In the Pond

by Ha Jin

  Bin looked out the window. Strips of mist were flitting by, and wire poles and mulberry trees were falling away. Green paddies, glimmering and undulating in the breeze, surrounded a village; some chimneys were exhaling smoke; a pair of magpies were flapping on a treetop. Beyond rows of dwarf houses stood a barren, steep hill on which a few gigantic words were built in white rocks: “Grasp Revolution, Promote Production.”

  Bin closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep, since there would be a busy evening in Beijing and he should appear in high spirits when meeting Jiang’s relatives. The music of a Mongolian song was slow and soothing. Soon he dozed off.

  Although the place where Jiang’s aunt lived wasn’t hard to find, it took Bin almost two hours to get there after he alighted from the train, because buses in the capital moved slower than bicycles. Following Jiang’s directions, Bin took the No. 103 bus and got off at its terminus — Beijing Zoo. Then he walked west, toward the last glow of the setting sun. After two blocks, he turned south and went along a short boulevard, full of neon lights and Hong Kong music. Having walked along the sidewalk for about five minutes, he saw a group of residential buildings enclosed by a brick wall. According to the map Jiang had drawn, this was the place.

  At the entrance to the compound, he was stopped by an old guard, who was bony and entirely bald, and had fat ears. The man read Bin’s official letter and told him that Li Peina, Jiang’s aunt, lived at 423 in Building 6.

  Bin was surprised to see that Peina wasn’t an old woman. She was pleasant looking, plump, and in her late forties, just a few years older than her nephew Jiang Ping.

  “Come in, Comrade Young Shao,” she said tepidly, rubbing her floury hands on her apron. Seeing that he was somewhat amazed by her greeting, she smiled with her round eyes narrowed and said, “I received a telegram from my nephew this afternoon.”

  Bin followed her in. The skin of her brownish arms reminded him of the bread in a bakery window he had seen a few minutes ago. Her permed hair was slightly gray and covered half her neck. She led him into a large room, where a middle-aged man in black-rimmed glasses was sitting at a desk and reading the Beijing Evening News.

  “This is my husband,” Peina said to Bin.

  Sitting in the chair and still keeping his eyes on the newspaper, the man silently stretched up his hand. Bin shook it, feeling it was as soft as a young girl’s.

  “Have a seat,” Peina said, and pointed to a chair by the desk. Bin sat down and looked around. He was amazed to see hundreds of books in Russian on the shelves along the walls.

  The man in glasses was still reading.

  “He works at the Foreign Literature Publishing House,” Peina explained. Bin nodded and noticed the man had shiny, dark hair, in contrast to his face, which was creased like a shriveled gingerroot.

  Finally the man put down the newspaper and said in a bass voice, “I’m Chai Hsin. You can call me Old Chai.” Seeing Bin’s eyes moving along the books, he went on to explain, “I’m a translator of Russian literature, mainly poetry.”

  Bin was impressed and asked, “Do you translate Pushkin?”

  “No. I used to, but now I work on modern Russian poets, particularly Yesenin, whose style I try to learn.”

  “So you’re a poet?” Bin blurted out. He knew Yesenin was a lyric poet, though his knowledge of his poetry was limited to the three poems in the anthology One Hundred Modern Russian Lyrics.

  Mr. Chai smiled, displaying his tobacco-stained teeth, and said, “Sometimes I write poetry. So you know Yesenin’s work?”

  “Yes” — Bin nodded — “I like his lyrical style, very touching, so beautiful.” Then, with a thumping heart, he recited aloud the lines that had moved him to tears when he had read them three years before:

  Oh, the language of my countrymen

  Is alien to me all at once.

  I am a foreigner in my own town.

  Mr. Chai lowered his head, listening, as though bewildered by the Chinese words; then a smile like a crumpled chrysanthemum spread on his face. “I’m damned, that’s from ‘Soviet Russia’!” He kept shaking his head.

  “Yes.” Bin felt relieved, because he had forgotten the title of the poem; Mr. Chai had helped him out just in time.

