Three Sisters

by Bi Feiyu

  Even so, Zhao managed to display how she felt by the noisy way she washed up, splashing water and banging against the enamel basin. Apparently Wei Xiangdong of the school security team had not had anything good to say to her. Shortly after Pang Fenghua had left to go to the homeroom teacher's office, Wei had summoned Zhao Shanshan to talk about her penchant for giving her classmates nicknames. He had refrained from scolding her, but she was more terrified than if she'd actually received a reprimand, for Wei apparently knew everything she did in the dorm room. That little bitch Pang Fenghua had taken advantage of the homeroom teacher's favoritism and ratted on her.

  Trying to contain her anger, Zhao climbed into bed without a word. Even though the lights were out, her roommates could feel her blinding anger. "Don't think I don't know," she said in a menacing growl, instantly altering the atmosphere in the room. "Don't think I don't know," she repeated.

  Pang Fenghua, whose thoughts still lingered on the homeroom teacher, emerged from her reveries and detected a threat in Zhao's comment because Fenghua did indeed have something to hide.

  "What's the matter, Shanshan?" she asked uneasily.

  "Don't think I don't know," Zhao repeated as if reciting a poem. Of course everyone knew that her pointed comment was targeted at someone. "Don't think I don't know," Zhao said one last time, intending to clear up an ambiguous situation, but actually making it even more ambiguous.

  A strange, amorphous, dark object was thrashing around in the room. No one knew what Zhao knew exactly nor did they know what the connection was between what she knew and anyone else, especially Pang Fenghua. It was mysterious; it created suspicions. But not with Yuyang, who lay beneath her blanket, for she knew; she knew everything. And as she lay there quietly, she began to feel hot, so she stretched out her left leg and found a cool spot; her big toe rested against that spot. It was refreshing; it felt good.

  Following a winter rain, the days grew increasingly cooler; actually, they became downright cold. Yellowed, withered leaves hung on the parasol trees, but there was nothing leafy about them. Even more of the leaves had fallen to the ground, where they were plastered to the road surface by the rain. What really caught people's attention were the fuzzy acorns that still adorned the tips of the branches. From a distance, the campus looked like an orchard filled with fruit trees. But no harvest was in the offing; only winter was in the future, and indeed it was already the end of November.

  On the other hand, late November actually began instilling the vitality of spring in the students; the campus turned lively despite the cold air, harsh winds, and dreary rain. A casual flip of the calendar revealed that 12-9 was barely two weeks away. How could any school leave December 9—a revolutionary moment, a time when blood roiled, the day when the wind, the horses, and the Yellow River roared—off their schedule?

  On that day the red sun shone brightly on the East as the god of freedom sang with loud passion, as described in a poem posted by Chu Tian, a student in the class of '81.

  You

  12-9

  Are a torch

  You

  12-9

  Are a bugle

  You're sonorous

  You're aflame

  December 9 was a holiday for the great mass of students; it was a holiday for Zhao Shanshan, a holiday for Pang Fenghua, and a holiday for Wang Yuyang. A holiday required celebration because that was what people did. There was nothing particularly memorable about their school's form of celebration, which was to gather the students on the athletic field between classes for singing contests. The holiday would not be considered celebrated until they had all sung, had enjoyed a good and festive outing, and had seen the top three prizes awarded. Of course, the prizes lent the celebration a special character because every class fought hard to win them; and it wasn't just the students who wanted to win. The homeroom teachers wanted to win, so did the music teachers. Section Three of the class of '82 had fired blanks at that year's sports meet, having come in fourth among the six sections of that class.

  It was an utter failure that naturally made the homeroom teacher even more fervently hopeful about the singing contest. Having graduated from college in 1982, he did not plan to spend the rest of his life at the school; he intended to take the graduate school entrance examination. On the other hand, his reputation was on the line, and he could not take the contest lightly. He'd received his degree in political education from the provincial teacher-training college, and upon graduation, his counselor had impressed upon him the importance of honor and reputation.

