In the Pond

by Ha Jin

  “What?” Liu stood up, wringing his hands. “Screw their mothers!”

  “Let’s go have a look,” Ma said.

  They went to the front entrance, where about seventy workers gathered, cursing and chatting. It was snowing, the gray ground becoming white. At the sight of the leaders, the crowd quieted down. Both Liu and Ma could feel the pressure of the silence, which seemed to demand that they confess everything on the spot. Liu went up the brick steps at the front of Guard’s Office, and he turned around to face the workers. For some reason he felt like laughing, but he restrained himself. A snowflake landed on his nose; though tickled by it, he didn’t wipe it off. Ma limped over and joined him, standing one step lower.

  “Comrades,” Liu shouted, then stopped to clear his throat. “Comrades, don’t take this drawing seriously. Shao Bin is a lunatic and always imagines things. Director Ma can’t stand the smell of garlic. You all know that. How could he take a braid of garlic as a gift?”

  “Have you ever seen me eat garlic?” Ma asked.

  Seeing a few people shake their heads, Liu said again, “Shao Bin painted that we each received a bag of pineapples. That’s a lie. To be honest, I’ve never seen a fresh pineapple. I don’t know how big it is. I’ve only eaten canned pineapple once and have no idea how people eat a fresh one. Do you peel it, or cut it, or boil it, or pickle it? Tell me how. Come on, some of you are from the South and must know how to handle a fresh pineapple.”

  “Cut it!” a male voice shouted from the back. Some people laughed.

  “I’ve never eaten a pineapple either,” Ma said. “Never seen one except in the movies.”

  “Tell me again,” Liu went on, “who among you ever saw a bottle of Maotai?”

  The crowd remained silent, though some eyes were still glaring at the leaders. Liu continued, “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a bottle. I don’t know what it looks like, to say nothing of what it tastes like. Shao Bin’s drawing is pure slander. If any of you have a bottle, show me. I’ll invite you to my home and treat you to ten courses. I won’t ask for more, just give me a small glass. That’ll make me feel I haven’t lived so long for nothing.”

  A woman giggled. A puff of snow was swirling around Liu’s felt hat. He seized the moment and announced, “Comrades, I swear by my great-grandfather’s tomb-stone that if I have ever seen a bottle of Maotai, if I have ever tasted a drop of Maotai, I am a cuckold!”

  “Me too!” Ma shouted. Then it occurred to him that he had drunk the liquor. Good heavens, how could he take back those words in front of this mob!

  Liu was shocked by Ma’s declaration, and he couldn’t help squinting at him.

  Seeing the secretary’s fat lips purplish with rage and the director’s face carmine, the workers were convinced that the leaders had told the truth. They could tell that the leaders would have skinned Bin alive if they had grabbed hold of him. Lucky for him, he wasn’t here. A few people at the back turned and were leaving.

  Though the workers were calmed down, the cartoon spoiled the leaders’ Spring Festival. Unlike other years, when they would have twice the amount of rice, meat, fish, sugar, and soybean oil a worker had, this year they took home only the same portion as everyone in the plant. It was better not to cause any discontent at the moment; but wait, they would get everything back from Shao Bin and make him serve them like a grandson.

  Six

  AFTER THE SPRING FESTIVAL the plant was busy gaining a head start on the production year. To keep Bin from making trouble again, the leaders assigned all of Maintenance to overhaul two boilers and replace a distiller for the Fourth Workshop, which mainly produced explosives for the People’s Army. Hsiao Peng, the director of Maintenance, who used to support Bin’s drawing the cartoons, now changed his mind about him, since he understood why his section was given so much work all at once. In private he told some workers about the reason; the hostility toward Bin was mounting in the workshop.

  Though working two extra hours a day, Bin wouldn’t complain. He got paid for overtime; besides, others in Maintenance worked the same way. At night, exhausted and heavy-eyed, he wouldn’t slack in practicing brush-work. These days he was studying an ancient monograph called The Art of Painting; he wanted to increase the fluidity and spontaneity of his brushstrokes, particularly to master the technique of splash-ink. So far he hadn’t been able to bring out the solidity and augustness of jagged rocks on paper as the book described, though he had followed the instructions closely. He thought this was probably because he worked too hard at the plant and didn’t have much vital breath left in him at the end of the day. From now on, he decided, he had better dawdle more at work. So he did.

