the happy crowd in the cartoon to the cadres of the Harvest Fertilizer Plant.

  Though only a few people in the plant subscribed to the newspaper, more than half of the three hundred workers and staff saw or heard of the cartoon on the day of its publication. That night, someone even pasted a copy of it on the notice board at the front entrance. Because Bin was its author, people assumed he had sneaked to the plant at night and posted it there. In fact, he didn’t know of its appearance in the newspaper until he came to work early the next morning.

  On arriving at the plant, Bin was surprised to see his cartoon on the notice board. Several workers were gathered near it, chattering and smoking. They all congratulated him, but Bin nodded without showing any enthusiasm. In his heart he was happy and couldn’t help thinking, Good, see how those bastards will patch up the whole thing. This will make them remember that I don’t forget an offense in a hurry.

  Entering the workshop, he ran into the director of Maintenance, Hsiao Peng, whose rank was not high enough to qualify him to compete for one of the four larger apartments; so Hsiao was among the outraged too. With a cunning smile he said to Bin, “That’s not a bad drawing, Young Shao. I’m impressed.”

  “I aimed it at some people,” Bin said, his jaw jutting out.

  “I know, you mean to correct the unhealthy tendency in our plant.” Hsiao was chewing a toffee, his round eyes blinking.

  Bin knew Hsiao was also one of the wolves, who grumbled only because he hadn’t got a piece of meat this time. Quietly he turned away to put on his work clothes.

  Within an hour after the morning shift started, the cartoon disappeared from the board. In the director’s office, Liu and Ma were restless, thinking how to handle this situation. Now they were notorious in the entire prefecture, only because they each had a faucet and an extra room in their new homes. Many leaders of higher authorities must have seen the cartoon and might have inquiries made about the people involved. That damn dog Shao Bin had turned upon his masters. No wonder people called him Man Hater. He simply hated everyone and couldn’t bear to see anybody better off than himself. They had to figure out a way to subdue him now; otherwise some workers would follow his example and make more trouble for them.

  That evening the plant held a workers-and-staff meeting in the dining hall. After everybody was seated, Secretary Liu began to speak about the allocation of cabbages, turnips, carrots, and rutabagas for the coming winter, and also about the coal that the plant would sell to its employees to supplement the fuel the state had rationed. After that, he turned to the main topic: the cartoon and its author. In a thick voice, the squat secretary announced that this was a serious political case and that Shao Bin, “a representative of bourgeois liberalism,” had to be responsible for all the consequences.

  Liu explained, “Comrade Shao Bin never expressed his dissatisfaction with the housing assignment. Then without the leaders’ knowledge and permission, he sent the cartoon to the newspaper. This is a sniping attack. As a result, he has damaged our plant’s reputation and slung mud in our faces. Besides, this is pure slander. You all know that only five single-story houses were built this year, but Shao Bin set up a tall building with his brush. In our commune no house is taller than White Mansion, which has only two stories. That’s a fact. How could our plant own a six-story building? If Comrade Shao is so constructive, we’d better invite him to build us a few great mansions. Then everybody here will have a spacious, beautiful unit. That will solve the problem of our lack of funds. In a couple of weeks we’ll realize the ideal of Communism in our plant, and we’ll become a progressive model for all of China.”

  The audience laughed.

  Liu went on, “In the cartoon twelve adults, men and women, are painted as one family; this is an insult to those who have moved into the new apartments. Everybody knows that many workers got housing this time. How dare Shao Bin call the twenty-four families that live in the new houses ‘one family with power’? Comrades, we are not animals but human beings. We grew out of group marriage thousands of years ago. You know, only the reactionaries would say the Communists live together, sharing wives and husbands. In the old China I often heard that kind of propaganda on Chiang Kaishek’s radio. Perhaps Comrade Shao Bin is too young to know the malicious nature of his drawing, but obviously it has nothing to do with constructive criticism. If he was not full of reactionary intentions, he at least called us names.”

  Some angry eyes turned to Bin, who was sitting by a window. He hung his head low, dragging at a self-rolled cigarette.

  “You want to say something, Old Ma?” Liu asked the director, returning to his seat.

  “Yes.” Ma went to the front and began speaking in a hoarse voice. “Comrades, it’s true that the larger apartments each have an extra room, but it was designed for work, not for comfort. Don’t you think the leaders need a room to talk with you when you have a problem and come to see us? We can’t discuss it at a dining table with women and kids around, can we? Besides, all the leaders have large families, you know that, and we need an extra room. This is not our fault. When we were young, the government encouraged us to make babies, the more the better, and there was no family planning at the time. Chairman Mao announced at a conference, ‘Among all things in the world the most precious are human beings.’ We responded to his call, making more babies to increase our national wealth.” Some women giggled. Ma kept on, “So I say an extra room in our homes is not a privilege but a necessity.”