  Peina meanwhile poured boiling water into a teapot, muttering, “My nephew never stops making trouble. He’ll never grow up.”

  “Good, young man, I’m very glad to meet you,” Mr. Chai said. Indeed he hadn’t expected that anyone younger than himself would know the great Russian poet by heart, but this young fellow from the countryside, though he looked like an oaf, could quote Yesenin off the top of his head. Mr. Chai was genuinely moved. He stretched out his hand, and they shook hands again.

  Bin was afraid his host would talk more about Yesenin, so he fished the seal out of his army satchel. Carefully he opened the red paper and placed the green stone on the desk. He said to both Mr. Chai and his wife, “I came directly from your nephew’s home and couldn’t bring anything really artistic, so I carved this for you last night. I hope you like it. I’m so embarrassed to present you with such a trifle.”

  Mr. Chai picked up the seal, removed his glasses, and observed the engraving. Below his lower eyelids two purplish bags were quivering. Bin felt that Mr. Chai must have been knowledgeable about epigraphy, because he seemed to be examining the texture, suppleness, and vigor of the strokes.

  Mr. Chai shook his head and chortled. “I’m damned again. You said you carved this last night?” he asked Bin.

  “Yes. I had no time to paint or write calligraphy, so I carved this seal for you. I’m also a painter, you know.”

  “This is excellent work, young man!” Mr. Chai handed the seal to his wife and said, “Look at it, a real piece of art.” Then he got to his feet and went to another room.

  “See, you made him happy, Young Shao,” Peina said, gazing at her husband’s back while fingering the seal.

  In no time Mr. Chai returned with a blank sheet of paper and a case of scarlet ink paste. He placed the sheet on a book and pressed the stone into the ink box. After blowing on the face of the seal, he stamped it on the paper. The square characters — YOUR BRUSH WRITES, RAISING WIND AND RAIN — appeared in a robust form. Mr. Chai bit his lower lip and said, “It’s awesome, simply awesome. The lines are so ancient, so natural and sturdy. I’ll stamp this on all my books.”

  Bin couldn’t stop smiling and knew the Chais would surely help him.

  Soon they were talking about the case over dinner, which was noodles with gravy made of minced pork and string beans. In addition, there were two side dishes: eggs stir-fried with leeks and a cucumber salad, seasoned with vinegar, mashed garlic, sesame butter, and a few tiny dried shrimp. Peina had received a long letter from her nephew a week before, so the Chais knew the whole story. She said it would be better if Bin himself took the written complaint to the editorial department the next morning. Bin was taken aback by the suggestion, suspecting she might not want to be too involved. She smiled and explained that her intention was to make the journal respond to the case in the coming issue, whose space had already been planned out. The only way to accomplish that goal was through touching the hearts of the editors, arousing their anger and sympathy, and convincing them of the necessity of reporting the case without delay. Mr. Chai told Bin to try to be emotional when he handed the letter of complaint to the editor in chief. It would be better if Bin could shed a few tears, because the sincerity of one’s words could be gauged only by witnessing his emotion; words alone were merely clever creatures, which tended to arouse suspicion. But Bin must never appear glib in front of the editors. Mr. Chai didn’t worry about that, since Bin looked pretty honest, even a little gauche.

  As to Bin’s lodging for the night, Mr. Chai suggested that he stay at a small inn outside the compound, because some of the editors, living in the same building as the Chais, would infer that Peina was involved in the case if they saw Bin enter or come out of her apartment. Then they wouldn’t believe what Bin sai
d at the editorial department the next day.

  Bin thought Mr. Chai’s suggestion was reasonable. So after tea, when the twilight turned indigo, Mr. Chai took Bin to the inn through the back door of the compound. Walking along the sidewalk of a boulevard, under the fat sycamore leaves, he explained to Bin that he would have kept him company for another few hours, but two editors of Law and Democracy were coming to his home that night for a mah-jongg party at which they were going to discuss some publishing matters.

