by Hua Bai
laughter. An old teacher, struggling to clear his sticky eyes, 7 2
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sat up and asked in amazement, “Is the Cultural Revolution over now?” His question aroused another bout of uproarious laughter. One could taste many flavors in this laughter. Of course, they were dominantly bitter and sour.
Someone teased the dreamer: “Supreme command: ‘We
must carry the proletarian revolution through to the end!’
We order you to carry your beautiful dream through to the end!”
Several bouts of laughter that night made it hard for me to fall asleep. Our ancient masters observed that happiness may be brought by an intelligent mind. Perhaps my happiness was coming, for I had gained some insight from Zhu
Zaizhi’s bladder trouble. Right, I must try my trick. It was half past four – the perfect time. I started coughing fiercely.
I discovered that feigning a cough was the easiest thing in the world. The more one coughs, the itchier one’s throat becomes, and the more one wants to cough. In less than fifteen minutes, someone started protesting. “Who is cough-
ing? Do you have to be so loud?”
“I … I … I can’t help it. My chest aches,” I said with
more coughing, pretending to be helpless.
“Your chest aches?” Another guy jumped up from his bed
and cried, “Damn it, you must have TB. You might infect
us all!”
“Get up and go to the clinic!”
“Our clinic doesn’t have an X ray.”
“Have them write you a permit to see doctors in town.”
I answered their concerns with more coughs, nearly
bringing up my heart and liver in the process. With great effort, Gui Renzhong moved his splinted leg over and
turned to face my back, which he pounded gently.
I said to myself, “I do not feel the slightest shame for deceiving those inhuman beings at the clinic. And I am
merely playing a joke on all of you other guys. But to
deceive old Gui troubles my conscience.” Gui said no words to me but hammered my back gently. I could feel him suf-7 3
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fering for me. But there was no way I could tell him the truth. It would be useless even if I begged him a thousand times not to report me. He would act like a toddling child who tries to stop an unwelcome guest from seeing his father by saying, “My father said to tell you he’s not home.”
The following day I did not go to the clinic. I coughed
through another night. Old Gui thumped my back all
night, without stopping for a minute. As my cough wors-
ened, half my dormmates got really angry with me,
although the other half were still sympathetic. Half blamed me for not going to the clinic; the other half defended me by saying, “We should understand his dilemma: if he goes to the clinic, old Iron Plum will chase him out like a class enemy who feigns illness.”
Hearing such weighty support, I coughed more fiercely
and, to express my grievance, even gave my cough a sobbing edge.
Three days passed. Still I stayed away from the clinic. I went on coughing for five days straight, and old Gui hammered my back for five nights. The whole dorm rose up in indignation and called me a coward.
“What are you afraid of? If you are really sick you should go see the doctor. If you are not playing tricks, why do you need to be afraid of her? Your case will be tuberculosis, pneumonia, or lung cancer. Please go. Old Iron Plum won’t bite. Maybe she’d wait on you like her wounded uncle.”
Still I answered with more coughing. For me the situa-
tion was not so intolerable. During the day I could take a nap in a haystack. Within five days, I guessed, at least fifty people had reported my illness to the PLA rep: “Although as an unremolded intellectual his death would be a trifling matter, still the health of his dormmates involves our
reform, and reform through labor is a part of the fate of the great proletarian Cultural Revolution. And it can also affect the health of our PLA rep, who, as the representative of the proletarian headquarters, visits our high-ranking leaders.
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The consequences are unthinkable. We have sworn to pro-
tect the health of our PLA rep and wish the leaders of the proletarian headquarters a long, healthy life.”
This type of toady harangue sounds extremely repulsive
today; but back then the PLA rep found it perfectly normal and pleasant. The reports eventually aroused his attention.
He first asked the informers in an accusatory tone: “What did Doctor Yu and Doctor Liu say about his case?”
“He hasn’t dared to go to the clinic.”
“What?” The PLA rep was genuinely surprised.
“He’s afraid the doctors won’t believe he’s really sick.”
“That can be determined by a physical exam.”
“But the clinic on our farm doesn’t have an X-ray
machine.”
“Why can’t they determine his illness without an X ray?
The human factor is the most important one. Our Eighth
Army went through eight years of the War of Resistance,
defeating the Japanese devils with rifles and millet only.
You intellectuals, how can I ever make you understand?”
“But a doctor cannot see…the lung.”
“Mao Zedong thought is a microscope, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“Is it really necessary for him to have an X ray?”
“Yes. I was told that when Chairman Mao has his annual
checkup, he has several X rays taken,” a freshman in the performing arts from the Drama Institute related reverently.
“Where did you hear that?” Overcoming his shock, the
PLA rep found it hard to believe.
“The fiancé of… the daughter of… my brother-in-law
…serves in the central guards division of Zhongnanhai.”