  When the apricots were blooming, the plant erected a propaganda board, thirty feet by twelve, in front of the office building. In response to the current political campaign — Against the Capitalist Road — the leaders decided to increase the workers’ consciousness of class struggle by strengthening their ideological education, which should start with propaganda work. Therefore a colorful board was needed. Besides, such a construction would demonstrate the progressive outlook of the cadres and workers of the plant and impress visitors and their superiors. Though the woodwork was finished, a person capable of doing the propaganda work hadn’t been found yet. In the plant nobody except Bin was skilled in brushwork. The leaders, however, were determined to keep him out of this.

  Bin was indeed anxious to offer his service. He hated wielding a hammer and turning a spanner in the workshop, where he couldn’t avoid getting covered with dirt and grease every day. It was a job for a coolie, not for a man of his caliber. By contrast, the propaganda work would suit him better and also might turn into a long-standing job. This meant it could eventually become an official position, which might enable him to leave Maintenance for good and be promoted to cadre’s rank. Understandably, he was eager to demonstrate his artistic accomplishment.

  But already he had made deadly enemies of the leaders, who would by any means prevent him from displaying his expertise. How he regretted having given them so much trouble these past months. Without knowing it, he had spoiled his own opportunity, as if he had lifted a stone at an enemy but smashed his own toes.

  Though unsure of his chances, Bin decided to test the water. He went to Director Ma’s office, since it seemed to him that Ma wasn’t as malicious as Liu. At least Ma’s tongue was less glib. Bin was ready to brace himself for harsh words; as long as they gave him the job, he would endure anything. You mustn’t miss a watermelon by fighting over a few sesame seeds, he kept reminding himself.

  To Bin’s astonishment, when he arrived, Liu was also in Ma’s office. There was no way to back out, and it was impossible to test the water in Liu’s presence, so Bin went ahead and recommended himself for the job.

  “You think you can do the propaganda work well?” Ma asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “Yes, I feel I’m the most qualified man in our plant.”

  “That’s true, you’re able to do the work,” Liu put in. “And we indeed don’t have a person here to take charge of it. You have the talent, don’t you, Young Shao?”

  “Yes, Secretary Liu.” Bin’s eyes brightened.

  Liu said, “We know you’re talented, but we don’t want to utilize your talent. You have something to sell, but remember, we don’t have to buy it from you. To tell you the truth, we have decided to hire someone from outside and let your talent rot in you. Go back and learn to do your own work well. Stop dreaming that heaven will drop a roasted quail into your mouth.”

  Bin was so stunned that he stood there speechless, grinding his teeth, while the leaders chortled. He wanted to spit in Liu’s face, but restrained himself. Without a word he turned to the door.

  “An ass eats in every trough,” said Liu.

  Bin turned back. “You mustn’t insult me. You must respect my human dignity and—”

  “Stop that!” Liu stood up, pointing at Bin’s nose. “I know that a petty intellectual like yo
u always wants to get laid, but even though you pull down your pants and raise your butt, I won’t be aroused. No, we can’t use you, not interested, period!”

  Ma blew his nose on a piece of letter paper, chuckling some more. Bin couldn’t stand this any longer. “I’ll make asses of you two!” he yelled, flourishing his right arm as though wielding a brush.

  * * *

  For days, whenever possible, Bin would pass the office building to see who had been hired for the propaganda work; but he found nobody at the board, whose naked wood remained smooth and white, waiting for the touch of an artistic hand. Not until a week later did he find a short man there putting primer on the board. The man was squatting on his haunches, his knees wide open, and from time to time his broad buttocks almost touched the ground. He was wielding a large brush; a pail of black paint stood nearby. Though Bin couldn’t see his face, the pudgy body looked familiar to him, especially the thick neck and round shoulders. After watching for a few minutes from a distance, Bin went over to see who he was.