  "What is work?" the counselor had asked. "It is winning honors and gaining recognition. So don't be shy or timid. Nothing happens when everyone wins honors, but if you are the only one who does, then a staircase will appear before you, allowing you to ascend to a higher level and see what others cannot see. That will be especially beneficial when it comes time for promotions, housing assignments, evaluations, selection as a representative, and marriage. If everyone has it, but you don't, then you have wasted your energy. Your exhaustion will be a sign of poor health and nothing else. So you must strive for honors and recognition. You can break your skull and shed your blood, but you must turn around and start over. Never, ever be shy and timid."

  The homeroom teacher had already had a taste of what the counselor had talked about. On the night of the sports meet, the teacher whose class came in first even found a new way to smoke a cigarette. With his head held high and his chest thrust out, he looked less like a smoker than a tiger ready to conquer the world. With its defeat at the sports meet, Section Three must win back its honor at the singing contest so the homeroom teacher called a prebattle meeting to spur on the students.

  Section Three began preparing for the contest earlier than the other sections. To keep the practices secret, the teacher found a nearby factory warehouse to rehearse in. This time they enjoyed a number of advantages. To begin with, Zhao Shanshan played the piano, which eliminated the need for a music teacher to accompany them. The extra points that earned would give them an edge with the judges. Unfortunately, the teacher held an unfavorable—actually, a quite bad—opinion of Zhao, who had been picking fights with Pang Fenghua. What had Zhao meant when she called her Taken? It seemed clear that Zhao was targeting him and that he had to be very careful. Yet, for the sake of the big picture—winning the contest—he had to put up with things the way they were and wait to execute the problem case after the contest.

  "To execute" was the homeroom teacher's favorite expression; it denoted a grand, decisive tone that conveyed a sense of power and authority. When he uttered the phrase, he sounded unwaveringly resolute, as if the culprit would be shot on the spot and the problem solved. Or he might execute a class representative who failed an assignment. Who doesn't fear being executed? His temperament demanded that he execute Zhao Shanshan as soon as possible because the brassy girl, bolstered by her belief that she was the backbone of the class's arts and cultural activities, was nearly out of control.

  During the selection process for choral director, he had tested Zhao. Knowing that he preferred Pang Fenghua, Zhao insisted on Hu Jia's being the director, going so far as to say that there was a problem with Pang's deportment.

  What kind of talk is that? What does she know about deportment anyway? Ridiculous. Absurd. His face darkened to show his displeasure. So Shanshan was out as a member of the committee for cultural activities, and when the contest was over, he'd have to execute her.

  The music teacher was very accommodating, and Section Three's choral practice at the warehouse was taking shape. The forty-eight students were lined up in four rows representing the four vocal parts; the separate vocal sections intersected, corresponded, and contrasted with each other to produce a musical performance with such depth and breadth that it seemed created, not by forty-eight students, but by thousands of singers. It was the unified strength of a social class; better yet, it was the unified strength of a nation that was permeated with the intensity of boundless hatred and bottomless
anger mixed with the flames of struggle and resistance. Standing off to one side, the homeroom teacher pulled a long face as he hugged his elbows and stood as straight as a javelin about to be hurled. He was happy, but he kept gnashing and grinding his teeth; that, of course, might well have been the effect that the singing had on him. In art, hatred and anger are infectious; that is what art is all about.

  When the music teacher was done with his work, the homeroom teacher sought the assistance of the dance teacher in an attempt to "replace the old with something new." The dance teacher added a bit of choreography and some standard gestures, such as a sudden clapping of the hands or the abrupt thrusting of fists into the air. The addition of this high-spirited movement to the resonating tempo gave the song a rhythmic flair that elevated its power; the performance now exuded a dauntless, do-or-die quality. The dance teacher's ingenuity was fully displayed in the lyrical segment when he asked the students to stand with their feet apart and let their arms hang to their sides, their balled fists turned inward. With their chests thrust out, they swayed from side to side as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other. Though their feet were firmly planted on the floor, they looked as if they all were forging their way through fire and water together. And yet the gentle movement, done with juvenile clumsiness, evoked a tender feeling, like willows in a spring breeze do, and conveyed a deep affection, a longing, and a tribute to the motherland. These winsome actions, executed in a uniform manner, were breathtakingly beautiful.

