by Ha Jin
The election had just started when he arrived at the County Administration. The guards at the door of the conference hall didn’t suspect anything when they saw Bin, who looked scholarly, walking in a meditative manner and carrying the placard with his little finger. They thought he must have been on the organizing staff or worked as an assistant to one of the candidates. The object wrapped in red paper must have been a slogan or a picture.
But once in the hall Bin turned into another man. He hastened to the stage, where Secretary Yang, a middle-aged woman, and an old man like a peasant were sitting at a long table. Behind them, in the middle of a lavender screen, hung a giant portrait of Chairman Mao; four pairs of red flags stretched upward from the Great Leader’s shoulders, as though he wore gorgeous wings.
Yang had on a blue Mao suit and a black cap covering his bald crown. He was a beardless man, over fifty, and his soft skin betrayed his career as a civil official who had been well sheltered from the elements. Also on the stage stood a tall young man in wire-framed glasses, presiding over the election. With a microphone in his hand, he was explaining the rules and procedures to the voters, while the hall was still bustling with spitting, chitchatting, sniffling, and the cracking of sunflower seeds.
As he was climbing the short stairs on the right side of the stage, Bin turned to the three hundred people sitting below. He stopped at the edge of the stage, ripped off the red paper, and raised the placard to the audience. All at once the hall was thrown into a turmoil. Many people stood up, some pushing forward to look at the words closely.
“Beautiful handwriting!” one woman said.
“He looks like a scholar, he can’t be a liar.”
“Wow!”
“Who could tell Yang Chen is a demon!”
“Shameless, Yang shouldn’t be there,” a young peasant shouted with both hands around his mouth.
“Get down, Yang Chen!”
“Yang is disqualified.”
On the stage, from where they sat, the three candidates couldn’t see the contents of the placard, so they got up and went over to look. At the sight of the words the woman and the old man smirked, shaking their heads and withdrawing to their seats. But Yang bellowed, “I don’t know this man! It’s slander, pure invention! I swear I don’t know who he is.” His big head jerked about as he stamped his feet; the loudspeakers in the back corners of the hall were broadcasting the thumps made by his white plastic soles.
It was true Yang didn’t know Bin. Naturally, he was protesting that this was a dirty trick some people had devised against him. “I’m framed, framed for nothing!” he kept blustering, his broad mouth twitching and his nose congested. Time and again he glared at the other two candidates.
Bin interrupted him. “I know you. You don’t know me? Didn’t you forward my accusation letter to the leaders of the Harvest Fertilizer Plant? Didn’t you overtly support them to suppress different opinions and persecute those who criticized them? I’d know your bones if you shed your skin!”
“Who are you? What the devil are you talking about?” Yang threw up his right hand.
“I am Shao Bin. Why are you so forgetful?”
Still Yang couldn’t recall what wrong he had done to this man. He shouted, “I don’t know you. I swear by my Communist Party membership, I don’t know what hole you jumped out of!” Turning to the other candidates, he said, “Damn it, I want an investigation of this.” His fleshy cheeks turned pink as he wheezed.
Two guards ran over and hauled Bin off the stage. They clutched his arms and dragged him to the exit while another man holding the placard followed behind. Meanwhile the audience was whooping, laughing, coughing, and chattering. It seems most of them didn’t believe what Yang said, and many had changed their minds about his candidacy. He had been transferred to this county three years before; people did not yet know him well enough to doubt Bin’s accusation.
In fact Yang had never heard of the name Shao Bin. He hadn’t seen the letter of accusation either. He had merely been informed by his aide, Dong Cai, that a troublesome worker had sent him a lengthy report on the fertilizer plant’s leaders. The letter had been transferred to Liu and Ma after Dong Cai had glanced through it and decided it had been written mainly out of jealousy. Of course Yang, having committed himself to other more important matters, didn’t ask further about it and put it out of his mind completely. Who could expect that out of a few pages of obscure writing would jump such an extraordinary election buster? Now, Yang’s candidacy was ruined, and his ambition to become the chairman of the County People’s Congress in the near future was shattered.
Because of Bin’s intrusion, Yang didn’t get enough votes for the position. The woman, who was elected, had outrun him by thirty-four votes. In Yang’s chest hatred was flaming. The moment he returned to the Commune Administration, he called the fertilizer plant. Liu answered the phone and was shaken by his superior’s rage. He tried to convince Yang that Bin was merely a madman, who was fond of painting and writing indeed, but nobody would take his words seriously.
“He pretends to be a fool,” Yang said huskily, “but he’s smarter than both of you. The timing, the word choice, the calligraphy, and even the way he raised the placard, damn it, who can do it better?”
“Yes, Secretary Yang, he’s a capable troublemaker.”
“Send me a report on this man. I must know more about him.”
“Yes, we’ll do that immediately.”
Liu was stunned, because Yang was by nature an affable man and seldom showed his temper. Without delay, he admitted his fault in not having kept closer watch on Bin and having caused such a disturbance to his superior. He promised that from now on the plant would make every effort to control this crazy man. If a similar thing happened again, he would accept any disciplinary action against himself.