  To make up for the early parting, Mr. Chai paid three yuan for Bin’s lodging after telling the front-desk clerk that Bin was a friend of his and that they should give him a decent bed, which they managed to do.

  At eight the next morning Bin arrived at the gray building that Law and Democracy shared with a bookstore. He climbed the creaking stairs to the top floor to see the editor in chief. To his surprise, the editorial department had only one large office. In the room four ceiling fans were languidly flapping their brass wings; about a dozen desks stood here and there; two khaki screens separated a few desks from the rest. A young woman with long hair over her sloping shoulders led Bin to the only mahogany desk, at which a dyspeptic-faced man, around forty, was sitting and writing on a pad of paper. Behind him, on the wall, spread a colorful map of China like a giant rooster.

  “Here’s Editor in Chief Wang,” the woman said to Bin and turned away, back to the reception desk. Bin noticed that Peina was reading at a desk twenty feet away. She kept her head low but threw glances in his direction now and then.

  “I’m Wang Min,” the editor said, holding out his hand indifferently.

  Bin gave his fleshy hand a shake. The second he sat down, he cleared his throat and began to speak. “My name is Shao Bin. I’m a worker and artist, from Gold County, Liaoning Province. I’m thirty-two, born in the Dog Year. I came to the capital to present a petition to you and hope you will help me and my comrades. I believe this is the place to look for justice.” He paused, pulled a large envelope from his satchel, and presented it with both hands to the editor in chief.

  Wang took the letter of complaint out of the envelope without removing his bleary eyes from Bin’s face. He was a little puzzled by Bin’s expression, which was between smiling and weeping. Tears were flickering in Bin’s eyes and a few running down his cheeks. Wang couldn’t tell whether Bin was too excited or too upset; he wondered why tears were shed so easily. He lowered his head and glanced through the first two pages of the complaint, then put it on the desk and asked Bin to talk about his case.

  Bin went on, “I began to work as a fitter in Dismount Fort’s Harvest Fertilizer Plant in 1971. I have worked well and studied conscientiously. Although I have only eight years’ formal education, I taught myself painting, calligraphy, epigraphy, and poetry. The fine arts are my only hobby — no, my life. Up to now I have published about a hundred pieces of artwork in newspapers and magazines. To put it immodestly, I was the best-known man in our town. Because of my ability and name, some people in the plant are jealous of me.”

  He took a gray handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, blew his nose, and mopped his face. He let out a sob, then went on, “Last winter I published a cartoon in the Lüda Daily criticizing the unhealthy tendency in society, particularly about housing assignments. After the plant’s leaders saw it in the newspaper, the Party secretary, Liu Shu, and the director, Ma Gong, began persecuting me. They called me a ‘lunatic’ at a general staff meeting and had my half year’s bonus deducted. They said I had slung mud on the plant’s face. From then on, they’ve seized every opportunity to oppress me. They beat me in their office and kicked my private parts at a conference. My entire family has suffered from their abuse of power.”

  He had to stop to catch his breath, since his sobbing had grown uncontrollable. A few of the editorial staff came over to listen to his story. Among them, of course, was Peina.

  Bin continued to talk while tears streamed down his cheeks. Never had he been so heartbroken and so full of misery, as though a tap in him were broken and nothing could stop the fountains flowing down his face.

  While he was talking about the leaders’ evil deeds, all the misfortunes that had happened to him in the past arose in his mind: the hunger in the early 1960s, when he often cried for a genuine corn cake because everybody in the family had to eat wild herbs and elm bark; the death of his mother, drowned in a flood; his right leg broken in a sandpit in elementary school (for that, he was rejected by the drafting center and couldn’t fulfill the ideal of his youth — to become a colonel or a general, a man well versed in both arms and letters); his having to repeat the fourth grade because he had flunked math; the two hundred yuan, half of the Shaos’ savings, stolen from his pocket when he visited Shenyang City to see an art exhibition; his elder brother blown to pieces by a land mine in a militia drill; the death of his firstborn, a boy — a loss that had cut his family line …

  Oh, life was an ocean of misery. There was no way to get out of the suffering except death. But he couldn’t do that, not because he was a coward but because he had to take care of his family. It took more courage to live than to die.