  But most of the boys were too shy to make the necessary gestures, and as they were trying not to laugh, the do-or-die determination was lost. Several practice rounds fell short of the desired results. The athletic committee member, a tall, strapping student, was the worst, for he came across as especially bashful and awkward when he balled his fists and swayed back and forth.

  "Sun Jianqiang, watch what you're doing," the homeroom teacher shouted.

  As a smile crept over his face, Sun Jianqiang looked as if he'd rather die, and that made the teacher redouble the severity in his voice. "Sun Jianqiang!"

  That effectively brought the practice to an abrupt end and stopped the swaying of the willows in the spring breeze.

  "What's wrong with you?" the teacher asked, glaring at the boy.

  "Can't we scrap this? It's hard to do and it's ugly," the student said.

  As his face darkened, the teacher ordered, "Get over here."

  So Sun Jianqiang stepped out of the formation and did not pass up the opportunity to make a face at Pang Fenghua along the way, which did not go undetected by the teacher. Since he always made a point of passing the ball to the teacher whenever they played basketball, the boy did not take the teacher's annoyance all that seriously. He knew how to deal with the teacher; they were like friends. So he walked up and struck a casual pose, rocking back and forth to express his "I don't care" attitude.

  "Tell me, what do you mean by ugly?" the teacher demanded.

  "It's too girlish and sissy-looking," Sun said with a red face. The boys laughed; so did some of the girls. The homeroom teacher sent a look to the music teacher that really was ugly before he turned around and roared at Sun, "Get out." He pointed to the warehouse door.

  Momentarily taken aback, Sun realized that he'd been executed, and the loss of face was more than he could bear. He spun around and walked off, pointlessly muttering something under his breath. The teacher pointed a finger at the boy's receding back like a pistol—the coup de grâce for Sun Jianqiang. The teacher screamed, "You're no longer on the athletic committee. And don't ever come back here."

  Now that Sun was out, there was a gap in the chorus line, and as the teacher continued to fume, the singing practice came to another halt. Facing the chorus as the conductor, Pang Fenghua signaled the teacher with her eyes, asking what to do about the empty space. The Section Three students were well aware of the teacher's decisive nature; he meant what he said and said what he meant. It would be impossible for him to backtrack now, especially since the outburst had occurred in front of the whole class. With his hands on his hips, he walked over to Fenghua.

  "Keep practicing," he said. He was still angry, but it was clear that he was thinking as his eyes lingered on the empty space left by Sun Jianqiang's departure.

  The students started up again; after gesturing with their hands, fists, and elbows, they began to sway to the left then to the right. They swayed with renewed effort, but without producing the desired effect. The earlier harmonious motion could not be recaptured, and with it went the imposing air and the spirit of resolve. The teacher's eyes swept over each student's face before landing on Yuyang, whose awkward movements were lackluster at best. With her eyes downcast, she looked ashamed; not only did she fail to look off at a forty-five-degree angle with deep longing, as required by the choreography, but she bit her lip. And she forgot to sing.

  The teacher walked up, grabbed her by the elbow, and yanked her out of the formation. Then he gestured for the remaining students to close up ranks, returning symmetry to the chorus and filling Sun's space at the same time.

  "Good, very good. Now you're making progress. Keep it up," he said, clapping his hands and sighing happily.

  With two students having been "executed," the rest of the team increased their spirit and morale; they raised their voices as the veins bulged on their necks. From where he stood behind Pang Fenghua, the teacher also began to gesture, a sort of de facto conductor. Yuyang remained off to the side, knowing that she'd been executed but unsure of what to do now. So she just stood there stiffly, hoping for something to happen.