Hanging up, Liu explained to Ma what had happened. For half a minute Ma was too shocked to say anything. Who would imagine a toad could grow wings and soar into the sky!
The two leaders talked about how to handle Bin this time; both of them agreed that they should remain calm and do nothing to provoke him at the moment. In their hearts, they were frightened. This mad dog Shao Bin was simply unpredictable. He was too bold and too imaginative and would do anything he took a fancy to. Unlike those puny intellectuals — the college graduates in the plant — whose faces would turn pale and sweaty and who would correct their faults the moment the leaders criticized them, this pseudo-scholar wasn’t afraid of anybody. What could you do if a man feared nothing? Even the devil didn’t know how to daunt a fearless man. In addition, Bin wrote and painted exceptionally well, his blasted brush always busy at night. Every now and then he had something published in a magazine or a newspaper. How, how could you stop him?
To a degree, Liu and Ma regretted that they hadn’t assigned Bin an apartment. If they had done that in the beginning, they wouldn’t have turned him into such a relentless enemy. But it was too late now; all they could do was adopt a quiet approach, leaving him alone for the moment, as though they hadn’t heard of the election. But this didn’t mean they would let him get away with it. No, they would square the account when it was the right time.
Presently they had Dongfang, the secretary of the Youth League, start a thorough investigation of Bin’s family background and his activities in the past five years so as to prepare the report to Secretary Yang and also accumulate material against Bin. If they tackled him again, they would finish him off with one blow.
Five
THE WORKERS HEARD of Bin’s disrupting the election, and they were impressed. They had taken him for a mere bookworm, but all of a sudden he had emerged as a man of both strategy and action. Naturally some young workers shook hands with him.
“Brother Shao, well done,” one said.
“Bin,” another chimed in, “you did it for us. We must show them that we workers are the masters here.”
Their words moved Bin and boosted his confidence. For days he felt lighthearted and was
convinced that Liu and Ma’s silence meant they were shaken by what had happened at the election. Indeed, if he had undone their boss, he could ruin them easily.
Emboldened by his fellow workers’ compliments, Bin decided to pursue the tottering enemy. He started pondering how to compose another cartoon about the two leaders; since the Spring Festival was around the corner, he didn’t want them to have a peaceful holiday. Besides, it was the time when officials throughout China were busy raking in new perks, receiving gifts, and bribing their superiors and related powers. As a good citizen, Bin regarded it as his duty to sound a timely alarm against corruption.
After his wife and baby went to sleep, Bin ate two raw eggs directly from the shells and drank a large mug of hot malted milk. Then he began to grind the ink stick and wet a brush. Spreading a sheet of paper on the desk, he set about painting.
He drew two human figures in motion and made sure they resembled Liu and Ma. To identify them as cadres, a copy of Handbook for Party Secretaries, marked with the emblem of a hammer and a sickle, was inserted under Liu’s arm, and a lumpy official seal was attached to Ma’s broad waistband. They each had a garland of giant garlic around the neck and carried a bottle of Maotai liquor in a trouser pocket. Two packsacks full of pineapples and oranges were on their backs, and to a belt of each sack were tied a pair of fluttering roosters, upside down and with their claws bound. Around each man’s knees, four large carp were twirling and gasping in a string bag, whose mouth was grasped in the man’s left hand, while his right held two cartons of Great China cigarettes. In every one of their breast pockets was stuck a bundle of ten-yuan bills. The gifts were so heavy that both men dropped beads of sweat and walked with bandy legs. Yet they smiled ecstatically, the corners of their mouths reaching their ears.
Done with the drawing, Bin paused for a moment. Absently he dipped a smaller brush, made of weasel’s whiskers, into the ink. What title should I give it? he wondered. “Gifts for the Spring Festival”? No, that’s too flat. “On the Way Home”? No, a good title must cut to the quick, able to spur the reader and bite the enemy.
After several minutes’ thinking, he wrote these words at the top of the paper: “So Hard to Celebrate a Holiday!”
The next afternoon he mailed the cartoon to The Workers’ Daily in Beijing, a union newspaper that didn’t have a large circulation but was read throughout China.
The work accomplished, Bin felt joyful. Soon his joy was replaced by ecstasy. In his mind Chairman Mao’s instruction began reverberating: “The boundless joy in fighting Heaven, the boundless joy in fighting Earth, the boundless joy in fighting Man!” Those words, representing the mettle of the proletariat, warmed Bin’s heart and invigorated his blood; he felt younger, as though he had eaten a lot of ginseng or deer antler. Yes, with his brush, he was ready to engage any enemy.
The secret investigation of Bin’s family background and recent activities was completed. To the leaders’ dismay, nothing substantial was dug up. Bin’s father had been a beggar in the old China for over thirty years, all the relatives had been poor peasants, and none had ever become a target in a political movement. In this respect Bin was clean like a piece of blank paper. As for Bin himself, only a few small things were found. Two years before, when he was repairing an air blower in the plant’s dining center, he had eaten four raw eggs on the sly. Later he was criticized for that, and he paid for the eggs and turned in a twelve-page self-criticism, which was still kept in his file. This case had been closed, however, and was of little use now except for proving that he wasn’t an honest man. His indecency was further verified by his submitting a false voucher to Finance. The winter before, he had been sent to Ox Village to help install a water pump; he had stayed there for only two days, but he had applied for three days’ reimbursement, receiving sixty fen more than he should have. Though the money was little, it showed he couldn’t be trusted, especially when money was involved. His dishonesty could be attested to further by another incident: without telling anybody, Bin had once taken home a plant-owned book, Bicycle Repairs. Not until a fellow worker saw it in his home two months later did he bring back this piece of public property. By then, Maintenance had already purchased a new copy of the book. If a man had stolen fruit, no doubt he would steal an orchard when the opportunity turned up.