“Oh.” The PLA rep sized up this actor who had not yet
had the chance to show himself on the stage. The information about his relatives’ connection with Zhongnanhai [the residential place for the highest state and party officials]
definitely put him in a favorable light. The PLA rep’s state of mind gradually improved.
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“What’s your name?”
“Song Lin.”
“Ah, I think I know you. You’re in the manure company,
aren’t you?”
“No, I am in the vegetable company.”
“Well, please report yourself to the farm propaganda
office tomorrow. You probably know how to write criticism speeches.”
“Yes. I can also sing model operas.”
“Good. My eyes aren’t that bad, are they?”
“Of course not. You can see everything.”
“Certainly. Otherwise why would the leadership entrust
me with such an important task? Our farm has twenty-one
returned Ph.D.’s and sixty-seven professors in the category of reactionary academic authorities. College graduates and high school students like you number more than a thousand. Do you think these stinking intellectuals are easy to handle? Sometimes they may look like pitiful lambs, but
actually they are more cunning than monkeys. If I didn’t have a diamond drill, how would I dare take over these broken pots? Now – what did you come here to report?” Dis-
tinguished personages certainly have a poor memory. The
PLA rep had sunk into self-admiration and had totally forgotten the petitioners’ request.
“We beg the PLA rep to show some concern for a sick
student who has been
coughing for days.”
“Give him permission to have a checkup in town.”
One word from the PLA was enough to relieve the clinic
of all possible political responsibilities. Old Iron Plum wrote a transfer without checking my throat. When I first held it in my hand, I nearly revealed my true self. Spiritual elevation made me forget to cough for a whole minute. In order to remind Iron Plum to observe me, Doctor Yu gave a little cough. His cough alerted me first. I immediately
started coughing loudly.
I coughed all the way out of the clinic. Even then, I
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walked with measured steps, coughing all the time, for I knew their eyes were fixed on me.
Back at the dorm, I took my only suitcase out from under the bed. Fetching a few clothes, I found the record album and took it out, too. Of course, I punctuated my packing with constant coughing. After packing my daily necessities (a worn-out toothbrush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, a wash towel, and a quarter of a soap bar), I climbed on to the bed and leaned over old Gui to say good-bye.
“I’m leaving now, old Gui. Take care of yourself.”
“It’s you who should take care. Have a good rest in town.
Only the rich can afford to have TB: You must have nutritious food.” Groping around in his quilt, he took out a
small, dirty parcel and handed it to me. “Jane forced it into my hands at the moment we were parted from each other. I never ate it. Now I’d like to give it to you because you need it more than I do.” With these words, his tears started to flow. How could I accept this precious gift from him, even though I didn’t know what was wrapped inside?
“No – how can I accept this? It is the only thing Jane left you.”
“Yes.” He grasped my wrists. “You must take it with you.
If you don’t, I’ll never again regard you as a friend.” He thrust the hard parcel into my hands.
“I can’t – how could I?”
Old Gui rose in a rage. “All right. Give it back to me. If you look down on me and my Jane, give it back.” I was stu-pefied by his angry roar. I neither remembered to cough nor dared to return the parcel. I held that little thing with both hands, my tears welling up. I hadn’t expected that my long-dry eyes could still produce tears. In order to repay his kindness I thought I should give him something in return. But what did I have? Being not only a pauper but also a political swindler, what could I offer him? No, that wasn’t true. I had my sincerity, just as old Gui had his. “Old Gui, I have nothing to give you. But I can leave you a bit of advice. Don’t 7 7
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trust people too easily. Believe me, this advice is vital for you.”
“I really trust too easily?”
“Yes!”
“Oh?”
“Don’t you remember how we trusted Lin Biao all those
years? In his preface to Vice Chairman Lin’s instructions, the editor used thirty-six superlatives, saying that he held highest the red flag of Mao Zedong thought, that he was the
most loyal to Chairman Mao, the most arduous in studying Chairman Mao’s works, and the best in applying Mao’s
words to practice, and the most advanced model for us to look up to. Now Lin Biao still occupies one superlative in our memory: the greatest swindler in history.”
“But – Lin Biao is dead, isn’t he?”
“That’s true. But – ” I wanted very much to say “are those who remain alive all trustworthy?” but I swallowed my
words.
“The swindler is dead. Thanks to Chairman Mao, that
swindler is dead. What a pity that an airplane was
smashed.”
“That’s right.… I’ve got to leave now.”
I left him with coughs. Coughing all the way to the long-distance bus stop, I measured one thousand, five hundred, and sixty-two paces – a distance that had been silently measured by many an inmate yearning for freedom. Luckily, a dusty bus was passing. I jumped on it. Seeing no acquaintances, I resumed my normal, healthy appearance. There
were no vacant seats, and even the narrow aisle was heaped with all kinds of sacks and with piglets tied with ropes; I could hardly find a space to put my feet. But pretty soon, I felt like a winged angel.