  Afraid that the teacher would give her the coup de grâce, she made sure that she didn't turn her back on him, but she didn't want to stay where she was, either. That was just too awkward. She seemed to be waiting, but in vain, since the teacher had no intention of letting her rejoin the chorus. He'd forgotten all about her. So there she stood, biting down on her lip, her eyes downcast. And then she made an accidental discovery: The ugly round tips of her cloth shoes looked horribly unsophisticated. Taking two steps back, she tried to hide her shoes, but to no avail. Now she was truly ashamed, ashamed of her countrified appearance. Luckily, she was no longer the dumb little girl she'd once been, and she knew how to get out of this. She walked up to the teacher. "Teacher, I don't feel well. May I be excused?" He was too engrossed in his conducting to hear her, so she repeated, "Teacher, I'd like to be excused."

  Now he heard her, and without even turning to look, he waved her away, assigning the responsibility for consent to his wrist. As she walked off, she forgot to swing her arms because her fists were still balled at her sides. The stiffness in her movements nearly caused her to goose-step out of the warehouse. The dozen or so steps seemed to take all her energy, each one stomping on her heart.

  Sun Jianqiang was relieved of duty that evening. Without a word of explanation, the homeroom teacher simply put up a new list of committee members, replacing Sun's name as athletic committee member with that of the Section Three class representative, and added "also serving" in parenthesis next to that name. A class meeting was called during the evening study period, and the teacher gave a short speech expressing his wish that the students not "give up on themselves" and not be "too clever," for "nothing good" would come of either of those. He did not have to name names for them to know whom he was referring to. Sun Jianqiang was not likely to be passing the ball to the teacher on the basketball court anytime soon. But he was not the intended target of the phrase "too clever," since he could hardly be called even a little clever. That was meant for Zhao Shanshan, whom the teacher glanced at during his speech. Zhao was not stupid, which she proved by lowering her head. Now she knew that she would not fare any better than Sun if she didn't get behind Pang Fenghua or find a way to get on her good side. Her date of "execution" was not far off; she was living on borrowed time.

  Yuyang was dejected at not being allowed into the chorus to celebrate 12-9, but she refused to let herself sink into defeat. So
she went to the library to study, and when she found that she was unable to focus, she picked up a detective novel by Agatha Christie and was immediately hooked. Reading a novel a day, she soon finished the entire series. They had different story lines, crime scenes, and modi operandi, but the same deductive method was used to catch the murderer in each one. Logic was the starting point and the central technique in moving the plot forward to its climactic ending. Grouping Christie's novels together, Yuyang realized that, except for the mustachioed Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, everyone connected to the crime was a suspect because they all had motive, time, method, and opportunity. Everyone was involved in the crime, and no one could claim innocence. Feeling that her eyes were wiped clean by the novels, Yuyang gained a renewed understanding of underground work and was emboldened to carry out her mission. She believed that the systematic reading would enable her to do an even better job pleasing Teacher Wei and putting those in the organization at ease.

  Yuyang did not take the novels back to her dorm or to the classroom—better not to take books like that out of the library, where an air of research and contemplation gave this reading legitimacy. Exerting extra effort, she jotted down her reactions in a notebook as she read along. In addition to the contents of those notes, she gained something concrete—she met and eventually got to know Chu Tian of Section One of the class of '81, the school's most famous poet.

  Not noticeably handsome and a bit on the skinny side, Chu had an unremarkable appearance. Compared to the other boys, he stood out only because of his hair, which was not only longer than everyone else's, but it was also unusually messy—like a pile of chicken feathers. The hint of suffering on his face gave him an ascetic air and in turn made him unique. He hardly ever spoke to anyone, for he was arrogant and proud beyond words, and Yuyang had heard that the average student could only dream of getting to know him. Chu Tian, whose real name was Gao Honghai, was a country boy; but he was now Chu Tian, no longer Gao Honghai. The new name gave him a complete makeover, turning a tall, reedy youngster into someone not quite real and transcendent, as vast and as distant as the sky. His unique airs set him apart and instilled in him the sort of artistic temperament that was seen as so important by the teachers. In fact, Chu Tian had a very low sense of self-esteem, but his neurotic and reserved manner sent out a sparkle—a cold, haughty, superior, and conceited sparkle that was, naturally, the glittery evidence of his supremacy. Yuyang never dared look directly at him, and deep down she revered him, especially after reading his poem on the bulletin board. She was amazed at how he had referred to 12-9 as "you," as if he were pointing to a person.