All these indecencies, however, were not weighty enough to bring him down. In their report to Secretary Yang, in addition to describing the defects in Bin’s character, the leaders had to mention the artistic works he had published and the two awards his paintings had won. It’s common sense that one glamorous quality can eclipse a dozen slight blemishes. Both Liu and Ma felt that in a way they’d done Bin a favor in having the report prepared, because Secretary Yang would be more impressed by his talent and energy than interested in those trifles. If so, they might indeed create an opportunity for him. To prevent that from happening, they stressed the point that he suffered from a mental disorder and was an inefficient, unreliable worker.
The cartoon appeared in The Workers’ Daily two weeks later. Bin was amazed that it had come out so soon; on second thought, he realized the editors would surely have wanted to publish it before the Spring Festival so as to combat the unhealthy wind in society.
Indeed the cartoon was timely enough to ruin the leaders’ festive mood. After they saw it, Liu and Ma sent for Bin and planned to teach him a bloody lesson, at least making him unable to enjoy the holiday. They waited and waited, but Bin never showed up.
By no means would Bin go to their offices alone. What if they beat him black and blue? He mustn’t take such a risk, having himself hurt before the festival. He wasn’t that stupid and could see through them. According to Sun Tzu’s Art of War, among the thirty-six stratagems the most important one is to decamp in time. Yes, he had best go home as soon as possible. Damn the two idiots, they thought he didn’t know about the knives up their sleeves. If they wanted to take revenge, they had better get hold of him first.
He put away his files and claw hammer, took off the work suit and oversleeves, and left for the bicycle shed. After aligning the front wheel of his National Defense with its head tube, he pedaled away without indulging in the habit of ringing the bell on the handlebar. At the entrance of the plant, he got off the bicycle and stuck a copy of the cartoon on the notice board with a piece of friction tape.
Immediately a score of workers gathered there, looking at it and talking noisily. A middle-aged woman said, “No wonder Liu Shu is so fat. Stuffed with others’ meat and fish.”
“No, without sweat and blood,” an old man corrected her.
“Who gave them Maotai?”
“That must’ve cost a fortune. Who’s so rich?”
“Wow! So many pineapples.”
In the secretary’s office the two leaders had not yet recovered from the shock delivered by the cartoon. Now all of China knew they were two corrupt officials, sucking people’s blood and taking bribes. This was sheer calumny, and Shao Bin would have to pay for it. Without delay they began gathering the facts needed for proving their innocence. Neither of them had ever received garlic from anybody; in fact, Ma hated garlic, often saying he would have banned the plant if he were a god, and he wouldn’t allow his wife to use it even when she cooked fish. Nor had they ever eaten a fresh pineapple, which was an exotic southern fruit. As for Maotai, it was impossible for either of them to obtain a bottle here; if you searched all of Dismount Fort, you wouldn’t be able to find one. Never had Secretary Liu tasted a drop of that liquor, and he swore he had only heard of it, whereas Ma had once drunk two glasses of it in Changchun City, where he had played basketball. That was twenty years before. Nowadays there was a shortage of everything except for human beings; nobody here could possibly have the finest Chinese liquor. It was said that only at a state banquet was Maotai served, and that most of the produce of the winery was exported to Japan and South Asia. Ah, those foreigners, they always have the best Chinese stuff!
“Damn the mad dog!” Liu curs
ed. “If I’d ever taken a drop of Maotai, I wouldn’t feel so wronged.”
“Forget about Maotai,” Ma said. “It tastes similar to West Phoenix, it’s just a name. What should we do about him now? Wait until the festival is over?”
“No way.”
They thought of sending a group of men to smash Bin’s home, breaking all the pots, basins, bowls, and plates, but the Shaos lived in the department store’s dormitory, which had an entrance guard on duty day and night. And it was unwise to do that, because the other residents would witness the scene. Besides, Bin’s wife had a lot of relatives in the villages; those peasants wouldn’t think twice about killing if they came to avenge her. How about asking the town police to detain Bin for the holiday season? This didn’t seem practicable either. They heard that the young policeman Shen Li was also an amateur painter and had once taken lessons from Bin. Undoubtedly, the student would release the teacher, since by custom you ought to regard your teacher as a lifelong father, even if he had taught you just one day. Stop paying him his wages? There was no rule that allowed them to do so, unless he was a criminal.
They were still talking when Bao, the union chairman, rushed in and said loudly, “Secretary Liu and Director Ma, the plant is upside down. Lots of people are at the notice board, looking at the picture. They want to know who gave you Maotai.”