  Damn you! Bin cursed to himself. How about the faucet and the closets? How about taking the sunniest side of each house? How about the cement floors? I hope the hard floors will break your women’s hips.

  Ma then announced the Party Committee’s decision about the cartoon. “In view of comrade Shao Bin’s wrong, we propose a threefold solution here. One, Finance will stop giving him a bonus for six months. Two, he must write out a self-criticism and admit his wrong publicly, in front of all of us. Three, he must send a letter, without delay, to the Lüda Daily and explain the facts and his true intention, and ask the editors to publish a note of correction. Comrades, we believe this is the only way to restore our plant’s reputation and repair the leader’ image. Let me make it clear here: we will adopt other measures if Shao Bin doesn’t change his attitude toward—”

  “This is oppression and vengeance!” Bin bellowed and jumped up. “I won’t write a word. I will report you to the State Council in Beijing.” He flourished his cigarette.

  The room rang with laughter. Ma wav
ed to adjourn the meeting, and people stood up, moving to the door. Bin knew there was no use arguing with the leaders, who would simply enjoy seeing him rage and wrangle, so he left the dining hall without one more word. His eyes turned triangular, glowing with anger.

  After hearing of the Party Committee’s decision, Meilan changed her mind and begged her husband to give up confronting the leaders, because there was 120 yuan involved. The loss really hurt. Without the money, they wouldn’t be able to buy a TV the next year. They had saved almost 300 yuan for that and needed the bonus to make up the total amount. But Bin refused to give in, saying he wouldn’t have to watch television and he would rather spend his time more meaningfully, studying and painting. Besides, how could he retreat now? People would think him spineless if he bowed to the leaders’ wishes.

  However, the loss of the bonus also upset him. At the least it meant they would be hard up by New Year’s. A self-criticism in front of the whole plant was out of the question; a letter to the newspaper would be impracticable as well. Apart from impairing his dignity, to retract what he had published would wreck his career as an artist, and he would be regarded as a liar by the editors of the newspapers and magazines with which he had connections. But if he didn’t meet the demands announced by Director Ma, the leaders would surely have the bonus deducted from his pay. It was obvious he had no way to stop them from doing that, so he decided to let it be. What else could they do to him? Hardly anything. They couldn’t fire him, because he was a permanent worker in a state enterprise and didn’t have to renew his contract as a temporary worker would. As long as his job was secure, he shouldn’t worry too much. Of course, from now on they would make things difficult for him, but he wasn’t a soft egg, easy to crush.

  Despite his tough reasoning, Bin regretted having sent out the cartoon that had cost him a sum larger than two months’ wages. By contrast, from the Lüda Daily he had received only a Worker-Peasant fountain pen and a canvas satchel, which came in a parcel together with two copies of the newspaper. In all, they were worth about five yuan. If only Meilan had changed her mind and stopped him when she had seen the cartoon that morning. If only he had known of the price in advance. Too late now; it was impossible to recover the water thrown on the ground.

  Now that he was already in the thick of the fight, he had best engage the enemy. The most effective strategy he could think of was to report them to the commune leaders. Yes, if the devil expanded a foot, the Buddha would grow a yard. He was going to expose the two petty officials, disgrace them, and have them investigated and punished by their superiors.

  A strong sense of justice and civil duty rose in him. An upright man ought to plead in the name of the people. He believed he was going to voice not only his own discontent and indignation but also the oppressed brothers’ and sisters’. Yes, he wanted to speak for all the workers in the plant.

  For two weeks Bin put aside reading and painting and concentrated on writing a lengthy letter of accusation to Yang Chen, who was the Party secretary of the commune and Liu’s and Ma’s immediate superior. Though it didn’t own the plant, the commune supervised it on behalf of the state. So Yang should be the first person with whom to lodge such an accusation. Every night Bin worked on the letter into the small hours.

  Through many years’ persevering effort, he had cultivated a scholarly habit — writing everything in brush, whether it was a title for his painting or a grocery list, unless he was pressed for time and had to resort to a pen. He had been extremely careful about his handwriting; according to the instructions of ancient masters, handwriting is something like the writer’s looks. No, more than looks, it displays his taste, cultivation, respiratory rhythm, mental state, spiritual aspiration, manly strength, and, most important of all, his moral character. Once on paper, everything must be brilliant and dignified, even a dot. Therefore Bin had always been conscientious about his calligraphy.

  As a budding calligrapher of sorts, he was patient, ambitious, and diligent. He enjoyed seeing his own words take shape on paper and loved the fragrance of his authentic ink stick, whose brand was always the same: Dearer Than Gold.