Fields, clouds, and trees flanking the highway flashed by and inspired me to sing. However, I hated to sing quotations or model operas. I was racking my brain for something to sing. Humming, I distilled a tune in my throat. It was 7 8
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hard to find a melody suited to my vocal cords. Not that I didn’t love singing. I had always loved singing. But because I was immediately ridiculed for being out of tune every time I opened my mouth, my enthusiasm was naturally dampened. After a while I no longer dared to sing in public. I recalled that, when I was enrolled in the Institute of Fine Arts, I had always loved to scream a few lines in the public bathhouse. I believe that public bathhouses have the best acoustics. Even a dry throat can produce the self-intoxica-tion of a great soloist. It was said that the Russian operatic bass Chaliapin first discovered his singing talent because he happened to scream in a public bathhouse. My train of
thought gradually led me to a familiar tune, one that I used to scream in the public bathhouse but that had long since faded from my mental horizon. It was a beautiful, sentimental tune that I had learned when I went to sketch in Shanbei with my professor. It should be performed on a vast plateau with a fully open throat. But I was always out of tune when singing in the open air. Only in the echoing public bathhouse could I achieve the musical effects of the wide-open spaces. My musical feeling now came alive. I was intoxicated in a vacuum without self, without time, and without space. My vocal cords started quivering and a deep breath rose from the bottom of my abdomen. A song finally broke out of my mouth:
Sweet brother is going to the West.
Your loving sister has no way to hold you here.
But to spend a hot night together
I’m taking off my flowery panties.
I never knew I could sing so beautifully, with portamenti and trills.
The bus jerked to a stop. Unaware of the astonished
glances from all the passengers, I thought someone might have been run over by the bus.
“What’s the matter? Hit someone?” I asked the driver.
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The driver asked angrily, “What unit do you belong to?”
“The East Wind Farm.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital in town.”
“Oh, I see.” Something suddenly dawned on the driver.
“Why didn’t they send somebody with you?”
“Why should they?”
“Does your farm really trust you like that?”
“Why not? I’m no scoundrel who doesn’t pay for his bus
ticket.”
“Revolutionary comrades!” The driver turned to the pas-
sengers and said sternly, “For our mutual safety, I suggest we tie this patient up so he won’t hurt anyone when he has a fit.”
Before I knew what was happening, passengers from both
sides had reached out and bound me with the ropes that had been used to tie the piglets. It all happened as fast as in the saying, No time to cover your ears when it thunders. Kicking and struggling desperately, I yelled, “Help! …You dirty dogs! I’m not a patient! I’m not sick!”
“See, just as I expected,” said the driver complacently.
“Whoever has this kind of disease behaves like a drunkard who will never admit he’s drunk. Stop up his mouth.”
The young woman conductor took the kerchief from
around her neck and covered my mouth with it. A whiff of smelly sweat made me nauseous; yet I had nowhere to
/> vomit. Romantic novels always say that the cloths a woman uses to wipe her perspiration are fragrant silk. Never believe those silly descriptions. A woman’s perspiration smells no better than a man’s.
Those butchers had really done a good job. They gagged
me and tied my feet, too, so I could neither struggle nor shout but only curse them in my heart. At the same time, the piglets were now running rampant because the ropes
holding them had been transferred to my body. They bur-
rowed around under the passenger seats, squealing. What a 8 0
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lucky day for them. Damn it! But why did they tie me up?
What gives them the right? Why? Why? While these ques-
tions gnawed at me, those who had tied me up leaned back comfortably and snored. The bus, like a drunken peddler, ran with a constant rattling and ringing. Perhaps its hood or engine parts were loose.
Gradually I came to understand why they were treating
me like that. They thought I was insane. Who else but a
madman would dare to sing a provocative, sexy song in the land of China in the year 1972?
That thought calmed me down.
I gaze at her window. In the past it was pasted over with black paper; now a cloth curtain with tiny blue flowers hangs there.
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Sunamei’s first axiao was slow in coming.
Although she had been a skirt woman for half a year now, men seemed to ignore her existence. She was an obscure,
tiny blossom; only the huge, colorful flowers dazzled men’s eyes. Her amiji Zhima was a full-blooming, pollen-laden flower. Men could smell her fragrance from a distance. Her shining eyes could hook a man’s heart (those were Ami’s
words). As soon as Zhima appeared in a crowd, she became the full moon in a starry sky. In contrast, Sunamei was a pale glowworm. She was too close to Zhima; the moon shone too brightly. Zhima was like a broad, singing river; Sunamei was merely a babbling brook winding in the woods. Ami
Cai’er knew her mo’ s mind and tried to console her every day. “You are still young, Sunamei. You are still too young.”
Each time Sunamei heard this she wanted to cry her heart out.
The twenty-fifth day of the seventh lunar month is the