  His sobbing grew louder and louder and gradually turned into wailing, and his words became unclear. Nonetheless, the emotion he showed was so powerful that the good souls around him were deeply touched. One short young man poured a cup of black tea for Bin; the slim receptionist couldn’t control her tears and wiped her eyes with pink toilet tissue. Though no longer able to speak coherently, Bin was absolutely fantastic, making the entire editorial staff gather around him, sighing and cursing the petty bureaucrats, and eventually he moved several women and an old man to weep with him. Intuitively Bin knew these were good people and would help him; they were able to weep simply because he, a stranger, was weeping painfully. Their hearts were pure and generous.

  At last the editor in chief stood up and walked around the desk. “Comrade Shao Bin,” he said amiably, placing his hand on Bin’s shoulder, “please don’t be too emotional. It will hurt your health. I promise that we’ll study your material carefully and respond to it as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, we will help you,” a few voices said in unison.

  Bin tried to stop weeping and smile some. Their words soothed his scorched heart like a gurgling spring. Not until now did he remember that he had been putting on a show. Somehow he had lost himself altogether in the performance and had unconsciously entered into the realm of self-oblivion — a complete union with a character or an object, which he realized was the ideal state of artistic achievement, dwelled upon by many ancient masters throughout the history of Chinese arts. Again true artistic spirit had taken him unawares.

  Still dazed by his emotional intensity, Bin managed to rise to his feet and picked up the army satchel. His handkerchief fell on the floor.

  “Thank you, my good comrade,” he mumbled, holding out his hand to Mr. Wang, who took it into his own. Bin said, “We’re all looking forward to hearing from you. I’ll tell the folks in the countryside that the leaders and comrades in Beijing are upright and honest, and they’ve promised to help us restore justice.”

  “Yes, we will,” Peina put in.

  Bin touched the envelope on the desk and said to the editor in chief, “All the evidence and material you need are in this. Thanks, thanks.” He turned to shake hands with several other men and women, then moved to the door and waved good-bye.

  Peina picked up the handkerchief from under the chair and said, “He dropped this.” She followed Bin out, crying loudly, “Comrade, wait a minute.”

  Once in the stairwell, she whispered to him excitedly, “You’re great. It was spectacular! You should study the performing arts; I’m sure you’d become a movie star someday. Anyway, tell my nephew everything is all right and I’ll try my best.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Bin smiled, his temples still pounding.

  They shook hands. Peina said, “I must go now. Good-bye.” She turned back to the office.

  It
was past ten. Bin took a bus directly to the train station. The bus reeked of sweat, soap, toothpaste, cologne, medicinal herbs. So many passengers crowded into it that Bin soon found himself huffing and puffing. This must have been caused also by the female bodies pressing around him, especially that of a tall young woman from behind. She looked like a college student and a basketball player, with bobbed hair and a tanned face. Her hips in jeans rubbed the small of Bin’s back as the bus jolted along. Bin’s heart began galloping, though the bus was crawling like an oxcart. He thought he wouldn’t mind riding this way for an hour or two, receiving this special massage.

  But gradually his mind wandered in another direction. He imagined that this bus, so jam-packed, could be a vivid illustration of the concept of saturation, which he had learned from the chemistry textbook he had studied briefly three months before: If one more person squeezed in from the front door of the bus, a passenger on the bus would surely fall out of its rear door. Yes, this was saturation, a good human example.

  In spite of the frantic traffic, Bin was longing to visit the Great Wall, the Forbidden City (which was said to have housed a lot of famous paintings), the Revolutionary Museum, the Summer Palace, and Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum in Tiananmen Square, which had recently opened to the public. But he had to hurry back home, since his friends were anxiously awaiting him. He was to take the earliest train back to Gold County.

  Fourteen

  SEEING HER HUSBAND BACK, Meilan shed joyful tears and said she had been afraid that Secretary Yang might have had him apprehended or assassinated in the capital.