  The letter of accusation was completed. All together it consisted of thirty pages, about eight thousand words, every one of which was written in the meticulous style of Little Flies. Bin listed the crimes committed by the two leaders in the past few years, including not giving him a raise the year before on the grounds that he hadn’t shown enough respect for them; persecuting him because he was more artistic and creative than others; feasting at the plant’s cost whenever an important visitor arrived (Secretary Liu had once got so drunk that he had wet both his pants and a sofa in the conference room); accepting a lot of bribes from the poor workers and staff; using the plant’s trucks to transport coal, vegetables, furniture, bricks, and sand to their homes; allowing their wives to meddle with administrative affairs; at every Spring Festival, allotting themselves an extra sack of polished rice, ten pounds of peanut oil, a crate of liquor (sixteen bottles), a hamper of apples, a block of frozen ribbonfish (fifty pounds), and two large bundles of potato noodles.

  Of course, the most atrocious crime they had perpetrated in the plant was to suppress different opinions and try to get rid of the dissidents. The letter concluded with these questions:

  Who are the masters of this plant? The workers or the two corrupt leaders? Where is their Communist conscience? Why are they more vicious and more avaricious than landowners and capitalists in the old China? Should they still remain in the Party? Are we, the common workers, supposed to trust the parasites like Liu Shu and Ma Gong? As a citizen of a great socialist country, do I still have the right to speak up for justice and democracy?

  Bin had been wondering whether he should mention that there must have been an affair between Liu Shu and Hou Nina, but he was uncertain how to discuss the problem of Liu’s lifestyle.

  The summer before last, by chance he had seen Nina doing the splits in the secretary’s office. One afternoon Bin went there to hand in his application for the Party membership. At the door he heard a female voice tittering inside, so he stopped to see what was happening. Through a crack in the door, he saw Nina spreading her legs on the floor; her body was sinking lower and lower while her lips bunched together as though she was in pain. Yet she was smiling, her eyes blinking. With her pink skirt wrapped around her waist, she put both hands on her thighs to force them to touch the floor. Bin thought Liu would move over and do something unusual — make a pass or pinch her thigh or hip, but the secretary didn’t budge, merely chuckled and said, “Get up, girl. Don’t hurt yourself. Enough.” He was drinking tea and cracking spiced pumpkin seeds.

  “See, see I still can do it!” she cried, her entire legs on the cement floor. Her chin was thrown up at Liu.

  Bin knocked at the door, and without waiting he went in. His intrusion startled them; they both stood up.

  “What do you want?” Liu asked.

  “I came to hand in my application for Party membership, Secretary Liu.” Bin put the writing on the desk.

  “All right, I’ll read it.” Liu looked disconcerted.

  Bin turned back to the door, giving Nina a long stare that revealed his knowledge of what had just happened. He went out without a word.

  Now, Bin suspected Liu had probably been so mean to him because he had spoiled his luck with Nina that day. How he regretted that he had not witnessed the whole episode. If only he had waited outside a little longer to find out the true relationship between them. Then he would have possessed firsthand evidence. O Impatience, the enemy of any achievement, and the sin of sins. All he could do now was add a postscript to the accusation, saying he believed there must have been an affair between the two. He asked the superiors to investigate.

  After breakfast the next morning, he sealed the letter and cycled to the Commune Administration at the corner of Bank and Main streets to deliver it personally, also to save postage. Secretary Yang hadn’t arrived yet. After waiting ten minutes to no ava
il, Bin left the letter with Yang’s aide, Dong Cai, a slim, middle-aged man with a toothy face, wearing a green sweater.

  “Secretary Yang will read it as soon as he has time,” Dong assured him with a grin, flicking the Grape cigarette Bin had given him.

  “Thanks for the help. Thanks,” Bin said with a bow.

  Because of delivering the letter, he was one hour late for work that morning. But who cared? He felt he had done something more meaningful than maintaining machines.

  Three

  AFTER TWENTY-FOUR FAMILIES moved in, Workers’ Park became livelier than before. A hot-water room was built near the entrance, and the two old guards were told to take care of the boiler. Hundreds of sycamore saplings were planted around the houses, to “green the park,” as the leaders declared. For the children, a small soccer field was flattened out at the foot of the slope, near the bend of the Blue Brook. From now on, at seven in the morning, a truck would take the teenagers to the Fourth Middle School, which was three miles northeast of Dismount Fort, and it would bring them back at five in the afternoon. A few housewives proposed to open a grocery store in the compound; it was a good idea, supported by the workers and leaders. Things began to be systemized in the park, while those who lived outside grew more jealous.

  The leaders promised that everybody would eventually move into the compound. There was enough land, and what prevented them from having more houses built was the lack of funds. They urged the workers to be patient.

  On Wednesday afternoon Bin went to Finance, which was in the basement of the office building, to pick up his wages. Nina was in a bad mood, because Director Ma had just told her to take charge of selling the tickets for hot water. From now on, the families living in Workers’ Park would come to her to buy water tickets. It wasn’t a lot of work, but to her mind, she shouldn’t have to handle such a trifle, unrelated to accountancy. The old guards at the park could easily take care of the business. But she didn’t complain in front of Ma; for the time being, she knew she ought to appear grateful to the leaders for giving her a new apartment.