  His footsteps drew the attention of the man, who turned around, revealing his broad eyes and dark brows. Bin was surprised to find it was Yen Fu, an acquaintance of his. Yen was an art cadre in Gold County.

  “How are you, Master Shao?” Yen said, and stood up with a puzzled look on his face. He stretched out his hand.

  “I’m all right, still alive.”

  They shook hands. Yen’s big mouth opened a little but didn’t succeed in making a smile; he seemed embarrassed.

  After a few words with Yen, wishing him a good time here, Bin left, feeling further humiliated, because Yen wasn’t a good painter. Three years ago they had met in Shenyang City, when Bin had won third prize for a landscape painting exhibited in the Provincial Gallery. Yen sought him out, and together they shared a Mongolian firepot at a restaurant; while eating, Yen expressed his admiration for Bin’s work. That was why just now Yen had called him Master Shao.

  Despite working as the art editor for a small newspaper called Environment, Yen was indeed artistically inferior to Bin in most ways. He had never expected to encounter the “master” here, assuming Bin had left the plant long ago. How could a small pond like this contain such a big fish? He had vaguely heard that Bin was teaching the fine arts somewhere.

  After meeting Bin, Yen felt he had been taken in by the plant’s leaders and had done a stupid thing, displaying his skills before a superior hand. To make up for this blunder, the next evening he bought a bottle of sorghum liquor and two yuan’s worth of pig-blood sausages and paid a visit to Bin. He was pleased that Bin received him as a friend and even insisted they have a drink together.

  Since the Shaos had already had dinner, Meilan scrambled four duck eggs, made a salad of jellyfish and cabbage, and sliced the sausages Yen had brought along. After that, she wiped the chopping board clean, washed her hands, and resumed crocheting a pillowcase. She sat cross-legged on the bed while Shanshan played in her lap.

  The dining table, oval and one foot tall, was set on the earth floor. Bin placed on it the dishes, two cups, and a porcelain liquor pot.

  Meanwhile Yen was sitting at the writing desk, sipping tea. He noticed Bin’s crablike ink slab and asked, “What stone is this?”

  “Bring it here,” Bin said. “I’ll explain it while we’re eating.”

  Yen sat down and put the stone on the dining table. “Don’t treat me like a guest, Master Shao.”

  “Call me Bin or Old Shao, all right?”

  “All right, Bin,” Yen said out loud.

  They both laughed, so did Meilan. “For our friendship,” they said almost with one voice, raising the cups.

  While chewing a chunk of sausage, Bin began to talk about the ink slab. “This is a Gold Star stone, quarried from Fei County, Shandong Province, the only place that produces this kind of stone.” He moved the slab closer to Yen. “See these speckles? They are the stars. The ancients said, ‘It’s hard to wear away an iron ink slab.’ They referred to this kind of dark slab. In fact, Gold Star stones aren’t that hard. It’s an exaggeration. These starlets are bits of mica. At night, when you gaze at these speckles at the bottom of the inkwell, you feel like you are watching the Dippers. Under the stars the night is damp and deep, and villages, towns, cities all are asleep, while you’re busy working alone. If you gaze long and intently enough, you’ll forget it’s an ink slab, and you’ll have the sight of a vast landscape. In a word, it’s a very poetic stone, very poetic.”

  Yen was impressed by Bin’s knowledge about ink slabs. He mentioned that there was an antique store in Gold County, which they should visit together someday.

  Suddenly the baby gave a forceful wail. “What happened?” Bin asked his wife.

  “She wet my skirt,” Meilan said, and turned to Shanshan. “How many times have I told you to tell me before you pee? Huh, brat?”

  The baby cried some more and dropped her rubber doll on the floor. Meilan stood up, the front of her beige skirt carrying a wet patch as large as a Ping-Pong paddle.

  “Come on,” Bin said to his wife, “take care of her, will you? Brother Yen is here.”

  Meilan walked over to the wardrobe and took out a pair of pants for the child and a dress for herself. Then she picked up Shanshan; with the baby on her right hip-bone, she walked out.

  Yen thought the Shaos must have had another room in the house where she could change, so he asked Bin, “You have another room?”

  “No, she went to the salesgirls’ bedroom, across the hall.”

  They went on to talk about the painters and calligraphers they knew. It happened that every one of them was doing better than Bin; even Yen had gained two promotions in rank in the past three years, whereas Bin hadn’t even got a raise in the meantime. This aroused his anger again.

  He said, “The fertilizer plant is a loony bin. I envy you, Brother Yen.”

  “You should’ve been an art cadre long ago, Bin. This isn’t a place for you.”

  What can I do?”

  “It’s a waste of talent. Logically speaking, I should do your work, and we should switch places. A crazy world, isn’t it?”

  Meilan returned in a saffron dress. Yen found her almost a different woman now, delicate and rather pretty, especially when seen from behind. The dress had shrunk her and brought out her trim waist, but the baby remained the same, in the same kind of open-butted pants.

  Yen was curious to learn why the plant’s leaders didn’t let Bin do the propaganda work. Bin sighed and told him the whole story, from the first cartoon to his recent confrontation with them. After his account of the events, he said gloomily, “Ever since the ancient times, too big a piece of wood can’t be used to make furniture. It’s my fate.”

  “He’s too stubborn,” Meilan said to the guest. “I begged him to give in a bit just for once, but he wouldn’t.”

  Yen said, “It’s no use fighting with them all the time. I understand how you feel, Bin, but a wise man doesn’t fight when the odds are against him.”

  “I don’t want to fight. They would never leave me alone. They engage me themselves; so damned blood-thirsty.”

  “How about this: tomorrow I’ll talk with them, put in a good word for you, and ask them to stop mistreating you. I don’t know whether it will help. It seems worth trying. What do you think?”

  “Please do it,” Meilan broke in. “We can’t continue to live like this. They should give him the bonus and an apartment.”

  Bin smiled acquiescently.

  The next day at noon, the two friends met at the plant’s dining center. Yen informed Bin that the leaders would like to talk to him, and that he should go to Liu’s office at three in the afternoon. “They seemed to listen to me,” Yen said. “I told them you are the ideal man for the propaganda work, and you can teach me. Boy, they were impressed.” He raised his left eyebrow; Bin thanked him.

  They wouldn’t sit together to eat lunch, fearing the leaders would suspect any abnormal relationship between them. Bin took his lunch —
two baked wheaten cakes and a plate of fried eggplant — to the coal pile in the yard and joined a group of fellow workers there, while Yen ate inside the dining hall.

  Bin was somehow possessed by a kind of mysterious joy after the noon break. A man of merit never lacks friends, he thought. Yen is a good brother of mine, a true man with a kind heart. That’s why his painting and calligraphy have developed so much; he’s beginning to have his own style. Bin had in mind the golden characters Yen had inscribed on the propaganda board: “We Resolutely Oppose Capitalist Deviations!”

  For some reason two lines of Tang farewell poetry went on ringing in his ears:

  Do not worry about having no friend on the road; Under heaven who has not heard of your name?

  In the outhouse near the garage, he even chanted out the lines three times while urinating into a long cement trough constructed as a urinal. A woman tittered beyond the brick wall, from the female side of the outhouse. The tittering sobered him up, since he didn’t want the name of a latrine poet.

  At two-fifty he set out for the secretary’s office, after informing Hsiao that the leaders wanted to meet with him. When he arrived at the office, both Liu and Ma were in there, smoking and laughing, talking with Nina. The ceiling fan was revolving briskly; beneath it a few house-flies were droning. On the desk a bunch of daylilies stood in a beer bottle; the room smelled grassy. At the sight of Bin, they stopped laughing and regained their normal appearance. Nina got up and walked to the door with her ponytail whisking slightly on her back. Passing Bin, she gave him a sullen look.

  “Sit down, young Shao,” Liu said, patting a chair.

  “Have some tea,” Ma said amiably, and pointed to a green porcelain cup with a lid on it.

  Bin sat down and thanked them. He lifted the cup, took off the lid, blew away the floating tea leaves, and took a sip. His mouth couldn’t help smiling, revealing his uneven teeth.

  “Comrade Shao Bin,” Liu said, “we’re going to inform you of something.”